Harry Hubinger

Stamps In My Passport: Places of Worship

October 1, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

Currently there is a great deal of press coverage about a Muslim community center being built in New York City near where the twin towers were – now referred to as “ground zero.” I don’t want to get into the dispute on this somewhat delicate subject, but it did cause me to look back over my travels and reminisce about the wide variety of places of worship that I have visited. I hope you will bear with me while I muse over a few of them that stand out in my mind.

Stamps in My Passport — Kiarong Mosque is the largest and the most magnificent mosque in Brunei.

Let me start out with the most memorable Christian service I attended. Barb and I had decided to decompress from an “around-the-world” trip by spending a couple of weeks in the Cook Islands. We rented a small beach-side cottage about ten kilometers from the main city of Avarua on the island of Rarotonga. The cottage was a little off the beaten path, and this location prompted us to rent a car. (The local buses operated on their own sweet time schedule…)

As we sat around one Saturday evening watching the sun sink slowly in the west, it dawned upon us that the next day was Easter. We looked up churches and found that Rarotonga had a church about every mile on the route that circled the island. So we chose one that was close to our cottage. The service on that Easter Sunday turned out to be one of the finest we have ever attended. In our effort to maintain a low profile we sat in the back row of the balcony. Not easy. The ushers kept trying to get the two visitors to sit in row one, but we won out.

The view from above was fantastic. All the ladies wore colorful, flowered hats adorned with local blooms. These contrasted with their male seatmates’ attire which consisted of white shirts and dark trousers. The music was totally a cappella, led by a chorus of ladies who sang the verse, followed by the entire congregation responding with the chorus of each song.

Perhaps the most contrasting house of worship which we have visited was the mosque in Brunei. I debated selecting this because the Mohammed Ali Mosque in Cairo, Egypt was by far the more impressive structure. (By the way, it was not named after the boxer – it was the other way around.) The Kiarong Mosque in Brunei was much more traditionally Muslim than the one in Egypt. The weather in Brunei was a standard one hundred four degrees Fahrenheit, but this did not dissuade our guide from dressing Barb in an abaya (the traditional long black robe) and, of course, the head covering to go with it. Our shoes and socks were left at the door, and we were only allowed into certain areas of the Mosque. The most obvious variation for us was the lack of seats or benches. A few worshipers were in attendance, and we watched as they proceeded through the ritual of prayer. It required a degree of dexterity as one went from standing, to kneeling, to touching one’s forehead to the floor. All this was done on the traditional prayer rug. The facilities themselves were polished and immaculate – a very impressive place of worship.

An Orthodox Church we visited, Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, was in Tallinn, Estonia. Once again there was an absence of benches, and the congregation stood while the officiant appeared from behind an altar to speak to those present. Dressed in flowing robes and with a heavy beard, he chanted his ritual while walking among the parishioners. His voice, loud and clear, made the small chapel resonate with warmth. I am sure his congregation felt the presence of God.

I have written before about my experience in the Buddhist Temple in Luang, Prabhang. Here we became uninvited witnesses to a family council. A wife who had been unfaithful, a younger man who was the culprit, and the cuckolded husband all sat with the respective friends and relatives at the feet of a great sitting Buddha, debating the fate of this marriage. The image of this group huddled around their mutual God-figure expressing an honesty that could happen only in such a sacred environment left a lasting impression.

During my life and my travels I have also discovered that a place of worship does not necessarily need to be “in a building.”

An example of the “no building” worship site is the Western Wall (or Wailing Wall) in Jerusalem. This is a remnant of the Wall that surrounded the historic Jewish Temple. Here I watched as long lines of pilgrims and Israeli natives stood waiting for their turn to worship in a historic site – very holy to them. Their reverence and emotion was overwhelming.

Finally, this is the last but certainly not the least of my theological recollections. Barb and I were invited by the cooking/serving staff at Kichwa Tembo Camp in Masai Mara, Kenya to attend their evening devotion. Here, around a huge fire with only the star-studded African sky providing illumination, we witnessed a pantheistic ceremony. We could hear and to some extent see the giraffes and elephants roaming free and grazing out beyond our protective fence. I still smile when I think about that night.

Remembrances – each experience full of reverence, worship, and respect.

Stamps In My Passport: The Coriolis Force

September 3, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

While suffering through a formal scientific education, I was exposed to a vast number of astonishing, explicit truths that almost always manifested themselves in some mathematical formulas. Naturally, I believed them because I was told to do so by a teacher, but some of them were harder to swallow than others. The one I really had trouble believing was that when you flushed your toilet in the southern hemisphere the water spun in the opposite direction than it did here at home or at school. It was in the ninth or tenth grade when they first tried to sell me on this principle. I spent the next several months watching the water every time I flushed or washed my hands to make sure that it circled in the same direction; surprisingly, it did. They named this phenomenon, “The Coriolis Force.” I’ve never forgotten it, but it took almost thirty years before I could finally put it to the supreme test.

