Mittie Roger's Blog

The Temple of Apollo

We take an early bus to Delphi. It’s a pilgrimage many have made before, to the belly button of the earth, the oracle of Apollo. We pass through undulating mountains carpeted in green moss. The closer we get the thicker the air becomes, weighted with particles of water. They water becomes a visible fog, a condensed sensation setting down upon us, entering in streams through the open bus windows.

Delphi

I sit behind the driver, watching the curved road roll toward our destination. I am expecting the haggard oracle balanced over a creek of fuming liquid and think of little else.

Mother asks, “So this is a temple for Apollo?”

After three hours, we arrive in Delphi and climb the winding walled paths leading to the platform of columns. I’m imagining where the eagles met and landed on the tawny cliffs of Mount Parnassus, where only vultures circle now.  Each wall is hand-fitted, interlocking stones like a cobbled jigsaw puzzle. We see only the remains of the hollowed out egg.

Delphi

Mother asks, “What’s the story?” while examining a stone wider than her arm-span.

“Apollo was the god of lots of things: art, athletics, medicine, and prophecy. He predicted things with an oracle.”

“What oracle?”

“A priestess …she would’ve lived here, an old woman called a Pythia, who could project her soul into the domain of the gods and ask questions. She could also allow her body to be inhabited so the gods could answer.”

The sky drapes a warm blue shadow on extensive ivied walls; the length of them consisting of crumbled, once-ribbed stones. There are more shadows on the path. We walk toward the grey columned platform with stacked cylindrical pieces like balanced peaches due to the fleshy context of weathered, pink stone.

Delphi

We enter the semi-circular stone amphitheater; tall, skinny bush-like trees and shrubbed crags rise around us.

“The Pythia would breathe in a toxic liquid that would put her into a trance. She would breathe it through a stone,” I continue, “Legend says the liquid was the decomposing body of Apollo, who had fallen into the cracked stone.”

I’m walking through my imagination’s past: fumes rising from the chemical stew passing underground, a creek in her sanctuary, inhaling deeply, speaking in riddles.

Delphi

“I’ll tell you,” she says, “these stories are interesting, but they just don’t make sense.”

It’s funny how significance to one may mean nothing to another – or stranger yet – how we are all rooted in the same imagery but it has multiple divergent interpretations, the collective aspect buried under social conditioning. I, myself, am drawn to Apollo. I’m drawn to the creation of inspired images. They come to me without request, a neuron rush in sleep, as self-aware as a swallow of cold water in the morning.

On the way home the bus stops in a small town, Arapahoe, where we eat snacks and look at the handmade rugs they’re famous for. I care nothing of rugs because my thoughts are elsewhere.

I wanted to see the oracle. It’s a thought I can’t escape. The gifts I’d bring couldn’t compete with the sacrifices of the past. Would I be admitted? What would she tell me? Would she hiss from her tripod, sucking the rising plume? A vision in color, spoken in tongues, shrouded in grey by the flickering light.

Riding on the Old Hickory railroad in Jackson, Louisiana

Train isn’t a means of travel I’ve frequented. As a matter of fact I can count them on one hand, but I’ve always enjoyed it deeply. I suppose partially its romanticizing something I rarely do, but also I think there is a certain comfort in knowing that I don’t have to pay attention to where I’m going but at the same time have ample room to get up and stroll around if I so desire.

The Inca Trail

The most memorable train experience was on the Perurail from Cuzco to the base of the Inca trail. It was hard to take in the enormity of the Andes or the impressive beauty of the landscape after hiking for four days on the Inca trail. After 12 hours a day, stopping only to eat, and waking up at 5 in the morning, I was sort of comatose. But what I remember was the soothing speed of the train, the subtle rattle against the tracks soothing me to sleep, while I listened to recorded music for the first time in days.

