tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17242246335405834412024-02-06T19:39:52.931-08:00Dispatches From the Middle East & Turkey 2008Dispatches From Here and ThereRod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-41885041728361146492008-05-02T10:33:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:15.850-08:0016 - Dispatch From the Pillars & Epilogue<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6HKvW3pxFmWY9wzQ7sRv9z9ZOJRgvYerxG4fxHmX48TPXYCg7PDSsAbzXQpCVEVjFSgnKrsEqLwVlt1odNiSiOKJGER9oGLewXsIqIhSyzcFWN4uzJAalhzIeicTgVcrEvFd8KjpO4Rj/s1600-h/IMG_6084.Jean+arch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx6HKvW3pxFmWY9wzQ7sRv9z9ZOJRgvYerxG4fxHmX48TPXYCg7PDSsAbzXQpCVEVjFSgnKrsEqLwVlt1odNiSiOKJGER9oGLewXsIqIhSyzcFWN4uzJAalhzIeicTgVcrEvFd8KjpO4Rj/s320/IMG_6084.Jean+arch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195850188726930690" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >We have enjoyed our brush with Islam and weeks with the Aussies - and both Arabia and Australia seem unfazed by their close association with us 2 Americans. On the other hand we find ourselves awake by morning prayer time, my accent is getting a little broad - and yesterday Jean called a cookie a "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">biscuit</span>." Can "too right!" "fair <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dinkum</span>!" and "good on ya cobber!" be far behind? Rain is falling and laundry is overdue - maybe time to go.<br /><br /><br />This travel <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">thru</span> the Middle East, chasing Granddad and then adding in the Aussies has answered many questions and raised many more - and only emphasizes that you never know when a small kernel of knowledge learned in one place, will be put to good use in another.<br /><br />We learned that to become a Muslim, for example, one has to follow a simple list - the 5 pillars of Islam - which is basically:<br /><br />1. Say that there is only one God and that Mohammad is his prophet - and mean it.<br />2. Once in your life - go on the Haj to the holy city of Mecca.<br />3. At least 5 times a day - pray.<br />4. As often as you can - give alms to the needy.<br />5. Fast morning to night during the month of Ramadan.<br /><br />Using that knowledge, I now believe to have found a parallel in becoming a proper Aussie - there seems to be 5 pillars of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Aussiedom</span> too:<br /><br />1. Say "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">G'day</span>" to all your friends, call them your mates - and mean it.<br />2. Once in your life - go to the Dawn Service at ANZAC Cove.<br />3. At least 5 times a day - drink a beer.<br />4. As often as you can - buy your mates a drink<br />5. Fast from real food each morning - and instead eat Vegemite.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieivWJKnKW0rl3nuk9rXwCf321YmawaHDAcOuFCMBiu_P9zNUdEYlYyTCCxl1-XV_vnhqtueFCKRjBnCYfZN2Rby_n7On_t4UJaNKKSKTkoL0y04gn6-nObGE9XFebHIfaOtAGF4gQsfCn/s1600-h/IMG_6181.Simpson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieivWJKnKW0rl3nuk9rXwCf321YmawaHDAcOuFCMBiu_P9zNUdEYlYyTCCxl1-XV_vnhqtueFCKRjBnCYfZN2Rby_n7On_t4UJaNKKSKTkoL0y04gn6-nObGE9XFebHIfaOtAGF4gQsfCn/s320/IMG_6181.Simpson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195848414905437410" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >But far deeper than that, there is an additional something that is in most Australians - <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Gallipoli</span>. Can I yet understand it - or explain it? Perhaps I can … if I tell you about Private Simpson - the man with the donkey.<br /><br /><br /></span><br /><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaf6aQeQch1UGiaIJHQ8aU_iXyAK_7q3cvOiw3uxojWWmHc0CLGKPiSnmRkFI-FzKMat4dWPt50n_zH6rKacRe6NDjhXauKVGr4tB26XEX3kSqGomy4LNvjgvb93Ov8JY1yaC7i-8_nYm/s1600-h/Man+with+the+Donkey.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaf6aQeQch1UGiaIJHQ8aU_iXyAK_7q3cvOiw3uxojWWmHc0CLGKPiSnmRkFI-FzKMat4dWPt50n_zH6rKacRe6NDjhXauKVGr4tB26XEX3kSqGomy4LNvjgvb93Ov8JY1yaC7i-8_nYm/s320/Man+with+the+Donkey.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195848805747461362" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >It is not the generals, or of those to whom medals were awarded, that the ANZAC statues were cast. It was this common man who stole a donkey and against orders, calmly carried wounded comrades down from the crags to medical help at the beach, again and again - until he too was killed 24 days later.<br /><br /><br /><br />Simpson is the one that Australia knows best, loves most, who's spirit they hope to emulate - and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">whose</span> traits they value the highest. The man who puts it all on the line for his mates - simple, faithful and practical, with humor and irreverence - that is the true Aussie character - and their legacy from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ANZACs</span>. To be like Simpson is to be a good Aussie - simple as that.<br /><br />Jean and I have passed all the tests, climbed all the pillars - all except that Vegemite one which apparently, is being overlooked. This morning, as we were returning to Istanbul, one of our new mates pinned a little gold kangaroo on Jean's jumper (sweater) and pinned up my hat brim with a little Australian flag. How perfect a way to leave all these cobbers - our new mates - and I mean it. Now we return home and I must sign off - time for alms and a few cold prayers - mates. 'Til next time …<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >- Southern Cross Stew</span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br />Epilogue:<br /><br />As for Granddad, our quest is not over. Our interest in his WWI days has spread into his later years. I have documents showing he was on the staff of the Royal Australian Air Force (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">RAAF</span>) between the world wars, yet cannot find out when he left the service or what he did during WWII. Family stories of his being in London and a spy in Norway are intriguing. According to one 1935 newspaper item, he "is well known in circles interested in the study of languages" and spoke German like a native. But his records of the period have not been released by the Australian officials … <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">hmmmm</span>?<br /><br />Perhaps a trip to Canberra is needed to fill in these blanks in Granddad's story - not just for me and his other grandsons, but for his great-grand daughters <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Christy</span>, Wendy and Holly - AND his great-great grandsons Whitfield and brand-new baby Jack Donovan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">O'Connell</span> - born on the day Jean and I returned to the States. Welcome to the family Jack … let me tell you a story about your Great-Great Granddad ...<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >- Great (or at least pretty good) Uncle Rod</span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><div id="badge" style="border: 1px solid rgb(160, 160, 160); margin: 0px; padding: 10px; position: relative; width: 120px; height: 240px; background-color: white;"> <div style="border: 0px none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: absolute; top: 10px; left: 10px; width: 118px; height: 100px; line-height: 118px; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/454929/?utm_source=badge&utm_medium=banner&utm_content=140x240" target="_blank" style="border: 0px none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> <img src="http://www.blurb.com//images/uploads/catalog/86/343086/454929-baf2a690197380ac6112dacafd08ae45.jpg" alt="Middle East & Turkey 2008 Dispatches From Here and There" style="border: 1px solid rgb(167, 167, 167); margin: 0px; padding: 0px; width: 118px; vertical-align: middle;" /> </a> </div> <div style="border: 0px none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; top: 140px; left: 10px; text-align: left;"> <div style="border: 0px none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; overflow: hidden; width: 105px; line-height: 18px;"> <a href="http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/454929?utm_source=badge&utm_medium=banner&utm_content=140x240" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; color: rgb(253, 120, 32); text-decoration: none;">Middle East & ...</a> </div> <div style="border: 0px none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; font-size: 10px; font-size-adjust: none; color: rgb(84, 84, 84); line-height: 15px;"> </div> <div style="border: 0px none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 10px; font-size-adjust: none; color: rgb(84, 84, 84); line-height: 15px;"> By Rod & Jean Stewart </div> </div> <div style="border: 0pt none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: absolute; top: 197px; right: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.blurb.com/?utm_source=badge&utm_medium=banner&utm_content=140x240" target="_blank" style="border: 0pt none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"> <img src="http://www.blurb.com/images/badge/blurb-logo.png" style="border: 0pt none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" alt="Make a photo book with Blurb" /> </a> </div> <div style="border: 0px none ; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: absolute; bottom: 8px; left: 10px; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 10px; font-size-adjust: none; color: rgb(253, 120, 32); line-height: 15px;"> <a href="http://www.blurb.com/books/454929" force="true" only_path="false" style="color: rgb(253, 120, 32); text-decoration: none;" title="Book Preview">Book Preview</a> </div> <div style="border: 0px solid black; clear: both;"></div></div>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-91947981775483170942008-04-27T23:01:00.000-07:002008-12-28T11:04:29.075-08:0015 - Dispatch From ANZAC Day<span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOj8QwmY5NHzI7u6RPH6r5OjpkgmuO86hSsVhQbwf9et88Fdt_klS1_f6MT9wDHqEokd_ojkZdYIP870gP7f1YMkwz5RuOi8qv-Qu7KBpUjKQU9JgEp057Q59aygqYhmn1DhCnsm5Bc0P/s1600-h/IMG_6398.RJ+bleachers"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOj8QwmY5NHzI7u6RPH6r5OjpkgmuO86hSsVhQbwf9et88Fdt_klS1_f6MT9wDHqEokd_ojkZdYIP870gP7f1YMkwz5RuOi8qv-Qu7KBpUjKQU9JgEp057Q59aygqYhmn1DhCnsm5Bc0P/s320/IMG_6398.RJ+bleachers" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194203176143096962" border="0" /></a><br />It turned from Spring back into Winter on the eve of ANZAC Day. Blossoms blew off the trees and white caps on the cove. Unlike Jean, I could not nap but stayed up with the lads in the pub until our midnight departure - including a mile or so of night march to the commemoration site.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Gallipoli</span></span></span></span> is still a wild and open place populated only this day of the year as thousands of Aussies and Kiwis trudge in after a 6 hour bus trip from Istanbul - few places to get a room anywhere near the battlefields. Security was everywhere - and a quick trip to the bushes could lead to an encounter with a camouflaged commando - "Present Arms!"<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGITcHMphuHLvzbmR4HQri9auGLyXHcf0-KnQVqTOebAOCiz0EwBvVmKBUy4xFQOltEWFoqkF9CTeF8ZVNhEVbDcNFMl8I84orjkg-YbNbMRYB-Lmx163PRstNZiYmKhNNJlKNAJzbfa_Y/s1600-h/small-backpackers-peter-rup-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGITcHMphuHLvzbmR4HQri9auGLyXHcf0-KnQVqTOebAOCiz0EwBvVmKBUy4xFQOltEWFoqkF9CTeF8ZVNhEVbDcNFMl8I84orjkg-YbNbMRYB-Lmx163PRstNZiYmKhNNJlKNAJzbfa_Y/s320/small-backpackers-peter-rup-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195107202334395602" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">With our Australian government connections, we managed to get bleacher seats - while the "young folks" joined the masses stacked up in sleeping bags or at least wearing all they had - about -3C by 3AM and 25 knots of wind zipping up the beach. It was a great test of those who stood<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"> vigil</span> throughout the night to endure until the dawn service. And a reminder of the hardships endured by those who landed here 93 years ago - wearing wet wool and leather boots.<br /><br />There was a jumbo-tron screen to watch </span><span style="font-size:130%;">and all was broadcast live back to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">AUS</span></span></span></span> and NZ</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> - but this is not an entertainment event </span><span style="font-size:130%;">- no pop stars or disco <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">lightshows</span></span></span></span>. Historic reviews and interviews with some of the members of our group who had come to see the graves of family members - often the first by anyone since WWI ended and the dead were finally buried.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7l3qwOjuebUPz3hfV4cQx7-XMnS_VAWsuU67IDIcFbu1s6YGbQrQeL1jUNgZCR0jfrd6I9akYrBsVLGy95jIcWVYWOh1UTaD8HRKGk0Da2s9OWHk9Dx5v35s0BVUlBlv6-pHNBNJXDKls/s1600-h/IMG_6445+Guards+march.