Seven Continents

Roman Deli

carlsbad_sven — Wed, 12 Aug 2015 08:17:00 GMT

Worms, mmmmm– worms. Have you ever eaten them? Neither have I, but I found a place that serves them. The only caveat is that you’d need a time machine.

Rome is a fascinating place if you love history and ruins. I happen to love both and was duly absorbed when I visited the famous city. One place that blew me away, maybe even more than the forum, was the ancient harbor city of Ostia Antica. Unlike most Roman ruins that show how the elite lived, Ostia Antica is a window into the life of the common man of two millennia ago.

Most ruins only have foundations to look at, but Ostia Antica remains a town in many places. There is an intact amphitheater that still puts on performances. You can stroll down avenues with tall buildings walling either side of the street sans rooftops. You can witness the plumbing of bathhouses, where slaves, hidden behind walls, walked on paddle-wheels to keep hot water flowing to patrons. You can visit a grainary with hoof prints pounded into the floor created by mules that turned the mills to grind flower. And then there’s the restaurant I previously mentioned.

The street leading up to the eatery is lined with two-story dwellings where business could be found on the ground level and the shop owner’s homes were located on the story above. The set up was like any mixed use building in a modern metropolis. Upon entering, a massive marble counter greeted guests and there was plenty of room for people to congregate and wait in line to submit their meal order. A torso-sized, smooth-sided stone vessel was attached to the counter to dispense wine to those who ordered it. A barrel-sized vessel was buried in the floor and served as a refrigerator.

A fresco was fastened to a brick wall displaying the menu of large dark paintings depicting a tray of fruits and vegetables, a bucket of eggs, and a gourd–vegetarian menu perhaps? Another menu offered a bowl of worms– Definitely the meat-lovers choice. Given the number of ships the town must have had, I was surprised I didn’t see a rat on the list. Since Rome was the largest international city of it’s time, words would not have sufficed. All a patron had to do was point to the type of meal they wanted and they could be understood. Want a bucket of quail-chicken-lizard eggs, whatever we can scrounge, with those worms? No problem, have it your way!

Once a patron traded their hard-earned denarius for their meal they could walk toward the back and dine on a private outdoor patio that comfortably seated thirty, or on busier days, pack up to fifty. A fountain gurgled and begged guests to wash their hands and next to that a glistening basin invited them to bathe their feet. Nearby was a public toilet with sixteen stations to take care of more personal business. I marveled at how little had changed in the dining experience over the past two thousand years. As I admired the preservation of this ancient restaurant, I wondered if the Egyptians or the Babylonians had such establishments.

I pictured myself sweating after a long day in the scalding sun making bricks along the banks of the Nile in ancient Egypt. I stood in a shady cafe pointing to a grasshopper.

The manager frowned and shook his head. “Sorry no locust today.”

I understood his gestures, but not his Egyptian. I pointed to a frog.

More shaking of the head, “Sorry no toad today. No boils either. We run out after that Moses business.”

I pointed to a bushel of wheat.

His eyes lit up. “We have straw.” He handed me a boiled brick. “Chew the straw out of the brick. Long live Pharaoh!”

Photos: Ostia Antica

carlsbad_sven — Wed, 12 Aug 2015 08:10:00 GMT

Old World Fast Food

The Living Toilet

carlsbad_sven — Sat, 1 Aug 2015 12:49:00 GMT

I spent a month in Ghana working on a documentary some years back. At one point, the crew and I stayed in the Volta region with a family who was related to our subject. Everyone in the village was extremely friendly and excited that we were filming their locale. No matter where we looked people had big smiles on their faces, making us feel welcome and right at home.

Albert, our host, built his house out of mud bricks that they molded and dried in their own back yard. The second story was framed, but the brickwork had not yet been completed. Construction occurred when there was time, or if there was a need, or not at all. The ground floor was concrete and we were told that the graves of the grandparents were under the living room. This was the area allocated for our sleeping bags. The grandparents didn’t seem to mind.

The sparse house had electricity, but no plumbing. Our documentary subject brought a television and VCR so the kids could watch some videos. Water was gathered from the local river and stored in large plastic buckets and tubs throughout the home. The toilet was a four-foot by four-foot square pit dug into the earth a few yards away from the abode. The hole was covered with logs lashed together with rope to create a platform; a small three-foot tall straw hut sat on top for privacy. To use the facility, one had to crouch inside, open a one-foot-square plug in the floor, and take care of business. By releasing light down into the abyss below one could see the entire world crawling over itself.

