Mark & Jen's 'Around the World' Travel & Photography Blog

Hello! Well, the blog isn’t dead, yet. After returning to Denver last summer, Jen and I returned to our previous jobs. We bought a home (something about staying in a different place every other night), now own a dining room table and patio furniture, but honestly, the most luxurious item is still our very own non-squat, fragrance-free, indoor toilet (though hot water comes a close second). Sometimes, it is the simple pleasures.

But, I digress. We have succumbed to the pressure of many of you and have been moonlighting to put together a full-color book–Thirty on a Camel–from our year of travels, editing and revising the stories originally published on this blog. We’re taking pre-orders between now and December 7th 14th, which should help us gauge how many we need to have printed.

If you’re interested, check out the details. Otherwise, Merry Christmas and happy holidays!

Much love,
Mark & Jen

UPDATE 12/26: The first shipment of books went out on 12/22. Thank you to those of you that ordered! We printed 100 copies, and have about 60 left as of today. We’ll be taking them to a few local bookstores around Denver the first week of January, and we’ll see how things fare.

My watch reads 6:00 a.m. The greyness of the sky is just beginning to lift. This is the coldest part of the day, just at dawn, as the crispness of the morning breeze slowly creeps through my fleece. I shift in my chair, impatient. I am anxious to go.

Around me at the bus station, people begin to appear from the thinness of the morning. Toting enormous plaid market bags, duffel bags, corded boxes, or bundles of tied cloth, they lug their provisions toward the bus. An old woman hobbles forward on the arm of her daughter, her granddaughter dancing behind. A bony, scraggly stray dog darts from person to person in hopeful expectation. The station manager gives him a kick and shout, and the dog scurries away to the periphery, still in hope of a morning snack. Somewhere in a field, a rooster continues to announce the day.

And then he appears… the man for whom all have waited, the man who controls the lives of each person of this twelve hour day, the man who holds the power of life and death in the turn of wrist, a man of omniscience and generosity… a paper cup of steaming tea in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, The Bus Driver (BUD) slowly saunters toward his coach.

With extreme particularity and the drama of a royal procedure, he unlocks the door to the bus. Instantly, people swarm forward, provisions in hand, in a racing mass toward the door. Indifferent to the chaos, BUD backs away and waves a hand to his assistant, cigarette still resting languidly between his fingertips. The young boy, perhaps in his late teens, begins to pack the roof of the bus with luggage. In an expertise only acquired through experience, BUD shouts directions to the boy above. “Tie down the motorbike!” he yells. “Secure the TV!” The boy struggles with his ropes and tarp to comply.

Boxes are everywhere. People yell. The smell of a nondescript farm animal wafts in my direction. Unfettered by the those around me, I scramble hurriedly aboard in search of the perfect seat, or for that matter, any seat. The daughter, keeping the crowd away with her elbows, helps her mother slowly climb the steps above.
Luggage stowed, the assistant begins collecting fares. BUD sits regally in his seat, overseeing all through his mirror above. Any arguments, any mis-payments, any manipulations, and BUD will know. I walk to the front to communicate our vague destination. “No problem, no problem,” he says. “I know. You sit. No problem.” I smile and nod in response, a feeling of relief inside.

The daughter embraces her mother with a few tears in her eyes as the old woman places a kiss on each cheek. The woman takes the hand of her little girl and steps down out of the bus; they stand together just outside the old woman’s window. As BUD starts the engine, the woman and the little girl wave and wave as the bus slowly turns out of the station. We are on our way.

A handful of open seats remain. An empty seat equals an empty pocket. Creeping down the main road at the pace of leisurely tortoise, BUD waits for the expected wave and shout of a last minute rider, running desperately toward his escaping ride. The assistant hangs outside the open door, shouting the day’s destination over and over in a song of his own composure. I groan with the sluggishness of the trip—some days I feel like all I do is sit and wait.

BUD stops and a woman with her load of vegetables climbs aboard. He stands up and helps her heave the heavy potatoes to the floor, stowing them out of the way. He continues on. A man and his son scurry from the opposite side of the road, and BUD stops again. A few feet later, BUD opens his door to the flagging of a young woman carrying two children and bag of clothes. He yells at a man in front to move, and then situates her in his seat. She smiles her gratitude. Further on an old man flags the bus down; a lengthy conversation ensues regarding his intended destination. BUD shakes his head in negation, steps down from the bus, and points the old man in the appropriate direction. A man of compassion, strength, and a sage of directional information, BUD is the impervious guidebook and undaunted guru to whom all turn.

