Dining Out

With the ever increasing number of restaurants and eateries around Dhaka, there’s no question that dining out is popular. Whether for a special occasion or no reason at all, people like to take a short drive or wander down the road to their favourite place for a meal. It’s hardly an uncommon activity worldwide. But in Switzerland, dining out sometimes takes on a whole new meaning.

“Is there anything in particular you want to see while you’re here?” my friend Mäggi asked, at her house not so far from Zurich.

I said I wouldn’t mind seeing Liechtenstein. There was something appealing about the idea of a tiny country, at 160 square kilometres less than half the area of Manpura Upazila in Bhola and home to just 35,000 people. Liechtenstein is a principality that had somehow managed to retain its independence through centuries of war and upheaval in Europe. Liechtenstein has the highest gross domestic product per capita in the world. Liechtenstein is but part of a valley and a few mountains, with the upper reaches of the Rhine River, just a large stream at that point, serving as the Swiss border. Mäggi agreed to take me there, and we left mid-morning.

Distances are short in Switzerland. To travel ten kilometres is considered a bit of a journey, Mäggi said, and to travel much further than that is likely to involve crossing canton and perhaps even linguistic boundaries within the country. That valley away to the right, she pointed out as we drove along the highway, was the canton of Glarus, while the highway itself was in St. Gallen; and Glarus was the first canton to lower the voting age to sixteen.

Canton boundaries matter in Switzerland, since each raises its own taxes, chooses its own official language and form of local democratic governance, and celebrates its own public holidays. Thus with even a relatively short commute from home to office, it is possible for the office in one canton to be closed for a holiday while the canton at home is business as usual. Some cantons are expensive to live in but good to work in, while others are cheaper to reside in but expensive for employees, since property and income tax rates vary.

Distances, meanwhile, are rather long in Australia. Outside the cities to travel one hundred kilometres is barely worth a thought, so I certainly had no difficulty with the fifty kilometres, about forty five minutes, to Liechtenstein. Fortunately Mäggi is exceptional, and didn’t mind distances either since she likes to travel, and along with the particularities of Swiss living we reminisced about our first meeting, by chance, years before, in the desert of Rajasthan.

And of course distances are never the only consideration. We were also considering that evening’s dinner.

Liechtenstein is a country named after Castle Liechtenstein in lower Austria where the current princely family, the House of Liechtenstein, used to live. Liechtenstein is a political trick, with the land purchased in order to qualify the princely family for a seat at the Imperial Diet, the parliament of the Holy Roman Empire. Liechtenstein was declared a principality in 1719 but the Princes of Liechtenstein, living in Austria, did not set foot there for the next 120 years.

It was unsurprising. We drove across a small bridge over the Rhine and there we were: Liechtenstein. To the untrained eye it looked exactly the same as the Swiss side of the valley. Mäggi had chosen to reach the southern village of Balzers first, home to around 4,000 people, because on a small hilltop in the valley, in the centre of the village, was Gutenberg Castle which dates from the 12^th Century.

We walked around the castle’s bailey, the enclosed courtyard, shivering in the winter air and admiring the grey-sky view from its walls. In those identically Swiss shades of verdant green, grey rock and white snow, was the landscape of a valley rimmed by the peaks of the Alps. Of course it was stunning but it could have been just about any valley thereabouts. But on the other hand, it was Liechtenstein.

I couldn’t help but wonder what percentage of the country it was, that was contained in that singular view. It certainly wasn’t all of it since Liechtenstein continues for several mountaintops to the east which were out of sight, but it may have been most of it. I don’t suppose there are too many places in the world where it’s possible to view the best part of an entire country from the one spot.

Liechtenstein is a tax haven with more registered companies than citizens. Liechtenstein was the last country in Europe to grant women the right to vote, which happened in 1984. Liechtenstein is the world’s largest producer of sausage casings and dentures.

From Balzers in the far south of Liechtenstein we continued to the capital, Vaduz, also on the Swiss border but north, in the middle of the country – a distance of 7.5 kilometres. The capital, home to about 5,000 people, was quiet and orderly, and spotless to the degree I always think makes it seem as though nobody really lives there – what could be called ‘showcase clean’. On the hill to the east overlooking the town was Vaduz Castle, the home of Hans-Adam II, the Prince of Liechtenstein.

The foremost attraction in Vaduz is likely the Kunstmuseum Liechtenstein, the principality’s collection of modern and contemporary art. A few hours passed that way, bringing with it that contemplative mental stillness that usually comes about from taking in the various concepts and imaginings on offer at an art gallery.

By then it was already late. It was dark. An afternoon in Liechtenstein was done and there was only the matter of dinner left to consider.

It’s hardly controversial to remark that Switzerland is expensive. What was perhaps surprising was that it is also expensive for many Swiss. And if you’re like Mäggi and not averse to distances, even distances that might be considered relatively minor elsewhere, then dining out can just as easily mean dining out of the country.