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7l3qwOjuebUPz3hfV4cQx7-XMnS_VAWsuU67IDIcFbu1s6YGbQrQeL1jUNgZCR0jfrd6I9akYrBsVLGy95jIcWVYWOh1UTaD8HRKGk0Da2s9OWHk9Dx5v35s0BVUlBlv6-pHNBNJXDKls/s320/IMG_6445+Guards+march.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194177509418535986" border="0" /></a>The mood was light until the sky started to lighten, the delegations of VIPs were seated and the military ceremony began. Then it grew serious with speeches and greetings from various governments and many wreaths were laid.<br /><br />We then walked an additional few miles up to the hill to Granddad's unit's spot at Lone Pine, for a daylight Aussie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">memorial</span>. Someone suggested that the 8 to 9 thousand in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">attendance</span> were about equal the numbers lost on this little hilltop - a shocking mental image as we scan the huge crowd.<br /><br /><br />A Turkish officer ended the dawn service by quoting <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Turkish</span> President Ataturk's famous speech given at the first commemoration here in 1934:<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"To those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives …</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference to us between the Johnnies and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Mehmets</span></span></span></span> - where they lie side by side here in this country of ours.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >You, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace, after having lost their lives on this land ... they have become our sons as well."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1aZcFzsq_G8M2TYy4evV7B1NaZ5qnxDafia277SSshu9nTfhjyBcq7MBtwh8pK2I7Z-r3F-E9dk83xyI9hxXk1m1I8KIhyI_trZpygsmy6wyOUir0gKRs8xc9Ir-97KQKcclVdeQtfu-s/s1600-h/IMG_6458.wreths"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1aZcFzsq_G8M2TYy4evV7B1NaZ5qnxDafia277SSshu9nTfhjyBcq7MBtwh8pK2I7Z-r3F-E9dk83xyI9hxXk1m1I8KIhyI_trZpygsmy6wyOUir0gKRs8xc9Ir-97KQKcclVdeQtfu-s/s400/IMG_6458.wreths" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194776571456982178" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">As a lone bugler blew the Last Post - not a dry eye in the house. The sun began to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">light-up</span> the cliffs and gullies that Granddad's mates fought up and filled with their bodies. I am drained of emotion - cold, tired and stunned by the honor of being present. It is an experience never to be forgotten - as they too will not.<br /><br />- Remembrance Rod</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-55492121704086543982008-04-24T01:10:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:18.270-08:0014 - Dispatch From the Mob<span style="font-size:130%;">G'day Mates. It's a gaggle of geese, a gang of crows, and a mob of kangaroos. So too Australians, in any number, are called a mob. We have joined such a mob. They have come to Turkey in the care of the Australian War Memorial's Gallipoli Tour 2008 - researchers, history buffs, grandmothers, teenagers and just plain Aussies - to do what all of Australia does on each and every April 25th, at dawn - on ANZAC Day.<br /><br />Australia became a country only a few years before Gallipoli. They fought as Australians for the first time and picked up two other names there as well; ANZAC - for the Australian and New Zealand Army Corp they formed when setting off to fight WWI … and another nickname earned after an order given by a British Admiral, who knew the troops had been landed on a bitch of a beach … "Just dig," he said, "Dig 'til you're safe." And the "Diggers" dug, and the name stuck.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqkKYiWighorEh4ga9NzmAJMHU9Z0S48lzE9wUjOjYTiJ1AL5wpR8T_gmdRVztp4FZ1zD6bWgHH0oBbS4DZADRtxqOmOcVWanLWDIty9IU5jfZlWtGUyugWMORZVripyzRvSbXieL5rfP/s1600-h/P4200128+Nurses"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqkKYiWighorEh4ga9NzmAJMHU9Z0S48lzE9wUjOjYTiJ1AL5wpR8T_gmdRVztp4FZ1zD6bWgHH0oBbS4DZADRtxqOmOcVWanLWDIty9IU5jfZlWtGUyugWMORZVripyzRvSbXieL5rfP/s320/P4200128+Nurses" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192721605684992994" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So we find ourselves in a small mob from all over Australia and even a Kiwi or two. There is an old stockman (cowboy) with an accent causing Jean to call for translation; and some sisters (nurses) who kindly dig some urchin spines out of my foot; a barrister and a solicitor (lawyers); a grandfatherly researcher and his lanky grandson - who doesn't know my out-of-date Aussie slang, but knows enough Monty Python skits to keep us both laughing; a retired SAS (special forces) Colonel who served in Nha Trang at the same time I was there - and two other Aussie Vietnam vets who flew in the backseat of US Army Birddogs - and have the photos to prove it - even one of a plane from my very platoon at Phan Rang. Small world.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQi25Y_A8peWs7DguC5_xg726uZt6QniqjiwZhYF40nqwvifOxWY1F23kO9P-qFNWP_kes-tKBFomD0PhkQFVQtaQHHtB74-ugV5eqmfNQ4rwxNEj0kbYD0JAi7VQk4sNgga5iFA6C9sU3/s1600-h/IMG_0988+Vegemite"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQi25Y_A8peWs7DguC5_xg726uZt6QniqjiwZhYF40nqwvifOxWY1F23kO9P-qFNWP_kes-tKBFomD0PhkQFVQtaQHHtB74-ugV5eqmfNQ4rwxNEj0kbYD0JAi7VQk4sNgga5iFA6C9sU3/s320/IMG_0988+Vegemite" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192722872700345346" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;">There is seldom a time when a laugh cannot be heard in this mob - only the descriptions of the awful warfare practiced here can pause their constant ribbing and witty jokes - and as the only Yanks, we take and give as we can … questioning their love of the dreaded Vegemite, while they kindly avoid too many US political jabs - or maybe don't see any humor in it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Js3_oHcUK1s8wXg6w-VtkDHa0QcsN58zxnUnhIGbzWCy0tCJLtf9GlgdIKWLXEw_4QFDTS_wulYWnonCGHef9DQx0YKCjP8iadEyBuLE99fOHRzq5q0SrXMnRb2w4MtACmcLgvZdg8pa/s1600-h/Eceabat+Mob+pub"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Js3_oHcUK1s8wXg6w-VtkDHa0QcsN58zxnUnhIGbzWCy0tCJLtf9GlgdIKWLXEw_4QFDTS_wulYWnonCGHef9DQx0YKCjP8iadEyBuLE99fOHRzq5q0SrXMnRb2w4MtACmcLgvZdg8pa/s320/Eceabat+Mob+pub" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5193589111783885714" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">This mob is on our same pilgrimage. Like me, some have relatives who were here, many who still are - but most are just doing what Australians have done, or wanted to do, since the war here ended - come back to honor those who served and to see for themselves this place that became ingrained in their nation's DNA. We are guided by those who wrote the books, literally, about Gallipoli - one from Australia and two from Turkey - a privilege of knowledge.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyC_KbMr0vM2SGlvJbu2th0_Mt9XfdzZlWmqHF38_RElbp3jPqdyznFmEcsTv0hHSObWopc1rjclUl-QAvBR7E87dspbRBF18gDqYU0HpT1a69iTUTrr5LfI3kFz9mt0X4ViWr4pb7pPL/s1600-h/IMG_6003Sarate"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyC_KbMr0vM2SGlvJbu2th0_Mt9XfdzZlWmqHF38_RElbp3jPqdyznFmEcsTv0hHSObWopc1rjclUl-QAvBR7E87dspbRBF18gDqYU0HpT1a69iTUTrr5LfI3kFz9mt0X4ViWr4pb7pPL/s200/IMG_6003Sarate" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192723418161191970" border="0" /></a></span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ4f2h8Ru-LoP6YKaySCuT0g1Sc0MrNz1rfkBAxXstxa9v_581Du9DiyuZQrNGGmEAL8gGNmMr3Bdn4QPDeRdweAcTRpElM8oQAeE6wHWvf6l5hpic1ChPgRteIhGK7scI4NvKdocw6GQ5/s1600-h/IMG_6189+Ashly+-+Rod"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ4f2h8Ru-LoP6YKaySCuT0g1Sc0MrNz1rfkBAxXstxa9v_581Du9DiyuZQrNGGmEAL8gGNmMr3Bdn4QPDeRdweAcTRpElM8oQAeE6wHWvf6l5hpic1ChPgRteIhGK7scI4NvKdocw6GQ5/s320/IMG_6189+Ashly+-+Rod" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194773474785561746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ROkufBG1DVQaZebyzSIV0NRAnpuTOR0SMEmgfWdMphhcGAyfTiPKk5LyiBLz3_8Wm_byqUmwm66XwAbV9YXvtMyYtJ97ot98XK2CefiV8_r1OZCjzKFI7t_dx4ujDZXO95dlFPyWRTPD/s1600-h/IMG_6375+Turkish+Guide"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ROkufBG1DVQaZebyzSIV0NRAnpuTOR0SMEmgfWdMphhcGAyfTiPKk5LyiBLz3_8Wm_byqUmwm66XwAbV9YXvtMyYtJ97ot98XK2CefiV8_r1OZCjzKFI7t_dx4ujDZXO95dlFPyWRTPD/s200/IMG_6375+Turkish+Guide" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192723611434720306" border="0" /></a></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KwxC1L9PtidvEtLT-RcW3uUbzq2S3AzqrtCgQmrtbHc_9eyMwKE_yVywnWx0tT3JvccA0bPO_prJ3uwgt1O4KGw9zCUGZbe2T-vGroG5ZCpWbvBX3qzHbhmX_vvwQYaDekBVmah6AggU/s1600-h/IMG_6344+Turkish+Monument.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KwxC1L9PtidvEtLT-RcW3uUbzq2S3AzqrtCgQmrtbHc_9eyMwKE_yVywnWx0tT3JvccA0bPO_prJ3uwgt1O4KGw9zCUGZbe2T-vGroG5ZCpWbvBX3qzHbhmX_vvwQYaDekBVmah6AggU/s320/IMG_6344+Turkish+Monument.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192724504787917890" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Yes, the Turks have memories and monuments here too - and the bones of thousands of Johnnies and Mehmets lie mixed in the soil - pieces are churned up to the surface each Spring. I bury the skull pieces and arm bone I find, but Jean can't resist and pockets a bullet.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We wander and wonder all over the battlefield areas. Places from Granddad's battalion diary come to life … or death - Shrapnel Valley, The Nek, Sniper's Nest, Lone Pine. The carnage of a war using Wellington's tactics against Maxum's machineguns staggers my military mind. About as many died here, in a few months, as in all the long years of Vietnam. On one morning, 3000 bodies fell in an area about equal to a tennis court - before lunch.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQhF90QVROtQ64aAY0w8YoB7mpjj7LNzRrDdLIMRkf73auQAxC2z8XKWWQdonKipBkZyXTfTn26YnO4Lq9KjH1c-L1IKFusOMuVeCrlh2Iok_ra9pfHtdxJU52zc-60lqbE8nWBb8cfMl/s1600-h/IMG_6155+Judas+Tree+graves"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQhF90QVROtQ64aAY0w8YoB7mpjj7LNzRrDdLIMRkf73auQAxC2z8XKWWQdonKipBkZyXTfTn26YnO4Lq9KjH1c-L1IKFusOMuVeCrlh2Iok_ra9pfHtdxJU52zc-60lqbE8nWBb8cfMl/s400/IMG_6155+Judas+Tree+graves" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192724852680268882" border="0" /></a><br /><br />But I know enough about warfare - what I want to understand is how this glorious defeat became a national symbol, why my mob and many more are coming here, and what is in me that makes me feel about Gallipoli as the full blooded Aussies do. Could it really be in the DNA?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCtoMLPZuAUYwu8D9Mcbv0aAngQVS8TOwW-Z0OBceN0118NZeI2WpyRFOhbpGgy7BL_J0EcX30aRnNIX_Z245WxoICW6ncAsRnqXD2f5j2lz2t-okQxtqeulmW1Zj_TER0Wy0cwml-2dhj/s1600-h/IMG_6173Anzac+Cove"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCtoMLPZuAUYwu8D9Mcbv0aAngQVS8TOwW-Z0OBceN0118NZeI2WpyRFOhbpGgy7BL_J0EcX30aRnNIX_Z245WxoICW6ncAsRnqXD2f5j2lz2t-okQxtqeulmW1Zj_TER0Wy0cwml-2dhj/s320/IMG_6173Anzac+Cove" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192725183392750690" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The Diggers came ashore before dawn on the morning of 25 April 1915, in a little cove the Turks have re-named ANZAC. We will be there on the beach 93 years later, as members of the mob, to greet the sun - and them. G'day mates!<br /><br />- Shoreside Stew</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-72944891911971921002008-04-22T04:47:00.001-07:002008-12-10T03:24:19.951-08:0013 - Dispatch From Istanbul<span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvh0FaJPhxpvfMgvtIW8Rj1FhF6GcPAYu9PWYv5Rw0QHPzTVR-GlqpYHyDpYO6vj7fzK-lWhR4vku0DrkWGD-zm91yGF1rHaY9sakdyFshv660o_mgwzcJo_b0SGy98KPvCpr1vBaGDAuZ/s1600-h/IMG_5932.BlueMosque.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvh0FaJPhxpvfMgvtIW8Rj1FhF6GcPAYu9PWYv5Rw0QHPzTVR-GlqpYHyDpYO6vj7fzK-lWhR4vku0DrkWGD-zm91yGF1rHaY9sakdyFshv660o_mgwzcJo_b0SGy98KPvCpr1vBaGDAuZ/s400/IMG_5932.BlueMosque.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192035063752661746" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This is one of our favorite cities - food, history, architecture, fun people, and wide vistas - accessible and exotic. We arrive at the end of the annual Tulip Festival and Spring flowers are everywhere. Jean and I were last here together about 20 years ago. Like us - some things are the same but much has changed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOcVDGcqfE7NzhXs_6dRBdvjO6vL61Wtn8a3egmnp9pqrZ1ZqP33b-ZGCf0uIJrb8PM1c24f9O469MbWJW5VntEZ8-4JWb4VctjZ28CyEO-i2oyyW5oFdYXnX30hdTEfTyQVc8qWC1Bab/s1600-h/IMG_5978Jumprope.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOcVDGcqfE7NzhXs_6dRBdvjO6vL61Wtn8a3egmnp9pqrZ1ZqP33b-ZGCf0uIJrb8PM1c24f9O469MbWJW5VntEZ8-4JWb4VctjZ28CyEO-i2oyyW5oFdYXnX30hdTEfTyQVc8qWC1Bab/s400/IMG_5978Jumprope.