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Travel Beyond Words

February 15th, 2009

Following mushers

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

(Whitehorse) The race began in earnest yesterday, each musher tenderly patting their fourteen dogs before leaving. The dogs were more excited than anybody, just barking and whelping, waiting to hear the buzz that sent them flying on their 1,000 mile course. Kyla Boivin had what must have been a nervous start, changing her sled just minutes before taking off. She had found a lighter one. But she is a pro, and she too was off on her adventure.

We caught up with them here and there on the course, took great pictures. But it all seemed like a photo-op. I know that in a few hundred miles they will look very different, the wear and tear of the miles and cold weather will probably be evident on their faces. Like it is now, the ice accumulations on their beards just seems like a kind of a northern make-up.

Our last stop was late at night when we went Braeburn, to the first pit-stop of sorts about an hour outside of Whitehorse. I met with one of the mushers, who seemed as confident and relaxed as ever. He had parked his dogs and ate a whopping big sandwich. It was only the first milestone. 100 miles. Another 900 miles to go. On our way back the skies became green, and we stopped to watch a long streak in the sky. It was the auroris borealis, the northern lights.

February 14th, 2009

The Yukon Quest begins

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

(Whitehorse) Whitehorse is a land of mountains, snow and ice. Yesterday we saw it all from the perspective of a natural hot-spring baths just outside of the city, where steam floated into the frigid air. It was a nice welcome, knowing that bellow this very cold landscape are bubbling warm waters.

In the evening we were at the Frostbite music festival, taking place in the local cultural centers. Now that felt like time-warp. It was like going back to your high school dance, but with a different variety of music. It all started with country-type music. But I started dancing to the Jamaican jazz band. It all works well because (more for publicity than anything else) there is a Jamaican taking part in this year’s Yukon Quest.

It is early in the morning in Whitehorse, and from the window of my hotel I see the starting gate to the 1,000 mile race, the Yukon Quest. In a few hours mushers and their teams of dogs will take off on a whirlwind ten-day journey through the frigid landscape of the north. We arrived a couple of days ago, attending the opening banquet where the mushers pulled their names out of a hat to determine their starting positions.

I talked with Kyla Boivin, who at the age of 26 is actually one of the senior mushers. She has participated in six races, never quite finishing in the top ten. In fact, last year, she finished 15th. In the money, but dead last. But in this game, having made it at all is something of a feat. A little exasperated, however, I think for herself she needs to win this year. When it was her turn to pick her number, she read a poem. She will be starting number two this year. Kyla is a little bit awkward, not very media-savvy or articulate as some of her foes. But she has loved to mush since she was eighteen. She works as a log-home builder, but I suspect that what she knows best is being with her pack of dogs on the open ice, just listening to their feet hit the snow and ice for hours on end.

January 31st, 2009

The grand seaweed of Sooke

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

(Seattle) Yesterday I experienced one of the distinct advantages of being on the road: the fun you have in meeting quirky people that there is no way you would come across haphazardly. Hence, this is the story of meeting my new-found seaweed lady!

After a short respite from road less traveled, yesterday I shot off from the home-base in Montreal to Seattle, on my way to see Boeing’s Dreamliner, the 787. There was nothing exciting about the journey getting here except for my great find yesterday; meeting my key to the secrets of the chunkiest seaweed on the west coast.

My great discovery was meeting Amanda, a marine biologist from Sooke – not far from Victoria, the sun-filed island on Canada’s most western coast. And Sooke must be the place in the world that has the greatest concentration of seaweed experts, sellers and watchers in the world.

A sprightly Amanda had jet-black hair that was tightly packed into her hat that sprung out in Jamaican dreadlocks as she took them out. Not only is Amanda a seaweed specialist, harvesting the largest seaweed in the world by hand and giving seaweed tours to visitors, she’s also in a rock-band. She is my kind of gal.