Silverton in Colorado

Steam trains are also interesting for their history – riding along a once used form of travel that is more or less extinct. It’s not about transportation anymore, it’s about the experience, like riding along the canyon on the Silverton train in Colorado or the Old Hickory railroad in Jackson, Louisiana.

My most recent train ride was one of convenience. Working with my family’s tequila brand in Texas meant moving around from city to city. A friend suggested I take the Amtrack to get from Austin to Dallas. It’s inexpensive, comfortable and, though it takes a lot longer, it’s worth it. I’d heard little about Amtrack, but was excited to check it out.

Here in Mexico, where I live, buses are the primary form of transportation. They’re comfortable, clean, safe and efficient. I found the train almost the same as these buses – plenty of leg-room, serious recline-ability, AC, etc. But the major advantage is that you can get up and walk around. There’s a sitting area completely enclosed in glass with comfortable chairs for reading or chatting, a dining car, and plenty of space to stash your luggage. All this for 27$.
So yes, it takes longer to travel by train (at least one that stops at every little town along the way), but I spent most of my time relaxing in the lounge area, reading and watching the scenery fly by the window.

Mud and stick mosque

My decision to go to Larabanga was based almost entirely on the need to contradict disbelief. When I heard about the 8th century mud mosques, I asked a question that any logical person would: How is that possible? I even looked at photos, but it wasn’t sufficient. I refused to believe that a mud structure could survive that long.

A playful display

Larabanga is a smaller than any dot on the map I’ve ever seen. Northern Ghana with its relentless dry, dusty weather begged the question of how it was possible to even make mud, but I arrived at the end of the dry season, knowing the rains were just around the corner despite the fact I couldn’t yet taste the moisture in the air.

A family house

When I stepped off the crowded bus there, I was quickly swooped up by some playing children who led me to their home, actually a community house with an open fire pit in the center for cooking. I got to know them and their family before posing the question I had come to ask: who would take me to see the mosques and (more importantly) who would explain how it had been preserved for centuries?

Getting to know the family

The conservative Muslim community is wary of women, especially ones who want to get close to the mosques. I knew I had my work cut out for me. When I did get around to asking the first word out of the older boy’s mouth was, “No women allowed.”

“I don’t want to go inside,” I assured him. “I just want to see it.”

The mud and stick mosque

My answer seemed to satisfy him and he led me and my friends to see the inexplicable constructions. As we got closer it became obvious to me, the protruding poles weren’t ornamental. They functioned like a trellis to climb the structure without damaging it. The young guy gestured to them, explaining how the fresh mud was spread over it from the top down every year. I couldn’t help but wonder if the structure could even be considered the same after so much time renewing it, transforming it with new layers of dirt.

No women allowed

I noticed a tiny door on the side that looked like only a child could fit through. Walking over to it clearly made the guy nervous. “No women allowed,” he called after me. About that time I realized it was the front door, the only door, and anyone who entered would have to do so on their knees.

Wrestling matches, called Las Luchas, originated in Mexico. The WWF doesn’t want you to know that, not that anyone watches them anyway. The funny thing is that even though everyone knows it’s choreographed the WWF wants you to take them seriously. Not so with the Mexican Luchadores. They know how to cut loose and have a good time.

I was about 4 tequilas deep before the fights. My tickets were ringside which were both advantageous for the shots my camera could catch, and disadvantageous for the flying midgets who were known to breach the barriers between the crowd and the stage when hurled from the ring. I was expecting at minimum a little blood splatter and at most a Jerry-Springer style chair throw in my direction. Tequila seemed like the obvious option.

The Penis Twister. Ouch.

What I appreciated most about the Mexican wrestlers was their sense of humor. Moves like a finger bite or a nipple pinch weren’t out of the question. They get their feelings hurt and storm out of the ring only to hug, make up and re-enter. They’d taunt each other with lines like, “that’s how I play with my wife!” My favorite move was the penis twister which was just as awful as it sounds. When it comes down to the ball kick versus the penis twister, the latter wins every time.

