I can't see beyond the bend

It looks like the road ends just ahead, yet I know from experience that it does not. It may turn, or divide, or diminish into a narrow lane. It's part exhilaration and part terror that I don't know, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've adopted a habit of talking to myself on this trip, and occasionally I've turned and realized that there was someone there - caught at it by strangers on the street. I will have to break the habit as I re-enter daily life or you will all think I'm loony. I'll have to get used to not washing my clothes in the bathroom sink, not wearing the same three sets of clothes, driving a car, cooking food instead of having it prepared for me, telling time by a 12 hour clock and the temperature by Fahrenheit, having a phone again. I hope I don't get used to a few things though, at least not right away.

I have been incredibly fortunate to be able to make this journey. I rarely told anyone I met on the road the full extent of my travels. Most often the person I was talking to hadn't the means, or sometimes was not permitted, to leave their own country, and to tell them what I was doing felt like showing off. My good fortune is largely an accident of birth, and I am so very grateful for the hand I was dealt. I'd like to remember that.

As I dealt with the inevitable difficulties of the road alone, I had to face myself in ways I can avoid at home. There was less distraction, less noise to hide behind. This was humbling, to be sure. But it also gave me a chance to accept myself as I found me.

I learned to quiet myself, to sort of mentally hunker down, and think through the dilemma confronting me. I was too far from anything or anyone who could help with most things, and losing it was just not useful. There were a few ugly moments, but since you weren't there to see them, I think we'll leave those alone. Too much disclosure isn't healthy, I say.

I'm sad to come to the end, it's been quite an experience. My response to this ending is also overlaid with the other recent events of my life: finishing law school, the anxiety over the bar results, and the end of a job that has helped to define me for 15 years. I don't typically do things any other way than headfirst and wholeheartedly, and so endings, even of my choosing, are bittersweet. I am happy to come home, to see people I love and appreciate, to have coffee at Peet's, to have conversations that go beyond numbers and greetings. At the same time, I am still enamored with the road before me.

I really appreciate you taking this journey with me. By telling you about what I saw and experienced, I was able to frame it for myself, often finding clarity as I wrote. And it has created for me a permanent record, so that when I forget how I felt on the train from Moscow, in Hotan conversing with the young woman on the scooter, or seeing Tyler and Lilly's life in Maputo, I can go back to this record. Your comments kept occasional bouts of loneliness in check and often made me smile.

It turns out that one can't just stop everyday life and go off on an extended adventure without some support from someone at home.

The mail had to be dealt with, the post office will only hold mail for 30 days. Cuba lives with me for the year, and being responsible for a dog is no small thing. The house needs things done, the chickens fed, plants watered, and it turns out the mouse carcasses need to be removed. I owe a great deal to Clay, Paula and Charles.  Thanks to Clay and Charles, my car still starts. Abigail and Teri both helped with care of Cuba, and I'm told that Abigail cleaned up my garden too. If I'm omitting something or someone, I apologize. Thank you all very much for taking time and care of things so I could go and do this thing.

I have laughed so many times at the typos in my posts. My only excuse is that I'm typing this all with one finger, and I often miss the autocorrections my tablet makes as I type.  Everyone has been very kind in not pointing them out.  If you haven't looked and are interested, there are a multitude of photos on Picasa.

See you soon, either in Santa Rosa or on Facebook.

History lesson

Call me weak, or lazy, or a fair weather tourist, but in the continued drizzle this morning, I decided a museum visit was in order.

Iceland has been settled since about 870, mostly by Vikings and some Celtic, with some earlier visits from Ireland. Prior to about 1000 most occupants were pagan and worshipped several gods, including Thor (Por). After that time, the entire country converted to Christianity (voted in by the Althingi).

I thought of Lola when I saw the aims below-not quite as good as a mummy. This was recovered from a pagan grave. Apparently they changed the way they buried people on conversion to Christianity, including no longer including tools for the afterlife in the grave.

This is one form of housing used during one period. There are four beds, and these typically held two people.

There was quite a bit in the museum on the awful consequences of various volcanic eruptions, including one that poisoned the soil for years and caused the deaths of thousands.

