Singapore

Yours truely in an older section of Singapore.

Singapore has a diverse collection of people. The major groups are Malay, Indian and Chinese. There also seems to be a large dose of Westerners at this point. One person remarked how the neighborhood had changed with all the Americans. You can see where they live because of the basketball goals on the garages. Most people live in apartment buildings or condos.

Our hosts have been making sure that no one goes hungry for more than about 30 seconds. One of the delicacies here is black pepper crab. It is truly wonderful. Yesterday for lunch we had Indian cuisine that was excellent. With all the different people there is a wide variety of choices.

HP is doing a lot of R&D work in Singapore now. I may have more trips here in the future. It is very interesting to see more of Asia. There is a lot more here than Japan. Gary has traveled throughout Asia. He has a sister in Bangkok that he a visisted a couple of times and knows more about interesting places. He has been to Myanmar and found it to be a great place.

China

The first day we hired a guide to whom I was referred and toured some places in Beijing. We went to a famous Buddhist temple, still operating, one of a few in Beijing. It was quite large and very old, I think about 400 years.

Religious practices are now much freer in China. Everything is now allowed, expect for party members. Party members “must choose only one religion”. There was even a monitor at the temple to see if any members were not choosing correctly.

One notable piece was a 25 meter tall Buddha from a single tree. The carving was moved in and the structure erected around it.
Next we visited the Summer Palace a short drive away. The scale of all the emperor’s palaces is quite large. This was a small city complete with a man-made lake to enhance the setting. The lake was frozen and people were taking shortcuts across. I think there is ice skating there also in the winter.
It was a little chilly during the day. We had some sunshine, but the wind was very cold. After a few days the air quality deteriorated quite a bit and was not pleasant. I had trouble with my eyes burning. The air pollution there would be a significant disadvantage.

We then drove out to the Great Wall and saw a very small portion. The scale again was overwhelming. One million people worked on the Wall for 500 years. In some places it was actually not very tall. I am assuming that the major benefit was the monitoring of the frontier and rapid communication with flags and smoke signals.
Beijing is being transformed rapidly. We stayed in a luxury hotel in the heart of the business district. With all my preconceptions of communist China, I was not quite prepared to see the shopping mall below with Prada, Gucci, etc. As in most places outside the US/Europe, there is a huge discrepancy between the have and have-not. We saw a few of the have-nots on the outskirts of town on the way to the Wall.
The next day we went on our own to the Forbidden City. “City” just barely describes it. 9999 rooms, 3000 concubines, 100,000 soldiers. In the plazas, there are typically 3 sets of stairs up to the major buildings. One staircase had a single stone carving ~40 feet long. This was a single stone that was moved by 10,000 men for a year. The bricks of the plazas are 5 meters deep to protect against tunneling. The buildings are fantastic. People say that if you want to see the contents, they you have to go to the National Museum in Taipei.

Lions were not found in China and became mythical symbols of power. The female is always depicted with her paw on a cub, the male with the world. These are from 1200’s so they must have know the world is round.

Commerce and capitalism (Chinese version) are alive & well, however there are also some interesting cultural issues. In Tiananmen Square, a young woman and her uncle approached us to practice their English. They were genuinely interested, quite friendly and had no other agenda. We walked across the square and talked about quite a few things. She is a doctor and has studied both the old Chinese practices as well as the newer Western style medicine.
I was talking to her uncle about his life and youth. I made a comment about the protest on the Square and his reply was: “We should not talk about that here.” It seemed very odd because they had been so open about everything else and we were not near a crowd of other people. Another person talked about the ‘revolt’ in Tibet that had to be dealt with.

Shopping in the tourist shops and street markets is a life altering experience. The vendors are extremely aggressive. After the 5th or 6th time I got a little used to the shop girls pulling on my arm to get me in the shop. There is also an invisible line at the entrance to the shop/stall. If you cross over the line you are now in their space, you become one of their customers, and salesmanship takes on a new level of practice.

They would name an exorbitant price, I would counter with pennies on the dollar. “you’re killing me”, “what’s your best price?” We went back and forth, back and forth typing in offers on the calculator. Once you got used to the game, treated it as a game and had fun with it, everything was fine. A couple of times, the game got so outrageous, even the sales people were laughing. Then you knew you had them.

The general rule seems to be that you should pay no more than 20% of what people suggest. To arrive at 20% you start at 10%. Negotiating for a while and then leaving seems to be a particularly effective tactic.

As you know, everything is made in China now. We bought silk polo shirts for $5, tennis shoes for $10. Some of the party came Sunday night and arrived without their suitcases. We had business meetings on Monday morning, so we went out Monday morning to shop for them.