It had made economic sense on a previous day to reach the town of Konstanz, about fifty kilometres northeast of Mäggi’s house and just across the German border, for lunch. A little further, two hours’ drive to the south from her house was the temptation of Italy. But on the day of the visit to Liechtenstein the sensible choice was to take the opportunity to cross into Austria, where, immediately beyond the border post and before nearby Feldkirch town, are a string of restaurants catering to hungry Swiss and Liechtensteiners. And there, for old time’s sake, for a chance meeting in Rajasthan, we chose the Indian place.

In Switzerland, whether it’s for a special occasion or for no reason at all: if you plan to dine out don’t forget to take your passport.

But the question is: What to Eat?

Caribbean Fish?

                     Tortillas from Central America?

                                        Bolivian llama steak and potatoes?

                                                                King of the beef steaks, from Argentina?

   

                                                                                                                      Norwegian venison?

The choice is yours.

This article also published in Star Magazine, here: Dining Out

Diabula me hechizó

Debemos agradecer por su valentía a los primeros portugueses por sus viajes de descubrimiento en el siglo quince. Sin miedo de lo desconocido, los mitos y monstruos marinos, ni el riesgo de caer por el borde del “mundo plano”, anduvieron de acá para allá por estos mares inexplorados. En los siglos siguientes,  establecieron definitivamente en la Bahía de Bengala un puerto en Chittagong y en la cercana isla de Sandwip. Pero, ¿se habrán perdido alguna vez? De vez en cuando tal vez sí. Y seguramente al perder el rumbo, culparon a algún demonio de haberles engañado.

Kashem Bhai, de la villa Rahania en la isla de Hatiya, no es portugués, pero sinceramente tiene mucho en común con Henry el navegante o con Vasco de Gama. Como cualquiera de los exploradores portugueses, él contempla sus acciones y las los demás, tomando con no mucho placer los riesgos de su trabajo.

Sobre el cielo estrellado de Hatiya, cada pocos minutos se dejan ver las luces inconfundibles de aviones transcontinentales, algunos pequeños y otros enormes; que seguramente van por el corredor aéreo de Dubai a Hong Kong. Mientras observa los aviones, Kashem Bhai exclama sorprendido ¡Cuánto riesgo corren! ¿Realmente la gente necesita volar? ¿Por qué toman tantos riegos? Mientras ensaya el sonido de un avión al caer y estrellarse ¡durrrrummm! Es de notar que él es de la vieja escuela de mi abuela al respecto, de quienes piensan que si el hombre necesitara volar, hubiera nacido con alas. No obstante, este no es el único comportamiento riesgoso que ha notado en los hombres.

También está el tema de los ventiladores de techo. Kashem Bhai se pregunta cómo es posible que la gente pueda dormir con ellos encima -¿Cómo pueden confiar sus vidas a un simple tornillo? ¿Qué sucedería si durante la noche se cae? ¡Cuánto riesgo! Dice pensativo ¿es realmente necesario? Viviendo en Rahania, él tiene la suerte de no tener la amenaza de un ventilador frecuentemente. En cualquiera de las islas, la electricidad no es cosa frecuente y en Hatiya, parece haberse extraviado definitivamente por el camino a la aldea de Kashem.

Llegué una noche sorpresivamente, a tiempo para escuchar como la cautela de Kashem le falló en una ocasión, fue en un día como cualquier otro. Como muchos de los lugareños, él dedicaba su tiempo a sus quehaceres y deberes hogareños y del comercio. Pero ese día en específico, Kashem Bhai pensó que necesitaba tomar un descanso y, como vivía en la costa de Hatiya, no fue difícil encontrarse con algunos amigos y pasarse varias horas sentados conversando en la playa. Normalmente, se siente el golpe de brisa que viene de la Bahía de Bengala y estaban en un lugar donde -pensó él- no lo alcanzarían los deberes cotidianos.

Sintiéndose liberado de los problemas comunes, sin tener que pensar en los arrozales y sus trillos tortuosos, ni franquear los pasos llenos de lodo de los canales del jardín; únicamente estimulado por el ondear -a ratos- de los manglares de más allá. Normalmente, andaría por el camino de arena seca o por el hierbazal cercano, los pescadores locales avisarían del mejor lugar para sentarse a descansar en la bahía, de acuerdo a los últimos movimientos de las corrientes marinas.

Y es cosa sabida que el conversar en la orilla, no está restringido por las mareas o la luz del día, no obstante, los más conservadores regresan siempre al atardecer de la playa. La mejor manera de regresar depende, eso sí, de las mareas, para no complicarse con la oscuridad; aunque lo peor de regresar fuera de hora es el posible encuentro con las cobras y no hay muchos caminos libres de ellas a esas horas entre los canales y los arrozales. Pero, mientras caía la tarde, surgían otros asuntos de índole más aristocráticos, la desventaja de ser un miembro honorable de la comunidad le impedía también regresar tarde.