Chessman flexes for the camera

My favorite wrestlers were the evils clowns, who looked like the desired goal (but not nearly achieved) of the Insane Clown Posse. They win best costumes. Then there was Chessman, who for what he lacked in costume (which was slightly more than pantyhose with major runs) he made up for in his outrageous Bruce-Lee-Crow meets Hellboy makeup.

The fashionably small Octogoncito fights with the Psycho Clowns

Personality plus goes out to Octagoncito, the larger of the two midgets who had amazing gymnastic form and a Samauri look that won him major fashion points. Best effort goes to Mascarita Sagrada, who was the smaller of the two midgets and  got thrown from the ring and tag-teamed a lot. He seemed to keep his chin up, even when the psycho clowns tried to remove his mask (gasp!) exposing his identity to the world.

Worst Dressed goes to Tarzan.

Worst dressed goes to this fellow who seemed to think Tarzan was good role-model. I wasn’t impressed. Worst personality goes to Electroshock who’s highlights and Man in the Iron Mask face-piece made him look inherently more angry than he was. They both inspired me to hit the bottle a few more times before the whole gig finished, but all in all it was highly entertaining.

Weichau, Ghana

The word budget means different things to different people. While not splurging on a 5 star might be budget to some, to most it means forgoing lunch in lieu of a bus ticket or finding out what you can do around a hostel or in a home stay to get a discount (or a free ride if you’re really good.)

Old growth forests of Washington

I tend to travel by however much money I’ve accumulated before I walk through the gate and board the plane. Depending on how much time I have, I may fix up situations like the aforementioned ones to pinch pennies, but mainly I just try to stay in inexpensive friendly places, like home stays and hostels, or if I’m really lucky and the locale permits, my tent.

City of Rocks, Idaho

Tents aren’t for everyone, but I truly love mine (even with the little rip my loving Marmaduke of a dog put in it.) The greatest part about the tent is it gives a little leeway to my highly controversial travel philosophy which in short is body vs. wallet. I almost always choose countries that won’t hurt my wallet, but are tough on the body, however, the tent provides a possibility to explore more expensive countries without paying a fortune to rest your head …or getting fleas.

Rainbow Lakes, Colorado

Take the United States for example. We are famous for the immense and diverse landscape of our country, full of national parks with exceptional camping facilities. While I didn’t see myself traveling within my own country due to funds, it was possible because of my trusty tent (and a few helpful friends’ soft couches along the way!)

Jewel Basin, Montana

I toured the Northwest for a month: Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Washington and Oregon – and only had to get a hotel room twice! While you might as well sell a kidney to pay hotel rates in the states, camping fees are quite reasonable – many leaving you with all the bare necessities you could ask for. Food at the grocery (while still expensive) is only a fraction of what you’d pay to eat out and, to me, the company couldn’t get any better. By that I mean there is no company but the trees and the deer (or rocks and snakes, depending where you are.)
Normal travel lovers cut things out of their daily lives to save up for trips. The hardest (and probably most important) thing to resist is the temptation to go out to eat. Being a food lover (and not adverse to avoiding dishes) that’s what I struggle with most. Especially at lunchtime. I work downtown in a tiny office with a café next door that will actually serve at my desk …anything from hot chocolate to Chilaquiles (my favorite Mexican dish.) So resisting that temptation is really hard but worth it because, as we all know, it adds up.

Getting a little guidance by the cliff ledge

I haven’t been riding since I was a kid. I used to ride English style, but it was so long ago now the memories are hazy. So, the thought of mounting a horse, nearly twenty years later, and descending into a canyon filled with wildlife and history was exhilarating to say the least.

Rodrigo, the daredevil, in action

I took the tour with Rodrigo of Coyote Canyon Adventure Tours since my last tour with the anthropological encyclopedia (otherwise known as Albert Coffee) had been so enjoyable. You know the old adage that opposites attract? Well these two we’re about as close as you could get.