The hours slowly pass as the sun creeps higher in the sky. Sweat forms in little droplets on my neck, under my legs, under my shirt. I am never clean. I shift and feel it slowly slide down my spine. People open windows to breathe. BUD, in his own effort to remain cool, merely lights another cigarette.

I drink too much water. I know will have to pee, but I am hot. The processed, cardboard biscuits I swallowed for breakfast have turned my mouth to a cottony paste. I am thirsty, but my bladder is pressing resolutely against my side, unrelenting in its insistence. I shift again in my seat. BUD continues.

A man scurries forward. I cannot hear his proposition over the rattling in my ears, but suddenly BUD and his Olympian bladder begrudgingly pull to the side of the road. Us mere mortals jump to our feet. To the right, the men form a single long line of relief, smiles of satisfaction slowly spreading across their faces. I can do this, I repeat to myself.

I look to those around me to judge what to do; women scramble to the left, looking desperately for a tree or a bush or some tall grass—anywhere. Two sisters turn off the road, and I follow close behind. BUD honks his horn in a series of announcements, checks his mirror to ensure all his flock has returned, and waits patiently for the old woman to return.

Every so often, BUD comes to a brake-squealing stop next to a remote house or shop. He swings the door wide open and jumps out for a hello and a handshake, a friendly slap on the shoulder, or a quick shot of hot tea. He delivers a package and receives another for later. He is a man of his people, knowledgeable, capable, prevailing. Uninvited, we wait patiently, merely spectators of this world.

A few more hours pass. My biscuits and banana are long eaten. I shift in and out of sleep. Outside my window, the land drops dramatically below. The bus speeds around one mountainous curve and then the next. Life and death of fifty passengers and the assistant are in the hands of this one man. Commander of the road, captain of curves, BUD appears confident. I only hope he values his own life as much as I value mine. Next to me, a lady groans as she presses a plastic bag to her mouth. A baby behind me cries. BUD and our year speed on.

Just as we turn yet another corner, I catch my breath in the beauty of the view before me.  The forested, snow-spotted peaks line the horizon beyond.  Below, homes and fields paint a postcard pattern across the land.  Life moves. There is no other place I would rather be.

The ride continues in the same unceasing manner until the sun sinks again behind the distant hill. The lights of the houses flicker in the darkness. And just when I cannot sit another minute in my hopeless repose, when I cannot tolerate another day of submission, and when I cannot endure BUD’s insouciant reign over my life and bladder any further, he pulls into our destination amid a flurry of taxis in a paparazzi pursuit.

I step off this final bus in a frenzy of people and luggage and pause to catch my balance.  The old grandmother, the young woman and her two children, the dogs, the chickens, and the vegetables, the noise and the serenity—they are all vital pieces of this world once so foreign to me. Without them and without BUD, I never would have had the courage to take this step, either on or off this bus. A little more patient, a little more flexible, and a little bit wiser, I am now a composition of culture.

Time has passed so slowly, yet so quickly. BUD’s reassuring nod has pacified my nervousness time and time again. We have arrived—with both our luggage and a story. Oblivious to his metaphor of my world, BUD lights another cigarette and walks away into the darkness. Fighting my way to my bag and swinging it over my shoulder, I too turn toward home—prepared to drive our dream forward.

It was with financial fear and trembling we set foot into Greece a few weeks ago. Coming from Turkey (where months before I had selfishly cheered Turkey’s denial into the EU, fearing I might have an early Euro encounter), the dreaded Euro was finally upon us.

I admit, I have known only a world that has wanted my dollar. How quickly times change. A few months ago, a teller at a bank in Israel mustered a smile while handing me a few shekels — “Sorry, but your currency is in the toilet.” In Egypt — begging children, starkly aware of prevailing exchange rates, chanted “Euro, Euro” as we passed. There was no mention of dollars.

Our first visit to a Greek ATM was met with disdain. The lowest withdrawal offered was 350 Euros. I tried. “Over your daily limit”, it mocked. I resigned to ‘Other’, keyed in 300, and walked away with six small, paltry Euro bills. My mind drifted back to the good times in Laos where it took twenty minutes at the money changer just to count all the dirty and decrepit notes I received.

