Dear Family and Friends,

You probably have been to a UNESCO World Heritage Site and not even known it.

Actually, I could go on listing them, well, and listing them because the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) has compiled a list of 725 cultural sites, 183 natural sites, and somehow totaled this to 936. Despite this odd bit of math, UNESCO seems knows what it is doing, at least when it comes to defining what constitutes a World Heritage site: something on the order of a notable place or site with a group of buildings and/or “architectural works, works of monumental sculpture and painting, elements or structures of an archaeological nature, inscriptions, cave dwellings and combinations of features, which are of outstanding universal value from the point of view of history, art or science.” At the urging of the United States – probably because we do so hate to be left out of world-wide regard! – UNESCO also designates natural heritage sites that “consist of physical and biological formations or groups of such formations, which are of outstanding universal value from the aesthetic or scientific point of view.” In other words, World Heritage sites are very special places. 

Because these sites are so special, I used to believe that I had not visited one of these sites until relatively recently. In fact, if you casually had asked me yesterday, “Where did you visit your first World Heritage Site?”  

I would’ve replied, “In Korea. A few weeks after I arrived to teach there, a group and I visited the Haeinsa Temple and Tripitaka Koreana Woodblocks.” Because that was the first time that I remember being aware of UNESCO’s designations.

However, the word aware is key. Apparently our fear of being left out drove the States to successfully nominate 21 sites, 3 sites behind Russia (which is, on the whole, larger and older than the States) and we currently have the 10^th most sites in the world after countries like Italy, Spain, China, France, India and the UK. We’ve managed to have more World Heritage sites than Greece, Egypt, Turkey, and Japan. In point of fact, I actually grew up near a UNESCO World Heritage site, and never knew it.

Seattleites?  Care to guess where in Washington is a UNESCO World Heritage Site?

(One gold star shall be awarded if you answered, “Olympic National Park and its rain forest.”)

As little, decidedly not famous Olympic National Park is a UNESCO World Heritage site, it is worth asking: have you visited a UNESCO site? I ask because the States possesses a genuine handful of natural sites such as the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone and Yosemite, the Great Smokies, and the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico. In the States we’ve even managed to endanger one of our sites – a distinction usually left to countries where people are starving – but is not precisely a problem in the Everglades. Natural sites aside, we have also managed to list a few buildings and historic sites (not many, mind you) including Cahokia Mounds State Historic Site in Illinois, Mesa Verde in Colorado, Independence Hall in Philadelphia, and of course, the Statue of Liberty. With a list like this, most of us have likely been a UNESCO site and never even known it.

I’m contemplating UNESCO sites in particular because we’ve spent that last five days nearby to a living, breathing, working UNESCO World Heritage site in Vietnam: the village of Hoi Anh.

Hoi Anh is home to just over 100,000 people and notable as one of the few UNESCO sites that feels alive. Once a trading port along the Silk Road, today towering palm trees line a sluggish silted river that runs through the “Ancient Town,” that is, on the whole, a few city blocks wide and a few blocks deep. In the city center, the buildings are as Asian as can be—indeed, the town could be used as a period piece set for a movie such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon—ancient brown wood or painted buttercup yellow, roofed with curved tiles, and hung with silk lanterns trailing tassels. Trees filled with periwinkle-colored flowers, a yellow-flowered vine that resembles honeysuckle but is not, and bougainvillea liven up facades. I crane my neck and find more lanterns hanging from dark wood second floor balconies, often in the company of twittering birds in yellow cages. Each building continues to be utilized to the fullest: first floors are commercial enterprises such as clothing shops, purse shops, souvenir shops, open air restaurants, t-shirt shops, painting shops, open air bars lit with strings of white lights, jewelry shops, tiny museums, and more clothing shops. When I walk on the street outside these shops, proprietors attempt to interest me in their wares calling, “Hello! Madam, hello! Please come visit my shop!”

Inside, many of the buildings were constructed of hardened, black wood, the majority of which remains unreplaced since the 16^th and 17^th centuries. The second floor is surrounded by a low railing and open to the first floor. Special trap doors with woven slats that allow people to watch their shops flood inch by inch were included in the second floors so that when the Thu Bồn River floods, as it does from September – December, families move their furniture and wares through the trap doors into the safety of the second floor. From a balcony looking down, motorbikes whizz through the town, weaving around slow-moving Western shoppers, clutching their purses while deciding which shop of wonderful bargains they should visit next. Asian tourists seem as interested in shopping but more interested in pictures, seeming to stop at every step to frame themselves in windows with blue slats, throwing up V or peace signs as cameras click.

A lady vendor approaches a child and tosses a spinning toy into the air – the mother says, “No, thank you” and drags the child away while the child turns to watch the vendor catch the toy. Another vendor kneels on the stone sidewalk, fanning a small charcoal fire, with a basket of something wrapped in banana leaves by her side. The smoke trails into the street, the smell of something unfamiliar making me hungry but the sound of sizzling is drowned out by soothing Western classical piano trills piped through small speakers seated at each corner. At the center of town is an arched bridge, originally built by the Japanese in the 16^th century and covered by Chinese traders, who teamed up with the Vietnamese to add a Buddhist temple to the bridge. A sign inside boasts that “Chùa cầu [bridge] is a symbol of cultural exchange between the Japanese, Chinese, and Vietnamese people.” Personally, I’ve never seen its like.  

Indeed, UNESCO touts Hoi Anh as an “exceptionally well preserved example of a traditional Asian trading port;” however, dearest friends and family, if you have an opportunity to visit Vietnam, I suggest a visit to Hoi Anh because with or without UNESCO’s blessing, it is a very special place.

Yours,

Laura

2nd story trap door used for moving belongs from the 1st story during floods.

A pretty shop, "Ancient Town" Hoi Anh.

Dear Family and Friends,

On our first morning, a little jet-lagged but eager to be in Saigon, we stepped from inside our hotel’s drier, cooled air outside into thick, hot air. I responded to the heat + humidity as I usually do: I breathed deeply and pulled a long drink from my water bottle while my body metamorphosed into something akin to a fancy garden fountain. The only thing that keeps me looking like an actual spouting cherub fountain in high humidity environments is my clothing. Instead of spouting streams into a basin, my body simply empties water into my clothing. For me and my body, traveling in 90 degree weather with 62% humidity (today, Seattle’s humidity is 45%) means a fight to contain sweat: I pack colors and styles that do not show sweat, fashioned in fabrics that “breath.” Also, I carry a handkerchief to regularly dab my hairline to prevent sweat from trickling into my eyes. When I travel in places similar to Vietnam, I spend entire days anticipating a shower.

Anyway, back in Saigon we climbed into a tour bus. I sat, and turned my head left to read a sign across the street, HaGang Restaurant (Korean food!) and right to watch my classmates climb on behind me, smiling at their first whiff of air con. The bus rumbled fully to life and began to drive us through the streets of Saigon.