I was beside myself with pleasure. Barb and I were finally going to East Africa, with so many new and exciting adventures in store for us. All of the magnificent animals, an actual safari, Mt. Kilimanjaro, the Ngorongoro Crater—the list was endless, and I was ready. Even more important, I had a life-long question that I hoped to find the answer to. Does “The Coriolis Force” really exist?

The first test was done at the Nairobi airport. We had left Cairo on an absolutely cloudless day and followed the Nile River due south. The flight tracked the river for hours before the terrain changed from arid desert to occasional trees, then finally to the Rift Valley of Kenya. We were in the air for almost eight hours and by the time we had touched down, gone through customs, and cleared immigration, I found myself eager to find a restroom and test the hypothesis. My trip to the washroom was a success, and the theory proved to be correct— the water spun clockwise!

The second test took place at the Mt. Kenya Safari Club where we were lucky enough to spend a couple of glorious days. The grounds are beautifully manicured, and the guest cottages are out-of-this-world. On our first evening there, we enjoyed a long, seven-course meal in the main lodge and returned to our cottage to find a roaring fire in the bedroom fireplace and a hot water bottle between the sheets for our sleeping comfort. But the most spectacular room of all was the bath. It contained a huge sunken tub nestled up to a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, outside of which grew a collection of exotic equatorial plants. An ideal setting for my test. While the main lodge itself was a few meters to the north of the equator, my huge tub was located 100 meters south. Not wanting to waste the water, I luxuriated in the bath for almost an hour and then eventually pulled the plug. To my absolute astonishment and amazement, the water once again rotated clockwise.

The final and by far the most detailed experiment occurred about a week later in the Kenyan village of Nanyuki. An elaborate demonstration was rigged to illustrate this hard-to-fathom phenomenon. A shallow pie pan with a pinhole in the center was filled with water. Several small sticks resembling toothpicks were floated on the surface, and the plug covering the hole was removed. This test was repeated three times over a twenty-meter distance. When one walked ten meters into the Northern Hemisphere, the sticks rotated counter-clockwise as the water drained from the pan. The reverse was true when one walked ten meters into the Southern Hemisphere. And, lo and behold, when performed on the monument, which designated the actual equatorial line, the water did not rotate at all—it merely drained out.

My faith in science has been restored. I leave any practical application of the principle to you.

California Sons in Retirement (SIRs), Part 3

September 3, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

Third of a four-part series dealing with retirement.

Update: When we last met our retired hero, Rob, he had just returned from his first-ever SIRs meeting.

Rob’s mind was a bit muddled. The meeting had been OK. The guys he met had all been friendly and helpful. The lunch itself was about a six on Rob’s scale of zero to ten. The meeting was precise, and the boss at the head table, who apparently held the title of Big SIR, had kept things moving – a trait Rob appreciated. He had enjoyed the speaker. Once again, the presentation had been about the right length – not too long – but entertaining enough to keep his interest. One of the officers had given him an application blank with only a mild amount of perceived pressure.

So, considering all this, what stood in Rob’s way of filling out the application and signing on?

In short, he missed a younger crowd. It was a step for Rob to admit he fit into the group. He needed a little push, and how was he to get it?

Well, when he left the meeting he had been given a monthly newsletter. As he paged through it he began to find himself leaning toward joining. Then a bright idea came to him. He looked at the newsletter and found the guy in charge of golf. He recognized that he would like some of the other activities as well. It would be fun to get back to bridge, maybe a little poker, and the idea of an exploratory walk with the group appealed – but the true test for Rob would be golf.

He called the person listed as chairman of golf and lied just a bit by telling him that he was joining the branch and would love to meet some of the men for a game of golf. The chair told Rob how to log onto the branch golf web site and how to register to find the upcoming events. Then he said, “Rob, because you’re new I will put you with a group of men with about your skill level until you are properly registered.”

Well, the golf match did it for Rob. He arrived about a half hour before his tee time. The three other guys he was to play with greeted him. He didn’t have to hassle with tee times, and the other players were great. (By the way, he beat two of them which helped.) And, the price was under what he paid on the weekends.

The three men all loved golf, talked up their SIR branch, and were loose and easy to be with.

It didn’t take Rob long to fill in his application and send it along. After all, they were scheduled to play again next week. He might just check out the walking group. That one didn’t even require a sign-up sheet.

Stamps In My Passport: North Korea

August 6, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

From time to time I admit to having visited over one hundred and fifteen countries, at least once. Some of these visits were quite lengthy, while others were extremely brief and came close to not counting at all.

The shortest stop in a country on my list had to be the one in North Korea. It may have been the quickest, but with the North Korean troops watching me through a window, and the impending threat of strife around me, it was one of the more interesting stops.

