The Pocahontas Files

Kenya dig it?

2012-01-22T07:40:00.000-08:00

My recent journey to Kenya has helped me learn a very important lesson: In the run-up to a big trip, it is best to avoid stresses associated with taxes, paychecks, and employment. These can leave you so grumpy and tense that it becomes difficult to enjoy yourself. That was certainly the case with me for the first several days of our safari, during which a black shroud of misery obscured my view of the country. Alternatively, it is also possible that I saw Kenya not through a more negative lens, but a more realistic one, because of my lower level of cheerfulness and optimism relative to last year. Or, maybe it was a combination of the two.

(Pathetic fallacy: angry weather seen from the escarpment leading down into the Great Rift Valley)

After all, Kenya is a country of juxtapositions. It's is a wonderful place full of fabulous wildlife and bright colors and fascinating cultures. On my first visit, these are the qualities that I focused on. It was like going on a first date with a potential partner--I was feeling generous and optimistic and concentrated mainly on the positives. But now that time has passed, I've been forced to acknowledge some of the less favorable traits on display, including serious issues like extreme poverty, social inequality, human-wildlife conflict, and corruption.

Fortunately, I wasn't completely overwhelmed by the bad things--just less able to overlook them than before. One thing that quickly began to improve my attitude was the compilation of my 2012 Kenya Bird list, an activity that began during our visit to the Kenya Wildlife Service (KWS) headquarters shortly after our arrival. Despite the fact that the KWS is located in the middle of Nairobi, its grounds host a variety of species, such as white-browed sparrow weavers, African paradise flycatchers, speckled mousebirds, and variable sunbirds. We also had a good talk from a KWS official who started the conversation about the difficulties of preserving wildlife in a country where many people are so poor that they see poaching as their only option for obtaining materials for fuel, shelter, and sustenance; the obviousness and importance of this tension is one of the main reasons that we take our biodiversity and conservation students to Kenya in the first place.

(Lovebirds in a snag at Lake Naivasha. There are three types of lovebird in the region, and all three could be found in this single tree: Yellow-collared (a pair of which is shown in the center here), Fischer's (hiding out of sight on the other side of the trunk), and a hybrid of the two (at top)).

The drive from Nairobi to Lake Naivasha was strangely similar to the one we had last year, right down to the sprinkles that started falling once we began to descend the escarpment down into the Great Rift Valley. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this meteorological paralleling was a trend that would continue the entire trip, in the form of rain at the Met Station on Mount Kenya and showers in the Masai Mara. For me, the most striking aspect of our car ride was seeing, again, the signs of extreme poverty throughout the Kenyan countryside. These had not escaped my notice last year, but this time around I found them particularly depressing. It is hard to watch an elderly woman walking bent in half, lugging a heavy load of brush on her back; it is equally sad to see elementary school-aged children struggling to carry 5-gallon plastic bottles of water home from the pump, or raising their hands to try to hitchhike somewhere with complete strangers. From both aesthetic and ecological viewpoints, one especially unappealing sight was the endless refuse littered along roadways, piled behind buildings, and dumped in the centers of towns.

(Masai giraffe, seen browsing on greenery at the side of the road)

Thankfully, my doom and gloom attitude started to improve by the time we reached Top Camp at Lake Naivasha. We were greeted with a freshly-cooked meal and finally had the chance to shower and stretch our legs after so many hours in one vehicle or another. Over the next few days, we used Top Camp as a base from which to visit many of the same destinations as last year--Crater Lake, Hell's Gate, and a local chameleon farm, to name a few. The weather leading up to this year's trip was much rainier than it was last year, so there were noticeable differences to the flora and fauna. For one thing, the grasses were much higher and greener, which of course had a big impact on all the species that have to worry about stealthy predatorial cats sneaking up on them. This meant that we saw fewer of some animals and more of others, and that they were distributed differently throughout the habitat. Another noticeable difference was the increased amount of avian breeding behavior. It seemed that everywhere we went, we saw adult birds engaged in nest-building behaviors, chick-rearing activities, or elaborate displays to prove their worthiness to mates. Kenya's incredible species richness and diversity were prominently on display.

(I thought I was taking a picture of three zebras looking in the same direction. They thought they were posing for pornography. I didn't notice the difference in opinion until one of my companions politely pointed it out to me after the fact.)

We also had the opportunity to experience wildlife in a more up-close-and-personal way this year--especially during our stays in a campsite in the middle of Lake Nakuru National Park and a ranger station in the Mara North Conservancy. The first site had a small fence in order to keep out potentially dangerous animals such as buffalo and rhinos, while the second was completely open and required night guards to keep an eye out for our safety. When we first arrived at the Lake Nakuru camp, there was a rhino grazing on grass within 10 m of the fence. At the Conservancy camp site, we spotted fresh elephant poo in the field where we pitched our tents, but the real excitement didn't start until nightfall. We pulled out flashlights in order to look for the eyeshine of nocturnal mammals, and were treated to close (but safe!) encounters with hyenas, white-tailed mongooses, a porcupine, and (probably) a genet. Lots of tiny glowing red eyes near the garbage tip turned out not to be mice, as we'd first suspected, but giant hawkmoths emerging from the trash. One particularly neat find was a pair of turtledoves snuggling together on a roost just above my tent--our second roost spotting of the trip, the first having occurred on Mount Kenya, where we saw a pair of mountain greenbuls avoiding the cold rain by sheltering together in a bush.

(African fish eagle patrolling its territory at Crater Lake)

This year I was also treated more to the sound of African wildlife. At 3 AM during the last night of our stay at Naro Moru, a pack of hyenas whooped just outside our campsite, setting off a flurry of alarm vocalizing from nearby baboons and monkeys. On the final evening of our visit to the Masai Mara, the distant rumblings of lions permeated our riverside bandas (I'd never have recognized them without the assistance of my roommate Sarah). Other firsts included sightings of lions in trees (supposedly a rare occurrence, but one that we witnessed during three of our four lion encounters), good glimpses of hippos out of water, the feeding of a parasitic cuckoo chick by its adopted (and much smaller) sunbird parents, and some gigantic hares fleeing from our vehicles. For some reason, we also saw a number of copulating livestock (particularly donkeys), but I'd just as soon forget about that.

(Young Masai warriors in a jumping contest to prove their prowess)

Last year I was sick battling a mysterious stomach illness when the rest of my group went to visit a Masai manyata in order to learn more about its residents' cultural practices. This time I was able to go along, which didn't exactly please me--I was worried it would be more of a theatrical performance than a genuine anthropological learning experience. On the whole, though, it was surprisingly pleasant. For one thing, we walked to the village from our campsite, which gave us a rare opportunity to do some off-road navigation of the African countryside. Another bonus was the chance to freely photograph people, which was virtually impossible throughout the rest of the trip (see below). It was intriguing to see Masai houses, which are made predominantly of cow dung, up close, and see how they are positioned in a circular arrangement in order to form a cow "pen" in the center of the village. Although the Masai were at worst civil, and at best very friendly, I'm convinced they must have mixed feelings about being treated as human curios; I'd love to know how they actually feel about visits from groups such as ours.

(Simultaneous sunrise and moonset at Lake Naivasha)

Although I was invited on the Kenya trip to act as an instructor, I took advantage of the opportunity to act as a student and learn some photographic techniques from another staff member. However, one of my biggest frustrations with the trip is our inability to stop and document/experience some of the most iconically Kenyan sights that we see--women wearing traditional dress (although there were also a surprising number wearing Prom-style dresses in the middle of the day--weird), vendors selling produce by the roadside, children walking to and from school while holding hands or with their arms around each other. Those are the images that I would really love to post here, since they are the sights that give the country its charm, warmth and flavor. Unfortunately, we are largely unable to photograph these things because it is dangerous for us to make unexpected stops in unprotected places--not as dangerous it would be in northern or eastern Kenya, near rebels and pirates, but still dangerous. Where we do stop, we are warned to keep our cameras hidden since it is not uncommon for people to attack photographers and destroy equipment if not given copious recompense for appearing in images.

(White rhinos. Thanks for the rear view, guys!)

Sadly, I think our trip is doomed to be remembered best for its catastrophic ending--a gastrointestinal illness that took out about a quarter of our group on the day we were due to make the long drive from the Mara to Nairobi before flying back to the UK the next afternoon. We're still not entirely sure if it was food poisoning or a virulent stomach bug, but I can personally attest that, whatever it was, it was horrendous. On the morning that it claimed its first victims, I could tell that I would eventually succumb, but luckily I managed to hang in there until we reached the luxury of our Nairobi hotel (with warm running water, flushing toilets with seats, and electricity!). Other people weren't so lucky, and I am not sure how they managed to bravely endure the seemingly endless bus ride to the city. All I know is that it's been 6 days and I am still struggling to eat solid foods. What a delightful souvenir (then again, I got sick last year, too, so this wasn't exactly unexpected).

Overall, despite my initially dark attitude and the dreadful medical emergency at the end of the trip, it all went quite well. We didn't have nearly as many food or transportation issues as last year, and the scheduling allowed us to get more comfortable amounts of sleep. The fantastic wildlife and enthusiastic students eventually won over even this grumpiest of instructors, and I yet again feel fortunate to have been included on the annual excursion.

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For more photos from the Kenya 2012 trip, visit my Kodak gallery.

An anniversary food fest

2011-12-28T18:48:00.000-08:00

Today is my husband's and my second wedding anniversary, which we happen to be spending in the same county and state where we got married 730 fateful days ago. We are not doing anything particularly exciting to celebrate this occasion--not because we don't care about it, but because we had a premature recognition of this momentous event a couple weeks ago, when we visited the two-Michelin-starred Nathan Outlaw restaurant at the St. Enodoc Hotel in Rock, Cornwall, UK.

(The St. Enodoc Hotel, Rock, Cornwall, UK)

Although the establishment is, apparently, fairly well known--it has been named as the Best Seafood Restaurant in the UK by The Good Food Guide, for instance--I only found out about it by accident because it was featured in an airline magazine I browsed through during a flight to Scotland last spring. Once I knew that such a snazzy place was only just up the road from Falmouth, I knew that I had to find an excuse to go there. For months and months I waited around, trying to find the perfect occasion for a visit, until finally I realized that our anniversary was a pretty good fit: My husband loves food, I love food, and we love each other, so it seemed a match made in Heaven.

Of course, the thing I didn't quite bargain on was how very unromantic it is to eat a 6-course meal (plus an amuse-bouche and bread), since by the time the final plate is cleared, it takes all of one's energy and concentration to get from the table to the car, and then from the car to the hotel room, prior to collapsing in a stuffed heap on the bed. However, it hardly seems fair to complain about being well-fed, especially since the food we consumed, in this case, was absolutely terrific.

(Chef Nathan Outlaw)

Outlaw's fine-dining restaurant experience revolves around a seafood tasting menu which can either be ordered with or without a matching "wine flight." Having already sampled the exquisite but expensive tasting menu at Jamie Oliver's nearby Fifteen restaurant, I was a bit worried at how much the 2-Michelin-starred Outlaw restaurant would charge for something comparable. However, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was "only" 85 pounds per person (with the accompanying wine tasting, which we did not do, costing an additional 75 pounds per person).

Uncharacteristically, and throwing all caution to the wind, I decided to begin the meal with a cocktail--champagne and gin mixed with lemonade, creating some sort of a lemon spritzer. I actually found it quite tasty, despite my normal aversion to the flavor of alcohol. Because I never drink I immediately became very...well...chatty. We were then given an amuse-bouche--or, rather, two: some raw salmon and horseradishy spread on little toasts, plus some deep-fried crab balls. We were then brought a plate of freshly-baked bread and butter. In retrospect, it would have been a very good idea to have skipped the bread, or at least to have eaten it very sparingly. However, we'd both been starving ourselves in anticipation of a giant meal, and by that point (about 7:30 PM), we were ravenous; thus, we each had a couple slices apiece.

(One of the fish dishes served at Nathan Outlaw's restaurant. Unfortunately, not one of our fish dishes--I took my camera along but was too distracted by enjoying the gustatory delights to remember to get any photographic evidence of our experience.)

The next course was a mackerel cocktail, described on the official menu (of which we received autographed copies as souvenirs) as "smoked mussels, oysters, cucumber, and horseradish." The oysters were fried (a tradition in my family, so an unexpected taste of home) and covered with crumbs that had been soaked in squid ink--my first time eating that particular ingredient. The entire cocktail sat in the bowl of a little serving glass whose stem was filled with a homemade coleslaw.

Next up was a thin strip of cod with piccalilli spices, bacon, and
puréed cauliflower. The skin had been left on the cod and was perfectly crisped; normally I would have been tempted to peel this off but the entire dish was so delicious that I ate every last bite--even the piccalilli spices, which clearly included little bits of pepper (not my favorite of vegetables).

Perhaps my favorite course was the bream, which was served with brown shrimps and squid and was covered by a saffron sauce. This was accompanied by toasted bread served with what I think was a fish (mackerel?)paté specially designed to work well with the saffron. As pretentious as our waitress seemed while explaining that to us, my first bite immediately proved her to be correct--it was an amazing bit of culinary wizardry of which I could have happily eaten another portion.

(Nathan Outlaw in action)

By this point in the meal, my husband and I were both feeling a bit full--not only from the food but also from the entire bottle of sparkling water that we'd already managed to consume before starting on our second (which we also finished; where did we find the room?). I think we were both quite ready to move on to the dessert portion of the evening, but our next serving was the "main course," if such a thing exists in a tasting menu: brill, served with nuts, beetroot, hog's pudding (not a blood product, as I originally feared, but merely a type of sausage), and mushrooms. This dish was also delicious and the fish melted in our mouths, but I was beginning to feel rather nauseous from all the food and was forced to chew very slowly and take lengthy pauses between bites. I had no idea how I could make it through a further two courses.

I think the serving staff must be used to this reaction from their guests, because they did give us a longer break while transitioning from the brill to the first dessert dish--lemon meringue. The meringue--really a frozen yogurt with a sorbet-like consistency--was light and acidic enough to cut through the weightiness of the preceding savory dishes. It wasn't painful to keep shoving additional spoonfuls into my mouth, so I could at least enjoy the flavor (which is on par with cinnamon-apple as the best dessert theme possible, as far as I'm concerned). All the same, I knew without a doubt that I almost literally had no room left for more. My face must have announced this, causing our waitress to chuckle as she collected our empty plates and ask whether we'd be able to handle the last course. I think my response was probably a sickly groan--assuming I could manage even that.

(More delicious fare at Outlaw's restaurant: smoked sea bass, St. Enodoc asparagus, and English mustard. The menu varies seasonally, and this was a dish produced at the restaurant earlier this year.)

The final course, an almond sponge comprising honeycomb, rice pudding, and pear and ginger sorbet, was probably fantastic. It looked lovely, it smelled lovely, and the tiny spoonful that I tried was pleasant. However, I was just not able to eat anything else. My husband suffered through some of his portion, but even he had to give up--and, given that he normally eats about twice as much as I do, that just goes to show how much food we had managed to consume during our three-hour visit to the restaurant. Our waiter attempted to interest us in some after-dinner drinks, but all I wanted at that point was to put on the baggiest clothes I could find--or perhaps just wrap a sheet around my body--and sleep until the new year or whenever my digestive tract had managed to process everything I had just presented to it. First, though, we had to pay the bill, which was, without a doubt, the largest sum I have ever paid for a meal for two people. I'm not entirely certain that ANY meal is worth that much money, but all the same it was definitely one of the most enjoyable collections of food I've ever consumed (enjoyable until the point when I was about to explode, that is).

Of course, part of what you are paying for is not just the food itself, but also the fame and experience of the chef, the notoriety of the "brand," and the fanciness of the setting. The St. Enodoc Hotel is quite an upscale place, judging not just from thedécor but also the prices; even in the off-season, rooms rented out for several hundred pounds apiece. Throughout our meal, we had several different serving people, all of whom were very knowledgeable and eager to please. At one point, my husband and I overheard the sommelier giving his spiel to the guests at the next table over; I'm sure he was giving his clients every penny's worth of the extra 75 pounds per person required to experience the wine tasting, but boy did he sound fake, pretentious, and condescending. Actually, as nice as our servers all were, I felt that most of them were a bit condescending--perhaps because my husband and I were younger than the other clientele, or, though dressed quite nicely, clearly not as upper-class as some of the others? Who knows; maybe we were imagining things. There was one waitress, a German who had some difficulty with her English, who was very genuine and friendly and clearly tried to make our evening as delightful as possible--for instance, she seated us at the table nearest the kitchen so that we might catch a glimpse of Nathan Outlaw through the decorative window (which we did!).

(The Tzitzikama Lodge, where we spent the night after our anniversary food fest)

The only real drawback of the evening was that we chose to spend the night in Rock rather than driving back to Falmouth. We'd expected a longer commute, and we also anticipated being more tired once we'd finished gorging. Being unable to afford accommodations at the St. Enodoc Hotel (especially after paying for dinner!), we booked a room at another nearby bed and breakfast. Although the building and the room looked quite nice online and in person, we both ended up sleeping terribly because of problems with the bed and with the ambient temperature. On top of this, they only served breakfast until 9 AM, so on a Sunday morning after a long and incredibly hard week of long, stressful work days, we had to set an alarm to get out of bed in time for our morning meal. That is most certainly not my idea of a good weekend, nor of a good getaway.

All in all, though, the hotel experience wasn't negative enough to mar what was otherwise a pleasant celebration of our 2 years of married bliss. We also weren't deterred by the pre-dinner detour, down a random and dead-ending country lane, on which we were guided by our confused GPS system. Next year is our "leather anniversary," according to the guide I just found on Google. If a giant gourmet feast is an appropriate substitute for fabric on our "cotton anniversary," I'm not quite sure what I'll need to cook up to swap for next year's animal hide theme...suggestions welcome!

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Thanks to the following websites for providing the images used in this post:

http://www.thetoptensite.com/cornwall-hotel-st-enodoc-hotel-padstow-cornwall.html
http://www.caterersearch.com/blogs/guide-girl/2009/11/nathan-outlaw-to-relocate-his-michelin-starred-restaurant.html
http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/uk/cornwall-make-the-most-of-summer-2329030.html?action=Gallery&ino=6
http://www.caterersearch.com/tabletalk/media/nathanoutlaw/chef-eats-out-restaurant-nathan-outlaw-15534.aspx
http://www.caterersearch.com/tabletalk/media/nathanoutlaw/chef-eats-out-restaurant-nathan-outlaw-smoked-15527.aspx
http://maps.google.com

It's beginning to look a lot like...

2011-12-08T09:50:00.001-08:00

Yes, that's right, it's Christmastime here in the UK, even though the weather patterns make it seem more like early spring. In the US, Christmas traditionally begins shortly after Halloween, with a brief break in late November for Thanksgiving. Here in the UK, however, there's roughly a month-long celebration of Guy Fawkes Day (the 5th of November) that ushers in the start of the winter holiday season. Around mid-October, you know that Guy Fawkes day is imminent because the grocery stores begin selling fireworks and other incendiary implements in preparation for bonfires and effigy burnings and other activities that threaten the integrity of both your home and those of your neighbors. Fireworks are let off with increasing frequency as the month of October draws to a close, and the week that centers on Guy Fawkes Day sees a frenzy of nighttime explosions with, of course, a spectacular display (or multiples thereof) on the 5th itself. This is followed by a roughly two-week period during which you are less and less likely to be given a heart attack as an unexpected firecracker explodes next door at 2 AM.

The final two weeks of November are a long and painful slog. Every morning, you hear the radio announcers talk about how they can't wait until they're allowed to play Christmas music. Every evening as you walk home, you see council employees hanging unlit Christmas decorations in preparation for the day when they can all be turned on. Slowly, television advertisements begin to feature scenes with snow and songs with jingling bells; shop windows are trimmed with giant paper snowflakes and baubled trees and fake garland. And then one day, when you leave work to walk home in the dark shortly after the 4:30 PM sunset, this is what you see:

The spectacular light display of Penryn. You'll notice the traditional Christmas goat on the left (clearly not a reindeer, otherwise it would have actual antlers), and his calligraphic scribble of a companion on the right. This can only mean one thing: It is the first of December, and the Christmas season has officially begun in Britain.

One thing I love about Britain is the quirky nature of the infrastructure. I have no idea why there should be a little alcove along the main road through Penryn, but someone thought it would be a good place to put a miniature Christmas tree with a single strand of "fairy lights," as they are called here--and, voila, a little dose of Christmas cheer.

You know that you are in a coastal town when Christmas decorations involve anchors and ships' steering wheels--and when said decorations are hung by no less than the local church (which, admittedly, did also feature an angel elsewhere in its display).

This was the scene that greeted me in Falmouth on the evening of the 1st. For weeks I'd been watching the council workers laboriously make their way up Falmouth's main drag, attaching seemingly miles of colored lights to the buildings. They had an interesting mixture of styles. The photo above features the single-line, zigzag, colored-light arrangement, which was interspersed with a fan-shaped, multi-stringed, LED arrangement in a seemingly random fashion. The complete lack of symmetry makes me wonder if they either ran out of materials at some point, or were better able to attach certain styles in certain places. Regardless, the entire street is completely lit up all night, and the effect is rather magical. The weirdest decoration is hung over the center of the Moor, where a giant star is surrounded by individual strands of light arranged in a circular radiating pattern--rather like the spokes of a wheel around the central hub. In the dark, you can't see the wiring by which the lights are attached to nearby structures, and so the entire display appears to be suspended, unassisted, in midair, rather like a net about to fall on unassuming passers-by. Or, if you are feeling more charitable, kind of like a heavenly microcosm in which each light represents a star.

What I only realized at the last minute--because I happened to overhear my students discussing it--was that there was an actual lighting ceremony planned in town on the first day of December. I have no idea how long-standing of a tradition this is, but I certainly don't remember such a thing from last year. The event was over and done with before I made my way into town from work, but I could get a general sense of the festivities by drinking in the aftermath. There had obviously been some sort of procession that culminated in the lighting of the Christmas tree--or, perhaps, trees, because there is one on the Moor as well as one in Events Square outside our apartment. Almost all of the shops were open well past their normal closing hours of 5-6 PMish so that people could begin their Christmas shopping and take advantage of the holiday sales (I keep hoping that the Brits will one day learn how lovely it is to be able to buy things until 9 PM, and adopt it as a normal practice, but I'm not holding my breath on that). What's more, there were vendors pushing around carts from which they were selling Santa hats, cotton candy, and glow sticks. Given that glow sticks are normally reserved for raves, and cotton candy is--in my mind at least--found mostly at circuses and fairs, you can imagine that the overall effect was quite...festive, especially when nurtured by a few cups of the mulled wine that everyone was carrying around.

This was the scene that awaited me when I got home--here you can see the fan-shaped displays that made occasional appearances along the main street. I had known for weeks that these were coming, since I'd watched them being hung beneath our balcony one night. The decorators wised up this year and moved the Christmas tree from its usual location in the center of the square to a nice sheltered area along the wall of the Maritime Museum, to the left. There, it may just manage to withstand the seemingly incessant gale-force winds and rain that have plagued the coast since the beginning of December. I keep telling everyone that if I were back home, all this precipitation would be snow, which of course would be much better than rain. While the latter is certainly true, the former is a slight stretching of the truth--but not by much. All I can say is, we've gotten so much rain by this point that I would actually be grateful for a cold snap that would turn this perpetual storm into a blizzard. It is not easy to feel Christmas cheer with all this dark and dampness stealing its way into your soul.

But you know what? I do feel Christmas cheer, and here is one big reason why:

That's right, Michael Buble. Don't judge--we all have our weaknesses. I have listened to this album on almost a daily basis over the last two weeks. I put it on during my long, wet, and increasingly cold walks home from work to home each evening, and I picture gingerbread men and decorated Christmas trees and wrapped presents, and I am happy. I may not yet have had time to make any of those things a part of my 2012 holiday, but next Tuesday I board an overnight train to Heathrow so that I can fly back to the States for Christmas. Within days of getting there, you can bet that I will be sitting in front of a lit tree, watching the weather reports for signs of snow, shopping for Christmas presents, and, if all goes according to plan, sipping on some wassail. I'll drive seemingly a thousand miles to see every family member possible and I'll probably take about 300 pictures that look just like the ones I took last year, and I'll celebrate the fact that even if I live in a new and different country on an entirely different continent, there are some traditions that will be upheld every year without fail no matter what other things change. And that is why it's the most wonderful time of the year.

That and all the great presents.

Stamford, UK: A pleasant surprise

2011-09-03T10:35:00.000-07:00

Recently I attended Birdfair, an annual birdwatching festival held at the Egleton Nature Preserve at Rutland Water. The purpose of the event is twofold: to provide people in the birdwatching industry/pastime a chance to commune with each other, and to raise money for the conservation efforts of BirdLife International. In my case, there were a third and fourth purpose for attending: acting as a volunteer at the event, and covering it from a journalistic perspective. My experiences there will appear in the future either in a magazine article or here on this blog. What I will talk about now, though, is my time in the Rutland Water vicinity.

As you might expect given its name, Rutland Water is in the extremely small (18 miles in length, 17 miles in width) county of Rutland, located pretty close to the center of England:

(Thanks to http://www.bav.co.uk/stickyend/directions.htm for the map.)

Next to Rutland is the county of Lincolnshire, home to the historic town of Stamford. This is where I stayed, in the Garden House Hotel:

Stamford has "a core" of 17th- and 18th-century stone buildings, old timber-framed buildings, and five parish churches. I had no idea when I booked my accommodation there, but the town has a reputation for being a "classically English" sort of place--the kind of place, for instance, that might be used as a backdrop for shooting the most recent version of "Pride and Prejudice," "The Da Vinci Code," "The Golden Bowl," and the 1994 BBC production of "Middlemarch."

(A hint of the timber frame that helps keep this old stone building upright.)

(A broad view of the timber-framed building where I took the above photo. To the right, just past the edge of the photo, is the back entrance to the Garden House Hotel.)

Unfortunately, the timing of my trip was such that I did not get to explore Stamford much at all. My longest and farthest foray occurred one evening after dinner, when I had to venture up to the High Street in order to locate an ATM (or, as they say in Britain, a cash point). In the dark, I walked past one massive stone church after another, one of which was surrounded by an ancient graveyard whose headstones nearly jutted into the sidewalk. I also crossed the Town Bridge running over the small River Welland. The waterway itself was not very impressive, but it led into a lovely little park situated near the train station. It looked like the center of town was filled with very swanky bars, restaurants, and shops, which didn't entirely surprise me given that I'd seen similarly swanky cars earlier on the road--including a Ferrari. Clearly it was a well-to-do area, despite the fact that most of the environs seemed to be devoted to farming.

(Agricultural field just outside the Egleton Nature Preserve. I also passed many fields where the bales were long, rectangular cubes, piled up like the walls of one of the three little pigs' houses.)

According to that most reliable of travel guides, Wikipedia, Stamford also boasts some ruins from a Norman castle that was built in the 11th century and toppled in the 15th. Just outside of town is an Elizabethan mansion called Burghley House. It was built by Sir William Cecil, the First Minister of Elizabeth I; he later became Lord Burghley, hence the name of his abode.

Although I did not spend much time in Stamford, I did traipse back and forth through the nearby town of Oakham several times. Oakham is the next nearest stop on the train line. Every morning I rode from Stamford to Oakham, then walked from Oakham to the nature preserve; every night I did the trip in reverse. It was easily a few miles between the train station and Rutland Water, so you can imagine how happy I was to get home and crash at the end of the day. In any case, there is not much to report about Oakham, except that it houses the Oakham Castle, which contains an enormous collection of ceremonial horseshoes hung upside-down in order to keep the Devil from sitting in the hollow. Oakham is also home to the All Saints Church, which is topped by a 14th-century spire set upon a building refurbished in the 19th century. It's a small, unassuming town that is, nevertheless, quite attractive and pleasant to walk through. Near the public toilets I spotted this building:

I was impressed by the embellishments at the top of the thatched roofing; I'd never seen that sort of detail before.

As I said, at the end of a long day full of walking and standing, it was nice to come back to my hotel and sit somewhere comfortable. It was especially pleasant to be seated for dinner--not only because of the view, but because of the food. The Garden House is so named because--surprise!--it is attached to quite a large garden; the tables of its restaurants are situated in an old conservatory which, I presume, once held either a muck room or a collection of indoor plants.

(A view of the garden from my table at dinner.)

(A view towards the dining room from the garden.)

I chose to eat dinner in the hotel as much as possible, since it simplified my stay in Stamford. This turned out to be quite a good choice because the food was excellent. On my first night there, I had a scallop appetizer that was maybe the most photogenic dish I'd ever eaten; unfortunately, I did not have my camera with me. The perfectly-caramelized scallops were seated on top of a light layer of cauliflower puree, strewn with tiny salad leaves and flowers, accompanied by small piles of fruit salsa, then drizzled with pesto. I was given a complementary amuse-bouche of wild boar--which I had never eaten before--and then a palate-cleanser of homemade pineapple sorbet. The next night I ate Cornish hen, another dish that I'd never tried before. My favorite meal was my last--a starter of rocket salad with Parmesan shavings and aged balsamic, then a good old-fashioned turkey and mushroom pie with mashed potatoes on the side. Anyone who complains about British food isn't eating at the right places. My only complaint is that none of these meals left me any space for dessert.

After eating all that food, it was pleasant to have a stroll around the garden:

(One of the many seating areas tucked into various corners of the garden. Had I been around during the day, I definitely would have sat there for lunch or tea.)

(The back entrance/exit; the garden is off to the left and the kitchen is off to the right. This arrangement seemed quite old-fashioned to me--I am wondering if it dates back to when scullery types were forced to maintain a physical separation from the inhabitants of the house.)

(Dahlia from the garden. There were all sorts of flowers in bloom, as well as trees in fruit. There was one tree that produced something that looked like a cross between tiny, bluish plums and giant, hard blueberries. I have no idea what it was, but the fruits were all over the ground.)

One evening, I happened to be in the garden just as a flock of jackdaws flew over on their way to their evening roost. I quickly snapped a photo, though without a telephoto lens I knew I had no chance of capturing the birds in any great detail. As it turns out, though, I like the way they look in the distance behind the weather vane; sepia tones are so forgiving:

That's about all there is to say about my time in Rutland/Lincolnshire. I will probably go to Birdfair again next year and, when I do, I am likely to stay in Stamford again--possibly even at the Garden House Hotel, provided they still have those delicious scallops on their menu. If I do find myself in the area again, I hope to leave some extra time for sightseeing and photographing around Stamford, since I know that I only just began to sample all the charms it has to offer.