One hears that modern Saigon is a mix of nineteenth century French architecture and modern Asian buildings. I can confirm this: at 8 am, the sidewalks of Saigon are filled men on knee-high red plastic stools, gathered around a low table with iced coffee at hand. We drove past a white French-styled hotel, with graceful balconies under framed arches and individual sign lettering across its first story roofline spelling Hotel Continental.

“Ah! The hotel that was owned by a Corsican gangster and where Graham Greene wrote The Quiet American,” I thought as we whizzed by. Then we came upon Saigon’s Basilica of Our Lady of The Immaculate Conception and its statue of the Virgin Mary that was rumored to have shed tears in 2005, attracting crowds of thousands even after church officials pooh-poohed that notion. The Virgin hadn’t shed any tears here in 2012 – as far as I could tell – but a bride in a puffy white dress posed for pictures with the Cathedral as backdrop provided an adequate spectacle. We drove on and I lost my ability to place proper names and history to places, instead the streets broadened into four lanes lined with thin, tallish buildings painted in pastel greens, blues, whites, pinks and yellows. There was also a large Buddhist temple strung with lanterns. I asked about the temple and discovered that the holiday is known as “Quốc ngữ” – Buddha’s Birthday – will be celebrated sometime in May although neither our guide nor Google provided me with an exact date. 

At home, even with “fresh eyes” traveling on a bus feels mundane but here, as we drove, there were so, so many details to catch and marvel at. Polished wooden doors, metal street carts heaped with baguettes and hard-boiled eggs, a motorcycle rider with about 30 plastic bags filled with goldfish tied to a rack, a (presumably) military cemetery with uniform white half-moon tombstones with a gold-star on their tips, airplanes noses tipped down for landing at the airport, green trees and grass growing thicker and closer together, a gleaming brown cow, without rope, resting under a tree, corrugated metal shacks, rows of rubber trees, wrapped in colored ribbon and spouting sap through plastic taps, ceramic German Sheppard statues guarding from high gateposts. These details flashed, flashed, and flashed, flashed, mostly eluding my attempts to write them.

Eventually we arrived at the tunnels of Củ Chi, tunnels that were built in 1945 and enlarged both at this site and across the country in the 1960s by the Viet Cong (“VC”) guerrillas and their sympathizers during “The American War.” Geographically, the tunnels are not far from Saigon nor the border with Cambodia. They were dug into hard ground, sheltered by forests, and kept relatively secret by the local population. Apparently, the tunnels are best known as the VC’s point of operations for the famous 1968 Tet Offensive, but they were used during combat for living quarters, booby traps, weapons caches, communication, strategizing, and hospitals.  

With due respect to those that lived through the war, I was born after that dreadful war and distantly remember learning that one of the reasons that the Americans were not able to effectively fight in Vietnam was because the VC had a real sense of the landscape and were able to use every bit of their knowledge to their advantage. A visit to the Củ Chi confirmed that idea. Nearby the tunnels, forest greenery draws together; plants are thick, green and drop a carpet of crunchy brown leaves. Tunnel air holes were constructed to look like termite hills and during the fight, a cooking fire ventilation system was especially utilized during morning mists.

Our guide walked us to a “trap door,” a wood-lined hole disguised beneath a pile of leaves perhaps twenty-four inches by twelve inches in size – just big enough to slide in, feet first. Our teacher, who must exceed six feet slid himself in and was instructed to hold the trapdoor top above his shoulders in order to cover himself and the hole. Many of us, including me, did the same. When it came my turn, I sat next to the hole with my feet dangling, then braced my hands on either side and slid down, searching for foot’s purchase. I found it and crouched to examine the inside. The hole was tiny, confined and offered two choices up and down. If one continued to crouch or crawl there were stone stairs leading down and down. Most of the tunnels were like that. According to both our tour guide and Wikipedia, “Most of the time, guerrillas spent days in the tunnels and came out only at night.”  I didn’t have the courage to go further than trapdoor and wiggled back up (up was much harder than down due to my ample rear!)

Later we were lead underground into a tunnel. Walking through the tunnel necessitated doubling-over. The Vietnamese government strung electric lights through the tunnel and I chose to crouch-walk a mere twenty meters in one single minute or perhaps two, but that was enough to feel trapped, closed, desperate, and eager to return to the surface.

Can you imagine what life must've been like for the soldiers who fought in those tunnels?

A cliché “desperate times call for desperate means” came to mind.

*

A visit to the Củ Chi Tunnels was interesting, to be sure. However, what was nearly as interesting for me was the arrangement of the park. The tunnels, of course, played their part in the North Vietnamese victory over the US – and the park that they built to commemorate this history was not shy in portraying its victory. We were first escorted to two long rows of AK47s and their like before we entered the tunnels. Our guide took special pains to explain to us the ingenuity of the tunnels while in the backdrop real-sounding gunshots boomed. There was a stretch of homemade weaponry: a booby trap spiked with pointed bamboo sticks, a folding chair trap, large balls with hooked spikes, a double-hinged door trap designed to get the whole body or merely half of it. A man in green Vietnamese military fatigues demonstrated the traps between answering texts from his buzzing cell phone. Statues of men sawed at bombs and rows of rubber sandals shaped so that the heel resembled toes and toes resembled the heel (to obscure footprints) were displayed. I missed it but apparently there was a 1960s propaganda, kill the enemy kind-of video that was played. This video was notable because it was advocating and showing the killing of Americans (which my classmates found understandable but deeply disturbing.)

I bring this up because I’m contemplating the ethics of travel – and the site at Củ Chi raises the specter of propaganda (ideas, rumors, deliberately spread widely to help or harm person group movement institution nation, etc. – thank you www.Dictionary.com.) Later, I did some basic research into the tunnels and found that malaria was the second largest cause of death in the tunnels (after battle wounds) and that most of the soldiers suffered from parasites. Not to mention that food, water, and air were scarce, and the tunnels were infested with harmful insects and vermin. None of these downsides, or others, were either implied or mentioned – either in the signage or by the tour guide. And while in some ways I feel that that this is their (in this case, the Vietnamese’s) country and they should be able to tell whatever story they wish, I also have a strong preference for “truth,” and during visits to places such as the Củ Chi tunnels, I couldn't help but wonder if truth is being deliberately twisted in order to further a certain story line. Hmm… well, I suppose we all form our own version of the “truth” – so perhaps my objection comes from intent? I cannot yet say. I’d welcome any of your thoughts, of course.

*

Anyway, after our visit to the tunnels, we brushed jungle dirt from our pants before we climbed onto the bus, each of us hot, sad, horrified, soaked in sweat, already anticipating the night’s shower. And definitely eager to see more of Vietnam.

Wishing you all well, always,

Laura

A centipede... which I was happy to find outside, not inside the tunnels!

Tank you for the photo op?

(I know, bad pun!)

Afterwards, I learned that soles of these shoes were

remarkable for their confusing prints.

Ingenious and even more horrifying.