It came very close to not happening at all. Let me tell you about it.

Regnibuh is our Internet handle – it’s our last name spelled backwards. And, when we travel, it really gets a workout. Barb uses it to make reservations, book tours in cities we hope to visit, and hunt for sites not always obvious in those fat travel brochures.

08_10passport3 — The gravel/sand divided by a concrete bit, in Joint Security Area also known as Panmunjom, is where the border is drawn between North Korea and South Korea. South Korea is on the left hand side of this photo.

Singapore Air was offering an attractive price for airfare, a week’s lodging, and a couple of delightful side tours while visiting its principal city – a city which we both love dearly. We discovered the package on the Internet. Day by day, visit by visit, the details of our trip were falling into place. People thousands of miles apart were typing little notes to one another confirming our journey and making room for us.

A special feature of this package was a stop along the way at any point serviced by Singapore Air. We chose Seoul. This bustling metropolis in South Korea appealed to our sense of adventure, particularly because of the impasse of almost sixty years that exists with its neighbor to the north. Here, on a narrow band of land, two nations have faced one another with the constant threat of attack for almost two generations. We’ve fought several wars since then, but this belonged to my generation. The line separating the two countries is called the demilitarized zone or DMZ. A Quonset hut sits half in the north and half in the south and marks the piece of ground where the two countries negotiated an impasse way back in the fifties. The location of this standoff is the city of Panmunjom. We had heard that visits to Panmunjom could be arranged, but we were not quite sure how. Back to the Internet. Barb found a soldier stationed in the DMZ and after a great deal of Internet communication, he volunteered to arrange a visit for us up to the front line. The trip was sponsored by the USO. We were told what to wear, yes what to wear. Jeans were not acceptable – sorry Levis. Ladies needed to avoid shorts or anything even vaguely revealing. No tennis shoes. We all needed to look proper and prosperous. Instructions were also given on how to behave and what to expect. The deal was closed. At 7 a.m. we were to arrive at the Seoul USO facilities on the agreed-upon date, present ourselves, and we would be taken by military bus to the north. We congratulated ourselves on our Internet success. The deal was we would come in from the south and walk round the “negotiating” table – this stroll would put us in North Korea for only a few steps.

Stamps In My Passport: North Korean — The South Korean guard standing in attack position, is blocking the entrance to North Korea inside a conference building at the Joint Security Area in Panmunjeom. ROK (Republic of Korea) soldiers always wear these sunglasses to intimidate the enemy.

Some three weeks later, on the agreed-upon morning, we left our hotel in downtown Seoul and headed toward the USO. Twenty minutes later our cab deposited us at the door in plenty of time to meet any contingencies. It took us only a few minutes to find the proper authorities, and with due respect we presented ourselves.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hubinger are here and ready to go,” we said. The soldier smiled and began to search his list. Over and over again he checked the spelling, looked at all of the possibilities, and then grim-faced, announced, “Your names are not on the reservation list.”

Some mistake? Was our soldier friend unreliable? What could possibly have gone wrong? We were dejected and apparently had no options. We were about to retreat out the door to our hotel and lick our wounds when I happened to glance at the soldier’s list. Sure enough, there it was Mr. and Mrs. Regnibuh. I explained the situation to a smiling sergeant, who graciously acknowledged,

“Well, if Mr. and Mrs. Regnibuh don’t show up, I’ll be sure that the two of you can use their seats.”

Mission accomplished – we went to North Korea – we walked around the table – and I added another country to my list.

California Sons in Retirement (SIRs) Part 2

August 6, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

Second of a four-part series dealing with retirement.

Rob, our fictional hero, becomes bored after six months of retirement and begins to hunt around for stimulation. He meets a SIR (Sons in Retirement) group on the golf course and is invited to their next meeting.

Even when he awoke that morning, Rob wasn’t sure if he would attend the SIR meeting he had been invited to. Certainly after meeting a few SIRs on the putting green at the golf course and hearing about the organization, he felt like going with the flow. But now, as the time neared he wasn’t so sure. He’d looked at the SIR web site and couldn’t find a reason not to go. He had selected a branch website near to where he lived and liked the list of activities they had available for members. But, even so, he wasn’t a joiner and hated to go to meetings where he didn’t know anyone.

‘Are you going to that thing you talked to me about?” his wife asked. “Maybe, maybe not. Not sure.” he replied.

“Well if you don’t go you’ll need to find something around here for lunch. This is my card day, and I won’t be around.”

That settled it. Another homemade tuna lunch all alone was not what he had in mind. “Guess I’ll go.”

When he walked into the big hall and saw over a hundred guys milling around, he hesitated. But before he could turn and run he was grabbed by a couple of guys with “Greeter” badges on. Before he knew it he was part of the melee.