My Falmouth-to-Heathrow train berth

2011-08-29T06:50:00.000-07:00

When I visited the States recently, I had yet again another mid-morning flight from Heathrow that necessitated yet another overnight train ride from Falmouth. This time around I decided I was fed up with getting terrible sleep in the upright, airplane-style seating of the regular passenger cars, so I booked myself a berth. I vaguely recall having a berth for the overnight France-to-Spain trip that I took while traveling abroad in high school, but my memories of that are so dim that this recent trip might as well have been my first.

I was expecting pretty primitive conditions, so actually I was pleasantly surprised. When I boarded the train, the porter (for lack of a better word) showed me to my berth and explained how all the light switches and door locks worked. He also took my order for a breakfast that I hadn't even been aware I would get--in addition to a hot drink, they can bring you things like muffins or croissants or biscuits, all free of charge. Once he'd left, I finally had a chance to look around.

The most important part, of course, was the bed. It was actually pretty comfortable, though the pillows were a bit flat. Regardless, it was horizontal, which is the important thing--I wouldn't have to attempt vertical sleeping until I got on the plane the next day. As you can see, I also had a full-length mirror on the back of the door so that I could primp the next day before departing.

Behind the door were two hangers and various complicated-looking strappy things that, I assume, were for tying hanging luggage and suitcases against the wall so they wouldn't move around too much during the night. To the left of the door handle, on the wall, there was a multi-button control panel with lights for the various parts of the room and an alarm button in case I needed assistance from the porter.

At the far end of the room was a window, although I kept the shade down so that I could have total darkness when I slept. There was also a counter top that you could use to set your things on, or...

...lift up to expose the sink. I had no idea I'd have my own running water in the room, which was pretty handy. It's not potable, so there was a complementary bottle of drinking water waiting for me above the sink. I was even given a towel and a small toiletries bag full of things like a tiny toothbrush and a matching tiny tube of toothpaste, a moist towelette, and some shaving equipment (presumably for male passengers).

To the right above the sink, there was even a television. However, I was more interested in doing a little reading and then going to sleep early. To help me accomplish the first of these goals, there was a small pocket next to my bed, where I could store my reading materials or peruse those provided by the train line:

Of course, despite my most valiant efforts, I was not able to sleep very well. I'm not sure why, because actually the quarters were pretty comfortable. The movements of the train weren't excessive, even though I could feel it go around bends and pull into and out of stations along the way. A little light bled in under the door from the hallway, but no more than enters my own bedroom from the street lights outside. I think the biggest problem was that I was too keyed up for the journey, so I just couldn't relax. I wish I'd anticipated that before I spent an extra 100 pounds on a bed I didn't make proper use of.

Still, it was much more comfortable spending the journey lying down instead of sitting in the awkward seats in the other car, and it was great to have a full-sized sink in which to wash up in the morning. Not to mention, I had privacy and quiet during the length of the trip--two things that are hard to put a price tag on, as far as I'm concerned. All in all, I don't regret the upgrade even if I didn't get any extra sleep. I'll probably treat myself to a similar present next time I'm stuck with an overnight train journey.

Hodgepodge

2011-08-28T05:38:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been traveling--too much. I've hit a wall and I've hit it hard. My only consolation is looking back at the trips I've taken and reviewing all the strange and wonderful things I've seen over the past month.

For instance, I observed this violinist performing in the JFK airport near the smoothie stand. I don't know if he was hard up for money, had lost a bet, or was just bored, but I do know that he was quite talented. This video doesn't quite do him justice, judging by how good he sounded on the previous song.

Speaking of JFK, they have iPad stations throughout the terminal so that you have something to do while you're waiting for your flight. Not only can you surf the Internet, read the news and weather, and check your e-mail, but there are also plugs on the side so you can recharge your own electronic devices. JFK may have had some crummy restaurant choices, but kudos to them for knowing what's really important these days.

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While I was at the Animal Behavior Conference in Indiana, I often ate my lunch outside on a bench. This little guy came up to me for a handout, which I did not give. Disheartened by my lack of charity, and frightened off by a passing pedestrian, he retreated to the nearest tree, where he proceeded to drape himself across a branch and watch me eat. It was very strange to receive so much consistent attention from a squirrel. Even when I walked to within a couple feet of the tree in order to take this photo, he never moved a whisker. Weird.

I also got a lot of attention from this sheep (in the foreground) at the Egleton Nature Preserve at Rutland Water. When animals regard you with this much intensity, over an extended period of time, you can't help but feel a little paranoid--like they know something you don't.

The sheep was watching me take photographs of another inhabitant of the preserve--ladybugs. Or, as they are called in the UK, ladybird beetles. Evidently there was some sort of ladybird festival going on at the same time as the Birdfair, because there were an awful lot of ladybugs around, crawling on plants, flying through the air, landing on visitors.

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When I was with my family in Ohio, we went to Cameron Mitchell's restaurant, M, to celebrate my mom's (second) retirement. One of the specialty cocktails on the menu was that most classic of British drinks, a Pimm's. So, in a move that was completely out of character for me, I ordered one...

But the presentation of my drink was nothing compared to that of my mother's. In this case, the monogram could stand for both the name of the restaurant and the name of the drink--a martini:

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My parents and I also went to North Carolina to visit some relatives there. We had a lovely weekend at the beach, on the drive home from which we stopped at a rest area in West Virginia. There was a shop full of local handcrafted items, including this crochet opossum:

Because I couldn't justify purchasing it for myself, I decided that I would allow myself a photograph as a consolation prize.

Outside the rest area was another interesting find:

Only the most talented of graffiti artists take letters away rather than adding them--and the poetry of this sentiment demonstrates that this was truly made by a master.

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During the train trips associated with my recent visit to Birdfair, I saw a number of noteworthy things that I could write about here. Because I only had limited opportunities to whip out my camera, I'll restrain myself to two observations.

Here's the emergency sign that was posted over my seat. I'm disturbed by the picture of the saw. All I can say is, I hope that's part of the emergency equipment, rather than the first aid kit.

Second, there were multiple times that I saw people--on the train, at the platform--dressed entirely in pajamas. Although it's not uncommon to see American college students in public in pajamas or pajama-like clothes, this is Britain. People are very proper. And yet:

Nightgown, silk robe, slippers. At noon. ?

I also encountered two different sets of people communicating using sign language--one on the outward journey, the other on the trip home. In my entire life, I think the only time I've seen someone use sign language is when one of my hearing impaired college classmates had an interpreter assist him during our bio courses. Yet here, in the space of just a few days, I encountered three signers (and another hearing impaired person who I suspect also knew sign language) during my trip to Rutland. What a strange coincidence.

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These are just a few of the interesting and unusual observations I've made over the past few weeks. Interesting and unusual to me, that is--but I can't say too much about the state of my mind these days, as I've practically become brain dead from too much time spent trekking around, hauling heavy suitcases, switching time zones, and getting terrible sleep on flat hotel pillows. Home may have comparatively fewer bizarre sights to see, but at least it's a haven where I can get some rest and relaxation--at last.

The Athens Angel

2011-08-22T13:27:00.000-07:00

Lest anyone interpret my last couple of posts to mean that all I did in the US earlier this month was hang out with my dad, let me set the record straight: I did also go out and about with my mother, and occasionally the trips didn't even involve shopping.

One thing we did was visit the "Weeping Angel" of Athens' West Street Cemetery. During my photography days back in high school, I took some portraits of the angel that turned out fairly well, especially once I applied sepia tone in order to make them look antique. However, although I liked the angle of the shots, the pictures weren't quite as crisp and focused as I would have liked. Since acquiring my new cameras, I have been looking forward to returning to the cemetery for another go. My mom came along on the photo expedition in order to try out her new photography equipment, as well.

One thing that's a bit frustrating is that the area around the angel is not necessarily conducive to getting a nice clear, contrasting picture of her entire body; her light right-hand side fades into the sky, while her dark left wing tips fade into the tree. Of course, neither of those compares to the difficulties of trying to shoot from the angel's right side, which requires that you position yourself facing a house inhabited by college students and decorated, for some strange reason, by an old pop machine sitting in the yard. It doesn't exactly help create the gravitas that you'd normally associate with such a monument. In the end, though, I was able to acquire a decent shot:

I have a hard time choosing between sepia tone and black-and-white. However, I think that both work better than full color--maybe because they make the subject seem more venerable or solemn, somehow. In general, I also like the side shots more than those snapped from the front, but I did get one of the latter that made me rethink that opinion:

This image also allows you to see the entire statue, including the base upon which is inscribed the purpose of the display--which, as you can see, is to memorialize the unknown dead. My mom theorized that the angel is writing in a book because she is taking notes to document those who have fallen--because, after all, even if we humans don't know who they are, an angel surely would. I think it's surprisingly easy to overlook the fact that the angel writing in a book at all, though certain angles do emphasize this more than others:

After I got home and had the chance to look through my photographs, I was feeling pretty happy with the images that I acquired. Then my mom turned her computer around and showed me some of the pictures that she took:

I was so caught up taking head-to-foot images that it never even occurred to me to get some close-up shots. As a result, I didn't do nearly as good a job capturing the features that gave the angel her nickname. Also, how cool is it that the the second two photos kind of line up as though they were deliberately taken as a pair? The final shot is my favorite, not only of my mom's, but of all the images here. I was so jealous of it that I nearly went back to take one like it myself, but then I realized how redundant and silly that would be. It just goes to show that, no matter how old and experienced you may think you are, you can still be schooled by your mother.

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Click here to read more about the Weeping Angel and other supernatural oddities in Athens, Ohio.

Flashback: The Ohio State Fair

2011-08-13T04:25:00.000-07:00

Staying on the "dad" theme I began yesterday, today it's finally time to post about my recent trip to the Ohio State Fair with my father.

When my dad was young, his parents took him to the Ohio State Fair, so it was only natural that he should want to sustain that tradition once he had his own child. When I was little, both of my parents used to come along for the outing, but my mom has never been a big fan of the fair--particularly since it is, as she correctly points out, fairly repetitive from year to year. However, piglets in the pig barn are always cute, and the smell of hay in the cow barn is always pleasantly sweet, so I don't mind a little repetition. Thus, the trip became a father-daughter thing. I think the last time I went to the fair with my dad was maybe sometime in high school; after that, I was rarely in Ohio for the summer, or, if I was, it wasn't for very long.

Earlier this summer, I found out about the Royal Cornwall Show (RCS), which turns out to be a Cornish version of a state fair (though why a "fair" has camel polo--yes, you read that correctly--I just can't say). Hearing about the farm animals and plant exhibitions at the RCS started me reminiscing about the good old Ohio State Fair--the elaborate animal face paint, the glitter from which always wound up in my eyes; the cotton candy; the Ferris wheel; those darling piglets. I wasted no time in telling my dad it was time to revisit our old haunt.

Fortunately for both of us, my dad is a member of the media. He scored press passes for both of us, meaning not only that we got to park right next to the entrance gate, but we also got in for free. As his official sidekick and photographer, I was to keep my eyes open for potential stories. Of course, a place like the Ohio State Fair is just crawling with stories, but not all of them are suitable for coverage on a local radio station. As I commented to my father, there are few places where you see such a varied mixture of people. You've got people from urban and rural areas, all colors, all socioeconomic backgrounds, adult and child, male and female. It's weird enough to contemplate the fact that you're walking through a barn full of farm animals right in the middle of the city of Columbus, but then you also inevitably encounter some urbanite who's seeing a cow or a sheep for the first time--ever. It's an endless stream of contrast.

We started off by going--where else--to the pig barn. The magic of the pig barn is that it contains a little side room where they sell souvenirs. Inside that room is a pen containing a giant sow and her piglets, all of which apparently sleep for at least 75% of the day. Kids are allowed to reach in and pet those animals that are within an arm's reach, and of course you know I was all over that as a child. When I was in elementary school, my dad took my best friend and me to the fair, and both of us stocked up on pig paraphernalia after petting the piglets in the souvenir room. To this day, I think I still have the pig pen I bought, as well as one last remaining sheet of pig stationery.

As demonstrated by the success of the Babe films, the cuteness of a piglet can melt anybody's heart:

On the other hand, the outrageous size of a prize-winning boar--and all of his, um, bits and pieces--is pretty much always terrifying:

It was also very disturbing to see pigs being herded from place to place. There are many reasons why I should never try to raise livestock, one of them being the fact that I could never bear to willingly hurt or scare an animal. Domestic pigs are apparently not the most intelligent of creatures, and to get them to move from Point A to Point B, their owners used a combination of whipping, calling, clapping, and using a piece of fencing to create a mobile corral. It doesn't take a very perceptive observer to realize that the major effect of all these activities is to scare the bejesus out of the poor animals, which can't be conducive to getting to Point B in the most efficient manner possible. No wonder people like Temple Grandin are having such a huge, positive impact on farm animals and the techniques used to work with them--when you look at these practices from the point of view of an animal behaviorist, you realize there just has to be a better way to get things done.

Next up was the cow barn. Despite the fact that I come from Ohio, I know precious little about cows. I don't even think I could tell the difference between a dairy cow and the kind you raise for meat, though at the fair I did finally discover why dairy cows always look so bony: Because the ladies are putting so much energy into making milk, it keeps their physiques more "svelte" (to quote the euphemism used by the poster that taught me this lesson).

What I have never understood about the cow barn is that it is filled with the delightful, sweet scent of hay, whereas a cow farm (not to mention all its surroundings) smells like nothing but cow poo. How do they manage to keep a closed-in space full of bovines smelling so nice? It is one of the great Fair mysteries.

For the first time, I noticed how the barn was full of people who looked really, really bored. Apparently, taking your animals to the Fair involves a lot of waiting. Waiting for the cow to poo so you can shovel it up. Waiting for the cow to get hungry so you can feed it. Waiting until it's time to walk your cow around the show ring. People were lounging around in various phases of nap: nodding off, dozing, outright sleeping.

Next door was the famous butter cow, which I don't remember from my childhood Fair visits, but which my parents inform me is a mainstay of the event. However you feel about cows and butter, you have to admit that a cow made entirely out of butter is a pretty impressive achievement. I wonder what they do with it when the fair is over? (Ship it to down to Paula Deen?!)

One thing I definitely do remember from my youth is the participation area where kids can learn how to milk a cow. Once you successfully coax a few streams of milk into the bucket below, you are given a pin or sticker to wear so that you can proudly tell everyone, "I milked a cow at the Ohio State Fair!" Most children need a few attempts before they find success, so the organizers must find the most patient cow in the barn to tolerate all the fumbling.

Another of my fond memories is the sheep barn, where, once upon a time, I found this remarkable toy on sale that rolled itself up as you petted it. It was nothing more than a little strip of sheep pelt (wool still attached) that curled in the direction of your movement as you stroked your hand across it. Thinking back on this now, I have to admit that it is a) a very strange thing, and b) something that would probably become boring very quickly. But I was dead set on having one, and bitterly disappointed after my parents denied me the opportunity. Thanks to the benefit of hindsight, I suppose I can now find it in my heart to forgive their logical decision on this matter.

This year, my only sheep souvenir was sheep photography. At one point, I was so immersed in photographing sheepherding in action that I didn't realize my presence was scaring the animals and preventing the shepherds from finishing their jobs. I was very chagrined to discover what a nuisance I was being, especially since I'm sure the shepherds were grumbling under their breaths about the stupid "city girl," which I most assuredly am not. Oh well. At least I discovered that I have a knack for close-up photography of animals in pens (it's a niche market).

Once we'd had our fill of livestock, it was time to go have our fill of the world's unhealthiest food. There are many fair foods that rank among my favorite guilty pleasures, but I availed myself only of the number one: a corndog with ketchup, accompanied by a giant lemonade. I was tempted by the cotton candy, but I decided to hold off on the sweets at lunch and indulge instead in a cup of ice cream for the ride home. For his lunch, my father ordered what must have been the world's largest onion rings:

We sat down to eat right under the "flight" path of the skyride, kind of a small-scale, horizontal version of a ski lift. The skyride was a mandatory part of the Fair experience when I was a kid, as was the Ferris wheel. Both were enticing because they were rides that didn't make me ill, but still had enough of a feeling of danger to make them exciting. Plus, they both give you a great view of the Fair. When I was younger, I always thought the skyride seemed excessively (but enjoyably) high, and I couldn't help but spend the whole ride thinking about how I would suffer horrible injury or death if the chair fell off or the line broke. I also pondered the likelihood that I might slide underneath the safety bar. Yes, I really was that morbid. As an adult, I could clearly see that the skyride was no more than 2 stories high--not a fun distance to fall, but certainly one that is survivable with manageable, or even negligible, injuries. Amazing what a difference perspective makes.

Once we'd eaten, my dad was ready to go back to the cow barn and conduct some interviews--we had to earn those media passes, after all. Since I'd already completed my photography in that area, I took the opportunity to wander through the vending barns, peruse the antiques booths, and visit the poultry and rabbit barn. On the way there, I passed the "ride" of which I have the fondest childhood memories:

My best friend and I rode this together and thought it was absolutely fantastic. It was yet another activity that was fun because it was slightly frightening--a theme that applies, I suppose, to the majority of theme park rides. Our other favorite was, as I already mentioned, the Ferris wheel:

I still remember the panicky feeling I'd get as my car crested and started descending; I'd get a little rush of adrenaline and feel my stomach seemingly rise up into my throat. I also really loved the centrifugal swings--swings that rose up into a position almost parallel with the ground as they were swung around in a circle by a spinning center post. Given the slant of my thoughts in relation to the skyride, you can only imagine what scenarios I contemplated as I spun around on that ride--and yet I loved it! What can I say, I was a weird child.

One of the reasons I wanted to visit the vending area was that, as a little girl, I had once run across someone selling little lapel pins there. I bought a small yellow rose that started off years of collecting pins during trips and attaching them to various canvas bags in enormous, brightly-colored collections. I always loved that pin and was incredibly disappointed when I discovered one day that I'd lost it after its back fell off. I've always been on the lookout for a replacement and was hoping against hope that I might find one in the same place where I'd located the original. Alas, that was not to be, though I did find a beautiful antique bird pin for only $4, which was a pretty good steal.

I also ran across a guy dressed as Waldo from Where's Waldo? I didn't have the time to grab my camera and snap a photo, much to my disappointment, but shortly thereafter I did have the chance to document his female counterpart, Wilma. I have no idea if they were together, or why they were dressed as children's book characters, but who am I to question these things? Just another Fair mystery.

Next door was the very strange rabbit-poultry combo barn--a setup that I suspect has more to do with the fact that all the animals are in small cages, as opposed to any other theoretical similarity between them. Earlier in the day, in the livestock barns, I couldn't help but think about the bizarre genetic impacts we've had on farm animals, and my thoughts tended in that direction again here. It's amazing that from a single species of wild fowl, we've managed to breed chickens that are white, black, orange, grey, and combinations of all these colors and more. Some have spots on their feathers, some have stripes, some barely have any feathers at all, and others have feathers all down their legs and on their feet. Some are tiny, some are enormous, some have gigantic, poofy tails. All of this because of selective breeding controlled by us humans. Pretty impressive.

A particularly striking example of human breeding prowess was provided by a display where a "heritage" and a commercial turkey were placed side-by-side:

We may know how to make birds that give us more, tenderer, and juicier meat, but we obviously dropped the ball on aesthetics in this case.

A third mystery of the Fair is how anybody could find "Ohio Poultry Theatre" (note the British spelling!) very enticing. I found a half dozen people watching the featured movie, including two young girls who seemed very engrossed. I hope the FFA was taking names!

Personally, I was attracted more by the incubator full of baby birds. While I was figuring out a method of taking photographs through the mesh, a girl came up and asked the incubator's tender whether the birds were "real." I have no idea why she thought they wouldn't be, since they were moving around and eating and making little "peep" sounds, but I suppose she was probably a city-dweller who hadn't had much exposure to live poultry anywhere else.

Next up, I wandered through the rabbit portion of the building, even though I've never been all that interested in bunnies. I've never quite understood the draw of them, since many are fairly timid around humans, and all they do is just sit in a cage all day, napping, pooing, eating, and...well, you know--they are bunnies, after all. I pet-sat for one once, and the only time I could get it to give me the time of day was when I rattled its jar of yogurt-covered veggie treats (yum!) and passed it a snack through the bars of its cage. Pretty boring, as far as pets go. However, I admit that there are few animals as soft and cuddly as rabbits, and they can really ratchet up the cute factor:

This was true even of what has to be the largest rabbit ever in the history of the Fair. It was the size of our Scottish terrier and was so fat it actually had 2 chins. I am still not sure how to interpret the look on its face. I can't help but think that it's wondering why someone is forcing it to endure 100-degree heat while it's wearing a fur coat.

Once my dad and I rendezvoused, we headed over to the Ohio Department of Natural Resources (ODNR) section, which has always been one of my favorites. They have an enmeshed enclosure where you can walk amongst butterflies and see them up close:

This year, they also had a small walk-in aviary populated by birds that had been rehabbed but could not be released into the wild. Some of them had clearly been injured, but I suspect that others had been brought in as chicks by people who didn't know that, 99% of the time, it's better to just leave a baby bird wherever you find it. Once it's been raised by humans, it's probably not going to be successful on its own, so it is likely to be a captive all its life. The small birds in the aviary (including a lovely male bluebird) seemed pretty happy, but the three wading birds seemed downright miserable, and I'm pretty sure that the gull didn't have too much time left in this life. It was a bit depressing. However, I was happy to see several box turtles. I haven't seen one in years, and the last time I saw one in Ohio was probably over a decade ago.

The ODNR area also contained several other types of captive animals (foxes, skunks, birds of prey, a beaver, etc.)--also individuals that were unable to survive on their own in the wild after completing rehabilitation for injuries. Even though I like the concept of giving these animals a chance to live a bit longer, their body language made me wonder if it was really the best thing for them. Almost all of them were in the far back corner of their cages, curled up in little balls, warily eyeing their visitors. Den-building animals were not even given the materials to make themselves a cozy little cave, but instead were forced to lie out in the open--all the better for the human viewing experience. All I can say is, I hope these animals get to stay in more comfortable quarters when they aren't at the Fair, and I hope the people who saw them in their cages got something out of the experience.

On the way out of the ODNR exhibit, I snagged some postcards in their gift shop--one for my husband and two for me. Mine featured recipes for two forms of buckeye candy--the traditional one that is shaped like the actual nut, and the type shaped like bars. I don't eat chocolate much anymore, but I do still have a real weakness for the heavenly chocolate-and-peanut butter combination of my state's mascot candy. I think it's time to introduce those delightful concoctions to the UK.

By the time we were done viewing the natural wonders of our state, my dad and I were about ready to head home. However, we decided to do one last thing: ride the tractor train.

This is a form of free transportation available to anyone at the fair. It does a circuit through the whole venue, and so is a nice way to take in the scenery and see the "big picture." Unfortunately, shortly after we got on, we were held up by a slow-moving marching band ahead of us. Rather than sit and broil under the sun, we hopped off and made our way back to our car, passing some "hay art" along the way:

You can't tell me they've got anything like this at the Royal Cornwall Exhibition!

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To see more pictures of the event, go to my Kodak album.
To hear my Dad's coverage of the Fair, and to see my first professional photo, go here.

My new favorite travel story

2011-08-12T14:31:00.000-07:00

After 3 weeks in the US, I left on Wednesday to return to the UK. My family and I had initially planned to leave the house around noon in order to eat lunch out on the way to the airport, but when the time came I still hadn't received a package that was supposed to arrive for me in the mail the day before. In the hopes of getting it before I left the country, we decided to linger for another hour and a half to see if the FedEx guy showed up...but no dice.

Shortly after we pulled out of the driveway, we passed a white truck driving the opposite direction, and I said "If that's FedEx, you know we're turning around and going back!" It wasn't--but the truck that pulled out in front of us at the next intersection was. My dad tailed him for about a block, then pulled up behind the truck when it stopped to make a delivery. Because I happen to know that delivery people for the US Postal Service are strictly forbidden to give you mail anywhere else but at the post office or on your property, I figured that no amount of sweet talking could get this guy to fork over my package--if, indeed, it was even in his truck.

(Thanks to http://www.greenrightnow.com/kabc/2009/07/21/fedex-sends-more-hybrids-to-california-says-feds-should-express-more-incentives/ for this photo.)

But what do you know, I glanced behind me through the rear window of my parents' van, and there was my dad, holding a box and signing for it. Because I've called this "my new favorite travel story," you will probably not be surprised to find out that the box was, in fact, the one I was expecting, and not something addressed to one of my parents. Thankfully, I'd gotten my order just in the nick of time, which saved me wasting both the time and money necessary to have it forwarded to my UK address.

However, the story doesn't end there. As I was tearing into the box in order to inspect my new goods, I discovered a little inchworm that must have been hitchhiking on the package. By the time I found him, we were already back up to full speed and were traveling down a road lined on either side with cement. Between the hard surface and the traffic, I didn't think I could safely return the little guy to the wild by flicking him out the window.

(Thanks to http://www.redbubble.com/people/tomcat2170/art/198554-inch-worm for this image.)

Before I could even make any requests, my dad pulled over a second time on the outskirts of town, next to a grass patch, so I could release my little captive. I said at the time that it was a worthy endeavor, not only because the worm was a fellow living creature but, also, because I thought he might turn into something even cooler. Thanks to the wonders of Wiki Answers, I now know that that "something cooler" is a small moth, such as this one, which previously was a red-headed inchworm:

(Thanks to http://www.flickr.com/photos/anitagould/4059917714/ for this photo.)

My parents happen to have a serious issue with moths that are attracted to their porch light and then spill into the house when anyone enters the door, so my dad is not a big fan of the insects. Despite all that, he put his prejudice aside so I could give one little inchworm the chance to transform and then go make a nuisance of itself. Lucky bug.

More importantly, lucky me--not only for leaving the house just in time to get my package, but also for having such a generous (and tolerant!) father.

Flashback: The Lizard

2011-08-04T11:55:00.000-07:00

Before I left Cornwall for the US a couple weeks ago, my husband and I took a field trip to the Lizard, a peninsula near Lizard Town, which contains the most southerly point in England:

To quote Wikipedia, the actual southernmost point is at grid reference SW 701 115, but since that is meaningless to most people (including me), I think it's fair to say that we did, in fact, go as far south in England as one can go without hopping into the water, which we all know is not advisable without a wetsuit.

This was particularly the case on the day of our outing, which was, in proper Cornish fashion, incredibly blustery, and not very warm. After a while, I became very uncomfortable because of all the wind blowing around in my ears and I had to pull my hood up in order to minimize the headache. All the same, touring the British coastline in howling winds and spitting rain is somehow very authentic, and I'm not sure the scenery would have seemed quite as genuine without the foul weather to add the jewel in the crown.

The peninsula is surrounded by many jutting rocks and snags which, unsurprisingly, gained it the nickname "The Graveyard of Ships" back in the day when these waters were an important part of transport routes.

To combat the danger, a lighthouse was built here in 1752 and the Royal National Lifeboat Institute (RNLI) opened a local lifeboat station that was, until recently, one of the busiest and most important in the region.

(The lighthouse is up on the hill in the center, and if you look closely you will see that there is a tiny flash of light--the revolving bulb was just rotating my direction as I snapped the photo. Down at the base of the hill to the right is the RNLI station.)

The peninsula is predominantly composed of a type of rock called serpentinite, the geological origins of which you can read about in great detail if you are so inclined. Suffice it to say that the presence of serpentinite is a sign of activity at tectonic plate boundaries, since it is formed of products from the earth's mantle and is only exposed as the plates shift and allow lower levels of rock to emerge onto the earth's surface. Or, at least, I believe that is how one can interpret all the cryptic geological information I just read on Wikipedia. What really matters to me is that serpentinite is used by local sculptors and jewelers to make lovely carvings and ornaments, one of which I (predictably) bought while we were visiting.

The area abounds with other interesting natural history items, as well. Most prominent is the presence of (red-billed) choughs, a species of bird that has declined in mainland England to the point that it can now only be found on the Lizard (luckily the bird's population is quite healthy elsewhere in Europe). Choughs are known to nest in the cliffs and feed in the adjacent fields. However, because there are so few of them, one is not always guaranteed a viewing. Thanks to my husband's perseverance and keen eyesight, we got lucky:

(If you zoom in and use a magnifying glass, you may see two black spots near the tip of this jutting cliff. Those black spots are the elusive Cornish chough, which, in British parlance, we were "chuffed" to see.)

There were also many colorful wildflowers in bloom despite the fact that the British summer appears to already be fading. For instance, there were several foxgloves scattered along the paths we were walking. I believe their prime flowering time had already passed by a couple weeks, but even when waning in vibrancy, these rank among my favorites:

Down nearer to the water, which was at low tide when we arrived, we could see all sorts of wildlife exposed in rock pools. We came across something that appeared to be an algae (or possibly some moss?) and both looked and felt for all the world like coarse human hair, growing right out of the cliff face:

After having a quick cup of tea in a cafe near the point, we headed back out into the wind for the cross-town trek to our car. Along the way we encountered another bird species that I'd never seen before in the UK:

(A male stonechat. This one, as you might guess from the species of plant on which it is perched, is not in Cornwall but in Africa, which is where I first encountered this species. Thanks to http://www.netcore.ca/~peleetom/webdoc26.htm for the image.)

A bit further on, I spied one of the stonechat's sworn enemies watching us surreptitiously from on high:

This guy was quite the performer and indulged in a long series of very photogenic stretches before languorously strolling over to join us. I was a bit afraid that he was going to follow us all the way back to our car, but luckily after a block or so he turned into a garden and was gone just as suddenly as he had appeared.

Shortly thereafter, we were gone, too--back to Falmouth, where we were due to have dinner with friends. Appropriately enough, our meal was to be fresh-caught mackerel, proving that the British seas are good for much more than just a lovely (if turbulent) view.

Indiana: Structures

2011-07-30T19:32:00.000-07:00

On my way into Bloomington, and then again on my way to and from Yellowwood State Forest, I passed an incredible barn that I just had to go back and take a picture of. When I think of the Midwest, I think of red barns, and I absolutely love them. Since the barn of interest was on a fairly busy thoroughfare, I pulled over on a small country road nearby, and lo and behold, I discovered a second barn. Two for the price of one!

Now, I know that lots of people would look at this and say that it is just a dilapidated old piece of junk that should be torn down. I recognize that it is in serious disrepair, but for some reason that just makes me love these buildings even more.

One of the first good artistic photographs I ever took was of an old barn that was about to be torn down. I printed up the photo in black and white, and ever since then I have always looked out for other black-and-white-able barns to add to my collection.

