the traveler's notebook » Teresa Ponikvar

You Got Your Pens Moving: Stories of Misunderstandings from the Matador Community

Teresa Ponikvar — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 14:44:42 +0000

Photo: CarbonNYC Feature Photo: Cam Vilay

This week’s stories will make you laugh, but they also remind us to pay attention to our surroundings and to the words coming out of our mouths when we’re on the road in unfamiliar cultures–lest we unwittingly plant images of cheeses coated in bodily fluids in the minds of our new friends, or enrage swordfish-wielding Italian chefs.

Thanks to everyone who submitted!

“It started out like any other beginners’ English class. My students were chatting about morning routines when out it slipped.

‘In the morning, I have a big Cock,’ he announced, smiling shyly at his classmates, pleased with himself.

Susana joined in. ‘I don’t like Coca-Cola,’ she said, ‘but I love coffee. I have two cups with milk and then I get dressed and brush my tits.’

–Natasha Young

“We were in Serbia, drinking Turkish coffee with friends one morning, and we started talking about a billboard we saw in Nis the night before. It said (in English): Brain Rules Force Timber Push.

Photo: Nihit

What? The Serbs all started trying to explain — talking at the same time in those loud voices that makes our friend Paul tell his Serb girlfriend, ‘When I learn Serbian – don’t talk to me like you’re mad.’

What they decided was that it was a VERY literal translation of our saying Mind Over Matter. Get it? Pretend the word timber means “large log”. Now do you get it? It took more words than I feel like typing, but trust me — it works.

So what other Serbian gems might we need to know? Here are a few that our friends came up with:

Pomesaj Se Sa Mekinje, Pojesce Te Svinje: If You Mix With Slop, The Pigs Will Eat You. (Choose your friends wisely.)

Ko Sadi Hkve Sa Djavolom O Glavu Mu Se Lupaju: Who Plants Pumpkins With The Devil Will Get Hit In The Head With These Pumpkins (I think this is basically the same, but it’s so very pumpkin-specific that I can’t be sure. Maybe it only applies to farmers, or to Halloween?)

Ili Jare Ili Pare: The Money Or The Goat. (You can’t have your cake and eat it too.) This one is terrific because it sounds so cool when you say it. Our kids hate it already.”

–Bob & Brenna Redpath

“My Medellin apartment was well-suited for a party, and with only two weeks left in Colombia before I had to return home, I decided on a ‘wine and cheese’ theme and began inviting everyone I knew.

A few hours before the party was set to begin, I was returning from a last minute trip to the convenience store when I bumped into the beautiful Carolina. Since I’d failed to manage a date with her on every prior attempt, I was surprised to learn she was interested in attending my party. She went home to get ready, while I prepared the apartment.

As guests began to arrive with offerings of wine and typical Colombian cheeses, I spotted Carolina tasting the ones I provided. The Roquefort on a cracker was met with a grimace, leaving me to finish the last bite, while the port wine cheddar was much more to her liking.

When it came time to try the brie, she commented on how it was completely covered in sperm. I wasn’t sure I heard her right, so I asked her to repeat herself.

Again, she described the cheese as being covered in sperm. Disturbing images of semen-covered soft cheese flashed in my mind, while I stood dumbfounded before this pretty, proper Colombian woman.

Photo: Dotbenjamin

I called for help in the form of my friend, Henry.

‘Henry, why is she saying the cheese is covered in sperm?’ I asked.

Henry let out a laugh, and explained, ‘Sperm in Spanish also means wax…like candles.’ ”

–David Lee

“After enjoying endless plates of delicious fish in Cinque Terre, I decided to press my luck at a Venice restaurant. It is surrounded by water after all.

When my swordfish arrived, I realized the error of my ways and tried to explain to the waiter, in my garbled Italian, that it was undercooked, tasted quite fishy, and I just wasn’t going to eat it. Then I uttered the words I later regretted so badly.

‘It just doesn’t taste fresh,’ I said. The waiter’s face went blank, his eyes cold. He whisked the fish away and retreated to the kitchen.

As my husband and I pondered the implications of his actions, the squat, elderly chef came barreling out of the kitchen, and thrust an entire raw swordfish under my nose.

‘Fresca, fresca!’ she shrieked. I stared at my husband, panicked, as all eyes in the restaurant turned to us.

‘I’m sorry,’ I replied sheepishly. ‘I just didn’t like it.’

She continued to rant in rapid-fire Italian as suddenly, waiters appeared all around us, and began removing the bread, wine and water from our table. As the bill was set down and we fumbled to pay, the chef hovered in the corner giving us a look that would make even the most-hardened member of the Gambino crime family quiver.

We quickly paid and ducked out into the street, feeling the eyes of the chef boring into our backs. ‘Lesson learned,’ said my husband. ‘Never insult the freshness of an Italian chef’s fish.’ ”

–Katie Hammel

“Japan is a paradoxical country when it comes to comfort. On the one hand, as an English-speaking visitor, you’ll find it very easy to get around on the trains, order food, and enjoy museum exhibits without speaking a word of Japanese.

On the other hand, once you do start taking an interest in the local language and try to form a few words,you’ll find reactions will ALWAYS be positive:

Me: Excuse… me… where… train station is?

Japanese bystander: Ohhh! Your Japanese is so honorably skillful!

This was one reason I tended to stick with English in most conversations with my Japanese girlfriend – better to be the stereotypical non-Japanese-speaking foreigner than to accept unwarranted praise.

But even straight English got me in trouble withher a few times. While we were walking down the street one evening after an Italian dinner, making jokes and poking fun at cultural differences, I casually mentioned I thought she was a ’silly girl.’

That certainly stopped her in her tracks. ‘What do you mean? You don’t like me? You think I’m stupid?’ It turned out that she believed ’silly’ to be more ‘foolish’ and undesirable rather than something of a joke. She stayed pretty mad for a few hours until I convinced her, as the ‘authority’ on English in this little town, that I intended no harm. Still, that didn’t stop her from looking up the word on the Internet and in her pocket translator and insisting I was looking down on her.

I was tempted, as I would to women in any country, to simply capitulate and let her believe what she liked. But rather than let this idea of foolishness spread around Japan and eventually destroy all international couples, I set the record straight.”

–Turner Wright

“Once the sun went down, I stumbled out of my hostel room in London after a floor picnic consisting of wine, wine, Cadbury’s chocolate bars, and more wine. I was accompanied by three Swedish girls and two Spanish guys who were at the moment, my best friends in the whole world (I’d known them for three hours).

We were on our way to the closest bar possible. What we found consisted of, among other things, a flat-screen television projecting images of gym-savvy young men in Speedos, and a bouncer at the door named ‘Gloria’ who was adorned with platform shoes, fake eyelashes, and an Adam’s Apple. I may have been drunk and on the other side of the world, but I know a gay bar when I see one.

Photo: greenmelinda

I resigned myself to an evening of great dance music and eye candy that I could look at but not touch. This would be fun. We were all having a good time, but a few martinis into our dance party with Cher on the turntable, Malin, one of my Swedish cohorts, leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘I think this is a gay bar!’

She had been wondering why all the attention had been directed toward Jorge and Ion. I’m not sure if it was the abundance of cheap hostel picnic wine and overpriced cocktails that led to her initial misreading of the bar clientele. That, or I’ll have to give it to Gloria the bouncer; she was rather convincing.”

–Marissa Barker

Community Connection

Want to avoid misunderstandings like these? Check out these five tips for avoiding embarrassing cultural mishaps.

Get Your Pen Moving: MISUNDERSTANDINGS

Teresa Ponikvar — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 16:02:11 +0000

Photo: The Giant Vermin Feature Photo: Lourdes Nightingale

No matter how experienced, prepared, and culturally sensitive a traveler you are, misunderstandings are inevitable–and often hilarious, even sometimes illuminating.

This week, pull out your notebook or laptop and start writing about misunderstandings you’ve had on the road–the funny, the sad, and the awkward: everything from a grossly misinterpreted street sign, to a mangled Portuguese phrase that had the entire dinner table staring at you in shock.

As always, bring us into the moment with you. We’re more interested in strong characters and original details than in philosophizing or “telling”–but feel free to follow that moving pen wherever it wants to take you.

When you’ve got something you like, send 250 words (or less) in the body of an email, along with your full name (or favorite alias) and your Matador community page url, with MISUNDERSTANDINGS in the subject line, to teresa@matadorntwork.com. We’ll publish our favorite bits and pieces next Monday.

Thanks for continuing to share your stories!

You Got Your Pens Moving: Stories of Travel Terror from the Matador Community

Teresa Ponikvar — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 18:02:45 +0000

Photo: Debrrr

Matadorians share their moments of travel terror from Cambodia to the Amazon.

This week’s collection of stories ended up being funnier than it is terrifying. Most of the contributors are admirably willing to make the jump from terror to laughing at themselves and the dicey situations they find themselves in. Enjoy alternately biting your nails and giggling as you read these excerpts from their work.

“Since the last bus had left and the government-run taxis were stalled, we could either lodge in a seedy gambling
establishment, or take our new, remarkably-good-English-speaking Cambodian friend’s offer to get a ride in his car – a mafia taxi. It was an offer we couldn’t refuse.

When four of the largest Cambodians I could ever imagine (who knew sumo was popular there) squeezed out of ’94 Corolla, my spirits actually lifted – I might as well use my last breaths to laugh!

Photo: Mugley

Fortunately, only one of the behemoths could fit into the car to drive us. Unfortunately, he spoke not a lick of English, so our questions along the way remained unanswered by all but our own anxious and sleepy imaginations, which were being battered by the bumpy ride down the unlit ‘highway.’

Mid night we thought we reached our destination. But alas, after driving a few laps around the dusty village roads, our driver stopped behind another car. He got out to smoke with a much thinner man under the glow of a lonely street light. Suddenly, we were motioned out of the car by our driver, who, strangely, learned enough English during the drive to repeat “I’m sorry” while the other man transferred our bags from the trunk to his. Now we were in this stranger’s hands….”

–Amir

“Monte Rico, a black-sand beach on the southern coast of Guatemala, is a home to Traitors. These Traitors, as Guatemalans call them, are freak waves which, after experiencing one, you may be tempted to believe have their origin in the 9th level of hell.

They are waves that don’t appear from out at sea but erupt abruptly from the coast, surging colossal. Jurassic waves that redefine your notion of raw power, swallowing and rocketing you towards the shore. Waves whose self-destructions whip and break you on the ocean bed, drawing from your lips an underwater moan.

Waves whose frothy and chaotic aftermath you surface in the midst of, kaleidoscopic pain swimming through your body, and a prayer in your mind, emanating from a legitimate fear of drowning, that you reach land before another such wave unleashes itself upon you. Those are Traitors.”

–Aaron King

“We were alone in the hostel in Las Penitas, Nicaragua, except for an armed guard who stood at the rickety sheet of metal that acted as the property’s gate. The creepiness of the place had subsided after we polished off a bottle of Flor de Caña rum, and I was nestled between my friends Jenna and Sarah.