When I asked Rodrigo how

What a view

long he’d been riding he said, “I’d never been on a horse until I started this business.” He wasn’t much for words. Nope, Rodrigo is more a man of action, however when it came time for the safety briefing he explained clearly and fluidly in two languages exactly what we should and shouldn’t do. I was grateful, considering I was supposed to forget everything I’d done as a kid. Also, we were free to decide what we did and didn’t want to do.

Going downhill

First off, I got a horse that loved to run. Of course I didn’t know that until after we’d headed west and he got his first chance to do it. His name was Orgullo, Spanish for pride, though unfortunately for this bilingual girl, it’s one of the only words I can’t say properly. Instead I called him Cassanova for all the butt-sniffing he got into.

As we descended into the canyon, I was startled by the abundance of trees covering the otherwise arid landscape. At the bottom, a creek flowed from the recent rains and our horses were pleased to drag their legs through it as we crossed. The first opportunity to gallop had passed, and while I initially didn’t think I wanted to do it, Cassanova changed my mind. He wasn’t taking no for an answer (maybe he just sensed I was secretly ready.)

Rodrigo took one look at me riding by screaming and the next time they were preparing to gallop he said, “Mittie, come to the front.” I wondered if I’d have to read the note out loud to the class. “You’re ready to gallop.” I must have had that stupefied I-just-tripped-over-my-own-shoelaces look on my face because he reassured me. “You did fine. You’re ready.”

Off we went. It was absolutely exhilarating. I wasn’t sure if I was screaming or laughing, but I was having a hell of a lot o fun.  As a gorgeous rocky landscape sped by me, I decided that Rodrigo had the right idea. More experiences and fewer words …and all of this coming from a writer. Now, if only I could figure out how to properly pad my booty.  Bike shorts, what?

What do you think makes islands so appealing from an indie traveler’s standpoint? Do you have a favorite island to which you escape – physically or mentally – when you need a break from the real world? When you think of “island,” do you automatically think of “beaches,” or is there another kind of island that appeals to you? And – you know we have to ask – what would be three things you would absolutely have to have with you if you were stuck on a deserted island?

Honey Island Swamp in Louisiana

All travelers are different. We all have the things that draw us in and the things we could do without. I myself am a swamp creature, a murky thing that crawled out of an alligator infested abyss full of grassy barriers that might or might not be considered islands. And I am hopelessly and undoubtedly pulled toward any and all kinds of water. Even the sound of it has a certain romance, like hearing my mother’s voice calling me down out of my favorite oak tree to eat lunch.

Honey Island swamp

I’ve spent a lot of time on bayou waters, neither river nor sea, neither water nor land, places so full of life they can’t be stifled. Those are the places I’ve called home and I find that now, living in an arid, high-mountain desert they are the places I return to in my dreams.

One memory I love to revisit was working on a marine biology research station on the Southern tip of Louisiana, collecting diatoms and dinoflagellates in nets while wading

Sunset on the island of Santorini

through the swamp in chest waders. And while technically they aren’t islands – they’re hybrids, like me.

A real set of islands that holds a special place in my heart are the Cyclades. Especially the sheer red cliffs of Santorini that conceal Thira, the ruptured volcano that once destroyed the thriving Minoan civilization.

The red pebble beaches near Akrotieri

Though now it’s overrun by tourists and quite expensive; it’s a place where your feet feel rooted in history, where just a step would send you tumbling over the edge where white houses are built into the cliffs and hitchhiking isn’t yet frowned upon. Plus, it’s red. The deepest, coldest red that almost dips into purple, making sunsets nearly orgasmic.

Now, if I was stranded on a desert island and could only have three things they would be as follows: a buck-skin knife, a large plastic tarp and a huge box of strike anywhere matches. Was that an eye roll? Okay a more sensitive answer, eh? Okay, buck-skin knife, handful of NASA pens and a 1,000 page leather bound journal. I guess it all really depends on what kind on island you’re on. I mean if I’m on a swamp drift, I’d damn sure want some mosquito repellant, too.

