Posts Tagged With: tent

Hip, Hip, Hula

On the third Sunday of every month — which was yesterday — part of the waterfront main drag of downtown Kailua-Kona is closed off to auto traffic in favor of the “Kona Sunday Street Stroll”, which is pretty much exactly what you are picturing. About 100 local vendors set up tents, and it’s worth an easy hour or so to stroll among them. Some of these are for food, including that Hawaiian perennial, shave ice, and — our personal favorite — a local lady who makes popsicles out of fresh-pressed local fruits. Trust me, you want a lilikoi (passion fruit)-banana popsicle. I also tried a rather bizarre mixture: a pineapple-papaya-chili pepper popsicle. The chili peppers were in little chunks, scattered dangerously throughout. I came to think of it as a Menopause Popsicle: you’re happily working your way through the sweet refreshing fruity ice, when POW! Hot flash!

The non-food vendors: jewelry, tee shirts, photographers (you have no idea how many metal-printed photos of lava and sea turtles are out there), and herbal panaceas. The latter are usually advertised as having been extracted from some species of flora that no one has ever heard of, but which can nonetheless provide relief from pretty much everything.

Certainly the highlight of our walk — besides the popsicles and shave ice — was the hula demo on the grounds of the Hulihe’e Palace, the former Kona waterfront vacation home of Hawaiian royalty, built in the early 1800’s. Here was the scene yesterday at about 4:30 PM:

Hulihee Hula 02172019-060-Edit

Hula — especially Hawaiian hula – is a complicated and subtle art form. Many mainland hula demonstrations include an admixture of Tahitian hula, which is the one with the very rapid tempo drumming. the tall headdresses, and the women with the inhumanly fast hips. Traditional Hawaiian hula is different: the pre-Western kind, called hula kahiko, is a story-telling medium centered on the arms, hands, and face. It’s performed to a song and accompanied only by a percussive double gourd. Here’s what I mean by it being gestural:

I like to think that the pose on the left means, “Please silence your cell phones.” Other examples from yesterday:

Hulihee Hula 02172019-043

Hulihee Hula 02172019-006

At this point, someone out there who is reading this post is thinking, “Wait a minute. What’s with the 19th century prom dresses? Where are the grass skirts?” Here’s where it gets complicated.

First of all, the original Hawaiian female hula dancers never wore grass skirts. They wore very elaborate, multi-square-yard skirts made of kapa cloth, which is a fiber made from a certain pressed tree bark. And they did not wear coconut-shell bras. (No sane woman anywhere ever has; they’re some late 19th century guy’s fantasy, which I’ll get to in a moment.) They did not wear any tops at all.

The whole topless women thing did not sit well with late 18th century missionaries, or at least with their wives. It became necessary to cover the immodest heathen, and so they did. To keep the missionaries placated the hula halaus (schools) adopted the grandmotherly garb that you see above, and much of both modern day (‘auana) and traditional (kahiko) hula are performed that way. Men’s hula, on the other hand — much more stylistically aggressive and less subtle than the women’s dance — was and still is performed in loincloths and maile leaf adornments.

So where did the whole grass-skirt-and-coconut-bra shtick come from? The answer, believe it or not, is vaudeville. Vaudeville got its start in the 1880’s about a century after Cook’s arrival and eventual death in the islands. Knowledge of Hawaii’s existence had seeped into popular knowledge by then, and theater producers were always on the lookout for exotic material for their productions. “Girls from a tropical island” was bound to occur to somebody sooner or later. But the topless thing clearly wasn’t gonna fly, and the authentic kapa skirts weren’t going to work either: they were expensive, labor-intensive to maintain, and, well, insufficiently sexy for their intended purpose. Enter the grass skirt: cheap, easy to fix or replace, and just a bit suggestive. Ditto the coconut bras. The skirts also had a certain historical precedent in that they did somewhat resemble Tahitian hula skirts, which are indeed made from grasses and leaves but are ankle-length and thick.

This dress scheme was wildly successful, and soon every vaudeville act with a Hawaiian number was dressing their dancers in grass skirts, to the point that it eventually became everyone’s default mental image for Hawaiian hula. It was, in its way, one of the first viral memes. And of course, it filtered all the way back to its point of origin: if you plunk for the $49.95 Colorful Hawaiian Luau at whatever hotel you’re staying at, odds are good that you’ll see a hula dancer in a not-particularly-Hawaiian grass skirt.

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Categories: Hawaii | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Escape to Tineghir, Hours Ahead of a Sandstorm

(This is a repost of an entry prematurely posted and titled “TBD” due to a flaky internet connection.)