In between dreams, I heard a muffled KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. Someone grabbed my arm. It was Sarah. She whimpered “Si?” Nothing, then KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

Photo: Alyssa L. Miller

Sarah shouted “Que?!” Still nothing, then KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

Both Jenna and I roused ourselves to see what the hell was going on. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

Our hearts and heads (swirling with the last effects of the rum) pounded. Sarah yelled “Como?!” We all swung our feet to the floor and flinched at the next KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

Sarah, hysterical now, screamed “What?!”

Silence. Then… “Hey guys…” It was Nick. “Can I have some water? My parasite is acting up again.”

–Emily Nuchols

“I spent my last day in Chiang Mai walking through the city. I spent my last night in the ER.

The day was sticky. The heat barely tolerable. To reward myself for walking through all four gates of the city, I sprung for a three-hour Thai massage. I crashed at the hotel for a quick nap. My plan was to spend the evening at the Night Bazaar for some shopping.

After picking up a cheap-looking belt to hold up my shorts, I grabbed dinner. Pad Thai, two bottles of Chang Beer and a Mango Smoothie. I stood up and paid the bill. I don’t remember what followed.

The man who revived me, a loud, pushy German eating with his wife at the table next me, said I staggered from my table, hit a post, and fell. ‘And then you tried to get up, but fell down again.’

‘Wait,’ I answered. ‘Have you seen my belt?’

I spent an hour at Central Chiang Mai Memorial Hospital. They ran tests, found nothing. They said I was dehydrated. They directed me to the cashier window and showed me a slip of paper. 720 Baht. I reached for my money belt with my passport, extra cash, and credit cards. Nothing. I had taken off my belt at the hotel and forgot to put it back on. I panicked and put my hands in my pocket. I pulled out 750 Baht, the change from my dinner.

Lesson learned: hydrate after a three-hour Thai massage.”

–Emanuel Ramos

“I laughed as we stepped up on a library stool to get into the twin prop aircraft in the Bolivian Amazon. I remember saying something vaguely inappropriate to a few of my group members. Of course, as the guide, I was supposed to be putting them more at ease but now, six weeks in, they knew me and I them.

Photo: Antoine Hubert

Seated, I could survey the rutted strip laid out before us from the inexplicably small window. Our discomfort as we bounced along to the far end was not dissimilar to what we had been experiencing the previous weeks touring in 4×4s.

How many times had I made this flight, seven, eight? I mentioned that on occasions some people became euphoric with the lack of cabin pressure control. I could see some amongst my group hoping for this free “high”.

The aircraft lined up with the runway and as the pilot accelerated I had an unrivalled view of his actions and our line through the front windows. Shortly we would leave behind us the wonders of Rurrenabaque and climb to the lofty heights of La Paz.

The pilot was chuckling idly with the co-pilot, their eyes obscured by the ubiquitous aviator glasses and the nose of the aircraft lifted off the ground.

But we rose no further.

The pilot levelled the aircraft out at a height of roughly 2 to 3 meters above the ground. He was aiming at the tree-line at the end of the runway.

Before us lay a formidable obstacle: the Amazon. And we were headed directly at it.

In the split second before the pilot pulled up soaring over, yet perilously close to, the tree tops, all the while cackling maniacally at his joke, a girl in my group described my face as being nothing less than ‘resigned to death’. My eyes did not open wider but my colour drained and I was at peace.”

–Richard McColl

Community Connection

If you liked something you read here, take a moment to click through the writer’s Matador community page and leave a comment.

Check in with the Notebook next Monday for another prompt to get your pen moving!

Get Your Pen Moving: TRAVEL TERROR

Teresa Ponikvar — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 16:56:56 +0000

Photo: Gia Rose Feature Photo: Giraffe 756

It’s Monday again–time for you to start writing, time for us to start anticipating a new batch of your travel stories. Get your pens out, and…go!

This week we want to hear about moments of travel terror: a close shave with a rampaging bull? Realizing at 3 a.m. in a strange city that you’ve lost your wallet, your room key, and your passport? Getting picked up by heavily-armed police officers for an offense you don’t understand?

Whatever it was, make us sweat (shiver, shake, whimper…) through the experience along with you. Send 250 words (or less) worth of whatever you come up with to teresa@matadornetwork.com, along with your full name (or preferred psuedonymn) and your Matador community url, with “TRAVEL TERROR” in the subject line.

We’ll publish some of our favorite paragraphs, sentences, and turns of phrase next Monday. We look forward to reading your words!

Community Connection

Matador member Sarah Shourd is in the middle of a very real moment of travel terror right now. Read the breaking news on her situation at Matador Pulse.

5 MORE Words We Never Want to See in Travel Writing Again

Teresa Ponikvar — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 16:47:34 +0000

Photo: Joe Seggiola

After we published “10 Words and Phrases We Never Want to See in Travel Writing Again,” some readers argued that travel-writing clichés can be necessary and useful in certain mainstream publications. Others felt that we should stop whining, that no word should be declared off-limits.

And lots and lots of readers had lists of their own hated and despised travel-writing words. What can we say? We love to whine about bad writing. So here are five more words we’d just as soon never see again in travel writing:

Photo: Supermac

1. perched/nestled. These words are just too, too adorable when used in reference to towns or buildings.

Form the picture in your head of an oh-so-charming, thatch-roofed country inn. Now picture it…nestling. Ugh. Save these words for birds and fluffy little puppies.

2. Mecca. Mecca is of course an actual place you might travel to or make reference to, and in either of those cases, it’s a perfectly appropriate word to use. But a Shopping Mecca? A Snowboarding Mecca? Really?

Would you ever refer to a “Shopping Basilica of Guadalupe?” Or a “Snowboarding Konark Sun Temple?” Sounds dumb, right? Okay, then.

3. shrouded. Whether it’s shrouded in mystery or shrouded in fog, this seems like a strangely morbid word choice in most situations. A shroud, after all, wraps a corpse. Do you mean to imply that San Francisco, “shrouded in fog”, is dead and awaiting burial? Probably not.

Photo: Jitze

4. spartan/rustic. Our problem with these words is when they’re used for “spin” purposes. If the toilet is an open ditch out back, you have to bring your own toilet paper, and yes, those are bedbugs—well, “rustic” is perhaps bordering on dishonesty.

5. eatery. Just imagine how goofy you would sound if you used “eatery” in conversation. “I don’t feel like cooking—let’s go to an eatery!” Try saying that out loud and see if you don’t giggle.

(And don’t worry: if someone was silly enough to actually name their restuarant “The Brown Cow Eatery” or some such thing, we won’t hold you responsible.)

Community Connection

Is your travel writing pet peeve still missing from the list? Share it in the comments!

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

You Got Your Pens Moving: Animal Stories from the Matador Community

Teresa Ponikvar — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 22:06:29 +0000

Photo: IRRI Images

After reading this week’s submissions, I am fully convinced that animals need to make more appearances in our travel writing. In these stories, they provide comic relief, metaphors, and suprising new perspectives on human affairs.

Enjoy these excerpts from your fellow Matadorians’ work!

“People a lot smarter than me wear hats or pith helmets in the jungle. I had to wear those silly-looking helmets for 3 years in the jungles of Panama, years ago. They make you sweat, and then, the leather headband shrinks and crushes your skull. I’m not working for the government now, so when I go in the jungle, I wear or don’t wear whatever the hell I want to.

I never saw the spider I came across. I walked right into his web. It was at just the right height across the trail to wrap my whole head and the upper half of my body in stuff you could use as a substitute for Super Glue, only it stinks worse.

While I was cussin’ and flailin’ around trying to wipe the mess off of me and my trail partner was laughin’ his ass off, the spider was probably spinning a new web !

Solution: Wear a hat? Hell no! Get a taller trail partner and let him lead the way!”

–Michael Lynch

Photo: Ken Mayer

“Cockfighting is legal in Guatemala although even some Guatemalans are unsure of its legality. This lack of knowledge speaks to the mystery surrounding the blood sport. Few Guatemalans are capable of telling you where to find a cockfight if asked and even fewer possess concrete details pertaining to fights. Your best chance at gaining admittance to a cockfight is through connections. I was fortunate to have just such a connection.

My university professor in Guatemala, whom I shall call Roderigo, was the uncle of a weekend gallo fighter, Gabriel. Was I interested in seeing a fight of Gabriel’s, Roderigo asked. Of course, and we were off one Saturday evening to the cockfights.

We drove to the house of Gabriel, on the fringe of Guatemala City. Luis, Gabriel’s father, was waiting for us. Roderigo had only just parked when Luis opened my passenger-side door and whisked me (“Rapido, rapido, Aaron ”) into his home. He had never before had the chance to explain his gallo-passion to a foreigner.

He showed me to a study in the back, and through the windows I could see the family’s rooster coop behind the house. “Special windows,” Luis said,pointing to the doubly-thick panes, “No hear cuckoo.” I glimpsed only one rooster occupying a cage before Luis took me by the sleeve and rushed me back towards the driveway (we were late for the fights), but it stood in profile to me: proud, meditative, mysterious.”

–Aaron King

“Were they going to charge at me? I had never been so close to one cow before, never mind an entire herd! I continued to approach them and when just over a metre away they started to run in the opposite direction. I didn’t expect such large animals to be so timid.”

–Dan Massie

Photo: Henrique Vicente

“Pushing his nose through the glass shards, mangled steel, and dilapidated bricks of a former palace, now destroyed, he trots along the sidewalk. Stopping briefly to scratch his spotted white and black neck with his long, slender legs.

‘Don’t you realize there is a war going on?’

Ignoring the hulking, armored vehicles as they drive past, he continues foraging through the rubble. He doesn’t care about the politicians or their wars.

The “weapons of mass destruction,” roadside bombs, religious tensions, and suicide bombers wreaking havoc on cities mean nothing to him. He won’t shed a tear for the mothers and fathers not going home to their children, or the children being buried by their loved ones. He just wants his next meal.

Panting, and without filling his stomach at the palace where people once gorged themselves on luxurious feasts, he darts into the darkness.”

–Michael James

Community Connection

There have to be more great animal stories out there–tell yours in the comments.

Got great ideas for future “get your pen moving” prompts? Share them in the comments!

Get Your Pen Moving: ANIMAL ENCOUNTERS

Teresa Ponikvar — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 17:53:29 +0000

Photos: Ckubber Feature Photo: What Silence

Around Matador, we hear a lot about amazing interactions between travelers and local people–but we don’t hear a whole lot about encounters between travelers and local animals.

This week, get your pen moving by thinking about amazing mammals, amphibians, insects, reptiles and fish you’ve met (or run from, or squashed, or ridden, or been attacked by…) on your travels.

Remember, while you’re free to write absolutely anything relating to animals and travel (after all, the idea is to get you writing), we’re less interested in abstract meditations on animal rights than we are in strong stories and descriptions. Bring us into the moment with you and your animal friend (or enemy).

If you’re new this week or need a refresher, you have one week to write anything you like within the scope of the “animal encounters” prompt. Send anything from three to 250 words to teresa@matadornetwork.com, along with your full name (or whatever name you’d like to be indentified by) and your Matador community page url. Next week, we’ll publish our favorite bits and pieces of the entries we’ve recieved.

If you haven’t already, check out previous “Get Your Pen Moving” submissions about food and homecomings.

