Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ Mole, Ghana

pbm6 — Fri, 16 Nov 2018 10:00:00 GMT

Mole National Park.

pbm6 — Tue, 16 Oct 2018 10:00:00 GMT

At the entrance to Mole National Park, I am introduced to my safari guide. Robert is a serious middle-aged man with a large rifle. When I ask him why he needs a rifle, he explains that it’s in case we have any difficulties with the animals. I check with him whether he’s ever had to use it. He says he hasn’t. He then adds wryly, “Only on hunters.”

I chuckle at this but it’s a sombre issue. Mole National Park, in northern Ghana, has no boundary fences around its near five thousand square kilometres area and some local clans still hunt its animals. Village chiefs still use animal skins to sit on as a mark of their importance and to emphasise their character. Robert remarks that an illegal lion killing was recorded as recently as 2004. Later I read a report that confirms Robert’s assertion. An article entitled “The Decline of Lions in Ghana’s Mole National Park” by Burton, Buedi, Balangtaa, Kpelle, Sam and Brashares, published in the African Journal of Ecology in 2010, notes that local villagers have reported a continuing tradition of lion hunting (for ceremonial, medicinal and nutritional purposes). The selling of lion skins and claws was also observed at a market in the nearby town of Tamale. The report concludes that the direct killing of lions in and around Mole National Park is certainly likely to have played a role in their population decline and that there is a similar crisis facing lion populations in much of West and Central Africa.

As usual for me, the safari drive is boring. We go for miles without seeing very much. Warthogs and baboons abound, frolicking freely at the park workers’ houses as well as at the lodge. I see plenty of antelope – I had no idea that there were so many types – plus monkeys and baboons, but that’s it. On our return I witness a falcon swoop viciously to prey on a large snake dangling from a branch. After a pleasant, yet unspectacular, two hour drive, Robert promises me that we will see some elephants tomorrow.

It’s an early start with Robert’s promises of elephants. However, the day doesn’t begin too well. The white tourists have already gathered, talking very loudly. I join the safari staff in the shade instead. Robert asks if I want to join them for the introduction. He gives me another wry smile when I refuse.

Before the talk finishes, Robert nudges me and we are the first to take a jeep out. I climb up on to the cage on the roof of the vehicle and once he has whispered directions to the driver Robert joins me. We race off. It seems that Robert doesn’t want anyone to follow us. A couple of quick turns, meaning I must hold tight onto the cage so as not to be thrown overboard, and we are back at the staffs’ housing area. The driver turns off the engine and we roll quietly until we come to a halt. Robert motions me to climb down. He points. There is some rustling behind a large bush.

I walk toward the back of one of the houses. Less than a hundred metres away a large grey elephant emerges from behind the green foliage. It lifts its heads and stares right at me. The elephant holds my gaze with sad, world weary eyes and then, with a swish of its trunk, more vegetation is consumed. It’s as if the animal had actually acknowledged me. Good morning to you as well. Robert gives me a nod. He has done what he promised.

The elephant walks towards me, along the small path at the rear of the single story dwelling. I look for guidance from Robert. He calmly motions for me to move away, only slightly further back, to allow the elephant to turn and march slowly along the side of the house. The animal is about the same size as the building and blocks it from sight as it ambles along. It’s a magnificent beast. According to Robert, it’s not as large as the others in the park, but this one is calm and at ease amongst the rangers and workers, seeking interaction with them rather than the tourists. The elephant turns away from me and moves toward the front of the house. Robert beckons me closer. I notice the woman of the house stands outside at her gate, holding her baby, as the elephant passes. Neither human nor animal are concerned with each other, sharing time and space peacefully, each totally unafraid of the other. The elephant pulls a large bush up from the ground. Robert beckons me closer again. He offers to take a few photographs of me so close to the animal that I’m totally awestruck.

Robert suddenly has a serious attitude again and I ask him why. He says he can hear two more elephants nearby. This one will probably join them on their journey to the water hole and other jeeps will find them. He seems saddened by this.

He is right. We quietly follow the animal through a clearing and beyond the road two similar sized elephants graze on some bushes. A jeep pulls up and four large white humans climb down the vehicle’s ladder with a display of colourful shorts on large backsides. Our elephant, for the first time, looks slightly agitated and lumbers after its two friends. Two more jeeps, in a cacophony of noise, arrive too. Robert suggests we leave. Whatever he says; his promise to see elephants has been delightfully delivered.

Back up on the roof of the jeep, we rumble along the same park road as yesterday. At another the watering hole a jeep has stopped. We roll up quietly too. The new park hotel has recently been constructed on the hillside above us. I can’t see anything near the water so I’m not sure why we have stopped. Robert points to the murky water. I frown, obviously missing something. Then a trunk, followed by a large elephant head rises above the surface. The elephant unleashes an amusing spurt of water from its trunk as it showers itself. Robert now directs my attention to the other side of the pond. Another elephant has arrived and stands at the water’s edge. It dips its large feet in as if it’s testing the temperature of the water. An antelope watches from nearby.

Another jeep pulls up and its passengers climb down. The tranquillity is now shattered as they chatter animatedly with the group from the first jeep. Robert asks them to talk quietly, once politely and the second time much more firmly. They are annoyed with him and so they go. Robert suggests that we stay. Once the rabble leave, the second elephant wades into the water, spurting himself with water from his trunk, visibly enjoying his morning wash.

Typically we now drive for over an hour and see only antelopes. However, it doesn’t matter as it’s already been well worth the trip. Another lesson; don’t chase, if you are in the right place, things will come to you.

I find my guide for my short journey to nearby Mognori on the edge of the park. The heat of the day is up again. I’m already sweating. In the village, we pick up two men who jump into the back of the truck and we carry on until the road ends. I am given a tube of cream to coat myself in for protection from flies and mosquitoes.

