Impossible waterfalls

A while back one of my favorite travel sites, Vagabondish, displayed this photo with the title Impossible Waterfalls. Initially the editor wasn’t sure that the picture was authentic, nor did he know where the waterfalls were. Soon a reader came forth with the information that the photograph was of Plitvice Lakes in Croatia.

My list of places I simply must see is long and I may not be visiting Plitvice Lakes any time soon. But a day’s drive and an 11-mile trek into a canyon brings me to Havasu Falls, part of the Supai Indian Reservation in Arizona, which will have to tide me over until I find my way to Croatia!

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I must admit that I have an unhealthy obsession with health. I spend hours every week reading about health and wellness, from disease prevention to synthetic vitamins to fitness fads to organic farming. I am most interested in nutrition, good nutrition, something that is hard to come by in a society like ours where the food supply is largely controlled by corporations more interested in maximizing shelf life and profits than promoting national health.

I try hard to impart nutritional wisdom to my children, but I’ve found it difficult to make information about phytonutrients, enzymes, amino acids, and glycemic indices interesting or understandable to them.

I finally decided to teach them to rely on common sense and intuition where food is concerned. Mother Nature is not uncaring, nor is she irresponsible. She has given us all we need to be healthy, and has provided some clues for us to help us decide what to eat and in what proportions.

First of all, if it comes in a box, can, or is shrink wrapped, it is likely processed or preserved in an unnatural way and should be avoided. We should try to eat food, organically grown, in its most natural state. Vast fields of wheat, corn, and rice indicate that these grains should be a dietary staple. Brightly-colored fruits and veggies are highly nutritious and should comprise much of our daily diet. Amazingly, different colored foods generally contain different essential nutrients. A good rule of thumb is that our plates should be filled with color.

I tell them to take into account the size of particular foods. Apples, pears, bananas come individually packaged in a perfect portion size. Nuts, berries and seeds are small and, in their natural form, more difficult to come by. They are full of nutrients, including essential fatty acids which play a key role in many metabolic processes. Does this mean we should we eat an entire jar of roasted peanuts or handfuls of salted shelled sunflower seeds? No, we should eat these foods as though we were picking and/or shelling them ourselves.  A little goes a long way with seeds, nuts and berries.

Most cultures are much more attuned to the natural world than we are. They eat foods in season, in their natural state, usually freshly harvested. They make breads from freshly milled flour. They use fresh herbs and fresh perishable oils. They find medicinal uses for indigenous plants.

When I travel, I always visit the local food market, whether in a French village, a rural farming community, or a South American town. The array of color, texture, and variety excites me to no end. I love to see produce that I’ve never seen before—yellow pitaya, jujube fruits, mangosteen to name a few. Vendors often have a sample sliced open for display so shoppers can see the treasures hidden within. I often grab the most unusual items I see, rinse them with bottled water, and dine away.

Travel is always an adventure, and local markets enhance my appreciation and understanding of different cultures. If only I could be as open to trying carnivorous delicacies—guinea pigs, snakes, Japanese blowfish—the world would truly be my oyster.

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I’m not a normal girl. Maybe you aren’t either. Normal girls—I should say stereotypical girls—are supposed to live to shop, to have a closet overflowing with beautiful outfits, and shoes enough to embarrass Imelda Marcos. They will shop to assuage boredom, stave off depression, raise self esteem. I hate to shop so much that I pretty much wear what people have given me. As such, my style changes frequently depending on whose sartorial taste cloaks my body.

I think this extreme distaste for shopping has to do with my equally passionate distaste for the United States’ insane consumer culture. We, and our children, are inundated daily with advertisements for the latest must haves. I mean, how could anyone be happy without the latest Dooney wallet or electronic gizmo? If you saw the video The Story of Stuff, you probably agree that we are out of control with our gluttonous consumption of global resources.

There are a couple of exceptions to my rigid anti-consumerism. I love scarves and purses. I love Doc Martens and Prana pants. And I love love love authentic native crafts, wherever they may be found. Of course, our country is not content to keep its marketing efforts within its own borders. As a result, many indigenous cultures, especially the youth, have attempted to Westernize and have cheapened their own goods to have mass tourist appeal. In fact, many craft traditions are in danger of being lost all together.

In Cusco, Peru, I noticed that the indigenous children wear western-style clothing to school and elsewhere. Traditional Peruvian clothing is mostly worn as ceremonial garb these days. And the women who do wear brightly-colored traditional garb and weave on backstrap looms appear to be rather ancient themselves.