This one had a strange serious of faux birdhouses along the side. They had little roofs and painted-on holes and real perches, but they didn't actually lead anywhere. Weird.

The barn I had initially set out to photograph was this one:

Too bad I couldn't get an angle without the telephone/electric wires in the way, but you can still see what good shape it was in; the red paint could have been applied just yesterday. I love it when people decorate their barns with rustic details like the two flags and the "Hoosiers" sign above the door here; during my trip to Bloomington, I also passed a couple barns with quilt patterns.

Back in town, I continued my structure-oriented photo spree with a trip to the local library, in front of which is a stone polar bear family consisting of Sunny (the dad), Luna (the mom), and Snowdrop (the cub). These were created out of Indiana limestone by local artist Karl Schiefer and donated by the Friends of the Libary in 1997. This means they were in town at the time of my last visit there, but for some reason I don't remember seeing them. I love how they so accurately mimic the style of Native American sculptures. In fact, Schiefer could actually be Native American, for all I know, but unfortunately I cannot find out anything about him online.

(Note the addition two local lovers have made to Sunny's shoulder.)

When I stepped inside a mall for lunch, imagine my surprise at finding a little piece of Britain right in downtown Bloomington, Indiana:

Before leaving town, I had to stop to take one last picture--a real sign of the times (or, in fact, lack thereof):

The next stop on my Midwestern tour was Madison, Indiana. One of the first things I saw when I arrived in town was this, sitting outside a chiropractor's office:

I understand what bones have to do with chiropractics, but I don't quite get the connection between the pig and the practice. And why is Hambone wearing a mask--is he a criminal? A superhero?

After dinner, I took a walk along the river and got a spectacular sunset view of the Lanier Mansion:

The mansion was designed by Francis Costigan and built in 1844 for the wealthy banker James Lanier, who only lived in the home for 7 years. It was donated to the Jefferson County Historical Society in 1917, then turned over to the state in 1925. Since that time it has been open to the public. If I recall my previous tour correctly, quite a bit of research went in to determining the original color of the mansion so that it could be repainted as accurately as possible. It appears that the eastern portion is currently under some additional renovations as I write. However, even a wall full of scaffolding doesn't diminish the beauty of this Greek Revival structure.

My last stop for the day was Jefferson Proving Grounds, a former military base that is now home to the Big Oaks National Wildlife Refuge. The 56,000-acre facility still has unexploded ordnance hiding amidst the trees, which is why it is predominantly off-limits to the public. This provides the local wildlife with quite a lot of space to roam without too many worries, though fishermen are allowed to come in and use the pond. When I worked there in the summer of 2001, I saw coyotes for the very first time. There was still a security guard at the gate back then, but when I stopped by tonight the gatehouse was boarded up. For the first time, I noticed this sign out front:

It must have been there when I worked on the base 10 years ago, but I don't remember it at all--strange, given all the other things I remember so clearly. Between the Bloomington polar bears and the JPG commemoration sign, I am really starting to doubt my memory about my time in Indiana. This is particularly weird because (I think) I have very intense, detailed memories about my time here.

One thing I'm pretty sure of is that my hotel for the evening wasn't even built when I was here in 2001. It certainly seems pretty new. Either way, I have quite an impressive suite with yet another king-sized bed (why do I only ever get these when I am sleeping alone and have no need of all that space?). Even better than the bed is the en suite jacuzzi:

As I told the hostess at the front desk, I do know how to treat myself well.

Indiana: Yellowwood State Forest

2011-07-29T05:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I visited Indiana's Yellowwood State Forest, a short drive from Bloomington and one of several forests, parks, and other nature areas to choose from in the vicinity. The park contains a decent-sized manmade lake, and on the way to the trailhead I passed some amazing homes--a strange mixture of lake house, log cabin, and functional farm house, often all rolled in to a single building. It seemed as though everyone had enormous, wooded yards with ponds out front. Yes, I was envious.

Apart from a few residents driving to and from their homes, I was pretty much the only person on the road, and I also seemed to be the only person in the forest--or, at least, mine was the only car parked anywhere near the trailhead. I chose to walk the 4-mile loop known as "Scarce O'Fat" trail. I can't imagine how it came by this name, as it wasn't so difficult that I came back from my walk emaciated, but I suppose this will go down as one of life's little mysteries. You often come by strange names in former frontier areas in the US, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

As I walked, I kept my eye peeled for interesting forest life and activity. Because it was so hot (97 degrees Fahrenheit!), the birds were not singing much and often my own footsteps were the only sound I could hear--until the cicadas started up, that is. I did eventually encounter some ovenbirds, the species whose song was the first I learned to identify many years ago, as well as some woodpeckers and Carolina wrens. I also bumped into a surprising number of rabbits, which I am not used to seeing in the middle of a forest. Invariably, I heard them before I saw them, since they tore off into the undergrowth after hearing my approach. It's amazing how bunnies can sound like a herd of antelope when they are moving quickly enough.

The real action was down on the forest floor, where I encountered several juvenile wood toads:

I kept having to tread very carefully to make sure I wasn't about to squish one underfoot. I reached down to catch this guy for a closer look, and of course the first thing he did was pee all over my hand. Toads and turtles--you always know what to expect. Speaking of turtles, I was on the lookout for some box turtles, as well as snakes, but these toads were the only herp that I managed to find.

I did, however, notice this brilliant green caterpillar being mobbed by yellowjackets:

I am by no means an expert in lepidopterans, so I have no idea what this is; all I know is, this is the sort of caterpillar that turns into a giant, fuzzy adult moth. Or would, if it weren't in this case about to be killed by wasps. If I weren't so terrified of being stung, I would have tried to rescue the caterpillar and place it somewhere safe, but it took all of my bravery just to get close enough for a photograph. I can't help but wonder why the yellowjackets are so mad at a caterpillar--maybe it accidentally crawled too close to their hive?

As the evening began to encroach, a new set of animals became active, and for the first time ever I ran into raccoons in the wild (e.g., not sorting through trash or begging for food in an anthropogenic environment):

One raccoon was halfway up a tree when I walked around a bend; its friend was still on the ground and dashed off to a hiding place once it saw me. For the briefest of moments, before the climber looked around the tree trunk and I could see its mask and white eyebrows clearly through the forest gloom, I worried that I was looking at a black bear cub whose mother was about to show up and read me the riot act. Then I realized I was in Indiana, and that was highly unlikely. Perhaps my paranoia stemmed from recently hearing in the news about the survival school students out west who were mauled by a female grizzly bear who was protecting her young. Luckily my raccoons were not nearly that aggressive.

Of course, the least aggressive of all is botanical wildlife, and I did have some good sightings. Best of all was several saplings of the sassafras tree, my all-time favorite plant. On the same childhood hike where I learned the ovenbird song, I also heard the myth about how the sassafras came by its three different leaf shapes, and I fell permanently in love. (Parents, let this be a lesson: Expose your children to nature early, and with the right guide, and they will love it forever.)

The first thing I found was a gall:

These are produced by plants, in this case a tree, reacting to infection by parasites, bacteria, fungi, etc. I believe this one may be a wasp gall, produced by host trees after female wasps lay their eggs on/in the plant. The larvae munch around as they develop, and then eventually hatch out, which is what causes desiccated galls like this to drop to the ground (I think--my understanding of all this insect and plant biology is a bit fuzzy, I admit). Galls always remind me of the botany treasure hunt I proctored in grad school; one of the items on the list was insect galls, and many students had never seen them before, and/or felt very uncomfortable picking them up, for fear that something nasty would pop out and attack them.

I also stumbled across a collection of the smallest mushrooms I have ever seen:

There must have been thousands of them covering the base of this tree. If I remember my botany correctly, this type of mushroom--with a cap--is in the phylum Basidiomycota. Both within the forest and at its edges, I passed by a familiar Midwestern wildflower: the touch-me-not, also colloquially known as the jewelweed:

The latter name stems, obviously, from the brightness of their coloration, which often practically seems to glow from amidst all the dark green leafiness around each flower. The former name is a result of the fact that these plants eject their seeds by a process known as "elastic dehiscence": in other words, they spew them out forcefully, all in one go. Passers-by can trigger this process with even the gentlest touch, sending the seeds as far as four feet through the air. The first time I remember seeing this wildflower was in my own yard, where I often encountered it during my childhood. We also had forget-me-nots, and the similarity between names caused me always to have trouble remembering which was which, even though they look very different (forget-me-nots are blue). Interestingly, the species pictured above is actually a member of the Impatiens family, and so is related to the many ornamental flowers planted elsewhere in my parents' yard.

Near the end of the trail, I discovered some rough-hewn forest furniture that someone must have made out of toppled trees:

Talk about making the best of a bad situation--you lose some lovely plants, but you make some seats from which to enjoy the view of what remains. It certainly was a nice view, too--very lush, despite the incredibly hot and dry summer that Indiana is having. Yellowwood was certainly worth the 1-hour drive, round trip, and my hike there was 2 hours well spent--definitely more fun than sitting through 2 more hours of conference talks!

Welcome Home

2011-07-25T19:02:00.000-07:00

After living in the UK for almost 7 months--officially my longest amount of time in another country or on another continent--I returned this week to the US. What a fantastic country. In fact, I might even venture the opinion that it is the greatest country on earth, even if our government can't figure out a way to balance the budget.

Look at all the other things America has going for it. For instance, it is July, and it actually feels like July. How considerate of the nation to have a heat wave just in time for my arrival. I get to wear tank tops and shorts without worrying about getting cold, I can feel sun on my skin, and I might even break a little sweat when I walk outside. During storms, the rain is warm. Fantastic.

I went shopping the other day and felt delightfully overwhelmed by all the options available to me. I know Americans sometimes get criticized for being materialistic and wasteful, but it is wonderful to walk into a store and have so many options. I went to buy sunblock, and there were at least 10 different brands, each with multiple different strengths and consistencies, each in lotion and aerosol and pump-action spray. So much variety! In the produce department, many things actually come from within the country, or, if not, from very nearby. For obvious reasons, this differs from the UK, which not only does not have enough climate variate to grow all the different crops that are found in the US, but also just doesn't have enough space. When I made fresh salsa for my family, it tasted different than when I make it in the UK; I realized that the difference was the sweetness from the tomatoes and limes, which did not have as far to travel to the get to the grocery store.

Speaking of plants, another amazing thing is the greenery in the wild. Not that the UK isn't green, but so much of the landscape is trimmed or planned or managed in some way. But around here, it is not only bountifully verdant, but also wild and lush and a little unkempt (dare I say, not a bad metaphor for the American people themselves?). The trees appear to be swimming in vines and bushes and waist-high grasses If you look out into my parents' yard, you can see chipmunks and squirrels and groundhogs and birds and insects all zipping around doing their thing. It's all so wild and active and busy. And the space! Cornwall has to be one of the most spacious places in Britain, since you really get no sense of how densely packed the country is. But compared to where I've been spending my time here in the US, Cornwall is a giant, booming metropolis. There is so much distance here between houses and towns and from one side of the street to the other. I feel as though I've been let out of a cage (that I never even knew I was in).

(Some of the verdant growth in my grandparents' backyard.)

I've been seeing and hearing an awful lot of "old friends"--just this evening I encountered some eastern kingbirds, whom I immediately identified by sound. Earlier this morning I heard some white-eyed vireos in the undergrowth along the creek at my grandparents' house, and as soon as I arrived at my parents' house I watched ruby-throated hummingbirds visit their feeder. Britain has some spectacularly adorable bird life (you really can't get much cuter than European robins) but the American species are the ones I grew up with--the ones that first got me excited about birding, and the ones whose calls and songs made the soundtrack to all my early outdoor adventures.

I've also seen some fantastic historic buildings. Americans don't do "historic" quite the way the Europeans do--we don't have a long enough history to compete--but what we do have is amazing. The river town architecture is evocative of another era; you half expect to see Mark Twain come strolling out the front door of the best-preserved buildings. Then there are all the decorative mimosa trees out front--not native here, but such a quintessential part of the river town scene along the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers and their tributaries. The barns are also amazing--some with quilt-square murals and Mail Pouch Tobacco advertisements, others full of hay bales, and others with a strangely picturesque, "rural decay" caved-in look. Every now and then you pass an old cemetery in a seemingly random location, and you know you've either found an old homestead or a spot where early frontier travelers had to bury someone during their journey. It's hard not to feel a little awed and inspired when you travel across the US and think about the first Europeans who showed up and made their way across that immense and forbidding wilderness, often on foot, with only very primitive tools. It gives you some insight into why we can be so stubborn.

Speaking of incredible journeys, today my GPS unit had me cross from Ohio into Kentucky on one highway, then cross back over into Ohio on another highway, before finally leading me west into Indiana (where I was actually going). I forgave this ridiculous piece of navigation after it routed me through a town called "Gnaw Bone." In what other country on earth would you find a town with such a name? (Okay, I admit that I wouldn't be surprised if such a place existed in Australia). At a rest stop in the Hoosier State, I took a picture of the scenery just to capture the amazing colors. I didn't realize that Indiana had even more corn fields than Ohio:

After that break, I swapped out my overwhelmingly British playlist for some country and bluegrass music. Americana tunes just don't have the same appeal along Cornwall's rugged coastlines as they do in the middle of a landlocked US state. One of life's little pleasures is driving through the heartland, surrounded by corn fields and wide open skies, listening to country music. It just goes to show that you can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can't take the Midwest out of the girl.

There are many things I love about the UK, and many things that drive me crazy about the US, but no matter how long I live in Cornwall (or in any other place, for that matter) this place--Athens or Southern Ohio or the Midwest or Appalachia or all of the above--will always feel special. Some things will change, but because this place is practically in my DNA, I will feel relaxed here because I know what to expect. I know that you can find heavenly sweet corn at roadside stands in July. I know that "creek" and "wash" might be pronounced "crick" and "warsh." I know that there will be fireflies blinking on and off during hot summer nights. I know there will be US flags everywhere and license plates that say "In God We Trust." I know that Walmart will always have whatever I need, for the lowest price around. Some of those things are more enjoyable than others, but all of them are home.

City Sightseeing: Glasgow, Scotland, Part II

2011-07-13T02:20:00.000-07:00

When our sightseeing bus stopped at George Square, I hopped off in order to grab some nibbles while waiting for the new tour guide and driver to arrive. One block over was a massive pedestrian thoroughfare that was bordered on both sides by an endless variety of stores. I saw two Starbuck's shops diagonally positioned from each other across the street, and in a stately old building with a grand and beautiful facade, I saw an Apple store. In other words, it was practically like being back home in the US. I made the mistake of going into the closest store, Urban Outfitters. I have never been into an Urban Outfitters before, and I can safely say that I will never go in one again. I have never been surrounded by so much fakery and pretentiousness in all my life. Thus, it was with a sense of annoyance and disgust that I traipsed back to the bus, ready to cleanse my brain with a new barrage of Glasgow facts.

One of the first buildings we passed belonged to the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama which happened, on that very day, to be having its graduation ceremony. Grads were standing out front taking photos with their parents, and I saw more than one man dressed up in a kilt. Incidentally, my husband and I are going to a Scottish wedding this fall, and kilts are mandatory for all male guests. We investigated the possibility of buying, rather than renting, a kilt, since it's the kind of thing that can come in handy when you are in the UK and have lots of Scottish friends. It turns out that the skirt part alone costs at least 400 pounds, and the jacket--which is cut differently than a regular suit jacket--costs that much as well. Then you have to add in all the accoutrements, like the little garter and the dagger and the purse that hangs around the waist (flashes, sgian dhubs, and sporrans, if you prefer), as well as kilt pins, cuff links, a belt with a big manly buckle, a ruche tie, a Ghillie shirt, special kilt socks, and Ghillie brogues (shoes). Obviously, you don't have to purchase every last one of those, but most people have at least the first three. The bottom line is, kilt prices are outrageous. Speaking of "bottoms," men in kilts used to be banned from riding on the top level of open-air buses, because on windy days they were at risk of flashing all the other passengers (because, as everyone knows, you just don't wear undies with kilts).

The next part of our journey took us to the eastern part of the city, past the Glasgow Royal Infirmary, at which the first X-rays in the UK were taken in 1897, by John Mcintyre. Next up was the beautiful Glasgow Cathedral, which dates to the 13th century. At one point, the Scottish hero-outlaw Rob Roy was chased through the Cathedral by authorities; the building still bears "wounds" from stray musket balls.

(The Glasgow Cathedral. Thanks to http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/glasgow/cathedral/ for the image.)

Next to the cathedral is the Glasgow Necropolis, a large Victorian cemetery that looks more like a park that just happens to be filled with large stone monuments; it was modeled after a similar space in Paris. Although the Necropolis is next to a Christian cathedral, its first "addition" was actually Jewish--a tobacco merchant, like many of the other people buried in the cemetery.

At some point after leaving the Necropolis, we passed something that caused me to take copious notes about the first prime minister of Canada. I have no idea what that was, but I do know that Canada's first prime minister was Sir John Alexander Macdonald, who was born in Glasgow in 1815, immigrated to Canada, and served as prime minister from 1867-1873 and then again from 1878-1891. During his time in office, he oversaw the creation of the Mountees. Because he has such a magnificently 19th-century haircut, and because I have no picture of whatever it was that inspired me to jot down all this information on him, here is a portrait of the man himself:

(Sir John Alexander Macdonald, first PM of Canada, knighted for his efforts to bring about the Canadian Confederation. Thanks to http://www.collectionscanada.gc.ca/confederation/023001-4000.46-e.html for the image.)

At the southeast corner of the city (or, at least, at the southeast corner of our tour of the city) sits the People's Palace and Winter Gardens. This was opened in 1898 in order to provide a place of loveliness that all citizens could enjoy; its creation was in direct opposition to the crowded, dirty conditions that were becoming rampant in the new industrial era. The Winter Gardens are enclosed in the greenhouse behind the "palace." Supposedly, the shape of the greenhouse roof is an exact replica of the shape of the upside-down hull of Admiral Nelson's ship, the HMS Victory.

(The People's Palace and Winter Gardens, Glasgow. Thanks to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/People%27s_Palace for the image.)

Out in front of the Palace is the Doulton Fountain, also known as the Terracotta Fountain. It is not only the largest terracotta fountain in the world, but also the best-preserved example of that particular genre of structure. It was unveiled in 1888 at an exhibition in the aforementioned Kelvingrove Park (site of the Commonwealth bowling greens), then moved to its current location in Glasgow Green in 1890.

(Glasgow's Doulton, or Terracotta, Fountain, situated in the Glasgow Green along the River Clyde.)

Behind the fountain, you'll notice the spectacularly ornate facade of Templeton's Carpet Factory. At one point in time, there actually was a working carpet mill behind those beautiful walls, which look better suited for the residence of a shah. This magnificent building was under construction from 1888-1892. Templeton was quite prosperous; one of his many accomplishments was providing carpeting for the Titanic.

Glasgow is responsible, whether you realize it or not, for one of the most iconic animals in US television commercial history: Clydesdale horses, featured in many Budweiser ads. These working animals were once responsible for doing all the heavy lifting in many industrial settings. Three Clydesdales are in residence at Glasgow Green--Don, Ben, and Jack. Lucky for them, there are now alternatives to their kind of horsepower, so their main occupation these days is entertaining visitors.

On our way back to the western bit of the city, we passed the "Whistling Kirk," so named because singing was not allowed in churches, but if you were really desperate for some music, you could whistle a tune instead. As we approached a bridge that stretched from one side of the Clyde to the other, our tour guide informed us that a) actor Mickey Rooney's father was born in a house on the opposite side of the bank, near the base of the bridge, and b) one of the last hangings in the city had been carried out on the bridge, and the criminal--who had been convicted of "mothering" his wife--had been strung up facing the commemorative Admiral Nelson obelisk in Glasgow Green. This was the second time our tour guide had mentioned the crime of "mothering," and after quite a bit of thought I finally came to the conclusion that she must actually have been saying "murdering." However, the Scottish have a very distinctive way of pronouncing the word "murder," and it can't usually be confused with "mother." So perhaps she said "smother"? I may never know.

We were also informed that Glasgow had previously had a leper colony near here, in an area on the south bank of the Clyde called "The Gorbals." The lepers were allowed to come into the city only once a week in order to obtain supplies. Even once the colony was gone, the area maintained its reputation for being gritty and dangerous. Unsurprisingly, given the transformations one often finds in a bustling city, The Gorbals are now an increasingly prosperous suburb.

Close by was the Scotia Pub, originally founded in 1792, one on of the four original streets in town. Our tour guide stated that this is the oldest pub in Glasgow, but as I mentioned previously, there seemed to be one of those on every corner. We also drove past a statue of the Duke of Wellington sitting atop his horse, Copenhagen, in front of the Glasgow Gallery of Modern Art:

It may surprise you to learn that this is not the Duke's first choice of headwear. However, there is a tradition among schoolkids to sneak the traffic cone atop his head each night, in response to which city officials remove it each morning (apparently they were a bit late on this day, given that it was about 2 PM by the time we drove past). Actually, I think the Duke probably appreciates the cone, as it prevents pigeons from sitting on, and pooing in, his hair--which they clearly have done in the past.

Again for no discernible reason, my notebook contains several comments about James Watt, the Glaswegian "instrument maker" who was responsible for developing the modern steam engine. He didn't actually invent the engine, but instead made alterations to an existing model (the Newcomen) in order to make it more efficient. Basically, he conceived of adding a separate condensation chamber so that steam could be condensed into water in such a way that only a minimal amount of heat was lost. Or something along those lines--engineering and physics aren't exactly my strong suits.

In the middle of the city, on Mitchell Street, we passed the Charles Rennie Mackintosh Lighthouse Building. That's a bit of an odd name, considering that Mackintosh was actually just an apprentice to the architect John Keppie, who actually designed the building. Also, the "lighthouse" doesn't actually function as such, but it does provide a high vantage point from which to survey the area. At one point, the facility provided space for the headquarters of the Glasgow Herald. It is now Scotland's Centre for Architecture, Design, and the City. This may sound a bit exclusive, but members of the public are welcome to swing by and walk up the spiral staircase in order to look out over Glasgow and the Clyde.

(The Lighthouse on Mitchell Street, Glasgow. Image courtesy of http://www.esru.strath.ac.uk/EnvEng/Web_sites/98-9/lebd_lighthouse_group_1/intro.htm)

The last couple stops on the tour were on the south side of the Clyde, in the neighborhood of our hotel and conference center. On our way, we passed under a massive underpass whose supporting pillars had been decorated by Australian artist Sam Bates in honor of the upcoming Commonwealth Games. Over a three-week period, using only spray-paint, he created several mini-murals and one giant mural featuring athletes performing in some of the sports that will be competed in the Games. The major mural is devoted mostly to water-based sports, and is so life-like that you feel as though your fingers would get wet if you reached out and touched it. Most impressive.

We crossed the river via the Clyde Arc, otherwise known as the "Squinty Bridge" because it goes across the river at an angle rather than taking the shortest route. Don't ask me how "diagonal" and "meandering" translate into "squinty." It must be a Scottish thing. Incidentally, Glaswegians (or perhaps the Scottish in general) appear to be very fond of nicknames. When we first arrived in the city, our driver also told us that the Clyde Auditorium, located next to our hotel, is known as The Armadillo; the IMAX theater portion of the Glasgow Science Centre is known as The Cocoon; and the BBC Scotland building across the river is known as The Biscuit Tin.

(The Squinty Bridge. The bridge-like structure at the near left is a pedestrian walkway that connects the two banks of the Clyde. However, in order to allow tall boats to pass, it can swing around like this to provide an open passage. This appears to occur particularly often on weekends, when personal craft and tour boats patrol the waters.)

(The Armadillo, as seen from our hotel room window.)

(The Cocoon, where my husband and I watched the third Transformers movie in 3D on the IMAX screen. The size of the theater was spectacular; the movie was not.)

(The Biscuit Tin. One night we were sitting in our hotel room watching the BBC evening news when we realized that the reporter was sitting in front of a backdrop featuring real-time footage shot from the Biscuit Tin. It showed the Squinty Bridge, the Clyde, a tiny bit of the conference center, and all the construction nearby.)

The Clyde is a 106-mile tidal river that rises 16 feet at high tide. On either side of the Squinty Bridge is a rotunda, one of which currently contains an Asian fusion restaurant. Back in the day, however, the purpose of the rotundas was to house the mechanics for lifts that lowered and raised horses and carts that needed to get across from one side of the Clyde to the other (obviously, this was before the Squinty Bridge was installed).

At the end of the tour, I got off the bus at the Glasgow Science Centre, rather than at my hotel, so that I could take the short walk home and collect some of the lovely photos featured above. I wanted to make sure I got a good shot of our accommodations, which were so posh that some of the guests there arrived by yacht:

(The Glasgow Crowne Plaza. I swear that neither the building nor I was tipping over when this photo was taken--that is just my strange vantage point from the foot bridge.)

I'd like to take this moment to mention that the food at both the hotel's bar and restaurant was absolutely fabulous. One night I ordered a lobster risotto starter with mango salsa that was so good I had to get it again the next night. We also had an incredible meal at the Ubiquitous Chip, an establishment near the University of Glasgow that had been recommended by a friend and was also featured in a guide book provided by our taxi driver. Everything was delicious, but the most memorable course was my oatmeal ice cream--which not only contained bits of oatmeal, but also came with an oatmeal crust. I swear, there is nothing that Scottish people can't do with oats--or, for that matter, seafood, which I ate nearly every night. I also have to recommend La Fiorentina, which I read about online. It is supposedly the best Italian restaurant in Glasgow. In a city filled with Italian restaurants (there is a large Italian community there), this is high praise. Our entire meal was delicious, from the minestrone and pomodoro e buffalo mozzarella salad starters to the panna cotta and strawberry mess desserts. Also, props to our waiter for sneaking a birthday candle into my husband's dessert and singing "Happy Birthday" while he delivered it.

Really, the only down side to our visit was the fact that we had to spend the whole time working. Also, it wasn't so great to have our flight home canceled; we had to spend an extra night...but at least we got free accommodations and a free meal. I've heard lots of people compare Glasgow unfavorably to Edinburgh, but I'm not so sure that's fair. I do love Edinburgh, but Glasgow has an awful lot going on. Even though it has a more industrial past, while Edinburgh's history is a bit more cerebral, many of the old buildings have been preserved or renovated beautifully, and the city is full of hidden gems. I bet it is a great place to explore; I could see where you might constantly be finding new and interesting places, people, and experiences. I definitely hope to go back someday and see it from a better vantage point than a bus seat.

City Sightseeing: Glasgow, Scotland, Part I

2011-07-10T13:35:00.000-07:00

Let's face it, there's nothing worse than really obviously looking like a tourist when you travel. People give you disgusted looks, honk their horns and ride your bumper when you drive around looking for your next turn, and roll their eyes behind your back every time you consult a map or whip out your camera or open your mouth and speak with an accent. At least, that's what I always do to tourists in my town, so I assume that other people do it elsewhere.

I always try my very hardest to fit in when I travel, to the point of hesitating to photograph things I really like, or taking a ridiculously long trip around the block rather than double back and go somewhere I accidentally passed, just because I can't bear to stand out as an out-of-towner. Well, last week I had to push all of those emotions aside so that I could do one of the absolute most tourist-y things possible: a hop-on, hop-off bus tour of a city--in this case, Glasgow.

In my defense, I had spent most of my time in Glasgow working very hard to meet a work deadline, and I just didn't have any time to explore the city until my last day in town. I didn't need to leave for the airport until 4:30 PM, and I couldn't think of any other way to cover that much of the city in the few hours I had. Plus, the bus had a stop right outside my hotel, so it practically seemed preordained. In the end, as cheesy as I felt doing the tour, I'm glad I swallowed my pride. The city was really beautiful and I learned a lot--partly because I whipped out my notebook and took notes the entire time, so that you, Dear Reader, could benefit from my new-found knowledge.

(Glasgow's Riverside Museum)

The first stop was the brand spanking new transportation museum, which was located just a short walk away from our hotel on the banks of the Clyde River. In the water next to the museum, you'll notice a tall ship that was originally built on the Clyde, shipped somewhere in mainland Europe, forgotten about, rediscovered, and then sent back to Glasgow. According to my tour guide, the museum staff have a stuffed "ship's cat" that they hide in a different place each day. The first visitor to find it every day receives a certificate and a lollipop. As we drove past the transport museum, I noticed two people dressed as gulls, running around in the outdoor seating area in order to scare off actual gulls that were attempting to steal food. What wouldn't I have given to have obtained a photo of that scene?

We then passed one of only 2 remaining shipyards in Glasgow, where work is currently underway on an aircraft carrier for the British Navy. Originally there had been plans to work on part of the ship in Glasgow and part somewhere in England. This was previously attempted on a submarine, which builders were unable to fit together because the different temperatures in the two cities had caused the ship parts to be different sizes. Thus, new plans need to be made for the aircraft carrier so it can avoid the same fate.

As we made our way into town, we passed one of the oldest bars in Glasgow (although, judging by comments form my two different tour guides, Glasgow is full of "oldest bars"). Supposedly, the person who invented square-toed shoes is from Glasgow, and frequented that bar; when asked why he thought that would be a good design for footwear, he replied that the square toes allowed him to get closer to the bar. There were several Indian restaurants on the street, prompting our tour guide to tell us about the invention of chicken tikka masala, the most popular dish in Britain. It was first made in Glasgow after a customer in an Indian restaurant asked for gravy to go with his tandoori chicken. The cook used what he had on hand, including a can of tomato soup and a handful of traditional Indian herbs and spices. Glasgow, like many other parts of Britain, has quite a bit of international flavor; while we sat at a stoplight, I looked over and saw a mosque on the corner, which is continues to be a bit of a surprise for me since I never saw any during the first, say, 20 years of my life.

Soon, we passed the University of Glasgow, which was founded in 1451 and is the fourth oldest university in the UK. The campus is really beautiful, partly because it is composed of lots of attractive old buildings set up on a hill and is surrounded by picturesque woodland. As we turned into the main campus, we passed a statue of Lord Kelvin, who invented the concept of absolute zero. Kelvin's name, and the name of many other noteworthy former students, was written on the university's memorial gate, which lists quite an honor roll of outstanding individuals.

(University of Glasgow. Thanks to http://www.glasgowguide.co.uk/glasgow%20uni/gg-image25.htm for the photo.)

