Jerusalem: Composure in the Midst of Terror, 2014

Foreboding concern due to place of birth

In October 2014, our cruise ship docked in Ashdod, Israel. It was the closest port to Jerusalem. We weren't taking chances in a country frought with tension, and so we had booked with the ship's shore excursions. Clearing immigration was a cinch for most, but I was held up. The officer noticed my country of birth, Malaysia, in my passport and so he had to consult with higher ups to clarify that I was not a Malaysian Muslim (Malaysian passport holders are forbidden travel to Israel unless under special circumstances). Notably, immigration did not stamp our passports, but only inserted a slip of paper showing the date of entry. This is so that travellers are not denied entry into Muslim countries afterwards (in a previous post I detailed how my Iran visa caused a denial of entry into the USA).

Clever and sensible maneuver

We have an excellent guide. We were going into the old city first ie to the Western Wall. It was an hour's ride past forests that thrive in what was once considered arid land -- a testament to the Israeli spirit of survival eliciting research and innovative methods. Our guide is convincing when he tells us about bringing up children in a society rife with religious tensions. They wish for peace and brotherhood. He outlines some official measures to provide dissenters with the benefit of the doubt and subsidies to raise the standard of living for the not so well to do.

Our guide gets an update on his phone after which he announces a change of plan.

As we approach the city our guide tells us that there is a massive traffic at the sites we were meant to visit first and we were going to begin elsewhere on the list. The order of visits didn't matter to us. In fact, we found the new order more appropriate to experience the conundrum that is Israel.

Frame of Reference 

We first go to a viewpoint across the Mount of Olives for a panoramic view of the Church of Mary Magdalene with its various golden onion domes and the contentious Temple Mount. Then as we drive towards the Jaffa Gate we get a great view of the Tower of David. The gate, which faces West,  happens to be one of the main entry gates into Old Jerusalem.

Old Jerusalem, time tested tool

As we enter the old city through Zion gate and into the Armenian quarters we are reminded that we are walking the same grounds the Roman soldiers did ages ago. A saunter down the alleys leads us to the old Market with vendors selling souvenirs related to Christianity. It is strangely quiet. We are already in the Christian quarters. A man with a cart loaded with fruits sold fresh juice squeezed through a manual press. I remember my mother owning one in the 1960s. The appeal of the aroma,  colour and sparkle of freshly squeezed pomegranate sure beats the boxed varieties.

Complex structures speak volumes 

Synagogues vie with churches. Our walk leads us through Golgotha in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The reverence, the lit candles, the chandeliers, the calm expression of absolute faith of the  believers, the respectful silence and the patience all lent, to say the least, an incredible atmosphere. The devout are clinging in deep devotion to some of the significant stations, the section where the anointment was said to have taken place, and, of course the very crucifixion site. But they are all mindful of others waiting their turn. 

A very long queue has formed for entry tickets into the catacomb, the initial burial site. We leave the premises to the worshippers and walk towards Zion gate where the room of the Last Supper, above King David's  Tomb, is. ( see my post on Milan and Da Vinci's  painting)

Avoiding Herod's Gate

We do not go towards Herods gate which connects the Muslim Quarter inside the old city to the Palestinian neighbourhood just outside. We drove through that part later noticing a stark difference in the cleanliness, and the use of public space.

Beauty and history

We are back on the bus which now takes to Gethsamane at the foot of the Mount of Olives. The Virgin Mary is thought to have been buried there. Beside it is  the Church of all Nations topped by a bubble dome held up by thick colums. The mosaic facade, a deep blue starry ceiling and the Byzantine mosaic flooring certainly lent to the awe factor. The Olive Gardens' 900 year old giant olive trees all gnarled and thick trunked, added authenticity  to the history.  

An unexpected curious feast on Sabbath Day

We get back on the bus to our last stop in Old Jerusalem: the Wailing wall. We had been frequently seeing parents with children in tow, each carrying a bunch of stalks. A few also pulled roller bags. It was fascinationg to watch a particular family of nine  march in a chain starting from the tallest , and all the males sporting bushy sideburns and black fur hats.. We saw a lot more as we entered the Jewish quarter. They were all heading to temporary booths, 3 walls and a roof, made entirely of natural material, and sometimes decorated. The bunch they carried consisted of myrtle, palm, citron and willow branches. 

This was Tabernacles Day, also known as Sukkot, the third most famous of the pilgrimmage days. This day commemorated the Exodus from Egypt. 

The families had food in their bags for, beginning Friday at sunset, they are free of chores, including the preparation of food, till sunset on Saturday.

The Wailing wall: anguish, grief, and gratification

Finally we are led to the Wailing Wall. The several policemen there are a regular feature of the area. Bollards prevented unauthorised vehicles from entering the premises. For the visitors there were two separate entrances -- one for males and the other for females. We approach  the handwashing and drinking fountain with little metal tea-pots chained by their handle to the taps. You wash you hand with water from the pots. Then you walk to a small prayer table and write you wishes or prayers on a slip of paper. Then you go to the wall and slip the folded paper into the cracks on the wall. One of our close friends wrote a note of thanks for her wonderful husband.

We notice some movement on the closed bridge that connects the Wailing wall to the JewishTemple Mount which is also where  the Muslim Dome of the Rock is.

Lunch at a kibbutz*

We then drive to a quieter part of the city for our late lunch. It was a surprise. I never expected to set foot in a Kibbutz, a very closed community that contributed significantly to the history of Israel. Of course, we only get to see their dining room. Its all kosher. No pork, no shellfish. A meat dish is never accompanied by a dairy product, so dessert is non-dairy. Coffee or tea after a nonveg meal is served black.

*https://www.touristisrael.com/what-is-a-kibbutz/6053/ 

Reason for detour divulged: religious observation and altercation

We have experienced a unique part of the world that is sacred to the three major monotheistic religions ( Judaism, Christianity and Islam) all practised with equal fervour. The place abounds in sacred shrines. For all three faiths it is a holy city and a pilgrim centre.

And this day becomes even more significant for us when the real reason for the detour was divulged. Just as we started our tour there had been an altercation involving gun shots and the deployment of soldiers. So what we we had glimpsed as we bypassed the Western Wall and the bridge was not the movement of pilgrims but that of soldiers. We had been kept from witnessing one of the frequent occurrences that arise out of religious uneasiness. 

The peremptory drive in the newer parts of the city is insipid compared to the sensory overload in the old city.

Worming through the Alps: ferried through a railway tunnel, 2003

After our misadventure and a fitful night in Milan, we drive north towards Interlaken, Switzerland. We have a rough idea of our route but we must have missed a sign somewhere. The Alps stood before us but how to we get across them? The directions all point elsewhere. 

