Goddess of Domesticity--or Not

Alli on the summit of Mera Peak, Nepal (6476 metres, 21,246 feet)

In my twenties and thirties, I scaled mountains in the Himalayas and the Andes. I swam and rafted the Ganges, trekked through spider-infested jungles and got so far off the beaten track, I thought I’d never see civilization again. And I had the time of my life. Living in suburbia and being a mom was the last thing on my mind.

Then I fell in love.

I’m a big believer in things happening for a reason, and even though I didn’t know it at the time, falling pregnant with my first child started me on an adventure I could never have dreamed of. And now, with two young kids and an awesome hubby by my side, I’m on a whirlwind journey that combines my old world with the new—and I couldn’t be happier.

When I grew up in Australia, it would have been easy to shelter myself from the rest of the world. As a kid (yes, I’m showing my age), there was no Internet, no cable TV, and (gasp!) one had to go to a library to find out information. But I had a geography teacher who found it impossible to contain his love for other continents and cultures, and his enthusiasm made me want to learn as much as I could about foreign countries and people.

I often get asked if I miss pouring Guinness in Peru or sashaying down Calle Florida in Buenos Aires (actually, I can’t sashay, but I like watching those who can!). Sure, I miss those times. In fact, I will probably miss South America every day for the rest of my life. But as with a lot of things in life, we need to move on, even if we don’t feel ready to. We have to open ourselves up and be ready to head in a new, adventurous, direction we may not have anticipated.

Writing novels set in South America certainly gives me the chance to reflect on my experiences and incorporate some of those more hairy escapades into my character’s adventures. It’s fun flicking through old travel diaries and slides, reminiscing about friends from the past, and enjoying being in contact with those who have continued on in the present. The memories are enough to stoke the fire in my belly. And when the kids ask about a photo of me standing on the summit of Aconcagua, I get to share that experience with them and see it through their eyes.

Travel has expanded my world. I’ve met people from many, many cultures, seen natural and manmade wonders from modern and ancient civilizations, and had so many close calls, I’ve lost count. I’ve discovered how to be patient, empathetic, accepting, and tolerant. I’ve learned to be self reliant, ask for help when needed, and know my limits. What travel has done is made me a better person. And it’s this knowledge I hope my kids will embrace and put their own spin on.

Even though the kids are young, I know the seeds of wanderlust have been planted. I’ve spoken to the kids in Spanish and English since they were born, hoping the language part of their brain is opened and remains that way for life. In our house, we listen to music in Spanish, French, and Portuguese, to name a few languages. Next year, our eldest will start learning Italian at primary school. My husband and I talk freely about our travels, and encourage the kids to ask questions. We’ve even been fortunate enough to take some extended international trips away as a family. 

Now that we’re back in Australia and settled into school and routine life, those days of long trips are over—for now. But rest assured, as soon as another opportunity presents itself (or we make one), those passports and bags will be packed in record time. First stop? Preferably South America. But who knows what the universe will throw at us? What I do know is, through my husband and I sharing our love of travel and culture, our kids will be well equipped to deal with a variety of situations and won’t always need a passport to experience them.

Australia prides itself on being a multi-cultural country, and visiting a school or local neighborhood shows the diversity of people from many nations now calling Australia home. What better way to start a love for different cultures than with the people living next door?

For now, I’ve packed away the dusty trekking boots and ice-axe, but one day, I’ll take them out and give them a good airing. I’ve pressed the pause button on my crazy adventures, but I know I’ll eventually get to hit play and experience it again with the whole family. And I can't wait.

Writing Past the Stereotypes

Not long ago, I read an article on Mulholland Books’ website: a conversation between mystery authors Zoë Ferraris (a past guest on this blog) and David Corbett about “the invisible hero,” the protagonist in fiction who breaks down cultural stereotypes. Both these authors know what they’re talking about: Ferraris writes a series featuring a conservative Muslim man in Saudi Arabia (Finding Nouf and City of Veils), while Corbett’s novel, Do They Know I’m Running?, is about illegal immigrants in California. Their discussion centered around the idea that stereotypes get reinforced by the power of repetition. And so you end up with the grim Muslim fundamentalist, the slick Colombian drug lord, the bigoted redneck.

Or the Iranian terrorist.

