Port Two...Geese

     Lisbon is a city not unlike San Francisco or DC, as the hectic yet cosmopolitan feel of visitors and tourists mixes in easily with business workers and local residents (Lisbon also shares a similar latitude as those two US cities).  It is here at Lisbon that the 600-mile-long Tejo river spills into the Atlantic, although more than a few local residents may inwardly harbor thoughts of seeing tourists also flowing out into that ocean.  That push-pull of wanting and yet not wanting ever more tourists and elderly expats arriving to their city hides the fact that (as with so many other tourist-dependent cities in the world) nearly 70% of the jobs here in Lisbon are in the service industry (for a few of the Canary Islands, that number can climb to over 80%).  But there is another love-hate clash at work in this part Portugal, and that is one happening right next door in Spain.  As the Rick Steves guidebook wrote: The Portuguese seem humbler and friendlier than the Spanish.  Visitors to Spain sometimes feel that they can't do anything right; in Portugal you'll feel like you can't do anything wrong.  And what could go wrong once you realize that the pop of a wine or champagne cork means that you're hearing a bit of Portugal (oak cork is Portugal's national tree, and lavender its national flower).  But wait, didn't I earlier say that I wasn't going to bore you with yet another travelogue?  Yes, but I promise that I'll be brief in summing up what differences I did or didn't see while visiting the Azores (Portugal) and the Canary (often pronounced "CAN-a-rhee")* Islands (Spain)...and whether I agree or disagree with what the seasoned traveler Steves had to say about each, all with the caveat that my quick tourist vision will be little more than a myopic view of a part of the world so loved and so full of history that millions upon millions of people walk away with far different impressions (the Canary Islands alone receive over 7.5 million visitors yearly).

     But let's clear one thing up right away...those Canary Islands were not named after the birds we know but were named much earlier by the Romans, their term canariae dating back to Biblical days and which was used to describe large groups of wild dogs which they had apparently spotted on the islands (credit the early Roman historian, Pliny the Elder, who wrote of Canariae Insulae).  The islands were later populated by peoples who came after the original inhabitants --the gaunches-- a Berber-related nomadic population (thought to number close to 30,000) who were turned into slaves and forced to leave their lands by the Spanish in the 1400s.  What?  Capture native residents and take over their lands?  Sounds familiar to our history.  But jump back to those birds and how they became associated with the islands and you'd find this from one Canary Islands site: This charming bird hails from the Macaronesian islands and belongs to the finch family.  Originally, Canaries were greenish finches with brown streaks on their backs.  Today, thanks to extensive breeding since the 17th century, they are mostly yellow, orange, or red, and can grow up to 13 cm (5.1 inches) long.  Canaries have been bred into over 200 varieties.

     Whatever you decide is the actual etymological history, all of these islands are volcanic in origin and that geological side becomes more obvious as you realize that the majority of the Canary Islands are just off 80 miles off of the coast of the Western Sahara (the Azores are off the coast of Portugal).  On a few of the Canary islands, fresh water only comes from desalination of ocean water.  None of this has deterred tourists and expats (yes, more expats) from plunking down their dollars and raising the cost of living for locals, where the average salary is only about $1000 per month.  Home prices have soared out of reach for many on the islands as entire communities change cultures, at least for the few months that snowbirds arrive or rent out their homes, said one of our guides.  My wife and I were no less guilty, even as we worked to conserve the small amount of water in our containers, realizing that our ship was likely refilling itself for our upcoming day and a half at sea where we'd soon be dining as if we ourselves were descendants of selfish Roman emperors.  A goat that had fallen into the scree of a caldera, now as dead as the volcano itself?  Bah humbug, or so it would seem to the locals as the millions of us tourists boarded the buses back to our ships.  What about our dry, volcanic land?  Our struggle to survive?  Our search for water?  Alms for the poor?  It was all quite a contrast from the almost lush islands of the Azores further north...picture the Hawaiian islands with wet and rainy Kauai providing a stark contrast to the lava flowing on the neighboring Big Island of Hawaii.