And it’s going to come in various forms. You can eat the seaweed; you can bathe in it and harvest it from the sea, I find out. It didn’t take long for me to make an appointment with Amanda and her seaweed buddies to uncover the mysteries of seaweed farming for myself…

December 26th, 2008

Egyptian adventure

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

If you were under the impression that the cultural navigator disappeared by way of some ancient curse in Egypt after blogging about King Tutankhamen’s underpants, rest assured that no; I was indeed happily navigating through the land of the pharaohs, kings and queens of this fabulous ancient land.

One of the reasons for my momentary hiatus was simple: someone cut the cables. I am talking about the Internet cables, and this is the second time it happens to me while in the Middle-East. The last time was while at and oasis on the Dead Sea in Jordan in February: again, they cut the cables. This time internet services between Egypt, Europe and Asia were mysteriously cut, causing internet failure throughout the land.

But I merrily went about my business of a cultural navigator. After all, there was a time when there was no internet and believe me, in the last century the well-to-do went on their Grand Tour, including a stop at Egypt and its impressive pyramids, and their only personal computer was a handy writing desk.

Allow me to resume my voyage, as belated as it is. Cairo was infested with a palpable pollution. The air was thick and the sky bathed in a cloud of smog out of which pierce the distant ancient pyramids and modern mosques. Some 18-20 million Egyptians live in Cairo and the pyramids themselves are a stone’s throw from the capital.

Even in ancient Egypt they were deemed too close to the masses, making these pharaohs’ tombs vulnerable to pillaging. That’s why later rulers of ancient Egypt decided to secretly tuck their tombs away in the Valley of the Kings on the shores the Nile, away from the masses. It was only time, though, that had its effect even there – and when the secret got out, the kings and queens would have their vaults pillaged despite all the best intentions.

As impressive as it was standing in front of the Pyramid of Khofu, the Great Pyramid, it was also anti-climactic. After all, the image is so embedded in our minds. It is part of our cultural baggage that made me feel as if I have all been to this – the oldest and grandest of man-made monuments. Like the Taj Mahal, Petra or Machu Picchu – which I actually visited this year - these monuments too have somehow been siphoned into popular culture and mindset. They become even greater than their actual weight or real grandness. They are physical and spiritual monuments that belong to all of us.

You almost fail to understand the true weight of history when in front of the pyramid that was incomprehensively built sometime between 2589 and 2530 B.C. Even looking back at the pictures of where I was just a few days ago, the reality evades me. That same vista that I saw has drawn the amazement of so many, so far back, that the images of these pyramids are etched in another era.

After the pyramids I headed north for a day-visit to Alexandria, the home of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina – the modern-day rebirth of an ancient library lost over time. The library itself was impressive, beautiful and modern. The city was vibrant and young, if not as quaint as I would have imagined. Students spilled on the streets, beautiful veiled young Egyptians buzzed about in this university city. Notably, the library actually has a printing press of sorts, that prints out books on demand. Of course, the author’s have to give their permission and copyright, but the idea is brilliant. The book is printed, along with its cover and all for a fraction of what you would pay in a bookstore.

Alexandria, on the shores of the Mediterranean, was the capital of Egypt long after the golden age of the pharaohs. But this renaissance lasted for almost a thousand years – from 334 BC until the 641 Muslim conquest of Egypt.

I then flew to Luxor, over 700 kilometres away and on the shores of the Nile. Here the weather was warmer, the sun shone brighter and air crystal clear. And it was on the boat journey from Luxor to Aswan that the most stunning sites were hidden away by the ancient pharaohs. Afraid of looters, it is here where generations of pharaohs tucked away their most prized possessions for safe use in the after-life. They actually blindfolded the builders of the tombs before bringing them to the Valley of the Kings, and Valley of the Queens to build the tombs. Needless to say while the secret may have remained safe for a time, archaeologists to this day search for intact tombs, making the ancients afterlife ambitions rather futile.

The first stop, however, was Karnak, a series of temple complexes dedicated to Amun, the sun-god.  Â
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December 21st, 2008

History had been generous to King Tutankhamen

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

(Cairo) History can be arbitrary. I write from my hotel room on the 16th floor of the Sheraton, overlooking the Nile and the wailing cries to prayer are projected throughout the city from speakers somewhere in the distance.