Dear Friends and Family,

Yes, last summer I did quit my job in Saudi Arabia, return to the States, and began graduate school. And yes, perhaps it did appear that I had had my fun abroad, sown my wild oats—so to speak!—and that I had returned to settle into convention, cramming together a new life with two jobs, full-time uni studies, shopping at Trader Joe’s, streaming movies on Netflix, texting friends, and regular trips to Starbucks. And yet, my other life hovers in the background, springing to the fore when assigned non-fiction writing pieces. In addition, this semester I enrolled in an intensive, two-week writing “field seminar.” In Vietnam. So now I am writing to you, from Vietnam.

Vietnam. Vietnam…

It nearly goes without saying that in the States, we associate the word, the country of Vietnam with what we call “The Vietnam War” while the Vietnamese know it as “The American War.” This association is inescapable, especially during a visit to the country 37 years to the day after the fall of Saigon. But Vietnam, as a country, has been (and will be) so much more than that oft-thought of period of war. Sharing a similar arc of history to Korea and Tibet, Vietnam developed its own culture thousands of years ago, ruled itself, was conquered by the Chinese, kicked the Chinese out, was again conquered by the Chinese, and then, again, kicked the Chinese out. The Vietnamese happily ruled themselves for a few centuries until the middle nineteenth century when along came the French who stuck around for nearly a hundred years, and who left Vietnam war-torn and divided. Not long after came Communism, Americans, another war, victory, the Chinese, another war and victory.

All and all, Vietnam has been invaded. A lot. And perhaps because of these invasions, the country developed and retained a singular culture, which included a spirit of independence that allowed the Vietnamese to incorporate positive aspects of invading foreign cultures into their own. From the Chinese, the Vietnamese obtained vocabulary, Confucian hierarchies, Confucian respect for ancestors, a flavor or two of Buddhism, ying-yang roof curvature, and noodles. From the French, the Vietnamese gained a Latin lettering system, baguettes, flan, and pate. From us Americans, I suppose, the Vietnamese acquired a country in ruins, a diminished population, the image of “Uncle Ho,” and pride at having vanquished the mighty American military.

After middle 1980s and the fall of Communism in the Soviet Union, the sole political power of Vietnam, the Communist Party, proved quick to convert Vietnam to a “Socialist government and Capitalist economy.” That remains the case to this day, majority of the Vietnamese population was born after the war, and Vietnam has grown to the thirteenth most populous country in the world. For the last decade, the country’s rate of economic growth has been some of the highest in the world, although the country is rife with overt corruption and there is a high rate of--and rising--income disparity. Whether Vietnamese economic growth is healthy can legitimately be questioned.

For me personally, traveling to Vietnam has opened all sorts of questions that I very much hope to write to during this writing field seminar and after I again revert to convention and regular trips to Starbucks.

More on that... eventually.

With love,

Laura 

The Reunification Palace in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon).

Countryside graves.

Dear Family and Friends,

Apropos of nothing: a question.

Have you cooked gnocchi?

“Gnocchi?” you ask.

Gnocchi. The word means “little pillow” in Italian. To make gnocchi, one puts a large pot of water on the stove to boil. Then, one cooks potatoes, mashes them with a beaten egg, adds flour, gently spices with salt and a dash nutmeg before, on a floured board, one rolls the dough into thick snakes of dough. Next one slices the dough into pillows and pours the whole batch into a pot of boiling water. At first, the pillows sink. But the boiling water works them over, lowers their density, and causes the gnocchi to rise to the surface of the water. Served in tomato sauce, they are wonderful.

I ask, “have you cooked gnocchi?” not to hint that you should make gnocchi for me for dinner—not that I’d complain—but because I’ve returned to Asia, to Vietnam. I’ve not been to Vietnam before and yet, snippets of Asia have been bubbling up from deep within my memory.

We ended four flights and thirty hours of travel by touching down just after midnight in Ho Chi Minh City, better known as Saigon. If I hadn’t been with a group of twenty-five other people, arriving in Vietnam would’ve duplicated other Asian airport arrivals. We filled out paperwork, acquired Visas, collected passport stamps, and exited eagerly. Outside the airport, the first burst of humidity felt warm, welcome, but then it settled against my nose and mouth, necessitating a few deep breaths to adjust. I slid my suitcase into our tour bus’s luggage compartment and climbed into a seat, eager for our hotel.

At night, Saigon looks so very Asian. Here large signs and neon lights crowd together; some flash but most highlight street-level shops. Large panes of glass wrap around first and second floors creating shows of chic mannequins, coffee shop tables, sample kitchens. Saigon levels a city tax on the width of buildings and as a result, buildings here are especially thin and often top out at four stories tall. Large gaps between buildings are blocked off by corrugated fences and large buildings of concrete are abandoned with re-bar sprouting from unfinished pillars.

As we drove to the hotel rain slanted under street lights and reflections danced on puddles. Saigon flashed in front of me, but snippets of Daegu, Bangkok, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur flashed me across Asia, back in time. I remembered my Daegu-co-teacher Paul commenting, “Asian cities are most beautiful at night.” He was so right.

The morning after our arrival, we could be found a few hours South of Saigon, walking above the Viet Cong’s Củ Chi Tunnels. These Vietnamese tunnels are noteworthy in their own right but we began our tour by descending into a tunneled enclosure reminiscent of Korea’s DMZ and the startling secret tunnels that the North Korea dug into South Korea. Further in our Vietnamese tunnel tour, we passed a military tank. A Muslim Malaysian woman in a flowered shayla posed for a picture next to the tank while I crouched to look the gun in the face. The gun still has the power to intimate but also roused a memory of the deep rumble that I felt within my collarbone more than between my ears as I sat on a speeding South Korean military tank during a teacher’s field trip.

In point of fact, many memories that are bubbling within me are from South Korea, the country sets the bar for other experiences (for me.) Yesterday morning, our group drove into green mountains to visit a rural elementary school, which welcomed us with an “Opening Ceremony,” including a very long, gushing speech from a very important official man (who departed immediately after his speech). Rituals and behaviors that my years in Asia taught me to associate that behavior and that sort-of ritual with Confucianism.  Vietnamese sunlight warmed my hair while I remembered my first day in Daegu when I was welcomed with another hundred or so foreigners by being herded into an auditorium, seated, and talked at and talked at—in Korean, without translation—and talked at and talked at and talked at while my “guiding teacher,” beloved Mr. Son, pulled a fan from his back pocket to fan us both. My two years in Korea were punctuated with opening and closing ceremonies, which inevitably necessitated long periods of projecting interest while fighting the urge to stand up and scream. Perhaps I wanted to forget the officiousness of these “ceremonies,” but yesterday I sat, projecting interest, and would’ve given everything in my wallet to again sit next to Mr. Son.

I was also reminded of Mr. Son when we visited a Buddhist temple that towers over the city of Danang. At the temple in Danag the largest Buddha—lady Buddha?—statue I’ve ever seen watches the harbor, the temple appeared marvelous but lacked energy built from faith, over centuries. Mr. Son once said, “You will see a beautiful temple but you will not see the true beauty of Buddhism.” He, also, was oh-so-right.