I understand where the negative Iranian stereotypes come from, in the United States at least. Images of hostages parading across our TV screens, day after day, for over a year, have left persistently negative pictures engraved in our collective psyche. It’s little wonder that many Iranians would rather refer to themselves as Persians, a word that paints pictures of beautiful carpets and fluffy cats, rather than crowds of angry people yelling “down with America.” It’s that old power of repetition.

I see culture as a series of layers, with the “weird” stuff on the outside. Each time you peel away a layer, you get closer to that core where we are all the same—that place where we fall in love, grapple with insecurities, fret over jobs, money, and our children’s future.

When done well, fiction is ideal for peeling away these layers because it places readers right in the head of a protagonist who may eat unfamiliar food and speak a language we don’t understand, but who also struggle with the same universal emotions we all feel.

If you’ve followed my posts on Novel Adventurers for long, you’ll know that I write fiction set in Persian culture. The protagonist of my series is a female private investigator, born in Tehran, raised in California. In creating her, I wanted to explore the world of a woman who lives in two cultures yet doesn’t feel entirely at home in either one. She feels more American when she’s in Iran and more Iranian in California. This reflects how I’ve felt for much of my life, because I’m not a casual traveler. One week in a foreign city is not enough for me; I need months or even years. Which means that returning home can bring a cultural adjustment I never bargained for.

But I’m not Iranian, so I worried about stereotypes. I write crime fiction, after all, which means that criminals, thugs, and other nasties crop up from time to time. Am I just reinforcing the negative view of Iran?

In writing Bad Hejab, the novel I recently turned in to my agent (and set in Iran), I broke two rules I’d set for myself in writing about Persian culture: no politics and no religion. Both could easily trap me into perpetuating more negative stereotypes. Yet, I had a villain who just wouldn’t quit: a fanatical Basij militiaman who is confident that his powerful political allies will always help cover up his crimes. He had all the makings of an Islamic thug with very little to redeem him. But without this villain, I didn’t just have a weak story. I had no story at all.

For several drafts, I searched high and low for some way to make this man more complex or at least a bit interesting, a task further complicated by the political protests that followed the 2009 Iranian elections. Real-life Basij militiamen wielding clubs, and sometimes Kalashnikovs, were beating up protesters and shooting into crowds of unarmed people. It became even harder to see my villain as anything but a government-approved thug.

Until I looked past the images on my TV screen and remembered the Basijis I’d seen on the streets of Tehran, handing out free pastries and tea on religious holidays. And they are often the first responders in natural disasters, such as earthquakes. Nothing is ever as simplistic as it seems at first glance, and I found ways to make my Basiji complex, conflicted, and something more than a religious fanatic with a heavy baton and hard, cold eyes.

Whether or nor not I’ve accomplished this is for others to say. But I hope I’ve peeled away enough cultural layers for my readers to see past the stereotypes and enjoy a good story at the same time.

Off The Beaten Track: Macedonia and A Story About Time

Igor Pandurski is a software engineer, an avid cyclist and mountain climber, a resident of Toronto, and a lover of all things Macedonian. He’s also a talented photographer, as you’ll soon see. 
 

Can you imagine the beautiful feeling of the first time you fell in love? Remember the butterflies in your stomach that would bring a smile to your face and fill you with happiness? Well, these are the closest to the feelings I experience when I think of my native country – the Republic of Macedonia or, simply, Macedonia. 

It's a unique country in every sense: it has a history that goes back a few thousand years, contributing great names to the world, and now has more Macedonians living outside of Macedonia than in it. It’s located in Southeastern Europe, and among its many wonders, it boasts the world's fourth oldest observatory, Kokino, which according to NASA, was established between the 20^th and 18th centuries BC).  Expressing the shape of my thoughts would look like this: a great and shaking history, a shimmering immediate past, a lovely present, and hopefully a great future!

So let me tell you a story about love, beauty and history, or in a word, a story about time!

Macedonia is a small, beautiful, and friendly country located just north of Greece, south of Serbia and Kosovo, between Albania and Bulgaria, right in the heart of Balkan Peninsula.

It is so beautiful that even Saint Apostle Paul, who’d heard about its many wonders, decided to visit it (during his Second Missionary Journey, Acts 15:36-18:22).

I now live in Canada, but before that I lived in Macedonia and in between, in the United States. Great countries, great spaces filled with such diversity, great places that must be seen before we continue our journey to other worlds.