My postscript in yesterday’s post described a rising wind and some rain. The rain passed, but the wind blew off most of the clouds and left us with a glorious night sky, two photos of which I offer you here. The first shows the constellation of Sagittarius in the middle, and you can see the Milky Way extending up out of the dunes; the orange glow is from another camp. The second photo is looking west, and shows the stars above the lit tents.

The wind continued to rise through the night, and few of us got much sleep, both from the racket and from the continuous influx of fine sand into our tents, driven through our screens by the wind. All four of our canvas walls bowed inwards as the near-gale tried to collapse our tents, and by the middle of the night both ourselves and all our possessions were coated with the finest grit. Have you ever tried to sleep while sand was blowing into your mouth? 

It did grace us with a much more colorful sunrise than we had had the previous day, and our camp had acquired two new features: a Berber child who had appeared out of the dunes during the wee hours and positioned herself on the sandy “avenue” between our two facing rows of tents, and a new layer of sand, complete with tiny dunes, in that same space. So here was the view, at about 7:15 AM.

 

What these shots do not show was that the wind was still full force, driving the fine sand everywhere, and making it very uncomfortable to be outside. We had breakfast in the mess tent, loaded up the 4 x 4s, and got the hell out of there.

Not a moment too soon, as it turns out. The wind continued to rise and, we learned some hours later, had risen to gale force and birthed a full-blown sandstorm that completely cut off the camp and forced its closure. Had our departure been delayed by as little as two hours we would have been “sanded in” (as opposed to “snowed in”, right?). This may sound very romantic and exciting to you, and probably would be too, for about 20 minutes. But based on our small taste of it in the morning and last night I can guarantee you that it would quickly have turned into an Extremely Not Fun experience, and not without actual danger.

But we did not get sanded in, and we hotdogged out of camp across the dunes and bounced across the hard packed desert to retrace our route back to Erfoud to join the highway westward. As we approached the outskirts of town we encountered a date market — this is date harvest season — so we made a short unscheduled stop and wandered among the farmers as Momo pointed out the various kinds of dates and the prices they would bring. (Top quality Medjool dates go for about $5 a pound here at the market, much more by the time you buy them at retail.)

“I’ve got dates for sale!” “I’ve got dates for sale too!” “Jeez, is there anybody here who’s NOT selling dates?”


“So this girl said, ‘Want lots of dates?’ and I said, ‘Sure!’ and, well, turns out that we were talking about two different things, so here I am.”

Our destination today was the town of Tineghir, about 80 miles to the west of our desert camp. We stopped for lunch at about the halfway point, in the town of Ksar el Khorbat. “Ksar” means “village”, and within the town was an old walled village where the locals have created a sort of crafts commune for lwomen to make goods for sale, as well as a small museum showing the history of the place. This is a Berber region, and so it has a fairly complex ethnic heritage that includes an admixture of Jews (all of whom are now gone). The relationship between the locals with the town Jews was convincingly illustrated by a display of a stockade with inward-pointing nails around the inside of the wrist and neck holes.

A little outside of town, we passed a hillside with gigantic words painted on the side above a green star, the country’s emblem. The words, in Arabic, said “God, Country, King”, which is the motto of the Moroccan army and is intended to reflect their priorities in decreasing order. One of the locals got a little crosswise with this slogan, however, and paid a price. Ksar el Khorbat has a strong Spanish heritage and in particular identify strongly with the Catalan region. A local soccer enthusiastic got a little too gung-ho about his favorite Spanish soccer team and spray-painted “God, Country, Barcelona”, for which cleverness he went to jail. Moroccans enjoy a pretty healthy freedom of speech, but they draw the line at lèse majeste: you absolutely cannot diss the king, which includes implying that the Barcelona soccer team is more important to you than Hassan II.

As approached Tineghir, we encountered yet another indication that we are far from home. Here it is:

You think hitting a deer with your car is bad, try running into a camel.

Tineghir is known for a number of things, one being an old part of the city that is built from Adobe and clay from the adjacent mountainsides and thus blends into the mountain with a rather New World pueblo look, as you can see below. (Alice and I both observed that it also looks like the setting of any number of our video games.)

It is also known for the scenic Torda Gorge, a narrow canyon with a shallow river running through it, flanked by towering cliffs something like 500 feet high. We walked a few hundred yards through it, ogled the view, then boarded the bus back to the hotel.