The Vietnamese have a culture of men gathering and drinking together, as do the Koreans. The Koreans wrap certain foods within lettuce or herbs and dip into sauce with pointed chopsticks, as do the Vietnamese. A few nights ago, we ate at a seaside restaurant whose entrance was lined with quantities of still-living seafood, breathing in shallow plastic circular buckets, an assurance of quality equally Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese or Korean. We were served grapes and I wondered whether we should peel our grapes as if we were in Korea or China (no one did.) Here in Vietnam, when I meet anyone’s eyes, I bow, instinctively nodding to cultural mores that became a part of me while I lived in Korea.

While in Vietnam, I am not just remembering Korea. I’m typing this blog from Ho Anh, a 17^th century city visibly influenced by other cultures. In Ho Anh, rooflines reflect the best of Chinese architecture: at first, I subconsciously counted the animals on the corners – as I learned in China – searching for indications of royalty. Vietnam’s verdant greenery reminds me of Thailand and home ancestor altars resemble Thai spirit houses. Here in Vietnam, there is a layer of attitude similar to Egypt and its desperate “gouge tourists for as much money as possible” modus operandi. Colored rivers and country life here reminds me of India, hammocks are slung in cafes, and numbers of people take respite from afternoon heat by swimming in rivers, careless that there are jobs to do. So far, in Vietnam, poverty has not been nearly as bad as Cambodia but I go back and go back to a moment in Siem Reap when a beggar with a baby slung over her shoulder held an empty milk bottle aloft and chased me down the street, “Lady, help. Help!” Her faces, her poverty, has actually chased me for years around the world.

Anyway, these memories that are returning do not particularly reflect Vietnam but they do reflect connections. Connections between ascetics, architecture, post-war, late 20^th economic development, and how Confucianism actualizes in modern societies. Connections between the history and countries of East Asia: China, Vietnam, Korea, Japan, Cambodia, Thailand, and even Malaysia.

Returning to Asia, visiting Vietnam is forcing memory after memory from the back and into the fore of my brain. My personal connections to people, places, and experiences, and my understanding of Asia has returned to the surface. And yes, this is all strange… and wonderful.   

With love,

Laura

Lady Buddha (above)
Fat Buddha (below)

Sunset over Hoi Ahn.

Guess! 

Where in the world am I?

Not in Pittsburgh. 

Here are a few other hints! 

(View from a palace)

(Yummy rolls!)

("We live in your world."  Really?)

(Cute. V. cute!)

So, just because, I thought I'd post a few of the pieces of writing that I did during this, my first semester in graduate school.

*************************************************

My Desert Experience

Not long after I returned to the States after teaching English to university-aged women in Northern Saudi Arabia, my friend and I found ourselves inside her silver Lexus, with little boxes of ticky-tacky flashing by, pondering what I had learned over the previous two years.

While we talked, I looked out the window and wondered, where are the camels? Was that reflection me? Where in the world was I? Psychologists call excessive blinking and trying to make sense of it all, culture shock. I lacked narrative; I called it confusion.

“Perhaps Saudi Arabia was your desert experience.” My friend suggested.

Not understanding, I asked. “What is a desert experience?”

Subjugation

Still on the ground, seated at a plane window with New York blurred in gray, life was hope unheard, unanswered. I squirmed to count women passengers on my Riyadh flight with their heads not covered, “one, no, no, no… OH.” Besides myself, buttoned to the neck, only one other women wasn’t utterly concealed in black. And to think! I had felt conservatively dressed before boarding.

After stewing in discomfort, I grabbed my wadded-up abaya, headed for the back of the plane, slid home a bathroom bolt, and locked eyes in the mirror as my shoulders, my breasts, my waist, the v at my thighs, my knees, and my ankles all disappeared under shapeless black. I wrapped a matching length of black material around my head, felt unbearably stifled, and immediately ripped it off. The put it on. And ripped it back off. . When I self-consciously emerged with my head still uncovered, a waiting Saudi lady praised,

“How pretty you look now,” with a smile in her voice. But, of course, I never saw her face.

Survival

Even if one prefers oceans, the Arabian Desert provides glory in bittersweet orange sunrises and peace in its flushed pink sunsets. In daylight, white camels plod across the desert, leaving prints in sculpted sand. After dark, men cry, “Allah Ahk-bar.” Stars hang in the sky, touchable, as if dangling from an infant’s mobile.

For me, in far-away Sakaka, walking became a means of surviving my post in remote desert. Wrapped in nearly unbearable black, my friend and I’s daily walks enabled an all-to-brief respite from the gun-toting guards and barbed wire that surrounded our compound. During one walk, two men in stiff white collars and checkered red headscarves, veered their truck off the road to chase us across the sand calling, “Hello! Kiss me!”

But most of the time, we women were left alone to vent and rail against what was happening in our lives and what was not happening in our lives. We walked, broiling, damming the powers that be, and collected black fossil-like stones. When summer arrived, another type of escape became a necessity: at night I slipped into my garden’s pool. The guards could not see the moon silver my naked flesh.

Strength

To survive that summer, I needed a break, away. So, in order to comply with my employer’s mandates for good womanhood, I sought permission before purchasing a weekend plane ticket to the city of Riyadh, and arranged for our bus to transport me to the airport. Then, also like a good woman, I warmly thanked them for providing.

Still, one scant hour before take off, they still forced me into an argument.

“No bus.” One boss said.

“Are you saying that I cannot use the bus that my contract pays for?” I asked.

“Take a taxi.”

“Not one taxi in this city - in this bloody province - will drive an unmarried woman. You know this!” I countered, indignant.

Another boss said. “Ok, you can go. But you will first give me your passport, until you return.”

I closed my eyes. I was not going to cry. They were not going to win.

I said. “Sir, I am getting on an airplane. That is fact. I have a ticket for Riyadh that I will use tonight. Or, tomorrow, you will buy me a ticket to the United States. Either way, I am getting on an airplane, with my passport. You, however, may choose my destination.”

A good woman would thank them for allowing her to travel during her break. I did not.

Salvation

I am not the first to travel from subjugation to salvation, hopeless to confident. My friend explained, “In Old Testament days, the Israelites were slaves in prosperous Egypt doing ‘harsh labor with brick and mortar.’ The Israelites became so low in spirit that God took pity on them and convinced Moses to lead them away.

After 40 years of hardship in the desert, the Israelites finally entered their promised land. God commanded, love “with all your heart, soul, mind and strength…”

Today, hope answers my confusion. And that’s a narrative that I can build a future on.

