horizon hunters

{ traveling around the world }

Here’s to traveling with old friends.

Days, weeks, even months before our arrival in Istanbul we knew that we were going to Istanbul by the end of September. We had a pair of good friends to meet who were going to travel halfway around the world to see a bit of Turkey and spend some time trotting around the globe with us. While our time in Israel was special indeed, the moment when we would be able to see Cameron and Mai in Istanbul couldn’t come fast enough.

On the road we have met tons of wonderful and amazing people, but seeing people you’ve spent the past 4 or 5 years talking to and hanging out with on a daily or weekly basis brings an entirely new experience to the table. After months on the road it was refreshing to share experiences with someone that didn’t require several days of getting-to-know-you conversations – we just jumped right in to traveling together.

The night before the two showed up, Hisako and I debated as to whether or not we’d go to the airport to surprise them or meet them at the hostel. Cameron caught me on chat a little later that night and I told him we’d see him at the hostel. We had other plans.

Sunday morning broke nice and bright and Hisako and I ate breakfast on the hostel’s rooftop terrace. Looking out across Istanbul, there was a small rain shower falling on the opposite side of the Bosphorus while sunlight glinted off the choppy surf in the straight. Between bites of egg and toast, Hisako and I talked excitedly about the arrival of our two friends.

The energy and excitement continued throughout the day and by noon I found it hard to sit around and relax with their arrival time getting closer by the minute. Finally we grabbed our day packs and headed out the hostel door for the airport. The plane was scheduled for a 16:00 arrival so we caught the 15:30 tram.

Just a few minutes before 16:00 the tram pulled into the airport terminal and we made our way towards the arrival terminal. As with all international airports you need to wait just outside of customs. The tantalizing glimpses into the customs area were afforded by the infrequent openings and closings of the doors just ahead of us.

The door opened and I craned my neck over the crowd to see a group of Japanese tourists come steaming out. You can tell they are Japanese from several tells – the omiyage bags baring gifts for their hosts or business partners in Turkey, a your leader holding a small flag, or the latest in shiny travel gear (raincoats, etc).

Hisako quickly pulled me down with rapid and sudden force. “What if they see you?! I want to surprise them!” she whispered strongly into my ear. So we kept our heads low trying to find somewhere in the crowd that let just enough space for us to view the doors and not be seen.

The minutes were ticking away painfully slowly. Somewhere around the 16:30 mark I was starting to get very anxious and Hisako started mumbling something about why if we missed them? I couldn’t see how that was possible as we had gotten there before they had physically landed and had seen everyone one coming out the door. I felt like I could create a small dossier on half of them after scrutinizing them so closely.

I was shifting my weight between my left and right food and giving my neck a stretch when my sixth sense kicked in. I dropped my head and searched for an opening between the maze of heads, armpits, and torsos.

There was Cameron just outside the door and Mai close behind!

Staring up at the signs directing them to the tram, they were orienting themselves. Giving Hisako and I a solid idea of their intended direction. We ducked down again, creeping over to the end of the human wall plastered up against the ropes keeping us spilling over into the exit. We waited.

Four, five, six people passed on front of us and then the familiar profiles of Mai and Cameron were there just a meter or two away and we sprang like lionesses. The hunt was over in a second as we embraced and yelled “surprise!” Both gladly returned the hugs and we all began chattering away while undoubtedly blocking the way for the other passengers hoping to catch the train.

Our new travel companions were good sports that night, fighting jet lag and joining us out for our first of many Turkish meals together. I sat at the table with Cameron and Mai just feet from me on the other side and felt a wave of happiness rush over me.

They may have traveled around the world to see us, but I felt right at home.

I have a new theory when it comes to viewing touristy spots. Never go somewhere you’ve seen on film and expect the world. Go somewhere you’ve seen on postcards and expect the ordinary.

That’s exactly what happened to me when I went to Petra in Jordan and the Taj Mahal in India.

Let me explain.

Ever since I was a kid I’ve been watching sports on TV. TV has that magical ability to turn even those most mundane spectator sports into something thrilling. Bowling anyone? But it’s more than just the instant replays, catchy graphics, and interviews that adds so much to sport TV, it’s the angles.

I remember a few super bowls ago the NFL introduced 3D rotation by piecing together shots from several cameras. Next super bowl they gave us us cameras actually planted into the turf for extreme closeups. Suddenly those linemen are looking huge from an ant’s perspective!

Then you actually go to a game and rather than an ant’s, your view is that of a bird’s. The play seems far off, the motions slower, and the stadium smaller. The last is what really relates to Petra.

No more dugout cameras or home plate shots where the green monster looks absolutely gigantic. Heck, a homer cracked by even the biggest guns may not even make it to eye level before falling into the seats below you. If it wasn’t for the atmosphere of a live game then we might be doing a lot more viewing from home. All because our image of sports is from cameras that put us right into the action and remove the peripheral. 360 degrees of viewing capability will belittle even the biggest events and stadiums.

And so it was that I came to Petra with the Indiana Jones theme song running amuck in my head as Lucas shoots from nearly ground level at Dr Jones rearing back on his stead with the treasury of Petra in the background. I can’t see the canyon on either side In Lucas’ composition, the blue sky above, or the twisting siq behind the camera. Just a towering palace carved into the sheer rock face and a whole lot of mystery lying within it’s depths. (for the record, the inside of the treasury is a shallow, square room. Sorry.)

I was not as impressed with the reality as I was with the film version. The rest of the park certainly made up for it, however.

Fast forward about 6 months to India because I’m lazy about updating this blog.