I am nearly positive that everyone reading this has heard about Mother Theresa and Alexander the Great – both remarkable Macedonians who gave the world so much, their contributions will last for eternity. And they are still alive; every Macedonian has a bit of both of these heroic figures within them. Welcoming people, adventurous, friendly, and almost always smiling.

As an entity, Macedonia received its independence from Yugoslavia on September 8, 1991. It has about two million people and is working its way into both NATO and the EU. It has a name dispute with Greece but this issue is much deeper than it seems to the world. Greeks call themselves Macedonians, though more than 130 countries in the world recognize Macedonia as unique from the Greeks and the true land of the Macedonians. Regardless, everyone in this beautiful free world can call himself the way he or she wants. 

As an idea, Macedonia has existed for a few thousand years. And what is so beautiful about this country? It’s physically gorgeous, for one thing. It has three beautiful lakes (though no sea) and an array of gorgeous mountains. But where do the butterflies in the stomach come from?

Well, let’s start with love. If you go to Macedonia, it is amazing and astonishing how sincerely welcomed you will feel. Everybody is exceptionally friendly, so much so, you will even forget that you are not at home. You will feel that everybody there loves you! You see, it is all about love and butterflies!

Usually, the doors of the houses are not locked. Never! People are not scared, they are just happy! Off course, I was happy there as well. With over 250 sunny days in a year, all four seasons clearly distinguished, and with delicious organic food!

And wherever you turn, you see beauty! Macedonia has a unique mixture of cultures, and contrary to what you see in the movies, it's one of the rare places where Muslims and Christians live together without major issues. 

The natural wonders are as gorgeous as the social ones. It’s the only place in the universe where you can find the mineral Lorandite in its natural form and in one of the largest known quantities! If you want to take a walk or a refreshing swim and find out what it feels like to be a god or a goddess, go to Ohrid! It’s the birthplace of the world’s very first university, the area where Christianity founds its roots in Europe.

And keep looking back into history. If you want to continue to feel what the Greek gods felt, try a vino that is sweet as nectar – go to Tikves! If you want to experience settings reminiscent of Wuthering Heights, places that show you where the gods themselves lived – go to Heraclea, Stobi, Malesh.

Wherever you go in my homeland, you will feel divine!

Macedonia abounds with archaeological sites that date over 12,000 years. It is the place where the Saints Cyril and Methodius planted the roots of the Cyrillic alphabet.

If you’re ready to plan your visit, catch a plane to one of the nation’s two international airports. 

Yes, there are only two! One in the capital city of Skopje (Alexander the Great) and the other in the lake city of Ohrid (St. Apostle Paul).You may just decide to stay there.

I, for one, am packing my luggage, calling my travel agent, and booking a flight to Skopje to enjoy my next great adventure!

How about you? Care to join me?

My Big Jordan Oops!

Me on a Good Day

When I told my Muslim friend I was going to Jordan, he gave me an interesting description of its citizens. “Jordanians are beautiful on the inside and outside,” he said. “It is a small country of good-natured people who love their old ways but won’t judge a foreigner harshly. They are respectful and welcoming.” 

My husband and I landed in Amman on a hot September morning. The moment we set foot outside the airport, we were sizzled by a blistery cloud similar to the whiff that sears your face when you hover over a barbeque grill. By the time we reached our hotel, it was noon, and the gray asphalt was so hot, the goat shepherds could cook their stews on it instead of on a wooden stove. I could feel the bottoms of my shoes getting soft and gooey.  

We were staying in an inexpensive hotel, but it was reasonably well air-conditioned and the shower worked. After a quick refreshing rinse, we ditched our jackets, changed, and got ready for a trip to downtown Amman. Ramadan had just finished followed by another Muslim holiday, Eid, which celebrates the end of the month-long fast by a big feast. Families were going out to celebrate, eat, and be merry. It was a cultural event not to be missed. 

I always deemed myself an experienced globetrotter who knows how to respect the local traditions and the dress code. I knew better than to wander into Amman’s city center in shorts or a tank top.  In a country where women wore thick long cloaks and swathed their heads with layers of cloth, I had to do a bit of planning to fit in. Even in the desert heat – and a good chunk of Jordan is desert – I made sure my arms and legs were covered. I pulled on a shirt that covered my arms up to my elbows and a long pair of traveler’s pants with a dozen pockets.  I left my hair loose, skipped the make-up, and stuffed a short little cardigan into my pack, conditioned by the American obsession of over-cooling their restaurants. Just in case we’d find one that praised itself on freezing tourists to death.   