Dear Friends and Family,

Reemergence, the process of returning to my walled world in Sakaka, is not easy. However, out of necessity comes skill and skill I have indeed acquired. Take this last reemergence as an example:

My plan was to arrive from Larnana International (Cyprus) to Queen Alia International in Amman (Jordan) at 9:50. Visa, Immigration and bag collection by 10:30. Pre-arranged airport pick-up also at 10:30. Arrive at City Mall around 11. Debenhams, coffee pick-up, Carrefour necessities, ATM and meet co-worker all within 90 minutes. Return to my taxi at 12:30. Stuff shopping into next to my travel bag, have the first taxi drive us to the border taxi service office, obtain a second taxi, cross the border and be in Sakaka (Kingdom of Saudi Arabia) before 9 pm.

While not clock-work precise, the airport went according to plan and I rushed into City Mall, with my sturdy, dedicated shopping bags (that yes, traveled empty with me throughout Cyprus) in one hand and my list (prepared with pleasure + leisure before departing Amman for Cyprus) in the other – my plan of action fixed on my brain.

First, I steamed into a department store and selected a sweater in a quarter of the time that it took to find a cashier and complete the purchase.

Next, I sailed into Starbucks and ran smack into my personal version of 50-foot-waves in rough waters. The man shook his head at me.

“What do you mean?” I nearly literally cried. “What does Starbucks sell if it doesn’t sell coffee???”

The man assured me that Starbucks would no longer be selling whole bean coffee anywhere in Jordan. I protested that there were at least 30 bags of coffee the week previous. The man shook his head. I pointed to a line of French Presses on the wall and asked what customers were supposed to use to make coffee in them. The man shook his head. I asked if he could call another Starbucks store and ask if they had whole bean coffee. The man shook his head. I explained that I was being sentenced to 3 months in the middle of nowhere Saudi Arabia without Starbucks coffee. The man smiled.

Suddenly very dejected yet undeterred from my main goal, I walked to the next store and bought a loaf of olive bread from the best French bakery I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting abroad. Then I high-footed it to the two story, of French origins, grocery and home goods store, Carrefour and immediately set out on my pre-scripted version of a shopping spree. Into a double-decked basket, I tossed:

• Brown sugar (which you can buy in Sakaka but it has the consistency of a brick)
• Whole wheat flour (my friend Bob and his excellent Red Mill have made it to Amman – hooray!)
• Polenta
• Chocolate chips (at “our” grocery stores chocolate chips are only found in Betty Crocker cookie mixes)
• Canned Ocean Spray cranberry sauce (a little taste of Thanksgiving in February) (not that anyone in my family ever buys nor eats tinned cranberries – but when living abroad, one’s food standards can be compromised)
• Stove Top Stuffing (which my family does buy – but we won’t admit to)
• 6 cans of artichokes
• Sea salt (just within the last few months has Carrefour started carrying a lovely brand of Fleur de Sel – so vital to good quality veggie dishes)
• Rusks (a cracker substitute; the ones in KSA have too many artificial ingredients for me to buy)
• Mint chocolate (yes, in candy bar form, to eat when the craving sets upon me)
• A full-sized shovel (I’ve not been able to buy even the most basic gardening implements in Sakaka – although the co-worker who kindly carried the shovel for me assured me that he could find me a shovel if I got off my high horse and just asked)
• Fennel
• Leeks
• Irish cheddar
• Parmesan

Leeks waving from the top of one bag, I greeted my co-worker, whose eyebrows shot to his hairline at the sight of my bags; nonetheless, he kindly helped me carry my goods to the taxi. I climbed into the back seat and immediately imparted my very real pain regarding Starbucks to our driver. In an act of beautiful compassion, our driver picked up his phone and arranged for our second taxi to drive by another Starbucks as we departed Amman. But, in an act of unfeeling contrast, neither did the second Starbucks have coffee at their largest store in Amman. The lady shook her head at me and told me to come back in a week. I forcefully resigned myself to my fate while my co-worker bought himself a cookie – and then one for me too (perhaps to shut me up?) (and no, friends and family, we cannot blame him for that!). And then it was Masalama and good-bye to Amman.

Between Amman and the Jordanian/Saudi border, there is not a lot to see. Desert, police posts, desert, lots of desert, a desert “castle” now called Qasr Kharaneh built in the 8^th century, miles of desert, a few military instillations, the border outpost town of Azraq whose restaurants lure customers with freshly skinned goats hanging from meat hooks, and, of course, more desert. While we drove, a little black cloud appeared over my head and must’ve begun to drop over my face because my co-worker found himself in the position of valiantly trying to cheer me up, “Remember what you like about Sakaka.”

“Not much.” I smiled without sentiment.

“Nothing?” he replied incredulously.

I thought about how to explain. “Yes, I have experienced a few generous, truly humbling moments of hospitality and kindness in Saudi; however, on an every day level I feel less human in Saudi.”

“For example, do you remember when we crossed the border into Jordan? What did the guards do? What did they say?”

He couldn’t remember. So I supplied, “They smiled and said, ‘H’Allah. Welcome to Jordan.’ A Jordanian taxi driver taught me the word – while many Jordanians taught me the sentiment – behind the informal word Arabic word for welcome. Everywhere in Jordan we were greeted with, ‘welcome… welcome…’

Contrast this with the first time I crossed the border into Saudi. The taxi driver rolled down the window so the guard could check me against my passport. The Saudi border guard looked at me, quickly looked away from me and, although the conversation was in Arabic, clearly began to berate our driver about my not wearing a niqab [the black face veil for females]. I looked at the guard, stuck my nose in the air and said distinctly, “Mafi Arabi” [I don’t speak Arabic] – by which I meant, ‘I cannot understand you well enough for you to make me wear the niqab’ – although I clearly understood a little bit. The Saudi guard stopped, frowned at the taxi driver, ignored me, and we continued on into Saudi Arabia.

While in Saudi, I am a woman to be systemically marginalized - and a bad woman at that! Although I obey the law and wear an abaya and although I cover my head in deference to the sensibilities of the people that I live amongst, I will not compromise my own principals to the extent of covering my face. In Sakaka, I am less than every man, undeserving of basic sanitation such as flushing toilets, undeserving of adequate supplies even as I do my best to pave their children’s way into the future.

I feel that I live without respect from the people that I have come to Saudi learn about – I came to Saudi to learn about Saudi Arabia and Islam out of respect - that is my reality in returning to Sakaka.”

And - here's a surprise - that was the end of my co-worker's attempt to cheer me! Although, to be strictly honest, the border crossing that soon followed went relatively smoothly. We were stamped out of Jordan, I donned my abaya and covered my head, we were waved into Saudi Arabia without comment, and we drove the four hours to Sakaka. At my request, we briefly paused at our local corner store for fresh milk and then we were dropped off, in front of our gate, at the compound. My co-worker and our compound driver were then kind to the point of helping me carry my bags to Villa 19. I thanked them.

After I closed the front door on our good nights, I leaned my shoulder blades, rear and the base of my skull against our heavy front door, ran my eyes across a can of artichoke hearts gleaming from the top of a bag to our gas stove, and thought,

“Tomorrow morning I am making Eggs in Purgatory” – as cooking has become my way of remaining emerged, and as sane as possible, in Sakaka.

