GREECE: Pelion and Thessaloniki, Guest Post by Lucas Gutierrez-Arnold

We rented a four-person bike to pedal along the waterfront in Thessaloniki.

In May, my grandson Lucas spent two weeks in Greece and Turkey with his family—my daughter Jennifer, her husband Humberto, and my granddaughter Alessandra. During the trip Lucas kept a log of some of their activities as part of his school assignment. I am delighted that he has agreed to share some of his posts with The Intrepid Tourist. Lucas just finished fifth grade. The trip was organized around a professional conference Jennifer was attending in Thessaloniki.

Kayak trip in Pelion, from Damouchari beach to Fakistra beach.

Day 4: Pelion

I woke up, had breakfast, and went for what was meant to end up as a walk.  But later on in the walk we passed by a place that gave kayak tours, and so we went on one. Our first stop was in a cove where Greek women and children hid during WW II while their husbands and fathers were in the Resistance. We saw engravings in the limestone, the latest from 1936 when the war started. Next we went to see a couple of sea caves.  One of them was the biggest sea cave on that side of Pelion. In that cave I saw some stalactites almost 70 cm long. Later, after we got home from kayaking, we went to see a 1000 year old tree that was pretty short and stubby but very wide!

The White Tower in Thessaloniki.

Day 6 : Thessaloniki

I woke up very early so my mom could get bright and early to her conference. After my mom left, my dad and my sister and I went to see the White Tower. There was a very interesting little red panel outside. It said that the White Tower used to be called the Red Tower because executions took place on the White Tower’s top and the executioners let the blood run down the sides. The reason it is called the White Tower now is because  a convict white-washed the whole entire tower in exchange for his freedom.  Once we got inside the tower you had to go up a winding tunnel to get to the top. At the top of the tower you had a great view of the port, which  gave the Thessalonians  control over the port because of the high vantage point.

View of Thessaloniki at night.

 

GREECE: Athens and Delphi, Guest Post by Lucas Gutierrez-Arnold

Changing of the Guard, Syntagma Square, Athens

In May, my grandson Lucas spent two weeks in Greece and Turkey with his family—my daughter Jennifer, her husband Humberto, and my granddaughter Alessandra. During the trip Lucas kept a log of some of their activities as part of his school assignment. I am delighted that he has agreed to share some of his posts with The Intrepid Tourist. Lucas just finished fifth grade. The trip was organized around a professional conference Jennifer was attending in Thessaloniki, Greece.

Alessandra, Humberto and Lucas at the Acropolis, Athens

Day 1: Athens

I woke up on the plane and we were about to descend. When I got out of the airport, our taxi driver he told us that the airport was built in 2001 for the 2004 Olympics in Greece. 

Olympic Stadium in Athens; built in the late 1800's for the first modern Olympics

Once we got to where we were staying, I looked up and I could see the Acropolis right in front of me.  Two hours later, we went to the Acropolis museum.  They have statues and sculptures made solely out of marble. The artists were almost as talented as machines now. They could precisely etch a heart into an eye, and the heart was only two millimeters across!  (I’m getting a lot of practice with my metric system. Two pounds is equal to one kilogram.)

Reconstruction of the east pediment of the Parthenon, Acropolis Museum, Athens, Greece

Day 2: Delphi

I woke up and had to hop in the car and hit the road to Delphi. When we got to Delphi, I realized it was 51 degrees F., when it was 83 degrees F. in Athens.  One hour later, we went to see the Archaeological Museum of Delphi.

Sphinx, Delphi

In the museum there was a huge statue of a sphinx that was fully intact.  There was a statue of a man in the time when they would make statues of very wealthy persons in the community.  Before  that time, they would also make statues of wealthy persons, but as the person’s dream persona. So the statue of the man we saw was made in the time when they were changing over to making sculptures of the actual person, not the dream persona.

Archeological Museum in Delphi. The left statue is one that illustrates the shift to depicting people in realistic ways.

Pakistan: Visit to CHITRAL and KALASH VALLEY, Part II, from the Memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold

Chitral, Pakistan

My husband’s Aunt Carolyn traveled to Pakistan in the 1970's. The following is an excerpt from her memoir of her travels and is the second half of her report of her trip to the Kalash Valley.

The descent into the Kalash Valley was uneventful. We proceeded to a rest house where we ate a box lunch from the hotel with other men who had come to the village of Birir to attend the festival for which this valley is famous.

The Kalash tribesmen are non-Moslem and are known as Kafir Kalash which means “wearer of black robes.” There are about three thousand of this tribe in the valleys of south Chitral, in isolated areas between the lower peaks of the Hindu Kush. Primarily farmers, they maintain their ancient culture and religion. The men distinguish themselves from non-Kalash by wearing the Chitral woolen caps decorated with feathers and bells. (This traditional dress is reserved for festivals.) The women wear black cotton gowns and picturesque headgear made of black material covered with shells and buttons, which, I was told, weighs from three to six pounds. Their ethnic origin is uncertain, but legend alleges that soldiers from Alexander the Great’s legions marched through these valleys in the fourth century B.C., and left behind traces of Greek heritage.