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192035244141288194" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Still the massive Roman / Crusader/ Ottoman walls; the beautiful waters of the Bosporus and Golden Horn; the Blue Mosque with its 6 minarets - and the incredible Hagia Sophia Church - built in the 5th Century and still the biggest in the world when it became a mosque as Islam overran this part of the world - 10 centuries later.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkfK6hbyzX6eOyUIRf3OVin36pac7-ahv5-J6j-fMImYFMZV8-E3b2AR_5_wSkkX4ytaAh6JlDAF7h0ilVNWV2P5oTHFe-cEMclwPWmlLhR9cYgr44qUGj3G8vBbpScoIz3TKaQtRKHGUx/s1600-h/IMG_5891+barber"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkfK6hbyzX6eOyUIRf3OVin36pac7-ahv5-J6j-fMImYFMZV8-E3b2AR_5_wSkkX4ytaAh6JlDAF7h0ilVNWV2P5oTHFe-cEMclwPWmlLhR9cYgr44qUGj3G8vBbpScoIz3TKaQtRKHGUx/s200/IMG_5891+barber" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192057277323516770" border="0" /></a><br /><br />There are still the little barbershops and big bazaars - with the piles of spices we remember now replaced by tourist trinkets. New bridges span the two continents symbolizing the span of time that is the bedrock of Istanbul where "New" can mean built in 1597. There are growing bridges between East and West - between the European and the Asian sides of this city - this country and ours and the Islamic world. Or so I would like to believe.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhYbfMTevKaMVMrPnr9NKuOUPU9U_E0h56PckrZRmca4TUo4uuLS1L4YgeT70aEewSxfWm3s_jj94ZvQt8wPATy-SUbht4ponv1Ksv1-BeQAfjQXbnw2sFN2Vz5kQli5w1srZNI7pMCqah/s1600-h/IMG_0935New+Mosque"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhYbfMTevKaMVMrPnr9NKuOUPU9U_E0h56PckrZRmca4TUo4uuLS1L4YgeT70aEewSxfWm3s_jj94ZvQt8wPATy-SUbht4ponv1Ksv1-BeQAfjQXbnw2sFN2Vz5kQli5w1srZNI7pMCqah/s320/IMG_0935New+Mosque" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194806430069624002" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBayOprznkNLZUDUdHk7sE_jA481WaXeOKGs_VZZKiYMILITMJm2ClZTZZwJEBi0NfYVF-gOadxGUf65444w73kMPTxKz8q-38Bi9k1lW9cBFWXeRzpzcQUCqbNreiDGhgi86zkF03Wttn/s1600-h/IMG_0927Mosque+Bridge"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBayOprznkNLZUDUdHk7sE_jA481WaXeOKGs_VZZKiYMILITMJm2ClZTZZwJEBi0NfYVF-gOadxGUf65444w73kMPTxKz8q-38Bi9k1lW9cBFWXeRzpzcQUCqbNreiDGhgi86zkF03Wttn/s320/IMG_0927Mosque+Bridge" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192061413377022866" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There are more people of course, too many of them refugees from surrounding strife - Iraq, Iran, the Balkans and the ex-USSR. Many of these added people are no longer looking west or even forward. They are pulling their heads into shells endangering the hard progress Turkey has made in becoming a modern country.<br /><br />In 1915, when Granddad faced the Ottoman army at Gallipoli, he faced a fabled man who grabbed commanded of the Turkish forces there - just in time to avoid their defeat. His name was Mustafa - Turks only took one name when he was born. With the end of WWI and the breakup of the Ottoman Empire, he grabbed the reins of power and forced Turkey to look to the West and enter the modern world. He picked a future for his country with wisdom - when Islam wanted Hagia Sophia to stay a mosque and Christians wanted to return it to a church - Mustafa made it a secular museum - for all Turks and the whole world to enjoy. His vision is the difference between today's Turkey and the stagnation that plagued the rest of the Islamic East - and mostly still does.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQZRCHfMniDRsQsKfsDWR7N0Rh8L4UXfmMq82c74n-ie5zOzh_NJ9r74uRmUHlyFFkxiBT33v50DyVWYH2Q6UwioiLNTl-8J2Ld3N-AtGhLE7Np0ad8FEA89CCaycoOn5DVnFyRbovmV9/s1600-h/IMG_5947.Sophies.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQZRCHfMniDRsQsKfsDWR7N0Rh8L4UXfmMq82c74n-ie5zOzh_NJ9r74uRmUHlyFFkxiBT33v50DyVWYH2Q6UwioiLNTl-8J2Ld3N-AtGhLE7Np0ad8FEA89CCaycoOn5DVnFyRbovmV9/s320/IMG_5947.Sophies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192061941658000290" border="0" /></a><br /><br />By his command, Turkey quit the difficult Arabic alphabet for our Roman one; forbid religious dictation of dress, marriage, courts - and any roll for religion in military or civic professions. To allow modern records organization he had everyone choose a family name. He took the last name of Ataturk - which means, "Father of the Turks." Turkey is, by his constitution, a strictly secular nation.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiQNJJemADXogS0ok1ir6coFqrInegSaymJVAKR44U3bSIjwHsd9WmSrO3W9PRlbsU6Wr48tX4t6IcAkHAzmrCoy6Tch7-9eWgcYqmrsSo_UxunQkZDwMBlZBf98A7zF9JnN5Sh2vS-K_/s1600-h/IMG_6292Young+Headscarf"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiQNJJemADXogS0ok1ir6coFqrInegSaymJVAKR44U3bSIjwHsd9WmSrO3W9PRlbsU6Wr48tX4t6IcAkHAzmrCoy6Tch7-9eWgcYqmrsSo_UxunQkZDwMBlZBf98A7zF9JnN5Sh2vS-K_/s320/IMG_6292Young+Headscarf" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192062268075514834" border="0" /></a>But these are the times that try the secular soul. We see many more young women in scarves and full coverings of various symbolic styles. Politics has followed suit with an Islamist party now ruling Parliament - at least until the election next year - or maybe longer if trends continue.<br /><br />Turkish headlines scream of teachers using religious scare tactics to force prayers and Islamic dress. Demonstrations are getting heated. Far out in the countryside we see city busses full of children or the faithful, being given free tours of historic sites by "guides" armed with an altered history full of Allah and Islamic togetherness. Our translator only shakes her head as she tells us what is being fed to these people in preparation for the next election - and what many other young educated people tell us they fear - a theocracy - becoming another Iran.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44QeXt6jw1iVSYPMWYjeot1JONU26MP1FUwpeLbXEkG41EiefjzDfksu9rE_vOhbYXvvGnz3f7LjKh3nHonMEyofoYJ-PU7eHOfBiIihj4mKIVSfUEHPVLoFEQo71K1bGMy3QAEGReNTQ/s1600-h/IMG_6284Straits+Gun"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44QeXt6jw1iVSYPMWYjeot1JONU26MP1FUwpeLbXEkG41EiefjzDfksu9rE_vOhbYXvvGnz3f7LjKh3nHonMEyofoYJ-PU7eHOfBiIihj4mKIVSfUEHPVLoFEQo71K1bGMy3QAEGReNTQ/s400/IMG_6284Straits+Gun" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192058634533182322" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLGdG89ZgotqzOtcL-f_syb2rg4ZJ4TwLg7sQoHX3QyLy2PWUNZqmQRqZjEoiCz8wt8cvFJddqpd75ujSMQc4xZ9cOSUQYwyp38nyMH6vPOi3Hg3ex8fi4BkrWiyevBiNrYB6pR-guUrsI/s1600-h/IMG_6332.Ataturk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLGdG89ZgotqzOtcL-f_syb2rg4ZJ4TwLg7sQoHX3QyLy2PWUNZqmQRqZjEoiCz8wt8cvFJddqpd75ujSMQc4xZ9cOSUQYwyp38nyMH6vPOi3Hg3ex8fi4BkrWiyevBiNrYB6pR-guUrsI/s320/IMG_6332.Ataturk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192059545066249090" border="0" /></a>I cringe at the news from my own country of some school board slipping Christian rightwing creationism into a science class - then look around at Turkey - a NATO member, with a huge army, rich in resources and astraddle a major artery of commerce - and the gateway between Europe and the Middle East - a gate that can be open or closed by what is happening here - and at home. I hope someone is thinking about this other than just us. The world doesn't need any more Crusaders - but we could use a few more Ataturks.<br /><br />- Secular Stew</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-57514149011711757352008-04-18T11:39:00.001-07:002008-12-10T03:24:20.550-08:0012 - Dispatch From the Turks<span style="font-size:130%;">We depart the Arabian Peninsula and head north, taking the long way around to avoid warring airspace. In Granddad's day, all the lands and seas under our wings, from Africa to the gates of Vienna, were wrapped in Islam's conquest. An aging empire ruled by decree from the throne of the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire and Caliph of Islam - from our next destination - Istanbul.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBa-uc7N_waGraEOTYqDCEkGzQlG5NG9gWxcoTB1JXru_mlIzgXP7tIOBiq1QLPjon4i6NoTeuu_TrKFdeZ8eImDKn-uKtgLo7lGJr6BL7NrFFL6Yw6OHvCrsMjALfZiIjxng2qSyFB5SR/s1600-h/IMG_5904.tulips"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBa-uc7N_waGraEOTYqDCEkGzQlG5NG9gWxcoTB1JXru_mlIzgXP7tIOBiq1QLPjon4i6NoTeuu_TrKFdeZ8eImDKn-uKtgLo7lGJr6BL7NrFFL6Yw6OHvCrsMjALfZiIjxng2qSyFB5SR/s400/IMG_5904.tulips" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190808556443716690" border="0" /></a><br />The Ottoman Turks have an old but not meaningless history. Their deeds still affect today's news - and one such event so very special to Granddad … and to all Australians - is Gallipoli.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We land in what was the Roman's Byzantium, the Crusader's Constantinople - and now Turkey's Istanbul. We have been here before, from Greece - where old hate warned us against going. "You will be arrested!" "You will be robbed!" "Why would you want to go there?" - all comments made to us by Greeks. I finally answered a girl in the tourist office "Because they shot my Granddad at Gallipoli." "Ahhh!" she said in understanding approval, "Revenge!" Even in San Francisco, her family tradition puts an ugly sneer on a pretty Armenian face as the word "Turk" is spoken.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFB-oaKunddgy9xR1bfRJOaTqyxa5e_oEFStTsskk9NDdhQA7O11RTIS4_hqex76BWKONa8UqdEU8uWDdrnMAOEw0Qak2RjAVgFt4ctJGnGajf2BjpvRDG91VHWfGzFvSEeZvqEPgkvC_2/s1600-h/IMG_0948+Abreu.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFB-oaKunddgy9xR1bfRJOaTqyxa5e_oEFStTsskk9NDdhQA7O11RTIS4_hqex76BWKONa8UqdEU8uWDdrnMAOEw0Qak2RjAVgFt4ctJGnGajf2BjpvRDG91VHWfGzFvSEeZvqEPgkvC_2/s320/IMG_0948+Abreu.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190807985213066290" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The Turks at our hotel are not those who did deeds so remembered. They are the kind of people who adopt an old stray dog named "Abreu" - let him sleep on the hotel steps and eat from the hands of the security staff. Turkish doormen guide guests in a wide arc to keep from disturbing Abreu's long naps. Twice a day, Abreu limps across the 8-lane road to a pretty park full of tulips blooming under a huge Turkish flag - and back. He looks both ways and the taxis and busses, driven by busy Turks, stop and watch him pass. I like these Turks. These are the Turks anyone could like.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsLmWAcI_YxxW5V6wg42XSv2Rgyo3u4WHTasgvL569jF_rYW1E9w2-8QFhD21bt1utEXK3Y_qTENROWh0AIRb57d_rHJQ-ofoGgHfio8pHa3z68fISBbCDg99hrOBXhyIwt6qPBcYBMaF/s1600-h/IMG_0921.Flag+fm+hotel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsLmWAcI_YxxW5V6wg42XSv2Rgyo3u4WHTasgvL569jF_rYW1E9w2-8QFhD21bt1utEXK3Y_qTENROWh0AIRb57d_rHJQ-ofoGgHfio8pHa3z68fISBbCDg99hrOBXhyIwt6qPBcYBMaF/s320/IMG_0921.Flag+fm+hotel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195866376458669330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Serbs still battle the Kosovars over a fight in 1389; Shiite and Sunni kill over blood spilled in 656; Jews claim right of conquest before the year 1 - and we Stewarts are suppose to hate the Campbell Clan for betraying us in 1745. Oh that we all could be as the Turks and the Australians - who once met and fought and killed and died in Turkey - at Gallipoli - and now join together by the thousands each year as friends - to remember and do homage.<br /><br />This is why we follow Granddad back to Turkey. This is what we have come to see and learn about - to walk the soil of Gallipoli, soil that seeded the roots of the new Australian nation - and still feeds the Australian soul.<br /><br />- Rooted Rod</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-80573126328645572052008-04-15T21:02:00.001-07:002008-12-10T03:24:22.625-08:0011- Dispatch From Dubai<span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSD5A2s0BQ4FDc4glQMnHWhbWy1wBe_sN5TqUSSkzTaQyMxiIElmTQk6H5AbMtnuTvz5mTKMqrh9OCtxSOoDhhl4xTM5_gAJmY8A0NrbhXiYzq8K94uMUvr7TXW98GoyGJ9-OtxXp80OCl/s1600-h/IMG_0913.gold+souk"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSD5A2s0BQ4FDc4glQMnHWhbWy1wBe_sN5TqUSSkzTaQyMxiIElmTQk6H5AbMtnuTvz5mTKMqrh9OCtxSOoDhhl4xTM5_gAJmY8A0NrbhXiYzq8K94uMUvr7TXW98GoyGJ9-OtxXp80OCl/s320/IMG_0913.gold+souk" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189688948663962466" border="0" /></a>Jean had to come here. She had to see it - the 7 star hotel and the gold souk. And now I have seen it with my own eyes and it is real - or at least a physical reality. Any other meaning of the word "real" may not apply to Dubai.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWfs10EGhjpheu0m1O5Fm9eb1SKJdH1aOOSgpVBL4E-ht7dSatbZw6sGpwApgEFAF3lzr2-l-1yka-WQ4N3HvYg2OkW9CZVmPgogZzM8updYs-iH2fijmLTg-twiTK0nQ4MUZ7U0aQdC3A/s1600-h/IMG_5824.bir+dubai"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWfs10EGhjpheu0m1O5Fm9eb1SKJdH1aOOSgpVBL4E-ht7dSatbZw6sGpwApgEFAF3lzr2-l-1yka-WQ4N3HvYg2OkW9CZVmPgogZzM8updYs-iH2fijmLTg-twiTK0nQ4MUZ7U0aQdC3A/s320/IMG_5824.bir+dubai" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189690404657875826" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We depart Oman just as the nearby Yemeni embassy is cleared of "non-essential personnel", the USS Cole steams in for a port call and the Olympic torch gets set to arrive - good time to leave. We taxi out past a USAF special ops C-130 parked way out back. It must have been abandoned here as the Ambassador assured us no US personal were in Oman. Hmmmm?