* * * *

Eggs in Purgatory with Artichoke Hearts, Potatoes and Capers
modified from (I suspect): Bon Appetite

I ripped this recipe from a magazine while on an airplane from Seattle to Riyadh only to later discover that I only kept half the recipe. And yet, it sounded too good not to make so I’ve made it a few times – improvising the end - and find it a pretty darn healthy, fabulous breakfast (or lunch or dinner for that matter). It can be served on its own but I especially like it with crusty bread (and the olive bread from Amman was very good), a small side of tart fruit, and, of course, a savory cup of Starbucks coffee!

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 ½ cups chopped onion

2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme, or 2 teaspoons dried thyme

½ teaspoon dried crushed red pepper

¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional: I welcome extra spice)

Course kosher salt

1 can artichoke hearts, medium dice

1 can sliced artichokes, slivered

3 – 4 cloves garlic, minced

1 28 ounce can of diced tomatoes in juice

2 medium potatoes, skinned and diced into slightly smaller than ½ inch cubes

2 tablespoons capers, rough chopped

A little more course salt + freshly ground pepper – to taste

1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

8 large eggs

Heat the olive oil in a heavy, large skillet over medium heat. Add chopped onion, thyme, and crushed red pepper; lightly sprinkle and sauté until the onion is tender and golden brown, about 10 minutes. Add artichokes and minced garlic; stir 1 minute – do not let the garlic burn! Stir in tomatoes with their juice and bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover skillet and simmer for 15 minutes to allow the flavors to blend.

Add the potatoes. Stir. Then add the capers. Stir until the potatoes are covered with liquid. Resume simmering, on medium heat, regularly stirring so that the tomatoes do not burn and cook until the potatoes are tender and edible. Taste the dish. Add salt and pepper as necessary.

For the finish, you have two choices, I choose based on what pans or dishes I have available:

Finish (A)

Pre-heat the oven to 375. After the potatoes are tender, transfer the purgatory to a large baking dish. Sprinkle with the Parmesan cheese – but do save a tablespoon or so to sprinkle on top of the eggs. Using a spoon, make 8 little holes (or fewer if your dish is too small for 8). Crack the eggs into the holes, sprinkle with that little bit of remaining parmesan. Place the eggs in the oven and change the oven setting to broil. Bake until the eggs are just done.

Finish (B)

After the potatoes are tender, remove from the heat and sprinkle with the parmesan cheese – but do save a tablespoon or so to sprinkle on top of the eggs. Using a spoon, make 8 little holes (or fewer if your pan is too small for 8). Crack the eggs into the holes, sprinkle with that little bit of remaining Parmesan. Cover the pan and cook the eggs over medium-low heat until the eggs are just done.

Purgatory is a very warm place – so serve while warm!

* * * *

With lots of love,

Laura

City Mall in Amman: a place that isn't especially exotic

but is lovely to spend a few hours shopping in.

The desert between Amman, Jordan and the Saudi Border crossing. It is, I think, worth seeing once but again, not much to see.

A railroad crossing in Saudi Arabia. I love the painted tires!

Our compound, wreathed in morning fog.

One good reason to be back in Sakaka: to borrow and hug one of our compound cats! (Admittedly, I especially love hugging this one who answers to the name Oliver.)

“Is this a good book about Cyprus?”

The bookshop keeper tilted her head at me, drew her brows together, and asked, “What are you looking for?”

“Well, I am visiting Nicosia, and while I see Nicosia, I don’t really understand it. I don’t understand Cyprus.”

“Ancient Cyprus or modern Cyprus?”

“Modern, mostly. I wish to better understand the current division of Cyprus, understand what I see today.”

The bookshop keeper leveled sunken, brown eyes at me and said, matter-of-factly, “In 1955, people began to struggle for… we wanted Britain out and we wanted to rejoin Greece. But Britain had this idea of divide and rule…”

The keeper was interrupted by the needs of another customer while I propped my hip against a bookcase and started to fix an age on the keeper: every hair on her head was naturally white, her face was very lined, but not deeply so, her movements were stiff but retained alacrity. She had to be in her early 70s… hmm… 2011 minus 70 puts dates one at 1941. I shivered. This lady wasn’t lecturing by brainwashed wrote: 1955 and whatever else she would tell me was her history, the entirety of her life. Just as Vietnam vets can describe the walls of their POW camps, as Iraqi moms can still feel the embrace of their dead sons, like Tibetans torn from their Buddhas, and some-what like Jews that fled their Holocaust, the events that divided Cyprus impacted – no, dominated – this woman’s life.


“Divide and rule?” I prompted the bookshop keeper when she had finished.

“The Ottoman empire ruled Cyprus for hundreds of years but they were not good and both Muslim Cypriots and Christian Cypriots had… what is the word? complaints against them. After war, the Ottomans gave Cyprus to the British Empire. Cypriots were not unhappy because they hoped that Britain would help them reunite with Greece. But the British they built bases to overlook the Suez Canal and used this policy called “divide and rule” in Cyprus: the British began to call us Christian Cypriots and Muslim Cypriots, the British helped Turkey, and Turkey helped Muslim Cypriots want to break away from the Christian Cypriots. But Cypriots – Christian… Muslim – we are Cypriots first.

We fighted for Britain in World War II but many of us wanted join Greece, especially after the war. Britain loved its bases and wanted to keep Cyprus while Turkey didn’t want Greece to have more land. In 1955, the Cypriot people began to struggle for… we wanted self-determination, we wanted Britain and Turkey out. We stopped in 1959, when there was agreeing between Britain, Greece, Turkey and leaders of our Cypriot people. In 1960, Cyprus became the Republic of Cyprus, Makarios was president. They made a 10-point Constitution, very good for Muslim Cypriots. They had maybe 18% of the population but they got 15 of 50 seats in government, 3 ministers for cabinet, and to be Vice President.

But there were problems so in 1963 Makarios wanted to change the constitution to 13 points so the Muslim Cypriots stopped coming to work at the government. In 1964 Turkey bombed Cyprus – but they knew so little about Cyprus that they bombed their own people. So British pilots flew and bombed Cyprus, to help Turkey.

On the 15th of July 1974, junta from Greece helped put Makarios out of Cyprus. On 20th of July 1974, Turkey forgot all agreements it had made and illegally invaded Cyprus, to help the Muslims it said. But instead, Turkey got 36% of Cyprus – and keeps an army of 50,000 here. 200,000 people – 70%, by percentage of population (more than in World War II) – were forced from our homes.

I can’t go back to my home! A few years ago, my niece from America came to see me and she asked me to take her to my home, which was my father’s home. I refused. [physically shaking a bit] I cannot use my passport to visit my home. And a Turk lives in my home. Someone told me that the Turks cut down the olive trees that my father had planted. No, he lives there, maybe for many years, but he doesn’t own it. He lives in it. It is my home. I cannot see it. I wish to remember my home, happy, how it was.

In the invasion, many people died. 1400 people we do not know what happened to them. Women… young children… we don’t know. Turkey won’t help us know. My father, and other men, he was made to dig large holes and not properly bury bodies.”


Another customer walked in, which provided shopkeeper and careful listener with a break. Still propped on now sleepy feet, the bookshop keeper pointed me to a low couch by the shop window while she bustled and bristled at the new customer. When finished, she sat on a chair across from me and sighed.

“In 2004, we could vote to reunite. Papadopoulos [then President of Cyprus] told us we choose, he would deal with whatever we voted. But I could not vote yes. If I voted yes, I could only have 1/5th of my house back – I could have my bathroom only! That is not right.”

We were interrupted again. When she returned, I said, “What you have told me is very sad. Is there a solution?,” I asked curiously.

“No.” She answered, switching from strength to bitterness. “In 1922, the Turks made genocide against Armenians. You know?”

I nodded.

“Turks are warring people. In our village, the Turks put my father, and all parents into the church. And then, they bring daughters into the church and they… they rape… the daughters on the alter of the church. When the parents cried, and said, “No. Take me instead.” Parents were killed. Daughters cried. My father he watch.

Many Muslim Cypriots leave Cyprus because it is so bad. The Turkish government brought ignorant people from Anatolia to live on Cyprus. The Turks give them houses – nice houses. They put many families in one house, they don’t know how to live any other way. And they don’t know about electricity, or refrigerators. Some use refrigerators for shelves, putting clothes in them. The Turkish government gives them money to live on Cyprus, but they can live there for 30 years. They are not Cypriots!”

Now I was the one slightly shaking. Raised in stability, educated with words, not experience, I do not know injustice at this level, loss of home, loss of lives, rapes and mass graves. Yes, I could match words to pictures within my imagination, but I cannot truly understand. I said this, and squarely met her eyes, joined my hands at my heart and thanked her for helping me understand her Cyprus.

And yes, there were – there are – gaps in her narrative. The biggest gap, of course, was any sympathy for Muslims, or Turks on the other side. Not wanting to show any disrespect, nonetheless I felt compelled to ask, “How do Christian Cypriots feel about Muslim Cypriots?”

“Before the invasion, there were not big problems between Muslims and Christians. I will tell you a story. My father owned a farm and a mill and he had many workers to help him. One worker, he liked and respected very much, was a Muslim Cypriot. That man wanted to get married but did not have the 100 pounds – a lot of money in those days - for the [bride price]. So he asked my father to loan him the money. And my father, he agreed, he loaned him the money, without interest and then, as a wedding gift, he gave the couple 50 pounds. The couple was very happy. My father was a good man.

20 years later, my father and my uncle were locked by the Turks into the church. They were very sad, very afraid. In walked a Turkish general, it was the same Muslim Cypriot that my father had helped. My father walked up to the man and said, ‘My brother! Can you help?’ The man looked angry at my father and said to him, ‘I am the boss now.’ When my father appealed to the man again, the man knocked him down and kicked him very hard. My uncle, who was there, said, ‘What are you doing? My brother, he loved you like a son!’ The man knocked and kicked my uncle down too and repeated, ‘I am the boss now.’ My father and uncle had blood in their pee for weeks after that man kicked them.”

Her eyes were rimmed with pain. And I couldn’t help wanting to offer comfort: I reached out and hugged her, while she remained stiff and absorbed in her memories.

“I cannot forgive. I cannot forget. I cannot forgive.”


At that point, we returned to the business of finding me a book but the bookshop keeper couldn’t restrain herself from further driving her point home. She showed me an older, glossy coffee table book filled with pictures of destroyed churches and icons that the Turks have ruined or over the last decades. And then she discovered one more story to tell me, being that I am an American.

“When Sadaam Hussien invaded Kuwait, many American military people came to Cyprus. One day, a man with patches on his shoulder came into the shop and I asked him, ‘Iraq’s military attacked Kuwait. Why is the United States helping Kuwait?’

The man said, ‘It is the right thing to do.’

I said, ‘Well, Turkey’s military attacked Cyprus. What is the difference?’

The man wouldn’t answer at first. And then, quietly he said, ‘Oil.’”


I understood. I understood that the bookshop keeper’s way of extracting vengeance – her method of living with her memories, her method of seeking justice – is to impart her story to whoever will listen, to put face to injustice, to re-live crimes that have not yet faded into history in hopes that there will yet be reparation. And I must admit, I walked away from her shop wrestling her feelings, sharing little hope that she will find justice in her lifetime.

But we did find me a book! Titled Echoes from the Divide, Across the Cyprus Divide, my new book “explores attitudes and prejudices on a human level.” Despite the sadness of the history that the bookshop keeper imparted, I hold hope that if generations following our keeper are able to literally cross their divide, explore prejudices, and find ways to make amends, then future Cypriots will compel themselves into a better future, away from their bitter past.

Love,
Laura

Dear Friends and Family,

Call me crazy – oh, and so many of you have – but I actually do love exploring alone. Without a companion, my traveler self shifts into a puzzlement: in countless conversations, people have indirectly or directly commented, “Really? By yourself? A woman traveling by herself? Why???” No matter which explanation I use, amusingly, people remain unconvinced. However, I have long since discovered that traveling alone sends a visual cue of accessibility and allows me a free pass in questioning people about whatever interests me, to learn from them - while some people have questions for and want to learn from me.

Cyprus was especially good for encounters that yielded me bits and pieces of information that allowed me to piece together an understanding. Although the island appears an epitome of peace and prosperity, there remains a matter of very real dispute. In 1974, Turkey invaded and continues to occupy, despite toothless international condemnation, 36% of the island: war crimes were committed (on both sides, I believe), refugee status and property rights remain very real issues, and almost every Cypriot I met was eager to tell me about, or at the very least elude to, the 1974 illegal occupation by Turkey. However, other conversations included:


** When asked, “Why are all taxis in Cyprus Mercedes brand cars?”

A Cypriot taxi driver informed me, “Mercedes are good cars, they go, and they don’t need so many repairs. But I have 3 American cars: a 1948 Plymouth, a 1952 Chrysler, and a DeSoto.” He proceeded to tell me about fixing up his cars – he uses his British passport to visit Istanbul with friends (“Istanbul isn’t that bad” – he assured me), buys parts, and returns them to Cyprus in a suitcase. He drives his cars in… “what is the word?” classic car rallies and keeps a sheaf of classic car pictures plus EBay part print-outs in his taxi’s glove compartment. I admired each picture before paying an exorbitant rate (taxis in Cyprus are both Mercedes brand and exorbitantly priced) before climbing out at my destination.


** In very rusty English, another taxi driver asked me “Is it true there are do not pass areas in New York?”

I imagined so, “New York’s traffic is terrible and they try new ways to make their traffic better.”

“No, no.” he protested. “Places in New York where people do not go.”

