One quick note before I launch into what happened in Sunday travel this week. Seems like in lieu of a new travel editor (if you know if the NYT has hired one, please send a tip!), the NYT travel section is pulling travel-ish items from other sections of the newspaper. In today’s travel section online, there’s an article about a high-speed rail in Spain, pulled from the Science/Earth section; one from the business section on filling exit-row seats; and another one from the business section about what’s happening in the rental car industry.

Anywho, the paper of record still had plenty of strict travel stories to fill out this week’s Sunday travel section, starting with Lionel Beehner’s piece on Sri Lanka, which was a sort of half-hearted attempt to address the criticism the paper (and Beehner) incurred for including the country as a top travel destination for 2010.

The anger stemmed from the brutal way in which the Sri Lankan military ended the war last May,” Beehner writes. “By some estimates, about 7,000 civilians, and possibly thousands more, were killed during the final battle. Hundreds of thousands were put in camps. The government remains in the awkward position of defending itself against accusations of war crimes while also trying to open up the country to foreign investors and vacationers.

Because of the war’s tense aftermath, the State Department has issued a travel warning on Sri Lanka (travel.state.gov/travel). But to date, I have heard no reports of Western tourists killed or kidnapped in Sri Lanka. In recent months, tourism has steadily inched upward from past years, thanks to efforts by the government and local entrepreneurs to redevelop the eastern coast and to build an airport down south near Hambantota. The tourism ministry has also begun a “Visit Sri Lanka 2011” public relations blitz to rebrand itself after the war.

Unfortunately, apart from a quasi-check-list of Sri Lanka’s good points — beautiful beaches spared by developers, the occasional Hindu temple or Dutch colonial, the crab cakes in the “more European than South Asian” city of Galle — Beehner’s effort feels feeble. He seems either unsure of his initial raves about Sri Lanka or concerned that this new feature will draw more angry emails.

Most of the rest of the section focuses on service journalism, including the Journeys column, which can usually be relied upon to steer clear of such controversial stories. This week it was occupied by a round-up-style story on Spain’s recent crop of gastrohotels. An interesting topic, to be sure, but not really a great read. The best of the service-focused bunch was David Kaufman’s riff on the Johannesberg neighborhood of Braamfontein, thanks largely to a well-written intro paragraph:

Back in the 1950s, Braamfontein, a suburb perched just north of Johannesburg’s Central Business District, was celebrated for three key cultural institutions — the Civic Theater, the Alexander Theater and the University of the Witwatersrand — which helped keep the quarter artsy, intellectual and mildly integrated even during the era of apartheid,” Kaufman writes. “Today, that troika still forms the backbone of Braamfontein’s cultural allure, though its street scene is far more vibrant thanks to a new generation of design shops, restaurants, galleries and residential developments.

SCORE: 5/10 carry-ons (minus points for glaring lack of narrative writing — Stuart Emmrich, we miss you!)

If I didn’t have to write this column, I would have skipped the LA Times lead story this week on the basis of its headline: Besides Whiskey, Ireland Exporting Pubs. “Yeah, yeah, yeah: Ireland has been exporting its pub culture around the world for decades,” I thought. Thankfully, I persevered and wound up reading a pretty fascinating story about how traditional pubs closing right and left in Ireland, but that the demand for Irish pubs overseas is so great that companies are building traditional pubs in Ireland, then breaking them down and shipping them around the world.

Working out of a nondescript office building on the outskirts of Dublin, Irish Pub Co. has been exporting home-grown bars since 1991. That’s when executives at Dublin’s fabled Guinness brewery decided that placing authentic pubs abroad could boost sales of its namesake stout. The concept caught on like wildfire; Irish Pub Co. has created 1,500 pubs in more than 40 countries. Ireland’s loss, it appears, is the rest of the world’s gain.

Fascinating, right? Just needs a better headline. The Barcelona story suffers from a similar problem; its generic headline — Barcelona’s Artistic Side — makes what is actually a fantastic story sound really boring. Centered around the studio and work of Spanish painter Agustí Puig, the artist whose work and studio were used in the Woody Allen film Vicky Christina Barcelona, the story manages to look at Barcelona from an angle that has been presented a million times and make it interesting anew. In fact, the best thing I read all week was writer/photographer Rosemary McClure’s account of following Puig around his studio:

Now it was my turn to become his student, if only for a moment. Puig showed me around his studio, a former textile mill, and we talked about Pablo Picasso, who moved to Barcelona in 1895 when he was a teenager and was Puig’s inspiration. We also talked about Puig’s fondness for Barcelona’s liveliness and artistic culture. While he talked, I photographed him. He tried to ignore the camera, but it made him nervous.

Suddenly, he threw a blank canvas on the floor and said, “Let me show you how I work.”

Released from his role, he relaxed, splashing white and black paint on the canvas, then etching fine lines onto it. Within a couple of minutes, he was done. I put down the camera, looked at the canvas and gasped. He had created a figurative painting of a man and a woman in the time it would have taken me to sharpen a couple of colored pencils.

“When I start a painting, I never know how it will turn out,” Puig said, smiling at my surprise. “The worst enemy of a painter is to be bored with his work.”

The story on the new Peninsula Shanghai, on the other hand, has far bigger problems than its headline. To be completely honest, this is a tough one for me to read objectively. I was one of several travel writers who met with the hotel’s publicists when they made the rounds last year, pitching this “return to the Paris of the East” angle for stories about the hotel, and it’s always disheartening to see a writer (and a paper) basically run the exact story that a PR firm wants them to run. That said, it probably is the best angle on the hotel opening, which is why the flacks came up with it in the first place. Even putting that aside, though, the piece just seems to be pandering. The bulk of the quotes and information seem to have come from the general manager of the hotel, so the story almost feels like he wrote it himself. The problems start with the intro:

Paul Tchen, general manager of Shanghai’s Peninsula Hotel, was catching his breath. The hotel, which had had its soft opening only a month earlier, was running smoothly, Tchen a little less so: He had just noticed that his suit jacket and pants didn’t match.

Tchen, a Cal Poly Pomona graduate formerly with the Beverly Hills Peninsula, had more important things on his mind: the challenge of opening a luxury property amid the global recession and the high expectations for this Peninsula, the first new structure on Shanghai’s storied riverfront Bund since the Bank of China in 1927.

And the trouble continues throughout, with sycophantic paragraphs like this one:

The electronics were amazing. Everything operated from keypads, and all outlets were dual voltage. New to this Peninsula are iPod docking stations and the keypad on the bathtub wall that operates the radio, the flat-screen TV at the foot of the tub and the “Do Not Disturb” functions on both the room door and the telephone. Later, I tried them all while having a long soak. ‘We have 40 engineers in Hong Kong who do nothing but develop new toys for us,’ Tchen told me. Toys such as that nail dryer and the light that went on as I reached for the remote control on a shelf under the TV.

SCORE: 7/10 carry-ons (bonus points for great stories on Barcelona and Irish pubs, minus for the PR puff piece on Peninsula Shanghai)

Coincidentally, the San Francisco Chronicle also went with a feature on “Updated Shanghai” as its lead (and only) travel feature this week. To its credit, the story does not rely on quotes from the Peninsula’s general manager.  In fact, it doesn’t mention the Peninsula at all, and writer David Armstrong’s history with the city makes his story a great read.

Until relatively recently, this city of 18 million people was - how to say this? - really dull. On my first visit in the mid-1990s, Shanghai still wore a dreary mantle of neglect from the hard-core communist years that followed the revolution of 1949. When I ducked inside the Peace Hotel, an octogenarian jazz band was tootling along - endearing but hardly energetic or innovative. Fine particles of dust seemed to cover everything, and the famous hotel (originally the Cathay) seemed enveloped in gloom, like the city.

SCORE: 9/10 carry-ons (would give it a 10/10 if the Chron would add just one more travel feature; c’mon SF Chron!)

I was really happy to see the Boston Globe take on two independent travel features this week, one on the art scene in the Swiss town of Basel and the other on exploring Navajo country in the United States. Neither is necessarily groundbreaking, but both are solid and the Navajo story does a good job of covering the spiritual side of that destination without getting overly New Age-y:

Spiritually, the Navajo Reservation is bordered by four mountains,’ says Leonard Nez, a Navajo guide. With just a few words, he conveys the Navajo way, how spirituality trumps capitalism and community rises above individualism. “We never fought over these holy lands, they’re not ours. We’re just the caretakers.’