Actually things went quite well for Rob. He didn’t mind the opening with the pledge of allegiance, as he had always been a patriotic guy – or the brief prayer. The short business meeting really consisted of a litany of all the activities these guys were involved in. He heard golf which was one of his favorites, poker which he loved but didn’t do anymore, bridge which he would participate in, morning walks, eating out, trips both local and international – and on and on. Frankly he was floored by the variety and found himself caught up in the possibilities.

The lunch was acceptable and reasonably priced, and the people he sat with seemed likeable. The after-lunch speaker was humorous and short and did educate him on a little bit of local politics.

Someone handed him an application and made a low-key pitch on joining. He was in and out in a couple of hours, and overall it wasn’t that bad. Later that afternoon his wife quizzed him on the lunch.

He found himself caught up in the prospects of joining the golf group which played a different local course each week.

“Why not?” he thought. This looked like the ideal situation for him. There was “no pressure,” and it had all the activities he loved plus a lot more. He could go to a couple of meetings, see how they golf and other activities went, and then either keep going or quit. Better yet, there was no fee for joining. The only requirement was that he attend at least four or five meetings per year and pay for his lunch.

Rob filled out the application and sent it along.

Next month: Rob gets involved and boredom goes out the window.

Stamps In My Passport

July 15, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

You may find this a sensitive subject, and I can certainly understand why. Yet, we must all face it sooner or later. Death, that is. Now it seems that people of prominence, especially those who possess a great deal of either authority or money, attempt to circumvent this inevitably-final event by erecting monuments of one sort or another. Let me tell you right now, it doesn’t work. It does, however, seem to help the tourist trade. When traveling you continually run across burial places of local heroes. They vary in size and opulence. Some are more popular than others, but each country has its share. Over the years, I have visited a number of burial sites of prominent people and find most of them worth a visit. I often fail to bring the proper reverence to them. Nevertheless I find them interesting, and I strongly encourage you to seek them out and visit them if you can.

Let me share a few of these visits with you. They are presented for your consideration in no special order. Far be it from me to alienate any nation by denigrating their most important heritage.

We’ll start with Russia. One cannot help but be awed when viewing Red Square from its western edge. To your left stands the GUM department store, ahead is the magnificent onion-domed St. Basil’s church, and to your right the dark, foreboding walls of the Kremlin. As you work your way along these walls, you read the names of deceased Soviet heroes—generals who gave their all on the battlefields in both the Russian Revolution and the Second World War, and cosmonauts who first explored space for mother Russia. These human remains entombed in the Kremlin walls are nothing compared to the red marble monument nearby, which houses those of the author of communism, Lenin.

Our visit with Mr. Lenin began as we joined a short queue of mixed civilians and military awaiting their audience. Within minutes we were allowed inside. Here, flanked by guards, lay Mr. Lenin in a gray suit, white shirt, and tie – his moustache and goatee visible. He was completely encased in a glass container and looked quite at ease, just lying there. I would have loved to snap his picture, but I had been warned against this prior to entering. In fact, even stopping to gawk too long was discouraged. We trooped by along with everyone else and soon found ourselves back out in the street.

Just recently I read that the Soviet government was thinking about placing him in a more conventional cemetery. Maybe they have. At any rate, I did visit him some thirty years after he died and found him quite stoic.

Then there is Beijing, China. This visit began in a cobblestone square much larger than Red Square, namely Tienanmen Square near the heart of Beijing. The group we were traveling with was about thirty strong and about as American as can be. The tomb we were headed for was that of Chairman Mao and was much larger than Mr. Lenin’s. Also it had a line of several hundred people waiting for their audience. Our Chinese guide exerted a bit of authority, and we were allowed to cut in very near the front of the line. This bothered me a bit because if I were waiting in line to get into, say the White House in Washington, DC, and a bunch of run-of-the-mill Chinese tourists elbowed in, I’d have complained in a loud voice. Well, here I was doing it to them, and it bothered me. Not enough, however, to go to the back of a two hour line. At any rate, we entered this apparently-sacred shrine. I mention this because all voices became hushed, hats were removed, and a silent double line developed. We passed by Mr. Mao much the same as by Mr. Lenin. Mr. Mao, however, had on, fittingly, his Mao jacket. You know, the one that buttons up to his neck and ends in sort of a clerical collar. The outfit was a pale gray. I felt he looked a lot more robust than most of his pictures. Perhaps he had gained a little weight. We all silently and solemnly paraded by his glass case. Once again, no pictures.

Uncle Ho, or Mr. Ho Chi Minh, was not a lot different from the previous two. We were in Hanoi, Viet Nam, of course, which has a more immediately-remembered past. His mausoleum looked a lot like those of Messrs. Lenin and Mao except it was a trifle larger. Apparently the longer you last, the bigger the building. Uncle Ho’s last resting-place is in the middle of his last living-place. The houses he used, including his own private bomb shelter, surround the back forty of his tomb. He spent a number of years preparing for his leadership role as a cook on board ships, and also in France. Hence, he liked to cook in his kitchen until the end.