My arrival in Agra, home to the Taj Mahal was in the dark. Just like when we got to Wadi Musa, and I had no view of the Taj at that time. Just like the treasury I had an image of the tourist icon in my head, but with one big difference.

The image I had of the Taj was a stationary one. From snapshots, postcards, and magazines. I knew the perspectives, I knew the look, and I had read all the guidebooks telling me to go and I wouldn’t be disappointed. I had serious doubts because it was so hyped and I had seen images of it all my life.

Yet, when I saw the Taj Mahal it was exactly as I had seen it in pictures and it was still impressive.

I tried to think if it was the matriculate construction, perfect symmetry, or masterful design, but I think it was because I never saw the Taj in “motion” so to speak, that really gave it the edge.

Looking at a picture I could always imagine what is going on around outside of the frame, my mind putting into perspective the vantage point of the photographer. In film, I seem to defer to the director with regard to things outside of the frame. Expecting them to show me what is happening there. If the director doesn’t deem it important enough to put in the frame then I don’t worry about it.

So standing at the edge of the reflecting pools gazing up at the Taj Mahal I was neither floored nor disappointed, but extremely pleased that it matched my expectations and looked great. I’m going to attribute this to the fact that I never saw the Taj Mahal in film and only in pictures.

Now I ask you, do 3D films seem like such a hot idea?

My first few days in India are like living a dream. The sights are exceptional, often surreal. Just as I would expect in a dream. The chaos often makes more sense to my subconscious. Just as I would expect in a dream. Except in a dream I rarely hear sound or at least I can’t remember the sounds of my dreams. India is all about the sound.

In the morning I awake to the bustling street noises or the hostel staff jabbering away downstairs and in the afternoon I’m beeped, honked, and screeched at so many times that it is becoming white noise. By night the busy sounds of the kitchen next to our room fill my eardrums with the clattering of pans and cutlery as the staff finish up another day of stewing curries and frying samosas.

Maybe you can get away from the sounds in India but I have yet to discover where that may be. 1.2 billion people tucked into the 7th largest country in the world means there isn’t a lot of elbow room. According to Wikipedia the average person per square kilometer is 51 (exluding Antarctica & water) whereas India is 363 per square kilometer, the densest country for an area of 200,000 sq kilometers or more. Seeing as India has 3.2 million sq kilometers of space, you can wander many a kilometer and never feel like you are getting away from it all. I reckon getting out of earshot means rowing a boat out to sea.

Not that the sound is bothering me, I’ve just never experienced it quite like this. My relatively low voice and quiet demeanor are a stark contrast to the higher pitched Indians with their percolating voices. It’s no wonder that the average cell phone conversation I overhear consists of two parts discussion and one part “huh’s?”. Even those alto voices are having trouble cutting through the growing crescendo of rickshaw and taxi horns.

The sound of the road is unparalleled. In restaurants, hostels, and parks you are never far from a road so the noise has a tendency to dine with you or relax on a spot of grass with you. When you do find that eye in the storm, your body recoils from the lack of chaos and a surreal sensation cascades over you. Suddenly you feel empty, something is missing, and then you realize that it’s the sound. The very think that bashed my eardrums when I stepped out of the hostel in the morning has become a cacoon in which I’ve been wandering the streets of Delhi in.

The sound has grown on me because it’s a constant reminder of humanity all around you. The air is alive and with the sounds wrapping around you and embracing you. Your thoughts are yours when out on the busy street. You could whistle, cough, or sneeze and no one would stare (you’ll get stares for your looks, but not sound). The noise is so constant that the click of a camera shutter goes wihtout notice and me chugging water must look like a silent film to the person standing next to me.

India sings.

I join in the chorus.

I woke up to the sound of dragons breathing fire. Warm beneath my thick blanket I pried open my eyes to look around the cave. Hisako is still resting nearby but Cameron and Mai have gone out to check out the dragons. I threw back the covers and shuffled over to the door. More urgency is generally called for when dragons are on the mind, but when I looked up to see what Cameron and Mai were looking at I relaxed and watched the hot air balloons floating gracefully through the morning air of Cappadocia.

Up above the world so high, like a dragon in the sky...

A beautiful day for a ride.

In a car.

Getting Started

An hour later Cameron and I head down to the car rental place to pick up a compact for a day of cruising around underground cities, chiseled canyons, and lots of open road. Immediately we notice that the gas tank reads empty, but Cameron shrugs it off.

“We’ll be fine, probably enough in there to get to the next town to fill up.”

Goreme doesn’t do gas stations.

So we head back to our cave hotel, grab a quick breakfast, and then the four of us pile into the car and head for the hills.

20 minutes later the tank is full and I consult our makeshift atlas (various tabs open in the web browser thanks to Google maps when we had an Internet connection) and set a course for the underground city of Kayamakli.

Caverns of Kayamakli underground city

The Underground City

Outside of Goreme the valley disappears and slowly rolling hills and plains fill the field of view. I’m alternating between enjoying the view, chatting, and chomping on Turkish delight when we see signs for Kayamakli up ahead. Cameron slows the car and pulls into a parking lot and we all tumble out.

We pass through a set of stalls that are trying to sell us trinkets of all types of touristic appetizers but we pass them up and head straight for the main course. Standing near the entrance to the city are several tour guides that take quite a bit convincing that we are perfectly capable of walking through a well maintained and lit underground cavern all on our own. Then the fun begins.