It was fascinating to watch the dancing of the spring festival. Lines of women, arms about each other’s shoulders, move in slow rhythm to form a circle. The men also form into a circle and move with intricate steps to the music of drums and flutes. The shuffle of their feet in the dust, their slowly moving bodies were almost hypnotic. Onlookers gathered small branches of green leaves to wave, and some children gave me my share. I was invited to participate in the dancing, which is considered a mark of friendliness.

Chitral girls

We left Birir in the Kalash Valley early as we had to cross that same rugged mountain road again, and no night driving is allowed anywhere in Chitral. When we reached the mud slide area the men were still working, and, in fact, had torn up our bypass. We had to wait until the fill-in dirt, propped up by rocks at the edge, was wide enough for our jeep to pass. The surface was quite soft, so when another jeep from the opposite direction approached, we were glad to let them try the repaired road first. When I saw the rocks sag at the outer edge, I said, “This is where I walk.” I think the driver did not like to be abandoned after the others followed me out, but he drove safely across. We climbed in and were on our way. I sat on the outside this time with one foot braced against the front dashboard, and my knee was half hanging out. We returned safely to river level.

About five miles from “home” the jeep stalled. No more gas! The only thing was to wait for another jeep to come along this lonely road and to beg some gasoline. After our dusty ride, the boys left to go down to the river to wash their faces. I got out to shake as much dust as possible from my clothes and just wait. The boys went on to visit a nomad camp near the river. Soon they returned with a bowl of goat’s milk “for your refreshment.” In the first place, I do not like goat’s milk, but when I saw a large fly swimming in the middle of the bowl, that did it! I felt uncomfortable about refusing their hospitality. All along, I had tried to be a good American and to adapt to foreign ways and unfamiliar food, but this was too much. As politely as possible, I told the one English-speaking man to tell the nomads that I appreciated their hospitality, but that we did not drink milk. After some further wait, the billowing dust heralded an approaching jeep. The boys arranged for gas from their tank, and, by borrowing a tea kettle from the nomad family, poured enough gas into our tank to get us home. How tasty the Nomad’s tea must have been for some time!

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn T. Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, Iowa, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including my husband Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.  You can read of some of her other adventures in these posts on this blog:  October 21, 2013; October 7, 2013; July 29, 2013.March 10, 2014, February 9, 2015.

Pakistan: Visit to CHITRAL and KALASH VALLEY, Part 1: From the Memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold

Chitral Valley, Pakistan

My husband’s Aunt Carolyn traveled to Pakistan in the 1970's. The following are excerpts from her memoir of her travels.

No place can be truly remote these days, yet getting to Chitral isn’t all that easy. The simplest way is by a Fokker Friendship plane--which has seen better days and only operates sporadically. The mountains between Peshawar and Chitral rise to well over twenty-two thousand feet, and the plane has to negotiate its way through several passes between the peaks. A few clouds obscure the peaks, and several Fokkers, consequently, have failed to complete the trip. No wonder pilots flying over the Himalayas earn a fifty percent bonus!

We arrived at the airport in Peshawar and had to wait until fifteen minutes before departure to get confirmation from Chitral that the wind currents were favorable. We were lucky and received the OK for the flight. It is a spectacular flight over snowy peaks. The most prominent one, called “Trich Mir,” over twenty-five thousand feet, sparkled in the sunlight. [Chitral, is the capital of the Chitral District, situated on the western bank of the Chitral River, in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Pakistan. It served as the capital of the princely state of Chitral until 1969.]

Man plowing field with his oxen

At the airport in Chitral, we were assigned to a jeep, along with seven men and all our luggage. We had not gone far before the jeep gave up and died. Several of the extra passengers tried in vain to coax or push the jeep into town. Finally, some of the men in our group carried our baggage and showed us a short cut, walking past the suspension bridge, along the rice paddy paths, through waist-high grain fields, through a farmyard, over a wall, and up the steps to the hotel, a very modest building. Our rooms were on the second floor, which opened onto a balcony the length of the building. Tea was served at once while we sat and relished the spectacular view of the lush green valley, the rushing river, and directly in front, the breathtaking view of snow-covered Trich Mir. Just below the balcony was a mud-brick farmhouse. Here we could watch, unobserved, vignettes of domestic life: feeding the squawking chickens, milking the cow, shampooing a child’s hair, even the loud scolding of someone out of sight, and later, the father coming home with his wooden plow over his shoulder and leading his oxen.

Road to Kalash Valley

When the jeep driver called for us the next morning, we began a journey to visit the village of Birir in the Kalash Valley. In addition to our driver, another man, plus the four of us tourists made a jeepful for a day’s ride. Also, there was a boy who stood on the rear bumper. We worried about him, but we had learned to accept what we did not understand.