One morning I awoke with the intense urge purge unwanted matter. I exited my sleeping bag and tiptoed out the front door. I entered the straw hut just as the sun broke into the yard. When I opened the plug, a few dozen flying insects shot up into my face and bounced around my claustrophobic enclosure. I dropped the plug and ran, resisting the urge to scream like a little girl. There was no way I was going to hang my rump above that hole. I wound up relieving myself in the jungle. It was not the environmentally correct thing to do, but the thought of a bug flying into my sphincter made it impossible for me to use the facilities at that time.

“How did you sleep last night?” Albert asked me with his thick Ewe accent.

“Very well, thank you,” I replied.

“And the latrine?” He smiled in the way that any good host would address a guest.

“Spot on.” I did not want the man’s smile to melt.

The next day I used the “bathroom,” but only after staring down into the crawling mass to be sure nothing had the impetus to go spelunking in my colon.

Photos: Mysuru Watering Hole

carlsbad_sven — Thu, 9 Jul 2015 06:22:00 GMT

India

No Translation

carlsbad_sven — Thu, 9 Jul 2015 05:54:00 GMT

Some gestures transcend language. I find the best ambassadors come from the general population of any given country. When I was on business in Kyoto one of our party lost his wallet in a museum. He noticed the missing object when it was time to pay for lunch. We covered him before returning to the hotel so he could begin the process of canceling credit cards. It had been roughly four hours since he had lost the wallet.

As we cruised passed the front desk, the clerk intercepted us informing our comrade that an official from the museum had found his wallet and brought it to the hotel. Upon opening his wallet, our companion found all of his identification and a few hundred dollars worth of Japanese yen. Nothing was missing. Everything was intact. A local patron had given the wallet to the museum staff. They, in turn, set about finding the owner. The combined effort on behalf of several Japanese citizens impressed us.

What were the odds of that happening in our own country?

A few days later I paid for a rice drink at a local shop in Kyoto. I was uncertain about the price quoted to me by the shopkeeper, but I felt I had given her exact change. A few seconds after departing the shop the woman rushed out and took my hand. Through her gestures I understood I had overpaid and she gave me my correct change.

During my seven-day trip, I was impressed by the cleanliness, politeness, and general sense of communal honor that the Japanese people exuded every time I walked out of my hotel door. I rarely encountered citizens who spoke English, but when I needed assistance there was always someone who helped me translate through gestures. Buying train tickets, ordering food, or anything else I needed was never a chore.

A year later I was on my way to grab a quick meal in my Los Angeles neighborhood when I noticed a perplexed Japanese woman studying a map. A few of my fellow Angelinos avoided her, focusing on their destinations. My experience in Kyoto popped back in my mind. She approached me, asking for help in broken English. She pointed at her destination and I took the time to walk her to the correct street and show her where she needed to go. After all the help the Japanese had given me in their country, I felt I had to up my game. Politeness, kindness, and honor need no translation.

Shades of Color

carlsbad_sven — Thu, 9 Jul 2015 05:36:00 GMT

Before I visited the white continent, I assumed the entire place would appear as a shadow land, filled with white, grays, and black. It would be the perfect habitat for black and white photography. I fancy myself a decent amateur photographer and thought I might create an album in shades of gray, something along the lines of a Shackleton expedition.

The first iceberg I encountered in Antarctic waters fell into my preconceived stereotype. It was awe-inspiring, taller than our ship, jagged, and appeared to be a floating monolith sculpted from pure spring snow. But as we motored further south, I began to see many colors in the ice. The next crystalline gargantuan we stumbled upon was a hundred times larger than our little Russian vessel and was the same color as Windex. As we rounded the oceanic titan, my mouth dropped open. The berg had taken on the appearance of a giant Easter Island Moai. I pictured it filled with ten thousand island natives, drifting in their Trojan horse in search of virgin lands.

Other ice-nomads had snow on their sides, but revealed deep blue crevasses, glowing like spirits trapped in ancient resin.

“I’ve seen bergs down here that are the color of dark green bottle glass,” One of the ship’s crew informed me. “They get their color from frozen algae.”

“I’d love to see one of those,” I commented. Unfortunately they were so rare we never encountered one.

Ice was not the only object that displayed colors of many hues. Wildlife, especially birds, flashed an array of rainbow assortments to tantalize the eye. For a while I just focused my telephoto lens on the orange and yellow necks of King and Emperor penguins, whose plumage screamed for attention. Their patterns reminded me of bold brush strokes from painting masters of old.