The lost explorers find a whole lot of fun

Down a quick flight of steps and we step into the first chamber. Hand chiseled and 5 to 6 meters in width and depth the ceiling hangs low and the lights seem to struggle to illuminate the space. Gobbling up ever last particle of light as it bounces around the dark walls. Both hard as, erm, rock and yet brittle, the walls are made of a rock soft enough to be sculpted by hundreds of hand held and operated tools. Dark smears of soot remind us of the days before Edison and we make our way through the first arch into a long hallway.

Grow me a pair of antenna and a thorax because I feel like an ant. In the catacombs of a church you have brick or the subways of Tokyo, tiles, hiding the barren the earth from you. Maybe even some embellishments. Here there are just a series of unadorned caverns connected by narrow passages. Tourists like us now swarm this nest, but 100′s of years ago it served as an emergency refuge to the people here when marauding tribes came through.

Mai and Cameron dart off ahead giving into their inner child and revel in the best conceived playground for hide and seek. I quickly follow suit and Cameron is quick to point out this wouldn’t have been possible with a guide pushing us through the chambers.

Ventilation shaft

Down, down, down like Johnny Cash we scuttle, sometimes backs bent at 90 degree angles, though arches, tubes, and caves into the bowels of this great city. Winery on my left, kitchen on my right, and living quarters straight ahead I try to imagine what it would have been like waiting for your enemies to pass while you scape out an existence like Gollem. At the back of one chamber we feel a cool air blowing from a nearby hole and investigate.

Looks like these people studied termites as they’ve constructed ventilation shafts in a similar fashion. Using a flashlight we cannot see an end to the darkness either up or down. Black, brittle rock wins.

So many levels to hide on

The delight of wandering these tunnels makes me start humming and it’s not long before my voice and ears stumble upon the resonance pitch. The whole cavern fills with the sound of my voice and before long Camero, Hisako, and Mai join in and we make our glee-club way through the rest of the passages.

Returning to the surface, I stare at the blue sky for a bit and then the ground from which I just emerged. The city lays beneath us ready to welcome more visitors and show thousands more the beauty of a determination, urgency, and skill.

Turkish delight - fuel for the road

Ihlara Valley

Back in the car again I pull up the laptop atlas and give Cameron rough directions to our next destination via route 51-87. Captain Beccario makes it so. The girl get to talking about ramen and Japanese food in the back seat and soon I can almost here the slow bubbling of broth and sizzle of freshly cooked gyoza when it grows suspiciously quiet. I turn around and see both passed out so I turn my mind from tantanmen and Cameron and I do more catching up as he guides us towards the canyon.

Humans may be able to tunnel and shape this earth but it always pales in comparison to the awesome power of time plus mother nature. Before us lay a rift 100′s of meters across and deep. The sound of small rapids was barely audible from our high perch on the canyon wall. Far below, the nourishment of the river was immediately evident, the green standing in stark contrast to the brown landscape surrounding us. The Ihlara valley canyon is yet another oddity in the lands of Cappadocia.

Ihlara valley

Hisako bought our tickets, for it’s a national park, and I went through the iron gates and started down the steps to the valley floor. The shadows were already racing towards the valley wall when we arrives but the southern facing cliffs were awash in a golden glow. As we neared the valley floor the rush of the stream became pronounced but never boisterous.

No tour guides were needed here either with signs marking the way. The towering canyon walls and stream also made it obvious enough that you had a binary decision to make, left or right. Mai was up ahead tossing rocks into the stream trying to see if a stick in the water was actually a snake. “Plop” went the stones. “…” went the stick. Cameron and Hisako were snapping pictures with gusto and I joined them.

And I am still feeling like an ant.

Big canyon walls

Walking along the valley floor was the exact opposite of the caves where you burrowed your way into darkness. Here the massive walls would dwarf Shaq. Being put in my place didn’t stop me from admiring the view though, as we all walked along the gorgeous and lush valley floor.

About an hour into our stroll I’m feeling peckish and suggest we make use of our idyllic surroundings and food in our packs for a light lunch. Sitting beside the stream we munch on snacks and enjoy the sounds of nature all around us.

Towards the end of the trail we spot the no picnicking sign.

Not exactly my image of central Turkey

At the end of the valley we head back the way we came from, but this time with a quicker pace and make our way to the cafe that we had spotted on the way. Sitting along the river bank and a few tables actually in the rushing water, we sip on Turkish coffee. Cameron is still trying to overcome the sensation and taste of Turkish coffee and gives us endless amusement with an array of contorted faces. When not puckering up because of the strong brew, he has found a flock of ducks who are flocking to his iPhone like Apple fanboys. Ooo bright and shiny. Hisako also finds a berry that one unfortunate duck nibbles on and makes faces like Cameron drinking coffee. More hilarity ensues.

With the shadows having completed their marathon across the valley floor we decide it’s time to head back to the car.

The stream slowly fades away as we ascend and we make it to the car as the last rays of sunlight give the valley a miss and head for the hills.

We follow.

Ducks enjoying the cafe

A quick break to enjoy the sunset

Behind the Scenes

The plains and valleys in the Cappadocia region are sparsely populated with public transport, making seeing a few sights in a single day difficult so striking out on your own is a great option if you’ve got the funds. We paid about 80TL for one day of car rental, although you can find cheaper if you plan far enough in advance. To do the tour around to the different sights cost about 55 to 60TL in gas.  With four people that becomes an economical option to see everything.

Tour books recommend Kayamakli over the other underground cities in the area.  I haven’t been to the others, but Kayamakli was a blast.

For canyon lovers, the Ihlara valley is beautiful and an oasis of green in the rather brown landscape.  The hike down and back in the valley can be done quickly (couple of hours) and is very easy. The cafe in the middle is an absolute gem in terms of setting.  Prices are average.