The two men have uncovered a canoe from some bushes and I follow them to a narrow river of still black water. I sit in the middle of the boat as the two men, one sitting at the front and the other at the back, row us through the dense jungle. I’m thankful for the cream. The rower at the front constantly swats flies and grunts with every bite. My guide explains that these are tsetse flies. The poison of the tiny fly results in sleeping sickness and is so concentrated it affects elephants and other large mammals too. The flies were prevalent in the park and caused havoc, so vegetation has been established here along the river to attract them. He points out red and blue kingfishers. I am told that crocodiles are sleeping at the water’s edge. I am not sure I believe it.

Local villages around the national park are having to embrace tourism as their culture and economy previously based on hunting the animals and selling their tusks and hides is no longer permitted. Traditional dancing, roof walking and weaving are now demonstrated in these eco-villages. So, back in Mognori, I am lead up tree trunk ladders and on to the roofs of the mud huts. The insides are cool in the daytime, particularly ideal for storing food, and at night the roofs are cooler to sleep on, especially in the hotter months. The villagers have cut patterns into the wooden walls of their huts. This was originally as the means of announcing children’s births or other family events. Sadly the tradition is now dying out.

The village chief sits under a shea nut tree in the shade. He is weak and nearly blind but he still rules the village. To this day, the chiefs of the villages still use animal skins to indicate how they want to rule. The chief here currently has a lion skin to indicate strength. Other chiefs will use different skins to symbolise the characteristics they wish to portray.

The chief allows me to wander freely around the village. Goats find shade at the edges of the huts, a baby has been left sleeping under a tree and a few youths have been coerced by a woman into crushing yams to make fufu. The old woman barks instructions and in unison they bang large wooden poles into a wooden basket to crush the yams. I offer my help. The wooden beams are surprisingly heavy, which amuses the boys when I try.

The visit is done and I am driven back to the airport at Tamale. At the mention of the airport, my guide asks me about flying. He has never been on a plane. He wants to know if it’s just like being in a car. I try to explain it to him but it’s lost on him. It’s just like when I explained dishwashers and tumble dryers to the coach of the football academy I spent time with here in Ghana; these things I take for granted are alien here.

Vladivostok: Bears, balalaikas and vodka

pbm6 — Fri, 21 Sep 2018 10:00:00 GMT

After the long journey on the Trans Siberian Railway, I sleep well, enjoying the space of a double bed to stretch out into. Refreshed from a shower before bed and one again this morning, finally relaxing in the luxury of a hotel room before venturing out into the very cold Vladivostok day.

The railway station is a grand building; a shame I didn’t see it yesterday evening as the train arrived and I was whisked quickly away to my hotel. It’s a fitting end to the Trans-Siberian Railway, both inside and out. It’s supposed to mirror Yaroslavky Station, at the other end of the line in Moscow, but I didn't get to see that station either, having been dumped across the junction by my driver. I photograph the monument which marks the 9,288 kilometres of the journey. (Strangely, my guidebook says the total is 9,289 kilometres and the train timetable gave the total distance as 9,259 kilometres). The ferry port, from where I depart tomorrow, is directly behind the train station and it’s not the best location to allow people to see the town; too easy for passengers to get off the train and straight on to the ferry.

Natalya is my local guide for the city and with her help, I am soon enthralled by Vladivostok. Natalya tells me that Khrushchev compared the city to San Francisco, and, like San Francisco, it has bridges, a bay and it’s built on hills, but otherwise there is nothing else in common. It’s not a pretty town but it’s a functional town. However, I like the town a lot. Maybe it’s the bright sunshine but then the wind from the sea makes the minus thirteen degrees feel as cold as Lake Baikal did. Maybe it’s the sea and the waterfront, even though the waterfront is heavily dominated by military vessels. Maybe it’s because it feels provincial and, whilst Russian, it’s not Russian. Maybe it’s just the sense I have of being at the edge of the world.

Natalya tells me the story of President Putin arriving for the APEC conference in 2012 and being shocked at the amount of Japanese and Korean cars on the streets. Back in Moscow, he subsequently arranged for a train load of Russian and European cars to be sent to the city. Only a handful of these cars were bought and the rest were sent back, as it was easier and cheaper to buy from Asia. As Natalya tells me this story, a police car passes; a Hyundai. Many cars are also right hand drive, imported as-is from Japan.

Vladivostok has a strange history and quite the reverse to most cities, particularly to my hometown of Liverpool. It’s a young city, the first ship landed here in 1860 and a town was established quickly after establishing trade links with Japan. With the completion of the Trans-Siberian Railway, the city flourished. In typical Russian fashion, just as things were going well, the effects of the revolution in Moscow and Saint Petersburg culminated in the city becoming a military post and the city was closed, even to Russians. Foreigners were sent home and even Russians had to apply to visit the city. The city was fortified and the remnants of this, such as concrete battlements, remain across the city today.

Only in 1992 was the city opened again and the effects of this, such as the cars that I have already mentioned, are manifold. Buildings and monuments have been rebuilt. It has a more open feel than Moscow does. This is obviously helped by the sea, but also, whilst the city has Soviet architecture, this is not as domineering or as dark as those in other ex-Communist cities. There is an Asian influence too in terms of the people, its restaurants and shops. Standing in Asia, I ask Natalya whether she feels European or Asian. Without hesitation, she responds that she feels European.

The city is often described as a bit of Europe in Asia and this is not a bad description. The two main streets intersect and along these streets the pre-Soviet buildings, such as the Kunst & Albers department store, mix with the newer communist mansions and administration buildings. One of the mansions is where the family of Yul Bryner, the actor, lived. The main square was reconstructed for the APEC conference and there was debate whether to destroy the old Soviet war statues but they have been left to dominate the square, remaining as a symbol of the city.