Desafortunadamente para él, el día escogido por Kashem para irse a la playa, estaba prevista una importante shalish, una meditación pública. Incluso desde la playa, podía ver desde la distancia a los observadores y participantes, listos para el evento. Kashem Bhai pensó en su reputación ¿Qué pensaría la gente si lo ve regresar tarde de la playa rodeado de amigos? Esta situación podría dañar su imagen, así que decidieron esperar.

Desgraciadamente, la meditación concluyó en una disputa sobre la tierra, que generó un inesperado interés popular. Hubo mucho que decir y artificios técnicos que considerar y es cosa sabida que las meditaciones, tampoco están restringidas por las mareas o la luz del día. Así que el camino al bazar se fue ensombreciendo hasta quedar oscuro y el agua comenzó a subir, mientras el shalish parecía no tener fin.

Así que el grupo no esperaría más y pensaron escabullirse discretamente cada uno a su casa, en cualquier momento tendrían que hacerlo. Uno a uno fueron saliendo del manglar, saltando sobre los canales fangosos y sorteando el sendero por entre el jardín.

La multitud resultó ser una bendición, enmascarando a cada amigo al entrar al mercado desde la playa, sin ser molestados ni hacerlos notar; ya era de noche para aquel entonces. No obstante, nada más al poner un pie en su bazar, Kashem fue interpelado con brusquedad ¿Dónde estabas honorable Kashem? Era un miembro Abdullah quien le preguntaba.

Kashem Bhai no supo que responder, pero la fortuna vino en su rescate, al recordar un pintoresco personaje del folklore local, el legendario Diabula.

Kashem comentó con lujo de detalles, como estaba caminando desde su casa al bazar –de la manera que normalmente hacía- cuando por alguna razón se encontró caminando y caminando sin fin y al parecer sin cubrir el corto camino. Encontrando su situación extraña, Kashem Bhai pensó que aquello parecía ser obra de Diabula.

En Hatiya, Diabula es un espíritu invisible, pero no uno cualquiera. Diabula tenía la facilidad para distraer a la gente, cambiándoles la dirección y dejándolos la deriva, descarriados; y el mayor riesgo de ser atacados por él, lo corrían la gente que caminaran solos en la noche.

Kashem Bhai le comentó al Abdullah que se detuvo -sospechando de la broma de Diabula- se paró de cabeza; siendo esta acción la mejor escapatoria para librarse del demonio. Y luego de hacerlo durante una media hora -continúo Kashem- se encontraba inexplicablemente en la playa.

Sin poder refutar su historia, el Abdullah no tuvo más preguntas capciosas que hacer.

Resulta extraño pensar que las supersticiones de los portugueses -hace cientos de años atrás- durante sus viajes, ayudarían a Kashem esa noche a entrar a su bazar. Solo es una teoría, pero no es descabellado pensar que el origen del Diabula local, fuera derivado del portugues diabo, palabra que describe al diablo.

Hatiya no existía cuando los portugueses llegaron a la bahía de Bengala, la isla es mucho más joven, pero los ancestros de muchos Hatiyanas vivieron en Sandwip -una isla mucho más longeva- lejos hacia el este. Al mencionarle Diabula a un amigo Sandwipe, supo inmediatamente quien era el diablillo y cuál era la manera de despojarse de su ataque. Mientras que ninguno de los demás habitantes de las islas que forman Bangladesh, saben de la existencia de Diabula, ni han escuchado jamás hablar de él.


Traducción por Alin Hidalgo Fonseca.


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El Pescador

Los nativos de Bangladesh conocen perfectamente la geografía de su país y lo ponen de manifiesto a diario. Hace algunos años, cuando mencionaba Hatiya, mucha gente la asociaba con Sandwip; sin tener en cuenta la diferencia entre ambas islas y la distancia que las separa; sin olvidar también que a muchos Hatiyas les viene su ascendencia de Sandwip. Por aquellos días, mis planes en Dhaka eran trepidantes, la gente de las islas soportaban constantes ciclones, demostrando gran valor y fuerza, al enfrentarlos solos a tanta distancia.

En el caso específico de Hatiya, cabría mejor el adjetivo “corajudo” para describir a su gente, incluso no es del todo incorrecto describirlos como valientes. Pensemos por un instante que somos pescadores en la isla.

Imaginémonoslos sobre una canoa fabricada de troncos locales; alrededor de diez días en alta mar, rezando para que la madera resista el embate de las olas cuando se pica el mar y que el combustible y los alimentos alcancen para regresar. Deseando además que la escasa recompensa que obtendrían por la pesca –como mucho- alcance para las necesidades básicas de la familia dejada en casa. Habría que verlos luchando entre gigantescas olas –como montañas- con profundos valles entre ellas, cuando al decir de los propios pescadores, se ven como un gran muro de agua en frente. No, no siempre la bahía de Bengala es quieta y mansa.

Es una agradable experiencia, sentarse en las cafeterías a lo largo de la costa Hatiyana y disfrutar del Té, escuchando el oleaje que llena de vida el lugar. Hay un Hemingway, en cada uno de estos pescadores –la verdad sea dicha- cuando cumplen sus tareas diarias.