Check out the erosion both man made and by mother nature in the photo gallery.

Thanks to a worsening relations between Turkey and Israel it turned out our trip from Tel Aviv to Istanbul was going to put a wrench in the works for our plan to go from Cairo to London by land transport. Strike one came when we tried to cross into Syria with an American passport and going through Iraq would prove tricky to say the least. Thanks to various tensions between Israel and it’s neighbors, the ferry was no longer an option without going to Cyprus first and then transferring to another boat. This option would cost a ton of money so we began looking for alternatives.

Taking AirBaltic to Istanbul

We began grilling our friend Ram to see if he might have any suggestions as to what we could do and he mentioned airline flights. Intrigued, we sat down at the closest discount flight web site and starting punching in dates and destinations.

In Europe and elsewhere in the world, it’s no secret that discount airfares can be just a few euros if you plan far enough ahead. We were planning only a couple of days in advance. Probably the big reason why we had trouble finding anything that wasn’t going to cost us less than a couple hundred dollars. Still, after a bit of searching, we found numerous options that were going to cost less than the ferry through Cyprus so we scored a mini victory there.

Finally we decided on the cheapest ticket we could find, but took some deliberation because of the estimated travel time and distance. As everyone knows, with discount travel you can expect to head in some random direction and that’s exactly what we did.

Our tickets with AirBaltic were going to send us through Riga, Latvia before doing a 180 degree turn and taking us back to Istanbul. Ignoring the curvature of the earth and using good ‘ol  Google Maps it looks like we actually flew right over Istanbul. Where are the savings in all this?!

Our flight out of Tel Aviv was a red eye one so we left sometime after midnight and then reclined in our seats for only a couple of hours before touching down in Latvia.  Compared to the distances we experienced in South America it was a surprise to feel the plane coming down after only a couple of hours in the air.  Around 5 in the morning we landed at Riga and crashed on the nearest airport bench that we could find. Sometime around 6 in the morning Hisako scored a couple of blankets that came in handy considering that the temperatures were much cooler than what we experienced in the Middle East.

Hisako scores a blanket!

Rubbing our eyes as the morning sunlight began filtering through the blinds we rose from our cold benches and meandered downstairs to our gate to hang out on more cold benches.  Dressed in a t-shirt I was definitely not prepared for this and my Grinnell jumper was buried deep down in my checked-in luggage so that didn’t do me any good. Finally the time came and the flight attendants called our number and we headed to gate 2B.

Around noon, from the airplane window we saw a sliver of Latvia in the light this time and the lush green spreading out to the horizon below me immediately made me want to come back here. Reclining in my seat I dozed off to get some much needed rest and several hours later we arrived in Istanbul.  Not exactly the way we had pictured arriving in the gateway between east and west, but another adventure all the same.

Happy Hisako arrives in Istanbul

Behind the Scenes

The ferries between Israel and Turkey are closed until further notice at time of writing.  We tried looking at traveling by the Poseidon Lines and Salamis Lines ferries, but both had suspended service.  Keep an eye out for when they might resume.

As long as you don’t have a US passport (or have a visa already) and don’t have a Israeli stamp in your passport you can do the overland trip through Syria. This would be a lot cheaper than flying.

If you are going to visit Israel before trying to go through Syria, it is recommended that you do the Hussain / Allenby Bridge crossing so you can say you just went to the Palestine territories and not Israel if the Syrian authorities ask you.

“I’m sorry but you’ll have to leave that here or turn back,” stated the security guard.

“This size knife isn’t allowed into the Temple Mount.”

Arg… I had two options as the guard had so elegantly put it, give up my Swiss Army knife or skip out on seeing the Dome of the Rock. I looked at my army knife and then up the security corridor towards the entrance to the third holiest spot in Islam. If it wasn’t for the throngs of tourists piling up behind me I would have slapped myself in the forehead for my short-sidedness. I cursed myself for picking an extra big pocket knife (I liked the long blade when I saw it in Bolivia). I cursed myself for keeping it in my day pack rather than my backpack like I usually do.

Then I walked out the door with my pocket knife.

The walkway up to the Dome of the Rock

I b-lined it straight back to the hostel through a series of twisting alleyways. The hostel lay on the border between the Armenian and Jewish quarters. I entertained the idea of hiding the knife somewhere, but then thought better of trying to hide a weapon under some rocks in one of the holiest places in the world. It’s all solid stone walls everywhere anyway.

Step, step, step, step… Flashbacks of La Paz running through my mind but no adverse altitude related setbacks so I plug along. Finally back at the hostel I climb the first, second, third, and forth flight of stairs to my waiting backpack on the hostel roof. I think it smirked at me.

Mosaics on the outside of the Dome of the Rock

Back down all those steps again, trying to keep pace with the Orthodox Jews streaking around corners ahead of me, I make my way back down to the security checkpoint. Of course the line would be three times longer than 30 minutes ago now wouldn’t it?

Just my camera in my pocket this time around and I place it firmly into the small basket beside the metal detector and strut through. The guards have changed so I don’t get the satisfaction of boasting about spoiling their plot to abduct my knife.

Up the gangway towards the dome of the Rock I peer out through the slats in the wood at the Jews below praying at the wailing wall. Suddenly all my troubles seem a bit trivial.

Dome of the Rock in Temple Mount

Inside I begin the second phase of my mission, which is to find Hisako. We had to part at the security checkpoint, but she promised to be hanging around inside. Stepping out of the tunnel, it surprises me as to just how big the building is. The Dome rises up over the trees on my left and several more well-mosaiced buildings flank it on either side. The sight is inspiring and peaceful. My eyes continue to scan the courtyard as I move further into the complex.