Community Connection

Never connected with a member of another species? Check out Azriel Cohen’s article on how to connect to wild animals through your own primitive nature.

Coming Home to Oaxaca By the Numbers

Teresa Ponikvar — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 17:46:54 +0000

Notebook editor Teresa Ponikvar breaks down her commitment to expat life by the numbers

Minutes it took to decide to move to Oaxaca after husband lost his job in Hidalgo: 3

All Photos: Ibis Alonso

Properties viewed: 12

Properties with complete houses viewed: 1

Properties with houses with the roof caved in viewed: 1

Properties with unfinished houses viewed: 1

Properties with unfinished houses purchased: 1

Windows installed: 5

Doors installed: 3

Floors tiles installed: lots

Solar panels installed: 5

Times I reminded myself to never, ever, think about “The Ring” while looking down the well: 27

Trips to buy materials stalled by teacher protests in Oaxaca: 3

Trips to buy materials stalled by burro-pulled carts making alfalfa deliveries in Tlacochahuaya: 8

Building code inspections: 0

Locally-owned businesses supported: 10

Friends and family members who donated their expertise and labor: 8

Round trips from Hidalgo to Oaxaca: 5

Households slept in while waiting for house to be finished: 3

Lots for sale nearby: 15

Family members and friends who have expressed interest in buying one of these lots: 6

Number of times I insisted to the neighbor that I didn’t want a puppy: 3

Number of puppies given to me anyway: 1

Sad, mangy dogs evicted from property after the arrival of said puppy: 3

Money left in our bank account in US dollars: $53.74

Nights we’ve slept in new house: 2

Nights we’ve slept insanely well and woken up to the sunrise over the mountains in new house: 2

You Got Your Pens Moving: COMING HOME

Teresa Ponikvar — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 18:35:01 +0000

Photo: historiesinrust

There was definitely no concensus among the Matadorians who responded to this week’s prompt. They saw “coming home” as everything from a relief to a burden; the gateway to another adventure, or an adventure in itself.

Check out these excerpts from their work, and take your pick of new perspectives on your next homecoming!

“I’ve found that sometimes, particularly after a protracted absence, coming home has as much to teach me as going away.”
–Tabatha Smith

“Sometimes people are shocked that I never went “home” during my two years in Lesotho as a Peace Corps volunteer. I think that they can’t really imagine that a small hut in a small village could become my home. Being a bit world-weary and cynical myself, maybe I couldn’t imagine it either. It happened, though.

Photo: m-louis

I can actually pinpoint the exact time when I realized that my village was my new home. My first winter break from school was amazing. We went hiking on South Africa’s Wild Coast, and then I lived it up in Cape Town, treating myself to lattes and bagels and anything else I couldn’t get in my village. A train and several mini-bus rides later and I was back in Lesotho, walking the last 7 K over the pass to my village.

And there it was, my valley, my mountains, my home. Even with all the fantastic things I had done and seen on my vacation, and even though I’d only been in the village for six months, I felt everything you feel when you finally get home: relief, pride, comfort.”
–Stacey C.

“Coming home… feels like surrender.”
–Mike

“There are two lines in front of me: Brazilians and tourists. The three weeks spent in my home country, in the land where I was born and grew up, are a clear indication that I am a foreigner, just like most of my fellow passengers. Yet I seem to fit neither of the options: I am not entering on a tourist visa, but two years in Brazil do not make me Brazilian.

I freeze, and a migrations officer notices my hesitation: “Are you a foreigner? Here is the line for tourists.” I flash the appropriate page on my passport: “I’m not a tourist. I’m a resident.” He smiles and points me towards the line for Brazilians. I breeze through immigration and customs, leaving all other foreigners behind.”
–Ernest Machado

” ‘Coming Home’ hangs like a dusty, renaissance oil painting in the unknown gallery of my soul.”

Photo: hjl

–Ant Stone

“I remember when I was only eight, and my aunt and uncle were in the West Bank, using their shiny US passports to get Israeli soldiers to let the Palestinian family they were staying with plow their fields. They put my new email address on the list for their emails home, and so I became a rare American eight-year-old: informed at length about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

One day, I got excited because the subject line was ‘Back in the usa’. Opening it, I realized that ‘Back in the usa’ meant ‘[we] arrived in NYC yesterday, and we are leaving for Belize, Guatemala, and Chiapas, Mexico tomorrow.’ I didn’t see them that homecoming.

For me, the idea of homecoming has always come with the expectation that leaving will not fall far behind.

The travelers in my life went directly from Palestine to Belize. Even when they got back from Kenya and Uganda, their vagabond days over, they began planning: ‘Well, teaching public school takes up lots of time, but if we leave Christmas day, we can still go back to Mexico for a week and a half before school starts. And then there’s always spring break – let’s go scuba dive in Bonaire. And yeah, summer school will get the Masters more quickly, but there’s still time for a fast tour of Europe and a road trip around the West Coast.’

The way I know it, homecoming is another way of saying ‘Here we go again!’ ”

–late_stranger

Community Connection

Liked something you read here? Take a moment to follow the links to the writer’s Matador community page and leave a note.

Other thoughts on coming home? Share them in the comments!

–

Get Your Pen Moving: COMING HOME

Teresa Ponikvar — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 00:08:39 +0000

Photo: Bill and Mavis Feature Photo: Swimparallel

You blew us away with your food stories last week–gross, delicious, bizarre, down-home, and everything in between–and now it’s Monday again, and time for another prompt.

If you’re new to the Traveler’s Notebook, here’s the deal: every other Monday, we throw out a topic or prompt to help you get your pen moving (or your keyboard clicking, if that’s more your style). You send us whatever you come up with–a meditation, a story, a list, a review, a haiku, no limitations on form–and the following Monday, we post our favorite lines, paragraphs, observations, and turns of phrase so you can check out your fellow Matadorians’ work.

This week’s topic is “coming home.”

Photo: Larsz

Feel free to interpret the topic in any way that inspires you: your homecoming or someone (something?) else’s? “Home” as a house, a town, a country, or a state of mind, a river, a person, a bike? A relief at the end of a long journey, or a painful necessity? Run with it!

Paste your writing (up to 250 words) in the body of your email, along with your Matador community page url. Please put “COMING HOME” in the subject line and send to teresa@matadornetwork.com.

We look forward to reading your words!

Community Connection

Check out Matador’s Bounty Board and find new opportunities every week to get paid for your travel writing!

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

Here We Are

Teresa Ponikvar — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 21:16:02 +0000

Photo:o0karen0o

Popping corn kernels off the cob without benefit of a knife involves more skill than I would’ve guessed—though by now, after a month of trading English classes for cooking classes with Doña Ludy, I should be used to this.

My thumbs hurt—I can’t seem to get the right angle. My 11-year-old niece, Montse, has resorted to pulling off each kernel individually. Meanwhile, Doña Ludy runs her thumb over the cobs and the kernels seem to leap willingly into her cupped palm. I’ve never seen her make a less-than-graceful movement–but then again, I’ve never seen her out of her element.

A corn cob shoots out of my hand and across the table and we all giggle. I’m happy to be the clumsy gringa if it makes Montse laugh—she’s grown so quiet and serious in the past year, but here in Teotitlan she seems more relaxed.

Doña Ludy has a lovely way of using Montse’s name every time she addresses her: How are you, Montse? Would you like some water, Montse? At home she’s always “Negra” or “China” or “¡esa chamaca!” and while I don’t know for certain that it bothers her, I think it has to be a relief to hear her actual name. Just one more reason to be grateful to Doña Ludy.

Photo: r-z

So here we are, I think. For all intents and purposes, each of us is from a different world: Doña Ludy can trace her family back for thirteen generations to this very place. She can speak the language her great-great-grandparents spoke.

Montse is the first generation of her family to be born in the city, and she’s one hundred percent a city girl: cell phone, hair gel, the works.

And me, a patchwork of European heritages from the American suburbs, by some lucky combination of coincidence and choice, making a life here in Oaxaca.

Here we are.

When we’ve finally finished separating all the corn from the cobs, Doña Ludy dumps it into the blender, covers it with water, and hits “puree.” She told me once that her mother-in-law refuses to use a blender, or to allow anyone to use one in her presence: she’s afraid it will explode. She does all her grinding on the metate, and doesn’t speak Spanish. Another world.

The soup heats up on the stove. Soon we’ll eat sopa de elote—corn, squash, and the herbs chepil and chepiche, all grown right here—a dish Doña Ludy’s great-great-grandmothers probably prepared, and their great-great-grandmothers before them.

You Got Your Pens Moving: Food Stories from the Matador Community

Teresa Ponikvar — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 23:24:53 +0000

Photo: Alexanderward12

Tarantulas in Cambodia, “Super Burgers” in Colombia. An Australian street morphs into an Indian kitchen, and chili paste produces hallucinogenic dreams. You came up with all this and more for this week’s “get your pen moving” exercise on food and travel.

Thanks to everyone who participated! Here are some excerpts from their work:

“After a few shivers, I chased the tarantula legs down with tarantula “wine”, which ended up being a pretty wicked shot. With an uncomfortable cough, I remembered the jars of tarantula and snake wines that I had seen earlier in the day—rotting insects sitting at the bottom of the jar. This is what travel insurance is for, right?”
—Olivia, Matador ID poweredbytofu

“Aculturalized. Definition: When the sight of mummified pigs’ legs hanging on the wall not only doesn’t make you do a double take, but makes your mouth water. ”
—Troy Mahumko, Matador ID barmadu

“So far it had been a depressing summer. With his wife in Greece, Russ spent all his time at work in Baltimore. In New York, I’d just moved into a dump of a studio apartment, and my girlfriend flew off to California. We were suddenly the lamest bachelors on the Eastern Seaboard, and we couldn’t even meet up for dinner to complain about it.

But with nothing tying me to Manhattan, I hopped a bus south. I’d never seen Baltimore, but I imagined it the perfect place for two old friends to drink beers in dingy pubs and curse the fates. Bertha’s, the Fells Point dive, was our destination.

The door was still closing behind us when the sky opened up.

Photo: Sylvar

We took a table in the back and our tattooed waitress slapped down some menus. We didn’t need them and asked for bowls of mussels and a couple beers. The mussels were amazing.

The rain was still slashing the windows, so after our bowls were cleared, I asked for a slice of pecan pie and a bourbon. Russ had a glass too. For the moment we were dry inside the warm bar, with tumblers of whiskey, sitting with each other, not thinking about the rest of the summer.”

—Paul Brady, Matador ID Paul Brady

“I can walk the street and watch the cars pass—browns, reds and golds—and return, for that one colour-tranced second, to crumbling Indian lanes, flanked with bins of cumin, chili, and saffron.

Later—and it happens only every so often—the breeze sends a gift. I return, for one aroma-fused second, to the Channa dinners with my adopted Multani family who saved me. It is as real as ever, as real as anything I have ever owned.”
—Zachary Hope, Matador ID hopey

“….In the mornings I bypass the noodles and go for the steamed buns (contents always a lottery- they could be red bean or chopped bitter greens or sweet pork or anything fathomable and unfathomable) or the curry buns oozing spiced yellow oil or the very odd but yummy fried egg that is wrapped up with something like firm white custard (even the Chinese teacher couldn’t tell me what it was).