In her new book Weaving in the Peruvian Highlands, Nilda Callanaupa Alvarez, who grew up in the traditional Andean community of Chinchero, explains why ancient traditions are threatened by extinction in many cultures. In cultures with dual populations—indigenous and European colonial— traditional cloth is seen as having little value. In fact, to wear traditional Quechua clothing into town is to invite prejudice, even scorn, from the more modern colonialists. Cloth is easy to come by, made from synthetic materials, woven by machines, dyed in unnatural hues, inexpensive to produce. Clothes produced in this way can bow to ever-changing fashion trends and can be easily tossed out with every new fad. When tourism hits an area, like Cusco, a stop on the way to Machu Picchu, no shortage of entrepreneurs step in, eager to fast-track native crafts that appeal to the uneducated and undiscriminating typical tourist palate.

But what about the more rural areas where Spanish colonial influence isn’t as pervasive? According to Nilda, if a woman is lucky enough to receive an education and attend university, it is usually a one-way ticket to the west. For those women who remained in their villages, weaving became a trade, not a form of cultural expression, and many cloth traditions and patterns were cast aside in the name of efficiency and market appeal.

Nilda Alvarez was the first woman from the Chinchero region to attend the university in Cusco. She was subsequently given a grant to study textile history at UC-Berkeley where her own weaving gained recognition. She discovered that there was, indeed, a market for traditional Peruvian textiles—history buffs and art collectors. The Quechua people were selling their own clothing and blankets to interested collectors for a fraction of their worth, and with little ability to could replace what had been lost.

Nilda decided to return to Cusco where she founded the Center for Traditional Textiles. She has spent nearly twenty years perfecting her own weaving skills, and teaching and encouraging Chinchero and other Andean communities to recapture the excellence of traditional weaving. In Nilda Alvarez’ words:

...each and every piece of cloth embodies the spirit, skill, and personal history of an individual weaver. Weaving is a living art, an expression of culture, geography, and history. It ties together with an endless thread the emotional life of my people.

Before I travel again I am going to thorougly research the history of local crafts, go off the beaten path to find authentic examples of them, and be prepared to pay a fair price. In fact, I am not going to buy anything in tourist mercados or from merchants at bus stops. Such vendors are hurting the effort to preserve native traditions, as many tourists can be satisfied with cheap imitations instead of living art.

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Last July, the New Seven Wonders of the World were unveiled. They are wondrous, no doubt about it. But these seven sites made the list because they received the most votes from the general public. In other words, from tourists. For those of us who are somewhat crowd-averse, there may be other wonders to be had without danger of being struck by a tour bus.

Recently, Eric and I took the kids to Playa del Carmen, an easy flight from Denver and a place we visit pretty regularly. This time we decided to escape the crowded beaches and packed bars of Fifth Avenue and head south to Tulum to see the ruins.

We arrived in Tulum. We saw the ruins. We took the tour, learned a number of interesting things, took a few photos and headed out, along with everyone else. Not wanting to jump back in a van so quickly, our little group decided to walk down the beach a bit to escape the crowds. In less than a mile, we came across an adorable place, La Vita e Bella—a cluster of bungalows on a rockless white sand beach, clear turquoise waters—pretty as a postcard, really.

Out of curiosity, we went into the tiny lobby and asked its sole occupant, a young man sitting in a chair, about room rates. He quoted us $100 USD/night and jumped up, grabbed a set of keys and headed out the door toward the beach. We followed him, too language-challenged to tell him we were simply asking for future reference.

He led us to a lovely bungalow, a mere 30 feet from the ocean, with a red-tiled floor, a lofted wood-beamed ceiling with a rattan ceiling fan, crisp white linens, a colorful ceramic sink and, get this, a large covered porch with comfortable chairs, a wicker lounge and a big hammock! Eric and I looked at each other and a moment of spontaneous assent passed between us. We’ll take it! we announced in unison.

From this new home base, and after a few questions put to locals in the small town of Tulum, we had a great itinerary.

1. Coba – Perhaps not as spectacular as Chichen Itza, but one of the Mayan ruins in Mexico that still allow visitors to walk throughout the structures and surrounding jungle. We climbed to the top of Nohoch Mul, the highest pyramid in the Yucatan, and took pictures of the kids lying on the altar where human sacrifices were made. A big thrill for two 9-year-olds!,

2. Grand Cenote – The Yucatan is home to a vast interconnected underground water system that connects to the Caribbean Sea. Cenotes are sinkholes, sacred wells to the ancient Maya, that give us a glimpse into this system of tunnels and caves. At Grand Cenote, we snorkeled through underwater caverns, filled with fresh cold water as well as warmer salt water, and saw amazing stalagtites and small schools of fish.

3. Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve – A 1.3 million-acre protected area filled with wildlife, plants and archeological sites. We took a motorized skiff through lagoons and mangrove channels, believed to be ancient Mayan trade routes. We jumped into the water and floated through the channels past orchids and rare birds. Afterward we ate a delicious lunch with our fellow tourists from Europe, twelve of us in all.

This may not sound like extreme adventure travel. Indeed it wasn’t. But 9-year-old American children live very predictable, structured and over-scheduled lives. When we finally boarded the van back to Playa del Carmen, still wearing the same clothes we had on a few days earlier, they had learned a valuable lesson. The wonders of the world are everywhere. And it’s okay to toss the itinerary, veer off the well-worn path, and remain open to the possibility that you might stumble upon a wonder or two of your own.

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The 132nd Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show aired this week, much to my excitement and sheer delight. Broadcast from Madison Square Garden, the competition is the height of absurdity, but plenty of hilarious fun. In case you’ve never watched, dozens of dogs, broken into categories such as sporting, terrier, herding, or toy are placed, one by one, on a table draped with fine linens and examined by a stern-looking woman wearing a full-length silk dupioni skirt and fitted cropped jacket, pearls and heels. She dramatically pulls back the lips of each show dog to inspect the teeth and gums, checks the body position, runs her hands up and down the pooch’s torso to assess bone structure, lifts the tail for reasons unknown, and then grunts her assent.

The handler then puts the dog to the ground and somberly run-walks it in front of the bedecked judging panel. This is the best part of the circus. The women handlers are middle-aged, wearing knee-length skirts and sensible shoes and are usually a bit frumpy. The male handlers, in great contrast, are handsome young men wearing Armani suits. The spectacle never fails to make me laugh hysterically, even to the point of falling from my chair.

One of the more interesting things in the show is the commentary about the history of the various purebred dogs: where they originated and what their use was in bygone days. Dogs were domesticated generally not as pets, but as herders, hunters, workers, or for the amusement of the royal and wealthy.

There are 400 million domesticated dogs around the globe. Scientists looking into canine DNA have postulated that all dogs descended from gray wolves in East Asia about 15,000 years ago, and came to the New World across the Bering Straight with human nomads. Analysis of ancient canine skeletons from Alaska to Peru shows a genetic link to the Old World gray wolf. However, the DNA of modern New World dogs shows no evidence of Old World wolf genes, likely because European colonists brought their own hybrid dogs and systematically discouraged breeding of Native American dogs. Even the Mexican hairless dog, thought to have developed in the Americas nearly 2,000 years ago, possesses mostly European DNA.

Hybridization to develop new breeds began a mere 500 years ago, and has resulted in the widely-divergent pure breeds we see today. This targeted breeding continues and each year another specimen or two is added to the American Kennel Club’s canine A-list. This year it is the French Beauceron and the Swedish Vallhund. As in human inbreeding, notably the royal families of Europe who have close blood ties which are strengthened by noble intermarriage, incestually-bred organisms are more likely to manifest genetic imperfections and problematic temperaments. Still, the lure of genetic purity remains.

A recent study reported in Science magazine found that dogs are perhaps the most perceptive species when it comes to recognizing and interpreting human behavior. A 15,000-year friendship between man and animal has engendered this symbiotic bond. Watching the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, with its products of purposeful breeding, had me wondering about man’s relationship with dogs in other parts of the world. Do they pamper, exercise, feed and water their dogs like we do? Are dogs beloved family members or communal property tended by all? What types of dogs have arisen when natural selection and breeding are allowed to reign?

On your travels, take note of the dogs. Are they skinny and neglected or, as in Peru, seemingly well-tended but running free? I was recently in Playa del Carmen walking along Fifth Avenue and noticed dogs of every shape and size, well-behaved and non-threatening, but seemingly never attached to an owner, let alone a leash. Try also to find out the dogs’ names. Rover, Spot, and Fido? Or are they named like the show pups: Roundtown Mercedes Of Maryscot, Cookieland Seasyde Hollyberry, or Jangio’s Ringo Starr Kurlkrek?

Below is a picture of a dog that was sitting at my feet in a cafe in Aguas Calientas, near Machu Picchu. If you are so inclined, take pictures of street dogs in your travels, or even dogs with owners, and send them to me. I will do the same on my upcoming trips to Argentina and Chile. I’d love to amass a collection of pictures and stories of dogs around the globe. There will be no trophies or prize money awarded. This will be purely for fun.