Hisako is standing only 100m from me, buy I don’t recognize her right away. She has wrapped her body in a bright-colored shawl and looking at me with gloomy eyes. It seems as if karma isn’t going to be of the good kind today.

Hisako in her $4 rental shawl. My molars hurt!

I walk up to Hisako thinking my delayed arrival may have upset her, but it’s the shawl around her body that’s the real issue. I can’t help but chuckle at the thought that while I brought one too many things today, she brought one too few! Knife and weapon checks take place at the security checkpoint, dress code is checked at the door. Any woman found trying to go in without covering up is forced into renting a shawl for 4 dollars… The shawls are beautiful, but your rental is only good for the duration of your stay in the Dome of the Rock. I’m all for respecting the mandates of Islam but when that comes to ripping you off it makes me gnash my molars.

Worshipers heading out of the main dome

The cost is unavoidable so we shrug it off with hurting molars and take a spin around the dome. The indigo tile work stands out strongly against the blue, cloudless sky. The crescent adorning the zenith proudly reaches for the heavens. And the two backpackers stand gazing up at it all.

A steady stream of Muslims are drifting in and out of the central dome. A site only accessible to Muslims. We make one more round around the great dome and head towards the exit. Hisako reluctantly hands over her shawl.

Religion fills every nook and cranny of this town and when you’re not soaking up the sights, it has a thing or two to teach you, even if you skip out on one of the many sermons. Like, leave your knife at home and don’t forget your scarf / sarong / towel. Seems like sage advice.

Hisako leaving the Dome of the Rock

Behind the Scenes

I got caught off guard with the knife as I was carrying it around the previous couple of days around Jerusalem and my bag had even gone through a couple of x-ray machines. No one had said anything then, but a violent conflict the day before had raised tensions and security in the area.

The area around the Wailing Wall and Temple Mount is strictly controlled with metal detectors, so be wary of walking around in that quarter if you are carrying anything considered dangerous.

The Dome of the Rock is free to enter and highly recommended.  Just the center dome is off limits to everyone except for practicing Muslims. Once inside the Temple Mount, it takes about a half an hour to see the sights, but you could certainly stay longer, just soaking up the atmosphere.

For women, make sure your head and shoulders are fully covered.  Hisako was carrying a Japanese tenigui (hand towel) that she had tied around her head like a bandanna, but her shirt was a bit too low cut for the authorities there.

It’s mixed in with the rest of Jerusalem, but here are Dome of the Rock pictures.

I’m drawing a blank when trying to conjure up memories from the relatively recent past so I’m going to skip ahead in time, closer to my current activities and try and fill in the holes at a later date.  The sites, smells, and sounds of our recent foray into the farming life are still vivid and pressing in my mind, all the better to get something down on paper.

Bringing home the goats

Thanks to a friend that we met halfway around the world, Hisako and I experienced one of the highlights of our trip to date.  Farming.

Goats with the Wind is located in Israel about a 40 minute walk from Yodfat and an hour plus drive from Haifa in Israel.  At night from the hills you can see the shimmer of Nazareth in the distance.  The farm rests on a rocky and rather steep slope that doesn’t lend itself well to cultivating large swaths of land, but works wonderfully for goats.  Run by the knowledgeable, serene, and kind Dalya and Amnon, the farm balances the idealistic with the  realistic that fit Hisako and me to a T.  We were fortunate to be introduced to the farm by our friend Ram as we came in as trusted volunteers and were hard at work within the first hour that we were on the farm.

I only found the massive olive jar on the 2nd to last day, probably a good thing

Our everyday activities always began with the milking of the goats and the day finished in the same way.  With around 160 goats to milk twice on a daily basis, you can be sure that the day is going to start and end staring at the rear-end of hundreds of goats.  I quickly fell into the roll of goat herder and feeder during my tour of duty with the goat milking as that seemed to be the activity I excelled at and was able to keep the goats flowing so that the milk could do the same.  12 goats to a side of the milking platforms, I would raise up a gate and the well-trained goats would come pouring in to the open slots so they could dip their heads and begin chowing down the food I had just distributed in two scoop increments into the trough.  The milkers would then move in while I busied myself with filling up my feed bucket and pushing the goats that were milked dry on the other platform out into the waiting pen.  The process would repeat itself 12 or 13 times until we had gotten through all of the goats and then it was time to clean up the mess.  The goats themselves were kind enough not to make my cleanup job too difficult, but I always made sure to give the goats space when I heard a sneeze coming on.  The sneeze tended to ignite a chain reaction that follows Newton’s law that every reaction needs an opposite and equal reaction.  Flatulence.  I’ll just say that the goats don’t hold back.

Back up the hill for more compost

The milking wrapped up, we would grab a quick bite to eat down at the main kitchen and dining area before heading out for the rest of the morning to work on numerous projects.  While the milking of the goats remained constant throughout my time on the farm, the daily tasks varied quite a bit day to day.  From building walls to watering olive trees, it was invigorating to get my hands dirty and experience so many different aspects of farming.