Further along, towards the waterfront in a small park, stands the rebuilt triumphal gate for Tsar Nicholas II’s arrival from his journey around the world and which commemorates his declaration to build the Trans-Siberian Railway. Further down the slope of this park are a church and a war memorial with its eternal flame. Alongside this, incongruously in the open street, stands the S-56 submarine, a symbol of Vladivostok’s naval heritage. During World War II, the submarine made eight military campaigns and carried out twelve torpedo attacks that resulted in the sinking ten rival ships and damaging four more. Over three thousand bombs were dropped on it, but the S-56 remained unsinkable.

Natalya and I wander back to the centre of the town and to Vladivostok’s equivalent to Moscow’s Armat Street. It’s a long pedestrian street leading to Peter the Great Bay. This is where the first settlers built the original town. Terraced, low rise stone buildings still remain on either side of the street, joined together with archways and passages between them. These buildings were the opium dens, bars, brothels and chop shops and it is said that a visitor to the town did not need to leave this street as everything he needed was here. It’s now neatly remodelled with restaurants, coffee shops and boutiques.

At the end of the street is the vast, frozen water of Peter the Great Bay. It’s noticeable how much colder and windier it is here, standing on the waterfront. There are battlements on the hillside and nearby an open-air sports stadium, a winter sports arena and an aquarium. Incredibly, in this weather, there’s a guy with two donkeys waiting to take kids along the promenade. More incredible still, out on the ice of the bay, there are over a hundred fishermen. I saw such fishermen before on Lake Baikal and on the other rivers I passed over on the Trans-Siberian Railway but not this many. Some are chatting together, some sit alone. Natalya tells me that on the weekends there are twice as many and the fishermen will sit out on the ice fishing for a good six to eight hours. They all sit facing one direction, as if praying to an apparition or watching a giant movie, but I realise they all face the sun for warmth. We try to get closer but the ice is extremely slippery and out in the open it’s extremely cold. My admiration for the fishermen increases. Apparently, the Vladivostok wives have been known to check up on their fisherman husbands to ensure they are fishing and not keeping warm drinking vodka in one of the local bars. We talk to two of the nearest fishermen. They haven't caught anything yet after two hours of trying and so will move to a new spot where there are less people.

It’s so cold that we decide to go for coffee. Natalya is keen to know my impressions of Russia and of her town. She’s a proud Russian and even more so with regard to her hometown. Then she asks the dreaded question of what I think of the people of Russia. I hesitate but say it’s hard because everyone looks so miserable all the time. She laughs immediately and pulls a stern face and says this is how people walk around. She then pulls a sterner face and tells me this is how they greet each other in the street. I laugh. She then says that if you see people at home or in bars or cafés they start to smile and interact. She says Russians, in fact, have a good sense of humour.

I look around the coffee shop people are interacting with each other and joking. I think about Lena and Iakov (my respective guides in Moscow and Irkutsk) who I did enjoy being with. Even Dmitry (who I shared a compartment with on the Trans Siberian Railway), once I had shared my wine, got me the football score, updated me on the Winter Olympics and was excited about the drop in temperatures outside. Natalya says Moscow people are more defensive, due to its history. I tell her about Aberdonians, that once you crack through the ice, you meet the hard granite of their personalities. But, eventually, once you got to know them and once they have a few drinks, they are fun. We decide it has a lot to do with cold winters. All in all, she is pleased I’ve enjoyed her country and its true, I have. As we depart she says she hopes Russia is more than bears, balalaikas and vodka.

She also gives me instructions to take a bus ride across the bay on the newly built bridges to visit Russky Island. For 18 roubles (about thirty pence) each way, this is what I do. The first section through the suburbs is awful and I think I’ve made a mistake. The impressions on the train yesterday are back; derelict houses, Soviet apartment blocks, scrapyards and graffiti. However, up on the first bridge, the view of the city across the bay is spectacular. The second bridge is even better. The bridge is much longer and looks out toward the Sea of Japan. In a closed city, Russky Island was restricted even further and only naval and military personnel were ever allowed on the island. The island was only opened up for the APEC conference two years ago and now, with the bridges built, it’s opening up even further. The city’s universities have amalgamated and a new huge university complex has been built on the island and there will be a new marine life centre opened here too. The whole trip, there and back, takes nearly two hours. It’s probably the cheapest tourist trip I have ever taken.

I then wander slowly back to have a vodka in the hotel bar. I enjoyed the tour of the city immensely. The vodka is a great way to say goodbye to Vladivostok and to Russia.

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ Vladivostok

pbm6 — Fri, 21 Sep 2018 10:00:00 GMT

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ Tangiers

pbm6 — Fri, 17 Aug 2018 10:30:00 GMT

The Bride in the North: Wandering the Medina in Tangier

pbm6 — Tue, 14 Aug 2018 10:30:00 GMT

After a traffic jam, then around roundabouts made of building junk, we arrive in the old town. What a difference it is here away from the new town under construction. Small white buildings climb up the hillside above the bay. The taxi driver points to my hotel. I think I may have to walk. He smiles and turns into the narrow streets of the medina. Two scooters and a car reverse to let us through. My hotel is a little run down but wonderful, with balconies and colonial balustrades on the outside, cool courtyards and open ante-rooms on the inside. My room looks down on to the vast concrete square between the ancient medina and the harbour. I can’t wait to explore.

I must get out. I just have to wander through these ancient streets. The hotel receptionist gives me a map and directs me to the main sites of the medina. At the gate, Abdul attaches himself to me but I just want to walk. “No problem, sir.” The streets are tiny, with white washed walls and its always uphill. After two sharp corners, I am lost. One more corner and surely I will be back where I started. I consult the map. Abdul smiles as he’s seen this before. I surrender, “Ok, Abdul, let’s go.”