Photo: Celldigi

I love the vast mysteries of my supermarket. I love huge succulent crunchy wedges of fresh ginger and pungent, fresh heads of garlic, both cheaper than breathing. I love jars of chili paste that create hallucinogenic dreams. Shanghai makes me hungry.”
—MaryAnne Oxendale, Matador ID koangirl

“For a day and a half I stare at plates of Penne all’ Arrabbiata, pizza bianca, bruschetta, even fruit— unable to eat. We sit, my son and I on the Piazza Campo dei’ Fiora, the remnants from the daily market still scattered upon the piazza—in front of us a platter of buffalo mozzarella, Parmigiano-Reggiano, Provolone and fresh ricotta with fresh grilled bread and olive oil—I only look at it. Unable to eat cheese! Incredible! Unthinkable! Cheese, my very own “I wish I could quit you” relationship….”
—Coreen Haydock Johnson, Matador ID corrand

“I got serious about wine around my 21st birthday, or if I’m being honest, a year or two before the date which made me a legal consumer of alcohol in the United States. I loved everything about it. I would have worn Viognier as perfume had it been socially acceptable to rub wine on one’s neck.”
—Marissa Barker, Matador ID MarissaRose84

“For my last dinner in Calarca, a city in Western Colombia, my host, Juan Ramos,
introduced me to the Super Burger.

The burger, from top to bottom consisted of:

Photo: Marshall Astor

• the top half of a sesame seed bun,
• lettuce,
• a smattering of crumbled potato chips,
• ketchup,
• ham,
• pineapple sauce,
• a beef patty,
• discs of tomatoes,
• discs of cucumber,
• tartar sauce,
• a sloppy infusion of a chimerical sauce known as ´pink´ (a combination of mayo and ketchup),
• a second beef patty,
• a second layer of lettuce,
• and the bottom half of a sesame seed bun.

We finished within seven minutes. The speedy intake of the burger blurred my vision,
momentarily; too many calories. Did Juan desire a second? His brow furrowed with
surety when I asked; ‘Heeell no,’ he replied.”
—Aaron King, Matador ID Aar1on2

“Local lore [in New Orleans] suggests that since Monday was traditionally laundry day, it was a good day for cooking red beans. The dried beans could simmer unattended during the day with the clothes were being washed. Personally, I think the dish makes great week-end recovery food: creamy, smoky, spicy, satisfying. It’s like a slightly inappropriate hug.”
—Stacy C, Matador ID kefuoe

“The taxi driver was holding something.

He’d claimed to be waiting for a fare, and I’d been about to walk away and try to find another taxi home, when I saw the way an orange-shirted security guard was leaning in the driver’s side window, looking at something.

It was an iguana. A big one, too, no less than a foot long from head to tail. It had beautiful, unblinking yellow eyes and greenish yellow skin with black spots all over like freckles. They are an endangered species in Honduras, but still a common sight in Roatan, one of the Bay Islands off the mainland. The man in the passenger seat was holding him by the neck, while the taxi driver picked bits off debris off a broken, lifeless foot.

Photo: Mauricio Pellengrinetti

‘What happened to him?’ I asked in Spanish.

‘Got hit by a car. The policia gave him to us,’ the driver said, referring to the security guard, who was already walking away.

‘He’s beautiful.’

‘He’s dying,’ his friend in the passenger seat said, demonstrating this fact by moving the iguana’s head, which lolled lifelessly, as if the neck had been broken.

‘What are you going to do with him?’

The taxi driver laughed. ‘We are going to eat him. It is delicious. El otro pollo.’ The other chicken. ‘Some people, they hunt them and kill them, but this one is already dead, see?’

He waved the broken foot.

I nodded.

‘I don’t think my fare is coming. I can take you now.’”

—Amalia Foster, Matador ID afoster

“Eating is for home. Meals are built into my routine life, even acting sometimes as the entertainment and escape of the day. Travel equals no routine. On the road, food stands last in the line of importance.”

—Sabina Lohr, Matador ID travellohr

“If you are driving through Madagascar, you don’t even have to leave the road. While passing through towns, locals will bring hard-boiled eggs, bbq chicken, and even bottles of soda right up to your car window. ”
—Maureen Maloney, Matador ID Maureen Maloney

“In broken English, my teammate asked me if I’d ever tried daktdoritang before. I shook my head, and the conversation (in Korean, of course) perked up to include all 12 Koreans at the table.

Daktdoritang is a spicy chicken stew – a very spicy chicken stew made with lots of red pepper – and each one of them seemed to take pride in how much they could eat without drinking any water. Apparently, the preferred beverage to accompany this dish was soju, a distilled drink that tastes like vodka….

It took almost three days to feel my tongue again, but a bit longer than that to live down the bright red cheeks.”
—Chris Backe, Matador ID chrisinseoul

Community Connection

Liked what you read here? Follow the links to the participants’ Matador community pages—and don’t hesitate to leave comments!

Look for a new prompt at the Traveler’s Notebook next Monday!

10 Online Literary Magazines that Publish Great Travel Writing

Teresa Ponikvar — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 15:50:43 +0000

Photo: Leafar

So much of being a good writer is reading good writing. But books and magazine subscriptions are pricey. Luckily, there are lots of online literary magazines where you can read current issues for free–and most of them accept unsolicited submissions, so you can get your words in front of more people, too.

In no particular order, here’s a list of magazines to check out:

1. Frostwriting

This Swedish literary magazine—in English—is interested in cross-cultural experiences (especially as they pertain to Sweden, but they’re not picky) in the form of nonfiction essays, “postcards,” fiction and poetry. They also publish short essays about writing and the writing life.

When I was married we spent every carnival out-of-town, like any self-respecting carioca. Let the tourists have the run of the place with its beery crowds, urine-soaked sidewalks, noise, smoke, skin and general chaos; carnival is for deserted beaches. Carnival is for skiing in Colorado.
–Julia Michaels, “Horrible Carnival”

2. Anderbo

Beautiful, easy-on-the-eyes site, and beautiful literary essays (or as they call it, “fact”), fiction, and poetry by established and emerging writers.

One time I was waiting in Madrid Airport to get the plane back when I was overcome by a sense that there was a space for me here in Madrid. A me-shaped space. And so we all came together in Lombardia Street and the space was filled. Then, when nobody really expected it, two years later another space opened up. A you-shaped one.
—Donal Thompson, “Letter to Maeve”

3. Orion Magazine Online

Photo: Poldavo

Originally (and still) a print magazine, Orion is now available online. Many of the biggest names in environmental writing publish here regularly, alongside unknown and emerging writers.

Orion consistently keeps the big picture in mind, looking in depth at environmental and social issues the world over. Some of the best environmental reporting, social philosophy, memoir, and poetry (and more) anywhere in print or on the Web.

If the Transition Initiative were a person, you’d say he or she was charismatic, wise, practical, positive, resourceful, and very, very popular….The core purpose of the Transition Initiative is to address, at the community level, the twin issues of climate change and peak oil—the declining availability of “ancient sunlight,” as fossil fuels have been called.
—Jay Griffiths, “The Transition Initiative”

4. Apple Valley Review

This magazine focuses more on essays and poetry, with some essays thrown in. A good mix of voices (from gentle to edgy) and forms (from traditional to experimental).

In this story my grandfather does not die. He does not fall over while tilling the garden and my grandmother does not yell to my cousin to go get help and she does not sit by him, crushing the zucchini, while she waits for the medics who come too late.
–Suzanne Cope, “The Story That Isn’t This Story”

5. Superstition Review

Produced by undergraduate literature students at Arizona State, this magazine can be hit or miss—but they find enough intelligent, witty writing and great storytelling to make up for the clinkers. Nonfiction, fiction, poetry, interviews, and art.

“You can sit next to me,” a young man says, startling me. It’s been days since I’ve heard English. “I’m American,” he adds and waits for my relief.
–JD Riso, “Strange Bird”

6. Sub-Lit

Sub-Lit’s editors describe it as “daring in subject matter, form, or tone. Publishing should not be an academic circle jerk, or a realm where blandness is encouraged.” Their subtitle: “Sex, Literature, and Rock & Roll.”

I plopped into a metal chair that couldn’t have been less comfortable if it had leather straps and a couple of million volts coursing through it. The old man was wearing his good pants— a pair of Jordache jeans. Mom complained he only wore them when he was trying to impress somebody at the bar.
–Joe Lombo,”Changing of the Guard”

7. Narrative Magazine

Photo: Cyanocorax

Consistently high-quality literary writing. One highlight: the “Readers’ Narratives” feature—short, self-contained stories from people’s lives.

The silent war between my parents permeated the apartment. My escape was the veranda. Lying on my stomach, I peered through an old pair of binoculars and watched the gray-blue waves of the Arabian Ocean as they crashed along Marine Drive, soaking young lovers on the seawall. I watched crowds walk along the dirty gray sand of Chowpatty Beach, the women lifting their saris before wading into the ocean.
–Amin Ahmad, “Mumbai, November 1977″

8. Miranda

Fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and articles on a variety of topics, from the frustrations of the writing life to the secret lives of squirrels to getting high in India.

I purchased the bhukki and the ganja from a teen Punjabi bellhop named Krishan. He is my chauffer into extinction, but unlike his namesake he hasn’t revealed his universal forms or any silly stuff like that.
–Joe Cameron, “Moksha”

9. The Literary Bohemian

A fun site specifically devoted to travel writing in the form of travelogues and “postcard prose” (short sketches). A bonus is the “Signs of Life” feature—photos of garbled English translations on signs from across the world.

In the water, a songbird thrashed. A small boat crept quietly up, its engine silent, the driver attempting to maneuver close enough to scoop the creature out with an oar. As I was doubly useless—non-Finnish speaking and netless—I returned to my son.
–Susan Koefod, “Breakfast in Helsinki”

10. Juked

Reading Juked can be a slightly surreal, or deliciously confusing, experience: they feature nonfiction, fiction, and poetry—but don’t tell you which is which. Good, solid writing.

Now the cloud makes a sound like a school bus being dropped on a row house or two. Gerry is over stimulated. He tries to strike Victor with his broom. But Victor the fat corset maker knows a thing or two about broom fights.
—Laura Ellen Scott, “Do You Know What It Means To Miss”

Community Connection

What are you favorite sites for great writing? Let us know in the comments.

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

Get Your Pen Moving: FOOD

Teresa Ponikvar — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 03:54:20 +0000

We’re kicking off a new feature this week at The Traveler’s Notebook: every other Monday, we’ll give you a prompt, exercise, or topic to get your pen moving.

Photo: tnarik

You’ll send us whatever you come up with: a story, a description, a ramble, a collage, a limerick, a review—no restrictions on form, as long as you stick to the prompt of the week and, of course, the overall theme of travel.

The following Monday we’ll publish some of our favorite sentences, paragraphs, observations, or turns of phrase, so you can get a taste of what your fellow Matadorians are up to.

Aaaaand this week’s topic is…FOOD.

Photo: Flydime Feature Photo: Ginnerobot

So open your notebook (or laptop) and run with it. What do you have to say about food and travel?