<br /><br /><br />We decide against driving to Dubai after seeing Omani road signs giving the distance to the next town as over 900Km, and judging from the air - scenic miles they ain't. The more interesting coast road around the Straits of Hormuz is still under repair from the massive storm 10 months ago that did a Katrina on little Oman - complete with the civil defense chief being choppered off the submerging 4 story police headquarters - yet any remaining damage is hard to see.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaSm7ljKhZNDkX6uDpRuXOyPa9eM1st5Vi7GMP7JiDoC-bK6faP0UzkcAo0cvxCTaLKOcNllmQOwAFLbUHpL5xllftMMIw5oDRJA0tk8xqAMMTOfY2ppAlhpHepb0nwJUNkLVDDcBGUG0a/s1600-h/IMG_5833.growth"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaSm7ljKhZNDkX6uDpRuXOyPa9eM1st5Vi7GMP7JiDoC-bK6faP0UzkcAo0cvxCTaLKOcNllmQOwAFLbUHpL5xllftMMIw5oDRJA0tk8xqAMMTOfY2ppAlhpHepb0nwJUNkLVDDcBGUG0a/s320/IMG_5833.growth" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189691199226825618" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1lQaTrTw1YA5rG9F3C4xl59zB23ZOd1NTtbWW9zv27_nl3z6Os1n2XMo31tPQNGyUW0reGIDtOao7G1js3ZrN43R5xVl_rcg5djZ1OKEIIkLxH6pCVzjJsL-yKbYyPQW_ciG5LgFFLQTp/s1600-h/IMG_5848.yachts"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1lQaTrTw1YA5rG9F3C4xl59zB23ZOd1NTtbWW9zv27_nl3z6Os1n2XMo31tPQNGyUW0reGIDtOao7G1js3ZrN43R5xVl_rcg5djZ1OKEIIkLxH6pCVzjJsL-yKbYyPQW_ciG5LgFFLQTp/s320/IMG_5848.yachts" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189691194931858306" border="0" /></a>The 7 United Arab Emirates cluster along the Arabian Gulf coast trying to get set for a future without oil. The Saudis seem set to live off their royal portfolios and taxing pilgrims to Mecca - as they did pre-oil. Oman attempts to set up a return to its heyday of ports and trade while keeping traditional habits and skills alive. Bahrain wants to replace old Beirut as the banker of choice - but the Emirates, especially Dubai, is rolling the BIG dice - making a whole new world from scratch - a shopping Mecca. Only time will tell. Desalinators burn oil to water golf course grass - while the biggest, the tallest, the most expensive and the highest star rated - all make the city a famous place … a place famous for just being famous!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJFyT6oWo-LpZWR4Mf9h8wG_w_CgsW_PWLXp02g-JnQtSsXRqSxsg_rwofQS2riDvZai_B49bVCl1eFXd8ygSD60osoZLf6mr4zYasrvh5F6hjcNrBwKikD439X6h8ZTXTFrtVg03lxLsa/s1600-h/IMG_5841.workers"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJFyT6oWo-LpZWR4Mf9h8wG_w_CgsW_PWLXp02g-JnQtSsXRqSxsg_rwofQS2riDvZai_B49bVCl1eFXd8ygSD60osoZLf6mr4zYasrvh5F6hjcNrBwKikD439X6h8ZTXTFrtVg03lxLsa/s320/IMG_5841.workers" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189691903601462178" border="0" /></a>Massive import of workers to man the cranes and dig the tunnels and make up the hotel beds - each one unhappy to be here and no chance to retire here - but with little better options at home in Bangladesh, India, Chechnya, Philippines, or Pakistan. Giant dredges pull gulf sea beds up to make new desert islands to sell to the jet set - and a new airport (biggest and most expensive in the world) to park their jets.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghwQCZMS44V9wmcMobtK49ghmgfqc6IiWex63w5cXatNchrZEXRCMsL-uAfK8NVPbmhnFDG7_gzU4WH_bWJYQvA5ydxhro_C-cXyP5LScbZ4RGbS2XWV5BWdVL6f8x-VGJr_UwIPiQDiKS/s1600-h/IMG_5800.windtower"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghwQCZMS44V9wmcMobtK49ghmgfqc6IiWex63w5cXatNchrZEXRCMsL-uAfK8NVPbmhnFDG7_gzU4WH_bWJYQvA5ydxhro_C-cXyP5LScbZ4RGbS2XWV5BWdVL6f8x-VGJr_UwIPiQDiKS/s320/IMG_5800.windtower" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189692152709565362" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68yG_4OBomwqp5o7l8rqXhpGA5SohqN_jHe1BWrzMwIIUNoF3haMnzLuQs9iSdipS4hzOgoHWq0ga9CncrvJop5_DpMdz1FpjadPbv6-YKYUoCC_RG-SeLB3TIZScPbKR6VrsfSKGAHr8/s1600-h/IMG_5804.padlock"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68yG_4OBomwqp5o7l8rqXhpGA5SohqN_jHe1BWrzMwIIUNoF3haMnzLuQs9iSdipS4hzOgoHWq0ga9CncrvJop5_DpMdz1FpjadPbv6-YKYUoCC_RG-SeLB3TIZScPbKR6VrsfSKGAHr8/s200/IMG_5804.padlock" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189694102624717826" border="0" /></a><br />But even so, Jean has hunted out maybe the only low-rise hotel in town. A re-made traditional "wind tower" house next to the old fort and dock - that once was the little trading port of Dubai.<br />Pad lock door and Arab chests just like we got for a wedding gift 30 something years ago. The Grand Mosque (with Grand loudspeakers) glares down nearby.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxS282dOwETEwPK6DbB861zr3F9VKLOoCJ30vcxIlSLteiS8F9EaQppXipQnEAD_LKqRDdratsW9gHTQYTLM8pYcEr1ILBJ47JQ9_3DNXvWULlqjmV3T2AOY0P1D7SyY_uDjVOpPG9cScx/s1600-h/IMG_5872.docks"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxS282dOwETEwPK6DbB861zr3F9VKLOoCJ30vcxIlSLteiS8F9EaQppXipQnEAD_LKqRDdratsW9gHTQYTLM8pYcEr1ILBJ47JQ9_3DNXvWULlqjmV3T2AOY0P1D7SyY_uDjVOpPG9cScx/s320/IMG_5872.docks" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189692453357276098" border="0" /></a>The old style traders are still here. We walk down the wharf lined with wooden dhows and piles of free-trade cargo. A crew from Somalia shows us the load of matchbooks they traded for an old truck and some used car parts. A 7 day sail to Mogadishu, and 7 back. Iran and Iraq are much closer and "embargoed" goods are re-packaged right on the dock to seep back into the world's marketplace. Pirates are out there still, and more are right in town wearing dishdasha and sharkskin suits.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKu7bV-3JCzW2zAnboEU3YLbXyLlshKUEvWVOndgi5bEVYUS5ZsQ21CJhe7-3LnO87_BZgjLP9mXNIyaiArXBjHi2nF7ce7Tz9RUWqwai8yYGlEocNoywUqYvt75gwzfWzSOz6e7qS81A/s1600-h/IMG_5828+Deal"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKu7bV-3JCzW2zAnboEU3YLbXyLlshKUEvWVOndgi5bEVYUS5ZsQ21CJhe7-3LnO87_BZgjLP9mXNIyaiArXBjHi2nF7ce7Tz9RUWqwai8yYGlEocNoywUqYvt75gwzfWzSOz6e7qS81A/s320/IMG_5828+Deal" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189694630905695250" border="0" /></a>We eavesdrop on deal making at the next table. The Sheikh in shades with a fast-talking agent in a turban, talking millions to another group in Western dress -complete with bodyguard goon standing behind. Wild gestures, "why waste my time" and stomping away from the table to throw a cigarette into the faux Venetian canal running past the restaurant. 6 million was the "don't embarrass me" bid when I chance an under-table photo. Most interestingly - they were all using English. But alas the menu was in Euros - 2 fruit juice = $17.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJivWb-J2UkLYPQyLk61WIGiyalX4m3awLZmQYdipCFW1olUFOb4K8SBO2ceU_d3fy3UBeAaVM4e2jMt5grtCI4PTfsEtB5I065hWeVPzVzqrbpk_zJ2T0yaQIVMQ6SlkI6NWsVNb0i8o/s1600-h/IMG_5812.chest"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJivWb-J2UkLYPQyLk61WIGiyalX4m3awLZmQYdipCFW1olUFOb4K8SBO2ceU_d3fy3UBeAaVM4e2jMt5grtCI4PTfsEtB5I065hWeVPzVzqrbpk_zJ2T0yaQIVMQ6SlkI6NWsVNb0i8o/s320/IMG_5812.chest" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189693544278969330" border="0" /></a>I can't pick a winning guess for the post-oil Middle East. Mecca could get fried by an Israeli retaliatory strike. Lack of petrodollars could make ports, airports and free trade zones moot - but if the jet set flies away, the Dubai natives will always have magnificent new ruins; a Petra, Pompeii, Pyramids and even Atlantis rolled into one. That's when the place might be of further interest to me - only time will tell.<br /><br />- Speculator Stew</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-90850925203715777802008-04-14T00:25:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:24.098-08:0010 - Dispatch From a Sultanate<span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKICHME3zbn1TNX2GjA0BdK4sV5yuUnvtUMz54gc9NHBBhT7EZqVOrVLdrtwVI0BEYzg1RGcCmOgCflLlOWrWxWG736V4z8cxvDvElcB6WVMLvXMJkzbIuqowhfZPMm3RO717-h4hcLaL/s1600-h/IMG_0894.float"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKICHME3zbn1TNX2GjA0BdK4sV5yuUnvtUMz54gc9NHBBhT7EZqVOrVLdrtwVI0BEYzg1RGcCmOgCflLlOWrWxWG736V4z8cxvDvElcB6WVMLvXMJkzbIuqowhfZPMm3RO717-h4hcLaL/s320/IMG_0894.float" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189004086063844114" border="0" /></a>Jean has lapsed into full-on tourist mode. This woman who has rafted the Grand's "Lava Falls"; dropped Crash Creek's dreaded "Ol Mother" waterfall in a borrowed canoe; and even paddled off from the base of Vic Falls to bash down the mighty Zambezi - has today braved "Lazy River" - a moving swimming pool that meanders thru our resort in Oman. We are only in the 5 star, but a 6 star is just down stream.<br /><br />We are miles outside Muscat and must drive a tunnel thru the mountains to leave our all-inclusive tourist ghetto beach paradise. Jean did not pick this one, but floats right into resort life - while I grumble at the lack of surf in the Arabian Sea.<br /><br />The sheikhs, emirs, kings, and sultans of the area know that the boom is running out. Many are betting that these fancy resorts will replace some of the oil revenues - maybe so. Arabic we've learned matters little here as everyone is from everywhere else - full of Europeans, Russians and others seeking winter sun - it did snow in London last week.<br /><br />Until lately, Oman had only one small path of a paved road - from the old fort down to the old palace. No one was invited in, and many found a way out. Then, in a 1970 plot worthy of Macbeth, the old Sultan was overthrown and exiled by his son - someone the U.S. Ambassador told us was a true "renaissance man" - Sultan Qaboos bin Said.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpafskiYzGgXOcT8e61cVKX8Wmn3QU8WBlv3RlbioOTFPCnK84t_iLfMzmzQwLPCPEeuUHNEMhspQcxuIYz18Pt9SPQXC71VQUQL4hneZBpN9bztVK52mvShID0CRACJjN3sGA_Pj0YDYy/s1600-h/IMG_5721.starbucks"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpafskiYzGgXOcT8e61cVKX8Wmn3QU8WBlv3RlbioOTFPCnK84t_iLfMzmzQwLPCPEeuUHNEMhspQcxuIYz18Pt9SPQXC71VQUQL4hneZBpN9bztVK52mvShID0CRACJjN3sGA_Pj0YDYy/s400/IMG_5721.starbucks" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188999606412954306" border="0" /></a>As soon as he took power, the place took off - with the Sultan calling all the shots and cutting any red tape. He quickly opened the doors and invited all to return and help build a new Oman. The efficiency of absolute power, effective use of relatively modest oil wealth, and the proud traditions of a people who once roamed and ruled a good portion of the world - were all used to transform an Islamic head-in-the-sand group of tribes, back into a more modern member of the world's community - just as they had been when Sinbad first sailed away from these shores.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0I6Jv1Vfm2uSGwqPLTpwCpufLJnraA0Wc84ehh6t66a2CrEOq8hPtzkNEMEAwV2YMBEOHyFoCZ9cOXBmJ_TNhWJAnb4Y-HlOU70pFpLjgtErRxISzAqaVO36hf3x6TxDSLjVu8SoEPwk/s1600-h/IMG_5783.fort"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0I6Jv1Vfm2uSGwqPLTpwCpufLJnraA0Wc84ehh6t66a2CrEOq8hPtzkNEMEAwV2YMBEOHyFoCZ9cOXBmJ_TNhWJAnb4Y-HlOU70pFpLjgtErRxISzAqaVO36hf3x6TxDSLjVu8SoEPwk/s400/IMG_5783.fort" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189002290767514322" border="0" /></a>Now fine highways connect the capital of Muscat to the rest of the country - and its neighbors. The jammed traffic circles are graced with large art pieces inspired by Omani traditions - not war heroes. Stately new ministerial and public buildings line the main drag and new housing has replaced nearly all the old mud/straw construction even in the countryside - and the restored old forts are symptomatic of a cultural revival and pride.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRiPLJwOgfUG7oa0B3kWcO7VNiQ25IiBkrct_P46KBul2-N2uKsKkv9wbjpiwY1jhwDK4opAnt97u9hJcNi1w35PhjWIgEjN0CVJoXOuTpVY7iKm2lvsL-aAw-juT8XMky34an_Zs3KSHS/s1600-h/IMG_5776.dishdasha"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRiPLJwOgfUG7oa0B3kWcO7VNiQ25IiBkrct_P46KBul2-N2uKsKkv9wbjpiwY1jhwDK4opAnt97u9hJcNi1w35PhjWIgEjN0CVJoXOuTpVY7iKm2lvsL-aAw-juT8XMky34an_Zs3KSHS/s320/IMG_5776.dishdasha" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189002608595094242" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In this land of frankincense and myrrh the ubiquitous dishdasha robe has a unique collar tassel for dipping in perfume - and every man wears it in odoriferous style. Women are in various stages of traditional dress - from full veiled mask to slacks and heels - but are also found in the elected and appointed royal councils. I time Jean - hair and makeup vs. burka ... no contest.