Our hotel overlooks the “new city”, which looks like this: 

It’s pretty completely urbanized and of modest size. Our hotel is comfortable and generally unremarkable, save for two things, one being a very unreliable wifi connection (which is why you may have received this post out of order), and the other being food whose taste has been meticulously and thoroughly drained away prior to serving it. We’re not sure how this is even possible, but we may know the “why”, which is that the hotel’s clientele include a large number of Germans, for whom the concept of actual flavor in food is highly alien. Thumper complained to Momo, who was also unhappy with it for the same reason and so confronted the manager about it. The manager did not look happy and we can only speculate about what actually got said; to the non-Arab-speaking listener, even a friendly Arabic conversation is so loud and intense as to be indistinguishable from an exchange of death threats. I fully expect our breakfast tomorrow to be laced with some exotic local poison, part of our immersive experience.

 

Assuming we survive and the wifi stays up, you’ll hear about our “day in the life of Tineghir” tomorrow.

Categories: Africa, Morocco | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Getting Our Just Deserts

I’m typing this from our tent in the middle (more like the western edge) of the Sahara desert on Wednesday October 7, but it will be at least a couple of days before I can actually post it, there being, well, nothing here.

This morning we left our beautiful hotel in Erfoud with a certain amount of reluctance, knowing that we would be trading our enormous comfy air conditioned rooms for extremely non-air-conditioned tents located far deeper into the middle of nowhere than we already were. So I had this brief word with the staff, shown below, thanking them for their hospitality. (How many hotels do you know keep camels on the grounds?) And so we set off, divided up into a convoy of four 4 x 4s instead of our bus because the latter would not do so well on sand dunes and generally functions much better when there is an actual road.

“And next time, don’t forget the mints on the pillows.”

This region is known for its fossils, and so our first stop was a place that receives the quarried fossil-rich slabs of sedimentary rock (not granite) and turns them into exceedingly cool tabletops, counter slabs, fountains, etc., all swimming with the particular Precambrian creatures that were endemic here. They fall mostly into three types: ammonites (which look like nautilus shells), trilobites (which look like giant sow bugs), and a long pointy cylindrical squid-like creature. (We would actually have gotten our own granite countertops in this style, but they were astronomically expensive.) in any case, the factory guide showed us the raw stones, the cutting and polishing process (diamond drills), and so forth, all culminating in the inevitable showroom where they assured us they would ship to the US. There was in fact a lot of interesting stuff, and several of our group bought things Steve and Thumper bought a set of fossil-laden dishes, while we bought a couple of small ammonites variously for Alice and the teenager who lives across the street from us and looks after our house while were away.

“Huh, I could’ve sworn we had Han Solo frozen in here.”

Our next stop was a Berber town where we visited a rather poor household, of which there are many. This was a family of a mother (at left below), father, and five children, two of whom were grown and married while the other three were still at home. One of those three had Down’s Syndrome, which led to a discussion of how they handled and treated him. And the answer was: they don’t. It is considered a failure, essentially a mark of shame, to have had such a child, and so they let him wander the streets, sometimes not seeing him for days at a time. This is arguably an improvement of how some local families treat such children, which is by chaining them up in a back room so no one can see them.

This led to a discussion of health care — Momo translating all the while — which is free in this country if your income falls below a certain threshold (which hers does).

Our hostess’ husband is a porter, who earns very little. She makes ends meet by weaving and selling fabrics and dresses, one of whom she demonstrated on one of our group, as you see here. It was wound pretty tight; our travel partner/dressmaker’s dummy reports that she would have a hard time moving around in it.

I should mention that no visit to a Moroccan home is complete without achingly sweet mint tea, and this was no exception. We smiled with pleasure as the enamel of our teeth dissolved, and thanked our hostess for her hospitality. (More about the Berbers later.)

By this point we were far enough into the desert that the rate of camel sightings was climbing noticeably, and so it was no coincidence that our next stop was a camel farm, one specializing in camel milk. They had a small herd of the beasts, the lactating females penned with their offspring but kept separate from the males, who were uninterested in the milk but very interested in — wait for it — humping. (Rim shot) So to milk a camel (an activity that thankfully they did not offer to teach us), you first have to shoulder the hungry camel children out of the way so that you (the farmer) can grab the teats and spritz the milk into a waiting metal bowl. It took two guys, as you can see here: the guy with his back to us is holding the shiny bowl while keeping the disgruntled juvenile (at left) out of the way, while the guy on the far side of the camel is spritzing. It’s a lot: it only takes a minute or two to get 1 1/2 liters (~3 pints), and you see the result in the picture that follows.

Very fresh, yet strangely unappetizing

It is very white and creamy looking, and tastes — yes, we tasted it — rather like plain old whole milk.