I'm not doing the history of Iceland justice of course. For instance, did you know that Eric the Red, who had been exiled, settled Greenland? And a merchant named Bjarni Herjolfsson who was sailing for Greenland got blown off course and saw land, which Leifur the Lucky (I don't make these names up) went to explore in the year 1000. He discovered a land of mild climate with self sown wheat and grapes. He was the first European to set foot on the North American continent. Other family settled there for a time but eventually went back to Greenland.  Columbus visited Iceland in 1477 and is believed to have heard rumors of this far off land. Interesting stuff, assuming it's accurate.

I thought a few of you would appreciate this more recent addition to the museum:

Iceland as I saw it

I went to see the Thing, quite literally

I had this idea that I'd stay up later and get up later to ease the adjustment to CA time, but I fell asleep before 11 and awake at 6:30. Of course, it was still dark, and still dark at 9 am:

Eventually the sky lightened to a soupy gray and stayed there all day. No sun, and with this cloud cover, no chance of seeing the northern lights tonight.

With numerous stops to consult the map, I drove out of Reykjavik to see an important place in legal history. I'd never heard of Althing until a friend told me about it. Either I have forgotten or we never covered Icelandic history in school.

In 930 the inhabitants of Iceland established one of the oldest parliamentary assemblies in the world, modeled after the Gulatinget in Norway.  Thing (looks like Ping in old Norse) means assembly. The assembly met every year from 930 to 1798, although after 1262 the nature of the Althing changed when Iceland pledged allegiance to the king of Norway (Over time the monarchy granted more autonomy to Iceland, and full independence as a republic was again achieved in 1844)

The Althing was a gathering of the 48 leading chieftains, along with their groups of supporters. Laws were made or amended by the chieftains, and those accused of crimes were tried by a jury of free farmers (if you didn't own land, you were required to contract with a landowner for yearly periods, and were therefore a sort of indentured servant).

Initially laws were not written down, and so at each annual gathering the Law Speaker, who was elected for a three year term, recited a third of them. Majority vote was not the basis for new laws. If an individual had not voted for a law, they were not bound by it, so consensus was critical. By 1117 the laws were codified, and no longer had to be memorized and recited.

By 1005 there were two levels of courts: a District court and a Supreme court. If the District court's decision was not unanimous, it would be referred up to the Supreme court, where a decision could be reached by majority vote. Criminals could have a monetary fine levied, they could be temporarily banished abroad, or they could be banished for life with permission for anyone to kill the outlaw (but no actual death penalty existed). However, for lawsuits, enforcement of any verdict was left to the successful party; using physical violence was perfectly acceptable.

Iceland was even more sparsely populated at that time than it is day (by the time of the first census in 1703 there were 50,358 people, and in 1706-1709 about 18,000 of those died in a small pox epidemic). The annual Althing became a major social event as well as administrative and legal. I'm picturing something on the order of a medieval fair. Various groups had booths for shelter during the two week Althing, venders sold food, remedies, musicians and others performed, beggars asked, and love affairs began.

Alas, over time power consolidated in a few chieftains and abuse of power ran rampant, eventually resulting in ceding their legislative power to a foreign king. It seems that the power of self determination requires the power to enforce those choices.

This is the Law Rock at Thingvellir where the assemblies were held.

The site was chosen for its location, access to water, firewood and grazing for horses. Interestingly, it also happens to be at the intersection of the North American continental plate and the Eurasian continental plate. This boundary, the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, is mostly below sea level, but runs right across Iceland, which as we know from recent events has vigorous volcanic activity.

The two continents continue to move at a rate of about 2 cm/year-even a snail's pace would look like a sprint!- and this movement is particularly visible at Thingvellir. The movement isn't continuous, but happens in bursts when there is an earthquake. In 1789 an earthquake caused movement of 60 cm, for instance.

Continental drift and human behavior both leave some unanswered questions, which I recommend to your consideration. 

I digress

"Every man is the sum total of his reactions to experience [and every woman, as a matter of fact]. As your experiences differ and multiply, you become a different man, and hence your perspective changes."
Hunter S. Thompson

He goes on to say that it therefore makes no sense to continually adjust ourselves for a goal that changes with our perspective. Rather than seeking to be a fireman, banker, doctor (or lawyer), we are to strive to be ourselves.