En una de esas cafeterías, debatía con el mesero sobre el tamaño de sus tazas. Él usaba unas pequeñas de porcelana, cuando se sabe que el Té se sirve en vasos de cristal altos, para poderlos manejar con facilidad. Por si esto fuera poco, el hombre contaba solo con cinco de ellas, por lo cual los múltiples clientes teníamos que tomar la infusión por turnos, aunque ya eso es otra historia.

Le decía que por el hecho de ser un cliente fijo, debería servirme en un recipiente bien grande, como esos de allí- le dije señalándole uno de esos bidones plásticos de varios litros de agua. Todos los presentes rieron -incluso el mesero- pensando que tendría que hacer el Té en un gran caldero para poder llenar mi taza gigantesca.

Había allí uno de esos pescadores entre nosotros, su nombre es Siddique. Vestía como cualquier otro aldeano, sin nada en su apariencia que lo identificara. Lo que estaba lejos de ser ordinaria –al menos fuera de las comunidades pesqueras de la costa de la isla- era la historia que tenía para contar.

Siddique navegaba en mar abierto cuando –cosa también común en las aguas de la bahía- su barco fue atacado por piratas. El problema no fue que le robaran su carga, sino el barco mismo también. Así de pronto, toda la tripulación se vio arrojada al mar, aunque a pesar de todo tuvieron buena suerte. Mientras algunos se ahogaron, Siddique y dos de sus amigos pudieron aferrarse a un bambú que los piratas dejaron caer desde la barcaza. Y ceñidos al madero como si fuera una boya, se fueron alejando cada vez más de la orilla.

El día se convirtió en noche, mientras ellos seguían colgados del palo, boca abajo y a la deriva ante el golpeo de las olas. La noche dio paso el día y de nuevo la noche… y así sucesivamente por seis días, flotaron sin saber si alguien pudiera venir a rescatarlos. Durante esos seis largos días solo tuvieron de sustento su confianza en Allah, solo teniéndose a ellos mismos para darse ánimo unos a otros. Fue entonces cuando –por casualidad- un bote pesquero al verlos los recogió. Así fueron transportados a salvo hasta el puerto de Chittagong.

En la cultura occidental, generalmente se tiene el falso concepto de que los pobres acaparan cada penique que tienen a su alcance; esta creencia viene de su intento por imaginar cómo sería, sin haber experimentado jamás esa gran necesidad. En Bangladesh se demuestra a diario que es todo lo contrario, los más necesitados, son los de mayor generosidad hacia sus congéneres. La tripulación de la pequeña chalupa -con sus escasos recursos- alimentaron a Siddique y sus amigos; donando luego su salario para comprar los pasajes de regreso a Hatiya. Esa noble acción les permitió reencontrarse con sus familias.

Siddique fue afortunado, al menos esa vez pudo regresar. Y ahora, al transcurrir los días, anda en busca de una nueva canoa para regresar a pescar -a verse de nuevo frente al muro de olas y los valles entre ellas- su extenuante labor y hasta incluso, otro posible ataque de los piratas. En Australia, una persona que haya sobrevivido a una experiencia tal, sería considerado un campeón en los periódicos. En Bangladesh, los periódicos se llenarían a diario con historias similares, contadas por los pescadores de Hatiya. Pero además están los demás, los Bholans, Sandwipians y Monpurans, en fin, de todos los distritos pesqueros alrededor del país. En Australia esas personas serían nombrados héroes por sobrevivir a cosas así; en Hatiya, es la valentía de la necesidad lo que mantiene vivos a los nativos.

Entonces caigo en cuenta –tomando mi Té- de las tantas preguntas tontas que pudieran hacer aquellos que no han vivido la experiencia ¿Tuvieron miedo? Pregunté- pero la respuesta es obvia. ¿Hubo tiburones? ¿Cómo hicieron para beber? Pensando en el detalle de que, beber agua salada, provoca deshidratación inmediata y una muerte segura. Siddique no me supo responder, estaban rodeados de agua y, por la expresión de su rostro, entendí que me había perdido de algún punto durante el relato. Hasta ese momento, no supe que mi pregunta era redundante.

Al siguiente día lo entendí mientras vagaba por los diques costeros, en la zona que los Hatiyas llaman “el jardín”. Los extensos arrozales dominan el paisaje, cuando súbitamente caí en cuenta de que, esos campos estaban ubicados en una zona baja, increíblemente, esas plantas eran irrigadas por el agua del mar.

Siguiendo la costa sur de la isla, de cara a la bahía de Bengala, Hatiya está situada de frente a la desembocadura del gran río Meghna. Increíblemente, el gran caudal de agua dulce que descarga este en la bahía durante el monzón inunda las cercanías, disminuyendo el porciento de sal disuelta en el mar, lo que permite crecer al arroz; claro que solo la variedad rajashail y únicamente en este período. Así aprendí que para beber, Siddique solo tenía que abrir su boca.