Abdul is actually good company. Softly spoken, he explains that the street signs are in French and Arabic, but many people in Tangier still speak Spanish, rather than French, because of its proximity. The official language is a version of Arabic, known as Darija, and the Tangerians speak it with a strong accent compared to the rest of their countrymen, infusing many Spanish, French and even English words into their vocabulary. Up until 1956 Tangier was an International Zone under the administration of Europe and is still referred to as the Bride in the North.

The first point of interest Abdul shows me is a plaque marking respect to Muhammad Ibn Battuta, one of the greatest travellers of all time. Born in 1306, he left Tangier in 1325 and over a twenty-nine year period visited most of the then Islamic world. It is said that Ibn Battuta did not take any notes during his odyssey, yet on his return home he provided an account of his travels. The title of his manuscript is translated as “A Gift to Those Who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Travelling”, more simply referred to as the “Rihla”, or the “Journey”.

Around another corner we stop at a café. Inside there is a strong smell of mint tea. Abdul directs me inside and through a window points to the house that was Barbara Hutton’s residence. The American socialite met her seventh husband here in Tangier in 1964. Away from the strict confines of mainland Europe, Hutton reigned over flamboyant high society parties that were held in the city, most notably with David Herbert, Ian Fleming and the Rolling Stones (who later returned to Tangier in 1989 to record “Continental Drift”). The Stones were also attracted to the seedier side of Tangier, the city of spies, smugglers, writers-in-exile and the locally grown cannabis, known as kif.

A decade earlier, the city had hosted authors such as Paul Bowles, William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Tennessee Williams. Burroughs said at that time, “Tangier is one of the few places left in the world where, so long as you don’t proceed to robbery, violence, or some form of crude, antisocial behaviour, you can do exactly what you want.” Burroughs did most of the writing for “Naked Lunch” in Villa Muniria, which still operates today as Hotel el Muniria, and its dreamlike state, Interzone, was inspired by the International Zone that Tangier was.

The Stones would seek out Paul Bowles and Brion Gysin, with their links to the Beat Generation writers, and the weird and wonderful that Morocco had to offer. Brian Jones was so taken with the Sufi trance music of the Master Musicians of Jajouka that he brought them to the attention of the West when he recorded the LP “Brian Jones Presents The Pipes Of Pan At Jajouka” in 1968. The local hash was also a big attraction. The Rif Mountains south of Tangier, where Jajouka is located, is where cannabis is grown and which has been smoked here for centuries. It’s said that the name kif, the processed cannabis, comes from the Arabic word for pleasure. Even today, whilst it’s believed that Morocco provides roughly a third of the world’s hashish and supplies the majority of Europe’s demand, the cultivating, producing, selling and smoking of it remains illegal.

Abdul continues his tour through the Jewish quarter, then into a rundown area with kids playing football against the walls of the cramped lanes to a street of fancy houses now owned by European expatriates. Medina actually means city or town in Arabic and now refers to the Arabic quarters of North African cities that are noted for their narrow streets and boundary walls. Abdul tells me that the medina here has been used in recent movies such as “Inception” and “The Bourne Ultimatum”. We find ourselves at the top of the medina, at the Kasbah (the citadel), which are the old fortifications that house a museum together with some expensive homes and restaurants. Then it is another windy route through to the main square, past Café Central, where Abdul hopes we will watch the football later. We take an abrupt turn into a carpet makers shop. Abdul ignores the sleeping owner curled up on one of his rugs and we climb the stairs to the roof. From here we have an open view of the cityscape, with a green minaret above the roofs of the low rise medina. Washing hangs out to dry on most rooftops. Tarifa, Spain and Europe sit across the Strait of Gibraltar, only forty kilometres away.

After two hours of twisting and turning lanes, trying to second guess which small street Abdul will take next, it’s time for a break. Every time I get my bearings, we go a different way. I’m exhausted so Abdul leads me to a small restaurant. Abdul’s wife’s sister’s niece (or something like that) works in the kitchen. I am the only customer and, even though I ask for small portions, I get much too much. However, my first tagine on Moroccan soil is delightful.

We now visit every bar in the old town to find somewhere to watch the Liverpool FC match. Café Central is showing the local football team, IR Tangier, who are playing away, before El Classico (Barcelona against Real Madrid) starts and it seems that every other bar too is screening this game as a precursor to the main event. Abdul does not give up, chatting to every bar owner and asking for alternative bars. It’s my second marathon around the medina, this time with a full stomach. It’s our last resort; one bar has a screen showing the Bundesliga and nobody is watching. Between us, we convince the owner to switch channels. I have found an angel in both Abdul and the barman, although neither looks particularly angelic. Abdul goes to pray whilst I watch the football.

I ask the barman for a beer but, of course, it’s a Muslim country and there is no alcohol on sale anywhere in the medina, only sweet mint tea or water. Yet everybody is smoking. An old man in a fez hat sits in the corner near me distributing kif to whoever wants to buy it. There are the constant whispers of quiet conversations and the subsequent handshakes of deals being done. My eyes sting with cigarette smoke and my heads spins with the smell of secondary kif as I watch Liverpool FC draw with Spurs somewhere in the middle of the mad medina.

There is nothing like seeing the Taj Mahal for the first time

pbm6 — Wed, 6 Jun 2018 09:00:00 GMT

From the other side of the Yamuna River, I get my first glimpse of the Taj Mahal. It’s one of the most well-known sights in the world. Its buildings are silhouetted by the hazy light, which, apparently, is normal for this time of year. The river is low and there’s a muddy flood plain. In the quiet of the morning, there are bright green parakeets flying around in the trees above. At the top of the road, there are a couple of small stalls selling teas, cold drinks, postcards and other junk. A couple of scrawny kids run the stalls and are supervised by an old, bony man dressed in tattered robes and a turban, who sits quietly with his two goats. Within ten years I’m sure there will be a Burger King and a toboggan ride here, just like there is at the Great Wall of China.