We may still be a fireman, banker or doctor, but the goal is being made to conform to ourselves, not the reverse. His assertion is that this allows us to live meaningful lives, making our work contribute to what matters to us, rather than the reverse.

(Thanks to Heather Bussing for making me aware of Brain Pickings, which posted this excerpt.)

Something to ponder as Friday edges closer.

head in the clouds

I had a window seat for the flight into Reykjavik today.

There was a doctor next to me in coach again, so surprising! He is an Icelander, and gave me some helpful information. He also pointed out the active volcano as we flew in. He lived in the US for some years, I'm guessing during his school and residency.

This photo is the best I could get of the volcano from the plane:

The glacier poking up through the clouds:

Iceland from the air:

Then I got lost in the dark driving my rental car into Reykjavik. It's a bigger city than I realized, and I discovered that I did not actually have the address of my guesthouse, just a general location.

Once found, it turned out to be a delight. I have an entire 2 bedroom flat, with a view out over the harbor, and within a short walk from downtown. I haven't actually been downtown yet, but Bjorgvin says it's so. He also told me there are protests downtown today, but I am disinclined to go see. Instead I went to the little place across the way and shared my table with a few strangers as I ate. And now my clothes are washing themselves in a handy device known as a washing machine!

Sunday in Copenhagen

I went for a walk early this morning, with the intent of finding coffee along the way. In a short time, I discovered that it is Sunday and nothing opens this early. So I wandered down the Stroget, a series of pedestrian streets that link to Kongens Nytorv, until accosted in the grey fog by a man when there was no one else around. I yelled over and over at him to walk away (odd choice of words) which he finally did, I think in fear that my yelling would bring someone. I turned around and went back the way I'd come. He may have just wanted money, but he came so close to me physically, talking to me and wouldn't leave. At best he has a poor sense of how a woman alone would feel about such an encounter.

But that was a small blip on the morning. There were fog and gusting winds to entertain me as I wandered. There are so many old and stately buildings, most are brick, with copper or tin? roofs. The canals, the boats and the buildings along them are picturesque.

 I could see that gloves and a scarf were in order, but this too had to wait until the slumbering city awoke.  When it came, the cup of hot coffee helped to warm my hands.

I followed church bells to the Marble Church, where I sat warming myself and watching parishioners file in. I made up stories for some, but left when the service in Danish commenced. It reminded me of the Forestville UM Church in another life.

I saw the changing of the guards at the palace,

and sat in on an organ recital at a church with a four story organ from 1698. The oddest thing was the pair of elephants on which the organ rested. I wonder what it cost to build and install this amazing instrument.  David, do you remember Ovid Young on the organ at College Church?

I visited Christiania because I'd read about it. It is an odd place, a former military property that sat unused for years until a group began squatting there in the 1970's. They have a street called Pushers Street, where hashish is sold, in spite of police attempts to curtail the trade. Someone described the area as a perpetual Burning Man, but I think its days are numbered. No photos are allowed by the residents on Pusher Street, nor any running, as it causes alarm due to the illegal activity there.  I took a few photos nearby, but didn't feel I could outrun the guards on Pusher Street.

Things are more familiar here, thus more of a sense of security. And yet I miss already those places that made me sweat because I didn't know the language or customs, where each interaction required my head, my hands, my full intent.

the days have shrunk

My shoes were still soaked this morning from last night's downpour, but they dried quickly on my feet. The bus to the airport was only a five minute walk from my hotel, and the airport was only 20 minutes. I guess that's one of the benefits of living in a bounded island world.

I'm in Copenhagen this evening, suddenly thrust into near-winter, the sun set at 4 pm, well before I arrived. I dumped my bags and headed out to see what I could see. I accidentally landed in a central location, just half a block from Kongens Nytorv, which I believe means King's Square.

Those who dislike Christmas will perhaps not like the photo below. But I was surprised at the people out in spite of the dark, and the chill air and gusting wind. And somehow the lights seemed to be more about dispelling the darkness.

Feels like it's raining all over the world

Rainy day in Mytilene, but that's what umbrellas are for.  I checked the temps in Copenhagen and Reykjavik, which prompted me to find a coat today.