No obstante, lo verdaderamente impresionante de la historia de Siddique, fue su manera de contarla. De la misma manera, había escuchado a otros pescadores anécdotas similares y, aunque esta experiencia fue significativa para él, estaba muy lejos de resultar extraordinaria. Así comentó como su propia tripulación, había encontrado en otra ocasión a una mujer, que flotando en el agua llevaba ya ocho días; por lo cual le parecía que los seis pasados por ellos no lo eran tanto. Cosas peores hemos visto.

Imagínense a esa mujer ahora, probablemente ocupada en sus tareas diarias, cocinando rotti, cortando los vegetales, alimentando el fuego del horno con paja para cocer el arroz… actividades comunes en las mujeres Hatiyas. Seguramente recordando los ocho días pasados en el mar, pero sin desatender sus quehaceres domésticos, pensando la mayoría del tiempo en servir a otros.

A los pocos días regresé a la cafetería, bromeando con mis amigos y -como siempre- pedimos un Té, el mesero les sirvió primero a ellos en las tazas habituales; entonces vino con la mía. Adivinen, me trajo el mayor recipiente que pudo encontrar, la tapa de su propio termo, llena hasta los bordes de Té humeante. Me tomó una media hora poder tomarlo todo, fue como un gran plato sopero, complicado de terminar. Todos los clientes rieron al ver mi deseo cumplido.

Nota importante: Siddique el pescador, sobrevivió aferrado al trozo de bambú que se le presentó como salvavidas, de la misma manera que a muchos se nos han presentado otras oportunidades en la vida. Segunda nota importante: en Hatiya, es mejor tomar el Té en las tazas en que lo sirven. 

Traducción por Alin Hidalgo Fonseca.

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Returning to Simplicity

Elliptical stones in granite, curved shadows tracing the movement of the sun and parading across the dusty ground, 95 monoliths up to 3.5 metres tall, in concentric circles and first arranged six thousand years before the Christian era: at the Cromlech of the Almendres, the value of simplicity shines.

Tell me of lines and radial designs, of the flat top on menhir number 8 that with the assistance of small stones may have enhanced the observation of the equinox. Tell me of a newly agrarian society, of hunter-gatherers exploring their megalithic selves. Tell me of religion and of the stars looked upon with astronomical awe; and then say something of the rocks that have faced unaided the sun and rain through the seasons of the millennia. Tell me of the megalithic wonderland in the low hills and plains just west of Evora, in Portugal, in the most rock monument-adorned region in all of the Iberian Peninsula. Tell me how it was, four and half thousand years before Stonehenge.

And I’ll tell you of a bicycle in that most popular design, the Chinese pigeon that we are all familiar with today. I’ll mention the radial spokes and wheels, pure circles; and the mechanical advantage, so clear and straightforward, of a cog set and chain. The power of the pedal, through sun and rain can take one back to the inspiration of simplicity.

In Evora the bicycles are gainfully employed, at least the ones that wait in line at that shop with a prominent street view not far from the Roman aqueduct that moulds into the buildings of the town. The bicycles are transport sector workers, though it’s not worth mentioning a wage, but they have accommodation and the health care, covering everything from puncture to rusty pedal, is comprehensive. It’s a very silent, stationary touting they do, true, but to be expected when it is well-known that bicycles have no ability of speech; and despite having a good pair of wheels neither can they move independently. Yet they beckon the tourist with a promise: ironically of independence to be realised in an alignment with the rider, in moving out to observe, in circles, the world.

The bicycle must like the prospect of an afternoon beyond the shop; and although a minor jaunt around the sites of Evora must please, for Evora is a world heritage site and one of Europe’s oldest cities, a longer journey into the countryside, with that sense of freedom from flying along a country road and off into the dirt laneways beyond the villages must be preferred. The bicycle must like the name of Cromlech of the Almendres with its promise of fresh air and fast, fulfilling, tiring pedalling. It’s a thirty kilometre round trip at the least, a good run, unless the Zambujeiro dolmen is included in the tour in which case it’s further than that.

The bicycle was used to the ways of the tourists. Often it had to stop briefly at a random grocery store before leaving town and wait for its rider to buy a few snacks and drinks for the day.

In the fields beyond the city, tell me of the cork oak, robust and stunted, wrinkled and crumpled, an old man waiting at a bus stop or an old woman too weary to share the wisdom of longevity. Tell me how the cork oaks in the grove live for up to 250 years, how the first harvest of bark will be twenty five years after its sapling age and how each subsequent harvest will be at a gap of nine to twelve years thereafter. Tell me of the harvest done with simplicity, without machinery, by hand, for the wine bottle and the cork tile and remember to include that the Mediterranean dweller, the cork oak, cannot be chopped and is protected in Portugal.

And I’ll tell you of the olive: that small elliptical fruit on its silver-grey bushes lined up across the fields. For salads it’s simple but the olive comes with a history and I’d mention that Homer’s Odysseus crawled beneath two olive shoots and Roman poet Horace included it in his diet. In the Quran it is a blessed tree. I’ll have you note it too that the olive tree can live on for two thousand years.