When in doubt, ask. 

We notice a restaurant/bar with convenient parking lots. So we enter with  inexplicable unease only to be greeted heartily by a jocund, bearded, stocky male. That helps to settle our nerves and, in halted English, ask for directions. We need not have worried. He spoke fluently with a strong Italian accent. Apparently we were nowhere near the road that would take us over the Alps. 

With an impish glint in his eye he reveals a surprise. He utters the magic words. Nearby was the entrance to a tunnel, a railway tunnel, an inclined railway tunnel that would take us to the Swiss border!

Excitement

Still under the spell we drive forward following the signs for the station. There's a huge parking area that could fit 50 cars. As we purchase our tickets an attendant tells us where to park. It's done in such a way that the order in which you park determines the order in which you board. Is there valet parking? Will there be a separate carriage for the passengers as in ferries?

Surprise surprise. 

We are asked to drive forward when the lights in front of us turned green and then follow the arrows. We find ourselves on a ramp over which we drive onto the train. Once parked we are told to put the car in first gear and switch off the engine. There was probably some contraption by which the car was secured to the flatbed. 

Once all the cars have been loaded and its time for take off the real  thrill begins. Within a few metres we are in a pitch-dark tunnel. Only our car alarm light is blinking. The musty air seeps in through the slits in our windows. The experience could have been creepy had we been less adventurous or had a fear of heights and dark spaces. The ride must have taken less than 10 mins but it remains one of the most remarkable experiences in our travels.

Experiencing the Alps inside out

Instead of driving through the Gotthard Pass as per our original plan we were riding through the Gotthard tunnel taking us from Airolo in Italy to Gotthard in Switzerland. When completed in 1882 it was the longest tunnel in the world at 15 km. Starting at 1142 m above sea level, we rise up to 1511 m and then descend to 1106 m.

The less the fizz the greater the figure in francs

We didn't realize how excited we'd been until we felt parched. Conveniently a big store looms up in front of us. We steer clear of all the aisles and head straight for bottled water. We are stunned by the variety not only in brand names and sizes but also in price. We go for the cheapest. This is Switzerland and what significant difference can price make to the taste? 

Back in the car, with tongues practically hanging out, we eagerly unscrew the top. Drink takes a mouthfull and gags. We have bought carbonated water! Uncarbonated water is the most expensive. Deduction? Carbonated water is hugely popular. We leave the bottle open hoping that the water would become 'flat' but even when we reached our hotel in Interlaken we couldn't palette it. Not till the next day!

Blowing a fuse

That night we heated up milk in our rice cooker to sate our thirst. Never mind that it burnt and blew a fuse. We got away with it. The hotel simple replaced the fuse, not bothering with an inquiry.

Ditched by a London taxi-- August 2019

Promising Beginnings 

We flew into Heathrow from Cologne-Bonn Germany after our motoring trip in Eastern Europe. This was our fourth trip to London but only the second to Heathrow. Having expected long queues and not so pleasant questions from the immigration officers, from what some of our acquaintances had experienced, we were very pleasantly surprised that our biometric passports were processed in record time by the machines and our baggage arrived almost as soon as we reached the belts. 

Smooth sailing 

Now we had to take the blue line to Holburn and transfer to the red line towards the station closest to our AirBnB accommodation for the night. We'd take a taxi from there. Under normal circumstances we would  take the bus to our destination.  However it was getting dark. The possibility of missing our stop  would be greater.  Besides clouds had begun to gather.

No London experience is complete without the use of a brollies.

By the time we reach our station it has started pouring. Typical London weather, of course. We wait at the entrance hoping to flag a cab but to no avail. Wiping down our wet spectacles, like wiping down sweat from eyebrows ( woudn't it be  nice to have wipers on them?) we spy a taxi ofiice on the opposite side of the road. There is not much traffic but because of the puddles, slow moving cars splashing them, and the rain relentlessly obscuring our view, we tread warily making our way there only to find a single non-white person in the office. He has no driver available immediately and here we are drenching to the skin, in spite of the brollies( we never leave home without one), and shivering.  

Cast Aways

Finally he manages to contact one. Sure enough a simple looking cab pulls up and we give the non-white driver our host's address. It doesnt look as though he knows the place. But something strikes and he pulls away to our destination. It takes a good 20 mins since he has to search for the road reading off the street signs, not GPS, or Sat Nav as the Britts call it. He tells us perfunctorily that we have reached our destination. We are left on the pavement with our bags. We have been cast off!

Left high and dry

We don't see the house number. The garden is overgrown and looks like a rubbish dump. The house number is visible only when we get close to the door after gingerly stepping on what bits of the path remained in the yard,  and skipping across the muddy spots. The number is correct. We ring the doorbell and wait poitely. No answer. Giving a respectable interval we ring again. After a short delay, the door opens a crack, the safey hatch is still on.a veiled young woman peeps at us and asks us what we want. She doesn't sound friendly at all. If it was the AirBnb they woud be expecting us. Our host was designated 'super'. Something was seriously wrong here. We maneuver our way back to the street. Our bags are getting wet. My shoes are squeaking, my toes squishing. Its dark. It's stlll pouring. No sign of life anywhere. No traffic! Should we despair? 

Do I feel like I'm on the literary Elm St, expecting to see a haunted house, or a witch flying by on her broom? After all it is close to the witching hour!

Do we trust each other?

But there is a glimmer of hope. A figure transpires. Someone, a non-white is walking in the near distance. This is no time for apprehension. We try calling out to her but we are not heard. Nothing for it but to run after her. Who, but me? We had to get out of this dinghy neighbourhood. It was getting creepy. I reach her, and she hears me. Obviously she does not consider me a threat. I ask her if we were at the right place shown in the address. She too is a little confused. But almost imediately she whips out her mobile and calls the number our host had given us. She is actualy two streets away. The area had its postal code and street numbers changed just recently but the taxi driver had probably been unaware of it . Our host tells us to meet at the bus stop nearest her place. Our good samaritan is dressed for the night out but she has kindly stopped to help us. She does not leave immediately. Concerned that we might get lost again, the visibility being so poor, and us being like wet chicken, she actually walks us to the bus stop where our host is waiting for us a with big wide smile. 

What did we miss?