SCORE: 7/10 carry-ons (solid stories, just not spectacular)

Marzo Pazzerello
Crazy March

“Marzo è pazzo” (March is crazy), Italians say — except in places like the town of Badolato, where, as I learned from my friend Michele Fabio’s blog on Calabrian proverbs, Marzu è pacchiu.

In English we say that March comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb. (Marzo pazzerello arriva da leone e se ne va come un agnello.) Italians also say, “Arriva marzo pazzerello; esce il sole e prendi l’ombrello!“
(Here comes crazy March; the sun comes out, and you grab your umbrella!)

Many a March day fa brutto (literally, it “makes” ugly weather). On some days piove (it rains). On others fa freddo (it’s cold). How cold? “Il freddo di marzo penetra nel corno del bue,” the saying goes. 
(The cold of March pierces the ox’s horns — or more colloquially, when it’s cold in March, you freeze your bum off.) 


The following weather previsione (forecast) from an Italian newspaper captures the craziness of March’s cattivo tempo (bad weather): “Piogge in arrivo!” (Rains are coming!) “Forte maltempo e anche neve da mercoledì a venerdì.” (Strong bad weather and also snow from Wednesday to Friday.) Western Italy should expect “un rapido peggioramento” (rapid worsening) with “una forte perturbazione atlantica ” (strong Atlantic disturbance).

Residents of northeastern Italy are warned to watch out for “acqua alta a Venezia” (high water in Venice) and a “scirocco eccezionale” (exceptional southeast wind). The coming days will bring a “profondo vortice ciclonico in una delle peggiori configurazioni per tutta l’Italia” (a severe cyclonic storm in one of the worst configurations for all Italy), creating “fortissimi venti” (the strongest possible winds).

Words and Expressions:

far la pioggia e il bel tempo — to make the rain and the good weather (to call all the shots)

piovere sul bagnato — to rain on the wet (it never rains but it pours)

piovere a catinelle — raining buckets (cats and dogs)

“Cielo a pecorelle, pioggia a catinelle” — “mackerel skies always bring rain” (A sky with small clouds that look like sheep augurs a strong rain).

“Rosso di sera, bel tempo si spera. Rosso di mattina, mal tempo s’avvicina” — Italian equivalent of “Red sky at night, sailors delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning.”

My fondest memory of Sev was going to a bar to watch Greece take on Portugal in the Euro Cup final. I could give a thimbleful of olive oil for both soccer and the Greek national team, but at Sev’s request, I had donned Hellenic blue and white.

We arrived at a sports bar stuffed with some 50 angry male Portuguese expats and tourists. Most were grumbling about the Greek style of play up to that point — the Greeks were playing total defense ball, rarely giving up a goal. To say the Portuguese considered this a cheap tactic would be a vast understatement.  Their disapproval was broadcast loudly and clearly thoughout the bar, wherein sat two lonely islands of blue and white: Crazy Sev and her increasingly nervous American friend.

Greece did not dissapoint. They scored early in the final and kept the score 1-0 till the end of the match, beating 150-1 odds and the host nation to win the UEFA 2004 Euro Cup. Sev’s reaction was to laugh, scream and curse a bar full of now drunk Portuguese who had murder in their eyes. Mine was to cower in abject fear, an unwitting and unwilling pawn of European aggression.

Now Sev works as a — the EU version of bureaucrats — Brussels. When she was finished lavishing hugs and rage on me, she insisted we get some frites.

“You are in Belgium. This is what Belgians do. They eat frites. You’ll love them. What the hell are you waiting for?”

This was all said in the span of crossing a block at a breakneck passionate Greek clip. I tried to take in the buildings around me.

“This city is boring. In many ways I cannot stand it. My God it is beautiful though. These balconies.  That architecture. Are you paying attention? Makous, Malaka! (’listen, bitch!)”

We had covered two more blocks. The stone balconies and handsome townhouses and elegant curves of Brussels passed quickly, in a blur of Sev-fueled speed. I was panting by the time we stopped at a streetside shack. As Sev regaled me with stories about boyfriends and jobs and school, we scarfed frites and mayo and béarnaise sauce (it works. Really), some grilled brochette (meat on a stick) on the side. You learn a nation by many ways: its language, its history, its art. In this case, I was learning Belgium by its beer-soaking drunk food. And I wasn’t even drunk. Although I wasn’t complaining.

Sev’s apartment was in a lovely old building that reminded me of the European sets where Israeli assassins took out various Black September members in Munich.  Her place was a studio, but a surpassingly large and spacious one, despite her assurances she lived in a hovel. I was shown to my cot on the floor. Through the thin walls, techno music beats were thumping, raising small clouds of dust from the bookshelves in Sev’s room.

“My neighbor. He’s from here. A Brussels native. Let’s meet him.”

She knocked on the door and we were greeted by a thin Belgian who was so stereotypically Eurotrash he was almost a caricature, a mix of the Sprockets guys from SNL and Pepe Le Pew. He was nerdily handsome — curly blonde hair, thick black glasses, a dark blue turtleneck, ripped jeans and flip flops. A joint smoldered in an ash tray in front of a wall papered in vintage music posters, just next to, of course, a set of turntables.

“Wassup?” he said.

“Wadup?” I answered. He gave me a blank stare. I realized I shouldn’t have assumed a mastery of American slang based off his greeting. “Wassup” may sound familiar to a Walloon raised on American pop culture, but its more subtle, rarefied versions — yes, this is complete sarcasm — such as “Wadup” have yet to be translated across the pond.

Sev shot me a dirty look, then began talking with her neighbor in French. From what I could gather, she was getting ready to hit the town with me by her side — so much for much-needed rest — and the neighbor was invited. Neighbor looked at us, his turntables, then us again, considered the possibilities, shrugged, finished his joint and put on some shoes.

I can’t remember what part of Brussels we hit that night, although I do remember we could better communicate with the North African cab driver in pidgin Arabic then French. He gave us a friendly ‘Massalamah’ (goodbye) as we departed his car in what was, apparently, the northernmost suburb of Kinshasa.

I’m only half kidding. The Congo was once a Belgian colony, and thousands of Congolese now call Belgium home. Lingala music was pumping out of bars. There were many African men about, and hardly any women, and the men were loud and laughing and yelling, drinking with a huddled, almost boiling intensity. The walls were plastered with posters of African politicians and musicians. It all felt very vintage, as if we had been caught in the tide of some ’70s immediate post-colonial backwash.

As we got out of the car, a few big guys took a long, lingering look at us. I felt Sev’s stoned neighbor freeze up a little besides me  My own hand went to my pocket, although for what, I have no idea; perhaps then to just ball my hand into a fist. Sev herself was blithely oblivious, which could be a good thing — bless her optimisim — or a terrible one.

In this case think the resolution was widespread confusion. Sev steamed through the crowd of hard-looking Congolese, who seemed so shocked she would simply walk through their posse that they sort of crumbled into wide eyed wonder, giving me and Neighbor a minute to sneak by.

In the bar we eventually settled in, I drank many good Belgian beers with many Eurocrats. Brussels, I concluded, was a weird spot. Its population reminded me of my hometown of Washington DC. Almost everyone seemed from somewhere else, ready to contribute to the EU dream, talking about their jobs primarily and slowly building a community that grounded their professional transience. I chatted with another Greek who wore 600-Euro shoes and worked for a Socialist MP and seemed to see no contradiction to this lifestyle choice, and a German who looked like Grizzly Adams who managed international aide programs who on a date with a lovely young Italian painter. The only native Belgian was Neighbor, who, due to a combination of beer and pot, was soon passing out at the bar.

Sev and I packed him into a cab, but the driver’s French was lacking. Another newcomer to Brussels. Sev looked the cabbie up and down, then said something guttural. The driver nodded, and drove off. Sev looked at me, smiling, and said “Turkish. Don’t think just because I’m Greek I won’t speak Turkish…” and I could feel her anger boiling. I shook my head, quickly.

“Good,” she grinned. “I like to defy stereotypes.”

The Northermost of these Islands, as I have before observed, is called by the Natives Aeheinomouwe and the Southermost Tovy Poenammu. The former name, we were well assured, comprehends the whole of the Northern Island; but we were not so well satisfied with the latter whether it comprehended the whole of the Southern Islands or only a part of it. This last, according to the Natives of Queen Charlotte’s Sound, ought to consist of 2 Islands, one of which at least we were to have sail’d round in a few days; but this was not verify’d by our own Observations. I am inclinable to think that they know’d no more of this land than what came within the Limits of their sight. The Chart which I have drawn will best point out the figure and Extent of these Islands, the situation of the Bays and Harbours they contain, and the lesser Islands lay about them.