The taste of barbequed goat, or the time you lived on Ramen noodles for 3 weeks straight, or when you first realized that apples, pears, and oranges are not the only fruits in the world, a review of your favorite taqueria in Chicago…

Paste your writing (up to 250 words) in the body of your email, along with your Matador community ID. Please put “FOOD” in the subject line and send to teresa@matadornetwork.com.

We look forward to reading your words!

Do You Need a Writing Degree to Be a Professional Writer?

Teresa Ponikvar — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 03:24:07 +0000

Photo: Wonderlane

It’s a big decision: to spend a year or more and a big chunk of money on a degree in a notoriously unprofitable field.

With the proliferation of MFA and other writing programs since the 1970s, it seems that more and more would-be writers of all kinds are heading back to school. Should you? Some things to consider before you decide:

Does it have to be specifically a writing program?

Pretty much ANY graduate-level course of study will require you to write a lot. Would you benefit more from a degree in anthropology, geography, or ecology with a strong writing component?

Does workshopping work for you?

In a recent New Yorker article, Louis Menand described this cornerstone of writing programs as “a combination of ritual scarring and twelve-on-one group therapy where aspiring writers offer their views of the efforts of other aspiring writers.”

For some writers, the workshop is a useful, even essential, experience. As one writer told me,

I do think my writing and my ability to logically analyze writing – and therefore my ability to coherently explain what worked, what didn’t work, and why, and incorporate that into my writing and suggestions to others – improved in the workshop classes that were a part of the writing track.

However, workshops don’t work for everyone, and they don’t work every time. Not every group is compatible, and not every writer, no matter how brilliant, is a good discussion leader. For some writers even a “good” workshop can be stifling—and a not-so-good workshop, utterly dispiriting.

What’s more your style? Will too many suggestions and criticisms weigh you down, or will you appreciate having lots of opinions on your work in its tender early stages?

What are your goals?

As one writer and teacher told me,

This kind of [writing] degree can help you land a job TEACHING writing; it’s not as clear that it (or participating in the program itself) will help you BE a professional writer.

If you want to teach writing, a degree is probably indispensable. But if you’re looking for a career as a freelance travel writer, that piece of paper won’t necessarily impress editors.

However, in the process of getting a degree, you’ll probably make important contacts in the writing world, learn mechanics and grammar, how to work with deadlines, and possibly (depending on the program) how to sell yourself and your writing better—all worthwhile things. Do you need to spend two years in school to learn these things? That’s a call you’ll have to make.

Nerovivo

If you’ve decided that a writing degree is definitely for you, consider these things as you select a program:

How much debt will you accrue? Will paying it back prevent you from writing once you’ve finished your degree?

Let’s be realistic: if you’re going to be so far in the hole after you graduate that you’ll be obligated to accept the first paying job that comes along (whether or not it has anything to do with writing), having that degree in your hand won’t do you a whole lot of good.

If you’re not necessarily looking to be a full-time writer anyway, it might not matter so much that you’ll need a day job once you graduate. And many writing programs offer excellent financial aid options

Will the program try to “mold” you into a certain kind of writer?

This is one of the strongest arguments against writing programs: that some programs, and some teachers within some programs, will try to make your writing over in a certain image, rather than encouraging your own original voice and style.

On the other end of the spectrum, some programs or teachers are so concerned with letting you express yourself that they’re hands-off to the point of making you wonder what you’re paying for.

Before you select a program, ask as many current and past students about this, and talk to the instructors you’d be working with.

That Guy Who’s Going Places

What extracurricular options will you have? Does the program have a magazine or journal? Can you edit?

Participating in the process of selecting and editing writing for a journal or magazine can be an incredibly valuable experience: you learn to think like an editor, and thus to pitch your work more effectively.

Can you take classes in other disciplines for credit?

Obviously as writers we need material–and learning something surprising about astronomy, or Native American history, or microbiology–whatever floats your boat–can be excellent material. Especially if your travels are somewhat restricted by being on a grad student’s schedule and budget.

Bottom line: No, you don’t NEED a writing degree to be a professional writer, but if you choose the right program, it can help you be a better writer, and improve your chances for making it as a professional.

Most of the benefits of a writing degree can be found elsewhere (you can put together a workshop with friends, learn mechanics from a book, make contacts at conferences…) but probably not so neatly wrapped up in a single package.

That said, the WRONG writing program will probably do more harm than good, so make your decision with care, considering the writer you already are, the writer you want to be, and how you can best get from here to there.

Community Connection

Did you have a fantastic experience in a writing program? Tell us where!

Are you doing just fine without that piece of paper? Share your story!

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

10 Words and Phrases We Never Want to See in Travel Writing Again

Teresa Ponikvar — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 16:33:31 +0000

The first time some travel writer tossed off each of these words and phrases, they might have sounded fresh and clever. But we’ve seen them too many times, and now they sound tired, strained, and cheesy—and at Matador, that’s definitely not what we’re about.

Photo: E-magic

1. Best-kept secret
Really? Are you sure The Purple Dinosaur Bar is Denver’s best-kept secret? You found it, after all, and now you’re publishing its location, so it’s a bit of a stretch to call it a secret, much less a well-kept one.

2. Et cetera
Whether it’s “et cetera” (fancy! Latin!) or plain old “etc.”, you’re really saying this: “There’s more, but I’m too lazy to tell you about it.”

Photo: Mikety28

3. sun-dappled/sun-speckled/sun-splashed
We get it. It’s sunny. Tell us about it in a way that doesn’t involve the word “dappled.” Please.

4. don’t-miss/ must-see
A bit of a bully, are you? What are you going to do to us if we miss it, huh?

Just give us your experience. Let us decide for ourselves if South Dakota’s Corn Palace is a must-see or a see-maybe-if-I-happen-to-be-driving-through-South-Dakota-someday-and-need-to-use-the-bathroom.

5. exotic
“Exotic” is relative—it just means “different” or “foreign”, and depending who your reader is, that could mean ao dai, guayaberas, or blue jeans—so focus on describing your experience, and let your readers murmur, “oooh—how exotic!” if they so choose.

Photo: Leo Chuoi

6. gem/jewel
A beach is not a gem, and a restaurant is not a jewel, and yes, we know what a metaphor is, but you can come up with a better one than that, can’t you?

7. oasis/paradise
If you’ve traveled to an actual oasis, as in “a small fertile or green area in a desert region, usually having a spring or well,” feel free to tell it like it is. But describing anything but an actual oasis as an oasis is another case of a threadbare metaphor.

And throwing “paradise” around just makes you sound clueless. Have you seriously found a place with zero problems, conflicts, threats, dangers? Or are you just, you know, on vacation?

8. treasure trove
If you’ve stumbled upon a previously undiscovered royal Egyptian burial chamber, or a forgotten cache of pirate’s booty, fine. Otherwise, leave “treasure trove” alone.

Photo: Riza

9. breathtaking
Was your breath literally taken away by the beauty of that sunset? Probably not, so this word is overkill. Unless you’re blue in the face and suffering from awe-induced oxygen deprivation, look for another word.

10. boast
Why must places “boast” fine dining, colonial architecture, unspoiled beaches, or symphony orchestras? Can’t they just have them? “Have” is a perfectly good word. The citizens may well boast about their city’s marvelous offerings, but that’s another story.

Community Connection

What are your least-favorite travel writing words? Call ‘em out in the comments.

You’ve avoided these cheesy words–now avoid sounding ridiculous when using quotes.

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

Writing Tips: Tricky Words to Use Correctly and Make an Editor Smile

Teresa Ponikvar — Sun, 24 May 2009 01:03:35 +0000

English is full of traps, even for native speakers. Fall into one of them, and most people won’t notice or care—unless you’re submitting your work for publication.

While it might not mean the difference between acceptance and rejection, using these tricky words correctly will make you sound more professional, more credible, and endear you to your editors.

Photo: Dotbenjamin Feature Photo: Nics Events

Affect and Effect

Rule of thumb: in most cases, “affect” is the verb (meaning “to influence”) and “effect” is the noun (meaning “a result”). This gets complicated, since “affecting” something usually results in some kind of “effect.”

Edward S. Casey says, “Where you are right now is not a matter of indifference but affects the kind of person you are.” Or to paraphrase: the kind of person you are is an effect of your travels.

To complicate things further, affect and effect both have other meanings (and either one can be a verb or a noun), but if you stick to the general rule of affect/verb, effect/noun, you’ll usually be right. And when in doubt, look it up!

Lay and Lie

Photo: Thompski

This pair is triply tricky: they have similar meanings, “lay” is the past tense of “lie” (as well as its own verb) and Bob Dylan is working against you—if a copyeditor had got hold of an early draft of “Lay, Lady, Lay,” it’d be “Lie, Lady, Lie” (and for that matter, Joan Didion isn’t doing you any good, either, with her novel Play it As It Lays).

But you can get it right (at least until you become another Dylan or Didion, and then you can do whatever you want).

Remember that “lay” (past tense “laid”, past participle “laid”) always takes an object: I wipe a tear away and lay a flower on his grave. She finished the article and laid her head on the desk.

“Lie” (past tense “lay”, past participle “lain”) never takes an object: His dictionary just lies on his desk; he never uses it. I was sleepy, so I lay down.

Then and Than
I hear from Matador Super-Editor Julie Schwietert that there’s been a rash of then/than mix-ups in recent submissions. But this one’s easy.

Then refers to time: I had one more beer and then I left. He shows up now and then.

Than is for comparisons: Her Mandarin is much better than mine. Our arrival generated more excitement than it actually merited.

Its and It’s

Okay, folks, if you don’t have this one down by now, it’s (not its) about time.

“It’s” is a contraction of “it is”—hence the apostrophe. “Its” is a possessive, like “his” and “hers”—no apostrophe. No excuses!

As boring as getting these details down might be—and as unimportant as they seem when you have an incredible story to tell—the less work you make for your editor, the more likely your work is to be accepted over and over. And that many more people will be able to read your incredible stories.

Community Connection

Which words do you hate to see misused? Which ones do you struggle to use correctly? Let us know in the comments.

Now that you’ve got it’s and its down, it’s time to start querying. Check out Matador Editor David Miller’s tip for writing an attention-getting query.

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

Notes on Oaxaca Since the Swine Flu

Teresa Ponikvar — Wed, 20 May 2009 16:00:28 +0000

Normally at this time of year–the low season for tourism in Oaxaca–120 tourists visit the Zapotec ruins at Mitla every day.

These days–since swine flu hit–on a good day, twelve people show up. On a bad day, the guides and ticket takers wait out their shifts without seeing a single tourist. At the nearby artisans’ market, it’s the same story.

Many vendors haven’t even bothered to open their stands lately. Those who do can hope for one or two sales on a good day–for a total of around ten dollars.

This woman and her husband both have clothing stands in the market near the ruins. Other members of their family cut and stitch and embroider the blouses and shirts. The daily earnings from the stands are divided among several people. These days, each person’s cut is enough to keep tortillas on the table, not much else.

Fortunately families here look out for each other, even in hard times. Whoever has a little more spreads it around. But this can’t go on forever.