Our slow march past his glass case was much like the others. Rumor has it he travels to Moscow for a few months each year on a sort of cosmetic upgrade, and believe me it showed. He looked a lot healthier than the other guys did.

Our India visit occurred in the northwesterly part near the city of Agra. It appears that the Raj who ruled that section of the world found a beautiful young wife. She did her best for him, producing some twenty-one or so children, so the story goes. Unfortunately she gave out before he did, by dying when the last one arrived. This rich ruler built a beautiful shrine for her, and named it the Taj Mahal. It has some magnificent features I’m sure you’ve read about, specifically the reflecting pool and the way the sun turns it a brilliant white at sunset. The ruler and his bride are discreetly entombed on a lower floor, inaccessible to the public. Subsequently this was not as personal a visit as the others since we were kept upstairs.

England is loaded with graves and caskets of people of note. Either the Brits had a lot of early important leaders, or this is a country that wants to preserve its history. I could write a full book on all the people of note I visited here. For example, I stepped over Willy Shakespeare, gawked at King Henry VIII’s cement box, and waved at Lord Nelson in his tomb. The ones I liked best, however, were the side-by-side boxes of Queen Victoria and her consort Prince Albert. It seems Albert gave out at an early age, while Victoria carried on alone without him for many more years. Because Albert died so young, the likeness on top of his coffin showed a youthful and handsome face. Victoria, apparently concerned that a likeness of her on her demise would demonstrate a physical difference, had a likeness of herself at Albert’s age fashioned on her casket top. Hey, when you’re a queen, you can do as you please.

The thing I liked best about all of these visits was I didn’t have to talk to any of them. Or maybe that’s what I liked least. At any rate, if anyone asks I have an impressive list of dead rulers I have visited.

Harry Hubinger is a retired engineer who operated his own company for twenty years. He first began traveling outside the United States on business, but these visits escalated upon his retirement. He has now traveled to 115 countries and continues to add several new ones each year. In 1998 he began writing his humorous and insightful articles for a supplement to a local newspaper. These stories, based on experiences most travelers could identify with, soon earned him a wide local following. In 2005 he published his first book, Stamps in My Passport—a collection of travel vignettes. Harry has lived in Danville for almost forty years and has volunteered with the Danville Police Department for the past seven. His wife, Barbara, is the detail chronicler of their trips. Her journals provide the background for Harry’s broader view. You can get his book at: www.travelbookspub.com.

California Sons in Retirement (SIRs)

July 12, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

First of a four part series about retirement.

Rob, our recently-retired fictional hero, is discovering the downsides of not devoting a full day, every day, to his boss and his long-time employer.

Retirement was great at first. He slept in a bit each morning and read the paper before getting dressed. The long “honey-do list” was attacked and admittedly the easier jobs went first. He laid out detailed plans on how to handle the minor remodeling he and his wife had discussed so many times. He found Lowe’s and Home Depot less crowded than he was used to on the weekends. He had always loved golf and long walks and now began to investigate how to enjoy them at his leisure. There was even a list of local attractions he’d always meant to visit, and they now appeared within the realm of possibility. He even enjoyed having lunch with his wife whenever she wasn’t off to one of her activities. The thought of volunteering flicked in and out as well. Unconsciously he even expected a call or two from his employer or old business associates to ask him to do a little part-time fill-in work to help plug that gigantic hole he must have left at work.

But oh – the six month anniversary was coming up, and things were not as rosy as he had hoped.

First and foremost, he was bored. The camaraderie and intellectual stimulation he had had at work was somehow missing. The major in-depth conversations about sports and politics he had enjoyed with fellow workers was now limited to his wife. He knew how she felt about most topics as she did about his opinions. You can go over this just so many times. They had had a great time on that trip to Europe but after three weeks together he was secretly glad to be home.

The call from his employer and other business associates never came, or if they did he got the feeling that they really didn’t care about his opinion any more.

Golf presented its own problem. All the guys he used to play with on the weekends were unavailable during the week, and when he checked about joining them on the weekends he found the foursomes filled. When he wandered down to a local course he found he either played alone, there was no opening as a retired group filled the course, or he was matched with three others who dialogued among themselves and left him to wander along – sort of left out.

Our hero Rob was bored. Sure he loved his wife, but with the exception of their kids and their house, they had begun to lead somewhat separate lives. There had to be some answer to this, and it came in a most unexpected way.

One early Tuesday morning he tossed his golf clubs in the car and headed for the local course. He had breakfasted by himself because his wife and three of her friends were off on an “adventure” in San Francisco, and he was left alone. The yard projects looked too painful to work on for the third day in a row; and besides, he was bored – so off to the course he went.