“Ah. Yes, I am sorry to say there are places in New York where people do not go.”

“Why?” he asked. “Is it the black people?”

I dug deep to give an intelligent reply, “I think it is about poor people: people do not have money, do not go to school and do not have jobs - but they do have guns. This is bad.”

“The black people have guns?” he asked again.

“There are many people with guns: there are many white people with guns and people from Vietnam or Mexico… and some black people.”

“Oh! White people too. That is very bad.”


** Speaking of New York, a lady at the hair salon where I bravely faced my phobia of foreign haircuts, asked if I, like herself, was from New York.

“No, Seattle.”

“Well, I thought you were from New York. You talk fast like a New Yorker.”

She went on to explain that her husband is Cypriot and that in order to please themselves, and their families, they move back and forth between Cyprus and New York. “Cyprus is better for the kids,” she explained.


** Just before departing, I had to journey into the bowels of an airport office in order to pay a fee. Apparently other passengers very much object to this detour but for me, it was an adventure that afforded me a kindly proffered cup of coffee, allowed me to compliment the lady on the sandbottle decorating her desk (a common souvenir from Petra, Jordan) and suggest the book Married to a Bedouin.

“Are you single?” the lady asked. I nodded.

“You have time to read. I have four boys! I don’t have time to read!” This lead into an interesting, albeit troubling discussion regarding raising kids in this age of electronics. The lady’s youngest son spends a lot of time on his PlayStation… and “he even plays it with his teacher! So, ok, he and his teacher have a good relationship and his teacher can influence him in his studies. But those games are violent and they look so real… and isn’t there something wrong with playing video games with one’s teacher?”


** Noting my long-time fixation on this very computer, another lady asked me if I liked Facebook.

Although I was finishing a blog entry at that particular moment, I have undeniably taken to FB and sheepishly replied, “Yes.”

“Me, too.” She agreed. “My husband – he prefers video games – but I like Facebook.”


** A fierce argument broke out during the 2 hour mini-bus ride to Nicosia. Sitting just to the side of the line of fire, in the front seat, of course I couldn’t understand a word – but I didn’t really need to. The man behind the driver was upset because the mini-bus was running later than he needed; the driver was upset because that is just how it goes with mini-buses. After a good 15 minutes of arguing, we had arrived in the outskirts of Nicosia and the driver dropped the man off at a roundabout so that he could get a private taxi. Soon the other passengers were dropped off as well and the driver, worried that the argument had upset me, told me that the male passenger, a Romanian, had accused her of not liking Romanians.

I made the right noises. And she went on to explain that they had a Cypriot pensioner who worked in the front office who wasn’t at all mindful when he organized the mini-buses. “I work for 18 hours a day… and I shouldn’t be yelled at by passengers. Crazy Cypriots!” she scoffed.

“You aren’t from Cyprus?” I asked.

“NO!” She nearly exploded in response, flexing her black-painted nails. “I am from Russia. I have been here for 25 years and I won’t get a passport from here.”


** “Yes,” a museum security officer said. “Maybe 10% of the population is foreigners.”

“Is that good or bad?” I asked.

“Well, for me it is good. I like many people. But for older Cypriots, immigrants is not good.”


** “The economy is ok here – it is just winter. I am lucky to have a job in the winter.” One lady told me. Another man told me, “Government workers make 3 times the wages and pensions that private workers get. The economy in Cyprus is good but the government has to stop this.”


** In rapid, nearly incomprehensible English, a leather jacket clad, techno-listening, aging Cypriot taxi driver coughed, asked me where I was from, proceeded to tell me that I was “very sweet” and asked for my number. On another day, I greeted an African man in a mosque with the Arabic greeting of, “Salaam Allecombe.” He smiled at me, asked where I was from, asked for my number, asked me if I were Muslim, smiled and then asked me for my number again.

Living in Saudi Arabia, I often feel that the attention I receive stems from not-so-healthy sexual repression. I still sometimes feel that I am regarded (to quote my earlier self in India), “as an absolutely free, 4-course meal (complete with all-you-can-drink beer!) walking down the street, an open invitation – irregardless of quality, available and free.” In Cyprus, it felt nice to back in a country where yes, I get attention but with a little bit of subtlety behind the assumption that I’m free and readily available.

** After teaching me to say, “Kalli-mera” (good morning), one man abruptly transitioned into inquiring, “Have you heard about the lawsuit in America?”

“No.” I admitted, instantly curious. “What lawsuit?”

“A lawyer in America is suing Turkey for money for property.”

Curiosity piqued – what possible jurisdiction could that fall under? I checked Google and found that a recent legal precedent allows lawsuits against international commercial entities. Commercial entities are key as no country, including the United States recognizes the Turkish declared Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC); however, the TRNC operates in the States as business entity, on business visas. In a 2010 class action suit titled Greek Cypriots, et al. v. TRNC and HSBC Bank USA, one Telemachos Fiouris and other Cypriots are suing the commercial establishment of the TRNC for denial of access to and enjoyment of land and property held in the north, and HSBC, the only known bank to clear money through this entity, for “knowingly aiding, assisting, supporting and benefiting from the fraudulent property schemes.”

The suit baldly walks through the sordid history of the invasion, the gaps in even the legitimacy the commercial existence of the TRNC, and is reportedly seeking compensation in the billions while the American attorney behind the case builds on his record of pushing lawsuits against entities that would “hide behind their flag and country.”


** The night before my departure, the restaurant host who better resembled Michangelo’s David than the law student that he made the mistake admitting to me that he is, couldn’t quite summon the English needed to answer the question that I put to him,

“Why is Turkey still in Cyprus? What is the basis for their argument?”

“Listen to me,” he admonished and then he gave me a very good run down of the history of Turkey’s occupation – that by then I had heard and read several times, with very little variation.

I stared into his gorgeous eyes and thanked him. “But here’s what I know about law: that to make a good case, you have to understand the other side’s argument and you have to argue – very well – against them. So what is Turkey’s argument?”

Although he did admit that there had been attacks on Cypriot Muslims in the past, he told me that, “This is about politics – not about religion. In my opinion, they have no good argument.”


** The curly-haired lady at the comfy Starbucks that I frequented while in Nicosia, answered my, “And how are you?” with, “I’m always the same.”

I didn’t find that a good answer. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope tomorrow will be better!”

“No! You misunderstand me. I’m always the same because I’m always good.”

“Oh, I am glad to hear that you are always good! And yet I still hope that tomorrow will better – even better than today!”

We smiled at each other.



Not that I don't adore traveling with others but I will say that in Cyprus, I found good reasons for exploring alone.

Love,
Laura

Mercedes taxis waiting at a taxi stand in Paphos, Cyprus.

A DeSoto - very similar to the one in my taxi friend's pictures.

You, too, could go to Petra and get yourself a pretty sandbottle.

I didn't. But you could!

A breath-catching icon from a museum in Nicosia.

(Part of) a Cypriot tribute to liberty - near the "Green Line" in divided Nicosia.