Today I visited the rather tired looking neoclassical Egyptian Museum, since 1902 the home to some of the worlds oldest documents recording human existence. I got the impression that Rasha, my guide today, had a personal affection for some of the objects. She told me the history as one would a family story. Her tales were about misbehaving Queen’s and over-ambitious Kings – and others whom history just scratched off of the map.

Although there is a wealth of monuments and sculptures from a variety of eras here, it is the collection of the objects found in King Tutankhamen’s burial site that is the pearl of the collection, the apex, the crown-jewels; it is, after all, the only royal pharaonic grave-site to have been found intact.

As brilliant as the objects are, King Tutankhamen, apparently was not much of a ruler, by Pharaonic standards anyways. The objects he left us, though, were indeed beautiful. There was stunning jewellery, furniture, gilded statues, chairs, beds and even folding beds. He left us his mummy and the stunningly beautiful mask that was placed on his motionless head. My, he even left us his underpants. He didn’t leave them for us but for use in his after-life. Poor guy, saved up for his whole life only to have underpants plastered in the Egyptian Museum for the entire world to see! What would he think now?

In fact he only ruled a few years, won no great battles and constructed no key monuments in his brief nine year rule. In the years after his tenure his name was even wiped off of the list of bona fide kings, apparently he wasn’t much remembered let alone liked.

But today Tutankhamen has become most famous because of a historical error. In 1922 American archaeologist Howard Carter found his grave, and the only reason why it was intact was because King Ramses V built his own pyramid right on top of Tutankhamen’s. Imagine that, a greater man built his grave on top of yours. But your possessions were saved because of it. And his fame has been echoed around the world because the big guy burry’s his goods on the upper floor. His great trophies were stolen, yours were not. The conclusion is that Tutankhamen wins out because of the simple whims of history.

I guess the conclusion is not to take it all so seriously – because the joke may be on you in the end. Take care to watch where you build your little pyramid in the sand.

December 20th, 2008

The roads of kings and pharos

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

(Cairo) The journey continues for the cultural navigator, now in Egypt; the land and the civilization of kings and pharos. I arrived a few days ago, and have been criss-crossing this cradle of civilization, discovering some of the oldest human traces of greatness on earth.

I have actually been here for a few days, starting in Sharm-El-Sheikh at a conference at the warm and sunny Red Sea. Sharm-El-Sheikh was something of a Florida or Disney-Land of the Middle-East. The strip along Peace Road is basically a pack of hotels and resorts, mostly luxurious. But the town takes the cake. Colorful, full of lights and bazaars and shisha bars it is a glittery world that is born out of the surrounding desert. Nothing new to this, though, and there is a kind of un-reality to this oasis. It was the same in neighboring Jordan, where every morning two large tanker-trucks of water were pumped in every morning to feed the oasis.

I escaped for a few hours to take some sun on the beaches. It is low-season here now and like everywhere there is a noticeable lack of tourists gracing the shores of these beaches. Sharm is a favorite among Russians, though, and our beach and the resort’s night-club was packed with flocks of Russian tourists, which made communication a tad challenging.

At the foothill of the Pyramids, outside of Cairo.

At the foothill of the Pyramids, Cairo.

After the conference I flew back to Cairo, an early morning one-hour flight. I was met by my trusted guide Ahmad, and our guide to a day at the Pyramids, Asmaa. We had a fun day. Asmaa was as charming as she was informative. She is a devout Muslim, doesn’t go to bars (it is not honorable), and studies Muslim architecture.

To be continued…

December 11th, 2008

Fatima’s story

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

I’m back to the cold-weather of Montreal. But not for long, as I get ready for a really exciting adventure: Egypt, the Pyramids, a boat-ride down the Nile. Another adventure.