His heart sank a bit when he saw the parking lot loaded with cars – and well it should have. The pro behind the desk listed the first opening a full two hours away from his arrival time. With nothing else to do he left his name on the list and headed for the putting green to while away the time. Frankly, it was pretty full as well.

Rob’s curiosity peaked, and he asked the pro what was going on.

“Every Tuesday morning the SIR group takes up ten starting times from us.”

Rob wandered back out to the putting green and, screwing up his courage, asked one of the other “puttees” what the deal was.

“SIR stands for Sons in Retirement. There are over one hundred and fifty branches with over twenty thousand members in Northern California. There are no dues, it is non-political, there is no religious orientation – the sole purpose is to help retirees, or semi-retirees enjoy themselves. They play golf, go on local trips, play bridge, go fishing, play tennis, go bowling, travel overseas, have classes on computers, etc.”

Rob’s new-found friend handed him a SIR business card and invited him to this fellow’s SIR branch for lunch the following week. Rob was intrigued, but a little bit hesitant. He never thought of himself as a “joiner” other than maybe a service club or two. Well, maybe he’d go home later and think about it all. There had to be a catch somewhere, and he was sure he’d find it.

(Next – Part Two: Rob learns about the SIR organization.)

For more information about SIRs check out the website at www.sirinc.org or contact Harry Hubinger at 925-837-4381.

Stamps In My Passport: Namibia

June 3, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

Nambia — Sossusvlei is a clay pan in the central Namib Desert, lying within the Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia. Fed by the Tsauchab River, it is known for the high, red sand dunes which surround it forming a major sand sea.

There are certain unique and distinct spots on this great planet of ours which are not duplicated anywhere. Locations where specific flora and fauna survive while becoming extinct elsewhere. Locations where wind, water, and topography come together to create an environment which is specific to just this single area. Usually indigenous peoples weave mysterious legends around these areas, and they are either avoided, or they become gathering places for worship and celebrations.

Some of these places, like Stonehenge are man-made. Others like our own Death Valley or Yosemite are works of nature. Two of my favorite such spots are low on most people’s radar, but they certainly fit the category. They are the so-called Skeleton Coast and the Namib Desert on the western edge of Namibia, near the southern part of Africa.

Our flight wasn’t exactly one of my favorites. To get to Namibia requires a certain amount of stamina. The concept of a direct flight from San Francisco to Windhoek, Namibia brings gales of laughter from most airlines. We eventually found the best, but believe me it wasn’t easy. We flew from San Francisco to London to Frankfurt and foolishly felt we had the stamina to go on. After a few hours of rest on the less-than-comfortable benches in the Frankfurt airport, we boarded a 747 headed for Windhoek. The flight added another eight hours to the twelve it took to get to Frankfurt – but hey, we were going to a new and exciting place.

The ride from the airport to our hotel almost made it worthwhile. It was October and the jacaranda trees were in full bloom. I wonder why these beautiful purple trees haven’t caught on more. They were spectacular.

Now just a quick history lesson. Way back in the seventeenth century the Germans moved into this area – probably to maintain some control of Africa as the British and other European countries were establishing footholds all over. During World War II the British in South Africa move in and kept the territory after the war. But the German influence remains – with German names and history spotted all over. A little side humor. There is a huge but totally useless steam engine located out in front of the no-longer-in-existence railroad station. It is named the “Martin Luther Engine.” The reason goes back to the days of the Reformation when Martin said

“I stand here firm, I can do nothing else.”

Soon after World War II the nation began to strive for independence and was granted that status in 1990.

The question remains – why would anyone want it? It is the second-least populated country in Africa and has an average per capita income of nearly $1.25 US per day. Still, it does all right with tourism and mining. But a couple of nicknames, such as “the land of contrasts” and “the land God made when she was mad” give you an idea of life in this part of the world. But let’s get on with this “contrast” thing.

Along the west coast, bordering the Atlantic Ocean sits a huge multi-kilometer long sand dune. For some reason, unexplained to me on my visit, it almost never rains here. Apparently it has something to do with the ocean tidal flow. These sand dunes range in color from red to yellow to black. We took a flight over them at dusk, and the contrasts were unbelievable. The dunes are several hundred meters high and march unchecked directly toward the Atlantic Ocean. I don’t know how fast they are moving, but they advance steadily, insistent on taking a bath.

Flying along the coast we could see why it is called the Skeleton Coast. The rotting hulls of several ships are visible. The sand has moved out to where these vessels were originally grounded, and one can’t help but wonder how they got so far inland to begin with.

Apparently the cross currents here are not only hazardous for ships but deposit skeletons of larger fish such as whales and sharks on these sandy beaches. Thus the name Skeleton Coast.