As we drove around the streets near the university, I couldn't help but notice patches of soot that were left on the old buildings where cleaners couldn't quite reach. They were remnants of the filth that covered Glasgow, and many other industrial cities, as a result of the Industrial Revolution. Seeing the buildup on these structures makes you wonder what it looked like inside of the residents' lungs. Another interesting architectural note concerns the materials out of which the buildings were made. The city is full of stately old buildings constructed from red stone, as well as more recent ones were made of white stone. The former is a type of stone created in the distant geological past, when Scotland was a desert. After supplies of this material ran out, the Scots had to switch to the latter, which was formed under water during an ice age, when the British Isles were forced into the ocean under the weight of the glaciers.

After leaving the University, we passed stops for the Glasgow subway, affectionately called the "Clockwork Orange." It is the third oldest subway in the world, after the London and Budapest lines. Pretty amazing to think that 19th-century builders were capable of such things without all the technological advances that aid construction today.

We also passed the beautiful Glasgow Botanic Gardens, which I would have loved to wander through on foot. Their original purpose was to provide a place to grow medicinal herbs, but now the gardens are full of all sorts of species.

(Greenhouse at the Glasgow Botanic Gardens. Thanks to http://www.byres-road.co.uk/glasgow-botanic-gardens.php for the image.)

Not too far away was an old church that had been converted into a pub called Òran Mór’s. Here, you can pay a flat fee to indulge in "a play, a pie, and a pint" which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like--a steak pie to eat, a pint of beer to drink, and a play to watch while having dinner. Just down the road was the Curlers Rest, the oldest pub on Byres Road, one of the main thoroughfares in Glasgow. A tavern is reported to have stood in that location since the 17th century, before Glasgow was even a proper city. The current pub derives its name from the fact that a curling rink used to be located nearby, and after games, players would relax there and have a pint (or few).

Glasgow is famous for having an obscene number of city parks (90--more than any other city in Western Europe), which became a necessity with the advent of the tenement, a housing option that deprived residents of any personal garden space. In the park bordering the beautiful Kelingrove Art Gallery and Museum, preparations are currently underway for the Commonwealth Games. The Games aren't until 2014, but gardeners have already been working on installing bowling greens for the past 9 months. Obviously, it takes quite a lot of time and TLC to create world class bowling greens.

After we passed by one of the many places in town in which a criminal had once been hanged, our tour guide told us the (supposed) origin of the expression "getting off Scot free." Apparently, the Scottish justice system has (or had; I'm not clear on the time line of this fact or, in fact, its veracity) three possible verdicts: guilty, not guilty, and not proven. Basically "not proven" means that everyone knows you are guilty, but there is not enough evidence to convict you. Thus, if you get off "Scot free," you have been given a verdict of "not proven" and have received no punishment despite your actual guilt. I don't know if that is accurate, but I like the story anyway.

As we made our way towards the center of town, we passed an old tenement building with a large clock facing the road. Evidently, its hands have always pointed to 12:00, so residents always assumed it was broken. However, during a recent restoration of the building it was discovered that the clock actually isn't a clock--there is no time-keeping mechanism at all, but simply a numbered face with hands. You have to wonder whether that was intentional, or a mistake made during the building's construction.

I noticed that there were many Art Deco buildings around Glasgow, including both hotels and theaters. I suppose that's not entirely surprising in a city filled with old, well-kept buildings, but for some reason Art Deco always seems hard to come by--I've only ever seen a couple original (though restored) examples of this particular style, which is a shame because it has a sleek, suave sort of feel. Several of the Art Deco buildings in Glasgow were theaters, and, in fact, there were many theaters, in general (both the cinema type and the kind use for live performances); our tour guide mentioned that at one point there were over a hundred operational in the city at a single time. One locale was "The Pavilion," which originally opened in 1904 and is currently being restored. The building has a sliding roof, which I gathered is now being returned to functionality, and the slogan of the theater was "If you want to see the stars, come to the Pavilion." Again, a pretty impressive building achievement given the era.

(The Beresford Hotel, Glasgow--just one example of many Art Deco buildings in town. Thanks to http://www.flickr.com/photos/45060815@N07/page285/ for the photo.)

Speaking of interesting constructions, we drove past the Buchanan Bus Station, outside of which is the famous Glasgow running clock:

(The running clock outside Buchanan Bus Station in Glasgow, Scotland. Thanks to http://www.rampantscotland.com/glasgow/glw_clock.htm for the photo and background info.)

The clock was commissioned by Radio Clyde in celebration of its 25th anniversary. Placing it outside the train station, which I'm sure has seen its share of rushing people, was an inspired choice.

Our next stop was George Square, named after the British King George III. Interestingly, none of the many statues there is of him. The area was laid out around the time that George lost the American colonies, and the Glaswegians absolutely hated him--their economy at the time was based almost exclusively on potato imports from Ireland and tobacco imports from the Americas. Thus, it was decided that while the square could bear his name, no further commemoration was necessary or appropriate.

(A turn-of-the-century photocrom print of George Square. Surprisingly, though this image is from the US Library of Congress, I found it via the Russian version of Wikipedia...and it pictures a place in Scotland. How bizarre.)

However, there are many other statues in the square, including Sir Walter Scott perched atop the obelisk (he's so popular in Scotland that he's prominently featured in both Edinburgh and Glasgow and, I'm sure, many other places, as well). Another statue pays tribute to the long-standing, and oldest (in age) British Prime Minister, William Ewert Gladstone. The statue shows Gladstone holding a book in one hand, seemingly keeping his place by sticking his finger between the pages. In reality, however, he was actually missing that figure (it had been blown off in a hunting accident when he was a boy), and this pose was suggested by the sculptor after Gladstone requested that his disfigurement be disguised. If our tour guide hadn't told us that, I would never have noticed. You kind of have to feel sorry for Gladstone that the very feature he was trying to hide is the thing that everyone discusses when they see his statue.

In the background of the print you can see the Victorian-era City Chambers, inside of which can be found the famous mosaic of the city's coat of arms. The Chambers were modeled after a famous Venetian building (I didn't catch the name and Wikipedia isn't helping me), and many different Italian architectural styles can be found at play on its exterior. Americans might notice a small statue of liberty atop the building, apparently even older than the one in New York. Even more exciting is the building located at the near end of the block on the right side of the picture. Its bottom floor houses Jamie Oliver's restaurant, jamie's italian. Oh, the things I could have eaten if only I'd had more time. And money.

Since this was the point in the trip when we paused to switch bus drivers and tour guides, it seems like a good time to have a pause in the virtual tour, as well. Tune in next time to find out about the terracotta fountain, the Clydesdale horses, the cathedral, and much more.

Back to the Minack

2011-06-19T13:03:00.000-07:00

During one of my first visits to Cornwall, my now-husband took me to the scenic Porthcurno beach, where sunbathers can frequently look out and see dolphins frolicking in the bay. We climbed up the steep cliffs, atop which perches the Minack Theatre. My husband had never been inside and he'd hoped we could have a look around, but unfortunately a play was scheduled for the afternoon and we didn't have tickets. That was nearly 2 years ago, and not until this past week did we finally get the chance to go back--this time as audience members.

(A view of Porthcurno beach from just outside the Minack Theatre. The climb up wasn't so bad, but on the way down I got a bit wobbly-kneed because I was able to see just how steep and treacherous the path was. I definitely prefer driving up, as we did last week.)

The Minack has quite an interesting history. Given the tumultuous and unpredictable weather around here, one might think that the last place an open-air amphitheater should be located is the Cornish coast. It was conceived in the 1930's by Rowena Cade, a Derbyshire native who moved to Cornwall with her mother after her father died. Ms. Cade was a remarkable woman who, as far as I can tell from the biography provided on the Minack Theatre's website, did not seem to care about any of the conventions of her time. She appears never to have married and did an amazing number of very "un-feminine" things throughout her lifetime--during WWI, for instance, she selected and broke horses to be sent to soldiers abroad. After she moved to Cornwall, she designed and made costumes for a local production of Midsummer Night's Dream. The success of that play led to a performance of The Tempest the following year, prompting the design of the theater itself; the previous show had been performed in Ms. Cade's garden, but this one was to be on a grander scale and needed more space for both the show and its audience.

The original was only a very rough version of what is in place today. Over several decades, Ms. Cade built the theater from the ground up--literally. Not content to merely fund the endeavor, she played an active role hewing seats, carting rocks and cement, decorating, and gardening. During WWII, all her efforts were undone and she was forced to rebuilt the theater from scratch. For many years it was not a very lucrative endeavor, and no charitable or cultural organization seemed interested in taking over; during this time, any deficits not made up by ticket sales were covered by Ms. Cade's own bank account. Not until the last couple decades has the theater truly begun to thrive; it now offers nearly 20 acts per summer and has an active gift shop and restaurant where visitors can stop by from May through September. Ms. Cade died in 1983 at the age of 89 and to her final day she continued to play an active role in caring for and managing the theater. Before her passing she drew up plans for a roof/awning to prevent audience members and actors alike from getting wet if the weather turns nasty. Overall, quite an impressive set of achievements for someone who apparently didn't get anything more than a high school education and was born in an era when women weren't expected to be either independent or creative.

Minack tickets went on sale early in the spring and my husband and I quickly sprang into action. I am terrible at estimating crowd numbers, but I'd say that the theater seats 300 at most; we've previously been told that shows sell out fast. We decided to go to 3 shows: Fantastic Mr. Fox, The Death of Sherlock Holmes, and Much Ado About Nothing (which should fill the Shakespeare-sized void in my life that was left after I moved away from Williamsburg and its annual Shakespeare festival).

Predictably, we woke up to horrific weather on the day of the show. That's Cornwall for you. The Met Office forecast, which is broken up into 3-hour chunks, showed cloudy/rainy skies at 4, but then a big shining sun by 7. As I looked out my window all day, I felt very skeptical about this prediction; the clouds seemed very dark, very thick, and very stationary. But, lo and behold, not only did the rain stop, but the clouds dispersed and the evening became absolutely lovely; even better, all of this happened by a quarter to 7, so the sun even managed to gain the upper hand 15 minutes early.

(A view over the Minack headland, and the receding cloud cover, from the parking lot. Two fellow theater-goers were watching my photography efforts with great interest. I can't imagine what they found so intriguing about a grown woman photographing a stuffed flamingo with her iPhone.)

The only thing I was worried about was the wind. It was great for pushing the clouds away, but not so great for sitting in for a couple of hours. We'd worn multiple layers and packed waterproofs, and I'd even brought a fleece blanket, but the Cornish wind can be pretty intense. I was convinced I'd have to go into the gift shop and buy myself a hoodie, but luckily the design of the theater is such that it provides shelter from wind coming from almost all directions. It was a bit nippy towards the end of the evening, but nothing too uncomfortable.

The layout of the theater is proper Roman amphitheater-style, with two levels of stone-lined terraces. Some of the seating in the far back allows for people in wheelchairs, and there are a couple of "box" seats, but most people just perch on ledges. The theater rents out handy little folding chairs so you can have a back rest. My husband and I got the opportunity to snag seats in the back row of the lower section, though, so we could lean against the wall.

(A view of the theater from our seats. The play was just beginning; the "diggers" (fox, badger, and rabbit), were introducing themselves to the audience.)

Although you can buy snacks and hot beverages, most people bring their own food. We stopped at Tesco on the way and bought a little smorgasbord--hummus, guacamole, veggies, baguette, pasta salad, ham, cheese, apples, M&Ms. If I'd been the people next to us, I would have been jealous. We arrived about 20 minutes early, so we got most of our eating done before the show started. That gave us the opportunity to take in the view and look at birds. Actually, I looked at birds during most of the show, too--there is so much avian activity up there, it is pretty distracting. I also kept thinking that every other wave was a dolphin, shark, or whale, but that was just wishful thinking (however, friends of ours have reported interesting sightings mid-show, so I know it's possible!).

(You may recognize this view of Porthcurno beach--it's the same one in the first picture, only 2 years later and with nicer weather. However, it was so windy that Florian de Fal could barely sit up.)

I was very excited to see Fantastic Mr. Fox because I always loved the original book by Roald Dahl, and I thought the recent movie was, well, fantastic. Unfortunately, the version we saw at Minack was a bit childish--a little hammy and pantomime-y, though the kids did really get into it. For anyone who is not familiar with the story, it tells of how 3 brutish farmers, Boggis, Bunce, and Bean, decide to retaliate against the fox that raids their stores. They lie in wait outside his den and manage to shoot off his tail as he comes home from thieving. Mr. Fox then holes up with his family while the farmers wait outside with their shotguns. They become increasingly aggressive about chasing him out, ultimately digging a huge hole and knocking down the tree under which his den is located. Not only the foxes, but also all other nearby diggers, are cut off from their food supply and begin to starve. Mr. Fox comes up with the solution of digging a path into the farmers' buildings, from which the animals can steal all the food and drink they need. Meanwhile, the 3 farmers keep waiting, and waiting, and waiting...and the reader is given the impression they will wait forever while the diggers slowly plunder all their stores.

During the parts where the animals were digging tunnels, the actors chanted, "Dig-a-dig-a-dig, dig-a-dig-a-dig, digga-digga-digga-digga, dig, dig, dig!" and pretty soon everyone in the audience was participating. The company used a huge variety of instruments to indicate behaviors, which was creative and also kind of nice for people who were sitting farther away and maybe couldn't see as well; cellos warned of danger, drums indicated gunshots, flutes were whistling, etc. One character played cello, violin, and flute, which I thought was pretty impressive. Their giant, hinged, Pacman-shaped mesh cage was a perfect way of illustrating the actions of digging machinery, and their chicken hand puppets were both funny and oddly accurate (who knew that chicken behavior could be mimicked so well with just a flick of the wrist?). Towards the end of the show, the cast performed a song called "Cider Inside Her," which describes how everyone will feel better once they've had some of the food and drink that the foxes have stolen from the three farmers. Unfortunately, it sounded as though they were singing "Inside her, inside her, inside her," giving the whole song a bizarrely sexual sound.

Even though Fantastic Mr. Fox wasn't the best play I've ever seen, it also wasn't the worst, and it was nice to sit out and watch the sun go down by the shore. Actors certainly couldn't ask for a lovelier set than the Cornish countryside. I am excited to go back and see the other 2 shows, although I'm not feeling particularly enthusiastic about the drive. It only takes about 45 minutes to get to the Minack from Falmouth, but some of the roads are quite narrow and windy; during our first visit, we pulled in to the parking lot of the Penzance Tesco on the way back from the Minack so that I could recover from some serious car sickness. Unfortunately, that is just the price you have to pay to take in the Cornish culture!

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Although this post doesn't have a particularly masculine or father-ish theme, I would still like to dedicate it to all the dads in my family, particularly my own--Happy Father's Day, everyone!

How to enjoy a Cornish summer

2011-06-04T13:06:00.000-07:00

Over the past week, it got increasingly warmer with each day, which created a lot of excitement around town. Of course, any sort of change in the weather causes excitement, since it makes the obligatory meteorological portion of all conversations much more interesting. But this was particularly exciting because it's June already, and we've all been hoping that summery weather might eventually make an appearance here in the southwest of England.

The first trick to enjoying a Cornish summer is being ready, at the drop of a hat, to enjoy warm weather when it arrives--because it might not stay long, and it might not reappear. On days when I am still wearing sweaters and fleeces, it is not uncommon to see people in sleeveless shirts ("vests"), shorts, and/or flip-flops; Brits are ready to take advantage of the sun whenever they can, even if the actual temperature is not all that comfortable. To this end, always wear a sleeveless shirt or t-shirt layer underneath all your warm clothes, and keep your diving/snorkeling/swimming gear in the trunk of your car so you can make a quick getaway when needed.

The second trick is avoiding sun block at all costs, and, if possible, applying liberal amounts of suntan oil. Because sunny days are hard to come by, you will want to get as tan as you can, as quickly as possible. Yesterday the weather was absolutely spectacular, and on my way home from work I passed many people who were heading home from the beach with record-breakingly red skin and unbelievable tan lines. (If you're not a native to Cornwall, you may find this view nearly as painful as a sunburn itself.)

The third trick is heading to a beach as soon as you possibly can. If the best weather falls on a work day, you might want to call in sick or come up with a good excuse not to go to the office; I know plenty of people who actually do this--especially when the surf happens to be good. Keep in mind that you are still in Cornwall, so once you're at the beach you're likely to run into some wind. Thus, you might consider taking along a screen to create a wind break for yourself:

If you're really lucky, it will be so warm that you might even need to generate some shade. If this is the case, it's always a good idea to take along an umbrella.

This is especially useful if you have babies, or are an indigenous Brit, very few of whom have the genes that allow for an intermediate stage between "pasty" and "well done."

Regardless of the air temperature, if you're on a beach and it's sunny, you're probably going to want to go swimming. If you're a true Brit--and, most especially, a true Cornishman--you will get in the water in your swimsuit ("swimming costume") and frolic just as happily as if you were sitting in a hot tub. But if you're sane, you will don a wetsuit in order to make yourself a bit more comfortable.

("Comfortable" here being a relative term, since wetsuits can be a nightmare to put on, and may be uncomfortably warm until you immerse yourself in the water.)

You might also consider grabbing a mask and snorkel so that you can take in some of the underwater scenery. But beware--if the water hasn't warmed up sufficiently, swimming around face-down can give you a serious ice cream headache.

Speaking of ice cream, there is no better time to indulge in a little Cornish cream ice cream than when you can have it hand scooped and served from one of the ubiquitous ice cream trucks that can be found near most local beaches. If you're feeling adventurous, you might try a special concoction such as that assembled at Falmouth's Swanpool Beach Cafe--Cornish cream ice cream topped with actual Cornish cream, topped with coconut flakes. It might take you a while to get used to ingesting all that fat in one go, so start small. If it's too much for you to handle, you can always feed it to a gull--they're never far away.

If you're feeling in the mood for a savory treat, you could grill some food instead. Trick number 5 for enjoying a Cornish summer is to try catching your own food by the seashore. If you like diving, you might be able to collect some scallops; or, you can arrive at the beach at low tide and find the scallops a bit closer to hand, along with razor clams. The rest of the time, you can catch a variety of tasty fish--most especially mackerel--with a fishing rod, or even just using a string with a few hooks attached. Along the seashore you can forage for plenty of edible accompaniments, including seaweed that you can use if you'd like to grill your fish en papillote; I'm told that this is particularly delicious when you stuff the fish with scavenged leeks/garlic/onions/mustard.

Alternatively, you can stop by the market on your way to the beach and bring along more traditional fare, such as burgers and sausages. Don't forget to pick up a disposable grill, which is the cooking implement of choice on most Cornish beaches:

It's easy to stuff yourself full of beach food, so trick number 6 is to bring along your dog. After eating, give yourself a bit of a rest period in order to start the digestive process, then speed the process up by taking your dog for a walk or romping with it along the shore.

If you don't have a dog, perhaps you can bring a child. They are always good for a little excitement. For instance, they always seem to be taking off their clothes and running around naked, so you will have the opportunity to burn a few calories while hunting for all the garments they've strewn along the shoreline.

Many of the best Cornish beaches can be difficult to get to, requiring harrowing drives down winding, hedge- and stone wall-lined country roads. You may have to park far away and then hike to the beach while toting all your gear. Thus, trick number 7 is to stay patient and mellow, and perhaps use a GPS system to help you find your way. You might also use one of Britain's many public footpaths, or even the Coastal Path, which will allow you to take in the beautiful scenery along the way.

The route will likely be well-marked, preventing you from becoming lost--but if you do get confused, there is probably a friendly local nearby to help offer some directions.

(Florian de Fal on his first Cornish outing.)

While you could do all this alone, it's more fun if you have some company, so trick number 8 is to involve as many friends as possible. Always try to invite at least one friend with a watercraft of some sort, just in case you want the option of enjoying the water while not actually getting wet.

The absolute most important thing to remember about a Cornish summer is that you never know when it's going to arrive or how long it's going to last. Today it was 25 degrees C (77 degrees F) and sunny, tomorrow it's supposed to be 18 degrees (64 degrees F) with thunderstorms. For all we know, this was the warmest day we're going to get all summer. So, if you're in Cornwall between March and October and see a decent weather forecast on the horizon, it is imperative that you remember trick number 9: Seize the day! Put away your work and go out and play, even if it's just for an hour--since it may be the best hour of the season, you have to take advantage of it while it lasts.

Got my mind on my money

2011-05-27T02:53:00.000-07:00

When I was a poor grad student making next to nothing, I kept looking forward to the day when I could use my degree to get a steady job with a steady paycheck, at which point surely I would stop having to worry about finances. Then I did the most financially complicated thing ever, and moved to a foreign country.

As I have written previously, the cost of moving to the UK was quite stressful in and of itself, but my money woes didn't end there. All of my accounts--savings, checking, credit cards, investments--were in the US. Every time I accessed money abroad, I had to pay not one, but two service fees--one to the institution that was accessing my money, and one to my own bank or credit card company for processing a foreign request. When I was using my credit card, this wasn't too bad--usually less than $1 per transaction. But when I was using my debit card, which was occasionally necessary in order to have cash on hand, I was also charged a $5 processing fee in addition to the $1 surcharge. Let me tell you, it does not take long for those $5 charges to accumulate.

Another irritating thing about using plastic abroad is that, unlike the (*ahem* backwards *ahem*) Americans, but like pretty much everyone else in the world, the Brits use a chip-and-pin setup. Each card is implanted with a chip that is linked to the 4-digit pin associated with the card. You don't need to do any card swiping or signature signing; instead, you stick the card into a machine, type in your number, and off you go. It's kind of like the protocol that Americans use for withdrawing money from an ATM, except that you do it everywhere, and for both debit and credit transactions alike. Most places that use chip-and-pin machines also have the facility to do the traditional swipe-card technique, but there are many that do not. Even where cards can be swiped, there's often a moment of surprise and confusion when you hand someone your card; I can't tell you how irritating it gets having to explain, time and time again, that I'm using an American card that only works when swiped. People often haven't been trained in how to process swipe-card transactions, and so you can stand around at the till forever while they swipe your card in various orientations through various slots in the machine. Once it finally goes through, often there is no pen handy, since nobody needs to use them anymore, so the sales assistant has to go rummage around the manager's office to find an implement allowing you to sign your name. Since arriving here, I have had to sign my name in marker, pencil, various immature shades of colored pen (pink! neon green!), and even highlighter.

Obviously, it behooves one to have a bank account at an institution within one's country of residence. This is especially true because, while you can use foreign accounts to withdraw cash and make purchases, you can't set up direct deposits or withdrawals without a local account. This prevents you from signing up for useful things like cell phone plans and magazine subscriptions, or cashing checks in foreign currency. Unfortunately, it is practically impossible to get a new bank or credit card account unless you have some sort of prior credit history, but in a delightful catch-22, you can't have a prior credit history without a bank account or credit card. I applied to, and was rejected from, several banks before I finally wrote an appeal letter and attached recent statements from each of my American accounts, showing that I did in fact have many financial resources. It is so frustrating to have absolutely no credit history in the UK, given that I have fantastic credit history in the US. With all the international business that goes on these days, how can financial institutions from different countries not talk to each other and pass this sort of information along? I would even be willing to pay a fee for this process. Luckily, the bank statements did the trick and I am now the owner of a British bank account.

Interestingly, my bank does not exist anywhere near me in a physical format. They have one main office somewhere up north, but no branches; all their customers do everything online, or via partner institutions (various other banks, or even the post office). It's quite an odd concept, but mimics my previous situation when I was conducting business with my US bank from afar. So, it's not so much of an adjustment for me, but I can see where it might feel odd to many people used to a more traditional setup.

One of the interesting things about finances in Britain is that people are so much more modern about money than we are in the US. When you've eaten at a restaurant and are ready to pay your bill, your server comes over with a little cordless handheld credit card machine and does the whole transaction right at your table. Nobody carries your card off anywhere where they can do suspicious and unknown things to it; all the business is carried out right in front of you, and in a matter of seconds. If you owe a friend money but don't have any cash to hand, you can log onto your bank account online and pay up electronically. Everyone knows their sort codes and bank account numbers, which is all you need to type in so that you can settle your debts. It's so civil.

One thing I really don't enjoy, though, is having to use a card reader in order to complete transfers or make purchases online. This is a card reader:

You have to stick your card into it, type in the associated pin, receive a code number, then type the code number into your computer in order to complete your transaction. This seems excessive to me, given that I've already supplied details that only I know in order to sign into my bank account. Isn't that the whole purpose of pin codes? If they need an extra level of security, why not just ask for a password? Why do I need to stick my card into a machine? If I happen to need to make a transfer/purchase while I am in any location other than my home, I don't have the card reader handy, which means that I can't do it. Obviously, I could carry the card reader around in my purse, but that's just annoying. And what about the 50% of the population (e.g., men) who don't carry purses?

The financial issue that has most recently vexed me is the hurdles that my American banks put up during the process of transferring money between countries. I am paid a monthly stipend by my grant institution, and since the institution is American, they insist that they pay me into an American account. Thus, at least once a month I need to take money from my US bank account and put it into my UK account. When I originally set this process up, I had to look up a bunch of information--SWIFT codes, IBAN numbers, etc.--that is used exclusively for this purpose. You wouldn't believe how far buried these details are on the websites of both UK and US banks.

Every time I make a transfer, I am charged a $35 processing fee, which I find absolutely ludicrous. It's not like I'm paying an armored guard to pick up a suitcase of dollar bills, drive it to the airport, fly it across the Atlantic, take it to my UK bank, exchange it into pounds, and then fly back home again. Everything is done on computers these days--there's not even physical money involved!--and yet I'm being charged to gain access to my own hard-earned money. On top of that, I have to experience the pain of watching 40% of the numerical quantity disappear as my large number of dollars is converted into a much smaller number of pounds.

Transfers get even more difficult if you need to move more than $1000 in one go. I had to do this a couple weeks ago in order to put all my scientific grant funding, which was in an account in the US, into an account at my research institution here in the UK. You have to get a special authorization code in order to do this, but the only way to receive it is to a) have it texted to your American cell phone, or b) sign up to receive a code-generating card (not unlike my British card reader, except it is the shape and size of a credit card). The card costs $20 and you have to wait to receive it in the mail, but this was my only option since I don't have an American cell phone. After waiting and waiting and waiting for the card, I finally contacted the bank to find out where it had been sent. It turns out that they cannot ship the cards internationally, which means that rather than sending it to the current address they have on file for me, they used my previous address, which is my parents' house. Why would they even think I would be there? Why didn't they tell me my international address would prove an issue? Because they just wanted my $20, and because they didn't want me to be able to transfer my money. Because my bank doesn't care about customers--they just care about earning money.

You might wonder why I have even stuck with my US bank rather that switching to a "friendlier" one. Well, I do actually have an account at a more local bank, and I looked into doing all this international stuff through them. But the truth is that, however else my main US bank is lacking, they are actually fairly technologically advanced. It's generally quite easy to accomplish things by signing into my account online, and if I need help they have a 24-7 chat function. At my local bank, I couldn't find any relevant information on their website, they don't appear to allow me to use online features to make international transfers, and account details are updated an an excruciatingly slow rate. It's a terrible trade-off in which I have to sacrifice one type of convenience for another.

Still, my recent international transfer debacle has stirred me into action. I did some research online and found out that the best banks for transnationals are those that operate in both countries. I suppose that's a no-brainer, but because you don't often come across those banks in the US, you wouldn't necessarily think of picking one (not to mention that I am doing all this retroactively--when I first opened my account in the US, I never imagined I would end up living in Britain one day). HSBC has often been cited as the best choice, but when I used their website to find out where their local branches are, I didn't find any in the places where I will actually be when I visit the US. I suppose it's not necessary to have a physical bank--after all, it works okay for me here in the UK--but it would be kind of nice, just in case.I cringe at the thought of what a hassle it will be to move my funds between banks. Not only will I have to finagle my money away from my current bank (doubtless they will find a way to charge me), but I will also have to change financial info in countless of online accounts that are linked to my current bank.

To me, the most amazing thing about all this financial madness is that it really seems like something that shouldn't be so hard. I can log into Amazon.co.uk and buy products from other countries, or ship purchased items abroad, and I can pay for either type of transaction using a credit card from pretty much any country in the world. When I traveled to Australia, India, Brazil, Germany, you name it, I could easily make charges and withdraw money from either my UK or US account. I can turn on Skype or pick up my phone and talk with my parents in the US. We can read tweets, in real time, from people in different time zones. Surely if technology makes all these things possible, it shouldn't be so hard for me to move my own money from one account to another. If it's not the technology throwing a wrench in the works, then it's the banks. And that is something to think about.

Mother's Day Special--A Bouquet of Cornish Wildflowers

2011-05-08T09:19:00.000-07:00

Since I was a little girl, I have had an interest in learning the names of all the organisms in my immediate environment. I've always held a special admiration for people who have mental catalogs of names and natural history information of the wildlife around them; one of my strongest early memories is going on a nature hike with my dad at Conkle's Hollow, in the Hocking Hills region, and being completely impressed by our guide, who could identify many, if not most, of the birds, trees, and wildflowers we encountered.

When I got my first field job in college, I learned to identify many local plants while doing vegetation surveys; when I then went back home to my parents' and grandparents' houses and saw the newly-familiar species in their yards, I couldn't believe how different everything looked and felt. It was like I had walked through a doorway to a whole new magical world, where knowing the names of things and a little about their natural history suddenly gave me a better perspective on the ecosystem as a whole. I liked it.

Since then, I've rarely been without all the appropriate field guides, from ferns and wildflowers to trees and fungi (and, of course, animals, but that's a whole other story since those are related to my scientific research). Before moving from the US to the UK, I put together a donation box full of books that I would no longer need; at first my US wildflower book was included, but then I retrieved it because I just couldn't bear to be without a guide that I had used for so long, even if I would need to refer to it in the future.

Prior to our recent trip to Scilly, I purchased a guide to wildflowers on the islands, and since returning to the mainland I have acquired the beautiful Collins guides for both trees and flowers. Yes, it is time to become really acquainted with my new home.

One of the weird things about Cornwall is how much of the flora is foreign. Indeed, throughout much of the UK there are plants that have been imported from the former British colonies--not just several species that I recognize from my homeland, but also a variety from Australia and New Zealand, the Caribbean, and, especially, southern Africa. Of course, plants were also brought by friends and visitors, so there are species from Asia, the Mediterranean, Scandinavia, northern African...the list goes on. Many of these have since escaped from gardens and farms, and can now be found in what now look like fairly random locations; some are regarded as pests and invasives, while others are considered to be naturalized (the distinction between these being made less by science than emotion).

All of this can make plant identification quite tricky, but also very fun--there is such a huge diversity of species around here that it is not hard to continually find new things; thanks to the fairly mild climate, you can generally find something flowering at pretty much any time of the year; and, because of the frequent morphological similarities of plants in the same family, you can often learn a whole suite of plants together and advance your familiarity with the ecosystem in leaps and bounds.