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4tQD-1XsXCnvbyLb2V63O3VacddlSL3NIRSje0VkySYfR7MQvdraFE8ukDZpT_4l8CKMKtsARaPVO5CiQFYOTzxu4wlqztM8A9YimxN25tPeCpZc8BZcUKh8RIjFkza_-0YKNyhCINrF/s1600-h/IMG_5791.burka"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4tQD-1XsXCnvbyLb2V63O3VacddlSL3NIRSje0VkySYfR7MQvdraFE8ukDZpT_4l8CKMKtsARaPVO5CiQFYOTzxu4wlqztM8A9YimxN25tPeCpZc8BZcUKh8RIjFkza_-0YKNyhCINrF/s320/IMG_5791.burka" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189003059566660338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Every year, the Sultan goes "camping" and moves his court around the countryside until each tribal sheikh and village mayor is met - problems addressed and loyalties reaffirmed. The Sultan speaks all the local dialects and tribal languages - as well as most of the European ones. He leads from top down, but gets support from the bottom up.<br /><br />One of his first Royal Decrees was to give land for all other religion's use. The intolerant Saudis next door, who export their anti-everyone-else view as far as our oil dollars allow, complained bitterly about this. The Sultan famously rebuffed them, "I have no trouble finding a Mosque in London." Those who still object are encouraged to take their intolerance across the border to Saudi Arabia and stick their heads back into the sand - unfortunately sand full of oil.<br /><br />By Royal Decree, (these are published on page one each morning) all building designers must choose some style of Islamic or Arabesque architecture and use traditional colors - so all the buildings look like they are a part of Oman - no black glass box towers to be seen. Ugly air-con units and the like are covered with lacy lattice, and even the plastic water tanks on rooftops are molded into little white tower shapes that complement the grace of the buildings. This capital needs no theme building to identify it - and the effect is comfortably stylish.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXX_DGUajKfDxpqyH8DIZUHOxHl88ijpNobySsmFx9sG38Lw9ZG9h6SNJPzB7b81uqIc9ihaTO8i6wfHWog_yF2bfejvp_07P_qTBBK5m0whpwDxrFYie25NH5JoWo16b7EVKm0mR_Vsh/s1600-h/IMG_5798.Sultan"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXX_DGUajKfDxpqyH8DIZUHOxHl88ijpNobySsmFx9sG38Lw9ZG9h6SNJPzB7b81uqIc9ihaTO8i6wfHWog_yF2bfejvp_07P_qTBBK5m0whpwDxrFYie25NH5JoWo16b7EVKm0mR_Vsh/s400/IMG_5798.Sultan" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189003403164044034" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The Sultan is a handsome man, always impeccably dressed and groomed, loves music and the arts (opera house under construction) and obviously has fabulous taste - from housing tracts to the Grand Mosque complex - that quietly screams of attention to detail and understated opulence - yes, the Sultan Qaboos exudes class. He also has no wives and no heir. Can he be all that unless he is gay?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-n4zzVKNBl1acGUtdoLG4_tmHyQcLZxCU8n7jxAS5QHbd1BMkdvs5Q20Qih0Pwv-koZkRBrViYoETHspaF92dXEUXx2OCq3zqXWTcaSrdalhAzx-3EDXX3mlWYQCy5QHX4x3RxP2YTUd/s1600-h/IMG_5713.mosque+in"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-n4zzVKNBl1acGUtdoLG4_tmHyQcLZxCU8n7jxAS5QHbd1BMkdvs5Q20Qih0Pwv-koZkRBrViYoETHspaF92dXEUXx2OCq3zqXWTcaSrdalhAzx-3EDXX3mlWYQCy5QHX4x3RxP2YTUd/s400/IMG_5713.mosque+in" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189333269537278802" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But no - the President of Iran (another of the our-way-or-no-way religious set) has informed us that there are no gays in the Islamic world. Too bad - some of the neighborhood could use some sprucing up.<br /><br />- Sandstruck Stew</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-24354190857920551602008-04-10T04:56:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:25.058-08:009 - Dispatch From the Bottom<span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtMh6mHsRe-vqSXyPyzIUgb2gWWQZlG-k1nM9PrHNMLa8GPMp777KNxeEUbMCNHSpGRahZk0OGk_mfrCuaCuipVP5GFbwus1aLNSBlkgXlAbaNPrptjMRmpl4ywyjq_40xtJdKZb-szfd2/s1600-h/IMG_5676.dead+sea"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtMh6mHsRe-vqSXyPyzIUgb2gWWQZlG-k1nM9PrHNMLa8GPMp777KNxeEUbMCNHSpGRahZk0OGk_mfrCuaCuipVP5GFbwus1aLNSBlkgXlAbaNPrptjMRmpl4ywyjq_40xtJdKZb-szfd2/s320/IMG_5676.dead+sea" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187585964966160130" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />For millions of years, the plates have parted, leaving a deep rift running from Tanzania to Turkey. At the very bottom lies the Dead Sea - 1400 feet below sea level … and dropping. When Granddad put his bridge across the Jordan, it was one of the world's great rivers, draining a huge area of the Middle East and renewing the Dead Sea. All sources of renewal are now damned and diverted - and the Dead Sea is dieing - dropping 3 feet each year. So it's all up hill from here.<br /><br /><br /><br />We continue our group trip with Harvard, which is a "knife with two sides," as one of our ESL members put it. Logistics are all arranged - when and what to visit - where to stay and how to get there - each hour jammed with carefully scripted sites and events. The Dead Sea is on their list and we pass some on mine.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjjHN8_8B1ErvZqRV5i66Pu0P9-Za8GetGlQmq7heTO_xxQde84Di7Eaks7FhqOrAXSysawovKAbe9OOppMqyy6ssm_hRpcrRg7BQLwqG5bj3cChHP2nkxnax5kKIKzh6k2EQ4vvZbHIeN/s1600-h/IMG_5303.book+sign"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjjHN8_8B1ErvZqRV5i66Pu0P9-Za8GetGlQmq7heTO_xxQde84Di7Eaks7FhqOrAXSysawovKAbe9OOppMqyy6ssm_hRpcrRg7BQLwqG5bj3cChHP2nkxnax5kKIKzh6k2EQ4vvZbHIeN/s320/IMG_5303.book+sign" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187585964966160146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The upside of the knife is the contacts the Harvard name allows. We have tea with the daughter of a High Court Chief Justice - now a dissident journalist and author. She gifts us one of her books - Freedom Fries and Fried Freedoms - written in English. Her latest book is on the evils of "wasta" - the Arabic word for how contacts and influence are needed to get anything done in the Arab world. She admits to needing wasta to get it published.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzEsaF9LifEdZRe83kJKznwv1m6nY6OALzUdwfoiviy52OAfip2nQ8PcCTM4c5xDjh3LIno5clxBXQZeEba5vk-ITVkKFtvqjbFMOtwCBA4FaytMO_MmcRL7zz-KA8J3q8OCxloeTIT8H/s1600-h/IMG_0714.fashion+show"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzEsaF9LifEdZRe83kJKznwv1m6nY6OALzUdwfoiviy52OAfip2nQ8PcCTM4c5xDjh3LIno5clxBXQZeEba5vk-ITVkKFtvqjbFMOtwCBA4FaytMO_MmcRL7zz-KA8J3q8OCxloeTIT8H/s320/IMG_0714.fashion+show" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187585406620411634" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The next day Jean finds herself dressed in a museum quality folk costume from the collection of a Mrs. Widad Kawar, a Palestinian with the cultural calling to collect and preserve the traditional dress of tribal groups before the distinct styles and skills are diluted in the refugee camp's concentration. Her home is a wonder of art and artifacts from this area. Another guest is an Iraqi antique dealer who is a wealth of information on waterpipes and says Granddad's was a Turkish model - likely made for hashish smoking.<br /><br /><br />We are invited to dine with an alumnus who owns the local 4 Seasons Hotel and is a Director of Visa - Jean's old company. The rich here live very well, and pour good wine - or rather their help does. The meal took hours as the numerous rows of knives and forks were used, two by two, until bursting was a real danger. And then out came the fruit and cheese … ohhhh.<br /><br />In the morning, even though we swore off food for life, again an invitation not to be missed - a tour and lunch at the American Center for Oriental Studies where researchers are housed and fed while digging into this area's rich history and tumultuous present. I hold items older than the bible in my hand and we receive a VIP tour by the Director - an expert on Petra. A pair of West Point cadets on a language study program gives me a personal greeting and I am moved to misty eyes by their youthful zeal and commitment.<br /><br />Then lunch the next day, at a new resort in the port/resort city of Aqaba, managed by another Harvard alum. He invites the Commissioner of Economic Development and a lady member of the Cabinet. The topics of conversation were varied, knowledgeable, and specific. Inevitably talk evolves to the upcoming US election and the Israel/US situation. "Is the US ready for a non-white male president?" "How can two percent of your population control your foreign policy?" They were equally acceptable of questions from Jean and me - the only Americans at the table - while the Red Sea sparkled in the background.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDNv1fQ47qZvCWIbXpAAqP_8aCLxowpR7gtZSiVXqhLwKSBRdnyz0arXINROhYX9ZWRcrMixSVIJFdr0Us-uO1A8jLj2AHYT98TdCjHvXQTrWx1qutImHsgxWEM3O3b8Pqy1cZvCnCGO_/s1600-h/IMG_0826.elias.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDNv1fQ47qZvCWIbXpAAqP_8aCLxowpR7gtZSiVXqhLwKSBRdnyz0arXINROhYX9ZWRcrMixSVIJFdr0Us-uO1A8jLj2AHYT98TdCjHvXQTrWx1qutImHsgxWEM3O3b8Pqy1cZvCnCGO_/s200/IMG_0826.elias.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187587442434910002" border="0" /></a>And not to forget the guide with the group - Elias. He is a Catholic Arab from a Bedouin tribe south of Amman, with degrees in English lit and Middle Eastern history. I feel he is now a friend and feel he feels the same. He is paired with the group's leader John dePury, a man who makes me feel like a shut-in. Lived in far more than a dozen countries and led expeditions in many of the rest - an eager resource for the most thought provoking probe or the genesis of merriment and mirth - as well as keeping the wheels greased and on the right road.<br /><br />Then there is Ali, our driver. Not only a master of all roads from the Ukraine to Cairo, but a valued source of the working man's view - an Arab man on and of the street. We share tea into the night.<br /><br />And yes of course, we have done the tourist sites - Ammonite, Greek, Roman, Byzantine and the incomparable Nabatean city of Petra - where we played Indiana Jones until legs failed and the sun set. Indescribable so I won't.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTCTSYhf9SjrdT3rB2nZj46rvuIgbir5inPmY2iMyOMVjLF8anGUX_ETR1V-FrbvszdE3FfX7hf-oI3IqCsaJQDUzCsbFpuc6H9sH1Z0yl95Xel4_AGDuQintaKAkOFj6lXcQu1kQXmb5/s1600-h/IMG_5638.petra"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTCTSYhf9SjrdT3rB2nZj46rvuIgbir5inPmY2iMyOMVjLF8anGUX_ETR1V-FrbvszdE3FfX7hf-oI3IqCsaJQDUzCsbFpuc6H9sH1Z0yl95Xel4_AGDuQintaKAkOFj6lXcQu1kQXmb5/s400/IMG_5638.petra" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187588151104513858" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Today, we climb to the tomb of Moses on Mt. Nebo and see the view down to the Jordan River and across to Jericho. From here, it seems likely that Granddad and Joshua both used the same spot to cross. Then on to try out this eating with only the right "clean" hand with the Bedouins near Wadi Dana nature reserve. Sheep's eyes are on the menu - it's all up hill from here too.<br /><br />- Redrock Rod</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-91664539729089161872008-04-05T23:26:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:26.395-08:007- Dispatch From a Dispatch<span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >When Granddad came back from the war, he almost killed my mother. He brought back an Arabic rifle - one of those really long ones with a fancy inlaid stock. Little Elaine and her big sister Lorna were in their room upstairs when the rifle was being unpacked and went off - sending a bullet up through her floor.<br /><br />He also brought back a </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">waterpipe</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > we have always called "The </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Hooka</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >." We come across a shop of that name as Jean and I stroll through an Amman, Jordan mall - 4 story with escalators and lots of displays to give us a look into the Jordanian lifestyle. I have to go in the shop to see the </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">waterpipe</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > selection and talk to the owner - a man who knows a lot about </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">waterpipes</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >, that here is called a "</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">nargila</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >". "</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Hooka</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > came from India", he says, where the British Army picked up the word to pass on </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">thru</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > Granddad to us. Mom use to urge Granddad to "smoke the bubbly Daddy" whenever his wounded leg made him grumpy. When I first examined his </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">hooka</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >, I found a pair of bowls that hold the tobacco - one smelled of that weed, and the other smelled of another weed - hashish. No wonder he felt better after using the </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">waterpipe</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4D-aQtcTVJH8hCFybnudEP4RDp3qbIfhx6yrQXEGJ3yHBg2VIT1QXC3YtUaldO_LJglz-s-FA3uE835n-XgtMew5M3KqB-ad0cbshqigkLFnkk0h9j9-DgiWfD4EKxPIoB_Mp6h8Dh1Yj/s1600-h/IMG_4989+head+scarf"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4D-aQtcTVJH8hCFybnudEP4RDp3qbIfhx6yrQXEGJ3yHBg2VIT1QXC3YtUaldO_LJglz-s-FA3uE835n-XgtMew5M3KqB-ad0cbshqigkLFnkk0h9j9-DgiWfD4EKxPIoB_Mp6h8Dh1Yj/s320/IMG_4989+head+scarf" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186122554757628770" border="0" /></a>Jean is talking head scarves with some ladies backed by rows of manikins sporting high fashion Islamic garb. A pretty girl is still able to look very sexy wearing some of these full body-covering styles. They are beautiful and expensive.