While everybody is shivering in the cold here recovering from the most recent storm, I went out for a haircut. Rather, a shave, getting ready for the hot and dry weather of another distant world. Another chapter in my seemingly strange existence. 

My new barber is from Morocco, which is what brought me to tell the story of my visit to his country a few years ago. I was alone in Morocco, visiting Casablanca, Rabat and the beautiful Marrakesh, where it was 49 degrees as the sun’s rays pounded over the Atlas mountain range.

The story began just as I had just arrived in Casa, as they call Casablanca. I mustn’t have been far from the majestic Hassan II Mosque when I met a young woman, her name may have been Fatima. She wore glasses, and had a dark complexion and jet-black hair. She was a little bit awkward; it was a kind of a gentle awkwardness that was rather appealing. We started walking around the city. I told her that I was going out to Rabat, and volunteered to show me around. So we spent a whole day together and I even wish that I had noted my conversation with her in greater details. As the day wore on, she became far less awkward. She was charming, had an ironic sense of humor. I was weary of her, and such situations, but was curious enough to get to know her.

She showed me the souq, or ancient market in Rabat, and we even went to a beach where I plunged in the water as she waited patiently, fully clothed under an umbrella. We sat for a drink, talked and walked. We laughed as a boy tried hopelessly to control two camels simultaneously. We then sat on a bench when she suddenly suggested that I should marry her. I was taken aback, as I am sure most would have been. After all how was it that after a few lazy hours this would come to her mind.

- No, I said, I don’t think so.

- Why, she asked?

- Well, first of all, I’m not in love with you, I said.

- That is no problem you can take an other wife too, she said.

So this is the way the conversation went. It was all fun, in good humour, but I’m sure that she was serious. We continued to walk and talk. Of course, she was certainly attracted to a life outside of Morocco. And as we departed that evening from the railway, she told me that if her brother or father knew that we had spent the day together, who knows what would have been the result. I realized that girl was spunky. 

That brings me back to my barber. Well, he said that Fatima’s escapade just goes to show how honest Moroccan women are. She put it all up-front, she was honest. Fatime emailed me a few times in the months after our meeting, after which I immersed myself in the buzzing life of Budapest. And what became of Fatima? What became of Fatima?

December 9th, 2008

Staying in Bermuda

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

(Atlanta) I have left the magical island, the sleep-away camp, the azure-blue ocean, the lush greenery, the hibiscus bushes, the ocean-front resorts, the fancy wild chickens, the pristine beaches, the little islands; Bermuda. This morning the cultural navigator turned in the keys to his moped, checked out of his hotel, packed his sandals and was on his way.

I write these words from Atlanta, on layover and heading back towards what must be a snowy Montreal. My next adventure - in just a few days will be to Egypt where I will spend the holidays among the vestiges of one of the most ancient and rich cultures of the globe. 

Bermuda was strange island. But it was one that I will hopefully return to: as Mark Twain once said, ‘You go to heaven; I’ll stay here in Bermuda, thanks’. And it’s no wonder that the great American watercolourist Winslow Homer found solace and inspiration in the Bermudian landscape with its dramatic skies, intriguing light, and winds that blow crashing waves onto the sea.

But Bermuda may at a pivotal moment in its existence. With tourism wavering the island is looking for its raison d’être. We all know that corporations take advantage of the tax status of Bermuda and it makes for a kind of artificial economy. Like the Arab world which is blessed with money falling from the sky from oil-wealth, here too companies base themselves in this leafy paradise for fiscal gain. But in the balance is an island that doesn’t actually produce much. And one of the ideas that the revered Barrack Obama has come up with is closing the doors to just this kind of tax haven.

In the end I zipped around the island, from one end to the other – yesterday finishing my adventure in the small UNESCO-heritage site of St-George’s and its winding streets, and historic buildings.

December 7th, 2008

Moped culture

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

(Bermuda) It’s only been a couple of days, but I feel strangely Bermudian. I haven’t adopted the dress or anything (it still intrigues me, looks a tad funny), but this island is so village-like that running around it on a moped almost buys ownership. Many non-Bermudians seem to have adopted the island, and the moped is something of a tradition for them that buys into this ownership. Oh you’re on a moped, they say, you’re almost Bermudian now. After all, even if you do want a car it’s only one per family, and so it becomes their mode of transport. 