Mitla’s economy is almost entirely dependent on tourism. Which means that right now, nearly its entire economy is at a standstill.

The few–and mostly national–tourists who do arrive have the ruins to themselves, and get rock bottom prices on clothing and crafts. They are much appreciated.

Everyone here is hoping that by July, for the high season of the Guelaguetza festival, swine flu panic will die down and things will pick up.

Until then, it’s tortillas and beans for dinner.

How Writing Saved Me from Myself

Teresa Ponikvar — Fri, 15 May 2009 23:33:41 +0000

I began writing because I was a horribly shy, introverted child. It was a way to get my thoughts out of my head without having to endure the hideous ordeal of leaving my room and talking to an actual person.

Photo: author

But like any discipline that we approach with dedication—be it meditation, carpentry, cross-country skiing, or bee-keeping—writing has a funny way of teaching us just what we need to know.

This is some of what I’ve learned:

Pay attention.

I used to walk into mailboxes a lot. Mailboxes, lampposts, bushes…it was a family joke. I was so wrapped up in the world inside my head that I forgot all about the one around me.

It’s hard to write much more than a diary from inside your head, though. As I became more serious about writing, I began to look around me a little more: “hmmm, what can I write about?”

I realized the world was pretty interesting. I started leaving my room more often. I even, hesitantly and awkwardly, began talking to people, asking questions, taking risks.

Now instead of daydreaming my way down the street, I hope someone will fall into step next to me. Maybe they’ll have a story. Maybe I’ll write about it, and maybe I won’t. But, what do you know, this interaction thing? Kind of cool.

Photo: indi.ca

Get over yourself.

Is there something inherently narcissistic about writing? Maybe. But, paradoxically, writing is also a good way to learn humility.

For one, you have to learn that most people have no interest in reading your diary. That one was hard for me. I used to leave my diary conspicuously around the house and tell my brother, “Don’t you DARE read it!” He never took the bait. I was always miffed by his lack of interest, but eventually learned that “HEY LOOK AT MEEEEE!” is not a good excuse for a piece of writing.

Photo: h3_six

You also have to learn to write something good—a glorious metaphor, a pitch-perfect sentence, a brilliantly-reasoned paragraph—and then throw it away.

It’s so good! You want to share it with the world! But for one reason or another, it doesn’t work in the piece. You throw it away. (Back towards the narcissistic end of the spectrum: you know you can write a hundred other things just as good, or even better.)

It’s all material.

Many of the writers I know have remarkably good attitudes about just about any inconvenience or misfortune they encounter. It is, after all, hard to write an engaging essay about a time everything was easy, perfect, convenient, and drenched in sunshine and rainbows.

So the writer settles in to wait for the plane that’s delayed twelve hours, already happily mining the experience for material, while nearly everyone else vents their frustration on hapless airline employees.

The writer endures a bout of poison ivy or giardia, maybe not with a smile on her face, but at least distracted by the knowledge that this will make it into her book, someday.

Symbolism is not just a literary device.

Okay, it sounds a little bit crazy, but it’s true. Writing personal essays forced me to notice that symbolism isn’t this arty, writerly thing you make up. You take it from your life and place it in the essay where it belongs, like a puzzle piece.

Photo:author

There are symbols that just rise into certain moments, and you can learn to read their messages: “You’re on the right track.” “This is a key moment.” “You took a wrong turn there.”

Often in writing an essay I’ll be surprised to note how smoothly the symbols fall into place: “yup, I was heading for danger with that decision and, look at that, there was a rattlesnake in the bushes.”

In Natalie Goldberg’s book Wild Mind: Living the Writer’s Life, she tells how writing has helped her tune into the magic of words, to the point that she’s able to run her finger along a list of racehorses and choose the ones that will place.

Sounds woo-woo, I know. I certainly can’t do that–though I don’t doubt that Natalie G. can. But I am learning to tune in to the symbols that let me know when I’m on the right track. Who knows what sort of magical power you’ll draw from your writing practice?

Have I made it sound like writing is some sort of guru-therapist-oracle-fairy godmother?

Well…no lie…it kind of is.

Community Connection

What kind of magic has writing worked for you? What have you learned from your writing practice? Share your thoughts in the comments.

Check out David Miller’s thoughts on self-awareness and writing.

Writing not quite enough to get you through the day? Take a look at Christine Garvin’s spiritual keys for dealing with catastrophes.

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

An Awkward Hug and No Chocolate

Teresa Ponikvar — Wed, 13 May 2009 01:14:20 +0000

Sometimes a hug is the wrong thing.

Photo: A National Acrobat

We’re in the middle of our English lesson when a bright white car pulls into the dirt yard and a woman strides across the yard calling out loudly in fluent but heavily accented Spanish. Don Faustino goes out to meet her.

Her hair is an unnatural shade of orangey-red—not unlike the color Doña Ludi obtains for the yarn by mixing cochineal with lime juice—her pants are blinding white, her blouse is translucent neon pink, her earrings are enormous hunks of neon pink plastic. This is obviously not her natural habitat.

Cochineal. Photo: Ibis Alonso

Don Faustino guides her into the front room, and she makes a beeline for the doña. “Hola, tú!” she cries—a greeting for children and close friends—though Doña Ludi greets her, respectfully, as usted.

She grabs Doña Ludi in a bear hug that the hug-ee clearly finds awkward. Her head is pressed against the woman’s neon pink bosom, for one, and for two, this just isn’t done.

I learned last night, when we ran into Don Faustino’s sister and her children, that the correct Zapotec greeting is a graceful two-handed gesture, something like a handshake, but more like the exchange of an invisible, delicate egg. Barring that, Faustino and Ludi are as in love as any couple I’ve ever known, but I’ve never seen them so much as touch hands. But this woman is hugging away, as though Doña Ludi were a favorite doll.

Photo: Meggers

Then I’m introduced. The woman greets me in Spanish but gives me an odd little wink and half-smile that make me feel somehow dirty. Or do I overreact? Perhaps she just means, “sorry for interrupting your lesson, I’ll be quick.” But I feel something else in that look—a just-between-us-white-people kind of something—that I want no part of.

She gives Don Faustino some money—clearly the last in a series of payments—chattering away about some delicious chocolates that someone brought her from the U.S. and how she’s on her way to give one to Ximena because she already gave one to Juan and one to Chayito. Soon Don Faustino is walking her back out to her car.

Doña Ludi murmurs to me, as we sit down, that she guesses there’s no chocolate for her. I grin—is this Doña Ludi being snarky? She tells me that the woman is a tour guide here in Oaxaca, she’s European, she owed them money for a rug but now she’s paid up.

Doña Ludi and I drift back towards our lesson—we’re working on translating their natural dye demonstration into simple English. They use a bean called huizoche to get an intense black out of brownish-black wool. She repeats the new word, “bean”, several times, getting the feel of it.

Huizoche. Photo: Ibis Alonso

I must sound so silly, she says.

But I tell her, no, that’s how we learn. And then, wanting somehow to give her a gift, I add, honestly, that her pronunciation is amazingly good.

You have an advantage because you’re already bilingual, I tell her. Your ears are already trained to listen for many different sounds, and you already know that the same idea can be expressed in very different ways in different languages, so you don’t resist it.

I guess we do learn to listen, she says. When we meet people from other pueblos, their Zapotec is different from ours. They pronounce the words differently than we do, so we have to pay attention if we want to understand.

Out in the yard, the white car pulls away.

Don Faustino comes back in. They exchange a few soft words in Zapotec. I pay attention, but I don’t understand what they’re saying.

Not yet.

Community Connection

Get some advice on how to avoid those awkward intercultural moments here.

What’s the most embarrassingly, obviously culturally inappropriate act you’ve witnessed (or committed) on the road? Share your experiences in the comments.

5 Techniques for Writing Bilingual Dialogue

Teresa Ponikvar — Sat, 09 May 2009 03:51:44 +0000

Including dialogue in your travel narratives is a great way to flesh out characters, keep the action moving, and to tell a story that feels real.

Photo: Soylentgreen

But when you and the people around you are speaking a language other than English, or English and another language, it can be hard to figure out how to recount your conversations. Here are some techniques to try.

Technique #1

“No lo conozco,” he said: I don’t know him.

The most obvious: give each line of dialogue in the language it was spoken in, and provide a translation afterwards when necessary.

While this technique has the advantage of accuracy, it can get tedious in longer pieces with a lot of non-English dialogue. It works best when used sparingly, when dialogue is sparse, but key.

Technique #2

Don’t worry, I tell her, I’ll be okay in a little while.
“¿Segura?”
“Sí.”

Punctuation is your friend, especially when you want to make a subtle distinction between what was actually said, and what you’re translating. Try putting direct quotes in quotation marks, and indicating translations with dashes, or just commas.

With this technique, you don’t waste words, but there’s some potential for confusion on your readers’ part—“wait, did someone just say that or did they only think it?” It probably works best in fairly long pieces, where readers have a chance to get accustomed to your punctuation-signposts.

Photo: Eye2eye

Technique #3

“Will you allow me to do the honor of accompanying you, mujer divina?”

She’s not a travel writer, but we can learn a lot from the way Sandra Cisneros nails this technique in her novel Caramelo. When someone in the novel is speaking Spanish, she lets you know by using translated expressions that sound a little off in English, but are common in Spanish (“what a barbarity!” for example) and by throwing in the occasional (easily understood) Spanish word.

She also changes up the phrasing—rather than translating into standard English, she leaves traces of Spanish grammar. It makes for beautiful reading, and if you can pull this technique off, you’ve got it made.

Technique #4

“Have you been here long?” he asked in English.

When the dialogue is predominantly in one language, you can just advise the reader when you switch to the non-dominant language—he said in Russian, she shouted in Chinese, he muttered in French.

You don’t want to have to do this after every single line of dialogue, so it works best when there’s a primary and a secondary language.

Photo: Bah Humbug

Technique #5
Of course, there’s always the option of just not worrying about it—when you don’t care if your readers know who said what in which language. Or use a mix of different techniques.

And finally, remember that you can’t be a writer unless you’re also a reader. Pay attention to the different ways different writers of all kinds deal with issues like this, and try out the techniques that work best. After a while you’ll hit on something that’s just right for your style and experiences.

Have you hit on any other good techniques for recounting bilingual conversations? Share them in the comments below!

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

What’s Being Lost

Teresa Ponikvar — Thu, 07 May 2009 02:07:23 +0000

Doña Ludi carding wool. Photo: Ibis Alonso

Faustino Ruiz’s family has been weaving wool rugs in Teotitlan del Valle, Oaxaca, for sixteen generations.

His grandfather loaded the rugs onto his burro and sold them in the coldest parts of the mountains, where they kept floors warm. Today, Faustino and his wife, Ludivina, sell their rugs to tourists, who hang them on walls.

But it’s been one thing after another for anyone involved in the tourist trade in Oaxaca in the last few years. Don Faustino counts on his fingers: the teachers’ strikes in Oaxaca in 2006 and 2008, the economic downturn in the U.S., the recent overblown media coverage of border drug violence that’s scared tourists away from all of Mexico, and now, swine flu panic.

Teotitlan del Valle is never a wildly busy place, but this week it’s been utterly silent.