So much for the London taxi driver - a different breed. Ours was not of the kind that London is famous for. Drivers-to-be have to take a knowledge test of the more than 5000 streets and alleys in London. They should be familiar with all the landmarks and all the nooks and corners (even of restaurants by the name of the Chef rather than that of the Restaurant). They ride the streets for three years familiarising themselves with all the details, finding umpteen ways to go from point to point taking into account the time of the day, the conditions on the roads, etc. In fact they are better than Uber and Lyft drivers who use Sat Nav. The devices do not always show last minute road closures; they do not always show the places clients want. in fact the London taxi drivers' brains have been studied for their extraordinary feat  comparing them with the brains of people with dementia.

We certainly did not get the legendary London Driver. But we are not complaining. They cost infinitely more! Our trust in humanity rose higher in our index.

7. Myanmar, A day in the rice fields, a youngster's delight

Jerky ride

The uncle's son-in-law had ancestral padi fields, looked after by his brother, about an hour's drive from Yangon. We travelled local style in a pick up truck sitting on a mat on the cargo bed, surrounded by boxes of food for lunch and tea, for the village folk may not have the facility to entertain us.  The bouncey ride ellicited giggles. Luckily we had a roof against the scorching sun. The low sides with railings not only gave us a panoramic view but kept us from being tossed about when going over bumpy sections of roads or dirt roads. 

Irrigation Canal traffic

We got off on the side of a dirt road, gathered up our baskets and walked a few meters to a long narrow boat awaiting us (a previously made arrangement thanks to the mobile phones). A young boy, another cousin, helped us board the boat, where we sat on planks, two by two. It was so hot we held up umbrellas. The motor boat took us through the irrigation channels with padi fields on both sides, and an occasional shade tree. Other boats came in the opposite direction, and waved to us , acknowledging their acquaintances. 

Rugged beauty - a floating village

We arrive at a tin-roofed house on stilts seeminly floating on the waters. From the boat we hopped on to the the stairs that led up to the house. The first two steps were submerged in water. Built entirely of teak the house was a cool haven. Like typical houses on land it had an altar on the upper level reached by a set of stairs, but visible from the first floor. There was a room under the altar that housed their clothes and bedding. The windows were hinged at the top and to open them they propped the flap up with a pole. The right material and simple mechanics suited the living conditions and the climate. Planks across narrow strips of water in the floating village helped citizens navigate to their neighbours homes and the monastry.

Self-sustaining: an unpretentious life 

The adjoining room to the side was a kitchen which had a single wood burning stove. The fuel they used was rice husk which they had in sacks. The fire left a lot of soot on the pots. The occupants light the stove in the morning, heat up enough water to fill several flasks for making tea through out the day, cook enough rice for the day, and an accompanying dish from a few vegetables that grew in patches in their padi fields and fish snagged from the canals or the fields when they were flooded during the first stage of the crop. Today we all sat together as a large family and shared the food washed down with chrysanthemum tea and rounded off with some biscuits.

Back to nature

The toilet was an outhouse, with a hole on the floor, opening into the water, reached by a pair of wooden planks and big fat bamboo poles side by side, forming a bridge from the main living space. A bamboo pole tied horizontally between the poles that held up the bridge offered questionable support for the queasy minded. Large drums of water, storing rain water, stood in strategic places. 

Exploring the terrain and meeting good natured village folk

On subsequent visits , during the dry season, we walked the bunds of the padi fields occasionaly stopping to meet the neighbours and also to a  monastery where the monks were very jovial and kind. We sat with them as their cats kept coming to us to be stroked and patted and to cuddle up on our laps. The little, rustic, monks' dwelling, also elevated, was serene and calming, with fruit trees, and banana plants surrounding it. When my grandson came with us for one of the visits, the village boys took him around. They walked around puddles, crossed rickety makeshift bridges, spotted frogs, etc. 

Danger of running aground

When it was time to return we had to do so in two boats. These were smaller. It was because the water level in the canal had subsided since our arrival and a bigger heavier boat would run aground. 

Laundry: the ropes

Good God!

We had just begun to settle down in a little house we rented in Ubud, Bali. It had the traditional bathroom with a tap, with which to fill a wooden tub, and a dipper to scoop the water and pour over yourself. We did the hand washing of clothes in the traditional aluminium basin. Having wrung the clothes out we looked for the clothes line only to find none. So we rummaged for the rope in our suitcase (we usually carry a length of nylon rope just in case our suitcases bust open while being loaded onto or unloaded from aircraft) that hubby strung between two pillars along the verandah. Mollified, I took up a piece of clothing, snapped it in the air and then smugly hung one item. When I was about to hang the next piece a young lady rushed towards me and agitatedly jabbered,"Jangan, jangan! ( don't, don't)". Startled and disconcerted, I gave her a querulous look. Was there a snake somewhere ( I've had that experience in India)? Were the pillars to weak to hold the line up? Was the roof collapsing? Were we not supposed to hang the clothes along the verandah? "The clothes line is too high. It should be lower than the padmasana (throne)." What throne? She was referring to the open-air family altar (like a totem pole), with a seat on top of it, in the family compound. In Balinese Hinduism, God is everywhere and has no form, and so a seat is available in every Balinese household compound for the holy visitor. In deference to the divine, who may be sitting there watching over you, you hang your washing at a lower level.

Watch your head Faux Pas

Something similar happened in Myanmar. We were visiting my husband's uncle in Yangoon. As with most Asian cultures, after my shower, bucket and dipper style, I hand washed the clothes in a pail, wrung them out, and took them out to the frontyard where I had seen lines with clothes flapping. As I was doing it the daughter ran helter-skelter to me and took over. She wouldn't let me hang the clothes there. She hung them in the backyard. I didn't think much of it since the work was done anyway. We never had a problem with my husband's clothes because she, his cousin, would wash for him.

It took me a couple of visits before I realised that men's and womens clothes were washed and hung out separately. Furthermore the women's clothes, especially undergarments, had to be hung at a height such that men can't accidentally brush against them. Men's and women's laundry couldn't be washed together.

I learnt much later of their belief that if a male walked under a lungyi, sarong, or underwear, especially those of women, he would be enfeebled and unmanned. That is why protesters in Myanmar took to stringing up women’s under clothing on lines across the streets to slow down police and soldiers because walking beneath them is traditionally considered bad luck for men. In fact, pictures during the protest show soldiers taking down the lines before marching forward.

More pragmatic ways and means

One culture hangs clothes with God in mind while the other does out of superstiti9n.