Working the goats

In exchange for our labor (about 12 hours a day), Dalya cooked up some of the most magnificent food we’ve had on the trip to date.  The produce and meat was organic and she had a magical way of adding a pinch of just the right herb or getting the eggplant to soak up the perfect amount of oil to make every dish we had there a feast.  The farm produces its own olive oil, wine, goat milk, goat cheeses, and a plethora of fruits and vegetables that you’ve got all the ingredients you need for one scrumptious blend of fresh organic food after another for each meal of the day.  Through on top of that, Zak the baker (another volunteer), and you top the meal off with fresh baked bread and a very very happy me.  I was tired, exhausted even, after a full days work on the farm, but the thought of Dalya’s cooking and sitting around swapping stories with Amnon in the evening twilight was always enough to keep me going strong all day long.

Where all the food magic happens

The farming was a welcome break from the site hoping we’ve been doing since we started this trip and opened my eyes to some alternative ways of living.  What Dalya and Amnon have nurtured on the farm is quite incredible and many parts are just pure genius.  As I got to know the ins and outs of a limited number of things, I was more and more in awe of how they’ve slowly developed the layout of the land and sculpted the community in which they live.  There was always a constant flow of volunteers coming from all over the region, who would magically appear during different times of the week and everyone I talked with had nothing but praise for the two.  It’s easy for me to romanticize the situation.  I know there has been a lot of blood, sweat, and tears that has gone into this farm, but seeing the life that they are living gives me hope for a brighter future yet.

Selection of cheeses made on the farm

Hisako and I have discussed how me might get involved with other farming projects along the way since our time at Goats with the Wind and probably see it as shaping our future in someway, whether it be owning land with space for a big garden or stepping into the countryside to begin cultivating our own farming community within the mountains of Japan.

Hisako got the milking thing down by her third day

Plenty of pictures of goats, the volunteers, and daily life on the farm in the galleries.  Be sure to check them out.

The warm bed and welcoming smile of a nun with a head scarf on was a beautiful sight after the trials and tribulations of trying to get into Syria.  Down and out from rejected entries, expensive taxi rides, and general disgruntledness from all these happenings, I was in no mood for a raggedy hostel. Turns out our luck turned once we crossed the threshold of the convent near the Church of the Ascension in Nazareth.

Amazing looking beds

Sitting behind a heavy, wooden desk the sister graciously welcomed us, got our bags off of our weary shoulders, and got us situated quickly.  Given that it was a convent, I made my way to my room and Hisako her’s. A slightly saggy mattress in a spartan room never looked so appealing.  After getting my things stored away I went back outside to meet Hisako who was beaming from ear to ear. Another advantage of staying in a convent is that the sisters take care of their sisters well.  Hisako had a beautiful room, a nice warm bed, and even a bedside lamp.  The luxury!

Feeling rejuvenated, we head out into the night to find a quick bite to eat. The streets are packed with people due to the end of Ramadan.  Since Nazareth is a melting pot of Islamic and Christian religions you’ll hear the prayers of the mosques as often as you’ll hear church bells. That means a big, big party at the end of Ramadan. Even before leaving the walls of the convent we could hear the pops and cracks of fireworks outside and as we wandered through the every growing crowd it the sounds became louder. Cars stood at a standstill in front of us due to the revelers blocking an intersection some way down the road. A parade was in full swing with a band, dancing, and, of course, more fireworks.

The Israeli diet

Standing near the sea of people I watched as one bus passed me.  The bus was completely empty except for a group of kids towards the rear of the bus.  They were huddled in a group and then with a sudden movement opened the bus window and threw a firecracker out onto the street.  A sharp crack of the firecracker followed even faster by the hoots and howls of the juveniles on board the bus. The party was in full swing.

Watching the joyous chaos for some time we forgot about our hunger, but our stomachs wouldn’t be denied in the long run.  We turned our sights back to the way we had come from and conceded to the fact that shwarama was pretty much our only option. Turned out it was also our only option for the next couple of days. The kebab sandwich is one of the few cheap eats we could find so it took center stage in our diet.

As the sun set completely, the party really kicked into high gear and we sat on our little stools in front of the kebab stand, smiling. One of the harder days of our travels had come to an end and now it was time party and enjoy the end of Ramadan.

End of Ramadan party

Behind the Scenes

For the record here’s the room Hisako stayed in:

Even more amazing beds

Travel has a lot of ups and downs and this story finds me at the bottom.

Going to Syria from Jordan

To go north or to go west were the options before us. Sitting in a small whitewashed hostel bedroom Hisako and I debated our next step. Coming up to northern Jordan we had the intention of doing two things. First, see the ancient ruins of Jerash and two, cross into Syria.

All of the travelers we had a met coming from Syria had spoken well of the “most lovable rouge state” (LonelyPlanet) and I was itching to see it for myself. The guidebooks had placed the people as one of the top things to see in the middle east region and travelers were confirming the same.

The debate was occurring that morning simply because we had also heard many tales of those trying to get across the infamous border and being denied access. One was an officer in the army who was on leave, another a friend of a friend. Yet, for every negative story we heard, there was also a tale of someone who had made it past the armed guards and border police into the promised land that still refers to Israel as occupied Palestine on their forms. The Syrian worker in our hostel in Amman had shook his head emphatically side to side when I asked if I would be denied at the border and an American I overheard talking about Damascus had raised my hopes. This was one country where I saw a clear separation between the top level politics and the ways of the people and one I wanted to see for myself.

Going to Syria from Jordan meant getting from Irbid, where we were staying, to the border town of Ramtha and then seeing what would unfold from there. Time wasn’t an issue for us, but money was. With exit taxes and taxis to consider the prospect of being denied at the border and expending all that money was the reasoning for our hesitance. In the end, though, the lure of welcoming people and the cheap prices of Syria got us off our sagging beds in Irbid and out the door to the bus stop.