During our time on the Isles of Scilly, I photographed many wildflowers so I could later study the photos and identify them. Back on the mainland, I've begun using my iPhone to photograph plants while I'm out walking, for the same purpose. My husband tells me this is really nerdy, and I suppose it is. But look at some of the interesting species I've encountered:

(Thrift, Armeria maritima. This grows in vast patches, coloring cliffs completely pink during spring and early summer.)

(Lesser celandine, Ranunculus ficara.)

(Sea radish, Raphanus raphanistrum ssp. maritimus. This is in the rather huge family Brassicaceae, which contains numerous other edible plants--rocket, cabbage, kale, broccoli, cauliflower, mustard, etc.)

(Arum lily, Zantedeschia aethiopica. Although you can't really tell from this picture, these are quite large, like teacup-sized versions of calla lilies; their impressiveness stems not only from their pristine coloring and texture, but also their size.)

(Cuckooflower, aka Lady's Smock, Cardamine pratensis. The first name originates from the fact that these flowers first come into bloom when the cuckoo arrives in the spring.)

(Western ramping fumitory, Fumaria occidentalis. In the background, you can also see the invasive three-cornered leek (aka three-angled leek or three-cornered garlic), Allium triquetrum. Anyone who is familiar with pagan artifacts or has recently seen Thor should appreciate the Latin name of this species--the "triquetra" is a three-part pattern used often in Germanic pagan art (e.g., Thor's hammer) and in Celtic images.)

(Hottentot-fig, Carpobrutus edulis. This is an overzealously productive plant from South Africa, now found crawling its way along shorelines throughout SW England, where it is a serious threat to native plants. The flowers come in both all-yellow and pink-and-yellow varieties. Like many of the introduced shrub-and-chaparral biome species, it is a succulent; this is one of the easiest characteristics to use when determining whether you are likely to be looking at a native Cornish plant or not.)

(Bermuda buttercup, Oxalis pes-capre. This is one of those species that makes you wonder who gave certain people the authority to name plants. This is neither a buttercup nor a Bermuda native; it is actually in the Oxalidaceae family and was introduced from South Africa.)

(Cleavers, Galium aperine. If you were judging solely on flowers, you'd probably not give this plant any awards for beauty. But the whorls of leaves around the stalks are quite delicate and pretty--I'd admired the plant long before it began blooming. I was quite surprised to find out that, despite its dainty appearance from afar, it is covered in clingy hairs that make it feel like a cross between Velcro and a cat's tongue.)

(Yellow iris, Iris pseudacorus. You might be tempted to think this is an escaped garden flower, but actually it's a native wildflower. They appear to like their privacy--I've only ever seen them growing in singles, and then far from their conspecifics. They seem to like wetland areas quite a lot, where they stand out against the reeds and rushes.)

(Smaller tree-mallow, Lavatera cretica, aka Cornish mallow. In case you're wondering what it's smaller than, the answer is:...)

(Tree-mallow, Lavatera arborea. This species is a boon to migratory birds on the Isles of Scilly. In other migration stopover locations, the birds would eat insects in/around budding trees, but Scilly has few of these; instead, the birds can find this food source in the abundant coastal mallows.)

This is only a small portion of the pictures that I took; there are still several that I need to go through so I can make species identifications. After that, there are many more than I need to photograph on my next few walks--and that will only just begin to cover the flowers that have been blooming so far this spring; many more will emerge as the summer goes on.

One thing I am particularly eager to do is become more familiar with the edible plants, since wildcrafting (harvesting from nature) is a fairly common activity here in Britain--particularly of berries, such as sloes and blackberries. Besides fruits, which are fairly obvious targets for wildcrafting, there are also some more subtle treats, such as chamomile and mint (for tea), samphire and rocket (for salads and wilting in hot dishes), onions, garlic, and leeks. Wildcrafting should always be done away from roads, where plants that are exposed to car fumes will incorporate components of the exhaust into their bodies--leading not only to a nasty taste but also potential toxicity. It's also best to avoid harvesting anything that is below waist height, just to ensure that nothing has been bathed in a shower of dog urine. Happily, natural areas in Britain abound, and the country is criss-crossed by public footpaths offering access for both plant-watching and plant-collecting.

I've been told that there is nothing better than firing up a grill on the beach and cooking some freshly-caught fish with some wild leeks and rock samphire, then eating it all straight from the fire. That sounds like something I should make it a goal to achieve before the summer is out--I've been wanting to break out the fishing rod and get my first taste of fishing on the high seas. Stay tuned to find out whether it happens!

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Since it's Mother's Day, I'd like to give a shout-out to my mother, my two grandmothers, my two mothers-in-law, my sister-in-law, and my cousin, for whom this is the first of many Mother's Days to come. Thanks everyone, and keep up the good work!

The Isles of Scilly: Where the Attitude is Determined by the Latitude

2011-04-28T09:12:00.000-07:00

The Isles of Scilly is a vacation destination renowned in the UK for its beauty and wildlife, but I had never heard of it until I met my husband. He, along with other biologists at the University of Exeter, takes undergraduate biology students there each spring so they can learn about ecosystems and diversity and just generally experience wildlife in their natural habitats. For the past two years I have been lucky enough to tag along and I am finally beginning to learn how to identify enough animals and plants that I feel somewhat useful as an instructor. Last year I either failed to take my camera or just never used it; luckily I had it on hand this year, when the expedition was even more photogenic thanks to five solid days of perfect weather.

The trip started in Penzance, from which we took a ferry, the Scillonian III, to the main island, St. Mary's. The trip is only 45 km (28 miles), but it takes about 2.5 hours. If you have more than just a carry-on, which all of us did, you put your luggage in a cargo container that is loaded onto the ship by a crane on the front deck. Pets are welcome, and usually abound; I am always impressed by the calmness with which the dogs survey their noisy, vibrating, diesel-smelling surroundings. No matter how warm the air and how sunny the sky, the trip is inevitably chilly. This year it was much more pleasant than last year, when it was very overcast and even a bit drizzly. Still, I was shivering despite wearing a t-shirt, a thermal long-sleeve shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and a thick windbreaker. One day I will find the right combination of clothing to make the trip more bearable. Luckily there is a cafeteria on board, so you can frequently stock up on hot cups of tea.

You can sit inside if you wish, but then you will miss the wildlife sightings that inevitably occur during the journey. Although it is possible to see porpoises, dolphins, whales, and sunfish, I have only ever had any luck with finding birds--storm-petrels, shearwaters, gannets, cormorants, shags, kittiwakes, gulls, and even a few of the auks that the Isles of Scilly are famous for. These are much more common in the Isles than elsewhere in Cornwall, but can be seen along some of the crags near Land's End at the beginning of the journey. Though the puffin is the most common symbol found on Scilly tourist merchandise, the real source of avian excitement is all the migratory birds that land on the islands during the spring, but particularly the autumn, migration. These include birds that have overshot their destinations in the spring and need to rest up before heading back down to France and Spain, those that are on their way south to Africa after breeding during in the Arctic during its short summer, and even North American individuals that have been blown seriously off-course by heavy winds. Among "twitchers," list-crazy birders who traipse all over the country in order to see as many species as possible each year, the Scillies are an essential destination in order to view the real rarities. Last year, we stumbled upon a (relatively uncommon) short-toed lark wandering around the island of Gugh; this year, in the same location, we tried but failed to find a tawny pipit. Both birds were "overshoots," who would eventually turn around and go back south to their appropriate breeding grounds (at least, we hope).

The decks of the Scillonian are also a good place to just generally enjoy the dramatic Cornish scenery:

Like the rest of Britain, the various islands and islets of Scilly (5 main islands, but several hundred land masses overall, depending on your counting criteria) are composed of granite produced by serious volcanic activity several hundred million years ago. The Scillies are considered by many to be the most dangerous maritime habitat in Britain thanks to its jagged rocks and ledges that sit just under the waves; there are anywhere from 800-2000+ wrecks sunk around the islands. The rocks are particularly dangerous because they are not only unseen, but unexpected--the Scillies rest on a plateau that drops off quite suddenly into deep ocean, so unwary sailors may not realize until too late that they have crossed the divide between safe open water and dangerous continental shelf. The harsh winds near the Scillies add another element of danger; many claim that this is also the most exposed location in Britain.

The Isles of Scilly have not always been as isolated as they are now; many thousands of years ago--and as recently as 4,000 years ago--sea level was low enough that Scilly could be reached by foot from the mainland. In fact, it is still possible to walk between some of the islands at low tide--particularly during the spring. Some of the Isles were even covered by glaciation during the last ice age; one Scilly guidebook (The Secret Nature of the Isles of Scilly, by Andrew Cooper) urges visitors to stand on one of the lookout points on St. Mary's and imagine the massive cliff of ice that would have been visible approximately 20,000 years ago. Since the ice melted, all of Britain has been sinking steadily in a process known as "post-glacial rebound." In the Scillies, this loss of height has been compounded by the wearing action of the wind and waves. All told, however, the islands are shrinking at a negligible rate--it is nothing for the next couple of generations to worry about quite yet, barring any additional, unexpected, geological activity.

Our field course set up camp at The Garrison, site of a castle and fortification originally built in the 16th century following the Spanish Armada of 1558. Unfortunately, we were not staying in the castle, which is now home to a hotel called The Star, but in the campsite above the Garrison walls.

The nice thing about the campsite is that many of the animals there are quite tame, so we could get great views of the song thrushes and blackbirds, in particular; this year I even got a female blackbird to eat right out of my hand. Last year I saw my first-ever hedgehog in the campsite, and we got another good look at one this year. Unfortunately, because they are nocturnal, I was not able to get any good photos.

(Male blackbird with the characteristic bright orange Scilly bill; mainland blackbirds have more golden bills. Scientists still haven't figured out what causes this difference.)

According to the last census, approximately 2,200 people live in the Isles of Scilly; most of these inhabit St. Mary's, which is the biggest island. Our field course takes place at the very beginning of the tourist season. The weekend after we depart, the Isles host the World Pilot Gig Championships, which (I am told, but have not personally seen) brings in a massive crowd of participants and observers alike. I cannot imagine how the town copes with all these additional people, because just our group of 30-odd individuals depleted stocks in the grocery store (particularly on the evening that we treated the students to a barbecue) and made all the delis, pubs, and other eating facilities quite cramped at mealtime. This year we happened to be on the islands during Easter weekend, as well as during the weekday when cruises stop by to let travelers spend an afternoon on the islands. I am not entirely sure what all these people usually do when they visit Scilly, but shopping appears to be high on the priority list. Insanely, there are also a good number of people who sit on the beach and try to get tan; some even wander into the water. Given how uncomfortably cool it is even at the height of summer on the relatively less exposed mainland Cornish beaches, I cannot imagine how unpleasant these activities must be.

In my humble opinion, the only way to fully enjoy the Isles of Scilly is to explore them, a process that requires both good walking shoes and a boat. During our stay, we hiked around the circumference of St. Mary's (approximately 5 miles), which only takes a couple of hours but gives you plenty of opportunities to catch amazing views of the water, the geology, the flora, the fauna, and some of the lovely local cafes selling fresh-baked goodies and Cornish ice cream.

You will also pass several places of cultural interest, such as studios selling local art and historic buildings and cemeteries.

(The cemetery at Old Town.)

The islands have been inhabited since the Neolithic (4500-2200 BC), evidence of which is provided by many megaliths, menhirs, and stone circles that can be found dotting various islands. Our hike around Gugh took us near both a standing stone and an old, excavated, burial chamber called Obadiah's Barrow. Interestingly, though this one dates to the Neolithic, it was reused during the Bronze Age, as evidenced by the mixture of standing-stone and horizontal top-stone architecture. Sadly, none of its standing stones are still actually standing, the last having been intentionally knocked over during the Victorian times in order to prevent its accidentally falling on top of a passer-by (the British obsession with health and safety obviously has a long and illustrious history). There would be many more such similar sites if the stones didn't make such attractive building materials; modern inhabitants have relocated many of them for use in walls and foundations.

(Obadiah's Burrow on Gugh Island.)

As I hinted at earlier, Scilly has a wide variety of wildlife that is special in one way or another. This includes not only the migrants that pass through at various times of the year--not just birds, but also moths and butterflies on land, and whales and turtles in the water--but also full-time residents. Scilly is a strange mixture of "native" and "introduced" species, though how exactly you draw the line between them at this point is anybody's guess, given how many things have naturalized over the years. Over the years, a variety of plants and animals have found their way to the islands through intentional introduction (particularly to the gardens on Tresco) and also by some mixture of accident and luck (for instance, stick bugs established a population after hitching a ride on some of the introduced plants). For a while, the main source of income in the Isles was flower farming, since the (relatively) extreme southern latitude meant that Scillonian farmers could beat their mainland competitors to the punch each season. Daffodils were a particularly big crop, though several other species were also popular. Several varieties of each species are Scillonian specialties, found nowhere else. However, though you still run across many of these flowers growing in farm fields and wherever else they manage to put down roots, this livelihood is no longer as important to the local economy as it used to be.

Other than the "true-" and "now-native" plants, there are many escapee "invasives" growing rampant across the island--in particular, the South African hottentot fig (the quotation marks indicate how difficult it is to distinguish between these three categories, given that all three were, at some point or another, an "invasive"). The fig may not be ideal for the local ecosystem, but at least it is attractive.

(The bright green plant with the yellow flower is the hottentot fig; the more spindly, silvery-green plant growing amongst it is rock samphire, an edible plant that must be used sparingly in dishes because it is so salty.)

One of the big questions is why some of the intentional introductions were made at all. For instance, Spanish bluebells can now be found growing all over those islands with enough soil to make it possible, but it is a mystery why the inhabitants felt this was a necessary addition to the ecosystem, given that there was already a perfectly lovely native bluebell growing in all the same places.

(Native bluebells growing on Scilly. They are smaller, have a deeper purple color, have a more closed and rounded bell shape, and the flowers all tend to hang to the same side of the stem.)

(Another local specialty is the sea holly, which we routinely find on Gugh and St. Agnes, but which does not thrive as much elsewhere. This particular bit of growth managed to survive a hurricane, popping back up out of the sand several weeks after the storm.)

Although many people travel to the Isles of Scilly specifically to enjoy the botany, it is much more common for tourists to seek out the avifauna. One particularly beloved destination is the Western Rocks, which provide breeding habitat for gulls and--more excitingly--auks. The Isles are home to three species of auks: the guillemot, the puffin, and the razorbill. People really seem to focus on the puffin, probably because of its characteristic orange and yellow facial coloration, but its close relatives are also quite sleek and attractive. Both years we have gone looking, we have seen all three species, but this year was definitely a bonanza.

(A lone puffin, the only one brave enough to sit near our boat after the rest of its flock took off.)

(Mostly guillemots, but also a razorbill or two. The Guillemots are the ones that are browner and have more delicate bills; the razorbills are blacker and have a thicker bill with a white stripe.)

One of the reasons that so many species can do fairly well on Scilly is a lack of predators. The islands have no foxes, few rats (some islands with none at all), no resident buzzards or hawks, no snakes, and no serious problems with feral cats or dogs. Perhaps the most threatening predator is the hedgehog, which is known to eat the eggs of nesting birds. Despite this, there are still some mysterious declines in breeding success, including that of the lesser black-backed gull, the kittiwake, and the storm-petrel. Various bird surveys are conducted at regular intervals to collect as much data as possible on Scilly species, in the hopes of protecting those colonies that are doing well, and re-establishing those that have begun to fail.

Although it is easy to get distracted by the plants and animals, which are in such obvious and colorful abundance, it is important to note that Scilly also offers ample opportunities to enjoy special insects, such as the oil beetle, the indigenous Scilly bee, and some very rare species of Scillonian ant, as well as a prodigious amount of sea life. Fossicking (or rock-pooling), that beloved British pastime, can be conducted at numerous locations around the island, yielding a variety of crabs, fish, mollusks, invertebrates, and algae. Unfortunately, none of these species is very easy to photograph once you've stuck it in a bucket of seawater to keep it happy while you examine it up close, so all I've got is a photograph of a very promising-looking pool waiting to be investigated.

(There are also some interesting bits of flotsam and jetsam. A few years ago a container ship wrecked in Scilly and for the next few weeks, islanders were able to pick up free samples of tobacco and superhero costumes, among other things, after they'd washed up on shore.)

The Isles were stunning during our overwhelmingly sunny visit this year, and still quite attractive during our previous trip when it was cloudy most of the time. There is actually little variation in air temperature throughout the year--less so even than in mainland Cornwall, which is milder than the rest of the UK--but the unpredictable sea breezes make a huge difference. Depending on their strength and the direction from which they are blowing, they can either be pleasant or really, really painful. The key to enjoying your stay on the Scillies is to pack for every contingency--thermals, sweaters, and waterproofs are essential even when you go in the middle of summer. A hat and sunglasses are also necessary, since you'll get glare from above when on land, and below when on water. Because the paths can be quite rocky and very steep, it is important to have good, sturdy shoes; my well-worn hiking boots are, shall we say, on their last legs, and walking became a bit painful both for my feet and my knees. The most important pieces of equipment are binoculars and a camera, because this is a place where you will want to see far and wide, then document it so you can enjoy it again later.

India 2011: Back to Bangalore...and Beyond

2011-04-21T03:16:00.000-07:00

It had taken us about 2 hours to get from Bangalore to Mysore by train, then another couple from Mysore to Bandipur by taxi, so we knew that our taxi ride back to Bangalore would last at least 4 hours. It's strange for Westerners to imagine that it's both possible and affordable to hire a taxi for such a long trip, but it really is the best option--buses would be cramped, hot, and slow, and there is no way that you'd want to rent a car and do the driving yourself. A trip of that length would easily cost several hundred dollars in the US, and the equivalent amount of pounds in the UK, but we only paid about $50. This is an especially good deal when you consider that our driver had to start the day by driving 2 hours from Mysore to Bandipur to pick us up, then end the day with another 2-hour drive back there from Bangalore.

I had to request a toilet stop as we were nearing Mysore, and I did so just in time for us to pull over to what I fondly refer to as a "pay-and-pee." Whatever niceties India may be lacking--reliably clean water, air conditioning, consistent electricity--at least they have public toilets; why is the US the only country I've been in where it's a miracle to find a restroom that doesn't involve a gas station or a McDonald's? Of course, the cleanliness of the facility was a bit lacking, and there was no toilet paper, but that wasn't worse than anything I encountered in Kenya, and, in any case, it only cost 2 rupees, so I got pretty much what I paid for.

Shortly after we left Mysore, our taxi driver pulled down a TV screen and put on a DVD of Bollywood hits for us to watch. Even my husband had to admit that the music was catchy, but it was hard to imagine how anyone could find the goofy Bollywood dancing very cool. We noticed that there were 2 consistent features of nearly all the videos: 1) frequent changes of scenery, often involving unusual locations such as the middle of a 2-lane road through a desert, and 2) frequent changes of clothing, often involving surprisingly revealing clothes for the ladies and surprisingly effeminate (to Western sensibilities) outfits for the men. Once the DVD was over, our driver put in a CD, but when this started skipping we were plunged back into quiet.

This didn't last too long, though, since by that time we were nearing Bangalore. Frustratingly, it took about an hour for us to finally reach the IISC after first entering Bangalore; the city really is huge, plus the roads were packed with traffic. I think our driver was receiving directions on his phone, because he kept pausing, reading text messages, and then making a sudden change in our route. I was pretty impressed that he was able to navigate, without any discernible wrong turns, both Mysore and Bangalore, not to mention all the remote roads between Mysore and Bandipur; I would have been overwhelmed by tackling any one of those locations, let alone all three of them.

Pretty soon we were reinstated in our quarters at the IISC guest house--good old room 37. Luckily, the electricity was back on, but the wi-fi still hadn't been fixed, which was a bummer because we'd been planning to use that in order to coordinate with our hosts. We tried to find an internet cafe when we went into town for lunch, but failed on that account, as well. To add insult to injury, the restaurant we'd chosen was having some technical glitches with their computerized ordering system, so our food took forever to arrive and then it took even longer for them to produce a bill. While my husband returned to our room to coordinate our schedule for the evening,I stopped by Fabindia one last time in order to stock up on a few more gifts.

Later that evening we returned to our hosts' house for a farewell dinner. We met the cousin of the family we'd taken the walk with in Bandipur, and were surprised to discover that he had no idea who we were talking about. However, he told us that his family was quite large; plus, "cousin" might have been used to indicate "second cousin," or even "third cousin" or beyond (many of my husbands' African "cousins" are actually just close friends of the family, so this didn't surprise me too much). Still, for someone who has a family as small as mine, it's amazing to think of having so many relatives that you could actually lose track of them.

We had an early night because our trip the next day started quite early--we had to be at the airport by 7:30, so we needed to leave by 6:30. It was sad to depart the IISC for the last time, even though we were looking forward to swapping out those hard, single beds for our soft, king-sized bed at home. I often find that I'm ready to go home after a week or two of vacation, but even with my sickness I had been happy enough in India that I could easily have stayed longer. However, both my husband and I had to get back to the grindstone at work, so an extended stay was not an option.

It turned out that we'd been overly-cautious in timing our taxi ride, since the roads weren't too busy that early in the morning. We got to the airport with plenty of time to sit and have breakfast; I even had the opportunity to shop around and purchase some snacks--and, more importantly, a new book--for the flight home. Unfortunately, the leisure of the first leg of our journey was pretty much the polar opposite of the frenzy we experienced during the second leg.

Our first flight had been from Bangalore to Mumbai, and our second flight would go from Mumbai to London. Alas, Mumbai's domestic and international airports are not in the same place, so we had a little over an hour to travel between the two airports, check in again, go through immigration, go through security, find our gate, and board the plane. The airline provided a free shuttle service between the two terminals, but the airline staff advised us that the next available shuttle would not get us there in time; instead, we were advised to get our own transportation--very helpful. We dashed outside to find a taxi, but while there appeared to be many dropping travelers off, there appeared to be none taking travelers away. We then ran over to the auto stand, where we were told that an auto could get us to the terminal in 15 minutes. Less than 10 minutes later, we arrived at the destination, only to discover it was the wrong one; the driver thought we wanted the second terminal at the domestic airport, when in fact we wanted the second terminal at the international airport. He then told us he could still get us there, but actually what he had in mind was driving us to a taxi company and switching us over to the form of transportation that was more likely to make our deadline.

(A view of the crowded airport roads, as seen from the back of our auto.)

My husband was feeling extremely tense, because by this time we were looking at 30-45 minutes to accomplish a trip across one of the crowdest cities on the planet, followed by the intricacies of the flight check-in process. However, I have to say that I was feeling pretty "Zen" about the whole situation. We'd either make the flight or we wouldn't, and at that point there wasn't much we could do to affect the situation. I only point out this difference in my husband's and my attitudes because it is pretty much the opposite of our normal states of mind--usually I fret, while he calmly floats along. I was so relaxed that, while we sat at a red light, I even did some nature-watching from the back seat of our auto, from which I saw a mouse hop out of our vehicle, dash under the car next to us, then run back again. It was very peculiar.

At the taxi stand, we were quoted an exorbitant price for our trip to the airport. It was not only more than we'd normally willingly pay, but it was also way more money than we had--we'd used up all our cash because we didn't think we'd need it. To make matters worse, they were demanding that we pay up front. Because we didn't really have the time to argue, we agreed to a ridiculous sum of money (in India, anyway--it was still cheaper than getting a taxi to the airport in the US or the UK), and had the driver take us to the nearest ATM. After waiting in line behind seemingly the slowest customer ever, I arrived at the machine only to find that it was broken. I dashed out to the car and asked the driver to take us to another one, but my husband had the wherewithal to ask if he would accept British pounds instead. After a little convincing, the driver agreed to accept a 10-pound note and our 200 remaining rupees, which not only added up to the asking price but actually exceeded it.

During one of our previous trips through an Indian airport, I'd noticed that they only shut the gates to a flight 20 minutes before its scheduled departure, which is about twice as late as when they shut the gates at Western airports. I remember thinking to myself that that was a pretty generous rule. I never imagined that I would personally benefit from it. At the international airport, we ran over to the Kingfisher Airlines desk, where the customer service person calmly and casually looked over our paperwork, then gave us immigration forms to fill out and directed us to the immigration room. He seemed very unconcerned by the fact that our flight was supposed to leave in the very near future, which was encouraging.

We stopped briefly to fill out the paperwork, then entered the immigration area, where we were waved through even more quickly than we had been on our way into the country. It's amazing that developing countries have such a reputation for tying you up in red tape at the worst possible moments (which they do--we've heard plenty of horror stories from colleagues who work in those places), because it's also true that they can occasionally be way more accommodating and speedy than their colleagues in the West. We next entered the security room, where we had to take the stamped airline security tags off all our carry-ons and replace them with blank tags that could be stamped during the new round of security processing. This is the kind of pointless stuff that is required when passengers have to move between multiple different airports in order to complete a single trip. Of course, just when I least needed it, someone forgot to stamp one of my bags, so I had to go back through the line again before the security woman would let me exit the area and rush to my gate. By that point even I had begun to feel agitated, because we were so close to making it and yet still so close to disaster.

Luckily, after all the rushing and sweating and swearing, we got there. We weren't even the last ones on the plane; about 5 or 10 minutes after we sat down, a half dozen other people (some of whom I recognized from our previous flight) straggled on, and I suspect that they had opted to take the shuttle from the domestic airport. All in all, even though I was channeling Buddha half the time, it was one of the more stressful travel experiences I've had; however, since it turned out well in the end, I can't complain too much. Still, if/when we go back to India, we will definitely avoid the Mumbai airport, unless it is actually our destination--or a new combo airport is developed so that we don't have to drive across the city in between flights. [Oddly enough, just the night before my husband and I were having our travel nightmare in India, my parents had experienced one of their own in Florida.]

During all of our rushing around in Mumbai, I had worked up quite an appetite, so I was happy to be served lunch shortly after our flight took off. Though my husband chose the "continental" meal, I indulged in the Indian option--just for old times' sake. Unfortunately, the flight wasn't even nearly the last leg of our trip. After we arrived at Heathrow (at about 6 PM), we had to take a 30-minute train ride to Paddington Station, followed by a 2-hour train trip to Exeter. At that point my husband had to walk, in the dark, to find where he'd left the car, then navigate around a bunch of closed streets (due to overnight road construction), and finally return to the train station to pick me up. From there, we still had another 2-hour trip back to Falmouth, in the middle of which we encountered yet more late-night road construction, and were routed through a 10-mile stretch of windy Cornish roads.

Living in Cornwall is pleasant most of the time, but fairly annoying when traveling anywhere else. It is such a pain to have to begin and end every trip with a 5-hour journey from lands' end (almost literally) back into "civilization." By the time we got home, it was well past 1 AM, and by the time we got into bed, it was well past 2; we'd been awake for over 24 hours straight. As fun and exciting as it is to travel somewhere as exotic and stimulating as India, there is nothing like a long and inconvenient journey to renew your fondness for the comforts of home.

India 2011: Bandipur National Park

2011-04-20T10:28:00.000-07:00

By an odd coincidence, the same company that owned and ran our hotel in Mysore had recently acquired the hotel that we booked in Bandipur National Park, so on Day 10 we left one Windflower Resort, drove 2 hours, then checked into another. Because it was located in the middle of a national park, Windflower 2 was not quite as "resort-y" as Windflower 1--sadly, there were no Ayurvedic massages on offer, or any wi-fi or television--but the facilities were just as nice. In fact, our cabin had been refitted so recently that you could still faintly smell the paint and wood glue, and it was just as beautiful--in a more rustic, "comfortable" way--than our lodgings at Windflower 1:

Also, though photographs do not do it justice (and, hence, are not shown here), the bathroom was lovely, with skylights and neat little Chinese rock garden-like areas on either side of the shower. The only thing that was subpar was the view off our back porch; the property was obviously still a work in progress, and our "back yard" was rather denuded and a bit rough. Even so, it was a cool, quiet place to sit in the shade, and of course birds don't judge aesthetics the same way that we do, so it was also a good place to watch the feathered wildlife.

Within a few minutes of our arrival, we had managed to make friends with one of the dogs that lived on the hotel property; they weren't quite strays, since they lived there permanently and were tolerated by the hotel staff (likely because they would offer a timely warning of the presence of any tigers), but they were also not domestic in the Western sense of the word. Most especially, they were not animals that ever got much from people--most of all love or attention. All my husband had to do was say "Hello there!" in a friendly sort of way after being surprised by one young dog who had been hiding under a chair by the pool, and he earned a friend for life. She was young enough that she hadn't yet grown in to her oversized paws, but old enough that she knew she wasn't allowed to follow us into our cabin or the outdoor eating area. But she was content to sit on our porch and wait for us to come back out and give her some love; in fact, she curled up and slept in one of our porch chairs all night.

The pool, in addition to serving as a nice spot to make canine friends, was also a good place to spend an afternoon soaking up rays, which we did pretty much every day during our stay in Bandipur. It was the first time either of us had ever gone swimming in an "infinity pool." I didn't really feel as though I could keep on swimming to the horizon, but it still was kind of neat to have a more unobstructed view of the woods around our park.

Another interesting feature of our hotel was that it was in the path of at least one herd of cattle, who walked through the property on their way to the feeding ground every morning, and then back again late in the afternoon. It was weird to be sitting on the porch of our luxury hotel room, and then suddenly see a cow meander past, occasionally stopping to grab a mouthful of greenery.

Of course, when your hotel is situated in the middle of a national park, there is bound to be some interesting wildlife in addition to all the domestic animals. Every night after the porch light came on, geckos came out to perch on our walls and hunt. They also bark, which I didn't know until my husband pointed out that the noises I'd interpreted as some sort of frog or nocturnal bird were actually male geckos having vocal duels. Who knew? There were other reptiles running around near our cabin, including some brightly-colored agamids that I tried, but failed, to photograph one morning. To my surprise, when we went to lunch a couple hours later, we ran into a very large male of the same species I'd seen earlier, lounging photogenically outside the restaurant:

The restaurant was also a favorite spot for the local house crows, who obviously knew that many tasty snacks were to be had at the end of the meals (or even sometimes in the middle of them, if the diners turned their heads for a moment). My husband and I had a good time watching the crows coordinate with each other--often one pioneering individual would show up and deliver a bizarre and highly variable vocal performance; this attracted friends, who would perch in various spots around (and sometimes inside) the restaurant, eagerly watching for an opportunity to sneak off with leftovers. More often than not, all they got was a half-full package of butter, which they seemed to like better than nothing at all.