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This time of year I get a little stir crazy. The holidays are over; the kids are back in school. Spring is on the distant horizon. The house feels like a stale box, the car an all-too-familiar muddy cubicle. Sure we have a few trips planned, always a comfort, but I need something to do now. This very weekend.

I live in Colorado so skiing is always an option. But, truthfully, skiing takes time and money and equipment, all of which are in short supply these days. This morning, out of sheer desperation, I donned my parka and YakTrax and took a hike through the newly-opened Cheyenne Mountain State Park, a mere five minutes from my house. I felt relieved and refreshed to be in the crisp air with only blue jays and a lone woodpecker for company. But now I’m home, showered, watching the clock, thinking about dinner, and….blah blah blah.

While hiking today, so close to home but seemingly worlds away, I had a bit of an if the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed will come to the mountain moment. I decided that it’s silly for me to sit around wishing I was hiking the Milford Track with my girlfriends in New Zealand, which is actually what I’m pouting about, when I live at the base of a fourteener, Pikes Peak. So I’ve decided. I’ll find a companion, and I will come to the mountain!

Hiking Barr Trail to the summit of Pikes Peak and back is a 26-mile round trip, too much for a single day, especially with snow and ice significantly slowing progress. A better, and much more fun, option is to hike to Barr Camp and spend the night there. We can head back down on Sunday morning and be home in time to watch the San Diego-New England playoff game!

Barr Camp is a lovely mountain, um, bed and breakfast. An advertisement would read something like this:

Rustic getaway in historic cabin nestled in the pines. All the comforts of home. Breakfast and dinner served by attentive staff. Close to hiking trails.

And the fine print:

7 miles of packed snow and ice to the foyer. A bunkhouse that sleeps 15, lean-to shelters for 3, tent sites for complete privacy. Spaghetti and pancakes prepared daily by live-in caretakers. Spring water, literally, so bring a bottle and some treatment tablets. No running water. No electricity. Shared solar composting toilet nearby. Cell phone reception available on a rock in a clearing up the path.

Experience camaraderie with other hikers, black bears, skunks, mountain lions and a menagerie of brazen chipmunks. Rates from $10/night, breakfast included. Dinner $7 additional. Reservations recommended, but not required, especially in winter.

Now, having made my rash decision, I’m racing around searching for items labeled Smart Wool, North Face, Patagonia—anything purchased from REI really. I’m considering each body part in that pre-outdoor-adventure kind of way. Actually, because I am very visual, I make a “person” on the floor of the dining room. I dress it in layers until I’m sure it looks like it’s ready to go. I learned this trick getting ready for family ski trips. With six kids I’ve never found a better way to make sure that everyone has absolutely everything they need, from long underwear to hand warmers. It looks very cool when we’re done—like we’re having an apres-ski party with friends who’ve been flattened by a Sno-Cat.
 

 
The weather forecast for Barr Camp predicts a high of 19 degrees tomorrow. There is currently 40 inches of snow on the ground. Ice, packed snow and drifts cover the trail. I’m thinking I should run out and get snowshoes. I doubt if hiking boots and gaiters are going to cut it.
 
Suddenly my stale box feels like a warm and cozy respite from the cold.

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The kids are still on Christmas break and are starting to show definite signs of cabin fever. To stave off a domestic implosion, we took a trip up to the Denver Art Museum yesterday. The DAM recently opened a spectacular addition designed by Daniel Libeskind, the architect whose design was chosen to rebuild the World Trade Center site. But I had an ulterior motive. I’d recently read about the DAMs 16,000-piece assemblage of pre-Columbian and Spanish Colonial art, including one of the world’s largest collections of Costa Rican artifacts, nearly 2,000 items, donated to the museum by Denver businessman, Frederick Mayer, and his wife.  I wanted to check it out.

My BFF and I are planning to visit Costa Rica later this month. Although not much is known about pre-Columbian Costa Rica in comparison to the high cultures of Mexico and South America, recent excavations have uncovered numerous artifacts, including jade carvings. Jade is green and pretty and shiny, perfect for an art lover of my caliber, so I wanted to see it for myself. Call it a bit of research before hitting the craft markets in Sarchi!

Sure enough, my friend and I lost ourselves in a huge room filled with thousands of artifacts. Stone, ceramic, textiles, gold and, oh yes, jade. After an hour or so, we’d barely made a dent in the pre-Columbian collection. Vowing a subsequent visit to the Spanish Colonial galleries, we left to collect the kids before their art experience became Night-mare at the Museum.