I stopped in a taverna near the old port for lunch. Besides the woman working, there was only me and one old man, who sat with his espresso, clicking his worry beads between his fingers.

the other side of the mountain

Time again. I woke from a hard sleep to see that the clock said 8 am. I jumped out of bed and dithered frantically for a bit. I was supposed to pick up the rental car at 10 at the airport, and I didn't know how far that was away, nor how often the buses run. And then I remembered that I really need to do laundry this morning, or clothes won't be dry for my flight to Copenhagen. And I wanted time for coffee.

I showered and laundered and pulled things from one place to put in another. Finally I headed out the door at 9 am. Except when I got to the bus station, the next bus to the airport was scheduled to depart at 8:40. I stared at the woman for a second, and then it dawned on me-I had not reset my travel clock. Time for coffee after all.

This was the first time I've driven in about eight weeks, and it felt odd. I took the coast road south from the airport, and soon came upon a sign that said Monastery, pointing up a dirt road. Well, this is what rental cars are made for. It soon turned into a one lane road winding up the side of a hill that seemed almost perpendicular in places (the hill, not the road). I stayed as close to the inside as possible, and hoped not to meet anyone going the other way. That turned out not to be a problem, there was no one else up there.

I never found the monastery, but at the top, deep in the woods, there was a small unlocked chapel with a candle lit and a bell rope within reach.  No, I did not ring the bell, but only because I thought it might bring the cavalry or something similar.I eventually came across a sign with the name of a town I could see on the map, so I took it. After a while it became two tracks with grass growing in the middle and doubts arose. I could see myself coming to a dead end and having to reverse uphill alongside a long drop off. I may have neglected to mention that the car is a stick shift.

The rain began shortly after I regained the pavement. I had planned to rent a motorcycle for today's venture, but got talked out of it by a very wise friend.  I drove past pomegranate and orange trees that looked as if they had put their fruit on as decorations, goats scrambled from the road, and the olive trees began to take over.

My route was through the heart of olive growing country. I sort of expected to see rows of trees much like our west county apple orchards. The terrain is steep and the olive trees are all you can see for as far as you can see. Each one has a sort of half moon shaped retaining wall on the downhill side, made of rocks. The ground is very rocky, and the olive growers have put them to use. Some of the little walls have been there so long that moss and earth have subsumed the separate things into one.

The trip through Agiasos was awe-inspiring and intimidating. At each turn, I saw old buildings, or goats, or a shrine, or vines growing a red leaf carpet over some rusted metal carcass. Or a small shop, with old men sitting outside, talking endlessly about who knows what. The charms were endless.

The width of the road, on the other hand, was not. And I could not understand the symbols on the signs well enough to avoid driving the wrong direction on a narrow lane that fit only one car. So I was relieved when the road dumped me on the other side.

I ended up on another gravel and dirt road coming out of Agiasos. Then it started to climb. I had thought that I was near the top of the mountains, but not so. It became another twisting, narrow gravel road up a mountainside. Then fog, light at first. As the road climbed, it thickened. It turns out that it is more frightening to not be able to see beyond the drop off on the side of the road.  To keep myself from getting freaked out, I decided to think. You know, the kind you do when you are removed from familiar circumstances and don't have something to distract you?

First, it occurred to me that not only did no one else in the world know where I was in that fog infested olive kingdom, but neither did I.  Hmm. There was no real alternative to moving the car forward, and in fact, it was rewarding to boot. Even as I slunk past the hairpin turns that seemed to hang out in the middle of nothingness, not daring to look over the side, but unable to resist a peek, I saw the incredible beauty surrounding me. There seemed to be no one else out, but I saw signs of workers from time to time - a few trucks parked in a huddle, and piles of a shade cloth type of material, to be spread on the ground to gather the harvested olives.

Then it occurred to me that while I would not call myself a risk-taker, I am sometimes in situations of my own choosing that intimidate or make me sweat, or swear, like at that moment, for instance. I would not be inclined toward bungee jumping, or white water rafting. But to be all alone on a high, winding, narrow dirt track and not sure how to get down, that is another matter. Here is what I came up with: it's not risk, but a challenge that scratches that itch inside. I'm on this road because it's not easy, and it's unknown (to me), and it's interesting. 

As I dropped into Plomari, I finally did come face to face with another car. I had just passed a short wall and a parked car with little room to spare. The thought of backing between them was unpleasant. Fortunately for me, the other vehicle found a turnout, and gave me the street. 