The botanical gardens

There are few rituals more famous in Mexico than the Temazcal, a pre-hispanic ritual similar to a sweat lodge. Being the committed investigative reporter that I am, I decided that it was completely inappropriate to live here and never have participated in one. So I slapped on a bathing suit and sarong and headed out to the Charco del Ingenio, a local botanical garden and nature preserve which often has traditional indigenous events, to try it out.

Cactus variety found in the green house at Charco del Ingenio

I read up on it, which was smart (if I do say so myself) because normally I’m a big breakfast eater which might well have killed me in the sweat lodge (no, but seriously …) I ate light and drank lots of water as my research instructed me to do. I also set out goals for myself: things I was tired of in my life and ready to get rid of and the new things I wanted to bring into my life to replace them. I was thinking about all this deep, heady stuff about the time we got situated inside the adobe dome and I realized I had to pee. So much for research.

I guess I should have thought about that while we were all sitting on bamboo grass mats breaking apart the myriad of herbs that would make up a tea we would share and bathe in during the ritual, but it was all too interesting. Gustavo Munquia, the leader of the ceremony, was talking at length about the history of the Temazcal and I wondered if I wrote any faster whether my pen would catch on fire. The smell of lavender, rosemary, mint, oregano and chamomile filled the air.

A Temazcal

Before we entered the adobe dome a woman holding a ceramic cup filled with a resin called Copal outlined each one of our bodies, cleaning them before starting the sweat lodge. Inside, we sat against the walls leaving the center pit open to receive the smoldering rocks. The smoke hole in the back was covered as was the entryway as we prepared to pass through the 4 doors, or stages, of the ritual. Four times the door would open and rocks would come in. Four times we would sing and sweat and try not to pass out.

Inside a Temazcal

Each one of the phases lasted about 20 minutes. The first one was loud; we were singing and excited, thinking about the people who’d come before us. The second one was focused on women and children, and it was full of singing too. The third stage was silent as we thought about all the people we knew and wished them well, sharing cups of cold herb tea.

Charco del Ingenio, San Miguel de Allende

In the final stage, we flew. What I mean by that is that Gustavo began fanning the stones with a wet t-shirt and I thought I might possibly die. The tea bucket came around and we rubbed our bodies down with the cold, wet herbs, which gave us brief yet needed relief from the heat. Everyone else laid down, but I somehow didn’t get the memo and stayed up right where the air was significantly hotter. Of course, it didn’t help that it was pitch black, or (on second thought) maybe it did, because then you can’t physically see how hot it is.

When we crawled out we were bucketed with cold water, which was amazing. I swear I’ve never sweat so much in all my life. But I walked out re-energized, feeling rejuvenated and ready to face whatever the day had to throw my way. I turned to my friend Cristina and told her, “We’ve got to do this again.”

“Soon,” she said.

This week for the Indie Travel Challenge 2012, we want to know what you think about the Indie Travel Manifesto.  Does it resonate with you? Do you think, based on the tenets of the Manifesto, that you are an indie traveler?

More than one fork in the road

The whole concept of an indie traveler confuses me. I suppose it’s just a label used to define an authentic person who travels for authentic reasons, but to me those are the only travelers that exist. People that value possessions over possibilities and don’t research the socio-political context of the places they’re going aren’t travelers, they’re comfort seekers. They’re vacationers.

A run in with the wildlife

It’s not travel when you have the same things you have at home and live the same experiences you’d live back home. If going camping requires a satellite dish and a generator you might as well stay in your house and watch Discovery Channel (not that I have anything against Discovery Channel. They’re pretty much the only decent thing on TV.)