And now I have mentioned the Chart, I shall point out such places as are drawn with sufficient accuracy to be depended upon and such as are not, beginning at Cape Pallisser and proceed round Aeheinomouwe by the East Cape, etc. The Coast between these 2 Capes I believe to be laid down pretty accurate, both in its figure and the Course and distance from point to point; the opportunities I had and the methods I made use on to obtain these requisites were such as could hardly admit of an Error. From the East Cape to Cape Maria Van Diemen, altho’ it cannot be perfectly true, yet it is without any very Material error; some few places, however, must be excepted, and these are very Doubtfull, and are not only here, but in every other part of the Chart pointed out by a Pricked or broken line. From Cape Maria Van Diemen up as high as the Latitude of 36 degrees 15 minutes we seldom were nearer the Shore than from 5 to 8 Leagues, and therefore the line of the Sea Coast may in some places be erroneous. From the above Latitude to nearly the Length of Entry Island we run along and near the shore all the way, and no circumstance occurd that made me liable to commit any Material error. Excepting Cape Teerawhitte, we never came near the Shore between Entry Island and Cape Pallisser, and therefore this part of the coast may be found to differ something from the truth; in Short, I believe that this Island will never be found to differ Materially from the figure I have given it, and that the Coast Affords few or no Harbours but what are either taken notice of in this Journal, or in some Measure pointed out in the Chart; but I cannot say so much for Tovy Poenammu. The Season of the Year and Circumstance of the Voyage would not permit me to spend so much time about this Island as I had done at the other, and the blowing weather we frequently met with made it both dangerous and difficult to keep upon the Coast. However, I shall point out the places that may be Erroneous in this as I have done in the other. From Queen Charlotte’s sound to Cape Campbell, and as far to the South-West as the Latitude 43 degrees, will be found to be pretty Accurate; between this Latitude and the Latitude 44 degrees 20 minutes the coast is very Doubtfully laid down, a part of which we hardly, if at all, saw. From this last mentioned Latitude to Cape Saunders we were generally at too great a distance to be Particular, and the weather at the same time was unfavourable. The Coast, as it is laid down from Cape Saunders to Cape South, and even to Cape West, is no doubt in many places very erroneous, as we hardly were ever able to keep near the Shore, and were sometimes blown off altogether. From the West Cape down to Cape Farewell, and even to Queen Charlotte’s sound, will in most places be found to differ not much from the truth. [ed. note: It only took Cook six-and-a-half months to draft the above "chart."]

Mention is likewise made in the Chart of the appearance or aspect of the face of the Country. With respect to Tovy Poenammu, it is for the most part very Mountainous, and to all appearance a barren Country. The people in Queen Charlotte’s sound–those that came off to us from under the Snowy Mountain, and the five we saw to the South-West of Cape Saunders–were all the inhabitants, or Signs of inhabitants, we saw upon the whole Island; but most part of the Sea Coast of Aeheinomouwe, except the South-West side, is well inhabited; and although it is a hilly, Mountainous Country, yet the very Hills and Mountains are many of them cover’d with wood, and the Soil of the plains and Valleys appear’d to be very rich and fertile, and such as we had an opportunity to examine we found to be so, and not very much incumber’d with woods.

It was the Opinion of every body on board that all sorts of European grain, fruit, Plants, etc., would thrive here; in short, was this Country settled by an industrious people they would very soon be supplied not only with the necessaries, but many of the Luxuries, of Life. The Sea, Bays, and Rivers abound with a great Variety of Excellent Fish, the most of them unknown in England, besides Lobsters, which were allowed by every one to be the best they ever had eat. Oysters and many other sorts of shell fish all Excellent in their kind. Sea and Water Fowls of all sorts are, however, in no great plenty; those known in Europe are Ducks, Shags, Gannets, and Gulls, all of which were Eat by us, and found exceeding good; indeed, hardly anything came Amiss to us that could be Eat by Man. Land fowl are likewise in no great plenty, and all of them, except Quails, are, I believe, unknown in Europe; these are exactly like those we have in England. The Country is certainly destitute of all sorts of beasts, either wild or tame, except dogs and Rats; the former are tame, and lived with the people, who breed and bring them up for no other purpose than to Eat, and rats are so scarce that not only I, but many others in the Ship, never see one. Altho’ we have seen some few Seals, and once a Sea Lion upon this Coast, yet I believe they are not only very scarce,but seldom or ever come ashore; for if they did the Natives would certainly find out some Method of Killing them, the Skins of which they no doubt would preserve for Cloathing, as well as the Skins of Dogs and birds, the only Skins we ever saw among them. But they must sometimes get Whales, because many of the Patta Pattoas are made of the bones of some such fish, and an Ornament they wear at their breast (on which they set great Value), which are supposed to be made of the Tooth of a Whale; and yet we know of no method or instrument they have to kill these Animals.

In the woods are plenty of Excellent Timber, fit for all purposes except Ships’ Masts; and perhaps upon a Close Examination some might be found not improper for that purpose. There grows spontainously everywhere a kind of very broad-bladed grass, like flags of the Nature of Hemp, of which might be made the very best of Cordage and Canvas, etc. There are 2 sorts, one finer than the other; of these the Natives make Cloth, rope, Lines, netts, etc. Iron Ore is undoubtedly to be found here, particularly about Mercury Bays, where we found great quantities of Iron sand; however, we met with no Ore of any Sort, neither did we ever see any sort of Metal with the Natives. We met with some stones at Admiralty Bay that appear’d to be Mineral in some degree, but Dr. Solander was of Opinion that they contain’d no Sort of Metal. The white stone we saw near the South Cape and some other parts to the Southward, which I took to be a kind of Marble, such as I had seen on one of the Hills I was upon in Mercury Bay, Mr. Banks–I afterwards found–was of Opinion that they were Mineral to the highest degree; he is certainly a much better Judge of these things than I am, and therefore I might be mistaken in my opinion, which was only founded on what I had before seen not only in this Country, but in other parts where I have been; and at the same time I must observe we were not less than 6 or 8 Leagues from the Land, and nearer it was not possible for us at that time to come without running the Ship into Apparent Danger. However, I am no Judge how far Mineral can be distinguished as such; certain it is that in Southern parts of this Country there are whole Mountains of Nothing Else but stone, some of which, no doubt, may be found to contain Metal.

Should it ever become an object of settling this Country, the best place for the first fixing of a Colony would be either in the River Thames or the Bay of Islands; for at either of these places they would have the advantage of a good Harbour, and by means of the former an Easy Communication would be had, and settlements might be extended into the inland parts of the Country. For a very little trouble and Expence small Vessels might be built in the River proper for the Navigation thereof. It is too much for me to assert how little water a Vessel ought to draw to Navigate this River, even so far up as I was in the Boat; this depends intirely upon the Depth of Water that is upon the bar or flat that lay before the narrow part of the River, which I had not an opportunity of making myself acquainted with, but I am of Opinion that a Vessel that draws not above 10 or 12 feet may do it with Ease. So far as I have been able to Judge of the Genius of these people it does not appear to me to be at all difficult for Strangers to form a settlement in this Country; they seem to be too much divided among themselves to unite in opposing, by which means, and kind and Gentle usage, the Colonists would be able to form strong parties among them.

The [Maori] Natives of this Country are a Strong, rawboned, well made, Active People, rather above than under the common size, especially the Men; they are of a very dark brown colour, with black hair, thin black beards, and white teeth, and such as do not disfigure their faces by tattowing, etc., have in general very good features. The Men generally were their Hair long, Coomb’d up, and tied upon the Crown of their Heads; some of the women were it long and loose upon their Shoulders, old women especially; others again were it crop’d short. Their coombs are made some of bones, and others of Wood; they sometimes Wear them as an Ornament stuck upright in their Hair. They seem to enjoy a good state of Health, and many of them live to a good old Age. Many of the old and some of the Middle aged Men have their faces mark’d or tattow’d with black, and some few we have seen who have had their buttocks, thighs, and other parts of their bodies marked, but this is less common. The figures they mostly use are spirals, drawn and connected together with great nicety and judgement. They are so exact in the application of these Figures that no difference can be found between the one side of the face and the other, if the whole is marked, for some have only one side, and some a little on both sides; hardly any but the old Men have the whole tattow’d. From this I conclude that it takes up some time, perhaps Years, to finish the Operation, which all Who have begun may not have perseverance enough to go through, as the manner in which it must be done must certainly cause intollerable pain, and may be the reason why so few are Marked at all–at least I know no other. The Women inlay the Colour of Black under the skins of their lips, and both sexes paint their faces and bodies at times more or less with red Oker, mixed with fish Oil.