Plomari is on the south end of the island, and like so many towns here, it's built into the hills, with stairways that serve as streets, and sudden dead ends into cliffsides or drops. I found parking along the harbor and explored on foot. I had lunch at a taverna. Several men sat outside eating, talking and drinking ouzo (in addition to olive production, the area is known for making ouzo). They seemed unconcerned about an afternoon schedule. I ate inside, mostly so as not to stifle their conversation. The woman who cooked and served me gave me directions onward. I rather wanted to avoid returning to Mytilene in the dark, so I took the paved route home.

me and my best friend in Ayvalik

As I walked in the early morning on the water front in Ayvalik, I drew the notice of a couple of dogs. Ayvalik seems to have a lot of both dogs and cats on the streets. My first instinct was to label them strays, but they seem to be more like community pets.

At any rate, these two happily followed me and my luggage. I had bought a couple if baskets in Maputo, and I was carrying those in a plastic bag with the same hand pulling my rollie. I felt a small tug, and when I looked back, one of the dogs was clearly viewing the baskets as food items.

I tried shooing them away, speaking sternly, even a knee to the chest, but there wasn't much other action at that time of the day and they weren't leaving, especially basket-eater.  I finally lost him by stopping for coffee and then slipping out another door when I left.

I'm pretty sure the sight of me and my luggage and the dogs in our strange little dance was funny. An odd little parade.

to commute, shuttle, traipse, or wander

Knowing what time it really is can be useful. I arrived in Istanbul feeling the ease of familiar surroundings. I had put both the backpack and my little wheelie in the big ugly bag (meant to deter possible theft) and then had it plastic wrapped. Lilly had the idea of putting them together and avoiding an extra bag charge. So once I'd cleared customs and passport control, I headed for a toilet to change some of my clothes, wash up and take my bags out of plastic wrap, got lira from an ATM, and inquired about finding the right Ulusoy bus station. These chores done, I settled down with some dinner.

But I left the airport shortly after, because a clock there read the wrong time by an hour, and because I was afraid I would struggle with getting the right bus station- these are private companies with their own terminals. Alas, the taxi driver took me right to the spot and I had three hours to kill.  This is where books come in handy.

I was anxious whether I would know which bus was mine, because announcements were only in Turkish, so I made sure the guy announcing buses saw my ticket, and he let me know when my bus came in. At another point I asked some women at the next table to watch my bags while I went to the toilet-this you can do in Turkey.

I got to Ayvalik, on the Aegean coast of Turkey, this morning on the bus around 6:30. I took a taxi to the 'center', one of the few words the taxi driver and I had in common. I walked a bit, got some coffee, and then found a small hotel and arranged for them to watch my bags for the day for 15 lira. Maybe a little expensive here. But in dollars well worth it. The guy, Mustafa, knew almost no English, but I said the ferry to Mytilene, then waved my hands around my bags, and eventually he got it. I learned this method of bag storage from Dennis years ago.

I had read about Ayvalik's back streets, which was the primary motivation in finding a place to leave my luggage. I had twisted my ankle at the fish market a few days ago, and walking the cobblestones with a rollie is just too much trouble, no matter how small.

What a treasure trove I found! I need to fill you in on a bit of the history first.  Without going too far back in time, and with a great deal of generalizing, Greece became part of the Ottoman Empire around the mid-1400's,  including this town and the region around it, although inhabited by Greeks. Greece became independent in 1830 after bloody and brutal struggles for independence interspersed with civil war.  Things got so bad that Britain, France and Russia declared Greece a monarchy and established a Bavarian on the throne, followed by a Dane. Greece and Turkey then warred over Crete, and after WWI, they continued to battle over contested territories. The Treaty of Lausanne, reached in 1923, included a population exchange between the two countries. Turkish people living in Greece were relocated to Turkey and Greeks living in Turkey were moved to Greece, in an attempt to avoid ongoing disputes. The resulting upheaval for those who were relocated was tremendous, but that's not the focus of this little history lesson (nor are the later civil war that followed WWII, or the Turkish-Greek battles over Cyprus).

Ayvalik was part of the people swap. So the old, winding, narrow and cobbled streets on which I found myself this morning were originally trod by Greeks. And the Turkish who were 'traded' here came still speaking Greek, having lived in Greece for generations. Olives still grow on the hills around, just the people harvesting have changed.