And then of course there are more practical reasons for hanging out clothes through various devices and locations 

Laundry on the go

In hotels or motels I keep laundry very simple, using hotel laundry bags to store my soiled stuff just for a few days before we find accommodation with a washing machine or a laundromat nearby. Most of the time I wash the clothes with hotel shampoo, and just improvise places to hang them dry. Sometimes there's a clothes line across the shower or tub. But, wait a minute! Are you allowed to do your laundry in the wash basin? There will be no questions asked as long as you wash carefully and are respectful of the room. That is exactly what I did while cruising. Even the grandchildren's got done that way. Some cruise ships used to have self-serve laundry, the machines activated through tokens bought from the ship, but not anymore. We plan in such a way that the day we disembark we have only one set of clothes to be washed. It helps to pack clothes that drip dry. Now we get free laundry on our favourite cruise line, having done more that 400 days with them.

When we were travelling in The US in 1996, laundromats were easily accessible. In later travels we made sure to book AirBnBs with a washing machine. If it is an apartment we may have to wait our turn in the common laundry room mostly in the basement, and once, even in the underground car park. If we happened to stay in one or two places consecutively without the facility we make sure the next accommdation we book has a washing machine. 

Losing sleep over laundry

While in Hamburg, Germany, our accomodation had the washers and dryers in the basement which were working to full capacity that evening. The caretaker of the facility was doing the sheets from the rooms that had been vacated. I had to wait till almost midnight to do the laundry. By the time I got them washed, dried and folded it was already 2 am (not unusual in our overland travels). 

When we get home late after exploring the streets, and then prepare dinner, washing tends get done close to midnight.

Most of South America and Europe does not use dryers.

Sometimes a clothes horse is provided. Oftentimes we've hung them on the furniture and even on opened cabinet doors.

The next stay in Germany, a few years later, was in a high rise in  Munich. I did the washing in the evening and had to dry it on the clothes horse in the balcony hoping it would dry by morning so we could pack them for our return flight home. We managed.

Poles and pulleys, even across canals

Singapore has iconic clothes poles jutting out of the flats like multicoloured flags. Hanging clothes in Europe's old quarters involves lines running across streets, as long as there are no tram lines and wires obstructing them. They hang high above the pedestrians -- no one will ever walk into them. How do they hang the clothes seemingly in mid-air? Almost every street, in the old quarters, has a row of poles on either side of the road. The clothes line from an apartment is looped throug a pulley fixed to the pole on the opposite side. We've even seen them across the lesser canals in Venice.

There are actually people whose profession is to put up these pulleys! 

Cambodia caper: Surreal Crackle, Snap, Pop, 2013

Playing host

Before Covid, we used to volunteer in Phnom Penh, Cambodia as English tutors for Intermediate and Higher levels. While we were doing one of the stints a close friend came to visit us. As is proper for hosts when we were free we took him to see the various places of interest. One of these was the legendary *Wat Phnom situated on a low hill. It is popular with the locals who visit the surrounds to relax with their friends  and family. 

After walking about the temple and awed by the Hindu influence, especially the Ramayana, we sit under the trees to savour our packed lunch, it being a hot day. We are lulled by the shade and the breeze from the Tonle Sap river. Ideal conditions for a siesta. 

Deprived of a Siesta

Our eyes are beginning to droop when we hear a crackle. We dismiss it as some twigs snapping. But even before we can look up to puzzle out the cause, there is a loud snapping and a huge branch begins to drop. Our reflexes are not quite fast enough. I am struck down on my side with the branches brushing against me. Our friend, who is sitting on the other side of Drink is unharmed. But underneath the thicker part of the branch sits Drink. The branch has hit him with a thud, bounced and "popped" again. He is so stunned that he thinks his brain has been damaged. He tells us later that he tried to remember Mathematicsl fornulas to test if his brains were functioning.  

I get up and brush off the twigs and leaves that  had scratched me. Then I try to lift and shift the offending branch away with the friend's help. It was then that Drink realises he is bleeding.  Blood ha begun to seep through the cap he is wearing. Gingerly removing the cap reveals a gash  right on top of the head. The target couldn't have been more spot on. First aid lesrnt during my school days kicks in. I  have to stem the bleeding. By this time a crowd has gathered. No one knows what to do. I ask for ice. No one speaks English. I ask several times hoping someone understood. Then I spy a Seven Up can, point to it and cry ''ice" again. This time someone thrusts towards me a paper cup of some coloured drink with ice in it. I thankfully grab the ice and try to place it over the wound. By that time a security guard has called for an ambulance and it has arrived.

No need for a Doctor

The male nurse walks Drink into the ambulance. First Drink is asked to sit down. And then it was thought better that he lie down. The general hospital is just a few minutes away. Drink is put on a wheel chair and taken to what I believe was the treatment room. No xrays, no vital sign checks, no doctor consultation A female patient, obviously in pain, lay in a stretcher nearby. Drink is made to lie down. A male nurse ( or was it a doctor?) comes about,  takes a look at the wound and somehow communicates to us that stitches were in order. We agree. He asks me to leave the room but Drink and I think I should remain. We are quite squeamish about hygiene. When I vehemently insist I am reluctantly allowed. So I hold on to Drinks hand while he gets a local anesthetic and then the stitches. A wad of cotton, then lint is placed on the wound and the ends of the sutures  used to tie the dressing in place! Neat.

We were asked to pay US $12 for the service.  

The sutures stayed on for nearly 10 days, the wound being dressed by the Rector's wife and her assistant. The sutures were removed by our dentist in Cambodia. All's well that ends well.

Later, after all the hoopla around Drink, I realise that I'm hurting all over. There is a bleeding scratch on my right year and my earing has disappeared! 

*Wat = temple, phnom= Hull, in Khmer, the Cambodian language

Milan Mafia Miasma: robbed in broad daylight , 2003

Lasting impressions

We generally equate Italy with history, tourism, ancient ruins, architectural wonders, paintings and sculptures and pasta. But you really experience the country when you find yourself in a predicament. It is not  simply about visiting places of interest.  A country or place sticks in your mind if something arrests you. In Milan ( in 2003), we had an unsettling experience which left an indelible mark. Incredibly, we were duped, cunningly robbed.

Precautions

When you tell friends you’ll be visiting Italy they'll warn you about petty crime, pickpockets and bag-snatchers at tourist spots and on transport. Thieves often work in groups on trains. You have to keep a close eye on your belongings. We had been wary all along, driving from Salzburg into Italy, all the way from Venice to Rome, up the coast to Pisa, and then to Florence and now we were in Milan, the fashion capital of the world. It was our last day in Italy before we drove into Interlaken, Switzerland. All along we had observed precautionary measures. Our luggage was stored in the boot invisible to bypassers. Drink kept our important documents close to his body. I wore my driver's licence, credit cards and a few hundred Euros in a  card holder slung around my neck, hidden by my top or a scarve. There was nothing valuable in my hand bag, which served mostly as a tote. We had often looked over our shoulders and patted our pockets to make sure we hadn't lost anything. 