We caused quite a stir in the Silk Market shopping center (tourist trap) buying suits at 9am. “I’ll give you special morning price.” “I’ll give you special 1st customer price.” Many of the vendors remembered Gary & I because of the hard deals we had driven the day before.

The negotiating was intense. One of the HP people is 6’4” 260lb. black man with size 15 shoes. It was very interesting. Gary claims that the shoe people don’t like me anymore.

We even went back a third time because Gary needed another bag for all collection. One of the vendors asked him how much he paid – 200 ($25). Her response was “Good price. My sister paid 210 yesterday.” My major coup was exchanging a sweatshirt that would have been too small for Axel. It cost me $6 but it came with a silk shirt.

Bus Ride to Morocco - Part 3

At the end of our visit to Fez, a friend arranged a hired taxi (Grand Taxi) to take us to Melilla. This was one of the most enjoyable parts of the trip. Our driver reminded me of an Arab version of my brother Paul. A great gregarious man who saw the humor and joy in every moment of life. We traded brief conversation with our shared basic Spanish.

We had to stop at a police kiosk in town so the driver could get a permit (tax) for the trip. Back in the car the driver said with a laugh “It makes them (the police) think they have an important job to do.”

On the way back we lost the fan belt on this Mercedes sedan. I think it was a 230D with 300K kilometers on the dial. We all thought – here goes another day. It was Sunday, and the small town looked deserted. Our driver said to sit tight for moment and he would be right back.

It turns out that you can get Mercedes parts on any street corner in Morocco. Every taxi is a Mercedes, and most of the cars. He came back in 10 minutes with a young mechanic, probably 13-15 years old. The mechanic changed the fan belt while we drank Cokes. He probably worked for 45 minutes.

At the end the driver paid the mechanic 2 or 3 dollars (I don’t quite remember). I do remember that the shoeshine boy was ecstatic with the 50 cents I paid him.

Bus Ride to Morocco - Part 2

The bus ride

Once on the bus, we had two rows of seats on same side. Everyone else seemed to be Moroccan; mostly adults. As the driver got us under way, there were two other men in the back of the bus who were helping out. They were the conductors of the bus, helping with baggage, taking tickets and money and finding seats for passengers.

In addition, the two men had a large pile of rice bags piled in the last seats of the bus. They started redistributing the rice bags into other parts of the bus. Each bag has 5kg. so it was manageable to move around. The bags went under other seats and in overhead racks throughout the bus.

It looked like there was a negotiation with one older woman to store some of the rice under her seat. She received another gift of something – maybe peppercorns.

The trip was under way – through the rolling hills of Northern Morocco. There was a lot more green than we foreigners associate with Morocco. No sand dunes here. The country side was actually fairly lush. We were reminded of the Palouse of Washington. The only difference being the bright red poppies (just like the California red poppies in the US) scattered through green hay fields.

One obvious aspect to Morocco was the extreme poverty in many places. It was quite clear that many things we take for granted have not been developed. I pointed out to the boys in one village where I saw a young boy carrying a 5 gal container of water back up the hillside. He clearly had been into town to get water for the home.

The morning ride was quite uneventful. Our halfway point was the small town of Taza. The bus stop was in the center of town of course. Town center consisting of a small dusty square. We had left the glamour of clean cities and polished marble.

The lunch stop consisted a few food vendors at the square. Everything seemed very questionable hygienically. I braved a kebab, and everyone else stuck to the lunch food we brought with us.

We considered switching to the train for a change and because the bus seemed slow. Also it was not possible to get up and move around. We thought the train might be better for the kids. However, everyone we asked, absolutely everyone, said to avoid the train.

After a hour or so interesting things started happening. We started seeing more army people along the road. This was not necessarily out of place. In many places outside the US, you often see army personnel on patrol where you would see State Police or Sheriffs in the US.

The bus started making more stops. Apparently anyone with their hand up could board the bus to the next “stop”. The next stop was wherever anyone wanted to get off. The two conductors were still busy helping people to their seats and moving luggage around.

Then the bus stopped at one of the checkpoints. A checkpoint consisted of a jeep, a soldier and an officer. Typically the jeep and the officer were in the shade farther from the road. The soldier and the driver talked for a few moments and then the bus moved on. It was curious that few vehicles were stopping. Many cars passed us while we were stopped on the side of the road.

This same routine happened a couple of more times. We would stop, the driver and the soldier would talk, we would drive on. The officer would stay aloof behind his sunglasses.

The trip started to drag on quite a bit. We had gotten up very early and been on the bus most of the day. On top of the checkpoint stops the bus starting having mechanical problems. About every 45 minutes the engine would start running poorly. The driver would pull over and he and one of the helpers would work on the engine for a bit. They would get back in the bus and we would driver off. Whatever it was had been resolved – until it happened again.