The bicycle liked no doubt the landscape of low hills, cork groves and olive plantations. It can be assumed it was grateful for the megalithic pathway laid out for comers to the Cromlech and relished the chance to pose for the camera, there on the little bridge, here by a menhir.  It’s not always that the bicycle kept record of its tours.

One hundred menhir stones, eight hundred tombs called dolmens and four hundred and fifty megalithic village sites: there are a lot of numbers to take in as the bicycle reaches the village of Guadalupe. There’s a lot to contemplate in the final strides along the dirt road towards the Cromlech and there’s time to be taken to take in the simple circles of curved stones. The bicycle waits for its rider to eat the few snacks.

The country west of Evora, no doubt is favoured by its megalithic jewellery which came to that place perhaps because of its potential for astronomical alignment or perhaps because it’s in that country where all the watersheds of the Alentejo region’s three rivers, the Tagus, the Sado and the Guadiana, meet. 

The bicycle does not neglect the largest menhir, 1400 metres to the northeast, standing isolated and alone, and at 4.5 metres, standing tall. The bicycle continues to the Anta Grande do Zambujeiro near Valverde village, knowing what to expect: a basic chamber, a room of rock slabs that might have had burial or religious purpose.

As the sun descends and the elliptical shadows lengthen, the bicycle has learnt its solar signal and turns its back on the cromlech and with an ever heavier turning of its wheels heads for home. It arrives at the bicycle shop bearing that weariness of the accomplished kind that actually feels good. The sort of reward for the day of the returning to simplicity is a sense of clarity brought about by circular wheels and pedalled satisfaction.

* S * O * M * E * T * H * I * N * G *

* S * P * E * C * I * A * L *

Maltese Stone

Cypriot Salt

Lebanese Cedars

This article also published in Star Magazine, here: Returning to Simplicity

St. Vincent's Remedy

It’s not the cure-all for the deficiencies of mankind but it does its best. There are island choices, whether to read a book or sit on the balcony in the sun and surrender, sublimely, to the translucent waters of Indian Bay. Beyond, aqua fading to deep blue is the channel before Bequia, the first island in the Grenadine chain. There exists no obstacle that can obstruct beauty: it’s a reminder. The view can hypnotise, there.

When inactivity becomes entirely too inactive the beach is just a few strides away, to swim or with flippers and snorkel to greet the fish, multicoloured, striped, with long snouts or googly eyes. It’s to be observed that the postcard paradise continues underwater. Lucelle, meanwhile, might be taking her husband for a dip; but there’ll be no crowds to contend with, there.

Things to think of are not absolutely absent, don’t misunderstand: it’s best not to swim out too far lest Bequia’s currents sweep you away, and don’t get caught up, irretrievably, in the dreamy pink palette of the Caribbean sunset, either.  But it’s not much to worry about. There’s a lot of goodness in St. Vincent to find you. Life won’t bother you much, there.

Lucelle doesn’t have guests. It’s one of the first things she says, that at her laid back hotel she only has friends. Even if you’re new friends, arriving at her little patch of Indian Bay fresh from the airport, just in from Grenada, you’ll understand it easily that she’s not only saying that. When she learns you have no car it’s unimportant because in her older model, brown car she takes enjoyment from showing her friends a lot of the little main island. Lucelle is proud of her West Indian nation, independent since 1979 and homeland to 120,000 people, her SVG.

St. Vincent and the Grenadines: she sees so much goodness in it.

You’ll wonder if it was Lucelle who added the final touches to island calm or if the island brought its kindly disposition to bear on her. There’s an inkling of the sound of the waves in her demeanour and the soft crunch of beach sand in her pace. Or perhaps it’s merely the sort of gentleness to be expected from a diplomat’s wife.  

By narrow road into the green hills away from the coast she took us to the gardens of Mesopotamia. We strolled and chatted among a bounty of fruit, patterned leaf and orchid flower; and the conversation flowed as simply as the stream, there.

Yet it’s no cure-all. Wherever there are humans there are problems and we can see this by the black sand beaches of the east coast. Lucelle wanted to show us the tunnel dug under the hillside by African-origin slaves, at the time when the British engaged the island in sugar production. There aren’t natural harbours on the east side so the tunnel was a convenience through which trolleys of cane could be hauled and loaded aboard small boats and anchored ships. The British ordered the landscape altered, there.

But there exists no obstacle that can obstruct beauty, according to St. Vincent, and what should have been a morbid site of slavery’s remodelling, wasn’t. A melange of colour and shade, the walls of whitish rock were covered in lichen in bright red and fluorescent green, turning a horrific history toward art. Over time St. Vincent’s remedy had done its best, making new beauty with a little weathering. We should remember people’s goodness and struggle, and not only their suffering: it’s a reminder.