Don Faustino giving a demonstration, when business was better. Photo: Ibis Alonso

The baskets of marigolds, indigo, moss, pomegranates, and cochineal that Don Faustino and Doña Ludi use for their natural dye demonstrations are shoved haphazardly under the spinning wheel, instead of artistically arrayed in front of it in anticipation of visitors.

The wooden table where smaller rugs are normally displayed has been sitting naked in the middle of the display room all week. We cleared it off for our first English class on Monday, and it hasn’t been needed for its usual duties since then.

Doña Ludi takes a slightly different view of the waning supply of customers than her husband. She tells me that people simply don’t buy things for beauty anymore, and if they need something to keep the floor warm, they buy a cheap, mass-produced rug at Sam’s Club or Home Depot.

Her sons, at 13 and 17, know how shear the sheep and dye the wool and weave the rugs, but she suspects they’ll have to find a different way to make a living once they finish school.

Don Faustino and Doña Ludi have managed for years to make a living, carry on a generations-old family tradition, create from scratch something beautiful and—at least potentially—useful, and not hurt anyone or anything in the process.

Is that becoming an impossible combination to hope for?

Photo: Ibis Alonso

Doña Ludi tells me that she and her husband will probably never go to the U.S., though some of their relatives have. “I think we’d get lost there,” she says—not self-deprecatingly, but matter-of-factly. But she’s not sure how they’ll manage to go on like this, weaving beautiful rugs that no one buys.

I planned our English classes around their work—they’ve learned to say “sheep,” “rug,” “marigold,” all the relevant vocabulary. Already they’re giving me little tours in English: “This is a sheep!” they tell me, after we hike up the back hill to the pen. “These are bugs!” while holding up the basket of cochineal.

After class, I wave from the dusty edge of the quiet road and hope they’ll be able to use their brand new English with someone other than me before too long. That they’ll find a way to go on.

And anyway, I tell myself, at least we’re having fun—and that should do us all good, in these days when it’s too easy to be sad about all that’s being lost.

Community Connection

What other traditions are in danger of being lost the world over? What can we do about it? Share your observations and ideas in the comments below.

Four Ways To Sound Like A Jerk In Your Travel Writing (And How To Avoid Them)

Teresa Ponikvar — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 16:55:00 +0000

Here at Matador, we know that travel—and travelers—rock.
But how can you write about your amazing adventures—and your amazing self—without sounding like a showoff? Here are some traps we can fall into as writers, and how to avoid them.

Photo: Sami

Example #1

“The last time I was in Trondheim, or Trondhjem, as the locals call it in the Trondsk dialekt, or Trondheim dialect, I made sure to ta en tur to one of the beautiful stavkirker, or stave churches, for which the region is deservedly kjennt.”

So you’re bilingual. Trilingual. Omnilingual! That’s great, and will certainly enrich your travels and your travel writing. But as tempting as it is—and as natural as it may feel when you’ve been living in another language for a while—try to resist the urge to use excessive numbers of non-English words in your English writing.

Unless you’re experimenting with a new bilingual style (an admirable pursuit, if a tricky one to pull off) or you’re certain that all your readers share your knowledge of Norweigen or Quechua, use only words that genuinely have no English equivalent, words whose meanings are obvious from context, or obvious cognates—and even then with a light hand. You want to add a little local color to your writing, not give a demonstration of your perfect command of Italian to all your amici, or friends.

Example #2

“The lusterless red paint was once coruscating and neoteric.”

Photo: Eralon

We’re writers, at least in part, because we like words—and there are a lot of them out there.

Sure, it’s more fun to say “coruscating and neoteric” than to say “new and shiny,” but the simple truth is that it makes you sound like a pretentious jerk at best, and a loser with a thesaurus at worst. Keep the unnecessarily fancy words to a minimum unless you’re writing an academic treatise.

And if you simply can’t resist using “coruscate” or “perspicacious”, consider putting those five-dollar words in unexpected contexts. The gold trim in a cathedral can coruscate, but what about that abandoned Coke can on the side of the road? A perspicacious professor is a yawn, but how about a perspicacious three-year-old? Or better yet, a perspicacious dog? (There’s really no excuse for “neoteric”, though.)

Example #3

“As the plane skimmed over the jungles of New Guinea, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the small Nicaraguan village where I worked with the local coffee co-op for two years in the early 1990s.”

Photo: Dan

You’ve traveled to so many incredible places, that it feels natural to start most conversations with “When I was in [insert exotic locale here]…” Well, you’ve learned a lot from your travels, and you’ve got all kinds of stories. But in your writing, focus on the subject at hand.

If you’re writing about New Guinea, write about New Guinea. Even if you genuinely were reminded of Nicaragua while you were there, it’s difficult to mention that without sounding like a showoff—and for your readers who haven’t been there, the comparison won’t be especially illuminating, anyway.

Example #4

“I flipped my long blonde hair over my tan shoulder and looked up at the mountain. I nervously planted my small, Chaco-shod foot on the path.”

You readers might well be curious about what you look like. But let them Google you if they really want to know. If you describe your physical attributes and cool clothing too often, not only do you rob your readers of the chance to imagine you, but you sound hung up on yourself, and not the experience you’re describing.

Photo: Ballistik Coffee Boy

That said, there are some instances in which some aspect of your appearance or physique may well be relevant to the story—your blonde hair in a remote Chinese village, perhaps. Go ahead and describe it, but be brief and avoid sounding self-congratulatory. If you can laugh at yourself a bit, even better.

Actually, that’s a pretty good rule of thumb for sounding like someone your readers will trust and like: take yourself just a little more lightly than you take anything, or anyone, else—except maybe mimes, and politicians.

Have you committed these jerk-writing examples? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

Conscious Acts

Teresa Ponikvar — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 18:10:23 +0000

On a marathon Holy Week trip across Mexico:

Salina Cruz, Oaxaca

This morning’s spectacle put Doña Charo in a melancholy mood.

We stood out on the water tank earlier and watched some poor, sweaty guy carry a cross up the steep road, while Roman

Photo: Andresg. Feature photo: Jesse Millan

soldiers in shiny golden helmets whipped him and yelled insults. Behind them, a good sized crowd sang, “God, forgive your people” over and over, and Doña Charo blinked back tears.

Now, in the blessed cool of the evening, my mother-in-law and I are rocking in the hammocks, talking about–what else?–The Baby. “Having a baby is the most wonderful thing that can happen to a woman,” she tells me. “Es lo maximo para una mujer.”

I’m not sure about that, not yet anyway, but I keep quiet, and she continues, “I keep hearing about these girls who abandon their babies. They just have them and leave them in a trash can or on the street. I can’t understand it.”

I put my hands on my barely-round belly and wonder how far to go. Doña Charo is the best person in the world, but she’s also on a Catholic guilt-bender today, and you never know.

Finally I tell her, “I think most of those girls didn’t want to be pregnant in the first place, and they don’t see it as a baby. Just as a…thing that’s causing them problems, and they want it to go away. And probably they didn’t have the kind of lives that taught them to be nurturing.”

We swing for a while. You can’t see the ocean from here, but you can smell it if you concentrate. I concentrate.

“Maybe so. But couldn’t they leave them somewhere safe? Those poor babies.”

I imagine the mango-sized baby inside me, plashing in a private ocean. I want this baby. But I think, “Those poor girls.”

Tuxtla-Gutiérrez, Chiapas

Ibis is at his interview, and I sit in a plaza, hoping. We live in a city that we hate; we want to come live here. There’s more riding on this day that either of us is willing to articulate, and I’m trying not be annoyed that there’s nothing I can do about it but wait.

So I watch the people.

A young woman walks by with maybe her grandmother. The old woman is bent and slow moving, but the younger woman leans heavily on her shoulder—her heels are so high, she can hardly walk.

A chubby baby, following the balloon man with the staggery, determined walk of the newly ambulatory, with each step stabbing her foot into the ground as though she means to plant it there.

Photo: Kojotomoto

One little girl, maybe four years old, is chasing pigeons. She shrieks with laughter, running around and around the basin of a dry fountain. Each time she grabs at a pigeon and it flutters away, she screams with surprise and delight. She is perfect.

After a while she climbs out of the fountain and careens across the plaza. She crashes into a man’s legs and almost falls, but he grabs her arm without even looking at her and keeps her on her feet.

At a government building across the street, elderly people are lined up in the hundreds, a sea of beige cowboy hats and grey braids. The men wiry and impossibly thin, the women thick and slumped from too much childbearing and too much work. They each clutch a manila folder. It’s so hot, and some of them look so frail. They inch forward. I wonder what’s going on in there to inspire such patience.

I turn back around and the little girl is a streak of yellow shorts and flopping black hair, far across the plaza, scattering pigeons like confetti.

Somewhere in Tlaxcala

It’s going on two o’clock in the morning, and we’ve been driving since two o’clock in the afternoon. Almost halfway across Mexico, the long way. We have to be in Pachuca tomorrow, and we’re buoyed mainly by the fact that Ibis’s interview went well, though there are still no promises.

We pass through a corridor of strip clubs—The Moon Night Club, Top Hat Men’s Club, Peaches, Tahiti. (One of the many enduring mysteries of Mexico is why nearly all the strip clubs have English names.) It’s quincena, payday, and the parking lots are all full.

Photo: Iamagenious

Just past the night club lights, on the side of the highway, two pale apparitions of bare legs and long hair, waiting for business. Such a lonely sight. I wonder if their families know where they are. I try to imagine the anticipation and dread, standing there: Will this one stop? Will he pay up? Will he hurt me?

Long after we’ve passed them, they flicker behind my eyelids every time I start to fall asleep.

Pachuca, Hidalgo

We just miss the first rain of the wet season. We left behind a city as dry and cracked as a chapped lip, earth so dry it made you thirsty to look at it. Now, at three in the morning, our tires hiss over wet asphalt.

We’re greeted, as always, by a larger-than-life Iran Castillo, TV star and erstwhile nudie model, who is the face and body of a massive campaign to bring more tourism to Hidalgo. She stretches on across billboards all over the city, smiling seductively, with Hidalgo’s natural wonders superimposed over her naked body.

Photo: Coloboxp

I would feel better about this, I think, if she were quoted somewhere: “I went to Hidalgo, and it was beautiful!” If it had anything at all to do with her as a person, if it even pretended to. But no.

And then–is it a quirk of the plastic she’s printed on? An exhuastion-induced hallucination? Headlight glare plus wet? Does she wink?

We drive through our silent neighborhood, bump into the driveway, stumble out of the car, past the damp magenta bougainvilleas, and into the house. My last conscious act of the night is to open the bedroom window, to let in the smell of rain, the promise of life.

How to Buy, Set Up, and Sleep in a Hammock

Teresa Ponikvar — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 03:42:34 +0000

For traveling in warm climates, a hammock is the way to go. There’s no cheaper, lighter, more comfortable and useful piece of gear. Here’s everything you need to know.

Choosing your hammock

First you need to decide on the material. Depending on where you are, you may have locally-harvested materials / options (ixtle hammocks—scratchy but beautiful—are available in Chiapas, for example), but the most common hammocks are either silk, nylon, or jute.