Bankers and insurance brokers zip back and forth to work on these roads that for the most part have no sidewalks. So you feel as free as a bird wandering the island that is rich in tropical vegetation, beautiful vistas. When it is sunny, it’s like a picture post-card. When windy like today, the seas are fierce and the landscape dramatic. I got drenched today. The island being only 21 square miles, it doesn’t take long to get to know the place. So I’ve been feeling like Lawrence of Arabia here, immersing myself in this tropical desert. Conquering the island. Today, for instance, I went pretty much from Hamilton to the western tip of Bermuda. Tomorrow, it’s off to the other end, St George.

December 5th, 2008

The Bermuda Box

Andrew Princz
Your Cultural Navigator

With the help of Beldwin and his trusted van ‘Devonstar’, I befriended the island. Beldwin, who was my taxi driver, told me so many stories in between my visits to hotels and resorts that I became dizzy. Not because I wasn’t interested, but because there was so much information to process. Stunning landscapes, colonial architecture, and then the social history that Beldwin himself has been a witness to.

“My mother said that I am colored, but after some time I could finally say that I am black and be proud of it,” he said of an early memory. Bermuda suffered the scourge of racism, and Beldwin has been witness to the long road towards racial equality. He remembers the day when voting rights were linked to land-ownership and color. He remembers the frustration of the first time he was able to vote: he was 27.

The day went by visiting lush properties, inspecting rooms and hotels for my client. The elegant and historic properties Elbow Beach; the newly constructed international Newstead (an older version of which was historic, and housed Mark Twain); the stunning views of The Reefs or the upscale tastes of Cambridge Beaches. I get the feeling that visitors to this destination consider it their second-home. And when I say hotel, don’t think of a tall building in Shanghai or any high-rise for that matter. Rooms here are more like cottages, and high-end Bermuda treats visitors in a more personal and personable manner. 

I am generally averse to describing food or restaurants - after all, culture is my deal. But the moment was special. A little tired, I ate lunch at Coconuts Restaurant at The Reefs hotel. The Reefs is located on a little cliff, and has a spectacular private beach. Lunch started with a healthy Dark ‘n’ Stormy, a Bermudian drink that is made up of good Rum and soda. Started with an appetizer of avocado and baby shrimp cocktail which was so amazing, with the shrimp melting in your mouth with a saucy vinaigrette. My main meal was grilled rockfish with coconut rice, roasted cherry-tomatoes, and a lemon-butter sauce. The sun warmed my face, my view a beautiful landscape of Azure-blue waters and sandy beaches. Life is good.

My day also ended with a Dark ‘n’ Stormy. I returned to the Verandah Bar at Elbow Beach to meet with Starla, a local events planner. As we drank and became acquainted, behind us were a group of corporate-types having a very important meeting. Only, this was a Bermudan business meeting. Get this, the guy - probably in his sixties - was wearing a smart suit and tie - AND - real-life Bermuda shorts and long socks. Personally it looked rather funny. It was like seeing my Nigerian brothers at the Abuja Carnival for the first time in their comfy gowns. So, this was Bermuda business wear!

Starla ended up inviting me to the opening of G-135, in Hamilton, to a very cool concept space that will be my hangout tomorrow. Three young guys set up the space, with its wide open industrial look and a ceiling that reached the skies. In the center are couches for internet surfing, and eating. All around the room are the works of craftspeople, designers, painters that are rented by the week, month, quarter or year. A really great idea. But the prices are decidedly Bermudian. I liked a special edition Zebra box. Price 875 dollars. It’s a Bermuda box!

About

Cultural Navigator, is a PlanetEye blog written by Andrew Princz, author, broadcaster and a chronicler of voyages. You can check his upcoming trips at the site OnTheGlobe.com

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