While we were in Bandipur, we saw rain for the first time since our arrival in India. Rather than being a disappointment or an inconvenience, this was actually kind of nice; the dramatic downpours--sometimes with rumbles of thunder--were a refreshing alternative to the annoying misty rain that we always get in the UK. The days could also get quite hot in Bandipur, and the cool breezes that accompanied the precipitation felt very pleasant.

Over the course of two days, we took 3 driving safaris and 1 hike, yielding a total of 2 dhole (wild dogs), 3 elephants, a half dozen mongooses, a couple gaur (bison), a few hundred chital (spotted deer), a barking deer, a dozen wild boar, several sambars, and lots of birds. We didn't encounter any leopards or tigers, but even though that was a possibility, it wasn't really something that we expected. Our evening safaris were quite pleasant because all the vegetation in the park took on a lovely golden hue in the setting sun. This was also the only time that we saw elephants. The morning safaris were more exciting because that was when the animals were most active--we could both see and hear them much more easily. Unfortunately, morning is also when my bladder is most active, and during our first AM safari I finally had to hop out of our jeep to find a place to pee. As was the case with my experience in the Masai Marai in Kenya, peeing in the bush was a rather daunting task given the very real possibility that a large, hungry, predatorial cat might be lurking in the shadows. Luckily, the park was full of deep holes that had evidently been installed to catch rainwater during the monsoon season. I was able to jump down into one of these and relieve myself out in the open, yet still out of sight of my safari-mates. It was a lot better than crouching behind the bumper of the vehicle, I can tell you that. I'm just glad I could continue my trend of urinating in the field on every continent I've visited; I'd hate to have a trip where I couldn't indulge in that little pleasure.

During our first two safaris, we shared a jeep with other tourists; on the first night it was two American engineers who were staying at our hotel after attending a conference in Bangalore, and on the second night it was a family that had traveled to Bandipur from elsewhere in India. Everybody was quite pleasant and we shared stories about our travels and passed on whatever wildlife ID information we could offer. All the same, it was a pleasant surprise to get a jeep all to ourselves during our final safari. This offered me the opportunity to ask the driver to stop so I could do some birdwatching--something I feel too guilty to ask for when there are other people around who are likely to be much less interested in avian wildlife than I am. As was the case with the safari drivers in Kenya, our Indian guides were very focused on the macro wildlife (elephants and tigers, in particular), but were quite happy to linger for birds after we made it clear that those were just as interesting to us. Unfortunately, one side effect of this was that the drivers then paused in front of nearly every peacock we passed, and there was a seemingly infinite supply of those in the park:

As had been the case in Kenya, I developed an affection for the porcine wildlife, which are so ugly you can't help but love them:

Lest anyone think I am single-minded, I had better state that I was looking out for interesting plants, as well. Unfortunately, Bandipur is so dominated by invasive lantana (a plant that is causing habitat problems throughout much of India, in fact) that it was often the only species I could see. However, one notable species was the aptly-named "flame of the forest":

(If you look closely, you might just be able to spot a bonnet macaque sitting amidst the flowers.)

Our walking safari was something that we stumbled into, so to speak, after the American engineers told us that one had been arranged for their group. Evidently this was not something that was routinely done, but the hotel staff were nothing if not accommodating, and they volunteered to throw something together for us, as well. We wound up going with another family who were staying at the Windflower just a couple cabins away from us. After a few minutes of chatting while we walked, we discovered that we had an unanticipated social connection: The cousin of the wife/mother was someone who worked at the IISC and was scheduled to meet with my husband after our return to Bangalore. What were the chances? One of the two children in the family was a budding biologist, so my husband took special care to point out all the wildlife he knew and tell her about the more interesting aspects of their life histories.

It was, yet again, a lovely evening to be out and about. With the exception of a couple waterbirds, we didn't see too many new species, but it was pleasant to enjoy the countryside on foot rather than in a vehicle. We also had some illuminating cultural experiences. Our destination was a local watering hole, and on our way there we walked through a small village. The people were in the midst of tending their lifestock and cooking dinner, so we got a small taste of what "real" life is like for a vast portion of the Indian population.

(A shepherdess pumping water for her goats and cow. One of the female goats--possibly the one on the far left--had a couple of kids that kept jostling into position for a suckle. They were ridiculously cute, prompting us to stop for the photo op. I would love to know what was going through the villagers' minds as they watched us photograph livestock. A rough equivalent would be if Indian tourists to the UK took pictures of the deli or dairy section at the grocery store. After all, what we might think of as a "pet" is what they use to get milk and meat.)

Between the village and the watering hole was a small ranger station, where we were told that we couldn't go any further. Our local guide informed us that the ranger was worried that we might be in danger of experiencing wildfires. However, he also indicated (although everyone but me seemed to know already) that this was just an excuse to put us in the position to offer a bribe. Sure enough, after a few bills had exchanged hands, the ranger reconsidered and waved us onwards. I can't imagine living in a country where bribery is routine (though it is much less routine in India now than it was in the past); think of the things you'd never be able to do if you didn't have enough money, and all the things that would suddenly become possible if you did.

On the way home from the walk, I found myself walking with our guide, who spoke very little English. However, he painstakingly managed to put together enough words to ask me about what it was like to travel to India from the UK. He also inquired whether "the Sir" and I ("the Madam") had any children. When I told him "no," he asked if it was because I "had the job." At first, I thought he said I had "done a good job" (which I interpreted as an odd joke), but then I realized that he was asking whether I had no children because I had chosen to work instead. I found that question to be very revealing of life in modern India, where women are increasingly foregoing families (or, at least, starting them much later) in order to establish a career. In other words, it's becoming very Western in that respect.

During this conversation, our party picked up an additional member--another young, friendly, and ridiculously needy dog. Although she started out tagging along with the kids in our group, she must have used her canine canniness to discern which among us was weakest; she soon was cuddling up to my husband and I. She was in for a rude awakening once we reached Windflower, where the resident dogs quickly established their dominance. Rather than see her come to any harm, my husband and I escorted her safely to the edge of the premises so she could escape without any damage.

However, when I ventured out early the next morning in order to do some birding, who should I spy running towards me but that very same dog, who'd obviously passed whatever test was necessary to earn her place at Windflower. Like her predecessor (whom I'd dubbed "Friend #1"), Friend #2 was eager to sit with us on the porch and receive some attention and affection:

If you love animals, which I do, it is very difficult to go to developing countries and see so many feral cats and dogs. It is especially painful when you observe how desperate they are to bond with someone and loyally follow at his/her feet, without asking any questions. More than once, I fantasized about arranging veterinary care and relocation to the UK.

After a while, Friend #2 reattached herself to our walking companions from the previous night, which was convenient because my husband and I needed to go to breakfast and were worried that she would try to follow us in. After breakfast, we walked down to the pool to have a peek at a strange toad I had seen there earlier in the morning; there, we stumbled across Friend #1. Unfortunately, we could only spare a few minutes of attention, because we were due to start the long taxi ride back to Bangalore.

On the way out of the park, we stopped near the ranger station so I could photograph one of the huge abandoned termite mounds out front. I hopped out of the car in order to get a closer shot, then received a surprise when I turned to go back:

(Bonnet macaque lounging in the luggage rack of our taxi.)

At first she was sitting on the hood of the car, but after "decorating" it, she relocated to the roof, from which she could bend over and stick her face through the open window. She seemed very unperturbed by my presence, and didn't even look at me as I cautiously edged closer. Because she was perched over the back seat door, I had to stand right next to her, and then bend underneath her, in order to get into the car. I was a little worried that eventually she would get alarmed by my proximity and then become violent, but these worries were unfounded. In fact, she didn't even seem to care when the driver started the engine and began pulling back onto the road; only at the last minute did she lazily hop off the car and wander over to the side of the road. This encounter capped a very animal-filled morning, which provided a fitting finale to our equally animal-filled stay in Bandipur.

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Coming up: long journeys by taxi, on foot, and by air

India 2011: Bangalore to Mysore

2011-04-19T09:10:00.001-07:00

The dearth of electricity and Internet was not miraculously fixed overnight prior to our departure for Mysore, which was one reason that we were excited about leaving town--we knew that free wi-fi awaited us at our destination. More importantly, we were also looking forward to upgrading our lodgings from "dorm room" to "deluxe," the only class of accommodation that the hotel could book us into when we called for reservations. But first, we needed to hop our train out of town.

If you are like me, then your first reaction to reading "train in India" will be to picture this:

I'm sure this kind of situation must happen fairly often, otherwise I wouldn't have found so many pictures like this on Google. However, this was not at all the experience that we had during our two-hour ride south to Mysore. In fact, our journey was similar in many ways to ones that I have taken in the UK; in fact, in many ways it was better. First of all, when we arrived at the train station we were able to hire porters who, for a ridiculously cheap price (less than $5), carried our huge duffel bags through the crowded station, located our train, and got us installed in our seats. I was glad to have the help because a) my bag was really heavy and b) if we'd had to find the train ourselves it might have left without us, since although we were assigned a platform letter and car number, nothing actually seemed to be organized in a logical alphabetical or numerical order.

Another upgrade from the UK train experience was the amount of leg room we had. Not only were our knees not touching the seats in front of us, but we also had foot rests and cup holders that could be used even when our tray tables weren't folded down. Our car was much more full than British trains usually are (with the exception of maybe one or two rides that I've taken near London during peak travel), and it did look a bit more worn. However, we soon discovered that we were to be given a complimentary bottle of water and two-course meal; had we desired, we also could have taken advantage of the complimentary newspapers. All of this for tickets that cost approximately $6 apiece.

Train tracks inevitably run through the poorer parts of a city, since nobody would choose to live near all that dust and noise unless they had to. Thus, we got a better look at the "real" Bangalore, including a few slums. However, one thing I noticed was that even the most run-down neighborhoods contained buildings with bright, cheerful paint and ornate facades; the inhabitants might not always have enough money or food, but at least they don't have to look at soulless gray concrete walls the way they would have to if they lived in similar neighborhoods in the West. These areas also contained shrines, which sat rather pristinely amidst the everyday squalor around them; the locals clearly placed religious obligations high on their list of priorities despite the fact that it must have required real financial sacrifice to keep those places in such good shape all the time.

Outside the city, we encountered some fairly dramatic habitat--giant rocky hills and cliffs, some of which I would have been tempted to call "buttes" had I been in the Western US. We passed a magnificent building under construction--something that looked like a modern palace or perhaps some sort of important government building. It caused me to remark to my husband that Indians really do know how to do impressive architecture, a statement that would receive further support once we arrived in Mysore and got a look at the palace there.

For a while we passed through countryside that looked fairly similar to what we had seen between Bangalore and the Rishi Valley, but soon enough it started to become greener and wetter. I am not sure what crops were being grown close to the city, but they were all things that could go for a while without water. Further south, however, we encountered rice paddies for the first time, full of egrets and ibises that waded through the several-inches-deep water in search of tasty arthropods. There were many farmers in the midst of plowing their fields the with a cow or two hooked up to a harness. It was extremely muddy work and it didn't look too fun for either the farmers or their livestock. Nor did the farmers' wives appear to be having a good time as they scrubbed laundry by the creek- and riverbanks. However, I would have loved to have been able to stop and take a picture of the clothing they had spread out to dry--no two pieces were the same color, and they formed a dramatic and vibrant patchwork against the bright green background of the grass. We even passed a few people in the midst of bathing, though luckily we didn't catch anyone in the buff.

We arrived in Mysore earlier than we anticipated, which was a nice surprise. We were met by a taxi driver that our hostess had arranged for us, so all we had to do was stand back and let the driver and his assistant pack our bags and usher us into the back seat. In this car, the standard Ganesha decoration had been placed in a surprising way:

(That's Buddha on the left and Jesus in the center, under the rosary. We also eventually encountered a car that featured Ganesha, Jesus, and Buddha; the driver was obviously wanted to cover all the bases. There was also a reference to Jesus on the taxi company's business cards.)

As we drove through town, the driver and his aide--well, mostly his aide, who I assume was there to act as translator--pointed out the sights. The most important two were the palace:

(Photo courtesy of http://www.bloggersbase.com/travel/amba-vilasa-palace-mysore-palace/)

...and Chamundi Temple:

(Photo courtesy of http://www.southdreamz.com/2010/03/some-magnificient-temples-of-india.html)

...with its accompanying statue of Nandi, Shiva's bull:

(Photo courtesy of http://travel.sulekha.com/chamundi-hills-pictures.htm)

It's a good thing we saw these from the car on the way into town, because despite all our plans to see them up close and in person, we didn't. To some extent, I regret this, because my mental image of a trip to India always included a visit to a palace and/or temple. However, that was a mental image I made before I got sick from the most lingering cold ever, and also one that didn't factor in my husband's need to take a "reverse day off" (when you take a break from vacation in order to work, as opposed to taking a break from work in order to vacation). Perhaps most importantly, I didn't envision that these cultural sites would be competing for my attention with the nicest hotel I've ever stayed in:

The truth is, once you check in to a room like this, you just never want to leave it...except maybe to experiment with artsy photography:

(Impatiens at night; I was experimenting with exposure times and aperture settings, can you tell?)

...lounge on your porch:

...have a shower in your private outdoor garden:

...or enjoy some Ayurvedic spa treatments:

(The statue of Buddha that welcomed guests to the spa. Can you guess what type of flower was floating in the pool at his feet?)

When I say "some" spa treatments, what I really mean is "three." I originally only scheduled two, but then they were so nice I had to indulge in a third. All three began with the singing of a prayer/chant and involved the most wonderful-smelling massage oil, which had been prepared right there at the hotel. The first treatment was supposed to lessen lower back pain; it began with a massage, after which a (wet) clay ring was fixed to my back so that hot oil could be pooled inside it. The second treatment was a head/shoulder massage, which I left looking like someone who'd been electrocuted, since my hair was sticking out at all angles thanks to the massage oil that had been liberally rubbed into my scalp. The final treatment was a foot massage, which, to my surprise, also involved my legs. During all of the treatments I was dressed only in my undies and an oversized bath towel; on the whole, it was not the sort of experience that would be good for people who have much modesty, because the masseuses (all female) end up seeing pretty much every inch of you in the course of flipping you over and bending you into various positions. Being a prudish American, I was, at first, a bit shocked and uncomfortable, but after breathing the relaxing scent of the oil for a while I decided I just didn't care.

The restaurant at the hotel could only have been named by someone who had been to the US, or had at least done research on American establishments. Not only was it named "La Olive Garden," but it used pretty much exactly the same logo as "The Olive Garden." The food was excellent, but the portions were huge and the waiters insisted on dishing out your meal for you, so I ended up feeling rather stuffed pretty much the entire time we were there. During breakfasts, we encountered some of the local wildlife:

(If you look closely, you can see a bonnet macaque sitting on the corner of the roof, letting its tail dangle down into the dining area below).

The menu had some interesting things on offer, including "tit bits," "ice cream with leeches," and this:

("Tit" bits and "leeches" were obviously typos; but this...?)

I have no idea what that means, but I do know that the waitstaff were anything but "idle," both in the restaurant and when delivering room service, which they did quite frequently to our room. Usually when I order room service, it is in the context of some sort of horrific disaster and results in my paying an exorbitant amount of money for a tiny amount of food--for instance, when I went to New Orleans during the middle of a hurricane and had to order room service after all the restaurants in town closed because the streets flooded, or when I was at the Balmoral in Edinburgh and had to order room service because I was so sick I could barely get out of bed. It was nice to finally have it the way it's supposed to be done--in a spirit of fun and frivolity and in a context that actually allowed me to enjoy it (time after time).

When I wasn't eating or receiving a massage, which admittedly wasn't often, I spent quite a lot of time lounging in our massive bed, reading and doing research for a freelance writing project. We also watched some of the World Cup cricket matches, and even got to view quality English films like "National Treasure."

All in all, our experience in Mysore sounds like the kind of thing that obnoxious and culturally-insensitive Westerners (let's face it--mainly Americans) do when they go somewhere interesting in another country--hole up in a nice hotel, ignore the local culture, and indulge. I do hate that we appear to fall into that stereotype. But sometimes you're sick and/or you're tired and/or you have to take some time off vacation in order to get something done from work, and when that's the case you might as well find a beautiful and comfortable place in which to do it. When we stepped into the taxi to leave the Windflower Spa & Resort after 2 days, I finally felt rested, and relaxed, and semi-weaned off the tissues, and that was way better than touring a palace would have been.

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Coming up: encounters with Indian wildlife

India 2011: Bangalore

2011-04-13T00:42:00.000-07:00

You know how sometimes, when you're feeling dreadful at the end of a long day, all you need is a good night's rest in order to wake up feeling refreshed and positive? I was hoping that would happen to me in Bangalore, but it didn't. Unlike my husband, whose cold only lasted 3 days, I was still wallowing in misery on Day 4, the one full day that we had to explore the city. This caused me to be a bit, shall we say, grumpy--precisely the wrong mood in which to set off, on foot, across an unfamiliar campus and into an unfamiliar city.

When we'd been driven to campus the previous night by our hostess, we'd seen a bunch of shops and restaurants on the nearby main street, and had noticed how close it was to our hotel. Although we hadn't taken note of the exact route between the guest house and the main street, we figured we could wing it, especially if we asked one of the gate guards which way we should start walking. He quickly and emphatically pointed us right, so we set off in that direction thinking it would only be a brief walk before we could sit down for lunch. Boy were we wrong.

Before long, we came upon a construction site that closed off the sidewalk on our side of the road, so we had to dash across 2 busy lanes of developing-country traffic (read: "chaos") in order to use the sidewalk on the other side. As we walked, autorickshaw after autorickshaw slowed down and pulled up next to us to ask if we wanted a ride, but we kept waving them off because we thought we didn't have far to go.

(View of an autorickshaw from inside another autorickshaw. These are more commonly known as "autos." They give you the feeling of being in a very breezy car, but in fact they are not very sturdy and, safety-wise, are more like sitting on a motorcycle that happens to have a roof. Because they are much cheaper than taxis, people ride these all over the city, over fairly long distances and even in incredibly dense traffic. They're extremely handy, but if you are at all safety-conscious, you will feel quite exposed.)

After a while, I began to have some second thoughts about this "adventure." Even though I could barely breathe, I could tell that the thick air around us was really unpleasant--it was filled with the fumes of environmentally unfriendly automobiles running on unregulated fuel sources. It was also getting increasingly hot and, although I'd put sun cream on my arms before leaving the hotel room, I could feel my scalp turning pink. Also, the dust was outrageous--my feet were filthy, my legs were filthy, and I could feel the grit settling on every square inch of my sweaty skin. I was also incredibly irritated to reach a stoplight and discover that we would need to cross back over to our original side of the road, again dodging two busy lanes of traffic. All in all, I was beginning to think that walking hadn't been such a good idea.

To cut a long story short, we ended up trotting around Bangalore for somewhere between 1 and 2 hours before we finally made it to the main street that I recognized from the previous night. We walked down small alleyways, back over to semi-main roads, past homes (and even a few slummy areas) and shops, through a college campus, and even across the grounds of a very large hospital complex before we finally got there. Along the way, we passed feral dogs, cows grazing on small plots of grass in the middle of the city, and a whole lot of people who seemed very surprised to see us there. Throughout this journey, I was getting increasingly irritated at my husband, who I really felt was to be blamed for all of the unpleasantness. After all, he was the one who gave me the cold. He was also the one who thought we should walk to lunch and take the auto back (I thought we should take the auto to lunch, see the path it took, and then walk that back home). More importantly, he seemed to be quite chipper about the whole situation, whereas I was just getting more and more frustrated--and you know there is absolutely nothing worse than someone who is feeling upbeat at a time when you are most definitely not. Of course I know that none of these things was a deliberate assault on my happiness, but I needed a target for my frustration anyway, and if you don't have a fight at least once while traveling with your spouse, it's just not a real family vacation.

I thought that my mood would improve once we reached the main street, but in fact we just realized how out of our depth we were. All we wanted to a nice safe place to eat a meal--somewhere that would have clean facilities, use clean preparation methods, cook everything thoroughly, and not give us food poisoning. But it's not easy to judge that from the sidewalk; some places that look clean might not be, and others that look like dives might actually be your best option. In the end, we used the same rule of thumb that we'd employed in the airport--go American. Thus it was that we ate lunch at Pizza Hut. My husband decided to Indianize his pizza a bit by ordering a local flavor (chicken masala, I think), and although I went with a plain cheese pizza, I at least ordered a local fruity beverage.

After the meal, at which point I was feeling considerably friendlier thanks to no longer having a pizza-shaped hole in my stomach, we caught an auto back home. Imagine our surprise when the ride took less than 5 minutes, and we approached the main gate from the left--the opposite side from which we'd departed. I could have throttled the guard who gave us the faulty directions. (I've since pondered whether he misinterpreted our question, deliberately pointed us in the opposite direction just for a laugh, or directed us that way for some other unknown reason.)

Back in the hotel room, we turned on the TV so we could see what was happening with the World Cup of Cricket--as we'd already seen, it was a good idea to stay abreast of the cricket, since that gave us a nice point of conversation with the locals (for anyone that doesn't know, India went on to win the championship, so the Indians were quite justified in being almost obsessive in their pride and support). Along with the sports, we also got a healthy dose of Indian commercials, which are absolutely ridiculous. If you've seen a Bollywood film or video, then you might be able to picture the level of campiness achieved in television ads, though they manage to be even more over-the-top than regular Bollywood fare. The other interesting thing about Indian commercials is the products they are designed to sell. You wouldn't believe the number of ads for cars, car parts, motor oil, and cement--cement, for Heaven's sake. If you didn't already know that the Indian economy is booming right now, you could figure it by watching a few minutes of television.

Later in the afternoon, our hostess arrived to escort us on a little shopping trip. We were surprised (the emotion of the day) to find ourselves, after a brief drive through campus, at a side gate almost directly across from the Pizza Hut where we'd eaten lunch. *sigh* From there, we went to Fabindia, a popular Indian chain featuring handcrafted items from workers all over the country; it is kind of like a co-op version of Pier 1, but it also sells clothes. My primary concern was stocking up on good gifts to give everyone when I got back home, but of course I also wanted to buy a few items for myself. For once, I turned out not to be the only one shopping--even my husband picked out a few shirts to add to his wardrobe. We'd hoped to also go to a local outdoor flower/food market, which I thought would be a particularly good place to get some colorful photos full of local flavor (sorry for the bad pun). However, rather than keep our hostess away from her dinner-making duties any longer, we decided to go the next day, instead.

My husband and I headed back to the hotel for dinner, some more cricket, and--of all things--the Johnny Depp version of Alice in Wonderland (I was amazed at how many of the movies on TV were Western, rather than Indian). Sometime in the middle of the night, I was awakened by a less entertaining performance--one or more feral cats howling in the dark. Like the nightjar calls, that was another sound I hadn't heard for over a decade, but it was not one that I had missed much.

----

The next day, my husband was scheduled to take care of his academic obligations. Unfortunately, we woke up to a power outage that lasted, intermittently, most of the day. This also meant that we had no access to the Internet, which was a shame because I'd hoped to spend at least part of the day getting some work done. With little to do indoors, I decided to go outside, instead, and explore the campus. As I mentioned earlier, it was a fairly natural area, with big patches of field and trees that were perfect for birding. I found several new species--including a wagtail that, inexplicably, bobs its tail back and forth instead of up and down, as all other wagtails do. I also observed some humans...

(Women sweeping outside our hotel.)

...and studied the architectural features that are used to make the Indian heat more bearable in places where there is no electric air conditioning...

(In addition to letting in more air, all these windows and grilles make attractive patterns of light and dark.)

At midday it was getting a bit too hot to be out wandering around outdoors, so after lunch I rested in my room for a while before resuming my exploration of the campus. This time, I headed in a direction opposite to the one I'd walked in the morning, mostly because when I was leaving I heard a bunch of kites clamoring up in the trees. I just really couldn't get over how many kites were hanging around, and how they could be found pretty much everywhere you could imagine. I also got lucky and ran into this little guy:

(A blue-capped rock thrush. I briefly saw him do a bit of fly-catching amongst the trees, before he vanished into the shadows. I wasn't 100% sure on my ID because the shade can play tricks on your eyes, but luckily I saw him again the following week on our last evening in town. Thanks to http://www.team-bhp.com for the photograph.)

I also started playing around with all the fancy settings on my new camera, in order to take shots like this:

(Enterprising ants.)

Not all of my photographs were up to my standards, so after a while I went back to my room in order to re-read the instruction manual. I know that doesn't sound very exciting, but one of the reasons I bought the new camera prior to going to India was that I wanted to re-learn photographic techniques that I had not used since I was in photography class in high school. India is a pretty inspiring place to take photographs, given how exotic things look to my eye, and the colorful nature of even the most everyday things and places. It was actually quite fun to adjust to the new camera and produce noticeably better-quality images than those I had generated during my other recent travels.

Late in the afternoon, our hostess met me in the hotel lobby in order to escort me to my husband, who was still busy chatting about science with students and faculty. As evening fell, we enjoyed drinks on the patio at the campus cafe and were told about some of the local fauna we might encounter during our upcoming trip to Bandipur National Park; one of the professors at the IISC studies a population of bonnet macaques in the park and told us some interesting facts about their life history. By the time we all finally dispersed, it was too late for us to go to the flower market, as planned, so instead we just headed back to the guest house. As a consolation prize, while we were walking we enjoyed the sight of fruit bats passing overhead through the darkening sky. When I first saw them, I thought they were some kind of oddly-shaped duck that I wasn't familiar with, but it was up to my tropically-raised husband to make the correct identification. You know you are looking at a big bat when it is comparable in size to a duck. The amazing thing was how many of them we saw--they just kept coming throughout our entire 15-minute walk; we must have seen hundreds, or even thousands. Where they all go to eat, I have no idea, but it must be a place with a lot of fruit.

When we returned to our hotel room, the power was back on, but within a few minutes it had gone out again. We sat in the dark for a couple hours before finally making our way down to the dining room to see if they were serving dinner. The server who met us at the dining room door informed us that "It is dark," which struck me funny because he seemed to be surprised that we hadn't noticed that on our own. We eventually worked out that, although at least some food was ready (tantalizingly, we could smell it just through the doorway!), they didn't want us to eat in the dark, and so they weren't yet serving. We went back up to our room to wait a bit longer, and just when we were ready to give up and go to bed early, the lights struggled to life one more time. Thus it was that we found ourselves eating dinner at 10:30 PM. Shortly after we returned to our room, the lights went out yet again (what timing!), so we decided to follow our very late meal with a very early bedtime--after all, we'd need our energy the next day for our big railway adventure and relocation to Mysore.

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Coming up: Our first luxury resort, Ayurvedic treatments, nighttime photography, and amusing menu typos.

India 2011: The Rishi Valley

2011-04-09T01:09:00.000-07:00

On our first evening in India, we consulted with our hosts and decided upon the following travel itinerary: Drive to the Rishi Valley on Wednesday, 16 March. Explore the field site and get acquainted with the facilities on Thursday and Friday, then head back to Bangalore on Saturday. From our new base at the Indian Institute of Science, explore Bangalore on Sunday and Monday; during this time, my husband would go do additional academic duties at the Indian Institute of Science. Leave Bangalore on Tuesday, 22 March, and take a train down to Mysore. Visit the local temple and palace, swim in the hotel pool, and receive spa treatments on Wednesday and Thursday morning. Hire a taxi on Thursday, 24 March, and drive to Bandipur National Forest. Go on safari on Friday and Saturday. Hire another taxi on Sunday, 27 March, for the long return drive to (and through) Bangalore. Have dinner at our hosts' house and say farewell. Fly home on the morning of Monday, 28 March.

If that all sounds a bit complicated, perhaps a map will be useful:

(A visualization of our trip, thanks to Google Maps. Bangalore--originally named Bengaluru--is point A. From there we drove northeast for about 3 hours in order to reach the Rishi Valley, point B. Then it was back to Bangalore (point C, which you can't see here). From there we headed southwest for about 2 hours until we reached Mysore, at point D. Another 1.5 hours' driving southward got us to Bandipur at point E.)

A journey that long and complex requires a bit of energy, which was exactly the thing we were most lacking when we woke up on our first full day in town. At the time of our arrival, India was 5.5 hours ahead of the UK; by the time we left, the UK had shifted into daylight savings time, and that difference had increased to 6.5 hours. Our bodies were very perplexed by all this time travel. I originally found myself wide awake at 6:30 AM local time, but forced myself to go back to sleep; the next thing I knew, it was 10:30 AM and our hostess was knocking on our door in order to politely inquire just when, exactly, we planned on getting out of bed.

She provided us a delicious homecooked breakfast/lunch to give us some fuel to withstand the long journey to the Rishi Valley. This was to be undertaken in her biology department's brand new field vehicle:

This looks rather spacious until you factor in the passenger list (5 adults and 1 child) and the cargo (luggage and field equipment for all of the above). We were all packed in quite cozily, but because the vehicle was so new, it had A/C, so at least we were not both squished and sweaty. On the dashboard, I noticed a little statue that, I was to discover, was a pretty constant presence in all Indian vehicles. It was an image of Ganesha:

(Ganesha is the elephant-headed Hindu lord of obstacles, who can help ensure that you have a clear path while you are traveling. I chose this particular image because, of course, I had to buy my husband and I a Ganesha for our new car, and it was this leafy style that I chose. Thanks to www.indiaflowerplaza.com for the image.)

The drive to the Rishi Valley, while somewhat long, was also fairly pretty and definitely very interesting. As we drove, our hosts told us about life in India, covering the topics of politics, standard of living, religion, language, food, transportation, clothing, and pretty much about everything else you can imagine. We also got to take in the scenery, including the aforementioned hordes of black kites, local grape crops for the up-and-coming Indian wine market, fields of bright golden marigolds in bloom, and the activity of life on the all small farms, and in all the small towns, that we passed. The many shrines and temples that we saw--some that were set off the highway but advertised with large, colorful, ornate arches placed next to the road; others that were small buildings right next to the highway and clearly designed explicitly with the traveler in mind--made it clear that we were not, so to speak, in Kansas anymore. For me, the most memorable sighting was of a farmer riding in a cart pulled by a cow whose horns had been painted bright blue and topped with golden tassels; we saw these and many other ornate cow accessories throughout our trip, during which we also ate not a single bite of beef. It is good to be a cow in India.

Our destination in the Rishi Valley was the Rishi Valley School, a facility that we Westerners would call a boarding school. It had students ranging in age from approximately 10-17 years old. The school was founded by a philosopher, Jiddu Krishnamurti, who was relatively well known during the middle portion of the 20th century. Our room contained quite a collection of Krishnamurti teachings in book form (as far as I know, he was predominantly known as an orator), as well as a pamphlet outlining the philosopher's beliefs.