Late in the afternoon, I walk from the entrance buildings into the main square and the two entrance gates beautifully frame the mausoleum in the late afternoon sunlight. It is true what is said: the Taj Mahal is magnificent.

It is busy, but not enough to spoil the occasion. I can freely wander. A small waterway leads directly to the white marble tomb ahead of me. Tourists queue to sit on Lady Diana’s Chair, waiting their turn to replicate one of the saddest photographs in history.

Mumtaz Mahal was the inseparable wife of the Mughal Emperor, Shah Jahan. She was a Muslim Persian princess and he was the son of the Mughal Emperor, Jehangir, and the grandson of Akbar the Great. It was at the age of fourteen that Shah Jahan met Mumtaz and fell in love with her. Five years later, in the year 1612, they got married. In 1631, Mumtaz died while giving birth to their fourteenth child and it was in memory of his beloved wife that Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal. The construction started in the year of Mumtaz’s death and it took twenty-two years to complete. Shah Jahan commissioned masons, stonecutters, carvers, painters, calligraphers, builders and other craftsmen from the whole of the Mughal Empire and also from further afield from Central Asia and Iran to build a mausoleum entirely out of white marble.

The gardens are laid out symmetrically. The Islamic design of the garden symbolizes spirituality and, according to the Quran, the lush green, well-watered garden is a symbol of paradise in Islam. The raised pathways divide the garden into four quarters and each of the four quarters has sixteen flowerbeds, with then an equal amount of plants in each.

The main tomb stands majestically on a square platform raised above the riverbank and the afternoon sun accentuates the brightness of the marble. There are four minarets on each corner of the platform detached from the tomb and the immaculate symmetry of the building is overwhelming. My eyes are pulled upwards from the gardens to the beauty of the sight in front of me. The German philosopher Count Hermann Keyserling described what I now see as, “A massive marble structure, without weight, as if formed of ether, perfectly rational and at the same time entirely decorative, it is perhaps the greatest art work which the forming spirit of mankind has ever brought forth."

The western side of the main tomb has the mosque and mirrored on the eastern side is the Naqqar Khana (the guest house), both made from red sandstone. The two buildings provide further architectural symmetry and also a strange colour contrast to the white marble. Closer to the tomb, the symmetry becomes even more fascinating. Even the smallest designs are noticeable, such as the zig-zagged black framework, giving the effect of movement, with patterns being duplicated on each side of the building.

The crypt contains the tombs of Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jahan himself, who was buried there after he died. Shah Jahan's tomb, which is next to that of Mumtaz, was never planned to be here and it’s the only breakage in the otherwise perfect symmetry of the Taj. Typically for Mughal mausoleums, perforated marble screens allow light into the shadowy chamber. I can just about make out some of the calligraphy inscribed on the tomb of Mumtaz Mahal. These are the ninety nine names of Allah.

I find a bench in the manicured gardens to watch the sunset descend over one of the wonders of the world. I bask in the solitude of being here. It feels like I am the only person here. The colours of the mausoleum change with the reducing light of the day, darkening as I watch. It is said that this changing pattern of colours depicts the different moods of a woman. I am very much at peace here. It’s one of those Grand Canyon, Lourdes or Neuschwanstein moments, when other people seem to disappear and I’m the only person connecting and belonging to the world. I have such a sense of awe and wonder, in being in the present moment and yet totally lost in the presence of beauty.

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ Taj Mahal

pbm6 — Wed, 6 Jun 2018 09:00:00 GMT

Once Bitten Twice Shy

pbm6 — Tue, 29 May 2018 11:00:00 GMT

Coming to terms with divorce and remarriage in Key West

In Key West:

I stop the car somewhere on the Keys. I’m not quite at Key West yet. I’m apprehensive about getting to my destination. I thought it was a good idea to complete a full coast to coast from Seattle to Key West, from the north-west to the south-east, but Key West is where many years ago I got married. It’s weird to think I will be back here after such a sham of a marriage. Looking back, it seemed so easy to get hitched and yet it was so difficult to get out of it. The unwinding of the relationship, the abuse and lies, that games that were played have taken their toll. Why was all that necessary?

It’s 18 years since I was here. In that time, Key West has been damaged by many hurricanes, such as Wilma in 2005 for example, and the city has had to be rebuilt. This is a good metaphor, I think, for my journey too. I was completely flattened emotionally and financially and it’s taken some rebuilding. Maybe I’m a different person altogether now. Perhaps then I should be thankful for the enormous kick in the balls that life gave me. Whilst getting a gentler shove may have been easier to take, maybe a shake-up is what we all need. A very wise counsellor, rightly or wrongly, described my ex-wife as bi-polar and told me to treat such personalities just like hurricanes - find a piece of dry land or get as far away as possible to avoid the devastation. Will this visit exorcise some demons for me?

Standing outside the Courthouse, I do feel emotional. I wondered how I would feel, but it’s the elation of completing the coast to coast, from sea to shining sea, that makes me shiver. Two weeks from the Straits of Juan de Fuca - from Seattle - to the Southernmost Point - to Key West - makes me feel good indeed. I stand on a small pier and gaze out to the vast Atlantic Ocean. It really is amazing to have actually been on the Pacific Ocean only two weeks ago. Looking eastwards at the Atlantic, I appreciate the timelessness of the turbulent waters that I will cross in a couple of days’ time. The endless rhythm of the waves soothes my emotions.