[Maori Fashion]

Their common Cloathing are very much like square Thrumb’d Matts, that are made of rope Yarns, to lay at the doors or passages into houses to clean ones shoes upon. These they tie round their necks, the Thrumb’d side out, and are generally large enough to cover the body as low as the knee; they are made with very little Preparation of the broad Grass plant before mentioned. Beside the Thrumb’d Matts, as I call them, they have other much finer cloathing, made of the same plant after it is bleached and prepared in such a Manner that it is as white and almost as soft as flax, but much stronger. Of this they make pieces of cloth about 5 feet long and 4 broad; these are wove some pieces close and others very open; the former are as stout as the strongest sail cloth, and not unlike it, and yet it is all work’d or made by hand with no other Instrument than a Needle or Bodkin. To one end of every piece is generally work’d a very neat border of different colours of 4 or 6 inches broad, and they very often Trim them with pieces of Dog Skin or birds’ feathers. These pieces of Cloth they wear as they do the other, tying one End round their Necks with a piece of string, to one end of which is fixed a Needle or Bodkin made of Bone, by means of which they can easily fasten, or put the string through any part of the Cloth; they sometimes wear pieces of this kind of Cloth round their Middles, as well as over their Shoulders. But this is not common, especially with the Men, who hardly ever wear anything round their Middles, observing no sort of Decency in that respect; neither is it at all uncommon for them to go quite Naked without any one thing about them besides a belt round their waists, to which is generally fastened a small string, which they tye round the prepuse; in this manner I have seen hundreds of them come off to and on board the Ship, but they generally had their proper Cloathing in the boat along with them to put on if it rain’d, etc. The Women, on the other hand, always wear something round their Middle; generally a short, thrumbd Matt, which reaches as low as their Knees. Sometimes, indeed, I have seen them with only a Bunch of grass or plants before, tyed on with a piece of fine platting made of sweet-scented grass; they likewise wear a piece of cloth over their Shoulders as the Men do; this is generally of the Thrum kind. I hardly ever saw a Woman wear a piece of fine cloth. One day at Talago I saw a strong proof that the Women never appear naked, at least before strangers. Some of us hapned to land upon a small Island where several of them were Naked in the Water, gathering of Lobsters and shell fish; as soon as they saw us some of them hid themselves among the Rocks, and the rest remain’d in the Sea until they had made themselves Aprons of the Sea Weed; and even then, when they came out to us, they shew’d Manifest signs of Shame, and those who had no method of hiding their nakedness would by no means appear before us.

The Women have all very soft Voices, and may by that alone be known from the Men. The Making of cloth and all other Domestick work is, I believe, wholy done by them, and the more Labourious work, such as building Boats, Houses, Tilling the ground, etc., by the Men. Both men and women wear ornaments at their Ears and about their Necks; these are made of stone, bone, Shells, etc., and are variously shaped; and some I have seen wear human Teeth and finger Nails, and I think we were told that they did belong to their deceased friends. The Men, when they are dressed, generally wear 2 or 3 long white feathers stuck upright in their Hair, and at Queen Charlotte’s sound many, both men and women, wore Round Caps made of black feathers.

[Maori Warring]

The old men are much respected by the younger, who seem to be govern’d and directed by them on most Occasions. We at first thought that they were united under one head or Chief, whose Name is Teeratu; we first heard of him in Poverty Bay, and he was own’d as Chief by every one we met with from Cape Kidnappers to the Northward and Westward as far as the Bay of Plenty, which is a great extent of territories for an Indian Prince. When we were upon the East Coast they always pointed inland to the Westward for the place of his residence, which I believe to be in the Bay of Plenty, and that those Hippas or fortified Towns are Barrier Towns either for or against him; but most likely the former, and if so, may be the utmost Extent of his Dominions to the Westwards, for at Mercury bay they did not own him as their Prince, nor no where else either to the Westward or Southward, or any other single person; for at whatever place we put in at, or whatever people we spoke with upon the Coast, they generally told us that those that were at a little distance from them were their Enemies; from which it appear’d to me that they were very much divided into Parties, which make war one with another, and all their Actions and behaviour towards us tended to prove that they are a brave, open, war-like people, and void of Treachery.

Whenever we were Visited by any number of them that had never heard or seen anything of us before they generally came off in the largest Canoe they had, some of which will carry 60, 80, or 100 people. They always brought their best Cloaths along with them, which they put on as soon as they came near the Ship. In each Canoe were generally an old Man, in some 2 or 3; these used always to direct the others, were better Cloathed, and generally carried a Halbard or Battle Axe in their hands, or some such like thing that distinguished them from the others. As soon as they came within about a Stone’s throw of the Ship they would there lay, and call out, “Haromoi harenta a patoo ago!” that is, “Come here, come ashore with us, and we will kill you with our patoo patoos!” and at the same time would shake them at us. At times they would dance the War dance, and other times they would trade with and talk to us, and Answer such Questions as were put to them with all the Calmness imaginable, and then again begin the War Dance, shaking their Paddles, Patoo patoos, etc., and make strange contortions at the same time. As soon as they had worked themselves up to a proper pitch they would begin to attack us with Stones and darts, and oblige us, wether we would or no, to fire upon them. Musquetry they never regarded unless they felt the Effect; but great Guns they did, because they threw stones farther than they could Comprehend. After they found that our Arms were so much superior to theirs, and that we took no advantage of that superiority, and a little time given them to reflect upon it, they ever after were our very good friends; and we never had an instance of their attempting to surprize or cut off any of our people when they were ashore; opportunity for so doing they must have had at one time or another.

It is hard to account for what we have every where been told, of their Eating their Enemies killed in Battle, which they most Certainly do; Circumstances enough we have seen to Convince us of the Truth of this. Tupia, who holds this Custom in great aversion, hath very often Argued with them against it, but they have always as streniously supported it, and never would own that it was wrong. It is reasonable to suppose that men with whom this custom is found, seldom, if ever, give Quarter to those they overcome in battle; and if so, they must fight desperately to the very last. A strong proof of this supposition we had from the People of Queen Charlotte’s sound, who told us, but a few days before we Arrived that they had kill’d and Eat a whole boat’s crew. Surely a single boat’s crew, or at least a part of them, when they found themselves beset and overpowered by numbers would have surrender’d themselves prisoners was such a thing practised among them. The heads of these unfortunate people they preserved as Trophies; 4 or 5 of them they brought off to shew to us, one of which Mr. Banks bought, or rather forced them to sell, for they parted with it with the utmost reluctancy, and afterwards would not so much as let us see one more for any thing we could offer them.

In the Article of Food these People have no great Variety; Fern roots, Dogs, Fish, and wild fowl is their Chief diet, for Cocos, Yams, and Sweet Potatoes is not Cultivated every where. They dress their Victuals in the same Manner as the people in the South Sea Islands; that is, dogs and Large fish they bake in a hole in the ground, and small fish, birds, and Shell fish, etc., they broil on the fire. Fern roots they likewise heat over the fire, then beat them out flat upon a stone with a wooden Mallet; after this they are fit for Eating, in the doing of which they suck out the Moist and Glutinous part, and Spit out the Fibrous parts. These ferns are much like, if not the same as, the mountain ferns in England.

They catch fish with Seans, Hooks and line, but more commonly with hooped netts very ingeniously made; in the middle of these they tie the bait, such as Sea Ears, fish Gutts, etc., then sink the Nett to the bottom with a stone; after it lays there a little time they haul it Gently up, and hardly ever without fish, and very often a large quantity. All their netts are made of the broad Grass plant before mentioned; generally with no other preparation than by Splitting the blade of the plant into threads. Their fish hooks are made of Crooked pieces of Wood, bones, and Shells.