(Some of the many teachings of Krishnamurti available in our room for use as light bedtime reading.)

Basically, Krishnamurti believed that there is no god (or gods) and that it is up to every man or woman, individually, to find his or her "truth." Furthermore, this "truth" cannot be obtained by following the instructions or directions of any organized institution, including not only churches but also groups such as his own philosophical society. Thus, he disbanded his organization and told people to stop following him, yet also continued delivering speeches and giving advice. Unless I am mistaken, this is a bit contradictory.

In any case, the current headmistress (if that is the correct title) of the school was a very friendly and gracious woman who thoughtfully had our dinners delivered to us so that we could relax and eat on our porch after the long drive, rather than having to deal with throngs of students in the mess hall. After the meal, we headed over to her house for some homemade ice cream and freshly-baked waffles, which was quite a nice way to end the day--which would, in fact, turn out to be my last fully healthy day for the remainder of the trip.

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After a very long and sleepless night, during which I was tormented by jet lag, hot temperatures, a hard bed, and a power outage that cut off electricity to our much-needed fan, I was awakened from a brief dawn "nap" by quite an intense dawn chorus of birds. I was further shoved into consciousness by the sound of the concierge (this is the closest term I can think of, given the role this man played during our stay), banging on our door at 6:15 AM and shouting "Tea, please, sir!" At first we thought he was asking us for tea, but in fact this was his way of letting us know that he had brought us a thermos of tea with which to start the day. It was, in fact, very good tea--what we in the US would call "chai," with spices and milk already mixed in.

It is worth briefly mentioning breakfast in the mess hall, since it is an experience so different to what we are used to in the West. By and large, Indians do not eat sweet things for breakfast. They do sometimes have toast, which can be accompanied by jam and/or peanut butter, and fruit also sometimes makes an appearance. But for the most part, the components of breakfast are also those that are used for lunch and dinner; like those other meals, it is predominantly savory and often spicy. My favorite breakfast food was something our hostess called "chow-chow" (that is my phonetic interpretation of the phrase), but which was given other names at our various breakfast locations. "Chow-chow" is a two-part concoction; one bowl is savory (with, generally, a couscous-like texture) and the other bowl is sweet (with a more polenta-like texture). In fact, both are made with semolina. The savory one contains spices, chopped nuts, and bits of vegetable; I have no idea what makes the other one sweet, though I'm sure it involves sugarcane and, in the case of the bright orange variety, some sort of fruit such as pumpkin or apricot. It was all delicious, though if you are used to a Western breakfast, it can be a bit intense.

The rest of the morning was spent tagging along as my husband, our hostess, and our hostess' doctoral student traipsed up into the rocky hills and examined the student's field site. His project focused on a species of agamid lizard that dwells on and around sheet rock. While everyone else hunted for reptiles, I was busy searching for birds. Unfortunately, it was a bit hot and bird activity was pretty low. However, we went out again at dusk with a local guide and easily saw a couple dozen species.

For someone who prefers lush deciduous forests, and has recently come from the verdant Cornish countryside, India during the dry season can seem a bit...lacking. My husband and I would definitely like to re-visit in the midst of the wet season, when all the flowers are in bloom and the animals are in the midst of their breeding efforts. Still, even when hot, dusty, and parched, the countryside has moments of extreme beauty. Particularly at dawn and dusk, you can easily see how someone could happily make his or her home there:

Towards the end of our evening bird walk, we dropped by the house of the local doctors (a husband-and-wife team). Their circular home, fairly recently built and surrounded by the most magnificent garden, was amazing. They had a little rock/sand/bamboo garden in the very center of the house, which was topped by an open-air skylight to facilitate breezes in the house. Next to this, they had installed a wooden swing--inside the house--as part of the sitting room/visiting area. The garden outside contained a colorful mixture of flowers and vegetables and fruits (including a mango tree whose fruits were just a week or so away from being ripe).

A feral cat had recently discovered that the roof of the house (accessible via an outdoor staircase) was the perfect place to hide her very young kittens, so we went up and had a peek. Just to drive home the fact that they were feral, and not friendly domestics, even the puniest of the kittens hissed, spat, and swatted at us--behaviors that looked very comical when performed by such tiny and unthreatening little animals. We also took a walk down to the cow shed, where I was given quite an intense tongue-bath by one of the cows. I can only assume it was enjoying the salt from the sweat on my skin. All I know is, cats' tongues feel like silk in comparison to cows' tongues, and I don't recommend taking a bovine spit bath any time soon. To complete the animal extravaganza, we also discovered a sunbird nest hanging on the front porch and, in the falling dark, could see the female tucked safely inside, keeping her eggs warm for the night.

Throughout the evening, my throat had become increasingly more sore and raw, and I could tell that I was coming down with the same cold that my husband had suffered from on the plane ride over. In high school, I became legendary for creating little piles of used tissue on my desk during class, and for going through multiple whole boxes of Kleenex in a day. Thus, I was feeling a bit worried about this developing sickness, because I had almost no tissues; I was also completely without pharmaceutical assistance. My only consolation was the knowledge that my husband's cold had only lasted a couple days, so I was likely to suffer greatly but improve rapidly. Or so I thought.

----

The developing cold kept me awake for pretty much the entire night; never in my life--and I mean this literally--have I ever had such a sore throat. Swallowing brought tears to my eyes. As bleary-eyed as I was the next morning, at least I didn't yet have a stuffy nose. With nothing better to do, I got up before sunrise and went out birding. As much pain as I was in, it was still a great morning out--I saw tons of species without wandering very far from my door. One of the fun things about birding in India is that there is a surprising number of fairly large birds, which makes it quite easy to spot individuals up in the branches. There are also many brightly-colored species, so I was seeing flashes of blue and yellow and red everywhere I looked.

My husband went up into the hills for another day of lizard-catching, but I decided to stay closer to home so that I could retreat and wallow in misery when the cold finally hit in full force. I did a bit more wandering around the school grounds, checking out their mango grove and the many interesting bird species it contained. By mid-morning I had to go back to the room to lie down, and by lunch I was absolutely miserable. I couldn't breathe, I was blowing my nose incessantly, and for some reason I had lost my voice. Never in my life have I weathered a cold without drugs, and this didn't seem like a good time to start, so I decided to visit the school's doctor.

The doctor turned out to be a tiny, round, middle-aged Indian woman who had the voice of a 7-year-old. When she spoke, it was simultaneously high-pitched and husky (as though she, also, had a bit of a throat problem), and she had an incredibly strong accent. Needless to say, we were able to communicate only with great difficulty and quite a lot of repetition and hand gestures. In the West--and in the US in particular--we are used to more or less going to the doctor, telling him/her what we want, and getting it. Elsewhere, doctors still perform examinations and make their own decisions; India is one of these places. I was asked a series of questions, poked, prodded, and informed that I had a slight deviation of my septum, before finally being given a 6-part prescription: 1) Rest. 2) Eat bland foods. 3) Perform a warm saltwater gargle multiple times a day. 4) Take some herbal supplements to help prevent a sinus infection. 5) Periodically inhale a Vicks Vaporub-like oil to clean out my sinuses. 6) Use Strepsils (throat lozenges) when necessary. In other words, after all that trouble, I didn't even get any drugs, but instead received a treatment that could practically have come out of a 19th-century medical manual.

Before I continue, let me just say that the doctor herself was extremely nice, especially given that I essentially marched in and told her that I expected medication, now. Also, I would like to acknowledge that medical treatment in India is of a very high caliber--so much so that many Westerners fly there specifically to undergo procedures that they either can't get, or can't afford, back home. I am in no way disparaging either the tiny Rishi Valley doctor or the state of Indian medical care when I flippantly describe my own experiences. People in different places do things differently. In general, a cold is not going to kill someone, and drugs aren't actually necessary for survival, so the doctor was as worried as she needed to be--which is to say, not very. All the same, it's moments like that when I most miss the pharmaceutical heaven that is America.

For the rest of the afternoon I moped about our guest quarters, alternating trying but failing to sleep with sitting on the porch watching birds fly past. In no mood to drag myself to the dining hall, I skipped dinner, but was soon surprised by a knock on my door from our concierge, who brought me some food so I wouldn't go hungry:

(The traditional food-porting setup in India. Each layer can contain a different type of food--rice, gravy, chapatis, buttermilk, etc.--and then all are hooked together and held in place by the handle. You'll notice that, like the food container, the dishes and cutlery are made of stainless steel. I suspect this is a popular material because it is so long-lasting.)

That night, I was again unable to sleep. As I lay in the dark, I periodically heard a strange "snip snip" sound outside, followed by a quiet, leathery thunk. I eventually realized that large insect-eating bats were snatching up bugs that had been attracted to our porch light (the "snip snip" was their jaws banging shut around their prey; the thunk was their wings as they abruptly changed direction in order to avoid crashing into the light and the wall behind it). Given the intensity of the sound, I guessed that these were the larger of the two sizes of insect-eating bats that we saw in the Rishi Valley, though these were still quite a bit smaller than the fruit bats we saw there hanging out (literally) in the tree canopy:

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The following day brought our return to Bangalore. I was very much looking forward to reaching the city, where I could visit a pharmacy and buy myself some over-the-counter medication. (You may be wondering why I didn't do this before, while I was at the Rishi Valley School. The answer is that the school is in the middle of nowhere; there were no pharmacies to visit.) The ride in this direction was slightly more comfortable, as we were leaving the doctoral student behind. The extra space meant that I had a nice spot in which to pile up my used tissues (or, rather, toilet paper, since this was all I had available to me at the school once my pocket packs of tissues ran out).

During the ride, we had a very exciting bird sighting: an Egyptian vulture circling overhead. Vultures are quite rare in India these days; over the last several decades, their populations have been severely impacted by nasty agricultural chemicals that accumulated up the food chain. This problem has made headlines around the world, particularly in the context of having altered traditional Parsi "sky burial" practices in northern India; because there are so few vultures left, the dead bodies become a hazard to human health because they are not "removed" quickly enough.

Another thing I noticed during the drive was the presence of gargoyle-like faces or heads atop many buildings, houses and businesses alike. Our hosts informed me that these are "friendly" demons who scare away more malicious demons. I was really hoping to get a picture of these later on, but I saw them much less in the city than in the countryside; the only place I saw them in Bangalore was along the street, where they were being marketed by local sellers. Our hosts also described another country-city dichotomy. In urban India, house sparrow populations are reportedly declining. In the country, however, their numbers are stable (if not increasing) because the locals provide them with nest boxes attached to their homes and businesses. This practice stems from the Hindu belief that one needs to accrue "credit" for doing good deeds in this lifetime in order to be reborn in a better station in the next lifetime. Hinduism isn't any less common in the cities than it is in the country, but it seems that urban Hindus simply have found another way to practice kindness and earn their merit points.

After a couple hours of driving, we stopped at a small roadside shop to buy some cold drinks. I hadn't realized that we'd be going out in public, so I had worn one of my more "risque" outfits--a knee-length skirt. Even in a relatively westernized city like Bangalore, few women show much, if any, leg, so I probably seemed a bit slutty to the locals who passed us as we sat and drank our bottles of Thums Up (the local Coke-like drink that is, in fact, owned and distributed by the Coke company). Indeed, when one local family came and bought drinks at the same shop, I caught the woman not-so-discreetly looking me up and down. For my part, I was thinking how lovely she looked--despite the fact that it was just the middle of the afternoon on a regular work day, she was decked out in a gold-trimmed sari, toe rings, ankle bracelets, wrist bangles, necklaces, earrings, and a nose piercing that was linked to her ear by a gold chain. Nobody actually made any rude faces or gestures towards me, so perhaps they were more interested in the fact that I was "different," rather than "whorish." I certainly hope so. In any case, the woman's husband asked where we were from. When my husband answered "the UK," the conversation immediately (and affectionately, for both parties) turned to cricket, since the World Cup of Cricket was then underway in India. It was, as my husband pointed out, a prime example of how sports can unite people of all cultures and creeds.

To my very great disappointment, once we returned to Bangalore, we did not immediately go home. I was feeling incredibly exhausted and just didn't have the energy to concentrate on anything, but I had to gather myself together and make it through lunch at a local restaurant. Outside there was a fruit stand, and when our hosts stopped by to pick up some produce to take home, the proprietor handed them a free sample to give to my husband and I, saying that it was good to "honor" foreigners. Further down the street, we spotted a man whose shirt had been splashed with something bright purple; this reminded our hosts that the celebration of "Holi" had just begun--the festival of colors. Originally a harvest festival, Holi in urban areas has simply turned into an excuse to take some time off from work and get crazy. People buy bricks of color that can be crumbled into pebbles or a dry powder for throwing, or can be mixed in with water for splashing. They then take to the streets and turn each other into rainbows. For the sake of all the laundresses in town, I hope the dyes are easy to wash out of fabrics.

After we finally reached home, I was able to take a much-needed nap, which gave me the strength to wait until our hostess was free and could take me to a pharmacy. When we did eventually go out, it was already dark, but the city was just as lively--if not even more so--than it had been when we'd been out earlier in the afternoon. On the single street where we ran our errands, there were dozens of vendors sitting on the ground in front of blankets spread with flowers, and dozens more standing at carts full of produce. We stopped by one of the carts to get veggies for dinner, and I noted that the salesman was using an old-school set of scales--complete with little metal weights--to weigh our purchases.

Like a good portion of the other shops in the area, the pharmacy was not actually a walk-in store; the doorway had a counter across it and we just stood on the sidewalk while the vendor inside went around grabbing whatever products we needed. As we stood waiting to be served, I was treated to another common feature of Indian streets: the sound of "Fur Elise" being played by a car horn. Do you know how big industrial vehicles in the US go "beep, beep, beep" when they back up? Well, a lot of drivers in India install a similar feature in their cars--presumably because the streets are so crammed with vehicles that it helps to advertise your driving activity in every way possible. Rather than simply going "beep," though, these alarms play "Fur Elise"; as a result, our hostess remarked, this is the only example of classical Western music that many Indians are familiar with.

At the end of the evening, once I was finally drugged up and stuffed with another tasty home-cooked meal (the Indians really do delicious things with cauliflower--I have never experienced another cuisine that is so kind to this vegetable), we made our way to our new quarters--the guest house of the Indian Institute of Science:

Staying in the guest house brought back memories of living in a dorm during my college days, but the conditions could have been much worse. We had a TV and free wireless, and who can complain about that? The beds were a bit hard, but by this point I was so tired that I could practically have fallen asleep standing up, so I didn't much care. The biggest problem--which I only discovered once I achieved a bit of clearance in my nasal passages--was that the housekeeping people had put tiny moth balls in both our sink and shower drains. I have no idea why, but every potential explanation I can come up with makes me wish I hadn't considered it, so I won't do so here. There are few smells I dislike as much that of moth balls, and these were particularly strong. Even when I was sitting as far from the bathroom as possible, I was still periodically subjected to a whiff that hit me like a punch in the face. When I felt inclined to complain, though, I just reminded myself that I was lucky to be able to smell at all.

But smelling was still a couple days in the future. On the night of our check-in, we were happy to revel in the relative peace and quiet of the guest house setting--although the IISC is located in the middle of Bangalore's hustle and bustle, its walled grounds are remarkably forested and garden-like. The guest house was positioned somewhere in the center of this little sanctuary, so we could hear the gentle night sounds of crickets and tree frogs. We found a TV station that was playing British football and settled in to watch a bit of the game. However, I found myself falling asleep within about 10 minutes, so I rolled over and prepared myself to receive my first full night of rest in India. At last.

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Coming up: Out and about in Bangalore

India 2011: From Falmouth to Bangalore

2011-04-08T06:21:00.000-07:00

It seems like every time I undertake a major journey, my life disintegrates into chaos mere hours before I am due to depart. I'm not talking about the regular hectic nature of last-minute packing or rushing to the airport in the midst of bumper-to-bumper traffic, but rather additional emergencies that inevitably spring themselves upon me and leave me thinking that it will be a miracle if I not only make it to my final destination, but also do so with my sanity intact.

Such was the nature of our trip to Bangalore. Our visas had been taken care of several weeks prior; I had painstakingly laid out appropriate clothing a few days beforehand; I had carefully packed my bag with the utmost of organization on the evening of our departure. We didn't have to be at the train station until 2, leaving us plenty of time to lounge around drinking tea after breakfast. Everything was under control.

But then, as is so often the case when I make any sort of long journey, I awoke with a migraine. I think I must secretly fret about traveling (even in my sleep!), so that no matter how calm I think I am, there's actually a lot of tension under the surface. This is the most logical explanation for why I so consistently get headaches when I go anywhere. This particular headache was truly awful, to the point of preventing me from concentrating on anything--I literally couldn't see straight. Thus, you can imagine that I was particularly dismayed to suddenly receive a surprise e-mail from a scientific journal alerting me to the fact that one of my recently submitted manuscripts had been "unsubmitted" because they needed me to fix two minor formatting mistakes (which, I might add, were only "mistakes" because they changed their formatting requirements in the tiny space of time between when I submitted the manuscript and when the editor got around to looking at it; *sigh*). Anyone who is familiar with publishing scientific results will know that speed is of the essence, and I simply couldn't bear to let this matter wait for two whole weeks while I was away; I simply had to resubmit the manuscript before I left. Unfortunately, I couldn't do this from home, so suddenly I found myself racing into work.

To cut a long story short, I just barely managed to make the edits and submit the manuscript by 1 PM, the absolute latest time that my husband and I could leave for our 1.5-hour trip to the train station. Because of my extreme migraine, I immediately got carsick and had to lower my seat almost completely horizontal and cower with my hands over my face. This had the beneficial side effect of preventing me from seeing how incredibly fast my husband was driving in order to get us to the station on time. An additional worry was finding our parking spot once we'd arrived: We had arranged with a friend to leave our car at his house, but we had never been there and had no idea where it was; on top of this, there was road construction that our GPS unit hadn't taken into consideration when giving us directions. Needless to say, we were feeling very tense.

Luckily, the story had a happy ending...for a while at least. We got aboard the train and safely stowed our luggage; I popped my second migraine pill of the day and crossed my fingers that it would work better than the first. My husband went to the concession car and bought us some teas; predictably, given the tone of the day, I managed to spill mine all over my lap. All the same, this was the point at which my luck finally started to turn. The drugs kicked in and my headache began to recede. Then we arrived at Paddington Station just in time to make our connecting train to London Heathrow. There was no line at the check-in counter and we breezed right through, and kept on breezing all the way through security and into the gate area.

We had chosen to fly with Kingfisher Airlines, a relatively new, India-based company that has developed a reputation for having excellent food and relatively luxurious service despite charging what are, effectively, bargain prices. We were curious to see whether the reality lived up to all the hype, and it was, in fact, quite a comfortable flight. The TV screens for the in-flight entertainment systems were huge, we had tons of leg room, and, indeed, the food was restaurant-quality. As per usual, my husband embarked on a mission to watch every movie on offer, though he was dismayed to discover that they had all been edited so as to be "family-friendly" ("Kick-Ass" is just not the same once the swearing has been removed). I, on the other hand, continued my recent embargo of in-flight entertainment, and devoted myself to napping (I don't know why, but lately I just can't seem to concentrate on films; it's a shame because when else do I have that much free time to devote to movie-watching?).

Eight hours later, upon our arrival in the international arrivals terminal of the Delhi airport, I was feeling fairly well-rested and my husband was feeling pretty bleary-eyed. We made our way to the immigration area, where we stood in line behind a group of female Sri Lankan tourists. They seemed pretty uninterested in us until I reached into my purse and pulled out my roll-up travel case for jewelry in order to stow my rings. I'm not sure what about that process or object was so intriguing, but from then on I could tell that we--and I, in particular--really held their interest. There was much surveying of my attire, as well as several whispered conversations. I did not have the impression that I was seen as scandalous, or that I was receiving any consternation, but beyond that assessment I just couldn't figure out what to make of the situation.

Luckily we weren't on display for too long before it was time to hand over our passports at the immigration counter. Without speaking a single word to me, the officer took my passport, wrote some things down, gave back the passport, and waved me through--not a very friendly welcome to the country! In fact, nearly every official that we encountered anywhere was fairly stone-faced (though not outright unfriendly); this very much contrasted with the extremely gracious and helpful attitudes we were later to encounter.

The Delhi airport was obviously fairly new, so it was the sort of place where you don't mind spending a couple hours while waiting for your next flight. When we stopped by the restrooms in order to wash up, I noticed that the woman next to me at the sink was wearing a Cincinnati sweatshirt. Time and again I encounter people from home (or its vicinity) in the most random, distant places, yet I still feel surprised all over again the next time it happens. There I was, literally half a world away from home, in a country filled with a billion other people, and I find myself next to a fellow Ohioan. Uncanny.

Just to continue the American theme, my husband and I elected to eat lunch at Subway, following that useful rule, "When in doubt about what to eat in a foreign country, choose an American chain because you probably won't get food poisoning." We were later told by a friend that when she recently stayed in an Indian ashram for 2 weeks, Subway was the food of choice among Westerners after they'd reached a state of "curry overload." This was a phenomenon we were soon to become acquainted with ourselves.

At our departure gate, we were pleased to discover reclined seats in which to wait for our flight:

(My husband making good use of the lounge chairs to catch up on his sleep. My parents happened to be taking a trip to the Florida Keys while my husband and I were in India, and my mom sent me a very similar picture of my dad. Scary.)

From Delhi, it was still a couple more hours to Bangalore. We were to be met at the airport by a driver holding our names up on a sign board, which, for some reason, is something I have always wanted to experience. Unfortunately, the sign board only had my husband's name on it, so I will have to wait a little longer (until my travel blog makes me famous, perhaps?) for my moment in the sun. On a positive note, our driver was extremely efficient and he immediately whisked us away from all signs of hustle and bustle, got us bundled into the taxi, and began our journey across town to our hostess' house in the "suburbs."

We ended up arriving at our destination early, and the only person at home was the housekeeper--who didn't speak a word of English. Well, actually, she spoke one word--"water," which she offered us to drink. She appeared to be incredibly shy, or potentially just very uncomfortable around weird foreigners who couldn't speak her language. Luckily there was a dog on hand to break the ice--Lulu, our hostess' young golden retriever. Lulu is the kind of dog who knows no strangers, and within seconds of our arrival she was happily slobbering all over us, gnawing on my wrist (in a friendly way), and playing catch. The spectacle of our fawning all over the dog sent the housekeeper into a fit of giggles, and even prompted her to cross the language divide and tell us Lulu's name.

Before long, our hostess returned home with her three-year-old daughter, who was even cuter (but also even more energetic) than the dog:

(Shama, enjoying the view of the park across the street from her house.)

Our hosts, who are Indian-born but British- and American-educated, are quite familiar with the discomfort of long-distance travel to and from India. They very kindly provided us with a home-cooked meal and then let us slink off to the guest room for some much-needed rest. By this point, my husband was not only exhausted from the lack of sleep, but also battling a vicious cold that had ambushed him during the flight over from England. As you will soon see, it was a cold that would have serious consequences for the rest of our trip.

India 2011: An Introduction

2011-04-07T06:58:00.000-07:00

(Evening in the Rishi Valley--a perfect time to take a stroll and see bee-eaters, sunbirds, kingfishers, honey-buzzards, prinias, coucals, and a variety of other exotic-sounding wildlife.)

I've been back from my trip to India for nearly 2 weeks but I find that the country and the experience have still not left my brain. When, out of the corner of my eye, I see gulls wheeling in the distance, my first reaction is to mistake them for the black kites that were soaring and diving all over Bangalore and Mysore (and, I suspect, most of the rest of southern India and perhaps the rest of the country as well). It feels strange to see the quiet and emptiness of High Street after sunset, having recently been exposed to the crowded, bustling markets of nighttime Bangalore, open at least until 8:30 and often until 10 PM. After dark, the Indian air was punctuated not only by the sounds of people, but also by those of frogs and insects and night birds--including nightjars, which I haven't heard for almost a decade; although I love the calm rhythms of water and wind that we can hear from our balcony in the evening, they don't really make the pulse race in the same way that the noises of the jungle do (perhaps because those jungle sounds remind both my husband and I of the nighttime noises of our homelands). And, of course, it hasn't been easy to reacclimate to the weather here, where we have experienced cooler, wetter conditions than the 90-plus-degree sunshine we had nearly every day in India.

For pretty much as long as I can remember, the one place I have wanted to go more than any other is India. I am not sure why or how it caught my imagination, but I'm guessing that it was something about all the colorful saris, the abundance of spices (and tea!), the intricate religions with their ornate shrines, temples, and artifacts, the haunting sitar music and infectious Bollywood numbers, and just generally the fact that it was all so different. In high school I tasted Indian food for the first time while visiting London with my parents; that cuisine soon beat out Mexican and Italian as my favorite ethnic flavor (I have a particular weakness for a meal of mutter paneer, mango lassis, and roti). In college I had an Indian friend who introduced me to Hindi movies (not just Bollywood, but other equally epic, non-musical stories as well). During this period I encountered two of my all-time favorite films, "Lagaan" and "Dil Chahta Hai," which I couldn't help but think of repeatedly while I was in India last month; of course, the more recent "Slumdog Millionaire" also came to mind, as did Thritty Umgar's painful novel "The Space Between Us." Of all the things that fed my desire to travel to India, Gregory David Roberts' novel, "Shantaram," probably tops the list; his writing was so detailed and evocative that reading it was practically a trip to India unto itself.

(Local women walking home after a day's work at the Rishi Valley School. Saris are usually only worn by married women, suggesting that ladies are probably headed home to cook dinner for their husbands. These outfits are probably pretty average by Indian standards, but to my Western sensibilities they are quite beautiful and elegant--I wish I looked that lovely after a hard day's work!)

Yet, despite all my pre-trip excitement, even while I was in India I couldn't help but feel that my experience wasn't as "India-tastic" as I'd expected it to be. This is why I am surprised and interested in my lingering Indian state of mind. The whole trip came about because my husband received academic funding to visit a colleague there and initiate a collaboration. Because I had always wanted to go, and because the timing of the trip coincided very nearly with the milestone of my 30th birthday, I decided to tag along. The first week was devoted to academic activities in Bangalore and the Rishi Valley; the second week was set aside for a mini-vacation in Mysore and the Bandipur National Park. I think maybe one of the things that affected the mood of the trip was that our primary, or at least initial, purpose was work-related; it is hard to really relax and soak up the local flavor when you are talking and thinking shop--especially when you are doing so in an academic setting, which is invariably similar to other academic settings all over the world. Another thing that affected my mindset was my recent trip to Kenya. There were so many superficial similarities between Kenya and India--the heat, the dustiness, the developing-world aura, the crowded streets/roads and psychotic drivers, women in colorful traditional dress, people with empty water jugs biking to a nearby pump--that it was easy to slip back into the mindset of being back in Nairobi, rather than appreciating the fact that I was in a whole new, and very different, place. Because of where we were staying--a friend's house, two difference school facilities, and two different high-end resorts--we found ourselves rather removed from some of the first things you think of when you hear the word "India"--teeming and dense populations, brand-new skyscrapers devoted to IT-related businesses, slums, food poisoning (sorry, but it's true--everyone warned us of "Delhi Belly" before we left!). And yet, we also rapidly encountered some very atmospheric reminders of where we were--there was a huge Hindu shrine next to the road on the way to our hostess' house; our hostess' housekeeper spoke no English and could only use hand gestures to communicate; we were surrounded by people wearing brightly-colored traditional clothes; the streets were lined with vendors selling marigolds and other small flowers as hair and shrine decorations (reminding me of the movie "Monsoon Wedding"); and, of course, there was the pungent smell of the Indian food we had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

In retrospect, I think that our experience in India was less shockingly different than I expected because it felt very comfortable. As in Australia, even though I was conscious of being half a world away from my usual life, I immediately felt relaxed--it was the kind of place I could imagine living quite happily; even though I was conscious of doing things in a different way, I didn't feel surprised or awkward doing so. I think my reaction also reflects the power of both education and the modern media. Thanks to my pre-exposure to India through music, movies, news pieces, and both fiction and nonfiction writing, I almost felt as though I'd been there before. Being able to draw on this wealth of knowledge didn't make the trip any less interesting or fun, but it did remove those panicky "What do I do?!" moments that one is prone to experience when visiting a foreign country where things are done in unfamiliar ways (and in unfamiliar languages). Experience with traveling, in general, also makes it easier to hit the ground running when you visit a new place; this is particularly true when traveling to developing countries, which have the potential to be quite a shock to the system.

After our return, everyone kept asking "How was the trip?" As always, this was a difficult question to answer in just a few words or sentences. Of course, I said that it was good, which it was, but a more accurate answer is that it was complex and, to some extent, contradictory (as interesting things so often are). How else could I describe a journey during which, for example, I was perpetually sick (from a cold, not the dreaded Delhi Belly!) but also had three delightfully indulgent Ayurvedic spa treatments; did not manage to visit a single shrine, temple, palace, or museum, but did take in an abundance of local wildlife; slept terribly as a result of heat, mosquitoes, and a stuffy nose, but used the early mornings to do some great birding; and was forced to abstain from produce for two weeks for fear of contamination, but also ate an abundance of delicious local dishes? I didn't really know what to expect of India, but I do know that, for the most part, it wasn't what I got. But then, I suppose that would have been a bit boring, which is certainly not the word I would have used to describe our trip. I think the best way to think of our visit to India is as an amuse bouche--just a little taster to put us in the mood for the next round (which I hope comes soon).

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Coming up: From Falmouth to Bangalore to the Rishi Valley.

Kenya 2011: The Masai Mara

2011-03-13T01:13:00.000-08:00

If you have ever watched a documentary featuring scenes of the great wildebeest migration between Kenya and Tanzania, then you have seen images of the Masai Mara. In fact, if you've ever watched a documentary about Africa in general, there's a good chance you've seen images of the Masai Mara. It is iconic: vast open expanses of savanna, dotted here and there by gnarly trees, speckled with distant animals browsing on the gently undulating hills. There are giraffes, elephants, jackals, hyenas, antelopes galore, mongooses, and tons of birds--especially birds of prey. It's quite a magnificent spectacle, even when you visit during the "off" season (which we did), and even when you drive through in the middle of the day when animals have made themselves scarce and there is nothing to see but the habitat. In one of E.O. Wilson's tamer books on sociobiology, he wrote about how the "ideal" human habitat--the one combining all the features that we humans describe as making us feeling happiest and most relaxed--is the African savanna; this stems from the fact that, as a species, we were born there. After spending three days on safari across this habitat, staring at it for hours on end through the car window, I could see where he might have a point.