She drove on, north, to colonial looking Georgetown, which seemed to be trying to be more of a town than it really was. Beyond was the light forest of tall palms among the cane fields, the banana and guava orchards. It was an inching lane of warped bitumen that raised us to the shady turnaround at the start of the volcano trail.

Above the clouds, Soufrière’s active bellybutton peak in the island’s north is out of view; it’s the skyward tip of the painted parasol of an island and it can erupt, and disrupt, again. Yet it’s true, St. Vincent would over time remodel any catastrophe, to make new beauty, with a little weathering.

Wherever there are humans there are struggles and Lucelle tells us of youth unemployment and the fear that her SVG could fall into the trap of drugs and crime that has already beset some of the neighbouring island nations. But she shows us the new schools the Vincentian government has built and the site of a proposed larger airport that could accommodate larger planes to help the tourism industry to bloom. She considers if her SVG couldn’t become the IT hub of the Windies. She sees a bright future, there.

Meanwhile beyond the capital Kingstown on the west coast and another day the older model brown car drove to the little bay of the Hollywood treasure chest, where the movie Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed. Swashbuckling sets, warehouses and coffins are still, there. And in the small town of Barrouallie we stopped to meet her relatives; because although they’d never know it, you can’t simply drive on. SVG is not that sort of a country.

Sometimes Lucelle would come to us and we’d sit in lazy chairs on the balcony overlooking Indian Bay’s deep blue. She spoke of her life in easy, palm frond sentences, about her own troubles of the sort that can be found wherever there are humans.

She remembers the parties of Europe back in the diplomat days and smiles, and I won’t tell the whole of it but I did want to mention about her husband, who suffers from dementia. She helps him to the beach and back twice a day, for a swim; and he needs a lot of care, not always knowing who she is. Sometimes in the not-knowing he can act with violence.

So when Lucelle worries about his safety, when she worries he might wander off and finds it hard to speak of these things; when she says ‘He was very good to me,’ it’s really something to respect. That there’s a kind of entwining in this world that can overcome any obstacle: it’s a reminder. Sometimes we need reminders and Lucelle was an exceptional one: we saw so much goodness in her.

One day, she said, she walked into a bank in Kingstown and was shocked: there was no movement, as though time had stopped, customer and staff silent and frozen. It was the final stages of a cricket match, it turned out to be, and all those Vincentian eyes were glued to the TV set and Lucelle willingly did the same, more than willingly. For the several final minutes breaths were held, stomachs in throat until suddenly there were screams: in the bank the customers jumped about, she said, they woke up in spontaneous cheers and applause. Hurrah! The Windies had triumphed!

SVG is not the cure-all for the deficiencies of mankind but it does its best.

* I * S * L * A * N * D * S *

Cyprus 
Taiwan 
                             Malta 
                                            Hatiya 
                                                Hongdo 
West Indies 



This article is also published in Star Magazine, here: St. Vincent's Remedy

The Hat-Speak of Panama

Storm gathers over Santa Fe, photo courtesy  Paul Sigurdson, Coffee Mountain Inn

Rattan, acorn and pita are the fibres needed: I didn’t know. But there’s no point pretending a short visit will lead to any level of enlightenment: a few days or weeks in any country is barely a starting point for questions.

There’s a little town in Veraguas Province, in Panamá, called Santa Fe. To get there, turn inland from the Panamerican Highway at Santiago de Veraguas and follow the meandering road up into the hills.

The leaves of the chisna plant provide the colour: new to me. It’d seemed so obvious, while in Panamá, to buy one of those famous Panamá hats. Surely owning a Panamá hat could make a life marginally more complete. Santa Fe is a pretty place and tranquil, suitable not least for considering a minor life issue such as the lack of a Panamá hat.

And yet, when it comes to a people, their character, culture and endemic wisdom, it takes a long while to gather any of it. It’s not a simple matter of plucking leaves and stems and working them together, and even if all the fibres were available, there’d be no artisan how-to for the assembling. Nor can you simply buy it. To knowledge there aren’t any short cuts, there’s no voilà!

Which is why when it came to the hat buying, I had no idea.

Street scene in Santa Fe, photo courtesy Marnix van Suylekom, Hotel Anachoreo

And yet, from a short sojourn it might be possible to offer some cursory observations. Weave and weft, the fibres of a few weeks’ experience may be sufficient to make more out of Panamá than the of-course-impressive canal. One of the simplest observations, from the border but especially towards the heartland, was that the Panamanians were indeed a well-hatted public, especially the men in rural towns. It wasn’t unexpected. Hats are practical because of the sun.

It’s from the chisna leaves the dye comes, boiled together with the fibres to make the fashionable designs of dark stripes. It’s an old, well-known recipe, I believe. It’s a trick of the Panamanians, the ones that weave.

Santa Fe is surrounded by the green hillsides of a large national park. There are waterfalls, brightly spotted frogs and tropical looking butterflies in attendance, though it’s cooler in the hills. There are just a few small shops in the casual town centre; it’s not a commercial place, and the worn, modest houses of the town clearly hold for their owners the attachment of a much-loved pair of jeans. The churches in the area are cosy and from the football field the molar-shaped mountaintop, Cerro Tute, bites the sky.