Street grafitti in Oaxaca

Travel is growth. Travel is pushing your limits. Travel is discovering yourself in the context of something absolutely foreign. It’s the moment we question why we are who we are and if we’d been reared in another environment who we might be.  It’s about overcoming fears and embracing new realities. It’s about changing your perspective.

"Que padre", which means "that's cool", literally translates to "how father" in English.

Vacation on the other hand is about escaping your reality. It’s about forgetting who you are and your daily stress. It’s about drunken debauchery (not that there is anything wrong with that either) and someone to serve you a hangover-curing breakfast in the morning. It’s also often about ignoring the local culture and holing up in a fancy resort or hotel that you don’t peer outside of for the length of your stay. That isn’t traveling. That’s the social equivalent of putting on camel blinders.

Just to be fair: A moment I had to escape

Now I sound really critical. The truth is I’m not a purist, but I can recognize what differentiates travel from vacation. I have had moments during long-winded travel where I’ve needed a vacation. Moments when the socio-economic implications of what I saw and heard overwhelmed me and I needed a hollow escape. But the experiences through which we grow are the authentic ones, the fearless and often painful ones, the free and surprising ones. Those are what, to me, constitutes indie travel.

The Thai cooking class

With jetlag behind me, I was ready to check an item off my bucket list. What you ask? Take an authentic Thai cooking class. Thai food makes me weak in the knees. As in, if there were a way for Thai food and I to have a serious and long-lasting relationship I’d sign on. This seemed like the perfect first step in our courtship.

Planting seeds on the farm

The coolest option I found involved a trip to the market, then a tour of an organic farm and finished up with the instruction and cooking of six different dishes under the supervision of a sassy Thai woman named Mam. I felt instinctively that this may possibly be the best day of my life.

Chinese tea and menu decisions

First, we went to a tea shop where we sipped pots of Chinese tea and selected the dishes we wanted to cook: 1 appetizer, 1 soup, 1 noodle dish, 1 curry paste, 1 curry dish and 1 dessert.  My choices were as follows: spring rolls, Tom Sab soup (which Mam called Sexy Soup), Pad See Ew, Panang curry paste and curry and deep fried bananas with a coconut cream batter. I already knew Thai food and I were going to be the perfect couple.

Rice

We set off to the market to choose some of our ingredients. Monks in saffron robes and plastic flip-flops strolled through the open fire grills where fish and peppers roasted and aisles of rice filled baskets. I just tried to avoid the Durian, which stinks like a rotting corpse. Funny enough, there were signs on many establishments that said “No Durian.” I imagined people casually carrying Durians home and being turned away from shops along the way.

Checking out the array of strange objects

After we’d selected the things we’d need for the class, we headed out to the farm. Apart from the herbs and veggies growing all around, the farm was especially cool for the bizarre and eclectic mix of flea-shop type items everywhere. From old instruments to barbershop chairs and stacks of rusted bicycles, it was fascinating to walk through.

Before we started we took part in a traditional Thai welcome which is about the equivalent to a shot in the food world. It consisted of a beetle leaf stuffed with raw garlic, ginger, a tiny wedge of lime, peanuts, purple onion and a sliver of spicy pepper. That is a welcome that’s not easily forgotten, but like I said, I was getting in good with Thai food and went back for seconds.

I do look menacing, don't I?

Then the cooking began. One dish at a time we prepared then ate, sampling the dishes others had made and sharing our own. We all used enormous hatchets and made menacing faces at each other as we chopped and laughed. The food was beyond divine, especially the deep fried bananas.

Curry paste (after a lot of hard work)

The hardest thing we made was the curry paste which had to be muddled by hand with a mortar and pestle. Thankfully there were enough of us to take turns and I hoped my Thai-food-love-affair wouldn’t go south because of it (would she feel used with all this sharing?) The easiest thing I made was Pad See Ew (and Pad Thai was equally simple and quick.) I was impressed with my new found knowledge and ready to impress friends back home with it at a Thai inspired party. Hopefully they’d be as inspired by it as I was.