Wandering about town

Walking in the main streets of Milan with its enticing boutiques we also meet touts selling cheap jewelery, ready to fold their wares into the canvas on which they were spread, and flee the moment they get word of police in the area. You can't simply walk into a bank unless you have an appointment. All the design houses had grills, spring gates and barbed wire or glass shards on their boundary walls. Gates and doors had keyless entry systems. Most buildings sported heavy metal grates on front doors, and windows. They were  certainly very well fortified. That spoke a lot about safety in Milan

Wrong Building Derring-do

Mistakenly believing the Duomo di Milano, one of the worlds largest gothic cathedrals, housed the Last Supper, Da Vinci's renowned painting ( when in actual fact it is in Santa Maria Di Gracie), we drove to it. It stands next to the Grand Palace which is now a museum. Trying to find a spot to park along the road, we drive across the entrance back and forth several times before deciding that there is no other way but to drive into the cobble-stoned yard hoping to find a visitor's park since there are already many expensive looking cars in the courtyard that faced the Royal Palace. There are several traffic signs at the entrance all obscured by lush foliage. As soon as we enter we almost bolt out of our seats being startled by the  deafening sirens going off all at once. There is nothing we could do but stop the car immediately, only to be surrounded by several policemen. We had ignored the temporary no entry sign posted at the entrance. One of the cops, speaking English to our surprise, says he's visited Singapore. He writes out a ticket , fining us 75€ on the spot. Out comes my card holder to show my drivers license and the money for the fine.  Putting away the receipt, I distractedly put my card holder and the money into my hand bag and wedge it between the door and my seat so even if I lower my window no one would be able to rob me of the practically invisible bag. I felt very smart, indeed.

Warnings at intervals

We drive off a little shaken. We have to be in Switzerland before the sun set and so we decide to take the road out of Milan city -- a straight road with several traffic lights. At the second traffic light, about 10 mins into the slow drive a pedestrian knocks on the passenger window and tries to tell us something. Cautious about duplicity we ignore him and drive on . At the 4th traffic light a cyclist drives up and clearly states "flat tire". Again we choose to ignore him. And then I feel a difference. There was definitely a puncture in the back wheel on the passenger side.  I cannot be convinced to pull up any where in the street for I'd be risking more fines for parking illegally.  And then I find a convenient pullout that would not hold up what little  traffic there was. It was about 4:30 pm. The roads were quiet. Drink gets out and is shocked to see the back wheel in tattered strips sticking to the rim. 

Importunate situation

A young man walks by business like. However, seeing the state of the wheel he offers to help. Then with both doors closed, I open the boot, and we take out our luggage, keeping a firm eye on it, while he  retrieves the jack, a wheel wrench and the spare wheel. Just as he is about to start work he says he has to rush off. Then Drink starts work on the jack and the he tries to unscrew the wheel. He lacks the strength. Along saunters another young man who offers help. My eyes are still glued to the luggage. The man does a great job. He simply steps on the wrench and it moves. In our flustered state the simple idea never occurrs to us. He has partly fitted the spare.

Sculptured features designed to distract

Just then another good looking man walks up to me with a phone in hand. He asks me if I speak French. I said "no" but he kept on pointing in the direction away from rhe car, saying there was restaurant there where they spoke French. I'm befuddled. I don’t speak French. Why is he so insistent? It could be a ruse. I'm definitely not going to look in the direction he points.  But once too often, and you fall into the trap. 

I'm not turning, I'm not turning, I'm not turning! Uh Oh!

The other man, almost at the same instant excuses himself. He has to rush off. Drink wants me to pay him € 20. So I open the door. You know where I kept it don't you? But it isn't there!! I must have turned pale and had a blank look, enough to convey the message that we'd been cleverly robbed. 

The split second my head was turned towards the French restaurant, someone had reached into the driver's seat  from the passenger door, perhaps surreptitiously left open by the first helper,swiftly nabbed my bag and left in the opposite direction to where I had been looking. Drink, of course, had been intent on the wheel and was unaware of anyone opening the car door. What stealth, what coordination the few men who carried out the robbery must have had! 

They must have cut our tire while we were being detained by the police.

The hassle of cancelling credit cards.

It is obvious that we have to file a police report. We don't know where the station is and it is already dusk. We have to work fast. First, find a place to stay. With the stepney in place we drive to a five star hotel. Surely they'll speak English and be gracious enough to help us?  Wrong! They wouldn't lift a finger till we had booked a room with them. That is definitely not 5 star. So we find a small unassuming hotel nearby. The gate is heavily padlocked and a huge dog pounds towards us. A blonde man is right behind the dog and we tell him about our mishap, hoping he'd understand what we were trying to say. Will he give us a room now that we told him I lost my credit card? We convince him that Drink has one. Before we take the rooms we ask to use the phone to call the toll free number to our credit card issuer. He obliges. The receiver gives me a torrent of Italian words of which I could make out only a miserable few. We have to ask the the clerk to interpret for us, which he does grudgingly. The dog sat quietly watching us. It takes us the best part of an hour to report the loss.

Then we go up to our rooms, bringing all our luggage with us. 

We are told that the police station is just down the road and we'll probably get to speak to an officer who spoke English.

Fortune favours us

It would have been a sleepless night had we lost a huge amount. Every now and then I woke up to check on our car parked on the street. We'd heard stories of vandalism on rented cars. We were thankful that the robbery occurred late in the evening  and most box stores selling expensive goods would be closed leaving little opportunity for credit card transactions. Our friends who had warned us about thefts had lost thousands. A few days later we found that the credit card had not been used at all. All we lost were a couple of hundred dollars, a medical receipt and cheap jewellery.

Disconcerting police non-promise

Early in the morning we purposefully trot to the police station. Sorry, No English! We are pointed towards another station about a 20 min walk away. Sure enough an officer who speaks English serves us. He hands us a form in which we fill out official details and a long account of what happened. He stamps it and gives us the carbon copy for insurance claim. He adds, "What is lost is lost." They'll probably never nab the perpetrators since gangs and Mafia work together and they are very ingenious. Drink and I  can certainly vouch for that.

No crying over spilt milk, but split from Milan we will

We had not been reckless or unduely careless. We had done what we could under the circumstances and with that we started towards Switzerland. Within a few hours we got lost and as a result had a unique experience only motorists can have. 

( That warrants a separate post)

Highway holdup, Mamma Mia!