<br /><br />We are escorted by Bill and Khalid. Bill is a Fulbright scholar teaching at the Universities of Jordan and Petra.- a friend of a friend. Khalid is 29, Bill's friend and driver - he quickly becomes ours too. We latch on to him as translator, transporter and guide - all things needed for our next Granddad quest - to the site of his rather famous bridge.<br /><br />Early the next day we are in Khalid's taxi - far south and far down below sea level - where John the Baptist once did business on the Jordan River. It is a pilgrimage site and a few </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" >buses</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > are in the lot. We come here because this is the only allowed access to the border/river - and it is near where Granddad and his men forced the first bridge, a pontoon bridge, across the river on the night of March 21, 1918. British bridging units were also trying to get across the river that night, but </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">machineguns</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > on the opposite bank, a big river churning along at 6 knots, and fires started by the fighting, stopped them all - all except Granddad.<br /><br />A history book reads, "This adventure proved the greatest of all the many raids carried out by the light horsemen, the New </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Zealanders</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >, and the Camels … All was ready for the attempt to force the crossing. But the Jordan was in high flood … one night the waters rose 7 feet … Already the Turks were aware of the British plans, not only to cross the river, but for the destruction of the (railroad) … in Amman."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcCkkalNpOIaoJigELNUiDMu24UXzxxS80P-Zfsy7rynGb5SOA3W2m_EmC3V_WQQqRTR5UqmE-NIcF3DEOW15220SDfGI0xPk3Q2Fj3hrDPV2uJr634eVmdKGlCGyL_AvmmF_cqXfUuf-r/s1600-h/Bridge+w-car.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcCkkalNpOIaoJigELNUiDMu24UXzxxS80P-Zfsy7rynGb5SOA3W2m_EmC3V_WQQqRTR5UqmE-NIcF3DEOW15220SDfGI0xPk3Q2Fj3hrDPV2uJr634eVmdKGlCGyL_AvmmF_cqXfUuf-r/s400/Bridge+w-car.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186121949167240018" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7f7jAg-nOlQnTqltmTQh_ncKGo46tNthyiZxeaXfDOejJae9YAml3bMlP49-K8qhU-MPWoh3hNiKQ2EhE-zdmXwp3NR8ZFPMY6qQkn5YW9Gos1jGbYwEjpm1MprxxjwPLOtlGTsvcANr/s1600-h/IMG_5028.JPG+In+parking+lot.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7f7jAg-nOlQnTqltmTQh_ncKGo46tNthyiZxeaXfDOejJae9YAml3bMlP49-K8qhU-MPWoh3hNiKQ2EhE-zdmXwp3NR8ZFPMY6qQkn5YW9Gos1jGbYwEjpm1MprxxjwPLOtlGTsvcANr/s320/IMG_5028.JPG+In+parking+lot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186123044383900530" border="0" /></a>Khalid, Jean and I approach anyone we can find to get information. Thanks to the Australian War Museum and the </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">internet</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >, we have photos of Granddad's bridge, articles from the NY times about the crossing, satellite views of the river and maps of the area - both new and the ones Granddad had. We even have an 1918 aerial photo of the bridge taken by the yet-to-be-formed RAF.<br /><br />We know where we want to go, and ask everyone we can find, but the answer is always the same, "forbidden … military border area … no one goes there." But we have great determination - and incredibly good luck.<br /></span><div style="text-align: right;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >A big new SUV pulls up with an obvious air of importance - the Commission Director of Baptism Site - a mister </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Dia</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > Al-</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Madani</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >. I thrust a photo </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">thru</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > his open window while Khalid repeats our pleas. Mr. Al-</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Madani</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > is a man of action, and influence. "This is fantastic!" he says. "If you can wait until I get rid of the South African Foreign Minister, I will take you there myself." And after some phone calls and map planning - he did.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgQj1J4Na0bXpgwpNiq8l_ihsdWdXnZqjvKrVkKpttI2KiPWJfGgnVU86j8_YwI2EQLCiPezb8SqR6WGOVzEolHUqgSEZane-Ok0cs_raRy2wiTlYupwLaI7VSn3kNKsUyw9Lgyf20LBR/s1600-h/IMG_5039.JPG+So+Africans.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgQj1J4Na0bXpgwpNiq8l_ihsdWdXnZqjvKrVkKpttI2KiPWJfGgnVU86j8_YwI2EQLCiPezb8SqR6WGOVzEolHUqgSEZane-Ok0cs_raRy2wiTlYupwLaI7VSn3kNKsUyw9Lgyf20LBR/s320/IMG_5039.JPG+So+Africans.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186120969914696514" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzFFOU3Rdo5Lt8khvcgXNWQvZpMt66VkROR7brs0MF4ZrWnUCla4DTzaxhQRE_rQK0SjDguPQM1KBtToyjQSB2bP4MgM4NdtTpbDcNjojxvl8_4E0h5bQNTIpqrBuYldZJHqjNz-5h0vp/s1600-h/IMG_5034.JPG+Rod+Director+Map.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzFFOU3Rdo5Lt8khvcgXNWQvZpMt66VkROR7brs0MF4ZrWnUCla4DTzaxhQRE_rQK0SjDguPQM1KBtToyjQSB2bP4MgM4NdtTpbDcNjojxvl8_4E0h5bQNTIpqrBuYldZJHqjNz-5h0vp/s320/IMG_5034.JPG+Rod+Director+Map.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186118152416150322" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7V-pAiqwqcTt5S0aFCy3IlBhakuLGVGRun5K-MPlHqXwKnUg3ueQuwzrrzU9yKPcvxGKTrxGqhuyk9FlHbmATU9H8WlwLKx0q3t9uf0LiqafSqKk8hk0OcT0601NokJIKnLl5nocTvP9/s1600-h/Bridge+bluff+2008-+1918.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU7V-pAiqwqcTt5S0aFCy3IlBhakuLGVGRun5K-MPlHqXwKnUg3ueQuwzrrzU9yKPcvxGKTrxGqhuyk9FlHbmATU9H8WlwLKx0q3t9uf0LiqafSqKk8hk0OcT0601NokJIKnLl5nocTvP9/s400/Bridge+bluff+2008-+1918.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196650822170512674" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >We 4 wheel into a wilderness little changed since Joshua crossed the Jordan to attack Jericho 3250 years ago - except for empty shell casings and rusted barbwire from several later wars. Mines still poke up in the low area where Granddad's bridge floated in the Jordan, but from the bluff we can look down, like an Ottoman gunner, at the spot. The spot where naked Australians swam the first rope across; where pontoons were slid off wagons; where horses and camels charged across to attack the Turks from the rear - and allowed Larry of Arabia's forces to link up with General </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Allenby's</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > British legions to capture Damascus - and end 500 years of Ottoman rule.<br /><br />The British were then able to construct the </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Allenby</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > Bridge, now the major crossing point between Palestine and Jordan - the bridge Jean and I used to enter Jordan a few days ago. All that remains of Granddad's bridge is one pontoon in the collection of the Australian War Memorial Museum in Canberra - and history's memory.<br /><br />Granddad was awarded the Military Cross for his "great determination, skill and coolness under fire." General </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Allenby</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > later wrote a Dispatch to his boss King George, mentioning Granddad's other "interesting bridging operations." I have the handwritten congratulatory notice sent to Granddad about that Dispatch - signed by a young Undersecretary of War - Winston S. Churchill.<br /><br />- Riverside Rod</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-87901433334240549742008-04-02T09:26:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:26.579-08:008 - Dispatch From the Guardhouse<span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Yesterday, just like </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" >Condi</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > Rice, we had a date with David Hale, the US Ambassador to the Kingdom of Jordan. Do you wonder which appointment he kept? But it all worked out for the best - except for the lipstick.<br /><br />We arrive in Amman after an eventful day on buses and crossing the </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" >Allenby</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > Bridge - named after Granddad's commander. Amman means "place of the Ammonites" a people Moses ran into before the Israelites crossed the Jordan River to resume the dispute over "Holy Land." Amman wasn't even the capitol when Granddad arrived in 1918. It is a sprawling city of 2 million now and growing - by the minute.<br /><br />The hotel Jean has arranged is next to an old bus station and a mosque - I fear her string of winners has run out. But not so - the bus station has just moved to a newly constructed site, and the huge crowd outside our window is just using the space for the Friday Sabbath street market.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3d1vK0ZUsrDiL147_92Xn6zPm1GZT6Q9gPLHfjcUx8afuqJF_YulsiJfkKMfbCRbTU37ko1VOf1CQNa_PW6w44nTxAzMzMCQ4IEYbtgQK7CK9i36UhtIzYMIdADnPSJek8ZClChX1t7g6/s1600-h/IMG_4947.JPG+fair+mosque.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3d1vK0ZUsrDiL147_92Xn6zPm1GZT6Q9gPLHfjcUx8afuqJF_YulsiJfkKMfbCRbTU37ko1VOf1CQNa_PW6w44nTxAzMzMCQ4IEYbtgQK7CK9i36UhtIzYMIdADnPSJek8ZClChX1t7g6/s400/IMG_4947.JPG+fair+mosque.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184685548894700274" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The hotel general manager asks if we might know his family in Los Angeles. We explain that LA is a very big city. He counters that he has a very big family in LA. He also advises us to wait for the afternoon sermon and prayer at the mosque to end, before entering the area. So we stand at the window to watch the overflow mass of men kneel and rise, kneel and rise to the beat of a song praising Allah - that blares from the mosque's loudspeaker. Prayers are 3 or 5 times a day, depending on sect, the times change daily - and are published in the paper like tide tables.<br /><br />After a few days roaming Amman on our own, we move uptown to the </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" >Intercontental</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > Hotel to meet up with a mixed group of interesting people - all attached in some way to Jean's stint at Harvard. It includes an Irish chap, who had lunch last week with the Queen of England; two MBA brothers from Cancun and Mexico City; their professional and chic wives; a Rhodesian / Indian / Bangladeshi / Egyptian raised Englishman living in Thailand with a Swiss passport; a Jordanian Catholic academic specializing in English lit and Middle Eastern history; a Greek Orthodox woman traveler; a Texas author doing research - and a couple of boring Americans.<br /><br />Harvard has arranged easy access to the usual tourist highlights, but also to places otherwise unavailable - like this trip to the US Embassy briefing room. Security, to say the least, is tight. The streets, in front of the walls of the imposing compound, are blocked off - a machine gun is manned on each side of the gatehouse. Police cars line the opposite side of the road. No photos, purses, cameras, cell phones or other electronics please - and no running. Duh!<br /><br />If I told you all about the security, you would have to be killed. Yet I will reveal what I learned:<br />1. Names, passports and faces are scanned - and questions asked.<br />2. The serious men and women manning the sequential rooms, full of sensors and scanners, we pass through, one at a time, have little resemblance to the </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" >TSA</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > buffoons at our airports. (Think Marines wearing wraparound shades and leather gloves - and women that may have leather outfits and riding crops at home).<br />3. A wife without her purse still needs to have fresh lipstick when visiting the ambassador, and may drop things into her husband's pocket with no notice.