Santa Fe also has a craft market. It was there that I negotiated for said hat, and managed to find one that fit nicely. It had that shitolpati cool feeling of woven fibre, the flexibility that’s always the secret to strength, and a soft brim so useful in shade provision. The mildly amusing thought of coming to Panamá to buy a hat made me smile; but it was a foolish smile.

Unfortunate fact: Panamá hats are not from Panamá. In equal measure, the hat-of-Panamá is not a Panamá hat.

The hills around Santa Fe, Panama, photo courtesy Celestino Montes, Coffee Mountain Inn

Wake up call: Panamá hats are from Ecuador, where their manufacture dates back to the seventeenth century. In the centuries that followed, the Panamanian isthmus grew to be a busy transit point, for both goods and passengers travelling the short distance overland between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, on the way between Asia and Europe, within the Americas too. Even to go from New York to California, a suitable option was to take a ship south to Panama and join a north going ship again on the Pacific side. It was before the construction of the canal.

Meanwhile, Ecuador was a much quieter place, so by tradition the locally produced hats were shipped up to Panamá where sales, with all the transit passengers, were understandably more brisk. They proved to be popular. The only downside to the trade for the Ecuadorians was that their beautiful hats, internationally, adopted the name of Panamá.

So what was it so many Panamanians were wearing? What did I actually buy? I mean, I still like the hat: it’s comfortable and stylish; and I’ve never had a hat patterned with chisna leaf dye before.

Wake up call: the hat-of-Panamá descended long ago from the square-edged, flat-round topped sombreros of Cordoba in Spain, and sombrero is not a reference to anything Mexican-shaped but means not more than “hat”. The hat-of-Panamá is properly called the sombrero pintado, or painted hat, and evolved under the weave of Panamanian culture and the weft of flora species found on the isthmus. The hats are not painted, but woven with design by the darker, chisna-dyed stems. Over the centuries, the sombrero pintado became a veritable cultural symbol of Panamá. So I had managed to collect a little artefact of the spirit of the people of the republic of the isthmus; and there are certainly worse things to do than that.

And yet, I remain greatly unenlightened about that hat. Wake up call: there are many kinds of sombrero pintado. In the central provinces they specialise in white; while Veraguan hats are generally cream; while the ñopito is completely white unless it features a little black design on one side; while the Guatemalan is fashioned by weaving black acorn among the white; while under the brim, there can be a black spotty design known as a mosquito brim. There is even a style endemic to Santa Fe, but whether or not my hat is of the classic Santafeño style I couldn’t say: because understanding cultures is not a simple matter of plucking leaves and stems, even if you knew which ones were worth plucking.

Wake up call: worse than that, the sombrero pintado sends social signals depending on how it’s worn. Should I be embarrassed now, in retrospect – did I wear it foolishly back in Panamá? Because, if you fold the brim up at front and back, it signifies success, masculine charm and skill in fighting; because, if the brim is folded up at the back only, the wearer is an intellectual; because, if the brim is folded only at the front, the wearer is a lady’s man ready for conquest! Tilt it forward on the head and the wearer is upset, disappointed or going through a duel. Meanwhile, if the brim is not turned up at all, the hat is being used to shade from the sun. So how exactly did I fashion it? What signal, what hat-talk did I push out into the Panamanian universe, to whom and when? Was there any chance I was hat-rude?

But perhaps the Panamanians know: the foreigner is hat-foolish, doesn’t have a hat-clue about his hat-speak – he hat-says he’s a fighter but maybe he’s not; he’s hat-telling he’s unhappy, so why is he smiling?

And that’s the warning: while in the weave of a Panamá hat might be a little of the modern engineering marvel of the Panamá Canal, and before that, the convenience to transport of the geography of the isthmus, it’s really all about Ecuador; while in the weave of a hat-of-Panamá is the spirit of the Panamanians, a culture that’s strong and flexible, a foldable-brim-form of expression, and just possibly a little of the verdant landscape of Santa Fe, and that hat can also, as a bonus, protect the humble head from the everyday harshness of a tropical sun.

Here’s the hat-lesson: the act of leaving doesn’t make attachment broken; it doesn’t make the Panamanian learning of one simple foreigner ended.

Church belltower, Santa Fe, Panama, photo courtesy Marnix van Suylekom, Hotel Anachoreo

With special thanks to www.visitpanama.com for enlightening one foreigner on the sombrero pintado, and to the good people of Santa Fe and Panamá for sharing their photos, as this writer’s camera was sadly in its death throes when he was there.

Sombrero Pintado, photo courtesy Charlotte Summers @ Panama Prattle.

Ah, something else to read?

The Central American Trail

Island Hopping in the West Indies

At Home in Bolivia

India Will Decide

This article also published in Star Magazine, here: The Hat-Speak of Panama