At the next checkpoint, the soldier decides to do a bit more inspecting on the bus. He talks with the driver and then comes down the aisle, looking over the bus. I was a little nervous because of the rifle, but he completely ignores us. The only foreigners on the bus with 2 blonde headed kids.

Our curiosity is starting to get the better of us at this point. Next to me, across the aisle, is a friendly man who speaks a little English. He is a doctor in Fez, our destination. We try to get an understanding of what is going on, but don’t get much of an explanation.

After another ½ hour there is another checkpoint. This time the officer talks with the driver. The officer goes behind the driver seat and finds some of the rice bags. He gets really hot and starts throwing the rice off the bus through the front door onto the side of the road. It gets very heated very quickly. The driver is pretty much dragged off the bus and there is quite a tirade from the officer. I’m sitting on the right side of the bus. There is a dump truck next to us which is half full of rice. Evidently we are not the first bus to come by with some rice on it.

The officer and the soldier come back a few more rows and find a couple more bags of rice which they take and throw out the front door also. The officer goes back to the side of the road with the driver and gives him another earful of his thoughts. The driver doesn’t say much and is looking scared. I’m thinking that he is going to get arrested and we will be stranded without a driver.

Finally the driver is released, gets back on the bus very quietly and we go on. Everyone on the bus is very quiet as if things could have been worse. Everyone seems relieved that we are on our way again.

Next one of the conductors comes forward in the bus and approaches the old woman who received the “gift”. You don’t have to understand Arabic to watch the conversation.

The conductor takes back the gift and tells the woman that since the rice was taken he has to take back the gift. The woman tells him he’s crazy. It’s not her fault that the rice as taken. She did her part, she kept the rice under her seat and she keeps the gift. The conductor grabs the gift and takes it away. The woman is very angry and grabs the conductor’s sweater. She tells him what a cretin he is, how he has lied to her and not kept his part of the bargain.

The conductor gets very angry also, he is almost at the point of striking this frail, but proud, grandmother. Several passengers get involved and pull the woman off the conductor. At the same time, the 2^nd conductor tells his co-worker to cool down and not make such a fuss over it. Some of the rice has been taken, most of it is still on the bus.

I ask the doctor next to me about the rice. He professes not to know, but I think he is embarrassed for his countrymen’s behavior. I don’t get an answer from him on why all the fuss over the rice. I can only guess that somehow it has been imported from Spain illegally.

The trip continues on with the sputtering bus. We continue to stop, hear them fiddle with the engine, and then continue on with the engine running well for a short while.

Next stop, another checkpoint. This time the routine is different. This time the soldier comes on the bus and ignores everyone else on the bus. He comes straight to me, points to me and says “passport”. He walks back down the aisle to the front door as I grab my backpack and follow. What surprises me most are all the previous stops where we were totally ignored.

As I’m walking down the aisle of the bus, I’m not really scared. I’m realizing that I don’t know the first thing about the physical mechanics of giving him the money. I know that somehow I’m going to give him some money, I just don’t know how. A couple of ideas come to mind. Do you put it inside the passport and hand it to him? Do you make an offer and see if its enough? Do you wait for him to name a price? Do you shake hands with a bill in your palm? I don’t have the faintest idea of the correct protocol.

The soldier doesn’t seem to be the typical Arab Moroccan. He is more of an overweight jovial African. His uniform doesn’t fit very well. My impression is that his brother couldn’t make it today and he’s filling in. He just doesn’t have that firm military bearing. He almost seems as uncomfortable as I am. He speaks just a few words of English, my Arabic and French are nonexistent and the Spanish no help.

He pulls out the “official book” which is a spiral notebook like you would use in high school. The way he says “official book” indicates he knows it’s all a charade. It’s been used, but all the remaining pages are blank. He takes my passport and writes down the information.

The officer is across the street, in the jeep, in the shade, behind his sunglasses. After the passport information, he asks for “father’s name” & “mother’s name”. I’m baffled by this. I can’t imagine what they need this information for. But when you’re on the side of the road, talking to a soldier with a rifle, in a foreign country, you tend not to quibble about what questions are appropriate.

Then comes the big moment. How is the money going to change hands? The shock of my life comes next. He hands me my passport, gives me a great big friendly smile and says “Have good day!”.

I’m back on the bus and we’re off down the road. I can’t believe things are like this. It seems so bizarrely funny. After we calm down from our hysterical laughter, I approach the doctor again. I’m trying to understand all the roadblocks and my questioning on the side of the road.