We grabbed a cheap taxi to the bus station with a former boxer who loved showing us pictures of his kid and previously broad shoulders on his cell phone. As it always seems to go in Jordan, the taxi left us at the taxi stand at the bus station where all of the surrounding taxi drivers forcefully told us that there was no bus to Ramtha. We had already fallen victim to that game once before and weren’t about to let it happen again. Hisao paid our driver and we made our way to the area where the minibuses were waiting. Within one minute we had found a minibus heading to Ramtha and hopped on-board.

Off to Syria

Border crossing

Disembarking from the bus in Ramtha we went through the rigmarole of the no bus, taxi routine again. Desperate to find the magical minibus to the border we headed off to find an ATM machine first and try our luck away from the bus station. Shortly after extracting enough cash to cover taxi costs and exit visas we saw a taxi drive buy that we managed to flag down. The driver was happy to take us to the border for 1JD rather than the 6JD the taxi drivers at the bus station were demanding. Relieved, we climbed aboard and within 10 minutes were at the border gates. “Whew!” we thought, piled out, strapped on our backpacks, and walked up to the border guards.

They looked friendly enough and welcomed us, offering us a seat. We waited for 5 minutes or so and got up when they told us, but were confused to see a taxi waiting there for us. Turns out the only way to get from that border gate to the actual border was going to be by taxi and, you guessed it, the going rate for the taxi ride was 5JD.

This is what Syria looks like... from a taxi

Back in the taxi we continued down the road towards the real border and got through Jordanian immigration without any hassle and maybe a few wry looks. I was fortunate enough to participate in an exit survey being run by the government within the immigration building, which I’m sure the taxi driver was thrilled about since it delayed his travel by another 10 minutes. When asked about transportation in Jordan, I was close to mentioning something about the “no bus” hassle but instead gave the response of “ok”. Getting out of Jordan and into Syria being my main priority I had not patience for a row with the border guards or our taxi driver.

Through the custom police and then along a rather long fenced road, we arrived at the Syrian border after about 5 minutes in the car. Walking this distance would have been doable, but we saw nobody doing it and is mostly likely strictly forbidden. For once the taxi guys at the bus station were right about the no bus thing.

My heart was racing now that we were in Syrian territory and entry seemed just around the corner. In a long building with a low roof, Hisako and I entered through the glass doors and made our way to the “Foreigners” sign on the far left. No one was in attendance there so our driver went down to the far right and snagged one of the officers down there. We handed over our two passports and he began flipping through them.

“Visa?” I heard him mutter / ask and my heart sank. He continued flipping through the pages looking for that magic piece of paper, but with nothing to be found, placed the passport firmly down on the counter and told me “No entry, back to Jordan.” Our driver gave a smug smile knowing that this was going to happen all along. For him, we were just represented the gasoline cost of making an illegal smuggling run to Syria and back. We attempted a few pointless pleas about how my wife is Japanese and I’d really like to accompany her, but they fell on deaf ears. I’m glad Hisako decided to turn around at the border with me, although she would have been granted access there at the border.

More paper work ensued for some reason I’m unsure of, such as asking us what our occupations were and then photocopies of our passports were taken. I sat there feeling dejected, but Hisako reminded me to look lively since we weren’t heading back to Jordan just yet. So I kept a smile on my face and Hisako and I chatted about this and that as best we could.

Finally our driver came to get us and we headed out to the car once again. Marched down to a small guardhouse we exchanged pleasantries with the border guard there and just when I thought we had somehow convinced someone upstairs that it was actually OK for an American to pass into Syria without a visa he shook my hand and said “Welcome to Jordan.”

Next stop? Not Syria

Heading back

“What?” I thought and then realized that a taxi waiting on the other side of the barrier was there to take us back the way we had come. Not only was the taxi going to take us back to Jordan, but it was a new driver and, therefore, a new fare. Our driver then proceeded to stuff cigarette cartons in all kinds of nooks and crannies of his car behind hidden panels and cushions. Fortunately, he did not stuff anything into our backpacks. Back on the road we were like a tape in reverse, undoing everything we had just done, including canceling our exit from Jordan. That did not mean we got our money back, just a big X over our exit stamp.

New direction

The bad taste in my mouth left us with only one option. Head to Israel. Being about the same distance from Irbid, but to the west, we quickly found a minibus heading back to Irbid and then another going to the western border. Being the end of Ramadan, the queues for the bus were long and we got on one bus just in time before it was completely full. A kind Jordanian army official took us under his wing for the remainder of our time in Jordan and helped us navigate between buses all the way to the Jordan / Israel border. The act of kindness was a definite high note after treading water in the troughs of despair for the greater part of the day. But what did I say, traveling is all about those highs and lows.

Some other time... a day of low lows and some highs

Behind the scenes

The political situation is always changing in this area, so there is a good chance that things are better 6 months from when this entry was written, but if you continue to hear stories of Americans who were denied access at the border then it’s probably a wise move to turn around. Also, don’t be fooled by EU passport holders or other nationalities who have made it to Damascus and beyond as their country’s political relations with Syria are much different from that of the United States. So for those Americans who are interested in going to Syria without picking up a visa in the US first, be warned that you too could be a victim of access denied.

I hadn’t felt this swept up in antiquity since standing on the well engineered terraces of Macchu Picchu.

Jerash, in northern Jordan, can go blow for blow with any ancient heavyweight out there. Seeing as how the most memorable heavyweight we’ve run across on our travels so far was Machu Picchu, I think it would be a fair comparison to line them up, ring the bell, and see who can last a brutal test of the ages.