Church on Lycavittos Hill / Parthenon at the Acropolis / Panorama of Athens from Lycavittos Hill (left: Panathinaiko Stadium; right: Acropolis)

It was to my frugal delight that upon reaching the Acropolis there was a small sign printed on the gate, “Admission Free Today”. Was this the Greek version of April Fool’s day? For the past year, anything proffered as free has always (without exception) been a con, a rip-off, or worse. As people streamed past the gates, we ducked our heads and followed, fearful someone would change his mind and we’d be out the $38 we had just saved. (Which we later spent on sandals made by the famous Athens poet-sandalmaker, who has outfitted the likes of the Beatles, Jackie Onassis, Sophia Loren, and most importantly, now — us.)

Like college students buying Mac ‘n Cheese in bulk, so we’ve been living large in Greece. Trying to press olives we found on the ground into our own olive oil (it doesn’t work, by the way), clandestinely grabbing fruit from trees (did you know orange trees have thorns?), debating between the cheap, and the really cheap crackers at the supermarket — we, along with a sparse number of other Americans we have met, have come up with all manners of trying to afford our European travels. But, somehow, when you’re booking a hostel with shared bathrooms for $83/night (Munich)… you start to think things are changing.

Athens, Greece: Temple of Hephaestus at the Ancient Agora

Skimming the headlines, it’s hard to ignore the fact that people all over the world are being affected not just by the weakening of the dollar, but also by the inflation of basic food stuffs. North Korea appears on the verge of a massive famine; mass numbers of people are adding grass and tree bark to their diet. The price of rice has risen drastically in recent months, causing families that purchase almost only rice simply to purchase less. What are you going to substitute? (Potatoes haven’t been warmly received.) Riots over food prices and shortages have broken out from Mexico to Haiti to Niger to Egypt to Bangladesh. And some argue this is only the beginning.

Traveling certainly opens one’s eyes (and wallet) to the “world out there”. While CNN clips display complaints over the rising costs of fuel in the US, often unsaid is many already pay (and have paid for some time) $8+/gallon for gasoline. (Of 141 listed countries, 72% pay more than in the US.) Almost everyone we encounter, travelers and locals alike, want to know who will win the next presidential election (as if we, as Americans, have special prophetic insight). The common theme that has emerged over the past year is that many — from Asia to Europe, from rich to poor, and from educated to uneducated — believe America to be at the center of a growing identity crisis. The question that lingers — is America oblivious to what so many others we meet take as fact?

Odysseus’ last stop before he sailed home to the island of Ithica, and the island home for Shakespeare’s The Tempest, Corfu is the most verdant of Greece’s islands. Sage green olive groves dotted with tall, conical cypress trees smother the rolling hills of the island until the land ends abruptly in the emerald waters of the Ionian Sea. The English love it, the Germans crave it, and the Italians practically live here. But Corfu is also home to numerous Greek villagers of its own.

For eight days, we walk along the Corfu Trail, traversing the length of the island from south to north. Our path takes us through olive grove after olive grove and village after village, like connecting the dots of a jagged puzzle. In fact, I spend the entire first day thinking I am walking on thousands of goat turds, but then I realize… they are olives. We enter a village square and rest under the shade of an oak tree. At its only cafe, a group of men lounge for hours over single glasses of beer. They wave us over to sit and take a rest; we comply.

The infamous olive… / Just another Corfu village…

Later, an old woman riding side-saddle on a donkey surprises us as we rest under the shade of an olive tree. The woman’s gypsy-like dress and her donkey draped in a multi-colored striped blanket are straight out of a movie. Immediately, she starts yelling at us in Greek and waving us off the road. We look confused… maybe this tree is her property? She continues yelling, so we stand up and back up a little out her way. She kicks her donkey and he creeps forward, skirting our very presence. She leaves without another word.

Another day, a man working in his olive groves educates us in Greek-accented Italian about the price of olive oil. We follow him somewhat through our intermediate Spanish. “Two ducats a bottle here, five at the store,” he says. He then shows us how the olives fall from the trees into his nets, which he then presses into oil. “Elsewhere in Greece,” he says in my loose translation, “they shake their trees. But here, we let the olives fall naturally.”