       So back to our recent visit, here are a series of random thoughts about each spot.  The Canary Islands once used camels to help blaze early trails through the volcanic soil because the "pads" on their hoofs are sensitive enough to sense if the ground below them is strong enough to hold their weight (important if you walking atop brittle lava "tubes" which could collapse, but really, who knew?).  One Canary island (Lanzarote) has over 300 volcanic craters, with one eruption as late as the 1730s.  And yes, Tenerife (one of the Canary Islands) was the site of the KLM/Pan Am runway collision that killed over 583 people in 1977 (and remains one of the worst airline disasters in aviation history).  The Azores on the other hand, are much more lush, their early Roman-based aqueduct system now covered in mossy greenery.  They are also home to the world's second largest runway (at nearly 2 miles in length, it can land a B-52), and at one time, a large nuclear weapons depot (until 1960), all (including a golf course built for the officers) courtesy of the US Air Force (efforts to convince the locals to take up the game of golf continue to fail so green fees remain ridiculously cheap, even if its clubhouse can seat 700).  The islands' tropical feel may be better reflected in their main exports of pineapple, tea, rum and wine (in the early days, the main crop was citrus but a relatively new fungus ended that industry).  On the other hand, their Super Bock beer has won over 39 gold medals in taste competitions.  And smack in the middle of those island chains sits Madeira with its famous poncha rum drink, as well as its namesake wine.  Madeira translates into meaning wood or timber, and with 2/3 of Madeira under protected status, the Hong Kong-like jamming of houses along Funchal's coastal hills reflects this (even the airport runway had to be built like an overpass due to a lack of land).  Madeira's Rio-like statue of Christ actually was the first, both built and erected ahead of those in both Brazil and Lisbon.   Inland rests the slightly smaller statue of the Virgin Mary, built in the same year (1925) and one dedicated to peace...men carried the heavy rocks and chains up from sea level to show both their dedication and penance.  Combine the islands all together and you'd think that you could easily blend basic Spanish into Portuguese and be understood; but you'd quickly discover that the languages are rather distinctive and blank stares will be frequent (fortunately, many residents speak English).  While the Canary Islands may rest just 80 miles offshore geographically, the Madeira archipelago is some 300 miles further out, and the northernmost Azores 3x that distance.

    Okay, I'm painting a horrible picture here but my wife and I could see this contrast even on the ship, especially as we talked to the "butlers" and "suite attendants" who serviced the ship's cabins; one told us of his anxious wait to return to his mother and sister, their home in the Philippines having collapsed and been swept away by a recent typhoon.  In another few weeks he would be back home with them, back to spend his first Christmas and New Year's together since his leaving home to work.  We had adopted him in a way, looking out for a small trinket or two at each town --a small ceramic zester, a small bar of organic chocolate, a pair of light earrings, each of which said "made in the Canary Islands"-- all with the knowledge of his upcoming reunion with his family, one far away but now safely rescued.  He told us that it was the first time a "guest" had ever given him something from their excursions onshore.  We had earlier told another worker of the excellent and difficult job he was doing in serving so many people (and at all hours of the day since each worker tends to work 12 hour shifts, or more, usually working breakfast, lunch, cocktail hour, and dinner, day after day).  Has anyone ever told you that, my wife asked one worker named Danesh.  Never, was his reply; you are the first.  Another restaurant server we got to know told us that most onboard guests never make eye contact, ordering from the menu as if he were little more than a servant.  It was difficult to believe, this world of imbalance now playing out before our eyes in vivid Technicolor.  As I waited to settle the remaining balance on my shipboard account, I overheard the gentleman in front of me quickly scan his bill and say, "so, $10,900...all good," then smile and walk away.  Gulp...

     In the background on certain nights I kept hearing versions of Elton John's Daniel.  Who was he, at least in the minds of lyricist Bernie Taupin and player John?  Wrote an article in American Songwriter: “‘Daniel’ had been the most misinterpreted song that we’d ever written,” explained Taupin, in the Two Rooms tribute project.  “The story was about a guy that went back to a small town in Texas, returning from the Vietnam War.  They’d lauded him when he came home and treated him like a hero.  But he just wanted to go home, go back to the farm, and try to get back to the life that he’d led before.  I wanted to write something that was sympathetic to the people that came home.”   I couldn't help but feel that this echoed many of the feelings of the workers on our ship, and workers around the world, really.  Perhaps even ourselves.  Misunderstood.  Misinterpreted.  