The town lies on a hillside and many of the streets running hither and yon are too narrow for cars. There are delights around every bend, and I found myself constantly torn between this way and that.  The walls are mostly stone or thick plastered/stucco walls, and there are hidden balconies, patios, gardens tucked in behind a wall, oddly shaped doors, donkey pulled carts, water spigots coming out of stone slabs at irregular intervals. I saw a man working on building a boat on his roof, while his dogs lay nearby. I called out to ask if I could take a photo, but he either didn't hear or didn't care.  I took endless photos, but my new SD card is malfunctioning, so I don't know if I can salvage the photos.

I stink a little, but I'm on the island, a mere 57 hours from the time I left Tyler and Lilly in Maputo.

the gilded cage

Qatar Airways and the Hamad International Airport are clearly working to establish their place in the industry. Before we took off from Johannesburg, we each got a moist towelette and a candy, headphones, and a personal care package containing eye covers, a toothbrush and paste, and socks. Then we got free drinks (full bar), a snack, then dinner, and coffee service. Late in the flight another light meal was offered.

There are hundreds of movies, TV shows, games, all free, in the console in front of me. And for a small fee, access to the internet. Texting is allowed. It almost feels like someone made a mistake and installed me in business class.The only thing hampering my complete comfort was the coach size leg room.

Compared to my hour long wait in South Africa immigration lines, Qatar's was fast. But at 12:30 am, nothing is very pleasing. The free hotel room provided by Qatar Airways (for layover of more than 8 hours) comes with strings. I must wait for the shuttle, then ride along for what feels like a drag race (see below), and then wait again at the hotel to be checked in as a group. Most distressing for me was the discovery that I am required to wait at the hotel in the morning for the shuttle back to the airport, making me feel slightly trapped. 

I'd rather have paid for a room, but of course all of this was disclosed incrementally, when it was rather too late to change. I'm not clear what my visa status in Qatar is as well. If it involved more than a couple of hours wasted this morning, I would have made more of an attempt to figure it out. As it is, I conceded, although with poor grace.

I was amazed at the van driver's antics, but according to another passenger who appears to be at home here, this is common to race past another driver, cut in front and then brake, not allowing the other to pass. The car in the rear flashes his brights continually and honks vociferously, and at last our driver moves over. In no time, the other car, or another one, does the same to us, and this pattern continues all the way to the hotel. At first I thought there was some sort of mechanical problem when we braked for no apparent reason in the middle of the freeway, with no cars in front of us. But no, merely grown up boys playing a real life game of drag racing. Next time I'm looking for a seat belt when I get in.

The drive back this morning disclosed white sands and a cerulean blue Persian Gulf.

The airport is quite new, and is perhaps a traveler's dream, especially for layover of any duration. There are internet areas with large, sleek computers, separate pods for tv viewing, sculptures that double as childrens' play structures. Within the secure area there are luggage storage lockers, in case you don't want to lug your carry on luggage around between flights.  The toilet stalls have room for luggage without playing twister with the toilet bowl, there is a lounge with reclining loungers for coach/economy passengers, the coffee shop accepts nine different currencies for payment.

The coffee wasn't great, but I've lowered my expectations in that arena.

Best of all, fast internet, and as an added bonus, it's free. No doubt someone is stealing my information as I type this.

Bearded men go by in white robes and headdress, the women all in black, people in western attire, head scarves, a multi-cultural collage of humans. I've been told there is another, less posh side of Qatar, but it's not on display here.

over land and sea

Off on a two ? day transit: left Maputo this morning, getting ready to board the 8 hour flight to Doha. I have a 14 hour layover in Doha, then a 4 hour flight to Istanbul. From there I have a few hours to figure out where to catch my bus to Ayvalik, Turkey. That is an overnight bus, arriving around 6 am the next day. I have the day in Ayvalik, then catch a ferry at 5pm for the Greek island of Lesvos, if the ferry is running. In theory it is, because they sold me a ticket online. But it's the winter season, so no assurances.

I really have no idea if this is all going to work.

last days in Maputo

One day as we walked out from Tyler and Lilly's place, we went by to drop the trash at the area dumpster. From the neighborhood dumpster runs the guys in the hole nearby extract recyclables to turn into cash. It's an efficient and local system.