A silk-thread hammock is the most luxurious—softest, coolest, lightest. But you’ll have to pay for that luxury—a silk hammock can easily run you over one hundred dollars.

Nylon-thread hammocks are most readily available in most areas. While the nylon thread can heat up uncomfortably in the sun, it’s much more affordable than silk—a nylon hammock should cost you around fifty dollars—but check the quality of the thread before you buy.

Run a fingernail over a single thread—if tiny threads pop out, it’s not high quality, and if your hammock is going to be a souvenir and not just a temporary bed while you’re on the road, you might want to look somewhere else.

If you’re in an area where jute hammocks are available, they’re an even cheaper option, and jute won’t heat up like nylon. However, they tend to come in more open weaves that give you less support when you lie down, so if you’re planning to get your eight hours a night in a hammock, they’re probably not your best bet.

When you’ve decided on a material, if you’re going with silk or nylon, you have to decide on the weave. There are many different local and regional designs, but be aware of whether the weave is single, double, or triple.

Look closely at the pattern—if it’s only two threads deep at any point, it’s a single weave, and should be somewhat less expensive. If you can find places in the pattern where three threads cross (one sandwiched between two others), it’s a double weave. More than three, triple. The thicker weaves give you most support and are most comfortable to sleep in, but they cost a little more.

Finally, consider the size and type. A double hammock will theoretically sleep two people, though that’s less sexy in practice than it sounds—especially in the heat. If you like to stretch out or spread-eagle in you sleep, a double can be worth the price, even if you’re sleeping alone.

Hanging your hammock

Because it gets you off the ground, a hammock is an ideal lightweight shelter when used with a tarp. Photo: Henri Bergius

Some hotels and hostels in costal areas have designated hammock areas. Otherwise, look for two trees or other sturdy objects about three meters apart.

Cam straps

If you’re planning on using a hammock while you’re traveling, a pair of Cam Straps can be very helpful. Cam Straps can be used for quick and easy hammock hanging and also for things like strapping your surfboard or backpack to the tops of buses or taxis.

Knots

There are all different ways of hanging hammocks with knots, but over the last decade, I’ve ‘evolved’ to the following method, which allows you to quickly adjust the height at which the hammock is hung. It uses two very simple knots, both of which are easy to untie even after putting a lot of weight on them.

The key is to have two ropes, each approx 3 meters long, and to tie loops into the ends of them. Here’s how:

1. Tie a Figure 8 on a Bight at the end of each rope. Instructional video below.

2. Wrap the rope around a tree or branch and then pass the other end of the rope through the loop and cinch it tight around the tree trunk or branch.

3. You can now use the free ends of each rope to connect with the hammock using simple sheet bends. [Note, in the video here, the thicker rope--the one in her left hand--represents the end of the hammock. The rope in her right hand represents the rope you'd have coming off the tree.]

Sleeping in your hammock

Keep in mind that even the hottest day can cool off significantly late at night—if you’re sleeping in a hammock, keep a sheet, sleep sack, or at least a towel handy to ward off midnight chills.

Sleeping two to a hammock—while a pleasant way to spend an afternoon—is only a viable all-night option if you’re a pair of extremely deep sleepers. Your every movement will send the hammock, and thus your partner, swinging. If you do go this route, try sleeping with your heads at opposite ends to give yourselves a little more room to maneuver. (Attempt hammock sex only if you’re willing to risk your neck for exotic nooky.)

Hammocks strung up on the deck of a boat on the Amazon. Photo: Bruno Girin

For ultimate comfort, get a friend to tie the long sides of the hammock together above you. Enclosed in a cool, breezy bubble, you can toss and turn as much as you like without worrying about falling out (though that’s pretty hard to do, anyway).

However, never (never never never!) sit down on a hammock without unfolding it under you. A hammock is not a bench. Try it, and you’ll go over backwards, land on your head, and no one present will ever let you forget it. Also, it will really hurt.

But—here I speak from experience—even that trauma will not sour for you the sweet, sweet sensation of swinging to sleep in a hammock on a warm tropical breeze.

Three Penises and a Wedding

Teresa Ponikvar — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 13:47:09 +0000

Photo: Joanne O’Sullivan

Teresa Ponikvar survives a Mexican despedida de soltera.

On a sticky-hot August evening in Salina Cruz, my friend Joanne and I step into Doña Teo’s living room.

Lately the meeting place for a prayer group, it’s now decorated in my honor, with red-and-white foam cutouts of lingerie and hearts, and an impressively realistic pantyhose penis, complete with pubic hair, resting on top of a cake.

Of course I’m not supposed to know, or let on that I know, just how realistic it is. The ostensible idea behind the Mexican despedida de soltera, or “farewell to the single girl”, is that the bride-to-be is an innocent virgin who requires a non-threatening introduction to the male anatomy, lest she be terrified on her wedding night.

The thirty or so women who brave the heat to attend the party don’t much care about that, though. I only know six of them personally; the rest aren’t here so much to ease my transition into married life as to spend an evening laughing their asses off about the organ, and the act, that may or may not be cause for laughter in the privacy of their own homes.

Doña Teo pushes margaritas into our hands and Joanne as I concentrate on getting as drunk as possible. One of Doña Teo’s wild daughters pins a sequin-adorned scrub-pad to my shirt, which marks me as the bride-(and dish scrubber)-to-be. My soon-to-be mother-in-law, Doña Charo, is working away in the kitchen, but waves at us encouragingly now and then.

Photo: gorriti

The games kick off with a banana-eating contest. The banana must be consumed both sensuously and quickly. There are five contestants. A skinny woman in an embroidered blouse dances around a pillar in the middle of the room, shaking her hips.

My sister-in-law-to-be is embarrassed at first, then gets into it—she’s not married and I’m vaguely surprised that she’s chosen to participate. (A few months later, the first family crisis of my marriage will involve her surprise pregnancy.)

The inflate-the-condom-without-popping-it game is next, and then a confusing word game which Joanne and I manage to win without really understanding what’s going on. At the end of each game, I am required to stand up, scrub-pad dangling from my chest, and present the winner with her prize: an elaborately wrapped Tupperware container.

Just as Doña Charo begins dishing up the food, Doña Teo’s daughters pull me out of my chair and usher me upstairs, where women in various stages of undress are complaining about the heat and putting on costumes. Another pantyhose penis, this one as long as my arm, sits on the bed.

Before I know it, I’m stripped to my underwear and a wedding dress is pulled over my head. It won’t button up in back but ni modo.

One large woman, dressed as a priest, is painting a beard on her face. Doña Teo’s daughter Mari is wearing a suit jacket and is strapping the huge penis to her waist. Her other daughter is doing something painful to my hair, trying to get the veil to stay on. Another woman stuffs a pregnant pillow-belly under her dress.

Suddenly the wedding march is playing and we’re descending the stairs. Mari waves her penis about wildly to the cheers and whistles of the guests. The priest chants dirty blessings. At frequently intervals I’m required to hold or stroke the penis.

Photo: mexikids

The woman with the pregnant belly rushes in and accuses the groom of knocking her up. Mari swears to me that she’s never seen this woman before, then turns around and winks at the crowd, shakes her hips to make the penis wag. “Do you believe me?” she asks. I’m at a loss, but: “Sí, mi amor,” I tell her, making a simpering face.

When the “ceremony” is over, Mari and I dance, while the rest of the women call out instructions: “Kiss it! Hold it! Touch it!” they yell, and I oblige. When they cut in to dance with me, they bear a tequila-filled clay penis which they hold to my mouth, tipping my head back until my neck aches.

After I cut the cake (and, of course, pay appropriate attention to the penis that adorns it), the ladies begin saying goodbye. I open the presents: a tiny red thong, an electric mixer, two sets of juice glasses, sequined teal pajamas, a ceramic duck with a rather obvious seam down the middle where it broke and was super-glued back together.

Doña Teo tells us about her wedding night: how frightened she was, even though she married for love, how her mother-in-law pounded on the bedroom door until they were able to pass her the blood-stained sheet, the proof of virginity.

Photo: Joanne O’Sullivan

As Doña Charo herds Joanne and I home through the warm, salty night, I think fuzzily how I’ve been introduced to more than the male anatomy tonight.

Through a tequila haze, I picture myself married, wearing nothing but a red thong, mixing cake batter with one hand and stroking a man-sized, disembodied penis with the other, while dirty Tupperware spawns in the sink and pregnant, barefoot women bang on the windows, demanding paternity tests.

Watching the Pig Slaughter with Albina

Teresa Ponikvar — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 22:32:36 +0000

So many of us are disconnected from our food sources. Teresa Ponikvar notes one local Nicaraguan family that isn’t.

Albina. Photo: Teresa Ponikvar

The mist is creeping through the banana trees and Albina drags us outside to show us her world.

She introduces us to the fat-bellied puppies first. The mother dog is thin and exhausted. She lifts her head just long enough to decide that we are no threat, then lets it flop back into the dirt.

Tugging at our hands and chattering about a “chancha”—whatever that is—Albina guides us around to the back of the house. She gestures proudly at a good-sized, mottled white-and-gray pig, sleeping with its back pressed against the weathered boards of the house, and that’s how I learn that “chancha” is Nicaraguan for pig.

“Tomorrow we’re going to kill the chancha,” she tells us. I wonder if I’ve understood her correctly, and doubtfully relay this information to Jessie, who looks concerned. Albina picks up a stick and scratches the pig’s side idly.

In the morning Doña Adela, rapidly patting out tortillas, confirms that the chancha’s number is indeed up. Various uncles and male cousins are already arriving, preparing for the slaughter, or just standing around manfully, dreaming of pork.

Jessie organizes the younger boys into a game of Frisbee. Albina tries to join them, but when the Frisbee conks her on the head and the boys laugh, she picks up a huge stick and shakes it at them furiously. She stalks into the house, and comes back out with the child-sized plastic lawn chair that is clearly her prize possession.

I wave her over to me, offer my notebook and a handful of colored pencils. She brightens at this and proceeds to fill page after page with rows and rows of flowers, all precisely the same size. I sit there wishing I could buy her a book, knowing it’s not my place.

Later, Doña Adela sets up plastic chairs for Jessie and me, front row seats to the chancha’s demise. It takes several uncles to hold the pig (who seems to know what’s coming) still enough for its throat to be slit. Norbin, thirteen years old, is in charge of catching the spurting blood in a bucket, a task he handles with what strikes me as amazing aplomb.

The pig screams and screams, bleeds and bleeds. Jessie snaps pictures while I sit transfixed. Albina turns her back but doesn’t say anything. When the pig is finally quiet, she looks at me with wide eyes.

“I felt sorry for the chancha,” she tells me in a whisper. “Me, too,” I whisper back, and squeeze her shoulder, knowing that we will both eat the meat anyway.

Later, the skinny mother dog snaps down the discarded pig entrails, glancing around warily with her one blue eye and one brown. The whole family feasts on pork nixtamales in the darkness of the house, and to a scratchy radio station, I dance with Albina, and Jessie dances with Norbin, the aunts dance with the uncles, and the cousins bust their moves solo.

Doña Adela smiles out from the smoky kitchen. She hasn’t stopped working for one moment since we met her.