WAR CANOE OF NEW ZEALAND

The people shew great ingenuity and good workmanship in the building and framing their boats or Canoes. They are long and Narrow, and shaped very much like a New England Whale boat. Their large Canoes are, I believe, built wholy for war, and will carry from 40 to 80 or 100 Men with their Arms, etc. I shall give the Dimensions of one which I measured that lay ashore at Tolago. Length 68 1/2 feet, breadth 5 feet, and Depths 3 1/2, the bottom sharp, inclining to a wedge, and was made of 3 pieces hollow’d out to about 2 Inches or an Inch and a half thick, and well fastned together with strong platting. Each side consisted of one Plank only, which was 63 feet long and 10 or 12 Inches broad, and about 1 1/4 Inch thick, and these were well fitted and lashed to the bottom part. There were a number of Thwarts laid a Cross and Lashed to each Gunwale as a strengthening to the boat. The head Ornament projected 5 or 6 feet without the body of the Boat, and was 4 feet high; the Stern Ornament was 14 feet high, about 2 feet broad, and about 1 1/2 inch thick; it was fixed upon the Stern of the Canoe like the Stern post of a Ship upon her Keel. The Ornaments of both head and Stern and the 2 side boards were of Carved Work, and, in my opinion, neither ill design’d nor executed. All their Canoes are built after this plan, and few are less than 20 feet long. Some of the small ones we have seen with Outriggers, but this is not Common. In their War Canoes they generally have a quantity of Birds’ feathers hung in Strings, and tied about the Head and stern as Additional Ornament. They are as various in the heads of their Canoes as we are in those of our Shipping; but what is most Common is an odd Design’d Figure of a man, with as ugly a face as can be conceived, a very large Tongue sticking out of his Mouth, and Large white Eyes made of the Shells of Sea Ears. Their paddles are small, light, and neatly made; they hardly ever make use of sails, at least that we saw, and those they have are but ill contrived, being generally a piece of netting spread between 2 poles, which serve for both Masts and Yards.

[Maori Digs]

The Houses of these People are better calculated for a Cold than a Hot Climate; they are built low, and in the form of an oblong square. The framing is of wood or small sticks, and the sides and Covering of thatch made of long Grass. The door is generally at one end, and no bigger than to admit of a man to Creep in and out; just within the door is the fire place, and over the door, or on one side, is a small hole to let out the Smoke. These houses are 20 or 30 feet long, others not above half as long; this depends upon the largeness of the Family they are to contain, for I believe few familys are without such a House as these, altho’ they do not always live in them, especially in the summer season, when many of them live dispers’d up and down in little Temporary Hutts, that are not sufficient to shelter them from the weather.

The Tools which they work with in building their Canoes, Houses, etc., are adzes or Axes, some made of a hard black stone, and others of green Talk. They have Chiszels made of the same, but these are more commonly made of Human Bones. In working small work and carving I believe they use mostly peices of Jasper, breaking small pieces from a large Lump they have for that purpose; as soon as the small peice is blunted they throw it away and take another. To till or turn up the ground they have wooden spades (if I may so call them), made like stout pickets, with a piece of wood tied a Cross near the lower end, to put the foot upon to force them into the Ground. These Green Talk Axes that are whole and good they set much Value upon, and never would part with them for anything we could offer. I offer’d one day for one, One of the best Axes I had in the Ship, besides a number of Other things, but nothing would induce the owner to part with it; from this I infer’d that good ones were scarce among them.

Diversions and Musical instruments they have but few; the latter Consists of 2 or 3 sorts of Trumpets and a small Pipe or Whistle, and the former in singing and Dancing. Their songs are Harmonious enough, but very doleful to a European ear. In most of their dances they appear like mad men, Jumping and Stamping with their feet, making strange Contorsions with every part of the body, and a hideous noise at the same time; and if they happen to be in their Canoes they flourish with great Agility their Paddles, Pattoo Pattoos, various ways, in the doing of which, if there are ever so many boats and People, they all keep time and Motion together to a surprizing degree. It was in this manner that they work themselves to a proper Pitch of Courage before they used to attack us; and it was only from their after behaviour that we could tell whether they were in jest or in Earnest when they gave these Heivas, as they call them, of their own accord, especially at our first coming into a place. Their signs of Friendship is the waving the hand or a piece of Cloth, etc.

We were never able to learn with any degree of certainty in what manner they bury their dead; we were generally told that they put them in the ground; if so it must be in some secret or by place, for we never saw the least signs of a burying place in the whole Country. (ed. note: Maoris kept the locations of their burial lands secret. First, they buried a dead body; then they exhumed the corpse, cleaned the bones, and hid them in a cave or break in the rocks. It was important to hide bones, as people made weapons out of them.) Their Custom of mourning for a friend or relation is by cutting and Scarifying their bodys, particularly their Arms and breasts, in such a manner that the Scars remain indelible, and, I believe, have some signification such as to shew how near related the deceased was to them.

[Maori and Tahiti Lingo]

With respect to religion, I believe these people trouble themselves very little about it; they, however, believe that there is one Supream God, whom they call Tawney, (ed. note: Maoris did not pray, so this was probably the “creator” of animal and vegetables) and likewise a number of other inferior deities; but whether or no they worship or Pray to either one or the other we know not with any degree of certainty. It is reasonable to suppose that they do, and I believe it; yet I never saw the least Action or thing among them that tended to prove it. They have the same Notions of the Creation of the World, Mankind, etc., as the people of the South Sea Islands have; indeed, many of their notions and Customs are the very same. But nothing is so great a proof of their all having had one Source as their Language, which differ but in a very few words the one from the other, as will appear from the following specimens, which I had from Mr. Banks, who understands their Language as well, or better than, any one on board. [Ed. note: See Banks's linguistic codification below.]

In the daytime, the ground is a flat plane of pale white, the sky often a flat plane of slightly less-pale white. Above a certain latitude (about 69° North) there is no vegetation and hardly any topography. The horizon where earth and sky meet is sometimes invisible. If the wind picks up and lifts the dry snow into the air, you cannot tell where one stops and the other begins. At night, you could stare at the layers of stars, Milky Way, and brilliant green Northern Lights forever if the cold of the 19-hour February night wasn’t trying to kill you.

I was there to work on a media production that shot on and between the natural gas fields of the Mackenzie Delta. The field crew at the sites told us to wear a hard hat at all times. They told us only go to the bars in groups. They told us not to go to anyone’s house, “especially if they’re native.” The acrimony between what they call “the oilpatch” and the locals has left blood in the snow of weekend mornings for decades. Even in a just world, if you take away the sunlight for a month, there will be fighting.

They told us to stay in our vehicles. If something happens, and you leave your vehicle, you will not be rescued in time. You do not leave the road; to leave the road is to die. You are given an orange safety vest, so they can find your body, in case you don’t listen.

The road is usually a frozen river. To break through the ice and fall into the river is yet another way to die. Sometimes the road is the frozen-over Arctic Ocean. When you break through that ice, you sink. They say it’s the air bubbles in your decomposing body that cause it to float, and in the sub-freezing water of the Arctic Ocean, human bodies don’t decompose. If you fall into the Arctic Ocean, your corpse may be well-preserved, but no one will risk a life, or expend the cost, to retrieve it.

Suppose you do fall in. By the time you reach the surface, the hole you fell into may have frozen over already. If you can punch through ice with lungs full of 35° water, maybe you deserve to live, but then you’re soaking wet in subzero temperatures, and you will spend your last few conscious minutes too delirious with hypothermia to be thankful that your next of kin will have something to bury.

Once, I asked a guy who’d worked up there for twenty-five years if he’d known of anyone who’d fallen through the ice and lived. He could think of only two. One of them, a rookie driver, got out of his truck just in time before it broke through. He stood on a snowbank watching his truck sink as he waited for someone to come along, and he wasn’t far from town, so someone did. There are checkpoints along the frozen river and when you pass them, you’re supposed to call a dispatch office, so they know to get help if you don’t reach the next checkpoint at the predicted time. The rookie driver went back South, back home, the next day, and his truck was pulled out. A year later, that truck hit the frozen river again, driven by another rookie. Local drivers call that truck “The Submarine.”

The story of the other fallen survivor is more grim. A driver’s semi truck broke through the ice of the Artic Ocean, and he couldn’t get out in time. His truck plummeted past the snowballs of salt that form just below the surface of frozen ocean water, and he was able to draw just enough breath from the air pocket in his truck’s cab before diving out into the viscous, freezing water. The ice was already forming over the hole he’d just broken through, and he would have died if a fuel tank hadn’t broken off from his truck. He rode the fuel tank all the way to the surface, where it broke through the thin ice, and he flung his hand up over the top.

The driver behind him in the convoy had stopped well short of the hole in the ice and had already given up his buddy for dead before he saw that gloved hand rise up with the fuel tank. Negotiating the thin ice around the hole, the other driver pulled the fallen man out. A helicopter — an unusual sight, but not unheard of — just happened to be passing over. The pilot saw the incident, and landed nearby, soon flying the fallen driver to the nearest hospital within two hours. The driver was treated for hypothermia and frostbite, and released that night.