I felt I was ready. I wouldn’t expect to pass for a local like I often do in Istanbul, but I figured I’d do OK on the morals test. Unlike Saudi’s Mutawas, Jordan does not have religious or values' police so no girl gets arrested for wearing tight jeans or lipstick, yet the majority of women still don their colorful headscarves. 

We grabbed a cab at the hotel entrance and twenty minutes later climbed out in the heart of the downtown market where upscale jewelry stores neighbored shoeshine shacks, and little working tanneries co-existed with family restaurants. The place was packed with people: parents taking their big families out to dinner and older couples herding grandkids. I dove into that picturesque sea of humanity, taking in its every bit. 

In about twenty minutes, I became aware of LOOKS. 

The stares weren’t dirty, offensive, or judging. But they weren’t simply curious either. I was used to being a Western tourist in a third-world country, which means you get a lot of studying looks, but there was something else to the people’s stares – as if they were trying to tell me something.

I checked my zipper. I inspected my butt to make sure I hadn’t ripped the thin cotton fabric. I asked my husband to give me an all-around check. All appeared in to be in order. 

Only when a middle-aged couple passed by while staring at my chest in sheer amazement, my faux pas finally donned on me. In my New York naiveté, I had covered my arms and legs, but completely omitted such important item of a lady’s wardrobe as a bra! Really, if I ditched that uncomfortable nylon undergarment in the Big Apple’s muggy summers, why would I encase myself in its sweaty bind in Jordan’s beastly temperatures? 

Well, the natives certainly thought differently. And they were trying to deliver the message to me without mocking my blissful ignorance. 

As much as I enjoyed the downtown, I didn’t think I could find comfortable underpinnings in its market. Neither was I sure that a male store owner would be happy with my request to try it on. I needed a better solution or I had to come back to hotel and I wasn’t up for the journey. Well, there was a non-nylon, yet still a sweaty solution. We never found a restaurant cold enough for me to don my short little cardigan, but for the rest of the evening I wore it anyway, tightly buttoned in front.

Food Foibles

It’s quite tough following in the footsteps of Heidi and Alli week after week (and gosh, I’m so glad I get to go before Lina), but this week is especially tough, as both gals cracked me up with their hilarious cultural misadventures. After mining my own faulty memory to share a story that could measure up to theirs, I realized the only good ones I can tell (in this public forum) mostly have to do with one of my favorite topics – food.

To start off, let me introduce you to my old friend, Kelley. She’s tall, blond, blue eyed, and from the American Midwest. She’s also one of the most well-traveled persons I know and picks up languages at the drop of a hat. One fine day, we’re sitting in a Chinese restaurant in downtown D.C. looking over the menu. Two waiters are waiting patiently behind us, smiles on their faces, as they exchange a couple muted words. 

“Do you know what you want?” Kelly asks me, her eyes slowly scanning the long list of items in front of her.

“Yes,” I respond, only to wait a few more minutes for Kelley to decide.

When she finally does, she looks over at the waiters to place our order. In Chinese. The two young men are stunned, quickly take the information down, then scurry away.

“I was ready ages ago but they were complaining about how long we were taking almost as soon as we got the menus. I wanted to see them cringe once they realized I could understand them.”

Moral of the story: always be nice!

Another time, in college in Texas, a group of us friends drove down to Matamoros, Mexico, and gave the servers free rein at whatever eatery we found ourselves in: “Just bring us whatever’s good.” After one particularly delicious appetizer that we’d ordered seconds of and couldn’t stop nibbling on, we begged our waitress to tell us, “exactly what is this?” Who knows, maybe we thought we could try cooking it in our college flats, right?

“It is, um, how you say, mmmmm….,” she answered, searching for the right words to adequately describe this unusual delicacy. “I think you call it … pig fat?” 

Eww.

Later, at a fast food dive in Pune, India (and I’ll never forget this, the place was called Burger King), I tried some kind of hoagie sandwich that had a tender slab of beef tongue. It was quite good till I peeled back the bread and saw that long, pink tongue (it really looked like a tongue) gaping back at me. (Who knows, it probably wanted to lick me back.) Still, I finished it. The sandwich was tasty (ha ha) but not necessarily because of the flavor of the meat so much as the yummy seasonings and fresh bread.