Leaving Rome we managed to get onto the ring road that circles the city. We were hoping to find a Northbound exit that would take us to Pisa via a Mediterranean coastal route. But we were confronted with boards that showed only directions to Pompei. We must have literally gone around in circles before we found one that we thought would take us North. After a rankling hour( or so it felt like) luck struck. Having lost nearly an hour we eased into the highway traffic hoping to get glimpses of the sea. But we were disappointed. We were mostly driving through foothills and agricultural land. After nearly 2 hours of driving the road veered towards the coast. Finally we had views of typical Mediterranean villas on our right, and the deep blue sea on the left. That feast for the eyes only lasted an hour before we drove inland again. 

We were approaching Livorno, a port city, but we were going to bypass it and drive towards Pisa. All traffic slowed. It was a three lane highway and I stuck to the middle lane in readiness to change lanes when I saw the sign for Pisa. We had already been driving for three hours. 

Then traffic slowed further gradually coming to a full stop. The drivers waited patiently in their seats for nearly half an hour and then began getting out and talking to other drivers. Their conversations are dramatic being animated with their numerous hand gestures Those who had phones tried to find out what was happening, but most were throwing up their hands in the characteristic Italian gesture accompanied by "Mamma Mia". We too got out of the car and tried to converse with other drivers but between our English and their Italian there was no coherent communication. The gist of the matter: nobody new what was happening. Many theories were floating about. Must be an unusually massive traffic jam, being the rush hour. After all on coming traffic is smooth. Probably a truck has overturned spilling its contents and blocking all the lanes and as usual police are slow to take action. Perhaps a major traffic accident that even ambulances and traffic police find hard to approach. 

We were simply a large parking lot for nearly three hours. Luckily for us, we did not need a bathroom break. Finally traffic began to move. We were hoping to see the cause for the standstill but there was no clue at all. It remains a mystery to this day.

Picking up speed we reach Pisa. As we cross the river Arno we see that bridge is crowded and all along the banks candles had been lit. A festival was being celebrated. We found out that the local holiday honoured a Saint. We were in no mood to enjoy the festivities since we wanted to vist the Tower and its surrounds and then leave for Florence. It was already late in the evening. We had to park but no space was available. Having come this far we had to at least have a glimpse of the famous tower. So we took a risk and parked our right wheels on the raised sidewalk hoping that we would not be caught and made to pay a fine. (Fines in Italy are instant). It would also delay our drive to Florence. I didn't fancy driving in the night into a new city where we had yet to find accommodation. So what do we do but launch ino a brisk walk-run to the renowned tower, take the obligatory photo, rush back. We breathe a great sigh of relief to find the car safe and no parkiing ticket anywhere. 

By the time we reached Florence it was already dark. We stopped near a hotel that looked promising, but Drink went in to check and did not approve. We drove slowly again looking for another Hotel. As I was driving very slowly and stopping frequently, a female driver behind me looked out of her window and loudly mouthed something in frustration. Luckily I found a tight spot, beside another hotel, into which I wedged the car while she sped by and we also decided on staying there. Enough was enough. We had spent most of our day on Italian roads. 

 

Drained by the Weather

Weathering floods, fogs, torrential rains

From Venice to Rome via Orieto

After spending a night and a day in Venice, dazed by the labyrinth of canals, alleys and bridges, a city that stood the test of time, we picked up our car from the valet parking garage( it cost us as much as our budget room rental), starting our nearly 10 hour drive towards Rome that took us through rolling hills and olive groves as well as numerous picture perfect mideaval  towns. Sign boards on the Estrada indicated Verona, Padua, Bologna and Florence stirring up a flood of images of Shakespearean plays in my mind, while another storm was brewing.

Almost 6 hours into the drive  we are drowned in a flash. The sky splits with a crack and a boom, breaking the dam in the heavens, letting loose a watery fury. Visibility is zero. Stunned I almost floor the breaks and hope to veer towards the verge and stop there till the visibility improved. The driver's sense kicks in. My hand automatically reaches for the hazard light button. If I slow all of a sudden wouldn't I be in danger of being hit by a vehicle  tailing me? Did I really know anything about the verge? Gravelly? Muddy? Sloping away? Will I drive myself into a worse situation? 

As I continue driving at a slightly reduced speed the turmoil in my mind subsides. We had only about a half-hour drive to Orvieto where we were scheduled to overnight. My agitation subsided but the sheets of water pounding furiously, not only on the winshield but all around the car, did not. Are we submerged? Did I imagine a shark winking at us and flapping its tail? It is all surreal.

Still blinded, I hear honking behind me, definitely from a truck. I'll be crushed if he can't slow down. Ha! I see a vague red light blinking just ahead of me. The best thing to do is to tailgate the vehicle before me, driving close to the centre of the road. After nearly half an hour of this nightmare the heavens decide to take pity on us. The rain subsides and visibility improves, but I am still shaking.

The shakes didnt leave us till we were comfortably ensconced in our hotel room. Had we come at a different time we would have enjoyed a walk through this beautiful town with mideaval buildings connected underground. 

A watery Texas welcome

The next time we encountered a flash torrential rain was just as we crossed the border, near Orange, from Louisiana to Texas. We were driving from New Orleans to Houston.  We had just driven by Baton Rouge passing ruined homes devasted  by  Hurricane Katrina. We were already on a downward slope leading from the border when the water began gathering in the dip. By the time we reached the bottom, only a couple of minutes, the waters were almost as high as our chassis. Luckily we had momentum and managed to climb out unscathed. As soon as we clear the flood the rains stops. The sun peeks out with glee at the short drama.

A peek under the veil

On the same trip, in fact, the very next day, we drove from Houston to Austin very early in the morning. The country side was covered in dense fog. As the day got on the fog gradually lifted, revealing the farmsteads and the blue bonnets bordering the highway .  Did Nature unveil her beauty gradually so the appreciation would be greater?

Frolicking in a flood

A couple of days later we found ourselves in Garner State Park. As we trekked through the park we came across a stream fed by a waterfall. It flowed over the service road. An occasional vehicle would drive by and leave ripples. When safe, children would merrily go up to the ripples and ford the stream walking through the reflection of the hill and the blue bonnets.