The rescued driver immediately went to the bar, where he wasted no time telling his story. A number of his listeners didn’t believe him and even took umbrage with the tale, at which point, the rescued driver became aggrieved, and a fight broke out. Less than twelve hours after he was submerged beneath the ice of the Arctic Ocean — a situation that no one in recent history had ever survived — the rescued driver was nearly beaten to death in a dingy bar. He was taken back to the same hospital he had just left, and this time, he was there for two months.

You don’t need to break through the Arctic Ocean or get in a bar fight to die north of the Arctic Circle. Being outside will kill you just fine. In February, the temperature is often -40° F in the middle of the afternoon. Most people will never know cold like this. I grew up in Minnesota, and once or twice it would get that cold, usually at night, but Minnesota is humid. Minnesota has lights and trees and telephones that always work. The Arctic is the world’s second-largest desert. The snowflakes are large and dry like the little paper circles from a three-hole punch. You can’t even eat them to stay alive. They will dehydrate you. They will kill you faster than drinking no water at all.

Often, while on assignment in the arctic, I used to walk from the building where I worked to the post office. The three-block walk took me past what I was told was the northernmost traffic light in the world. Who is to say? In that climate, on foot, a Don’t Walk sign is a mild death threat. Even if you’re wearing moisture-wicking base-layers and down pants and Dakota boots graded to -80°, the moisture on your eyeballs will still freeze. Under a balaclava and behind a tight pair of wraparound polarized lenses, you will blink the ice from your eyes as you walk. When you step indoors, the meltwater from your irises will moisten your cheeks, and you will remember to wipe them dry before you go outside again.

You might wonder how people live there, but they have for thousands of years. There are two indigenous populations in the Mackenzie Delta, the Inuvialuit and the Gwich’in. The desk clerk at the Gwich’in-owned hotel told me that the two groups are old enemies from way back. In the bars, after a few drinks, each group unites in their prejudice against any kind of outsider, but even in the daytime, I heard racial slurs directed against me. You can brush it off at first, remind yourself that it’s not personal, but it wears on you after a while. The Inuvialuit and Gwich’in men and women that owned and worked at the trucking companies that serviced the drilling sites were uniformly friendly and generous, but in my two-plus months in their world, I heard far more overt public racism than I hear in Los Angeles over a span of years.

The arctic’s small towns reminded me of small towns in North Dakota. Some people were friendly, some were wary, and a few were just looking for an excuse to beat the shit out of me. The teenagers dressed in FUBU and Rocawear and were excellent at Guitar Hero. On Sunday mornings the church traffic congested the main street, passing the homeless population (!) that lived in the crawl spaces beneath the buildings and the blood in the snow from the previous night’s altercations. But only once did someone pick a fight with me in the Arctic. I defused it by saying that I didn’t work on the natural gas fields, which was technically true. But I see you with them, the wiry man in the stained tan Carhartt jacket said. I’m only recording what they’re doing, I said.

A gruff woman then said that my team was in the area to exploit the locals in some other way. I told her that we didn’t really care about her at all. Which was true. You’re not why we’re here, I said. We’re not trying to make you look bad; we’re not trying to make you look like anything. The man went away, but the woman stayed — and remained mad at me for a while. Later on she gave me her number. I never called her.

Daily life in the Arctic seemed like daily life in a lot of small towns. People went to work, went to the bars, went home. The cable TV and Internet connections were superb. I watched The Wire and the John Adams HBO miniseries when I was there. The food was hearty meat-and-potatoes kind of fare — poutine, hamburgers, Salisbury steak. The availability of fresh fruit and vegetables was scattershot and fluctuating. Prices were extremely high. A bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz was $34.00. A six-pack of Kokanee beer in cans was $13.00. The practice of mixing Clamato or another kind of vegetable juice in your beer was widespread, I suspect, because it made the beer last longer.

Most dry goods were also extremely expensive. A friendly mechanic who looked like Billy Gibbons from ZZ Top said that he once lost a Mac tool set out of a poorly closed cargo hold a few dozen miles from town. Of course, he forced the pilot to land. He believed that otherwise someone else would find out about the tools and steal them.

Things from the Arctic weren’t always that easy to come by either. To eat caribou or musk ox or elk or another arctic mammal, you pretty much had to know someone. I ate the first two. They handed out fermented whale blubber at the spring festival. I did not eat that: It smelled 126-times-worse than the socks of someone with athlete’s foot who’d just run a marathon ankle-deep in bleu cheese. Someone brought it back to the hotel, and it stunk up an entire floor for a day.

Surprise: There are no penguins in the Arctic. They’re in the Antarctic, and you might go on a special trip just to see them. The Arctic has polar bears. You will go out of your way to avoid them at all costs.

You must attend safety training to be present on a natural gas drill site. The section of the safety manual that covers polar bear attacks reads:

If a Bear Approaches:

DO NOT APPROACH THE BEAR

Seek shelter (camp, vehicle, under a vehicle)
Shout or make noise

Drop a pack or item of clothing if retreating. It’s always a good idea to move slowly away from a polar bear while leaving a trail of items. The polar bear is a curious animal and will to stop to inspect each item giving you time to free yourself of the danger. If you’re near shelter and confronted by a polar bear, remember, move slowly towards that shelter and leave the bear plenty of items to keep it distracted.

Gather together in a group; make yourself look bigger by holding a jacket over your head.

If a Bear Attacks:

Find safe shelter.

Defend yourself. If you encounter a female defending her cubs, get away from the bears and remove yourself as a threat to the cubs. Do not fight back.

Polar bear attacks occur most often at sites of human habitation, such as hunting camps, weather stations, and towns. Compared to other bears, polar bears are more willing to consider humans as prey. Consequently, the person attacked is usually killed unless the polar bear is killed first.

During my time in the arctic, the natural gas companies hired a small cadre of Inuvialuit men with snowmobiles and high-powered rifles to patrol the perimeters of the drilling areas and shoot any polar bears on sight. They’re a real threat: Due to the very real effects of global warming on their environment, polar bears have moved a good deal farther south than they have habitually ranged. In my last month on location, a town some 500 miles south of where I worked had two polar bear sightings. This was considered “unheard of.”

By the time I left the arctic, in April, the temperature was above freezing. The frozen river was closed to travel. The sun was out for 18 hours a day. You could see people’s faces when you ventured outside. I even saw someone in shorts.

I flew back with an associate producer named John and a petroleum services company employee named Marcel. John and I took Marcel out for dinner as one way of saying thank you for his participation in our project. For the first time in months, I had cell phone reception, drank fresh fruit juice, and saw attractive young women. I saw trees. I saw neon. The vehicle transporting me lacked an AC plug dangling beneath the radiator grill. Within a week of being home I had eaten either sushi or Mexican three times apiece. Within three weeks I was in a relationship.

I’d go back to the Arctic in the summertime. I hear it gets up into the 70’s, and that the wetlands of the delta are a breeding ground for giant mosquitoes. It is said that they’ve fatally sucked the blood from drunks and skinny-dippers; there are stories. In the winter, the Arctic is chaotic, manifold, and cruel in how it metes out death, but in the summer, when the heavy curtains are drawn to block the brightness of night, its extremes wield a more comfortable moral. You just won’t be able to sleep.

Non Mi Sento Bene, Sto Male
I Don’t Feel Well

These are not the words any traveler wants to utter in Italy. However, if you spend enough time there, sooner or later you are likely to prendere un raffreddore (take or come down with a cold), pigliarsi un malanno (catch a minor illness), suffer mal d’auto, mal d’aria, or mal di mare (car/air/seasickness), or farsi male (do one self harm or get hurt).

Several years ago  my husband injured his neck while working out at a gym in Italy. I called a doctor-friend, who seemed more puzzled than concerned when I reported that Bob “ha un’ ingiuria.” “Ingiuria,” I learned, means insult. I should have used the term infortunarsi (which describes the unfortunate state of getting injured or having an accident).

No, I assured our friend, there was no blood (sangue) and no need for bandages (le bende). And no, Bob had not perduto conoscenza (lost consciousness), perso i sensi (lost his senses) or venuto meno (came less) — all expressions for fainting or passing out. He did not have nausea (the same in English and Italian). And he did not dare di stomaco (give of the stomach) or, more colloquially, vomitare or rimettere (vomit, puke).

“Peggiora?” “Is it getting worse?” he asked. The answer was no.

“Meno male!” (”Thank goodness”) he said. Nothing seemed rotto (broken), and he saw no need to call il 118 (Italy’s emergency equivalent of 911) or go to a Pronto Soccorso (emergency room. He suggested we go to the local farmacia (pharmacy) to get an analgesico (pain killer).