Before sunset, I wander along Duval Street. I love this place. It’s not really my thing, but there is something about this town. It’s certainly not as full-on as Bourbon Street in New Orleans. I have a quiet beer in Capt. Tony's. An acoustic guitarist sings softly to the half full pub. The roof has dollar bills, bras and licence plates pinned to it, giving it a unique feel.

I wander further, to Mallory Square, for the daily sundown celebrations. I don't remember doing this last time I was here. (Why not?) Magicians and musicians gather as the sun begins its decent. There is a wonderful, relaxed atmosphere. Soon I find myself at the Sunset Bar. A band is playing. With perfect timing, a seat becomes available for me. The sun has left a dark red sky across the waterfront. The band is good, really laid back: The Happy Dogs. They choose the songs as they go and they get better and better as the set progresses: "Come Together", "Spanish Moon", "Exodus", "Miss You", "Cross-eyed and Painless" and "Iko Iko". It’s a wonderful evening.

I walk back, retracing my steps along Duval. I really do feel great. I pass one bar and listen to a punk guitarist destroy Queen's "Crazy Little Thing Called Love". Tipsy women, old enough to know better, dance on the bar of Coyote Ugly. Yet nothing can affect my mood thanks to Key West and the Happy Dogs. I pick up a bottle of wine and, back in my hotel room, I pour just one glass and watch an episode of HBO’s “Blue Bloods” contentedly and alone. It seems I do not have to get wasted to get rid of the memories; perhaps it was my last visit here that was wasted. My journey is complete in many ways.

In Miami:

After my drive here from Key West, I had planned to see more of Miami but I have settled in my hotel room. I have a top floor suite and the views across the bay will suffice for today. After the temptations of New Orleans and Key West, I think I need the peace and tranquillity of my own company. Tomorrow I cruise across the Atlantic Ocean back to Europe with people.

I’m watching “Blue Bloods” again. It is standard police detective fare but I dig the way the storylines allow the Irish-Catholic family to do the right things and to do things right. I love the values the show portrays. They accord with mine. I wish everybody could live by these rules. (“Some may say I’m a dreamer but I’m sure I’m not the only one”). During one of the family dinner scenes, the challenging conversation ends with Danny Reagan commenting cynically that, in the compromise of marriage, it just seems that both parties are unhappy. I laugh out loud at this.

It makes me wonder. Marriage is such a peculiar concept to me now. I appreciate that other people have had bad marriages and bad divorces but mine has left scars so deep. For me, divorce was the most difficult, but yet, the best decision I have ever made in my life. I cannot compare the happiness I feel now to how I felt at the end of my marriage. The three years it took to get out caused me so much pain. In the end, I would have paid double what I did to be free.

Perhaps, it’s only now, with some distance, that I can guess at the reasons why my pain is so deep and so raw. Being used by my ex-wife was bad enough but being taken for a ride by my oldest daughter left scars that I do not think will ever heal. Maybe wounds that can never be unwound. I put everything into my marriage, even when it was over, and into being a father. I was there holding the reigns and keeping it together way beyond the call of duty. I did not do it for any kind of reward, but I certainly did not do it to be stabbed in the back so many times. So how can I believe in the sanctity of marriage anymore?

The problem is that I still I want to believe in marriage, but I have no evidence to say that it’s a good thing. I believed in it once and it let me down - big time. Almost half of all marriages end in divorce (over 40% in the US and the UK and in Sweden as high as 55%), so why is so difficult to get out of a marriage when it’s so easy get in? If divorce is so common, why are there so many exploiting it without recourse? I guess marriage is like religion, we all want to believe, but there is no damn evidence to show that it works.

Yet I’ve now found my perfect soul mate. Would it make my angel happy to get married? What is the right thing to do? Life has a habit of repeating itself and so is marriage the death of a fantastic relationship, does it signal the end? My relationship with my angel is wonderful, so why mess with it? Why follow rules made by others? Why not just put the effort into nurturing and growing and appreciating what we have instead of conforming. But I did like wearing a wedding ring and belonging to someone. My angel is the one for me. There are no doubts as there were the last time.

At my age, saying “my girlfriend” sounds stupid and, at its worst, sounds Mick Jagger-ish. When I say “my girlfriend”, it does not convey the love I have for my angel, but then, to be honest, neither does saying “my wife”. Is there a short version of “wonderful woman who has changed my life in so many ways and given me the strength and humbleness to get through so many life changing events, who I love so much and who makes me laugh and smile and enjoy my life” (or words to that effect)? It makes me think of Neil Peart’s self-effacing use of the ‘Guys at Work’ to refer to his bandmates in Rush.

These are all wonderings and musings for another day. I look at the skin that is peeling on my hands from the sunshine of Florida as I try to reconcile my thoughts of Key West and of marriage. There is a wonderful quote from the author Chuck Palahuik: “Your past is just a story and, once you realise this, it has no hold on you.”

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ Key West & Miami

pbm6 — Tue, 29 May 2018 11:00:00 GMT

Discover Belem

pbm6 — Fri, 11 May 2018 01:00:00 GMT

I walk down to the Tagus. It’s as wide as the River Mersey is here near the mouth. I pass the large gothic facade of the Jerónimos Monestry in the centre of Belém. Riverside are the Torre de Belém (Belem Tower) and the Padrão dos Descobrimentos (Monument to the Discoveries). The fortified tower was originally built during the sixteenth century in the middle of the river as part of its defence and also to act as a ceremonial gateway into Lisbon. The Monument to the Discoveries was built in 1960 to commemorate the five hundredth anniversary of Henry the Navigator. Either side of the monument has sculptures of figures from Portugal’s Age of Discoveries, including Henry the Navigator, the prime mover of Portuguese exploration during that time, Vasco da Gama, the discoverer of the sea route to India, and Ferdinand Magellan, who like me circumnavigated the world, only he was the first.