The best explanation is that the new King of Morocco is entertaining the new King of Jordan in our destination city of Fez. Apparently the army is out for security reasons.

We continue on the road and once again the engine begins sputtering. This time we limp into a gas station. They put some fuel in the bus and we go on with out problems. I never did understand what they did in the back of the bus to fix the engine, when it really just needed more fuel.

Finally we get in to Fez. We’re winding our way into town to the bus station. On the way there is an unscheduled stop near one the old town’s original gates. Crowds are all around in that uniquely Arab/mid-Eastern way. There’s construction work, business deals are being made, street vendors are selling their wares.

The bus is met by a small crew of laborers with wheelbarrows. They unload the rice bags under the counting of the boss. All the rice is off and some is missing. The drive and the boss have an argument.

Again you don’t have to speak Arabic to understand the conversation.

Where’s all the rice?

The Army took some.

We gave you so much rice. You are supposed to deliver it here. You have to pay for the rice you didn’t deliver.

I’m not paying for any rice. I did my job. It’s not my fault the Army took it. That’s your problem.

After a while it seemed like one of those arguments the boss was obligated to start. Everyone knew that they were not supposed to be doing this. Everyone knew that the Army was going to take some and that was just the cost of business. The driver wasn’t responsible for losing the rice, but the boss had to argue with him over it to do his job.

Bus Ride to Morocco - Part 1

Bus ride to Morocco

The bus ride to Morocco begins with a ferry ride from Almeria, Spain. The ferry leaves in the evening and takes all night traveling to Melilla, Spain on the north coast of Morocco. Melilla is a small city, one of two areas on the North coast of Morocco still under Spanish control.

The ferry was a small ship with very basic rooms; probably 30-40 years old. We boarded about 10 pm, settled in and slept on bunks in the room.

Early in the morning, we arrived in Melilla and entered the quiet. Everyone was still asleep at 7 am. We walked to the deserted city square and found a basic breakfast of bread and coffee. This was a our first major trip out of Barcelona. We felt like a family of explorers, each person carrying and their basic needs for a week-long trip to a new country.

After breakfast, we found the bus for the Moroccan sister city of Nador. The bus deposited us at the border 45 minutes later and we walked to the crossing. The crossing was a narrow road, choked down by traffic barriers and fencing.

The Moroccan guard station was mobbed by people trying to get the right passport stamp to enter the country. The process was very slow and poorly organized. Many crowded the window, trying to force their way forward or at least hold their place.

We waited for an hour to get our turn. We had to fill out the government paperwork, pay our tax, and then received our passport stamp. Off to Morocco.

Passing from Melilla to Nador was like going from Park Avenue to Harlem in one step. I felt like Peter Sellers in Being There, walking out of his life in a cozy brownstone into the surrounding slums. The streets were poorly paved and a mess with trash. All the buildings needed paint. We wanted some more breakfast, but were not interested in anything available. We settled for some bottled soft drinks from an first floor, open-air bar.

We drew everyone's attention because we were a classic American family, traveling with six and eleven year olds and stood out against the local population. There were a few other foreigners who were younger individuals and couples, more like the vagabond students on summer vacation.

We made our way to the transportation hub, looking for a way to Fez. There were three options. My preference was the train since it had been so reliable and convenient in Spain. However, everyone discouraged us from the train. Next were the “grand taxis” and then a slow bus. The grand taxis are a little better vehicle and commonly take people longer distances. All the taxis were Mercedes sedans. It was completely possible to hire one for the trip to Fez, which is 5-6 hours away.

Since we were in Morocco, it was a given that we would have to negotiate the fare for the trip. I was even looking forward to this as part of the game. There was no shortage of taxis available. Everyone was eager to take us, and our money. A crowd of drivers gathered around us to find out our request. I explained our plan to go to Fez. The answer came back as $1000 dollars. I knew we would have to negotiate, but $1000 was out of the question. I was planning on $100 as fair and willing to go to $200 and be taken advantage of.

With $1000 as a starting point, I didn't even want to play the game. We decided to investigate the bus. The bus station was run down and more crowded. We made our way to buy tickets and found a bus to Fez. The trip would take longer, but the price was more reasonable. For $12, we all had tickets on the next bus.

On the way to the bus, we pushed our way through the crowd. Nearby an argument rose above the clamor. Two men shouted at each other in Arabic. It got louder, each man escalating and escalating. With little warning, it became a physical fight. One man punched out several times and the other went down, more stunned than hurt, perhaps not feeling through an alcohol haze. The crowd wasn't very interested and quickly moved on. We boarded the bus and tried to settle in for a long ride.

Travel Intro

this will be a collection of photos and comments about travel that I have done.