As always, looking at ancient artifacts leads me into lofty reverie of past worlds and bare-chested warriors. But this time I couldn’t help but wonder about Jan and Frederick Mayer as well. Certainly amazement and appreciation for their commitment to art and to philanthropy. But really, how on earth had one couple managed to collect this much art from a small Central American country? And why aren’t many of the beautiful pieces residing in Costa Rica, teaching and providing inspiration to Costa Ricans? Especially because Costa Rican pre-Columbian history is not nearly as well-documented as that of its neighbors.

Costa Rica has taken significant measures to protect their natural environment from exploitation. Nearly 20% of the land is set aside for preserves, parks or refuges of some sort. But after my trip to the Denver Art Museum, I’m thinking that perhaps Costa Rica should endeavor to protect other national treasures, especially art created at the hands of largely unknown ancestors, from passionate and well-meaning American oilmen.

I will visit the museums in San Jose and let you know how they measure up against the breathtaking Denver Art Museum, with its encyclopedic collection of pre-Columbian Costa Rican artifacts—and hopefully return with a few shiny jade replicas of my own!

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I did not travel much growing up. Sure, we drove our white Ford station wagon around the country, back in the glorious days when parents cared little about their children’s safety and could lay down the seats to make a completely flat area for napping or playing games. But with six kids and limited funds, my family did not do any international travel, unless you consider the Canadian side of Niagara Falls to be international.

No, I did my traveling in my little bedroom. I read about wonderful European villages where little children dressed in beautiful woolen outfits and picked wildflowers or tended pet goats. Children who lived in brownstones on narrow cobblestone streets and ate chicken and dumplings for lunch. Children who may actually have known the muffin man.

After graduating from college, I worked as a CPA for a number of years. I was in my element in the world of big business, suited up in my Ann Taylor fashions, clutching my leather briefcase, driving all around Denver in my Honda Civic. At one point my company decided to send a co-worker and me to London to test software for a client. Because Laura and I were going to be in London for several weeks, the company decided to rent a two-bedroom flat for us. A flat! I was actually going to live in a flat! One lovely business-class flight later we were on our way to our temporary home. Here’s where the story gets embarrassing.

We got into the taxi and drove through the beautiful countryside to a small village outside London. Did I, a nascent traveler, press my face against the window and drink in the sights and sounds of England, my birthplace? No. I cringed at the effect the humidity was having on my hair and buried my face in my jacket to avoid the pungent scent of previous passengers.

Relieved to arrive at the flat, I jumped out of the cab into the fresh air. Laura and I walked inside and poked around each room. Laura squealed with delight at the English teapot and the claw-footed tub. I, on the other hand, noticed that the tub was brown porcelain, had lime stains in it, and did not appear to possess a showerhead. The bath towels on our beds felt crispy. The appliances were old-fashioned and the apartment had, get this, a rotary phone.

The remainder of the trip was a quest to isolate me from anything British. Laura and I ate lunch at Pizza Hut every day because they had a non-smoking section and a salad bar, two things that most authentic pubs and restaurants didn’t offer. And, after I caught what was likely a common flu bug, poor Laura, who had hardly ever seen me outside a business suit, had to hold me in my bed all night and reassure me that, no, I hadn’t caught the Black Plague or some other virulent foreign disease that my American immune system couldn’t handle.

Toward the end of our trip, Laura and I found time to see a play in London’s West End. As we exited the theater we found ourselves in the middle of a poll tax riot, an event significant enough to make the front page of our Denver Post. Instead of enjoying the unexpected camaraderie of dozens of young Londoners, or watching the patient bobbies on horseback, we ran through the streets hysterically shouting “We’re Americans!” so no one would think that we were, well, them.

I attribute my childish behavior to the insulated life I’d led and my fear of the unfamiliar. Yes, it was only England, but still I experienced culture shock. The smells were different, the sights, the tastes, the feel of the air, the dress, the words, the humor, the politics. In short, everything was different. And I’d only wanted the flowers and the pet goat.

As I’ve continued to travel for the past twenty years, I’ve become more educated about the world, more appreciative of history, and much less afraid of everything and everyone. I realize that different life experiences, especially travel experiences, allow us to access a sort of cosmic energy and expand ourselves into more interesting, understanding and peaceful people. And sometimes the worst of times become our fondest memories.

So now when I experience culture shock, I no longer plug my ears and hum loudly. Instead, I stare straight ahead, take a deep breath and embrace the power of culture chakra!

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Coming soon… some exciting blogs about cultural topics from around the world!

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