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ Portugal, Belem

pbm6 — Fri, 11 May 2018 01:00:00 GMT

Remote Life: The Rabalodos of Cape Verde

pbm6 — Fri, 2 Mar 2018 02:00:00 GMT

Cape Verde has ten islands in all, nine of which are populated, and each with very different characteristics. I could easily island hop; Fogo with its volcano and wine is next door, but regrettably I have arrived too late for major plans but at least I have a guide for Santiago Island.

After the wonderful market of Assamada, we continue to the east coast of the island. On a hillside above the ocean lives a small isolated community called the Rabalados. The tribe do not invite visitors but if any arrive they are welcomed. A young, thin woman holds her baby on her hip (not on her back as is usual across Africa) and directs me into a bland concrete building. Inside is a display of their arts and crafts. One wall has numerous pictures drawn by the woman. Most contain simple sketches of stick people with fish tails for legs. I give her an encouraging acknowledgment of her artistic skills and in return she makes it clear to my guide, in Creole, that that we are free to wander around the small village.

It’s not much of a welcome and I have no information about these people. It seems the tribe is isolated by choice, deciding to live away from the nearby town in neat rows of straw huts. The two huts at each end are for communal cooking and behind the huts are the sties for their pigs. Dogs and goats wander aimlessly as we do. There are no men here, all either fishing or working the nearby fields. The young women (and one old one) and a few boys sit holding babies on the floor with their backs against a wall remaining in the shade. None look happy.

I have so many questions. Such as where do they have their children, here or in a local hospital? How do they meet their partners when it’s such a small community? Where do they buy their livestock from if they don’t interact? But there are no answers today.

My guide feels fine strolling around but I feel intrusive. When I say that we should go he suggests that I should leave some money. As the young woman who welcomed us in is now breast feeding, I offer it to the old women. She swats the money away and insists I give it to the young one. It’s a bewildering tribe.

On the way out, a young boy is playing joyfully with two sticks and an old tire. A man with a long wooden fishing rod and a bag full of fish is returning to camp too. He looks proud and joyful. Both are in total contrast to the miserable, bored females.

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ Rabalodos, Cape Verde

pbm6 — Fri, 2 Mar 2018 02:00:00 GMT

The Forgotten Heroes. Tirailleurs Cemetary, Dakar.

pbm6 — Wed, 10 Jan 2018 10:30:00 GMT

Beyond the bustle of the Dakar suburb of Thiaroye, a small courtyard is laid out methodically with the unmarked white graves of fallen soldiers. Somewhere in the region of 173,000 men from their colonies in north, west and equatorial Africa served in the French army during World War II and a similar number from French West Africa had also fought in World War I. I drink mint tea politely with the cemetery groundsman in the warm sun whilst he explains.

It was only in 2014 that the French President, Francois Hollande, acknowledged the massacre of thirty of their own soldiers on this spot in November 1944. The black soldiers had been seeking equal pay and the recovery of unpaid wages for fighting on the front lines across Europe. The Senegalese actually believe it may have been up to three hundred soldiers that were killed in what the French officers considered to be mutiny, yet the French government has provided military records for only thirty deaths.

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ Tirailleurs Cemetary, Dakar

pbm6 — Wed, 10 Jan 2018 10:00:00 GMT

Effective Chaos. First Impressions of India.

pbm6 — Fri, 3 Nov 2017 01:30:00 GMT

As always, when disembarking from a plane, it’s very rare to feel somewhere else until you are out of the air conditioned walkways of an airport. Passport control and luggage collection in Delhi are smooth and I head out of arrivals into complete chaos. Beyond the exit barrier, a phalanx of Indian men wave placards at me. If they slowed their antics, perhaps I could read the Western names written on the banners. How on earth am I supposed to spot my contact? Am I looking for my name or the tour company’s name? Even if the animation stopped for a few seconds, I’m not sure I could find anything familiar. I walk to the side to breathe. One of the throng runs to me and asks me which company I’m looking for. I tell him. He points immediately to one nondescript man somewhere in the crowd and then looks at me as though I was blind. My bag and I are whisked away to a car and the agent disappears again. My driver speaks no English.

It’s my first experience of India. I’ve been told (or, more accurately, warned) about India and about Delhi in particular. The transfer to my hotel is everything I’d imagined and more. The airport road soon leads into the more built up areas and everything I’ve seen on television or read about is there, from cows and dogs wandering freely in the streets, to the cars, taxis and buses fighting for space with bicycles, motorbikes, mopeds and rickshaws. The streets are chaos. Pedestrians are walking in the road in the wrong direction and the various and varied pedlars are at every junction. It is breathless. It is breathless and hot. All I can compute at the moment is that they (kind of) drive on the left. A little taste of home in this madness! Over forty-five minutes later of stop-start traffic and the bombardment of my senses, we arrive at my hotel in Old Delhi. The Hilton Hotel is fenced off from its surroundings. There’s a security guard with a gun on the gate. The boot and the inside of the car are checked thoroughly. With a final check under the bonnet by the guard, we’re allowed through the gates into the sanctity of the hotel.

I now head deeper into Old Delhi. Today is market day. There is no market place or market hall as such, so every pavement, gateway and entrance place is bustling with people around makeshift stalls. Where there is no pavement, gateway or entrance place left, the market spills itself on to the road. The two lane carriageway which has been coping with three lanes of traffic has to narrow to one to allow the market to function. This is crazy. My driver lets me and my guide out of the car to sample the mania. There are people everywhere, walking in every direction. There is no natural flow. The market-goers are buying, bartering, eating or talking loudly on their mobile phones. The market seems to go on forever and the noise is incredible. The wares are laid out on carpets on the floor and the buyers hover over whatever they wish to purchase. Each carpet stall is about two square metres and there seems to be about fifteen people circling around each one.