The next day we took a land safari out to the same area. Here we were exposed to unbelievable contrasts. With no rain the desert remains absolutely dry (How obvious can a statement be?) but being this close to the ocean fog rolls in off the water. So, surprisingly, a few things thrive on the moisture in the air. The most startling of these anomalies is the Welwitschia plant. (Don’t ask me to pronounce it.) Our guide claimed they are three to four thousand years old, and they sure look it. They resemble some succulents we had at one time that I forgot to water. My first observation was that they were about to die, but my guide insisted they have looked like this for several thousand years. I told him I’d come back in a few hundred years to check out their progress. He wasn’t amused.

There were other desert plants and creatures to behold too. We ran across, figuratively not literally, a sidewinder snake. They actually move sideways, leaving a strange pattern in the sand.

The visit despite the distance was a happy one. We were overcome with new and different sights which often come to mind as we spend our lives in the comforts of consistency. We need a break like this from the daily routine and grind which we face each morning. Somehow this everyday schedule seems easier when you have just returned from a grand adventure.

Harry Hubinger is a retired engineer who operated his own company for twenty years. He first began traveling outside the United States on business, but these visits escalated upon his retirement. He has now traveled to 115 countries and continues to add several new ones each year.

In 2005 he published his first book, Stamps in My Passport—a collection of travel vignettes. Harry has lived in Danville for almost forty years and has volunteered with the Danville Police Department for the past seven. His wife, Barbara, is the detail chronicler of their trips. Her journals provide the background for Harry’s broader view. You can get his book at: www.travelbookspub.com.

Stamps in My Passport: Nepal Wedding

May 7, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

Let’s face it—singing and dancing go together with “love and marriage like a horse and carriage.” I remember growing up and attending a lot of weddings. Invariably as the evening rolled on the band would get louder and louder and the music faster and faster. Eventually both young and old would be carried away with the festivities—and get out on the floor and dance.

This tradition is not only common here in the United States, but it spans the globe as well. I’ve sneaked a peek or two at weddings all over the world. The bride’s dress and/or the groom’s outfit may vary. The instruments probably take on different shapes and sounds, but as midnight approaches it seems as if everyone enjoys a dance. My most memorable eavesdropping on a wedding celebration occurred during anunforgettable night a number of years ago in Nepal.

You may recall from earlier stories that I was deeply involved in a start-up medical clinic in Nepal. My visits were not medically related, but rather I acted as a peace envoy between the headstrong western doctor who ran our clinic and the established government-controlled medicine men in Nepal. The two sides were in constant combat, it seemed, and I periodically went over to this remote country to smooth out the conflicts.

Our facilities were located in the city of Jorpati, about twenty kilometers from Kathmandu. Jorpati is just down the road from Bodha which houses the largest Buddhist Stupa in Nepal. This is a common tourist site, and I’m sure a number of you have visited there.

My visits usually lasted about two weeks, and my home for the duration of each stay was a relatively decent hotel called the Blue Star. Over the past few years the Blue Star has upgraded itself considerably, but at the time of my story it was not uncommon for a hotel employee to show up in my room about nine o’clock at night with a “flit” gun loaded with DDT. He would proceed to go around the baseboards of my room exterminating whatever bugs had dared to ventured in during the last twenty four hours.

My room was located on the second floor overlooking a courtyard filled with benches, tables and a slightly-raised platform. This area was used as an outdoor eating area, but it could also be rented for larger parties and gatherings. On my first-ever Saturday night in Nepal, I was privileged to look out over a most joyously-celebrated wedding ceremony.

True to form, after the dinner dishes from the wedding were cleared, a collection of stringed instruments accompanied by some percussion pieces arrived and began to entertain the guests. The noise kept me awake anyway, so I thought I might as well watch the goings-on below. It was an obviously joyous celebration with much laughter. The bride was a pretty little girl, no older than sixteen years I’m sure. She was dolled up fit-to-kill in a soft white dress which was loaded with multicolored shawls and a huge amount of colorful beads. Alas, the groom was in plain black with only a white Nehru shirt in contrast to his suit. I would guess most of you ladies would classify him as handsome—with his dark skin and black hair.

At just about midnight, a chant began to grow and grow, until the bride and groom in response to the chant got up on the stage to perform. They resisted a bit, but it was a foregone conclusion that they were going to lose. The performance began by the groom wrapping a rope around his bride’s waist, and, in a most aggressive fashion, he began to lead her around. He, the strong masculine type—she the weak and subservient bride following behind him. Slowly they began to circle the band which had now begun to play. The audience joined in with a resonant rhythmic clapping.

Around and around they went, but as they continued to circle, a change began to take place. Slowly but surely they were becoming equal—walking side by side. The rope was now binding them together more as partners. He was losing his bravado, and she became more of a participant as they circled the band.