Foggy Jocundity

After having visited the Lake District, associated with my favourite  Romantic Poets, also the Yorkshire Sculpture Park,  we were driving towards Wakefield when we were engulfed in fog. We we were not worried about obscured panoramas since we'd had our fill for the day. It was nostalgic seeing the signs for Leeds, and Haworth where I had spent some time during my University days. As we were getting closer to London I was reminded of TS Eliot's lines from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock :

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

5. Myanmar, 2001, Barrage of Sensations in a Mish-mash of a city

Continued from 4. Myanmar 2001

Ferry crossing

Dressed like locals we walked along the Strand and found the queue to buy ferry tickets to cross the river. The first time we wet the uncle accompanied us, spoke in Myanmese and got us local tickets. We had to play dumb so that we did not give away the fact that we were foreigners and end up paying exorbitant fares. We boarded the ferry and went to the upper deck where we found the typical low plastic stools on which to sit sheltered by our umbrellas. 

On a subsequent trip(2016) we went on our own and got foreign tickets. This time we could go into a covered enclosure on the upper deck and sit on plastic chairs. We were not bothered by vendors. The other side of the river had a vibrant market and hence a colourful village. Walking down one of the back streets we came upon many indians some of whom spoke Tamil. Many of them were retired . One was looking after the temple and was active in a Tamil society. He invited us to his home where we met his wife. They had lots to say about the Hindu temple nearby since they were actively involved in it. We took leave of them and simply walked further to take in the village atmosphere, the houses with their fruit trees, vegetable gardens and poultry. 

Hospitality of a nanogenarian

An auto ride took us to a 90 year old who live on his own in his padi field. He did not keave the country futing the purge and we were familiar with some of his relatives. Anticipating our arrival he had prepared a typical sumptuous 3 course meal for us, on a wood burning stove, served on banana leaves. He had a Burmese family living in the premises to do his bidding and to till the fields. his relatives. He had cooked a three course meal for us on his wood burning stove and served us on banana leaves. We also had a plentiful helping of his daily routine. He had a Myanmese family working for him both in the house and in his fields.

Safety

Talking about safety, as we prepared to board the ferry we noticed a couple of soldiers supervising  three young men, chained to each other, also boarding. We were later told that the chained men could have been drug pushers. The military had its eyes everywhere. 

One of our acquaintances who took us on a walk along Mogul Street (now Shwe Bontha Street) carried diamonds in his shirt pocket. He traded in diamonds. Another friend walked around town with a huge bundle of notes. There was no danger of theft then (about 10 years ago).

In another of our visits we happened to see a borrower returning money to the lender. The bundles of notes came in sacks and the counting took the best part of the afternoon.

Knees-up Transport

We also tried taking the local buses. 10 years ago the seats were very close together, worse than budget seats in Asian flights. And you literally had to brace your legs against the front seat since the leg room was too narrow to plant your feet on the ground. 

Sharing the ride with market produce and fowl and quadrupeds

The Yangon Circle Line, the train, literally crawls 30 miles around the city and its suburbs and taking about 3 hours, passing through what feels like a whole echelon of Yangon society. Again foreigners pay more. Beside us sat people from all kinds of trades carrying their wares in baskets to be balanced on their heads. Some were bringing livestock to the market. We had chicken under our feet and even a goat. The odor of food from the snack vendor mingled with the odor of scented prayer flowers and the smell of animals. We didn't do the whole 30 mile loop. About half an hour was good enough to take us through the various neighbourhoods. Our sophisticated noses could tolerate so much.

Street life

The city is a  heaving jumble of dilapidated colonial buildings, hole in the wall shops, street markets,  noisy and congested alleys and streets, mosques, pagodas and roadside food stalls with their low tables and stools. 

To be continued in 6. Myanmar.

4. Myanmar: underlying compassion

Cont'd from 3. Myanmar

Keeping clear of riots

Then it was simply a long drive back home through teak forests and sugar cane fields. We must have made only one stop. Closer to Yangon we came across a village surrounded by sugar plantations. It was evening and the village folk were sitting on low stools at the palm-leaf roofed wooden tea stalls, enjoying the chai. What was noteworthy was they they were all dressed in Gujerati clothes, and spoke Gujerati. We could have been in India. Our driver did not encourage us to stop because he had heard that trouble was brewing in one of the other villages we would be passing by and he did not want us to be caught in the riots. So we literally sped through.

The final journey of an aunt

After a night's rest it was revealed that the uncle's wife's favourite aunt had passed on in Yangon while we were in Mandalay and that was one of the reasons we hastened back. So we went to the crematorium where the body. Many bodies, each laid out on a trolley and covered by an umbrella like mosquito net to keep flies away, filled up a large part of the covered shed. The aunt payed homage to the old hunched shrunken woman who would be cremated soon. There was a waiting line for the incinerator. We got back home and seven days afterwards a memorial feast was held.  Large amounts in mohinga noodles were cooked, under a makeshift marquee in the tiny backyard, for the continuous stream of relatives.

Yearly Monkhood

A two week monkhood, once a year, is encouraged for adults. The uncle has done it several times and he says the experience is humbling, and very good for anger management. As a monk you go out in the morning after payers, and walk down streets where almost every household reverently ladles food into the alms bowls which the monks carry back to the monastery and tip them all into a common pot. The food that is thus collected is doled out to every monk at 11:00 am, after which there is no other meal. Every household has an elaborate altar where the family's chosen monk arrives once every week to give his blessings and receive alms.

Safe distancing

Two of the uncle's daughters are University graduates. We asked to visit the University. It was now located a hour's drive from the city to prevent student agitation, like those at the time of the military coup. Most of the classrooms had long benches and desks. The teacher heard a blackboard. We met a Professor who spoke a smattering of English, dressed in a longyi, sporting stained teeth from chewing betel leaves. Secondary and tertiary education takes place at government schools. University comes directly after 10th grade. University buses pick up students from various pickup and drop off points in the city.

Vestiges of a glorious past

When Myanmar achieved independence in 1948 its schools were regarded as among the best in Asia, but over the next 50 years, being shut off from the world by the military junta, the quality of education declined. All said and done, the teacher is highly revered.

We also visited the repurposed (still dilapidated) school in Kanpai, once a very special boarding school for highly intelligent Indian students. Kanpai has a large Indian population, as evidenced by two well built and well maintained Hindu Temples. 

To be continued in 5.Myanmar.

Chile Peso Chicanery

We were in Valparaiso, Chile. It was our last day in the country before embarking on the next cruise that would take us across the Pacific Ocean to New Zealand and then circumnavigate Australia. 

The wanderlust prompted us to take a stroll in the suburbs whose houses along the slopes still showed signs of the devastation caused by earthquakes and landslides. After a strenous climb uphill we were glad to find ourselves in a public park with a bench partly occupied by a statue.