More goods are brought to the stalls by every means possible. People carry stuff on their heads, on bicycles, by rickshaws and by minivan. I discover for the first time a bike-barrow; a creature of Minotaur-like proportions with the head of a wheelbarrow and the hind of a bicycle. This is used to carry anything and everything and, when not being used for transportation, it is used for sleeping on until the next load is required. On the outside of the market, nearer the road, rickshaws bring more people to the market. Once they have deposited their passengers, they remain stuck, blocked in by both the traffic and the horde of shoppers. There are food stalls too. Fruit is ready-peeled and left on the stall with incense candles to ward off flies. Hot food is being cooked and the aromas fill the air. My guide calls it effective chaos. It’s fascinating, but I am thankful when we find the protective cocoon of the car again.

Jama Masjid, the principal mosque of Old Delhi, is in the middle of this chaos. Finally, we are defeated as the area is completely gridlocked. After fifteen minutes of being stuck in the same place, Mr. Singh, my guide, suggests we walk and I wish our driver luck in finding some way out of this mess to pick us up later. We have to criss-cross in and out of the traffic and then in and out of the stalls on the pavement. When I refer to a pavement, I refer to the side of the road where there are occasional slabs and kerbs made of concrete going in various different directions and against which cars, bikes and mopeds have been abandoned. We jump over sleeping humans and sleeping dogs. (As they say, let sleeping dogs lie). As we turn the corner, we see that one of the reasons for the gridlock is that two full sized tourist coaches are blocking the entrance to the mosque. My appreciation is reserved for the capability of the coach drivers, who have actually managed to get to this location through the marketplace traffic.

At the entrance, tourists loiter at the top of the stairs. Cameras are allowed inside for a small fee. Mr. Singh does not want to go in so I hand him my camera and my shoes and I wander in. I’m directed past a few female tourists that are being given gowns to cover their legs and arms. Once inside, it’s significantly calmer. The wide airy courtyard is mostly empty. The foreign tourists walk around slowly and the more numerous locals just sit in groups on the stone floor. A few kids are running around pointing and gawping at the white faces. The mosque itself is huge in height, towering above the courtyard, simple and plain with a repeated pattern in the stonework and absolutely no colour apart from its nondescript grey. On the top is one big stone dome, flanked by two smaller ones. I walk to the mihrab where only two people are praying. It’s so quiet and very different from the noise outside of the mosque. It seems to me that the Eastern religions need peace and quiet to pray and meditate because it’s so dammed chaotic everywhere else. I felt the same in Beijing and Shanghai as well as in Marrakech, Tunis and Istanbul. Around the courtyard edges, many locals are asleep in the shade or playing with their iPhones and chatting quietly. They look astonishingly poor, sleeping on old suitcases and bags and, it seems that, mobile phones are more important to them than shoes or housing.

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ First Impressions of India

pbm6 — Wed, 1 Nov 2017 22:19:00 GMT

Monkey Business at Tafi Atome, Ghana.

pbm6 — Fri, 29 Sep 2017 03:30:00 GMT

I leave Ho early and continue north. Once out of the town the people of the small villages, mainly young women, walk along the road carrying large grey metal bowls on their heads. They have empty ones on the way to the water pump and full ones on the way back. Each village has a church, yet I find it baffling that there is no water or a school.

I arrive at Tafi Atome but the local monkeys have already been into the village and back for their daily walk. At the sanctuary building, as usual for Ghana day and night, someone is lying outside sleeping. Kofi wakes her up gently and she calls a young boy to help us. We pay a fee for the tour of the sanctuary; mine is double that of Kofi’s as I am a foreigner. The boy disappears and we chat to the woman. She explains that the monkeys live in the forest and wander into town en masse early in the morning and again late in the afternoon in search of food. She has to use English as she and Kofi do not understand each other’s local language. The Volta region has many languages, with Ewe the most common.

According to lore, the village was first populated with a tribe from Assini in Central Ghana. The new residents of the village brought a fetish that was placed in the forest at the edge of the village. Soon the villagers noticed monkeys in the trees and believed they had followed them to make their home in the forest. Now sacred and protected by the fetish, the monkeys are revered and considered to be representatives of God.

The boy returns. I thought that he would lead us into the forest but our tour consists of walking one hundred metres back along the main road and watching the boy make monkey noises. I am just about to give up when the trees shake. The first monkey appears sitting shyly on a bendy branch. Then another emerges and another. The boy produces a banana and the trees shake again; the area in front of us abounds with a host of small monkeys. It takes a few brave ones to jump to the road for a few pieces of banana before a scooter scares them away.

The grove is semi-deciduous forest surrounded by farmland. In the 1980s, a Christian man rubbished the spiritual connection between the monkeys and the villagers, encouraging the cutting of the forest for farmland. A decade later a community-based ecotourism project took action to preserve the sanctuary. Mahogany trees were planted to demarcate and protect the border of the sacred forest. Quiet has settled again and a larger monkey walks along the road toward us. The boy holds a peeled banana out to it and the animal jumps on to his shoulder and eats the fruit. This is the turning point as thirty or more monkeys join us on the roadside for a banana breakfast. Some climb on our arms and shoulders. Most play in the road, rolling around and pulling each other’s long hooked tails.The small creatures are mona monkeys, Old World monkeys, and are found throughout West Africa. They are also prevalent in Grenada as they were transported to the island aboard slave ships to the New World during the eighteenth century.

Photos: Pete Martin ¦ Transformational Journeys ¦ Tafi Atome, Ghana

pbm6 — Fri, 29 Sep 2017 03:30:00 GMT

Monkey Business at Tafi Atome, Ghana.