Humans had their own method of expressing color. Many researchers who crossed our path wore electric red, or safety yellow, so they could be easily spotted on the ice or against the gray and black rock that was prevalent there. The more I explored, the more I witnessed rich beauty in the world’s most remote continent; something the lenses of Shackleton’s time could not convey. There was an entire spectrum of color and life; a feast for the eyes at the bottom of the world.

Photos: Helicopter-Hiking

carlsbad_sven — Thu, 9 Jul 2015 04:37:00 GMT

Banff

Banff Lightning

carlsbad_sven — Thu, 9 Jul 2015 04:33:00 GMT

One of the benefits to playing a role in my friend’s wedding party was that I had the privilege of experiencing heli-hiking, aka the lazy man’s way to summit a mountain. Heli-hiking involves boarding a Huey helicopter– think Apocalypse Now– from an alpine chalet, roaring up to a glacial peak, dispersing to explore the rocky world for an hour before a guide radios for a lift to the next mountain. Physical effort is not a factor on the hiker’s part. For myself, I’m happy to sweat it up a mountainside in order to taste the sweet success of achieving a summit under my own power, but heli-hiking was certainly worth the attention once in my life.

Our first ride from the lodge sent us over a clearing atop a lower peak where we spotted two hikers shaking a sign that read: Help. Our pilot circled the hikers and put the skids down a few dozen yards away from the distressed couple. With our rotors spinning, several of the passengers jumped out along with our guide and intercepted the hikers. Upon closer inspection we discovered they were a man and a woman. They wobbled up to us, disheveled, dirty, and exhausted. I was surprised at their lack of gear with and I wondered how they had reached so high with so little.

“Thank god you spotted us,” the man cried. “Two nights ago we were hit by lightning. It took us two days just to leave our camp and crawl to this spot to search for help. We’ve been hearing your choppers since we starting hiking three days ago.”

“You’re damn lucky the lightning didn’t kill you,” Our guide responded as he led them to the chopper.

In her weak daze the woman nodded. “It struck our tent in the middle of the night. I saw the electricity jump on the ground and hit us in our sleeping bags. I think the tent saved us. It’s melted and fried.” She tugged open the back of her shirt and I saw a network of glossy jagged lines carved into her skin. They were not bloody, but had a cobalt hue. I never saw anything like it before or since.

We made room on the chopper and our pilot flew us back down to the lodge. We disembarked before our pilot transported the hikers to the nearest hospital. I ruminated over my past few days driving through Banff and my private room at our opulent mountain chalet. My experience was in stark contrast to the hell they had endured. When the helicopter returned to take us up to Houndstooth Peak for our hike, the image of the woman’s back remained etched in my mind. It was something that none of us would ever forget.

Photos: Profile

carlsbad_sven — Fri, 5 Jun 2015 02:37:00 GMT

Profile gallery

Mysuru Watering Hole

carlsbad_sven — Sat, 23 May 2015 05:56:59 GMT

Chamundi temple stands atop a mountain in the city of Mysuru India. It is a vortex, drawing offering laden pilgrims up a thousand stairs to pay respects to the Hindu gods that reside there. About three quarters of the way up, my guides and I stopped at a black cow sitting just off the main path. Hundreds of brightly clothed Hindus could be seen up and down the slope.

“This is the third largest cow shrine in India.” Jaykumar informed me. “It was carved as one piece out of this granite hill. A priest bathes it in coconut oil once a month in order to retain its black finish.” A small iron fence surrounded the benign bovine, a child’s playpen hemming in a goliath. A trim priest with a bushy black mustache and rainbow garlands of flowers around his neck took offerings for the cow.

Thick heat offered no relief to the sweat building on my face and neck. My gaze moved to a man wearing worn leather sandals, gray tattered slacks, and a tight blue polo shirt. He operated a nearby metal cart with chipped orange paint that reminded me of a popcorn kiosk at a circus. Chunky gears and a serpentine fan belt took the place of a corn kettle.

Jay followed my attention. “Want to try it?”

“Why not?” I replied.

Jay instructed the man to make three drinks. “And do not water them down.” He leaned over to me. “Tastes better and no diarrhea.”
“Good tip.” I commented.

The man pushed a starter button on the cart and the gas-powered press shuddered. The Ouroboros belt came to life, beckoning its keeper to feed it foot-long offerings of sugarcane stalks. The stalks were crushed to splintered planks. Juice ran down a rusty chute and spilled into a pitted plastic tub. The man folded the stalks and fed them again. After a third feeding with the same cane, the man stopped the machine, squeezed lime and ginger juice into the bowl, and poured us each a small waxed paper Dixie cup of yellowish liquid.