I should say something about camel vocabulary here (I mean out vocabulary, not the camels’, which is mostly limited to FNAAAAUUURRRRNK, though I may be spelling that wrong. The main point that I need to convey is that these are not actually camels, but rather dromedaries. In the immortal words of humor poet Ogden Nash:

“The camel has a single hump, the dromedary two. / Perhaps the other way around / I’m never sure, are you?”

It is in fact the other way around: dromedaries have one hump, and those are the guys you see around here. The two-hump animals are technically Bactrian camels. But everybody seems to call the dromedaries camels except when they’re trying to look smarter than you. I’ll continue to call them camels for convenience. (But I reserve the right to correct you if you call them camels, because I am a hypocrite and want to look smarter than you.)

As we headed deeper into the Sahara we saw more and more of less and less. Here’s the view out my window as we drive; the other car is one of our convoy. We tend to drive in staggered formation so as to avoid eating each other’s dust, of which there is an infinite about. The terrain is mostly flat, a mixture of hard-packed orange sand and black volcanic rubble. There is an occasional milkwood tree or patch of rough scrubby grass. The Atlas Mountains lie in the distance, and there is the occasional field of sand dunes, some the size of small mountains. We traverse a few of these, which is great fun in a roller coaster sort of way, but overall it would be an understatement to say that the landscape is uninviting. The weather is of course hot, though not blisteringly so: no higher than the mid-80s, time bone dry. But the sunlight is like an ultraviolet laser that fills the sky, very very intense.

And of course, amidst the expanse of nothing, there are camels:

We stop for a lunch at a restaurant that incongruously emerges in the midst of a filed of sand dunes. Here’s the scene as we arrive:

 

 

The walls are canvas over a frame, the interior walls and ceiling embroidered hangings. The interior space is appointed in traditional style, and if you have a mental image of Aladdin walking among cushions and the embroidered walls to round tables with ornate silver tea sets, you are pretty close to the mark. Lunch was quite good, a beef tagine.

We continued on til a stop at another Berber village, these Berbers being if rather different ethnic heritage. Remember that Berbers are ethnically very heterogeneous, some being pale skinned and of European provenance, others descended from sub-Saharan Africans. This group is descended from slaves imported from Sudan and Mali, and they put on a musical performance (“colorful native dances”, as we cynically characterize them in these trips) in which they played drums, castanets (that’s what they’re holding in the picture) and a stringed instrument. They danced a shuffling line dance while chanting nostalgic songs about the pre-slavery era, e.g., about returning to Timbuktu (which is in Mali, to answer a question it may never have occurred to you to ask).

The performance involved inveigling the audience (i.e. the 16 of us) into getting up and participating in a circle dance,my he Sudanese version of Hava Nagila. I gave in, but frankly would rather have been in Timbuktu myself.

Still further on we encountered a Berber cemetery, seen here. Primitive and sad, with way too many 4′ long graves, indicating that children were buried the. The headstones are I carved rough stone, with no information at all about the deceased. The only fact that each grave conveys is the sex of the departed, which is indicated by the position of the headstone: when positioned in the way that you (the reader) are used to, there lies here a male; when turned 90 degrees, a female. You can see a few of the latter in the photo, e.g., all the way in the back, about a quarter of the way over from the right.

 

We reached our camp at about 4:15PM, a cluster of a dozen semipermanent canvas-walled one-room tents at the edge of a field of sand dunes. They’re primitive looking from the outside and basic but comfortable on the inside: the canvas hangs on a wood and wire frame, and the floor is wood with a large carpet. Each room has a flush toilet and very basic cold shower. There is a generator or solar-powered batteries in the c amp (I don’t yet know which) so we have electricity at night; there is a single lightbulb but also an electrical outlet so we can charge our various devices overnight. So in ither words, extremely basic but not altogether roughing it. The main problem is the sand, which is everywhere and gets into everything; we have zippered screen doors front and rear that work reasonably well to keep the outside outside.

Not the Hilton.

But make no mistake, we really are in the Sahara desert. If you need any additional convincing, here is the view out our back door.

You might correctly infer from that image that strolling into town to do some shopping is not a realistic option. But it is all very exciting and interesting. We received a cooking lesson (tagine) in the late afternoon, followed by a very good dinner (tagine, do you see the pattern?). The skies are quite beautiful here as you would expect, the Milky Way a glorious highway from horizon to horizon across the zenith. So I gave a little astronomy lecture, enthusiastically received, and led a star party, pointing out constellations and stars to end the evening.

Tomorrow: camel ride! We have been cautioned to wear long pants for this, so I suspect that some apprehension may be warranted.

Categories: Africa, Morocco | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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