The beat grew faster and the clapping louder The change of positions continued as they walked round and round. Now he was becoming the horse and she the driver. The rope began to act as a bridle for him and a means for her to steer him on—a complete reversal from the original positions in the dance. At this point the audience’s laughter and joking took over, and they all crowded around the couple, with glasses raised high in one huge delightful mass.

I will let you draw your own conclusions about the meaning of this ritual. I will only close by saying; perhaps they understand life better than I gave them credit for. As I am growing older and Barb and I are celebrating anniversary after anniversary, I am beginning to appreciate the significance of this traditional Nepali dance.

In 1998 he began writing his humorous and insightful articles for a supplement to a local newspaper. These stories, based on experiences most travelers could identify with, soon earned him a wide local following. In 2005 he published his first book, Stamps in My Passport—a collection of travel vignettes.

Harry has lived in Danville for almost forty years and has volunteered with the Danville Police Department for the past seven. His wife, Barbara, is the detail chronicler of their trips. Her journals provide the background for Harry’s broader view. You can get his book at: www.travelbookspub.com.

Stamps In My Passport: Guatemala

April 6, 2010 by Harry Hubinger

When we Americans visit foreign countries, it is our hope and desire to experience and be exposed to different and diverse situations. We seek out contrasting cultures, hunt for historic sites, and expose ourselves to an environment different from our own. It is these varied introductions to new surroundings and cultures that make an out-of-country encounter worth having.

Upon occasion I find myself stumbling into some unexpected and unplanned experience which has a positive and lasting influence on me. With discussions of ecology, global warming, and prudent use of our natural resources all around us these days, I shouldn’t have been so surprised to find a pocket of ecology in – of all places – Guatemala. Let me share this encounter with you.

Guatemala itself is a fascinating nation. It does have seacoasts on both its east and west boundaries, but don’t let this fool you. There is a surprisingly high spine running down its southwest coast. And added to the mountainous area, there is a very pleasant high plateau in the country’s center. It is the most populous of the Central American countries but also one of the poorest. For years it has ignored a wise use of its resources – squandering much of its natural beauty.

Our choice to visit this nation was based on our hopes of seeing the remnants of the once-powerful Mayan civilization which flourished here. In fact, over fifty percent of the current population is of direct Mayan descent. We were not disappointed in this pursuit, visiting most of the sites at Tikal, one of the largest Mayan sites. But, let’s get back to our story.

The word Guatemala means “land of the trees,” but over the years the slash and burn policy has destroyed well over one half of the beautiful forests and – I was told – has endangered a number of indigenous animals and birds. The quetzal, the national bird, is one of many near-extinct species.

While I was being educated on this travesty, my guide suggested a visit to the Valhalla Experimental Station to view one of the strong possibilities for recovery. Never concerned about deviating from a plan, we decided to go and hired a local guide to take us. What a thrill!

The station is a short one-half hour drive from Antigua on the temperate plateau of the country. Here we met an expatriate named Larry who is in the process of reforesting Guatemala. Larry is from Redwood City, California and was a firefighter. His next calling was serving with the military in Vietnam. Finally, about twenty five years ago, he began this project by looking around for a tree crop which aided the economy, reforested the land, and suited the climate. You’ll never guess what he came up with – the macadamia tree!



Macadamia (Macadamia integrifolia) Flower and Fruit

First of all it grows well here – it produces a product in short supply, and according to Larry, is a great source of Vitamin B17. The nuts fall naturally all year long and are then dried and sold. This nut tree provides a more secure livelihood for the poor farmers of Guatemala. The locals tried to make a living by growing coffee. But the competitive nature of the coffee industry, as well as the temperamental character of the crop itself, proved to be an unsuccessful endeavor for the farmers. There is another advantage over coffee that the macadamia tree gives the farmer. If he can’t sell his crop, unlike the coffee bean, he can eat his surplus. In addition, the macadamia tree does not deplete the soil but actually improves it. Therefore, there is no need to move to new areas to plant trees every decade or so.

The latest information is that Larry has given over two hundred thousand trees to other native farmers – all the trees being from his farm here in Antigua, Guatemala.

Not happy with the fact that the macadamia nut can be eaten, Larry has expanded its use. He dries the nuts and crushes them in a machine which he manufactured, and the process produces an oil. He claims that this oil is cosmetically beneficial to the skin. In fact, one of the leading cosmetic manufacturers has purchased this oil for use in their products. Our host insisted on giving Barb a macadamia oil facial which he said took years off her appearance. (Believe me; I made no comment on his observation.) Then I also succumbed to having my bald head rubbed with this oil when I was told it could rejuvenate my scalp.

Ever since my visit to Larry’s farm I’ve been alert to items connected to the macadamia nut. I’ve found the tree converts sixty three cubic feet of dioxide into oxygen each day – it sends fifty gallons off H2O vapor into the atmosphere – and – if the nut is coated with a sufficient amount of dark chocolate, it tastes delicious.