Greek Orthodox Church / Endless olive groves…

On Sunday, we pass through yet another small village when suddenly, a church procession surprises us in our tracks. Wearing irreligious T-shirts and shorts, backpacks on, sweat dripping down our foreheads and faces, we can do nothing but stop. It is the church’s name day. The elders carry the icon of the saint as the church processes slowly behind it. The choir, dressed in traditional red-and-black Grecian village dress, sings hymns of worship. The orthodox priest swings incense back and forth and stops the procession directly in front of us to pray at a shrine, right next to Mark. We shift in our boots and try to appear solemn and holy. As soon as the priest moves the group on, we scurry toward the trail.

When we are hungry, we sit under the shade of an olive tree and open our pack. Earlier in the morning, we had picked up a loaf of freshly made bread, crusty on the outside and soft and moist on the inside. We slice a fresh tomato and then layer on a bit of local cheese and some salami. For dessert, there are the oranges picked from a fruit tree along the way.

There are no easy camping opportunities on the island of Corfu. So we reluctantly resign ourselves to a hot shower, a comfortable bed, satellite TV, and jacuzzi at a local hotel. I throw open the Venetian windows overlooking the beach below and breathe deeply the sea air. For dinner, we stop at a local taverna. Over a carafe of homemade wine, we toast to our tzatziki, calamari, stuffed vine leaves, fresh salad topped with pungent olives, and slices of recently baked crusty bread.

Corfu, overlooking mountains of Albania in the distance / Liapades, Corfu

This walk would never have been possible if it weren’t for the hospitality of a local retired English couple, Chris and Terry, who lent us their guidebook, opened their home, and gave us a ride. We even had the pleasure of chatting with Terry for a day on the trail. Corfu is now their home, and they were proud to share its wealth of beauty with us.

On our last day in Corfu, my mind begins to wander toward the concept of home. Like Chris and Terry, the local villagers of Corfu share their island home each season with the influx of sunbathing tourists. They share their olive oil and their wine, their culture and their music. And as I relax in our rented vacation apartment overlooking the Kalami Bay, I too long to be able to share my home with others. I feel comfortable and at peace about the forthcoming end to our year of travels. I am ready to come home.

Amidst a cold drizzle of April rain, the Bosphorus River rocks the fishing boats back and forth against the concrete bank. The smell of dead fish (recently caught, I hope) waiting for the nearby restaurants wanders its way from the buckets to my nose. I crinkle at the smell.

We turn left into the Spice Bazaar and welcome the aromatic pleasure this change produces. Chili and saffron mingle together with ground pistachios and slivered almonds. Sticky bars of honeycomb oozing with honey from this spring’s flowers line the back of the shelves. In the distance, freshly-ground coffee beans tempt us to linger.

Istanbul: Bosphorus at night

Out on the street, we stop by the original Turkish Delight shop, still run by the same family since 1777. For ten minutes we peruse the glass cases, trying to choose the very best concoction of this gelatin, cavity-causing delight. Mark finally settles on coffee bean while I, unsurprisingly, choose chocolate-coated. We bite together and agree, mine is better.

Billboards line the sides of buildings showing the latest head scarves and the most fashionable shoes. Ladies, in and out of scarves, walk hand-in-hand from one shop to the next, chatting and pondering a purchase all at once.

Vendors tout their products in a cacophony of screams: “Ize scream, youz scream, weez all screams for ize scream!”;“Come look my shop-very good price;” “You look tired—I have coffee;” “Hey, woman, I sell chocolate;” “Ok, you keep walking. Maybe next time.”

Arabic Medallions inside Aya Sofya / Yeni Camii New Mosque

The sun sinks a little lower in the afternoon drizzle. Simultaneously, the mosques in every direction begin the muezzin—the call to afternoon prayer. In a holy surround-sound, the imams of the city sing the verses of the Qur’an in scales and arpeggios of unequaled enthusiasm. A ferry horn blasts in the distance.

As the light of the day finally fades, smart businessmen clutch their briefcases as they hurry to catch the tram before it rumbles away. Floodlights illuminate the countless minarets of the mosques. Mark and I turn into a hole-in-the-wall café and order our last Efes beer and Turkish lamb kebabs for the month, saving a little room for a left-over piece of baklava. Already, we are planning our return trip to the country that has left such a genuinely welcoming impression on both our traveling spirits.