     And then came the final stop of our journey...Morocco.  When you first picture that country what do you imagine?  For us, it was the stereotype of an Arabian country, one filled with camels and sand and perhaps a few palm trees.  Call that image outdated but it was the one we anticipated as we pulled into Tangiers.  We basically knew nothing about the country, or the area for that matter.  Gibraltar.  The meeting of the seas.  The location just a hop and a skip from Spain.  Wasn't this the land of Rockin the Kasbah?  And what the heck did Kasbah even mean?  (citadel).  Call us naïve but we soon discovered that Morocco held many surprises: 1) Morocco was the 1st country to recognize the United States as an independent nation...in 1777 (the U.S. went on to establish its first foreign home there); 2) Arabs make up just 44% of the population; 3) most Moroccans don't speak Arabic but Darija, a Moroccan-Arabic dialect; 4) women and men can swim together at beaches, with conditions; 5) Morocco has the world's largest solar array facility and hopes to provide much of that renewable power to the UK next year: 6) Morocco is home to the world's largest soccer stadium and Africa's largest commercial port; 7) Morocco holds the largest reserve of phosphate which is then converted to uranium (France is its largest buyer, then the US); 8) Morocco does NOT produce any nuclear weapons (yet); 9) Morocco produced the first high-speed train in all of Africa; 10) Morocco is the most visited country in Africa; and 11) the camel is native to Morocco.  All that said, our guide went on for hours about the progressive side of Morocco and how great his country was...and I took copious notes.  Only upon returning home and double-checking what he had said, I discovered that less than 40% of what he told us was true.  Wait, am I still talking about Morocco, or about the recent election?

     Anyway, back to that of feeling of having been taken advantage of, or of being misinterpreted.  Coming home gave me time to think about all of those mixed feelings, that of seeing so many places and the feelings that layered over them.  Catching just a glimpse of what others were going through opened my eyes.  I didn't have to be home to understand one worker from India genuinely beaming with pride as he told us of his having a cow and chickens.  He was seemingly as happy, or happier, than that gentleman settling his $10,000 bill.  And it was the same with each of the workers we met on the ship for they seemed to carry something most of us had forgotten, or had at least diminished in importance, that of prioritizing family.  Each night, one or two of the workers would proudly show us pictures of their children or parents because for them, their children, their parents, and in many cases, their spouses were their number one concern.  Nearly all of them told us that they talked to their families nightly, telling them how much they missed them and how they anxiously awaited the end of their contract and a return home, even if only for a few weeks.  Meanwhile, we passengers seemed to wash away such thoughts as we met for cocktails and lavish meals, a break from all of the routines and work back home; perhaps even a break from family...

     Final note about two movies, the Pixar release of Inside Out 2 about our emotions and dealing with them; and Thelma, about a 93-year old independent grandmother overhearing (unbeknownst to them) her daughter, husband and grandson talking that perhaps it was "time" to have her placed in a facility (she had fallen victim to a phone scam and was determined to get her money back).  Both were worth watching to see how we can all feel misunderstood, both by others and by ourselves.  Young and old, rich and poor, the Philippines or India, travel exposes you to the world in so many ways.  Not only to the sights and the conversations, but to the back and forth of finding out that people are people, and that we all breathe air, and drink water, and bleed red.  In many ways, it doesn't take long to discover that there are many out there who feel unappreciated or misinterpreted, perhaps echoing how you yourself have felt (or feel).  Unlike Rick Steves, I didn't feel one country was harder than the other...they were just different.  So after the movies, after the voyage to where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Mediterranean, it was fitting to remember what authors Anna Lyons & Louise Winter, both of whom have dealt with death and dying for years through their individual professions, summarized in their book, We All Know How This Ends: Be kind. Be really kind...Help other people and be a voice for those who don't have their own...Do the right thing, not the easy thing...Stick around even when times are tough.  Especially when times are tough...The days are long but the years are short.  Don't take it for granted.  One day, it'll all be over.

 

*Gee, those pronunciations and inflections grow more and more as you travel (picture saying "boss-ton" vs. "bahs-tun" while in Massachusetts).  That "canary" vs. "cannery" inflection somehow goes out the window when you visit the island of Gran Canaria which, unlike the islands themselves, falls back to being pronounced somewhat like "canary" with an "ia" attached at the end..."grand kah-NAR-ee-ah."  As to Lanzarote, you can seek a bit of it in the November issue of Traveler...