<br />4. A metal lipstick case will set off a metal detector.<br />5. Lipstick, in spite of being used on the skin and ingested by the pound, is not a food item - it has a hydrocarbon odor detectable by some sensors.<br />6. Face recognition software may alarm when scanning the features of a man being exceedingly embarrassed by having to explain to the third room full of guards, that the lipstick is not his - and not even his color.<br /><br />But we at last get in to find the ambassador is off with </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" >Condi</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" >, Abbas and the King - too bad, as I want to ask her if Stanford won. Instead, we are around a table with four Embassy staffers including the press chief, deputy economics chief, </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" >USAID</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > head, and the director of public affairs. They look haggard and admit to being stressed by recent visitors - including the head of our forest service, 2 Senators, 3 members of the Bush cabinet, the Vice President - and now, yet again, their boss </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" >Condi</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > Rice. I don't help their sleep by asking if Jordan's Kingdom is not just going to be a historic repeat of the </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" >Shah's </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Iran.<br /><br />Some tidbits from each of their talks: US aid to Jordan last year was $360M plus $300M for their military … next budget hopes to TRIPLE that amount … and even more money is going to Israel … most of the population is not Jordanian but Palestinian and other refugees … severe water shortage … prices are skyrocketing as is population … Sec. of State is on her 17</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" >th</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > visit with little to show for the effort.<br /><br />The Q&A was the real meat, and frank answers were given "off the record" - which I have to respect as all </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" >internet</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > traffic here passes through government monitored servers. I may already have said too much. If you don't hear from us again soon, call the State Department and tell them to pay the ransom - or I'll will tell the world about that guard that winked.<br /><br />- Ruby Red Rod</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-20048297196550673742008-04-02T09:18:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:27.014-08:006 - Dispatch From Palestine<span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" >My first sip of alcohol away from home was next door, at my Jewish friend's house. Granddad's wife, Nana, was babysitting but I snuck out to invite myself in. It was a holiday that we did not celebrate, and much of the ritual was in a language I had never heard. But one part impressed my memory by the unprecedented offer of a glass of wine to raise in the toast: "Next year in Jerusalem!<br /><br />After Granddad and his successors British occupiers left this land in 1949, the seeds of today's headlines were already sprouting. Lawrence of Arabia's promises notwithstanding, the Arab world was not free and united after the defeat of the Ottomans. Colonial powers had never intended to honor that promise and had carved up convenient borders and installed compliant rulers - much as had been done 2000 years previously, by the Romans - before they banished the Israelites and destroyed Jerusalem.<br /><br />One such border was the Kurdish, Iraqi, Iranian one that haunts us today. Another was drawn for "the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people." And because that toast had been repeated, by many families, in many lands, for many years - from Moscow to Manhattan they came … and still do. But as the earlier Israelites found when Joshua crossed the Jordan River to attack the walls of Jericho, someone was already there - in their own homeland.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfUCvKb-h8c68ClDbWwu5jLL3ds5zQocYmhq5zoQliJeyzE7P1jU7zB9O3kDjd2LttZaJiKbjg00gM1Qr4vOZkAfGNxVAf4IXU-ytWypf6NG16Sk1XHtpdx37K0PCgqkVhEGTx14sMQts/s1600-h/IMG_0638+checkpoint"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfUCvKb-h8c68ClDbWwu5jLL3ds5zQocYmhq5zoQliJeyzE7P1jU7zB9O3kDjd2LttZaJiKbjg00gM1Qr4vOZkAfGNxVAf4IXU-ytWypf6NG16Sk1XHtpdx37K0PCgqkVhEGTx14sMQts/s400/IMG_0638+checkpoint" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184684685606273762" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Jean and now I cross into the Occupied Territories and like that border has been doing, continue to move east. We travel with a Palestinian man I will call Abu. He tells us things, introduces us to people and takes us places that rival our worst expectations - the camps, the checkpoints and the wall.<br /><br />My Granddad married Beatrice Marks - quite Jewish sounding. With little more evidence that that, I could claim rights to a new condo on Abu's family land, while he cannot visit his aunt down the road. He teaches me an Arab expression - "I have seen this with my own eyes," and I could glaze your eyes with the details - but you might change the channel like we do so well. But this is it in a nutshell:<br /><br />1. Israel and Palestine have no ability to control their extreme religious and nationalistic groups - they do not recognize man's laws, only God's - as they themselves interpret them. One ranking Rabbi yesterday, called for hanging all the children of terrorists/freedom fighters … up in the trees.<br /><br />2. Israel has never planned to pull back to the agreed borders. They continue to colonize and control more Palestinian lands, life, and importantly - water. Since again agreeing not to, at the Annapolis meeting last fall - over 1700 new houses have been built on occupied land.<br />3. Israel is purposely making life miserable for those Palestinians who remain, with the expressed aim of getting them to leave - and many are. This is the real purpose of the "security" wall - not security.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07D6hQ-5OvRt23Ggax7L3n7LH5M25KKUj4ZBaJ3VJ0WiIS6ymL-kxtLxv4mmocpRxZxLV-TkXvewHW4agJtckY9j8agrzKDxlMYyCDa9Po8bU2wyCp_oXSP5o9XDTCxm23cyza5aobkpR/s1600-h/IMG_4879R.+Wall+sewer+gate+small.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07D6hQ-5OvRt23Ggax7L3n7LH5M25KKUj4ZBaJ3VJ0WiIS6ymL-kxtLxv4mmocpRxZxLV-TkXvewHW4agJtckY9j8agrzKDxlMYyCDa9Po8bU2wyCp_oXSP5o9XDTCxm23cyza5aobkpR/s400/IMG_4879R.+Wall+sewer+gate+small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184683998411506386" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I have seen this with my own eyes - yet cannot make judgments. History, including my own people's, and especially, ironically the Jew's - is full of such stories. But the hate in the eyes of a young Arab man, as an Israeli cop passes, makes me see that another people are in the cycle of capitulation, conquest and colonization - and may themselves take up that toast; "Next year in Jerusalem."<br /><br />- Sectarian Stew</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-5227981811040417312008-03-28T13:41:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:27.314-08:005 - Dispatch from a Grandson<span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >He wasn't a tall man, only 5 foot 6, if his 1914 army records are correct. I remember he seemed taller, bookish and always wore a tie - and used his cane to threaten his little hellion of a grandson. Granddad was gone long before I quit being a hellion, but Mother passed on the stories - and his Australian bloodline.<br /><br />She was a traveler too and a writer - a young newspaperwoman who left Melbourne in 1939 to report on Mussolini's invasion of Abyssinia - then on to London to cover the Queen Mother - and to meet and marry my father, a Yank flying RAF Spitfires against Hitler. She told stories and loved beer, so I know where I got it - but what did she get from her father?<br /><br />For the past several years I have reached out for Granddad - finding his name in books, family memories and relics in my attic. I've had a box of Granddad's stuff since my first trip to Australia - his war diary, miscellaneous loose papers, a few photos, a canvas dispatch case, a pair of spurs - and a row of heavy silver and bronze medals. I took the canvas case with me to Vietnam and got it shot full of holes. Then it all sat in the attic until I was old enough to examine it for what is was - part of my DNA.<br /><br />The Internet and computers make this possible. They connect me to vast webs of information and databases, like those at the Australian War Memorial Museum. The staff there took a personal interest and aided me greatly. They gave me documents and photos from their collection, and I gave them what they wanted from my attic. Together it tells quit a story - camels, cavalry, bridges, biplanes and bullets - and some of it is right here in Jerusalem.<br /><br />We pilgrims continue our quest. I hold in my hand a photo from the Australian Museum's collection captioned:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Captain Edward John Howells and an unidentified Australian soldier, both of D Field Troop Engineers, Royal Australian Bridging Train, in a narrow street in the Holy City of Jerusalem, local people passing the by. Capt Howells was awarded MC for leading the bridging team against the Turks on 21-22 March 1918</span>." Granddad faces the camera, standing jaunty in his Army hat and boots. But standing where?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGiKGD_LY41R8cYimYhKv1Ddca1IGUOsjuz6pgQX1jTfWvWuhlMs166NZQmGL87S6s-_IngKsIzUU8AAlln7BEKuHjYD0qm-CDqIXzNXUlD6dQeH8w5o-2qLoblFo_j_pAELUoo4sbrYP/s1600-h/Granddad+Old+City+Cropped.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGiKGD_LY41R8cYimYhKv1Ddca1IGUOsjuz6pgQX1jTfWvWuhlMs166NZQmGL87S6s-_IngKsIzUU8AAlln7BEKuHjYD0qm-CDqIXzNXUlD6dQeH8w5o-2qLoblFo_j_pAELUoo4sbrYP/s320/Granddad+Old+City+Cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182896467382649506" border="0" /></a><br />"Salaam 'alaykum" I greet a likely information source - a shopkeeper posted in front of his wares. "Could you tell me where this photo was taken?"<br /><br />"Oh, please sir, hello, yes, come into my shop. I have many photos. I have olive wood grails, icons, holy relics. What would you like? Misses, look at this, it is very pretty. Come in, come in."<br /><br />"Shukran. Thank you. But we are not shopping"<br /><br />"Oh. Well just have a look around then. No cost for looking. Yes. Come in, come in!"<br /><br />Repeated in many ways for days, this quest bares sweet fruit. We wander miles and miles through an ever-changing backdrop of thick walls and narrow winding ways. We get lost and found, drink sweet mint tea and eat things beyond pronunciation. We met and talk about Granddad with locals who might otherwise only see us as cash flow.<br /><br />Up farther, toward the Muslim Quarter, standing in a doorway is an old gentleman who answers, "Good morning, how are you?" To his right is a row of black & white photographs on display. One is almost the same photo I hold in my hand - subtract the Australians. His father had taken the photo in 1935. We show him Granddad and he tells us exactly where to find the spot - even advises Jean when the lighting would be the same. He was right on both counts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFXxF7a7vWIGMGNtNxbsBRUIM1U3tAm9nJVkEVD3Me8ROf888ovJCPJPVrl4fGTsMMA2-3zvSa8rhC0MU0hhz6HQnU3QWVvdGduzfv8FqGdu_LHqxP1Geh8aSajdhuFIZOMeRKhG04chyphenhyphenY/s1600-h/IMG_4828B&W+The+Spot"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFXxF7a7vWIGMGNtNxbsBRUIM1U3tAm9nJVkEVD3Me8ROf888ovJCPJPVrl4fGTsMMA2-3zvSa8rhC0MU0hhz6HQnU3QWVvdGduzfv8FqGdu_LHqxP1Geh8aSajdhuFIZOMeRKhG04chyphenhyphenY/s320/IMG_4828B&W+The+Spot" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182896926944150194" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So we found Granddad - and stood where he stood. After 90 years he led us here to a timeless place in a time like no other. Can travel get better than this? I think not - but I am always willing to try.<br /><br />Can it get worse? We must remember that things can always get worse. Tomorrow, we will try to cross into the West Bank, the Occupied Territory - for the Palestinian perspective - for better or worse.<br /><br />- Seeking Stew</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-53510348409632860242008-03-27T09:27:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:27.757-08:004 - Dispatch From an Infidel<span family="SERIF" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: times new roman;font-family:Palatino;font-size:130%;" >Jean has hunted down another perfect spot - a hostel/hotel, built by knights, that has been sheltering pilgrims since the crusades. We are inside the walls of the Old City of Jerusalem, overlooking the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and the Dome of the Rock. The bell towers and minarets flip-off the skyline with threats of competing calls to the faithful at all hour of the day and night. Three star rated = earshot of 3 mosques. The Jews threaten to weigh in with ram's horn bugles hanging from shop stalls like noisemakers at a football stadium. But it is in the Christian Quarter where beer is allowed - the dry sects have no bridgehead here … yet.