In my solitary walks, I had seen men playing checkers on cardboard game boards, using different colored bottle caps for pieces. Lilly has been patiently interpreting, instructing and answering questions all week, and so when I asked her if she thought it would be rude to take a photo when we passed one, she not only asked permission on my behalf, she ended up playing.

Yesterday we took a taxi to the fish market for lunch. Here Lilly negotiated, Tyler assessed the goods and made choices, and I tagged along. Once the shrimp (bigger than my hand) and the fish were selected, and a price negotiated, we carried them back to the restaurant area and there Lilly negotiated with a woman for the cost to cook the fish and shrimp, plus batatas (potatoes) and salad.

We sat under a giant tree for our little feast. First a pitcher of water and a bucket were brought. The water is poured over your hands as you wash, and the water caught in the bucket below. Throughout the meal, vendors hawking their wares circulated in the crowd, selling paintings, shirts, jewelry, and various other things. Perhaps the oddest was a sort of bobble headed miniature chicken. The trick was to look without being caught, because anything more than a bare glance brought them to your side, from whence it was a challenge to get rid of them.

I managed to twist my ankle going in to the market, which cut short our walk along the beach afterward. We did manage to put our toes in the Indian Ocean though, just to be able to say so.

on baggage

There is something freeing about having only a few choices each day as to what to wear, in being able to launder those few things in the sink every few days and let them hang dry while I'm out for the day. The only concern is that they need to be dry before I pack up and move to the next place.

Lest I be misleading, I should admit that I continue to accumulate things. Most of it is gifts, or souvenirs for myself. I've also acquired travel accoutrements such as a new plug adapter, mini SD card, a few clothing items, and at every opportunity, books.

I have a kindle app on my tablet, and some books loaded on it in case of emergency. Note that the lack of desirable reading material constitutes an emergency.  But I prefer a physical book by a wide margin.

I've also left a trail of books behind me, often in my hotel room, or a plane seat pocket, as I finish them. It leaves room to acquire more, and besides, I hope whoever finds them will enjoy them and pass them on in turn.

I try to travel lightly, but for some reason I picked up an extra toothbrush in China, and carried it with me since. That came in handy on my first day in Maputo, when I deposited my other one in the toilet. No five second rule applied!

Alas, as I near the end of my trip, I seem to attract more baggage like a magnet.

for those who know and love them

In the Embassy library:

(No pictures allowed in the Embassy grounds, but the guard allowed an exception for this one of Tyler and his friend)

Shopping for books and periodicals:

In their room:

morning walkabout

This morning's revelation:  pao is bread in Portuguese. However, pico-pau is not some form of bread. I wandered this morning looking for a coffee shop, and found a place in Avenida 24 de Julho that indeed serves coffee and even offers an American breakfast. But I wasn't that hungry, so I asked what pico-pau was. The answer in Portuguese left me no more informed, but what the hell, right? Turns out it was a dish comprised of some sort of I think beef pieces, seasoned and swimming in oil, plus tiny little sausage slices, and a side dish of a mustard dip. It was not my typical breakfast, but like so many things, an experience.

I can hear the call to prayer out my open window, along with the sounds of the neighbors sweeping, talking, children playing. It's supposed to be in the mid 90's today, which I am soaking up in anticipation of the opposite in the last couple of stops on my journey.

I'm intrigued by the women who carry bundles large and small on their heads, often balanced there with -look ma, no hands!-more large and fine motor skills than I shall ever possess.

I saw a woman with a mid sized propane tank carried on its side on her head this morning.

as I was walking down the street

Random photos in Maputo

Home for Tyler and Lilly

This post will be of particular interest for those who know Tyler and Lilly, but it also shows a bit of the typical flat and surroundings.

Shoes worn outside are not worn in the house. Instead they are left at the door, and 'house shoes' are donned on entry. This us the landing outside the flat.

The flat has a front and back balcony. Thus is the front. I thought that if one actually has to iron, it would be nice to do it here.

They have access to the roof, so Tyler and I went up to watch the sun set and take in the view.

This is the local mechanic's shop, under the tree in the courtyard that the house overlooks.

Tyler at the local store: