Posts Tagged ‘travel’
After our explorations of Lipari and Salina yesterday the weather was going to keep us on the island of Salina today. I woke up early at about 6 am and stuck my head out of the boat. A beautiful sunrise was in the making so I grabbed my camera and took in the pink, orange and peach coloured hues of this glorious sunrise in Santa Marina. Dark coloured clouds were hanging on the horizon. A catamaran had just pulled out of the harbour and provided an interesting anchor point for my photos.
Shortly after it started to rain and when we got up for breakfast our skipper Francesco explained that the weather forecast today may not be good enough for us to leave the island, so we have to have a briefing in the early afternoon. Two additional guests had arrived, Franco, another Italian teacher and the co-owner of Laboratorio Linguistico, and his friend Agnieszka, a young music student from Poland who was learning Italian since she was studying music in Rome. Our trusted four-cabin sailboat, the Solitaire II, now had passengers in every cabin, and there were seven of us traveling now.
Herbert, the German television travel journalist, was on an official location scouting trip for his travel show to gather intelligence for next year’s shoot which would feature the Italian learning experience on board of a sailboat, provided by Francesco’s company, Laboratorio Linguistico. Herbert needed to check out all the interesting spots, the lighting, the locations and the facilities so he would be able to make plans for the script and the camera crew that would come down from Germany next year to film the extraordinary experience of learning Italian on a sailboat while cruising through the beautiful Eolian Islands.
So in order to get to know the island better Herbert had asked Francesco to make arrangements with some local experts to take him to different spots on the island. Herbert graciously offered to take other people along on his island exploration, and Claudia and me excitedly agreed. Sure enough, Sabina Giuffré, who we had already met last night at dinner, and her local friend Giancarlo, came to pick us up in a rented vehicle to give us a tour of the island.
We were nice and comfy in the small Italian vehicle and after just a 10 minute drive, we had arrived at our first stop: the “Gola del Diablo”, a gorge cut into the black and brown volcanic rock, featuring an ancient Roman bridge. The stone formations were indeed impressive, and the layers of ancient lava flows were clearly visible.
We also stopped in the village of Lingua where we visited a local ethnographic museum that featured various exhibits, illustrating the ancient ways of life on this local island. An ancient millstone, various farming implements, even an original bedroom from a farm were exhibited in this museum. This small museum provides great insight into the traditional lifestyle on these islands. We then walked around the corner and steps away is the main square of this tiny town. Here at the Bar “Da Alfredo” we congregated and received free samples of granitas ? the semi-frozen Sicilian dessert composed of sugar, water and different flavourings such as strawberry, melon, peach, orange, lime, coffee, almonds and many others.
Similar to sorbets, granitas usually have larger crystals, and the locals often eat them in combination with a brioche. The black sky overhanging the mountains was ominous, but a bright ray of sunshine lit up the façades of the houses around the square. A big husky dog was snoozing contentedly on the floor and I was wondering how this poor dog with his thick fur would be able to handle the hot Sicilian summers. The locals were very hospitable and humorous banter was flying back and forth.
From here we drove back through Salina, dropped off Giancarlo and stopped at Sabina’s house which she has turned into a bed and breakfast . Salina’s dad came to greet us and I couldn’t help but detect a resemblance to famous actor Kirk Douglas. He graciously picked some “nespole” (loquat fruits) for us from his fruit tree. These fruits, originally indigenous to Southeastern China and grown in warm climates around the world today, are similar in appearance to apricots and are similarly sweet and juicy.
We appreciated this little roadside snack, thanked Sabina’s dad and continued our journey towards the next town on this island: Malfa, a small fisherman’s town. Along the way we stopped to admire the malvasia vineyards as well as patches of capers which are big export products for the island of Salina.
Malfa features a big church dedicated to San Lorenzo and incidentally was the hometown of our shipmate Lorenzo’s grandparents and a place that he was going to spend some time in. Sabina took us down to the fishing harbour and then back up the hill to a lookout point called the “semaforo”, a surveillance tower erected in the early 20th century which was also used during the Second World War. Sabina mentioned that UNESCO offered to buy this tower, but the local town turned down the offer. Today it is abandoned and blocked off.
Sabina stopped the vehicle and we walked out onto a lookout point which provided a gorgeous view of the Mediterranean with a great view of the island of Filicudi ? the “reclining pregrant woman”, so called because of its shape, featuring a head and what looks like a big belly, protruding from the sea. To our left was a deeply indented valley which Sabina explained is an ancient volcanic crater, half of which has broken off and disappeared in the sea. Today it is the location for the village of Pollara which has one main tourist attraction: the house where the movie “Il Postino” was filmed.
Of course we needed to check this out so we drove down some narrow winding roads, parked the car and walked up a short stretch on a dusty road to see a rather unremarkable simple and small pink-coloured house with some vines, which is one of the most famous locations on the island. Seen from outside, there was nothing spectacular about this house, and Sabina indicated that it is available for short-term rentals.
The weather was starting to clear up and the view from the northern tip of Salina was gorgeous. The distances on this island are tiny, but due to the narrow and winding road it definitely takes a while to get around. By 1 pm we were back at our boat and had a briefing with our captain: Francesco indicated that due to the weather forecast we were not going to sail today. So we had a comfortable on board lunch and I then headed into Santa Marina to walk around and make some phone calls back to Canada. Unfortunately the Internet café was closed since it was siesta time, which often lasts from about 1 or 1:30 pm to 4 or 4:30 pm. In Sicily you definitely need to time your shopping experiences carefully to make sure the shops are open.
From 4:30 to 6:30 pm Claudia, Agnieszka and I had our first Italian language lesson, provided by Franco on the outdoor terrace of a local bar. Now here is a concept: language learning on the terrace of a bar ? I definitely like it. It made the somewhat painful exercises dealing with the complexities of the Italian “congiuntivo” (the subjunctive) much more palatable. I have studied a lot of languages with different language schools, and Laboratorio Linguistico has definitely created a very unique language learning concept here.
After our intense lesson I took another stroll around Salina and this time the Internet café was open. So far I have found fairly good public Internet access in different parts of Sicily, and it’s always great to be able to connect with home. Our boat crew spent a quiet evening on board, we fixed up a lovely home-cooked dinner with potatoes, salad, sweet carrots, cheese and various sweets for dessert. Some of my travel partners played cards while I organized my photos on the laptop which was conveniently hooked up to the electricity supply provided by the harbour commission in Santa Marina di Salina.
It was nice to have a day of rest in Santa Marina, but I am definitely looking forward to exploring a new island tomorrow: Stromboli!
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Oh my gosh! It was so beautiful you cross so much blue, green waters and Cuba too. It took four hours in the plane, the time was behind eastern standard time. So it seem like 3 hours. When we arrived at the airport, certain parts of their airport was not air conditioned. It was my first time out of the country and we could tell we were in another country. They showed everyone which way to go through customs. My husband and I were shocked that there was no air conditioning. However, the workers were very pleasant to us. This was in 1995, they had a group of woman dressed colorfully singing like the commercial “Come to Jamaica”. That did it for me. I was so excited. We were ushered by the Hotel Representative who told us which mini bus to take and we were on our way.
That took about 45 minutes. We immediately notice the driving was on the left side of the road. Not many stop signs or any type of traffic signs. No speed limits, everyone was moving pretty fast. We arrived safely. Once again the bus driver was so very pleasant. The motel was beautifully, we had the all exclusive deal, all meal and drinks were included in the one price. We ate most of our meals outside. The food was delicious. I really enjoyed the jerk chicken and the goat meat for the morning breakfast. I did not travel to another country to eat American food. I was so ready to try all the dishes. That is exactly what I did. I ate mango every morning. It was great to experience different taste and types of food.
The weather was a perfect 85 degrees with a warm breeze that blew sun up to sun down. The water was crystal clear blue and some spots were green. We took a tour in a glass bottom boat. I thought I was on the animal planet channel. We also took a raft ride down a long river where we seen many exotic plants. No animals though. Along the river, there were Jamaicans doing carvings and sell carvings. Their work was so beautiful, I just wished I had more money, and the ability to have it all shipped back. I would have brought Christmas gifts for everyone.
The beautiful thing is I found a way I can go to Jamaica again and again. But I now have the ability to share the gift of travelling. I have lifetime trips that are also transferrable. I plan on giving out vacations as gifts to the family. Jamaica is a country I feel everyone should experience. Not only is it beautiful, but I also feel the people made it wonderful. I must say once again the workers, the natives were so pleasant. And the seem to work all day long. The Jamaicans were not allowed to received tips at the motel that we stayed at. They seem happy to have a job. They seem to know something or a little more about appreciating what they have. I not sure, but I know their economy is either you are rich or your poor. Their money was $33 dollars of Jamaica money equal $1 of American money. We did tip them anyway, because we got to know them by their names and they made us feel so welcome. They didn’t have to.
I been there two more times since then. People tell me about all their different vacations. I feel like don’t fix what is not broke. I just can’t wait until I go back to Jamaica again. One of my goals in life is to go every year, and spend at least 3 weeks when I do.
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We were driving around probably not too sure where to go. We must have been heading to Saigon when I saw this sign post on the right saying Dalat. I had heard the name. It was an old French hill station far to the north of Saigon. It had the good reputation of an agreable place to go. It brought to mind tales of one of the old British hill stations of the RAJ. Simla? Anyway my curiosity was roused and I asked PB if she had been there and she said no. I turned right and off we went.
We were able to come to these decisions without any discussion which was good. On the other hand we didn’t know how far it was. It certainly wasn’t near. We didn’t know what the road was like. I am not giving distances. I would have to check them on a map. I had no map then. Anyway even with a map I would not have been much better off. A detailed military map was the last thing one wanted to be caught with and anything else was worse than useless. The conditions on some of the roads were appalling and it was not unknown to travel mile after mile on second gear. Traffic jams in Saigon were monstrous and in the country side a blown bridge could cause a bottle neck with traffic three lanes deep on either side and no way for any vehicle to get through to clear the bridge. Or for that matter just a blown bridge and not a soul about. To compare a journey then with whatever distance is marked on a map today has no bearing on the reality of the situation as it was then .
What perhaps was surprising was the fact that the Vietnamese continued to travel the roads. Their driving was appalling. Driving licenses could be bought. If you were a foreigner you were always wrong. You could, had to, buy your way out of any accident. I read that coach drivers drove at high speed in the hope that if they set a mine off their speed would carry the driver over safely and only blow the rear end off the bus. The accidents were horrific. The Viet Cong set up road blocks and took away whoever they considered an enemy. I remember reading that a French consul in the highlands had his car break down, got a lift on a passing bus, was taken by the Viet Cong at a road block and reportedly died in captivity. The French usually considered themselves above this war and therefore immune. It is possible that having known war for twenty five years when I arrived in 1965 the Vietnamese had developed a certain fatality to it
I switched the number plates of my car and then we continued through an area of rubber plantations. By the time we reached rolling grass covered hills it had begun to enter my somewhat sluggish mind that there was no traffic on the road. I also knew by now what no traffic meant. I hid my identity papers and threw away my X numbered plates. The few villages that there were seemed lacking in activity. Once we passed a lonely catholic priest on a motor scooter. The road climbed steadily and we talked a little. PB was from Hanoi. They had also had a house in the country and been relatively well off. Her father, a nationalist, had been taken away by the Viet Minh one night and never seen again. The family moved south after Vietnam was divided. There was an uncle, a colonel, who had been a province chief. I think all province chiefs were military, possibly with one exception to try to prove the country was not exactly a military dictatorship or something. He had been on the wrong side in one of the numerous coup d’états. There was another tragedy in her life, but it is not for me to talk about here. Every Vietnamese had his own share of tragedies linked to the war. Her English was excellent and she had this delightful habit of mixing her adverbs and adjectives up.
We decided I needed another identity. I suggested being a French catholic priest. I was often mistaken for one in the province where I worked. PB pointed out that her presence didn’t lend credence to that. I suggested being a press reporter. We rejected that, but later I was to join an obscure press agency, get the necessary papers, and use that cover in my off duty time. I would also work as a freelance. We settled on my being a teacher. I was to become one at some future date. Once when we were driving in the delta, I think near My Tho, and had stopped to buy some pineapple from a young boy by the road he had remarked that I was English. He had a brother studying in England. I worked with, was paid by and had a lot of friends who were Americans, but alone in the countryside they were the last people I wanted to be associated with. The road started to climb again and still no traffic.
We now looked out on the most beautiful green I had ever seen. Below us there was wave after wave of all the shades imaginable, forest or jungle, I can’t remember, but it was utterly lovely. Whatever shade of fear we were suffering from also disappeared. I think we had just put it away and pretended to ourselves it wasn’t there. In any case we were committed now and it was too late to turn back. At one point I saw the backs of soldiers looking into the forest, and the sound of bursts of machine gun fire, and then nothing. Next we reached a high plateau with gently rolling hills covered with tea or coffee plantations. I should know which, but this is written after a forty year interval and although some of my memories are crystal clear as though they happened yesterday others are blends of colours and some only grey.
To digress. The old plantations had been owned by the French. I was to get to know a Vietnamese woman whose family owned one. I remember being given large bags of coffee grains freshly roasted, black and small, glistening with butter. The coffee in Vietnam was the Robusta variety. Very strong. It was usually drunk out of small glasses with lots of sugar but no milk. I used to drink far too much and my nerves suffered accordingly. The tea was drunk from large glasses, without sugar or milk, thank god. Outside Saigon at least it was usually free and accompanied whatever one was eating. On the rare occasions I stopped somewhere just to have a glass it was always given, so I usually bought a small cake or something. Anyway the water was usually of dubious quality and tea was safer.
We arrived at the civil airfield serving Dalat. Very small. No sign of any activity or any planes. I was to get used to, indeed to take part, in this Vietnamese habit, of going to an airfield for a flight and sit down and wait hopefully, looking up into the sky for hours for the sight of a plane. When no plane appeared that day they would go away and come back the next. The patience of the East. From here the road climbed steeply and the scenery changed again. One could have been in the Alps. The forest was now evergreen and there was a magnificent mountain off to our left. Unknown to us this was quite the most dangerous part of the journey and that mountain was full of tunnels infested with the Vietcong.
We finally arrived in Dalat. We had not seen a single motorised vehicle the whole journey, save for that lone catholic priest. I will deal with this town later when I was to get to know it much better. For us it was just a question of finding a hotel , a quick walk around, food and bed. The town maintained a rather French air. With my beard I easily fitted in. It was the one place in Vietnam where I was never exploited. There was no United States presence at all. In all my visits there I never saw more than one or two Americans. I do not want to criticise Americans in these articles. The problem was, the fighting aside, there was often an unfortunate relationship between the two peoples, both seeing the other’s faults and never the qualities.
There was a curfew at eight o’clock. It was a town that had seen its heyday years before. Now it had the South Vietnamese military and police academies. It had the Couvent des Oiseaux. It was known for its vegetables which were sent by road to Saigon. Its girls had a lovely healthy glow to their cheeks. All of this for later. We spent a rather restless night. There were continual bursts of small arms fire throughout the night. Will I ever tell of any happy one’s. There were many, but evidently not at the end of our excursions. We had to return the next day. I only ever had two days off unless arranged otherwise and as all my trips were unauthorised I preferred not to talk about them.
The following morning I filled the car up with petrol, lit my pipe and we began the return trip. It was a lovely day, the air fresh and pleasant but not another car on the road. We descended what I would call the alpine part of the journey, past that imposing mountain now on our right, to the small airfield. We then continued across the area of what must have been a high plateau of plantations. I took some photos of PB, I still have them, at one point we stopped so she could buy some meat, buffalo(?) off a montagnard woman we came across, but we only had notes and the montagnard would only accept coins. Descending through the lovely green forests PB slept beside me. I was brutally awoken myself when the car hit a pothole, struggled to regain control of it and then continued wide awake. I dread to think what would have been the result of even a minor accident.
The drive was eventless and we passed again through rolling hills of tall grassland. As we approached the rubber plantations we stopped for a coca cola at some village. I have always found it the most refreshing of drinks on such occasions and gives one the force to continue. Then, surprise, a column of South Vietnamese armour approached from the south. The first vehicles we had seen in two days. I don’t know what the US advisors made of me quietly sitting at a table with PB. Actually they gave a most friendly smile. Perhaps not for me. Driving on we were stopped two or three times in the rubber plantations by Regional Force soldiers who wanted to be recompensed for guarding the road for us! I always kept a carton or two of cigarettes for that and usually two or three packets would suffice. Reaching the Baria Saigon road PB wanted to go to Saigon, so I had to drive there and then back to Van Kiep. I think I must have driven a good eighteen hours during those two days. I could hardly move a muscle when I got back.
Three days after our trip the Viet Cong attacked the road in six places and held control of it for five days. Some time later two Decca employees driving in a jeep from Phan Rang on the coast up to Dalat went missing. In 1971, the British Vice-Consul, a certain Adrian, one of those very rare but most likeable of people was around at my house in Saigon and he told me that he had been interviewing a Viet Cong defector who said they had been stopped at a road block, taken prisoner and died in captivity. One was British and one American. On the other hand in the same period fourteen unarmed US civilian personnel in a US truck under I think Korean army escort were all killed on the same road when their convoy was ambushed. One had to use one’s judgement whether to be armed or not, and if possible what means to travel by. One should also pray not to have been born under an unlucky star.