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreKBZg9Q00TAZ1ekzwqMGytVbjjvcNuO3YJahNi_XfRbkCqPiCQAJuh9IJoOXvHftlZZt4uIeT0EqcvY8SYPL3AjCE8HB-JlUxezYdwOj5gJR_u600qxeZ9aOvoYAqYOTGd2h_WwuzxZi/s1600-h/IMG_4939.Dome+at+nite"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreKBZg9Q00TAZ1ekzwqMGytVbjjvcNuO3YJahNi_XfRbkCqPiCQAJuh9IJoOXvHftlZZt4uIeT0EqcvY8SYPL3AjCE8HB-JlUxezYdwOj5gJR_u600qxeZ9aOvoYAqYOTGd2h_WwuzxZi/s400/IMG_4939.Dome+at+nite" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182466150314295954" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span family="SERIF" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: times new roman;font-family:Palatino;font-size:130%;" ><br />Every possible attraction in this biblical theme park is own and operated by one or more of these groups of the righteous - several famously coming to blows over which brand of Prince-of-Peace followers should be (and should not be) allowed to sweep the steps to a particularly popular Jesus ride. The Protestant latecomers are thinking up some new sites to help drum up business. Even a church designed like a synagogue to help ease the converts onto a new team.<br /><br />The tension of this competition is everywhere. Worry beads and rosaries click, black frock coats, veils and fedoras, Haji caps, turbans and yarmulkes - each faith/denomination/sect/sub-sect emphasizing its specialness with its own distinct robes and headgear - I should have brought my kilt and a Stanford cap!<br /><br />Behind all this, or rather under it, is the history of this place. When someone says something is "older than dirt" - this is the dirt they are talking about. If the stories are true, it is the dirt that Jehovah used in his Adam recipe, and the dirt Jesus spit into make eye salve for the blindman.<br /><br /></span><p style="font-family: times new roman;" align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkYLdfow8im_dhbdCaeJ1y4n72AtGfIzy910q_Mcz6o7MOp42-37VgjtYtf08FkmbgAGwQIYtd2LZLjbAf7n_egfhHPzvhTf0ritF_ouGPUf2cP-Cd1SbIsvxe9oIivTp0L2wPb0eIWMh/s1600-h/Old+dirt+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkYLdfow8im_dhbdCaeJ1y4n72AtGfIzy910q_Mcz6o7MOp42-37VgjtYtf08FkmbgAGwQIYtd2LZLjbAf7n_egfhHPzvhTf0ritF_ouGPUf2cP-Cd1SbIsvxe9oIivTp0L2wPb0eIWMh/s400/Old+dirt+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182461228281774722" border="0" /></a></span></p><p style="font-family: times new roman;" align="left"><span family="SERIF" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />But this dirt is mixed with blood. History here is all war and conflict. A list of conquerors of this holy city would eat up a page. Moshe Dayan's paratroopers were the last ones, and before that it was the British General Sir E. H. H. Allenby, GC, MG, KCB - my Granddad's boss.<br /><br />Armed with guidebooks, maps and an old photograph - we will join the timeless tide of tourists who have Sunday school memories to fuel. But we also have Granddad. Now we just need to find him.<br /><br />- Secular Stew<br /></span></p>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-72291318382116736062008-03-25T12:09:00.000-07:002008-04-29T14:21:23.493-07:003 - Dispatch From the Wait List<span family="SERIF" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: times new roman;font-family:Palatino;font-size:130%;" >The only bad thing I can say about my wife - she did not come with airline flight privileges. She never had that stewardess pin that reads, "Marry Me and Fly For Free!" My ex-airtraffic controller status doesn't count, so we rely on my airline brothers for pass privileges.<br /><br />Easter Sunday is exactly between 2 very high travel weeks. Theory is, like Thanksgiving - everyone is already there on THE day. So we take a chance and fly standby - at greatly reduced cost, and with the carrot of a possible upgrade to First Class. Rousting a friend to take you to the airport for a 5:30AM flight is bad enough, but calling another for a return ride, after spending the day as bride's maids on wait lists for various full Delta flights, was even worse.<br /><br />Next days flights are even more overbooked, so plan B has Jean on Travelocity and me on Expedia - shopping for last minute flights. We book the only one found, a two-stop redeye on JetBlue. Another friend-ly ride back to SFO ... but even throwing money at it won't work. The flight is overbooked AND has no record of our reservation. As we watch this last flight of the night fill up, I slashed my way through Travelocity's phone menu to get to a chap at their help desk - in Bombay. Thoughts of missing our overseas flight, dance in our heads.<br /><br />Travelocity, who screwed up the ticketing, scrambles to find us two seats on United, departing in 45 minutes - from another satellite. Luckily we have only our carry-on bags - as our clothes and "dangerous items" had already left on Delta. We run. Unluckily, security line is far too long to make the flight. Luckily, United has 2 seats still open on the 5:30AM flight, but they are First Class and cost more than the down payment on our first house. Back to Bombay on the cell phone - a little screaming and begging for a supervisor, and threatening, crying and invoking an Easter miracle - our luck changes again - they say, "Send us the bill!"<br /><br />Call a friend back to pick us up at midnight? I don't have any friends to spare, so we take a cab who's driver is from Vietnam, but no pigs or peeping chickens - and get back to the house in time to set the alarm and take a nap<br /><br />Fill in the next incident yourself by knowing I turn off all the power, gas and water to the house when we are long gone. Oh yes, the alarm clock is electric. Nobody has friends at 4AM so we park our car at the train station. I toss the keys on the roof and run up the escalator. (If we have any friends left, would someone go drive it home?)<br /><br />I omit the train to SFO part of the story except to say they don't run all night but do leave out stacks of "free" morning papers. Luckily, the First Class security line is short and we make it in time to be pulled out for secondary inspection. Everything's out of the bags to be sniffed and prodded - us too. Shoeless Jean is put into their new explosive sniffing box. It looks like a phone booth from Star Wars. The automatic glass doors close and the computer voice says, "AIR PUFFERS ON!" and jets of air hit her from all sides. Jean, unlike Marilyn Monroe, reaches for her hair instead of her dress and does not smile for the cameras. Lights flash and the door won't open. People come running, the door still won't open. I begin to laugh and reach from my camera but it is in "jail" with all our bags. I start a Dispatch in my head. Jean was still not smiling as they led her away to be searched by a cute little girl wearing blue rubber gloves - I am envious.<br /><br />So over Lake Michigan I ponder how luck goes from good to bad and back. Luckily, I do it from a big leather chair "up front" while Jean sips a passable Chardonnay. But the movie is Alvin and the Chipmunks! I wonder where our luggage will be in the luck cycle?<br /><br />- Reclining Rod</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-27056875220891729212008-03-22T15:31:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:24:28.057-08:002 - Dispatch From the Pilgrims<span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >It is Easter at the airport. At least some think so. This year, one church has moved it up to the earliest date in 95 years. Thus it avoids other rites that are scheduled by the competition - like Mohammed's birthday and Passover and Purim, (a Hebrew word referring to the dice originally rolled to determine the date of the holiday).<br /><br />So this Easter fits nicely with the secular global warming trend of shorter winters, earlier nesting of birds - and presumable those bunnies laying colored eggs - keeping the Druids and other fertility lovers happy too. Yet St. Patrick's Day had to be moved up a week, as Irish whiskey and green beer are not deemed proper during holy week. There is another church's Easter next month, after a human date that ironically always remains constant - April Fools Day.<br /><br />When planning a trip to the "Holy Land" the dates of these holidays are important, as pilgrims fill planes and hotels - and borders, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">buses</span> and business close. Jean and I are pilgrims, but of a different sort.<br /><br />My mother's father, I called him "Granddad", was entering Jerusalem 90 years ago this very week. He was an Australian soldier astride a horse - another of a very long list of those who came as conquerors - and one of a very short list that did not fight here for the sake of religion - merely colonial greed and glory. When he arrived in March of 1918, it had been raining constantly, "the horses shivered" and "the camels … were fumbling and slipping." Yesterday Jerusalem hit 91 degrees and the pilgrims perspired.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevbQDanYAPBUwQTJhpVg_oNWLV1cmwToFoazZvQ4Rr8hcl-h8uHxVzOeUS7wGBlbzaaX1YAqgppUlnDTlS1gthl48aF3apmHjHEdxZCDplSb7hTOFbrWkZTPk34gLetBe-KYzMpdJKUIJ/s1600-h/Howells+Lt.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevbQDanYAPBUwQTJhpVg_oNWLV1cmwToFoazZvQ4Rr8hcl-h8uHxVzOeUS7wGBlbzaaX1YAqgppUlnDTlS1gthl48aF3apmHjHEdxZCDplSb7hTOFbrWkZTPk34gLetBe-KYzMpdJKUIJ/s400/Howells+Lt.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5180697792019448434" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />After several years of research, we are making a pilgrimage in his footsteps. What better excuse to travel? One history book says of these Aussies, "They rode with the purpose of old soldiers, but still with the sharp expectancy of happy travelers venturing into a famous land touched with mystery and hallowed by religion, history, and tradition, all the more or less familiar to them since their childhood."<br /><br />That fits us to a tee.<br /><br />- Saddled up Stew<br /><br />PS For homework, watch the re-mastered DVD of Lawrence of Arabia. We go there soon.</span>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1724224633540583441.post-43792537083828631402008-03-19T11:35:00.000-07:002008-11-24T09:03:10.044-08:001 - Dispatch from the Front Page<span family="SERIF" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><br /><br />Yes, we are off again … maybe off our rockers, but nevertheless - OFF. After African arrests, South American revolutions, Katrina-ized New Orleans and the minefields of Bosnia and the DMZ - how bad could the Middle East be?<br /><br />I know, I know ... the news from there lately has not been too good - people getting shot up, rockets rain down; and Cheney, McCain, and Rice rushing over to add to our tension … oh well. The mess of the "Holy" Land shows no sign of being solved in our lifetime. The situation can change faster than our trip plans. So screw it - we're going.<br /><br />State Department's email warns, "Don't do it." And so I admit to a little trepidation - but not as much as when facing my mother-in-law with a plan to take her daughter into the violence of the morning's front page headlines. The 87-year-old Eleanor looks up from the newspaper and says, "If Jean won't go, will you take me instead?"<br /><br /></span><p align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_Msb6dMgZul-z3c5eTUoxZRsBZLnzx_4vxpmjvM3kOzZLkTLWsLfPzjENiJz1IuS0vfT2AYByBx7pyAtfhk8QgiekVp6EjLGY_09h6smrcqwT_Bg5QgvNqWLxuWKqQZxPnPaYTeqftFw/s1600-h/Eleanor+zip+line.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_Msb6dMgZul-z3c5eTUoxZRsBZLnzx_4vxpmjvM3kOzZLkTLWsLfPzjENiJz1IuS0vfT2AYByBx7pyAtfhk8QgiekVp6EjLGY_09h6smrcqwT_Bg5QgvNqWLxuWKqQZxPnPaYTeqftFw/s320/Eleanor+zip+line.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272270484841723554" border="0" /></a></p><p align="left"><span family="SERIF" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><br />We leave on Easter Sunday (without Eleanor as she is off to Costa Rica to become the oldest zip line rider they ever met). Our plan is to use East Jerusalem for a base to find if, like most subjects, the media ain't quite telling us the whole truth about the holy hole being dug in the Middle East. We shall see. Our other tasks will be shared with you later.<br /><br />Then overland to Jordan, Oman, Dubai - and then into Turkey. You are receiving this first Dispatch to check my address list - and so you can prepare to read more - or to remember that Dispatch = Delete. As always, we would love to hear from you, even if to say, " Quit cluttering up my inbox!"<br /><br />- Settin' Out Stewarts<br /></span></p>Rod and Jean Stewarthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11026396531605179076noreply@blogger.com0