“Una compressa al giorno” (”one tablet a day”), said the farmacista. “Da prendere dopo — non prima-i pasti” (”to be taken after, not before, meals). Pretty soon Bob si sentiiva meglio (was feeling better).

We’ve returned to the local farmacista many times since for mostly minor maladies such as headache (mal di testa), stomach ache (mal di stomaco), and sore throat (mal di gola). While waiting in line, I’ve learned the words for all sorts of problems: taglio (cut), ferita (wound, usually with blood), livido (bruise), strappo muscolare (pulled muscle), and  febbre alta (high fever). I’ve also met an Italian ipocondriaco (hypochondriac) or two.

Some medical problems, such as l’asma (asthma), l’artrite (arthritis), and diarrea (diarrhea), have similar names in English and Italian. Others may make their victims just as miserable but undeniably sound better in Italian: tosse ( cough), pressione alta (hypertension); capogiro (spinning head or dizziness), stitichezza (constipation).

I  heard my favorite Italian euphemism for a bodily function from a little boy who wrinkled his nose and asked his mother: “Chi fa il profumino?” (Who is making the little perfume — that is, passing gas?) It reminded me that il riso fa buon sangue. Laughter makes good blood or, as we would say In English, good medicine.

Words and Expressions

farne una malattia — get sick over something, take it to heart’
Ho bisogno di un medico — I need a doctor
Mi fa male qui — it hurts here
malessere — indisposition
ricetta medica — prescription or “medical recipe”

I was waiting for my flight to Vietnam after spending a week on the island of Koh Tao which I will describe in a moment but the scene around me right now at this sidewalk cafe is so incredible it demands a comment. I’m in Ho Chi Minh, drinking a dollar Saigon Beer, staring at what looks to be a cross between Bladerunner and a Motocross event. Motorcycles and scooters line up at the stoplight in front of me, waiting impatiently for it to turn green before they scream through it as a solid mass. I’ve never seen so many motorbikes in one place in my life. Or face masks. They apparently take their masks rill seriously here in Vietnam. I don’t know if it’s the swine or the bird or if it’s a religious thing, like a frontal beanie of sorts, but they’re all over the place and today I saw a woman who’d strapped one on that matched her black floral pants. That’s like blowing your nose in something that matches your purse! I wonder how many of those things she owns.

Anyway, Koh Tao. One of the top ten diving destinations in the world and even though I stuck to snorkeling I have to say that I have never had my mind so blown by Underwaterworld before. It was like swimming through a cartoon – rocks with bright blue and purple glittery lips that open and close when you swim by, big black fish with bright orange feather type things flowing off their fins, schools of neon blue, bugeyes, needlenoses, flatheads – it was right up there with the drag show I saw the next night (Queens Cabaret, Koh Tao, Thailand, definitely go if you’re in town).

I have to mention how on the way to Koh Tao, when I was all grouchy and irritated, feeling like I was trapped in some sort of Spring Break Gone Wild nightmare (because I was), I was on the ferry sitting behind this guy who was coughing up his insides. I decided to move in an attempt to not catch whatever was slowly killing him, and the only place I could find to sit was out on the deck with about eight guys, all of whom were busy drinking themselves into oblivion while they bragged about how many times they’d been taken to the emergency room to get their stomachs pumped. They were mostly Irish, all loud, half naked and ultimately broke out into a series of Irish drinking songs and pissing over the side of the boat.

I stuck it out for a bit, hating to seem like the craggy old lady that I was, but ended up sitting behind The Lung of Death downstairs again when I couldn’t take it anymore.

So we get off the boat and are herded into the Thai version of cabs which are pick up trucks with benches in the back and who am I crammed in there with but Animal House. And this nice quiet Swedish family who got soaked with beer alongside me when the boys decided it was time for a beer fight.

Then, because what you focus on you will absolutely get, when we got off at the station and all walked off to our respective buses, I was once again treated to my favorite travel mates. They were so wasted by the time we got on the bus that the driver pulled over several times and threatened to kick them off while waving his flip flop over his head.

Then it finally ended. The beer-soaked Swedes and I herded off to the overnight boat to Koh Tao without them. I have never seen anything like this boat – it’s basically got two long rows of mattresses lining the walls on the top level and engines, bathrooms, cargo and Thai men running around in their undies on the bottom. It’s a floating slumber party and there’s no saying who you’ll end up spooning in the middle of the night. Hello!

But back to the drunks who, in hindsight, I would like to thank. It was just too much of an onslaught not to mean something in my grouchy state. And this is what it meant to me: Nothing forces you to get over yourself more than being stuck face to face, beer burp to beer burp, with the very thing you are trying to avoid. It forces you to surrender, to stop trying to impose your will where it’s unimposable and instead see what the situation has to offer (and why you attracted it to yourself in the first place). I was sooo over being surrounded by drunken twenty somethings that I wound up with them sitting in my lap, slurring the words to American Girl in my face. It wasn’t until I high fived them back and shared a warm beer with them that I started meeting the kind of people I wanted to meet on my trip. Not sure if one had anything to do with the other, but I’ll thank them for it anyway because as much as I hate to admit it, they did kind of crack me up once I stopped wanting to kill them.

As print newspapers fight to stay alive, travel sections lose pages and steadily increase service journalism while operating under more scrutiny than ever. In support of our paper/e-ink colleagues, here’s the Sunday print travel news that’s fit to post about.

Today marks a milestone for the Scorecard: Two 10/10 carry-on scores in one week. It’s a pretty amazing thing when a travel story manages to cross the line between reportage and fiction to become the best of both. This week I read two stories in two different newspapers that managed to do exactly that; two stories that were so good I had to pause for a minute and whisper to myself, “Wow, that was really f-ing good.” And yes, I even censor f-bombs launched internally.

Moving on: One of the Perfect 10’s was, perhaps expectedly, the New York Times. Joshua Hammer’s piece on hiking through Dogon country in Mali is beautifully written, but so are a lot of stories in the NYT. This piece was elevated by its subject matter: the animistic and isolate Dogon people, and a documentation of their homes and rituals.  In my favorite two passages, Hammer contrasts the Dogon people’s reverence of the forces of life/creation and death.

First, there’s the “life” graph:

Inside the maze, every structure, every scratching on a wall, was replete with symbolism. At the center of the village stood the dwelling of the hogon, who is believed to be able to bring rain and good fortune. A two-story mud palace perforated with a dozen apertures, each the length and width of a person, the structure looked like a giant toaster lying on its side. The openings, David explained, are for the spirits of village ancestors so that they can go in and out with ease; the authentic ostrich eggs mounted atop the turrets represent the life force conferred by the creator god, Amma.

And then comes death:

The force of death, too, is never far from sight in the Dogon world, where health clinics are few and far between and most sick people rely on the monkey paws, beads and other talismans of the village medicine man. We saw the widow’s house, a crude hut built on the village outskirts where a widow must dwell, with her sisters, for three weeks after her husband’s death; and a smoothened boulder, where the departed soul is given offerings for a year after death — the one we saw was sprinkled with millet flakes.

SCORE: 10/10 carry-ons

The second “Wow” story ran in a paper that doesn’t always run the greatest travel stories: The Chicago Sun Times. Frank Bures’ piece on a little-known Frank Lloyd Wright cottage in a state park in the Wisconsin Dells may not be as exotic as the NYT piece on Mali, but it succeeds for the same reasons: a perfect combination of great writing and a fascinating subject. The graph in which Bures explains the backstory of the cottage is a perfect example:

It’s a place with a strange, dark past: The house’s namesake was a young computer programmer at the Wisconsin Department of Motor Vehicles who wanted to study at Wright’s architecture school, Taliesin, but was rejected. So instead, he commissioned the cottage from Wright but committed suicide before it was finished in 1959, the same year Wright died. After that, it was sold to another family, who finished it and sold it to the state in 1966.

But Bures takes it to another level with a rather insightful look at the design of this particular place, Wright’s overall design philosophy, and the generally held beliefs of many naturalists. “If you truly believe nature will never fail you, you must redefine ‘fail,’” he writes. “Nature will kill your children and wipe out your species without a second thought. Nature doesn’t care. Nature is value neutral.”

SCORE: 10/10 carry-ons

Kayleigh Kulp’s story of adventure in Honduras for the Miami Herald may not quite be on par with the 10/10 geniuses of the week, but it’s a solid, well-told story nonetheless. A story that could have been focused entirely on river-rafting and cliff jumping becomes a whole lot more interesting when Kulp ties in her reservations about visiting a country known for pickpockets and its recent military coup.