Hisako cheering on the shadow contenders

In the turquoise blue corner at 2.3km and living life on the edge… Machu Picchu!

In the desert red corner at 110 degrees and conjuring up the power of Zeus… Jerash!

Hisako as Machu Picchu? Joe as Jerash?

Physique

Boxers have a weight class for a reason. Putting David up against Goliath usually doesn’t result in a pretty sight. However, we’ve got two well balanced foes here. With Machu Pichu’s lofty and chiseled physique against the broad and stable Jerash the two are looking at a dexterity versus brute force matchup. At 2,300 meters in height, Machu Picchu, will be towering over Jerash by roughly 2km, but that shouldn’t phase Jerash with its foundation spread out over the countryside. Jerash has the whole Roman army behind it to help whip those granite stones into shape and the dry desert sands to add some polish. Machu Picchu is a newer kid on the block with several thousand years of evolution in the human species to help it obtain those perfectly chiseled abs that any boxer is dying for. Perfect abs or not, Machu Picchu is going to have to be careful not to get its head stuck in the clouds and avoid Jerash’s infamous whirlwind punch. Jerash, however, has got to be careful not to get buried under a landslide of punches delivered from above.

Prediction: Draw

The unusual oval forum

Technique

Both boxers have been known to withstand the shifting ground beneath their feet, but being trained in the art of masonry without mortar and a well mastered faint to the side, Machu Picchu is destined to avoid and absorb blows from Jerash or Pacha Mama with great success. On the other hand, Jerash may be an old dog but its learned pleanty of tricks over the years. Jerash has adapted to the changing times, switching things up with its style to accommodate the Romans, Ottomans, or Christians. In a classic with the Library of Alexandria, Jerash surprised the aging tombs with a nasty schism uppercut that split the fighter in two. Machu Picchu has been preparing for this match for sometime, however, building up terraces to continue to hold its ground even if its knocked about a bit on its feet. Expect Jaresh to throw a few punches from the ages, but Machu Picchu to counter with a number of finely tuned punches of its own.

Prediction: Machu Picchu

That's some fancy column work there

Mental conditioning

If you can’t stand the heat, then get out of the kitchen desert. Jerash has desert temperatures and a temper to match it. Machu Picchu tends to keep its cool even during raging battles, but its high altitude training and closer proximity to the sun have aged the young fighter fast. Rain, enemy #1 of any stoney contender will make it difficult for Machu Pichu to keep its footing and focus despite all those years of Inca’s running up and down its terraces. Something also has to be said about the mental state of a boxer who’s conscious abandons them without a trace and there are some worried voices fluttering around in Machu Picchu’s corner that simultaneously add to the legend. Jerash will bring the heat and rock solid performance of years of experience we’ll see if the relatively fragile minded Machu Picchu is ready to handle it.

Prediction: Jerash

Strolling through the ruins

Endurance

Any prized fighter has to have endurance. Just look at Rocky. The guy might be over matched in terms of weight, size, and intelligence, but if you can take the blows year after year and keep on tickin you’ve always got a fighting chance. Jerash certainly comes out the favorite in this area. With thousands of years of history under its belt, it makes Machu Picchu look like a toddler. Jerash has seen it all, the Romans, the Turks, the weather, the tourists! It’s taken a licking with a fallen column here and there in the first round of a match, but those granite pillars of fortitude are going to take a lot longer to demolish than Machu Picchu can bear.

Prediction: Jerash

A moment of Zen during this epic battle

Entertainment Value

Jerash knows how to rile the elderly crowd. With his known theatrics in the amphitheater and the large oval pantheon for sacrificing his enemies he always brings his A-game for entertainment. Anyone who wears a pair of Corinthian column boots to a match knows a thing or two about style versus practicality. Machu Picchu, not to be outdone is a magnificent example of engineering and construction and garners gasps from the crowd simply by walking into the ring. Simplicity and natural grandeur at its best. Machu Picchu’s supporting staff have also gone to great lengths to build up its reputation and no one knows how to set up a dramatic entrance like Mr. Inca Trail. Machu Picchu’s stealth also proves to be one of its strongest aspects, being able to leap out an unsuspecting fighter, setting up for a bruising blow while wow’ing the crowd at the same time.

Prediction: Machu Picchu

Jerash's acoustics are still top notch

The Match

Watch for Jerash to get an early start in this match. Bringing out the big Roman guns early on and deflecting punches from Machu Picchu with relative ease using those Roman shields. It won’t be easy for Machu Picchu to find its rhythm in the early goings, but from its high vantage point things will begin to clear later in the match for him. Despite Jerash’s wide footing and storied past it’s going to be the newly made Machu Picchu that brings too many technical elements to the match to become the heavy weight wonder of the world.

Behind the scenes

Jaresh was very camera friendly. Check out the galleries for more shots.

Jerash and Machu Picchu are both equally worthy of a visit and since you’ll be on entirely different continents when you have a chance to do so you should certainly see both. If I had to choose, the result would be the same as above, however. Machu Picchu.

Jaresh is any easy ride north from Amman and could be done as a day trip from that city. We were heading north to Irbid to attempt a border crossing into Syria, but more on that in a bit.

Fianlly, many thanks to Roo and Dan Eales for their inspirations for this post. Something about Machu Picchu must make you want to relate it to boxing in some way. Check out Dan’s post on his hike up to Machu Picchu for great pictures and harrowing tales of survival. You should also check out the marque mascot matchups Roo has worked on over the years. If you work for ESPN or know someone who works for ESPN you should contract Roo to do a weekly column during college football season. I think it’s a riot.