(A view of the Masai Mara. Our driver kept assuring us that, although the placement of the trees often looks planned, it is not. I don't think any of our students thought that might be a possibility, but I guess that previous tourists must have been suspicious).

We entered the Masai Mara on the morning of our 12th day and remained there for the duration of our stay in Kenya. The trip to the Mara was one of the most difficult and uncomfortable journeys I have ever taken. For one thing, by the morning that we'd left for the Mara, I was undeniably ill. I had moved from "discomfort" to "disease," having awakened twice in the middle of the previous night to run and be sick. I was exhausted and hungry and my stomach was desperately unhappy. Less than a half hour into the trip, I had to ask the driver to pull over so I could run to the nearest patch of bushes and be sick again. Luckily for me, there was an eerie fog rolling across the landscape, so I was completely hidden from the view of the road; unluckily for the antelopes nearby, they couldn't see me coming until I was practically on top of them, so as I journeyed through the mist I sent many startled gazelles bolting away.

Fortunately, this was the one and only "bush break" that I required during our trip. However, my discomfort was only just beginning. The roads that we drove on were, without a doubt, the worst I have ever seen--or felt. We started off driving on a fairly large, well-traveled road; "well-traveled," in this instance, means that there were lots of potholes, because there was a fair amount of traffic. In an attempt to preserve the suspension of our vehicle, our driver kept dodging back and forth from one side of the road to the other, weaving around potholes and ruts. My stomach was such a mess that I was beyond getting carsick, but I saw many green faces amongst the other passengers. What we didn't realize was that the roads would only get worse from here; every time we made an additional turn, we seemed to step down in road quality. By the time we finally arrived at the Mara, we were stiff and sore all over from the incessant bumping. I kept thinking of the early American pioneers who journeyed westward across a series of corduroy roads; I literally have felt their pain.

On the up side, driving through such remote places gave us the chance to have some neat and unexpected wildlife encounters. At one point, when everyone else had fallen asleep except for the driver and I, I looked out my window just in time to see a jackal sit down by the side of the road and calmly watch us pass. Later on, we came across another pack of (probably young) jackals trotting alongside the road, probably off to find a nice place to rest during the hottest part of the day.

We stopped just inside the Mara gates in order to have a restroom break before our long safari across the park. As expected, we were mobbed by a group of enterprising Masai women selling a variety of souvenir trinkets. However, we had expected the mobbing to be much worse, so being accosted by only a half dozen moderately insistent salespeople wasn't so bad. What amazed me is that the students continued to buy items from the salespeople each time we stopped; it's not that the things were expensive--in fact, they were pretty cheap--but I kind of assumed that eventually the need or interest for these products would diminish. The Masai women obviously knew that there would be ever more opportunities to make a sale, which is why they kept appearing everywhere we stopped.

Within minutes of entering the Mara, we ran across our first elephants of the trip. This was the moment that many people had been waiting for, and there was a frenzy of camera shutter activity as everyone documented the event. To be honest, I yet again felt a bit underwhelmed. Because we were required to stay a certain distance away from the animals (unless they happened to walk out in front of us, of course), we couldn't quite get a sense of the size of the elephants; on top of this, I had that same feeling of "been there, done that," from prior experiences in zoos and animal parks. I felt terribly guilty for feeling that way, but as you sit in the safety of your safari vehicle, you can't help but have the sense that the scene is a bit contrived. Of course, that doesn't mean I didn't snap any photos:

(An elephant munching on some bushes. As you might imagine, given the size of elephants and the appetites they are likely to have, these herbivores play a very important role in shaping and maintaining the Masai Mara ecosystem).

One of the things I disliked most about the Mara was something that had been foreshadowed during our trip to Lake Nakuru. The drivers are obsessed with finding you what they think you want to see, and their expectations have been formed by experience with your average "Big 5"-seeking tourist (in other words, not biologists who are interested in everything, or conservationists who want to tread lightly). Thus, we were constantly making detours to try to catch glimpses of things that were either too far off, or too well hidden in the undergrowth, to see. The drivers routinely broke park rules and drove around in places they shouldn't have, or approached the animals too closely. For instance, we once drove through a patch of bushes--literally, through the bushes, not between them--so we could barely see an exposed bit of flesh of a napping lion. Given that we'd already seen dozens of lions--including the hunting party during our first big outing--I would have been perfectly happy to let this sleeping cat lie. One truly horrendous encounter occurred late in the afternoon of our first drive through the Mara. After receiving a tip from a passing driver, we caught up with a group of buses that were parked next to some bushes. We had no idea what we were looking at, but eventually caught sight of a lion cub peeking out of the undergrowth. This sighting was met with the requisite amount of cooing, until the cub emerged looking frightened and confused and making pitiful mewling sounds. By collecting stories from the other students, we eventually discovered that originally the cub had been lying there with his mother and siblings, who were disturbed from their slumber when the first of the buses showed up. The other cats had wandered off, but this one--possibly a runt or just a bit more timid--stayed behind. As more and more vehicles showed up, it became increasingly distraught, especially after some of the buses cut off the path the cub would need to take to catch up with its family. Once everyone figured out what had happened, they rapidly asked our drivers to get us out of there; one of the girls in my van actually burst into tears because she was so upset at the thoughtlessness of our drivers and their lack of concern for the wildlife (although I should point out that there was generally plenty of encouragement from the back seat when the drivers indulged in some of their less ethical behavior). Luckily, this story has a happy ending: We ran across the same family of cats on the following day and saw all the cubs sitting safely with their mom. One of them did seem a bit more cautious and withdrawn than the others, and I am willing to bet that he was the one who'd been traumatized by our presence the night before:

(They are as cute in person as they are in photos and videos. You are not ever tempted to conflate "cub" with "kitten," because these guys are much more sturdy and chunky than the baby cats we're used to in domestic settings.)

By the time we reached the Mara, the students were absolutely obsessed with finding the more elusive big cats--leopards and cheetahs. People can spend years in Kenya without ever seeing a leopard, though as we saw during our trip up Mt. Kenya, the commonness of leopard poo indicates that they are always nearby, lurking in the shadows. During our first afternoon in the Mara, we got incredibly lucky and had an amazing leopard encounter. I am not sure who first spotted the leopard, or how; it was lying in a ditch in the shade of some bushes, using the camouflage on its fur to completely blend in with the habitat. Eventually, more and more people caught sight of it as it stealthily made its way through the grass. I have no idea why it suddenly decided to move from its napping place--we weren't that close to it, and, as we shall see, it seemed completely unphased by our presence. In any case, it reached some point when it decided that furtiveness was no longer necessary, stood up, emerged from the grass, sauntered across the road directly between two of the buses, and unhurriedly made its way towards a distant tree, where it presumably was going to nap until it was time to hunt again. I wish I had a good photo of the experience, but it took me so long to spot the cat to begin with that I didn't want to tear my eyes away and go searching for my camera, for fear that it would disappear while I was looking elsewhere.

As for cheetahs, we finally managed to see one on our last day of safari, all thanks to a student who was adamant that we experience the big-cat triumvirate. During stops to view other wildlife, the student repeatedly scanned the distance until, at last, he spotted what he thought looked like a couple of ears poking up out of the grass, probably about a half mile away. To be honest, I think his find was nothing short of miraculous, since I could barely see the cat even when I was getting explicit directions from everyone else in the van. We again were incredibly lucky; the cat not only decided to move, thus making itself more visible, but it actually moved towards us and into a more open area of habitat. What's more, it suddenly started stalking a group of gazelles across the road, and even made a brief dash after a couple of them before deciding it was too much work. So, not only did we get to see an elusive cat, but we also saw it in action. For me, the best part of the encounter was watching a nearby trio of ostriches catch a whiff of the cheetah as the wind shifted, then suddenly bolt off into the distance; for as far as we could see them, they were still running as though their lives depended on it (they most likely didn't--usually cats will only hunt ostriches when they are working in pairs or groups, because the birds' big, powerful legs and feet can launch a deadly assault).

(Having failed to catch a gazelle, the cheetah retreats across the road and tries to recuperate his dignity and energy.)

Of course, me being me, I was also paying quite a lot of attention to the birds in (and over) the Mara. Seeing ostrich for the first time was pretty neat, since I've never seen them grazing in a vegetated area before (in other words, in their natural habitat). I've now seen two of the three long-legged, flightless bird species--emus in Australia and ostriches in Africa; now I just need to get back to South America to spot some rheas. Throughout the trip, we frequently ran across flocks of guineafowl, which are beautiful game birds with speckled blue plumage. One of the groups we saw was running parallel to the road, and from that angle they looked like 2D animals with projecting heads and feet--kind of like the deck-of-card soldiers from Alice in Wonderland. It was a very unusual sight:

(Helmeted guineafowl on the run.)

Perhaps one of the ornithological highlights was a trio of southern ground-hornbills, hefty and rather Jurassic-looking birds that are not seen all that commonly:

Southern ground-hornbills searching for food near the side of the road. A closely related species of hornbill has a bright purple face instead of red; obviously they are not too worried about blending in.)

We also stumbled across the nest of a secretary bird, which I am told is not that common of an occurrence. Evidently the birds only nest once in their lifetime, and, given their size, I am guessing that they are fairly long-lived animals. Like many species with those characteristics, secretary birds are experiencing some population declines; we are lucky to have seen the half dozen or so individuals that we did, and the nest was definitely a bonus.

Although much of our time in the Mara was spent meandering across the countryside in the hopes of eventually encountering something interesting, we did make a couple of directed trips. One of these was to the Mara River crossing that is so famous for the role it plays in the violent and painful deaths of many migrating wildebeest. Although fairly empty during our visit, during the migration the river is chock-full of hungry crocodiles, who submerge themselves and wait for unsuspecting wildebeests to wander past. We only saw a couple of the reptiles, both of which were lounging about on the muddy banks. The river was, however, full of slumbering hippos, which occasionally made grumpy snorting sounds and performed their less than endearing poo-spreading display (as they poo, they whip their tail back and forth rapidly in order to fling their scent around towards neighboring hippos).

(Napping hippos, mostly submerged in the river.)

One morning we had a great view of hyenas enjoying a fresh kill as the first rays of light peeked over the horizon. The matriarch of the group was wearing a radio collar that had been attached to her several years earlier as part of a scientific study; researchers have been tracking the movements of her group since that time. Judging by the size of the pack and the success of the kill, I'd say that they were doing pretty well:

(Sunrise in the Masai Mara. The dots to the left are the hyenas enjoying their kill. You might also be able to spot the eagle that swooped down to get in on the action.)

We often encountered some scenes in the Mara that seemed too staged to be real--you had the feeling you were watching a documentary or looking at a nature panorama in a museum. One example is the slumbering male lions that we came across one afternoon. We'd seen many females up to that point, but male was so striking because of his big, stereotypical mane:

(Quite a handsome fellow. He appeared to be co-commanding the pride with another male, likely his brother.)

Another example is giraffes, which you often see silhouetted in the distance, reaching up to browse on leaves in the tree canopy. My favorite giraffe experience was getting to see one in the famously awkward process of bending down to get a drink, a procedure so fraught with difficulty that it sent all the giraffe's oxpeckers flying off to find another host:

(On this evening, we saw over a dozen giraffes wandering across the savanna together. The one on the far right is attempting to lower itself down to drink from a puddle. One really does have to wonder about the evolutionary process when watching something as awkward as this.)

It's easy to become so focused on the big, "exciting" species that you forget to pay attention to the smaller, more common animals. We must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of antelope during our stay in Kenya, and after you almost become blind to how beautiful they are. The topi, for instance, have the most amazing patchwork pattern of browns on their hides, as though they've just emerged from a drunken ramble through a paint store. The impala are also quite striking, with their giant harems lorded over by a single proud male. We ran across one male who was using a series of indignant-sounding snorts and bellows to get his ladies in line:

(The male impala is the one to the far left, with the horns; all the others are breeding females or juveniles.)

Our campsite, which was located just outside one of the entrances to the Mara and near a tributary or branch of the Mara River, was also quite full of wildlife. Thanks to the intense birding I did there, I was able to bring my trip species total up to 210. On our last afternoon, while the students were working on their assignments, I wandered around and managed to see 5 different species of waxbills: the cordon bleu (which had eluded me since the beginning of the trip), the purple grenadier, the common waxbill, the green-winged pytilia, and the bronze mannikin. These little finches are all really beautiful birds, with incredible colors and plumage patterns. Catching sight of one emerging from the undergrowth is like seeing a gem glittering in the sunlight.

Unfortunately, it wasn't all fun and games in our campsite. During our second afternoon there, we had a tremendous downpour (I couldn't help but think of the Toto song "Africa" the whole time). It was so intense, and lasted for so long, that we experienced serious flooding throughout the camp. Many of the tents were completely waterlogged, and both students and faculty ended up with soggy books, wet clothing, and ruined electronics. I, on the other hand, was staying in a banda and so was let off easy.

I am ashamed to say it, but potentially the most memorable moment of my entire time in the Mara was when I had a bathroom emergency while we were out watching lions one morning. Despite the fact that I deliberately avoided drinking any fluids before we went out in the morning, I found my bladder at the point of bursting just as we caught sight of an adorable family of lions. I hated to admit my condition because everyone was reveling in the scene of cubs nudging at Mom and Dad, trying to get them to wake up and play, and Mom and Dad rolling over and attempting to go back to sleep. Finally, I had to ask the driver if there was something I could do about my condition, and he told me that, with all the lions about, the safest course of action was to drive out into the middle of a huge open expanse so that I could crouch behind the bus and pee in the safety (and relatively privacy) of its shadow. Rather than being upset at the inconvenience the students were amused at the situation, particularly when I took so long to pee (I really had to go) that another bus started driving our way and I had to rush to finish. Luckily, the other bus was part of our group, so it wasn't too humiliating when our driver told everyone what I was doing, and a whole new group of people laughed at my circumstance. On the up side, I was the only person in our entire travel party who had the opportunity to stand out in the open, free and unprotected, in the wilderness of the Masai Mara. For just the briefest of moments, I was sharing space with elephants and feline predators and hyenas, with no car doors or windows between us. Pretty cool.

Interlude: Antiques in Falmouth

2011-03-09T00:41:00.000-08:00

For as long as I can remember, antiques have been a part of my life; my husband describes (in a nice way) the house I grew up in as "a museum," since not only is it quite old (by US standards, that is), but it's also filled with the antiques that my parents have collected over the years. In many cases, that collecting occurred during their travels. Antiquing while traveling is fun because you are often exposed to completely new items that you don't see much elsewhere, all dependent on the activities that are (or were) popular in the region where you're shopping. For instance, antiques stores in Ohio often feature the crocks in which flour was shipped on the barges and boats that traveled the rivers and canals of 19th-century Ohio. In coastal Virginia, however, you tend to find a variety of bird decoys and other nautical and/or marine-oriented goods. Even among ubiquitous items (furniture, for instance), there are often strong regional trends in how they were made or what they were made of, which the discerning eye can begin to see and learn.

Antiquing abroad can add a whole new layer of diversity, particularly in a port town such as Falmouth. Many of the goods here originated elsewhere, or went from here to there and back again. Whatever the case, they often have quite a story to tell. I regularly pass several antiques shops on High Street during my daily walk back from school, and recently I finally saw a couple of items that I just couldn't ignore. The first--the item that originally caught my eye as I walked past the window--was this Edwardian "occasional" table:

(Our new "plant table." It's not yet in its final position, which is currently occupied by our deck table. As soon as it is warm enough to set the outdoor furniture on the balcony, the new table can take its permanent position looking over the harbor.)

We have been looking for a table to place in the window of our living room, to hold several small potted plants. This one is just the right size, and I liked its unusual octagonal shape and bubbly legs. When I first saw it, I figured it was just a regular old used table; I would never have guessed that it was nearly a hundred years old--it has weathered the time quite gracefully, though it is in need of a good polish.

After I'd been drawn in to the window display, I couldn't help but notice a rather lovely writing box (also called lap desk). My mother has always had a small antique lap desk that I was quite smitten with as a child, so this larger and more ornate version was difficult to resist. When I went in to inquire about the plant table, I also requested the low-down on the box. The store owner told me that it was made in the Georgian period, between 1780 and 1790, and had all its original bits--nothing was a replacement or a fix. He also told me that he was asking half of what he would ask if he were in London, because shoppers in Cornwall simply couldn't afford what the box was really worth. All of that sounded too good to be true, so I went home and did a little research.

It turns out that writing boxes initially rose to popularity in the military and amongst other men who traveled frequently. The particular box in question was made in the military style:

(The writing box, aka lap desk. It is most likely made of mahogany, which was the material of choice for early writing boxes. You can tell this because it is a hardwood, has a rich reddish brown color, and is patterned with many fine, close-grained dark lines.)

Notice the plain rectangular shape; the box also has drop-down handles on either side. These two features are important for dating: Later boxes sometimes came in different shapes, and the handles were often in a permanently-raised position. This box is not as ornate as some of the others I ran across online, which often came with brass bands around the top and sides of the box; these were used to increase sturdiness and help the boxes endure long and difficult journeys around the world. You'll notice, however, that there is a brass name-plate (reading "H. A. Thinner"), which again marks it to the late 18th century; as time went on, other metals were substituted for this purpose.

As I looked the box over, the shopkeeper said it was a shame that there was no key for the lock. Either he was acting, or he had never taken a very good look through the box: I found the key resting in one of the inside compartments, and it worked without any problems. This particular lock was not as ornate as some of the others I ran across, again supporting the theory that this box wasn't made for anyone too rich and powerful. However, the tenons were in a style that I found in other late 18th-century boxes; since later boxes often had different types of locks altogether, I took this as more proof that the box had been correctly dated to the 1780's.

When the box is opened, it reveals a slanted surface for writing. This one is covered by a layer of dark blue or purple baize, which apparently also supports the late-18th-century date-of-origin; many later boxes, especially those in the Victorian era, were made with embossed leather. In fact, in many boxes like this one, the original baize was replaced with leather during the Victorian era; although mine has some small holes, it is still in surprisingly good shape, and I am glad that nobody saw fit to tear it off and insert another material instead.

(Interior of the writing box. The lower flap is held down by a swiveling latch so that it won't flop about if you are crazy enough to try getting out your quill and writing a letter during a bumpy carriage ride.)

Under the writing surface, there are two storage compartments for paper and quills, as well as a drawer on the right side. In many fancier writing boxes, the drawer was used to store toiletries such as combs and razors; however, these were often set in a permanent insert that had bands and latches for holding the implements in place. I do not see any signs that such an insert was ever in place in this drawer. Additionally, many military boxes of this era had similar pull-out drawers in which to place documents. The finishing touch is the simple but effective mechanism for holding the drawer in place--a pin that fits through a hold in the writing desk surface and down into the lip of the drawer itself. That way, no matter how much the carriage is jostling or the ship is being battered by the waves, no important paperwork would go spilling out onto the floor.

(Side view of the box with the bottom compartment opened. Unless people wrote on very narrow paper back in the Georgian era, I assume they folded their spare paper in half or in thirds prior to storing it here.)

(The side drawer and the pin used to hold it into place; if you look carefully you can see the hole in the lip of the drawer where the pin fits. There is a small round depression in the facing half of the box, which fits perfectly around the head of the pin so that the two sides of the box are flush with one another when it is shut. Inside the drawer, I could see no stains or use patterns indicating that a toiletries-holder had ever once sat inside. In the far back of the drawer cavity, there is a little block of wood that presumably holds the drawer in place; however, as the cavity it self could serve the same purpose, I would love to know exactly why that little block is in there.)

At the top of the desk are two glass ink wells (made of thick, bubbly glass--again indicating they are original), a lidded compartment (in which I found the key), and a tray on which to rest quills. It took me a while to figure out how to get into the compartment under the tray, but then I realized there was a slanted shelf built in, so that if I pressed down on one side of the tray it tipped neatly and gently into the space below, allowing access to whatever was stored below (probably supplies for making ink and sand for preventing smearing). The tray was the one part that was painted rather than varnished; assuming it is not a replacement from a later era, I figure this is because the box's maker wanted to diminish unsightly staining from inky quills.

Of course, as is inevitably the case with something that was taken on trips (and, not to mention, was built over 200 years ago), there are a few minor injuries. However, almost all the boxes that I found online also possessed minor injuries (in fact, many of those injuries might even qualify as "major," not to mention that many of them had seen various types of restoration or part replacement). Regardless of these flaws, the other boxes were selling for more than three times what the Falmouth dealer was asking. As far as I could see, he was offering a terrific bargain. And when you're faced with that sort of bargain, and your 30th birthday is coming up, it's hard not to cave in and buy yourself an early present. So I did:

(The box up on its throne in the "study." One day I hope it will sit in a place where it can be more easily seen. Also, I would like to set it on a piece of furniture that cost more than one-tenth of its price; it seems a bit insulting to have it resting on my home-assembled Trago Mills shelf. Hopefully it's a humble box, despite all its likely world travels, and doesn't mind the placement.)

For more information on writing boxes, and to see some amazing images of other, fancier ones (with secret compartments and pop-up book stands!), go here.

Kenya 2011: Masai melodrama

2011-02-22T01:56:00.000-08:00

If you randomly stopped 10 people on the street and asked them to describe "native Africans," you would probably hear something about spears, brightly-colored robes, people who can jump high into the air, and cattle-herders. All of these are characteristics of the Masai, who, whether we know it are not, probably form the mental image that a majority of us conjure up when we think of African tribespeople:

(Two Masai warriors on a rocky outlook. One neat thing about the Masai is that almost all of them still wear their traditional robes/blankets--not to put on a show for the tourists, but just because that's what they prefer. If you are standing on a promontory, you can easily spot them miles in the distance because the reds and oranges of the blankets are so much brighter than anything else in the scenery.)

The Masai are known for being fierce warriors, using their ubiquitous spears to attack rival tribes and wild animals alike; in the past, each young warrior was expected to kill a lion in order to prove his manliness and worth (current lion population numbers now make this nearly impossible, though apparently some of the less conservation-minded individuals still attempt the feat).

From the moment we had arrived at our Masai-run campground the night before, we were being watched over by locals, albeit often at a distance. This was partly due to the fact that they wanted to keep us safe from wild animal attacks in the middle of the night, since that wouldn't be very good for repeat business. Likewise, it was possible that we posed a threat to the wildlife from whom they made their money. However, it is also true that neighboring Masai tribes do still fight with each other, and on the off chance that any violence might erupt during our visit, they wanted to stay close to us.

Although that sounds unnerving, I never once felt threatened or frightened, and the Masai were nothing but gracious and friendly throughout our entire visit. However, our more experienced and knowledgeable drivers were definitely edgier during our stay on Masai land; having lived in Kenya their entire lives and visited Masai areas previously, they were more aware of the possibilities than the rest of us were. Most of our visit was organized and led by one Masai in particular, named Niksun (pronounced "Nixon"). When around us, he was particularly un-threatening, with an almost permanent smile on his face and a propensity to break into song and dance at any moment. Niksun was one of the biggest hams I have ever met. He was often accompanied by his half brother, whose name sounded like "Cindy," though I'm sure it was spelled differently (his full name was actually "Cindy-song"). The two of them shared the same mother but different fathers, due to a custom among the Masai whereby men in the same age class are allowed to share each other's wives; when one warrior wants to visit another's spouse, he simply puts his spear outside the door of the woman in question so that her husband will know not to enter and interrupt any private activities. Masai families, as a consequence, are full of half-siblings that are recognized as such without any stigma. This sounds rather remarkably liberal until you think about it from the perspective of the wives, who have absolutely no say in the matter; Masai women are treated notoriously poorly, despite the fact that it is their handiwork (on jewelry and fabrics) that brings in a good portion of all income made from tourists.

On our 11th day in Kenya, we rose early so that Niksun and his brother could take us on a walking tour of Masai land. We had to drive about 45 minutes to get to our destination, which was part of an area occupied by Niksun's tribe. On the way, we had a remarkable view of the sunrise, which was probably the most spectacular one I have ever seen. You could actually watch the sun inching up above the horizon bit by bit. I wanted to grab my camera to take a video of the whole process, but I just couldn't tear my eyes away until it was over, after the sun had suddenly burst away from the horizon in a little explosion of light:

(A Kenyan sunrise. My husband later informed me that Africa is infamous for its spectacular solar activity. I can see why.)

The Masai, like most agrarian and herding people, had been up for quite a while before sunrise, and by the time we arrived many of them had gathered at the creek and nearby hot spring in order to do laundry and take a bath. Niksun was excited to take us down to the water's edge so that we could feel how hot the springs were; as we rounded the corner we ran into a mostly-naked Masai herder rushing back into his undies. Obviously word hadn't gotten around to everyone that there would be visitors on this morning.

The remainder of the walk took us across fairly open land, which is why we had arisen so early--there was no shade to be found under the open, sunny skies, and we wanted to be done with the walk before it got too miserably hot. We were supposed to separate into two groups: One that would take a "short" walk and one that would take a "long" walk, though neither of those distances was precisely defined. It turned out that both walks were fairly lengthy, since our Masai guides stopped every few steps in order to do some sort of demonstration or another. Sometimes it was singing, other times dancing, at one point there was a bow and arrow shooting contest, and later in the morning they arranged a traditional "warrior training" exercise for the males to perform while the females looked on and, presumably, swooned in admiration.

As you can probably discern from my tone, I was not loving the guided tour. I think it is admirable for a people to find a way to earn money from tourists in order to help preserve their otherwise traditional way of life, but I do not think it is necessary to completely sell out. Niksun and his brother were going a little overboard in their performance, and I thought that it seemed pretty fake. Since I am not that familiar with the "real" Masai culture, I couldn't make a full comparison between what we were seeing and what was more traditional. What I could do was imagine how I would feel if I went to a reservation in the US and saw similar behavior from Native Americans--another group renowned for being fierce, stern, and proud. Say what you will about Native American casinos, at least the people owning and operating them still have some dignity, which was definitely lacking from our Masai guides. It is also possible to learn something about Native American culture by, say, visiting a powwow. Even Jamie Oliver--as big an outsider as you can imagine--was able to learn about traditional Navajo ways when he visited tribal elders during his food tour of the US. During our visit with the Masai, on the other hand, we saw much but learned very little; our guides were extremely good at being evasive and providing answers that didn't really answer anything at all. It was, in many ways, disappointing.

On the up side, I spent much of the walk talking to Enoch, one of the two Kenyan biologists who accompanied us during our travels. Though not Masai himself, Enoch had grown up in a village not far from Masai land. In the past, he had worked extensively with the Masai in order to find out more about the ins and outs of their culture in an effort to develop practical conservation and management plans that allowed them to preserve their traditions while also facilitating conservation in Masai areas. Enoch was incredibly knowledgeable about the Masai and about the complexities they face in daily life--as cattle herders no longer able to drive their herds along old routes to historic grazing areas, as warriors and lion-hunters asked to be peaceful and preserve the same species that are attacking their cows and, occasionally, their tribespeople. I learned far more from Enoch than I was able to glean from either of our guides.

(The students watching a performance by Niksun and his brother.)

Of course, any walk in Kenya inevitably involves some good birds, and we did add a few species to the trip list. The best avian encounter occurred when I was standing up on a ridge with only two other people, the rest of the group having wandered off with the guides. A black-chested snake-eagle crested the ridge above us and glided down over where we were standing and then on into the valley below. For a good 30 seconds, it was practically at our eye level; we could not only see its plumage but also get an idea of its sleek, deadly power. One amazing thing about Kenya, from a birder's perspective, is the steady supply of large, dramatic birds of prey; it was possible to have an encounter like this nearly every day. Towards the end of the walk, we circled around a small pool of water near the hot spring. Not only were there herons at the water's edge, but also five hammerkops:

(Unfortunately, this awesome picture of a hammerkop is not mine. Thanks to http://dic.academic.ru/dic.nsf/ruwiki/250030 for the image.)

I had only ever seen these birds before in a zoo, so I'd not even realized that they were wading birds at all. It was great to see them in the wild, and learn a little of their life history to boot.

We arrived back at the camp in time for lunch, which was absolutely awesome. Someone had gotten a bag of enormous (= melon-sized) avocados, so the chefs had made a huge bowl of what was, essentially, guacamole (that most traditional of African dishes). This accompanied crunchy fried potatoes (kind of like French fries made from whole new potatoes) and a tropical salad. It was some of the best food we'd had in a while, and we all gorged ourselves until we felt ill. Unfortunately, I soon realized that my upset stomach was not as a result of too much food, but my endless mysterious illness, which was rearing its ugly head again. I was so nauseous that I ended up skipping the second planned activity of the day, a visit to a Masai village to find out the more domestic details of the locals' way of life. Many of the instructors were dreading this particular outing, since the ones during previous years had not always gone well--they were an extension of the cheesy tour we'd had that morning, with the addition of salespeople ferociously hawking Masai products.

Thus, some of the others regarded me with jealousy as I retreated to the Simba to rest up for a while. I awoke from my nap after a couple of hours and relocated to my porch, from which I could watch woodpeckers and barbets hunting for insects in the grass. I also encountered a small lizard of some sort who obviously was living under my porch. One of the other instructors who had also stayed behind came to join me, and we sat and chatted until the students came back. According to their descriptions, the visit to the village had gone quite well; they'd been greeted with some traditional dancing and other ceremonial displays, and most of them had the face paint to prove it. One of the girls had bought an entire Masai ensemble so that she could wear it to a fancy dress party after her return to the UK; another had permanently swapped scarves with one of the Masai warriors, which was jokingly (?) referred to as an informal marriage (there was an awful lot of talk about marriages during this period of our trip, and I could never quite tell where "joke" merged into "reality"). I was glad to hear that the visit had gone so well, but I was also happy to have sat it out--I was really starting to feel drained by all the stomach problems.

In fact, even though I'd had quite a long nap in the middle of the day, I had a pretty early night again. First, I chatted with the other instructors for a while in the bar, where we watched the students dancing with the Masai guides to hip-hop music; it would be difficult to think of a more incongruous image than that clash (or lack thereof) of very different cultures. Before heading to bed, I took a brief stroll around the campsite to look for bush babies, which many of the students had spotted the night before:

(A bush baby in a rare daytime sighting. Thanks to http://www.treknature.com/gallery/Africa/Botswana/photo26082.htm for the photo.)

These little nocturnal tree-loving mammals can be spotted by their eye-shine; even from 100 m away I could see their glowing orange embers up in the canopy. The two I found were sitting in the branches happily munching away at leaves. One of the other instructors later spotted them in the midst of relocating to another tree; apparently they hopped along the ground like little kangaroos. Just another of the weird and wonderful things to be found all over Kenya.