After I dropped 30 feet into the Rio Cangrejal, I realized I had been scared for no reason. But I’m not talking about the plunge, or of the Class V rapids I rafted, the rocky, untamed jungle I climbed, or of the zipline on which I soared over gushing rapids and rocks.

What got to me were the scary stories of civil unrest, drug trafficking and petty crime from friends and family, and that was before President Manuel Zelaya was overthrown by a military coup last year for his radical efforts to change the Honduran constitution. They swore I would come back from Honduras with picked pockets and emotional scars.

Score: 7/10 carry-ons

Similarly solid, but not quite amazing, was Christopher Reynolds story on Todos Santos for the LA Times. Focused on the artsy expat town as the anti-Cabo spring break destination, Reynolds paints a dreamy picture of desert vistas, delicious Italian meals cooked up by transplanted Romans and charming streets filled with little galleries.

These three short, consecutive paragraphs, however, are emblematic of what keeps the story from being all that enjoyable of a read.  Filled with quotes and directions, they turn it into more of a service-y travel guide than a story:

Pat Cope, who arrived from Los Angeles to open a gallery with her husband, Michael, and infant son, Lane, remembers that “when we first moved here, all I heard was roosters.” Sixteen years later, Lane is contemplating colleges, and the roosters still greet each morning, Cope said, but “I don’t hear them.”

Todos Santos, said Paula Colombo, co-owner of the Café Santa-Fé, “is real. Good and bad, it’s real.” Now that the recession has slowed the pace of coastal vacation-home building outside town, Colombo added, “maybe we can settle down and do what we have to do to keep this place as magnificent as it could be …an oasis in the desert.”

My first stop was at Harper’s Rancho Pescadero hotel (no warning given, full price paid). Billed as a different kind of “dude” ranch, it has been busy since it opened in November 2009 with 12 rooms, a restaurant, a bar and a pool. If things keep going this well, Harper said, the hotel could add 15 units by year’s end.

SCORE: 5/10 carry-ons

Well, I’m happy to report that your optimistic correspondent was wrong: Siberian eco-tourism is incredible, even if it’s not as balmy as Costa Rica.

See, there’s this giant lake in Siberia, Lake Baikal, sometimes called “the Pearl of Siberia.” It holds 20 percent of the planet’s fresh water, and its held sacred by the local indigenous tribes, the largest of which is the Buryat. Lake Baikal has been endangered at various points in the past several decades by the encroachment of development, mainly paper mills that dump waste into the lake. Back in the 1960s a group of local and international environmentalists petitioned UNESCO to add it to its list of World Heritage Sites, thinking that would be a good way to help protect the lake.

And it was. But four years ago there was a proposal to route an oil pipeline along the lake (great idea, obviously), and Putin held out out against outcries from all sorts of groups. Then UNESCO sent him a letter asking him to move the pipeline or they’d put Baikal on the List of World Heritage Sites in Danger. Lush then changed his tune.

Putin directed that the pipeline be moved, saying, “If there is even the smallest, the tiniest chance of polluting Baikal, then we must think of future generations and we must do everything to make sure this danger is not just minimized, but eliminated.”

Problem is that the lake is in danger again. The Baikalsk Pulp and Paper Mill, one of the most notoriously polluting mills in the region, was closed in 2008, much to the excitement of locals, but it has recently re-opened, thanks to a loan and pat on the back from Putin. In addition to helping the plant to re-open, Putin is letting it out of legislation requiring updates on their machinery and a directive to use waste-reducing technologies. When the plant closed the small town of Baikalsk lost most of its jobs, so Putin is framing the mill re-opening as a sort of “stimulus package” for the town. The  thing is, Russia has an economic development policy that helps out towns with only one source of income, so if the mill were allowed to remain shut, the town would likely benefit from government support of education and the creation of new potential industries.

The locals are taking matters into their own hands and aiming for a different development strategy. Namely: eco-tourism. Working in partnership with nonprofits like Center for Safe Energy, Baikal Watch and Baikal Environmental Wave, environmentalists in the area are building a 2,000-mile trail around the lake, called The Great Baikal Trail. So far 500 miles have been built with the help of 4,000 local volunteers and 2,000 international volunteers. The trail goes around the lake and through the forests that run alongside it, some of which include volcanic hot springs and waterfalls.

What makes it sort of an ideal ecotourism spot is that it’s not all just about nature. There are two main cities near Baikal — Irkutsk and the Buryat capital of Ulan-Ude — and back when the Soviet Union was the Soviet Union, Irkutsk was an open city but Ulan-Ude was closed. Consequently, Irkutsk has a European look and is sometimes called “the Paris of Siberia,” while Ulan-Ude remained a traditional Buryat city and thus looks Asian. Point being, the culture of the Buryat was preserved — so a visit to that region introduces a world most people (or Americans, at least) lack knowledge about. A world including unusual architecture (Buddhist temples plus the yurts the Buryat call home); music (their traditional string instrument looks like a mandolin with a giant neck and sounds like Pete Seeger wailing on the banjo); the people (they are friendly and warm, dress in vivid colors, and have a centuries’ old shamanic tradition); and language (the Buryat have their own tongue, and it’s in the same family as Mongolian, so it sounds more Asian than Russian).

To give you an idea of the scene, here’s a shot of local Buryat people:

Above and beyond that here’s a place that fulfills the great dream of eco-tourism: the more people that go there, the better chance there is of protecting all the things that make it wonderful. On that count, Greenpeace and World Wildlife Fund are planning to ask UNESCO in July to send another letter to Putin. Hopefully it will work, but it’s not likely to be a permanent solution.

A few thousand visitors per year, though? Pumping money into the local economy and supporting businesses and groups that protect the area?  It’s not that unreasonable of a plan; despite its reputation as a frozen hinterland, Siberia actually has warm summers (temperatures get up to the 90s) during which you can swim in the lake, hike through taiga forests, or take a boat ride to the islands of Lake Baikal to check out the area’s nerpa seals–the only freshwater seals in the world.  That plus all of the attributes listed above could make it a prime ecotourism destination … not to mention a great vacation destination for hipsters to name-drop in coffeeshops.

La Donna

Woman

Italy celebrates la giornata della donna (Woman’s Day) on March 8, when husbands, boyfriends, and bosses present the women in their lives with bouquets of yellow mimosa. This weekend many of Italy’s museums and monuments are also offering free admission to le donne.

Although Woman’s Day is a relatively recent invention, created in 1911, la donna has always played a complex, critical role in Italian life–and language.

No one may have understood this better than Nicolò Tommaseo, a nineteenth-century essayist and iconoclast  whose passions included women and words. He demonstrated his devotion to the latter by compiling the Dizionario dei sinonimi, an encyclopedic narrative dictionary of Italian synonyms, published in 1864, and unmatched in any other language and literature.

Italian alone, he contended — and in particular the Tuscan dialect that shaped the language — captures sfumature (nuances), the same word Italian uses for the subtle brush strokes of artists like Leonardo .

In Italian, for instance, a donna can also be a:

*donna allegra or donna di facili costumi — a woman of easy virtue

*donna di casa — housewife (also called a casalinga)

*donna di mondo — worldly, sophisticated woman

*donna di servizio –housemaid, domestic help

*prima donna — leading lady

*donnina — clever or sensible girl

*donnino — womanly or mature girl who takes on adult responsibilities despite her young age

*donnetta — common or ordinary woman, also an old maid or a woman of no value

*donnaccia — bad-tempered woman, tart, prostitute

*donnone — tall, imposing or large woman

*donnicciola — simple or stupid woman.  gossip, or if used for a man, sissy or coward

A donnaiolo, however, is no lady, but a ladies’ man or womanizer.

Tommaseo further distinguished between una donna cattiva and una cattiva donna (English speakers would translate both as a bad woman).  However, the phrases do not have the same meaning in Italian. Una cattiva donna dresses badly and presents herself poorly, while una donna cattiva is spiteful and full of malice. Either could be una cattiva moglie (bad wife), who isn’t good at running a household and caring for a family, or una moglie cattiva, with a mean or wicked spirit.

Sayings and Expressions:

“Chi dice donna dice danno” — who says woman says damage (women are synonymous with harm)

“Quel che donna vuole Dio lo vuole” — what woman wants, God wants.

“Nè donna, nè tela a lume di candela” — Choose neither a woman nor linen by candlelight (to avoid  a nasty surprise the next morning)

Dianne Hales is author of La Bella Lingua: My Love Affair with Italian, the World’s Most Enchanting Language.