"If you don't climb the mountain, you’ll never enjoy the view.” (Pablo Neruda)

Looking up from the seat we saw a peculiarly shaped, glass fronted, multi-storey house  which seemed to attract many passers-by. Curious, we too went towards it. We found ouselves in landscaped gardens with shady trees and benches down the terraced slope, with a great view of the Pacific Ocean. The plaque indicated that it was La Serena, one of the homes of Pablo Neruda, a Nobel Laureate, originally built for his secret girlfriend.* Of course, I couldn't miss the opportunity to take a look into a bit of the extraordinaire's life. As usual, Drink encouraged me to visit the house ( now a museum) while he enjoyed the gardens. 

*We had discovered one of  Pablo's houses, Las Chascona, in Santiago, as we were exploring the huge market nearby. 

Caught unawares

We still had some Chilean Pesos. It would not be wise to convert them back to USD not only because of exchange rates but also the risk of being issued fake notes. Drink handed  me a 10,000 CLP which I blithely hand over to the lady at the counter for a 7,000 CLP entry ticket. The lady did not look up at me. She simply handed the note back to me, asking for the next person in the line. I waited till that customer and another had bought their tickets, thinking that they may have been there before me. I could have barged in. I tried again. This time she almost flung the note back, staring at me and emphatically saying "No!No!" as though chastising a recalcitrant child. Not knowing what was happening I tried desperately, using simple English and gestures, to find out why I had been turned down so vehemently. Lucky for me, another guest who had a smattering of English said "fake".

We had associated fake notes with Brazil and Argentina, but incredibly we had been too trusting in Chile. We were certainly wizened ( not that it would have made a great difference had we been more alert). That I thought was the deciding factor. I would simply enjoy the view from the garden but Drink had a little more Pesos to spare. We counted out the right amount and I marched back to the counter with some apprehension. The notes passed. With barely a glance at me, the issuer handed me the 'hard fought' piece of paper.

The house was well worth the hassle. It certainly had a very curious eccentric structure filled with the late poet's bohemian, and wacky collections of art and furniture. The view of the ocean from his study must surely have been conducive to the extraordinary perspectives in his prolific artistic output.

Our visit to another eccentric house in Vietnam will be the subject for another post.

Pay back time

As we left the premises Drink had a brilliant idea, as usual, and as usual, I carried out the plan. Our fake note was worth USD 10, no small amount for us. He suggested I buy something at the few souvenir shops just along the public park. So with the folded note in hand I examined the wares on display. Everything I liked and would find good use cost way more than what I had. I chose a ring the lady said would set me back 15,000 CLP. I said I couldn't afford it. had only 10,000. There were no other customers and she readily accepted my note after handing me my purchase. I didn't waste time wondering whether I could have bargained for less. The thing to do was to leave the area as soon as possible. Since it was down hill we made a fast exit. 

If Drink was expecting me to hand over the small change, he must have been dispspointed.

When I showed the ring to friends they thought the ring was made of Lapiz lazuli (a gem) and worth every penny I paid. To date that is the most expensive souvenir I've bought for if we do buy at all they would hardly cost more than a dollar.

Sagacity or deception

The after feeling was not of smugness but of fair-play --  a local vendor would surely know what to do with the fake note. 

The poet spells out the mood for us in his Ode to Thanks:

Thanks to the word that says thanks!

Thanks to thanks,

word

that melts

iron and snow!

The world is a threatening place

until

thanks

makes the rounds

from one pair of lips to another,

soft as a bright

feather

and sweet as a petal of sugar,

filling the mouth with its sound

or else a mumbled

whisper.

Alms and the Man, my apologies Mr Bernard Shaw

A new twist to 'when in Rome live as the Romans do'.

It was January when travelling overland in South America. We knew it would be summer in the Southern Hemisphere but really did not expect such high temperatures ( 38°C) and humidity.

Unlike Bernard Shaw's heroine (in Arms and the Man) who learns about the  reality of the world around us, we became part of that reality. The humour was not compromised. 

As we ambled the streets of Sao Paulo, even along streets that we had been warned against, we felt very much at home because our skin colour was similar to that of the local inhabitants. We dressed simply, as we were always wont to do in our travels ( branded clothing or shoes and accessories have never interested us, except to marvel at the prices as we windowshop). I carried an unassuming tote while Drink had his fanny pack with our documents. 

Homeless but not helpless

In Brazil and Argentina homeless people are treated with respect. Once we noticed a policeman approach a number of the homeless who made their barebones homes under bridges. He was not filing complaints. In fact, he had a friendly chat.

Unaffectedness draws welfare

In Sao Paolo we found ourselves in the Japanese part of the town. Sao paolo has the largest population of Japanese outside of Japan. They have assimilated very well not only because of their tan but also culturally for the most part. So here we were near shops selling Japanese goods while we noticed a museum dedicated to the Japanese history in Brazil. As usual, Drink encouraged me to visit the museum while he sat on the pavement outside. When I returned I saw him sitting shirtless, just like some of the local population. His cap was beside him, and, guess what? He had some pesos in it. He had been mistaken for a beggar and kind souls had given him alms. Maybe we could make enough money to visit all the museums!

Something similar happened in Paris. The grandchildren and I emerged out of the Metro to walk towards the Louvre hoping to see the Mona Lisa. Drink decided to find a spot nearby to sit and wait for us. So off the three of us went ( we actually got into the Museum for free, stuff for another blog later on ). Nearly 3 hours later we came back to the Metro entrance that is done up like a skeleton Cinderalla carriage embellished with  colourful baubles. Drink, shoeless, had been taking a nap on the bench in its shade with the cap over his face. He woke up to see coins in the cap. They would pay for our trips to answer nature's call.

Charity begins at home

While waiting for the bus ( an 18hour bus ride all the way down south to Buenos Aires)at the Iguazu terminus in Argentina  immediately after immigration procedures at the Brasilian side of the border we felt we should have a little something from a buffet, not necessarily because we were hungry but we needed a seat in a cool atmosphere which couldn't be found anywhere else in the bustling terminus.  

While slowly savouring the food we did what we love doing- people watching. A young affluent looking couple with a little chubby boy walked in through the doors and took up the table beside us. They ordered and as they were eating a few boys gingerly walked into the restaurant towards the tables occupied by non-foreigners and probably begged. I say probably because the children were not dressed in rags. But as soon as the family had finished, the father walked towards the counter at the buffet, bought a few boxes of food, and together with his little son walked to the door and affectionately handed out the food.

When in Buenos Aires,  a local friend visited us for dinner. We shared a lot of information about the Argentinian culture.  She said her country men were all immigrants at one time or other. They called themselves the boat people and that is the root of their compassion.

These are the occasions that leave an indelible memory.