The day was sunny and bright. The road from Chitral followed the river to the village of Ayun. On the other side, I could see patches of bright green fields nestled between high, rocky peaks. After leaving Ayun, the road began to rise in twists and turns, looping higher and higher across the face of the mountain in a series of sharp switchbacks so that even our jeep stalled. Now I learned the purpose of the boy on the bumper. Instead of starting the stalled jeep and risking a lurch on loose gravel which could easily send us fifteen hundred feet below, our boy jumped off, found a large boulder and propped the rear wheels. I was paralyzed with fear. Then, with a whir of the starter, we were off again. This happened many times. Near the top, we were stopped by a mud slide. What next, I thought! Men were working to make a temporary bypass up and away from the edge. Two men shouldered heavy ropes attached to a shovel while another man pushed. In this way, they strained and pulled shovelful after shovelful of mud and rocks to clear the road. By means of the bypass, we were able to continue. Reaching the top, we stopped to admire the view and to stretch our cramped legs. (Part 2, next week.)

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn T. Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, Iowa, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including my husband Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.  You can read of some of her other adventures in these posts on this blog:  October 21, 2013; October 7, 2013; July 29, 2013.March 10, 2014.

PAPUA NEW GUINEA: Guest Post by Ann Stalcup

Papua New Guinea

My friend and fellow children’s book writer Ann Stalcup and her husband Ed love to travel. Several years ago they went on a trip to Papua New Guinea. Here are a few photos and a report from their trip.
Until we went to Papua New Guinea, I thought that nothing could surpass either the impact of the Omo Valley of southern Ethiopia or Timbuktu. The trip was divided into three main sections: four days at an incredible mountain lodge where the scenery and architecture made us feel that we were in Africa, four days on the Sepik river, and several days at a beautiful lodge overlooking the Karawari River.

Ann and Ed with Papua New Guinea villager in elaborate feather headdress

From our first day in the Tari area, it was obvious that we would experience a culture totally unlike any other. Villages were simple but immaculate, and tribal warfare (Highland Football) is common. Wars often start if one of the precious pigs (or a person) is killed or stolen by another tribal group. Fighting with bows and arrows, they battle for a while and then everyone goes home for tea. Wars are very civilized! It may be a few days before the other tribe reciprocates. Feuds continue for weeks and schools in the area are closed for the duration. The dead pig is eventually replaced by the opposing tribe and peace reigns - for the time being. Pigs are the basis of the economy, and whenever we asked a local guide how much each of his wives cost (some had as many as eight) the answer is always given in pigs, not money!

Wearing human hair Huli wigs

Every day we were taken from our lodge to two or three nearby villages. There, the Huli people dressed in incredible costumes and make up entertained us or taught us about their culture. Everywhere we went we were treated with warmth and courtesy. Without exception, people wanted us to enjoy their country and culture and to persuade others that visiting New Guinea was worthwhile. One unbelievable visit was to a wig school. The “schooling” involved a variety of rituals guaranteed to assist a group of young men in growing an immense head of wire-like hair. The hair is “harvested” to create the huge wigs worn daily by the Huli tribesmen.

Cowrie shell necklaces

Our next few nights were spent on a small but luxurious boat on the Sepik River. We set off every morning in a flat-bottomed launch, returning “home” for lunch before setting off again. The stilted, riverside villages were charming and the people welcoming and fascinated with us. Even the tiniest village had its wares spread out along the dirt river-front or down the center of the village. There were some incredible figures, masks, bowls, and woven pieces. We were intrigued by the costume pieces–for the men, feather headdresses and tiny aprons, a combination of cowrie shells and string. Often there were dance performances.

Our next “home”was a lovely lodge overlooking the dense rainforest along the Kawahari River, and our most memorable afternoon was spent visiting the remote Amboin village school. Only two of the nine classrooms had students. It seems that after the summer break, seven teachers failed to return, The students and their teacher were dressed in grass skirts and floral headdresses. There were headdresses for us, too. The sound of the children’s unaccompanied voices as they sang with passion about the beauties of their country is something I’ll never forget. The classrooms had nothing - no tables or chairs, just a blackboard and one teacher table.

Applying face paint

The “grand finale”or “icing” on the trip was the “Sing Sing” at Mt. Hagen. What a spectacle! The original “Sing Sing” was introduced by an Australian women as a way for tribes to compete peacefully. As they waited to enter a huge grassy area, one tribal group after another warmed up at the gate, chanting and singing in preparation for appearing before the judges. Around the perimeter of the fairground, other dancers applied elaborate make-up, assembled enormous multi-colored feather headdresses, or adorned themselves with massive shell necklaces. Tribe after tribe entered the sports field, each costume, chant, and dance step seeming more fantastic than the last. Before long we were completely engulfed in the mass of dancers. For two days we were totally enthralled and left New Guinea saturated by the color and pageantry of all that we had seen.

Dressed up for the "Sing Sing"

New Guinea is the second largest island in the world. It is also a commonwealth country. The island is covered in dense, lush jungle; very little land is inhabited. There are few roads and for the most part, villages and towns are connected only by air. And since few can afford air travel, the average New Guinean’s experience of his own country is very limited. In the Karawari and Sepik River areas, travel is by dugout canoe, so even though the Sepik is immensely long, travel covers only short distances.
The people have two official languages: English and pidgin. Pidgin seems more prevalent of the two. Only the most educated, such as the tour guides, seem fluent in English, and even they had curious expressions at times.