It was love at first taste. I resisted the urge to drop on all fours and lap it up like a dog. The drink was cool, heavenly sweet, and had just the right touches of ginger-lime. I could feel the Hindu gods performing the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy on my tongue. I licked my lips and addressed Jay. “Think I can buy a gallon of this stuff to bring home?”

Jay turned to the cart keeper to order more but I placed my hand on his shoulder. As much as I wanted mass quantities, the impulse was impractical. My cup was ample enough to leave a spiritual impression. One I wouldn’t forget.

Photos: Great Barrier Reef

carlsbad_sven — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 16:54:00 GMT

Sven Michael Davison

Splashdown in Cairns

carlsbad_sven — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 17:00:00 GMT

Cairns Australia is a tropical seaside city that boasts the largest gateway to the Great Barrier Reef. If you’re an aqualung astronaut such as myself, skipping Cairns is not an option. A stroll along the concrete boardwalk on the north side of town is lovely at anytime. The low skyline, tall palm trees, and lulling waves sooth the soul into a meditative state.

One evening, before dining on kangaroo, emu and crocodile, I found myself drifting along the shore. I reflected on an underwater adventure I had just experience far out by the reef. As I dreamed of the wondrous alien world, I came upon a patch of brackish mud, a tributary that had ran out of adrenaline, just out of reach of its oceanic finish line. Two boys in the eight-ish category, dressed only in shorts, leapt off a low cinderblock wall into the odiferous muck. Covered in goopy clay, they picked themselves up with uproarious laughter, climbed back on the wall, and repeated the action several times over. I stood observing with a smile plastered to my face, thinking of a time in my life when every puddle had the attraction of Star Trek level space exploration.

Their gleeful actions drew the attention of a taller lad of ten. He marched up to the younger ones with arms crossed. He barked in his native accent, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting filthy!” The jovial slime creatures screamed back.

The tall curmudgeon monitored the action, a carbon copy of a distant satellite parent. After two more splashdowns the elder boy’s frown melted. By the third re-entry into planet mud, the lad whipped off his t-shirt and dove in after them.

I moved further on, leaving the boys alone in shrieks of sheer pleasure. When I returned twenty minutes later, they were engaged in a three-way mud fight. The laughter never stopped. I resisted the urge to join them. However, if the field had been clear, I would have launched myself into that Australian mud bath and abandoned ground control in favor of my inner Major Tom.

Photos: Color

carlsbad_sven — Mon, 18 Dec 2006 17:16:00 GMT

Icebergs & Penguins

Ushuaia Adoption

carlsbad_sven — Sat, 2 Dec 2006 17:07:00 GMT

Ushuaia is the southern most town in Argentina on the island of Tierra del Fuego, which Argentina shares with Chile. The town holds a naval academy and is a port for ships traveling to Antarctica. The landscape is packed with jagged snow capped peaks, black and gray rock, tufts of rich green summer grass, and a slate-blue ocean.

One afternoon I took a stroll out to the Beagle Channel. The sky was gray with puffs of white clouds ripping against the serrated mountains. I passed an aluminum corrugated-clad house where a white terrier mutt lay on warm rocks near the front door. She popped her head up, let her pink tongue fall out, and trotted over to me. She reminded me of Benji, the movie dog from the seventies, only she was bigger. I scratched her behind the ears and she began to follow me. When I stopped, she stopped. When I moved forward she matched my pace.

We passed fields of black rock mixed with low-cropped tufts of exposed sea grass. We came upon wooded hills where horses loitered without bridal or harness. We never saw a human being. The wind and the waves created a melody of white noise. I absorbed the beauty of the landscape for the first time. She was a veteran and my four-legged guide. We traveled eastward until all signs of civilization disappeared. We sat contemplating the edge of the world together. I gazed South and thought of Shackleton, Amundsen, and Scott adventuring on the white continent. My companion pondered her next meal, sitting loyally by my side, receiving a continuous rub of her coat. After our transcendental time together, I returned to my lodging. When we passed her aluminum home, she pulled away and took her place on the warm rocks. My one-hour adoption was over.

I remarked to the desk clerk at my hotel about how friendly the dogs were here.

“You will find many stray dogs in Argentina.” The man explained in with his Spanish accent. “Argentinians love dogs. We feed our strays so you will not find any… how you say?”

“Vicious?” I replied.

“Yes. No vicious dogs here.”

I wondered if my travel companion lived at the house or if she had just borrowed it for the day. I liked to think that she was a world wanderer, enjoying life as it came. That’s how I would want to be.

Photos: Kyoto

carlsbad_sven — Sat, 17 Jun 2006 17:41:00 GMT

Kyoto