In Houston, eons ago, I had an opportunity to try crocodile meat. I’d heard they tend to be chewy, but these were deep fried nuggets so, of course, they were good and quite tender. And yes, they tasted like chicken. (I’ve never tried them again to test out that rumor).

My idea of adventurous used to be trying out every unusual, weird food given the opportunity. No more, as it turns out. I know an old forest ranger from Ohio who said his family regularly cooked and ate squirrels. Why? Speaking of which, here's another unusual menu item from Iceland I'm unlikely to try...

About a decade ago, I used to go on regular business trips to Denver, where one of the local specialties was Rocky Mountain oysters. These are not a seafood item as you might expect but rather (brace yourselves) buffalo testicles. Yes, really. Check out this minute-long link to an entire festival dedicated to these delicacies in Montana:

I never had the, er, guts to try them out.

Any of you have some foodie misadventures you can share?

Circle of Friends

Photo by Jorge Alfonso

When the topic of misadventures came up, I slapped my forehead, rolled my eyes, and muttered to the muse sitting on my desk, “I’m supposed to write a blog post, not a whole book!” Oh, the stories I could tell (most probably aren’t fit for public consumption). However, one of my favorite escapades is my first experience with yerba mate, a popular drink in the southern half of South America.

At the base camp of Aconcagua, South America’s highest mountain, a band of Argentine park rangers invited me to a yerba mate session. Being the girly swot that I am, I’d read up about this herbal drink and had some reservations. In those days, many travel books, written by people who may or may not have set foot in a particular country, warned travelers about the dangers of this concoction of leaves. “It’s a drug! You’ll get high! You’ll get addicted!” my battered guide book told me.

Not one to take someone else’s word as gospel, I took a deep breath and accepted the invitation with a hesitant smile. I joined the circle of Argentines casually draped across fold-up chairs and waited patiently for the ritual to begin. The person in charge of preparing the drink for the group is a cebador. And depending on where the person comes from, the drink will be bitter or sugar laden. Luckily, my companions on this day were of the sweet mate school.

The cebador arranged the dried, ground leaves in a gourd, sometimes known as a guampa. A bombilla (silver straw) is inserted into the gourd, which is filled once with cool water, then needs time to absorb completely. This protects the herbs from being scalded and won’t breakdown the mate’s nutrients. If desired, the cebador adds sugar then pours hot water, not boiling, into the gourd until it almost reaches the top. Now, it’s ready to drink but the thirsty hordes need to patiently wait their turn.

When the cebador helped himself to the first mate, I nearly fell off my rickety chair. Isn’t that rude? The young guy sitting beside me dug his elbow into my ribs and said (as if reading my mind), “The cebador takes the first drink to make sure the yerba mate isn’t too hot or cold. We call the first drink mate del zonzo—mate of the fool.” Ahhh. That made sense.

Our trusty cebador slurped his way to the bottom of the gourd, leaving a soggy concoction of leaves at the bottom. Without removing the yerba mate, he added sugar and hot water, and passed it to the guy on his right. There were no pleases or thank you’s. When he took too long, everyone shouted, “No es un microfono!” (It isn’t a microphone). With a devious smile he finished and passed it back to the cebador. The mate continued like this around the circle until it was my turn.

The hot metal straw burned my lips, but the liquid slid down my throat in a lovely symphony of sweet herbs. From the first sip, I was hooked (but not addicted!). I drank it all the way to the bottom, happily slurping. In my best Spanish, I said “gracias” and handed the empty gourd back. I awaited my next turn eagerly, and when it came time, the drink was passed in front of me and given to the person on my right.

Yerba Mate tree by Illosuna

Dumbfounded, I ran over what I’d said before. Gracias. Thank you. Not, “Man, that stuff looks disgusting and I can’t believe the communal germs that are all over that thing.” A tad confused, I asked my offsider what I’d done. He grinned from ear to ear, “When you hand the drink back and say thank you,” he explained, “it means you are finished and do not want any more for this session.”

Oh.

I pleaded ignorance and was luckily let back into the precious mate circle. Phew!

Yerba mate is popular in social settings, especially with family and friends. This was one of my first experiences in South America and, for me, it cemented in my mind exactly how friendly these people are. I’d been invited by complete strangers into an intimate gathering, and they didn’t care I’d messed up. Because I’d tried to understand their tradition and made an effort, it was enough to earn my place back into their social circle. This was the first time I’d fully participated in the traditions of another culture and was accepted. I’ll never forget it. And from that day on, my Argentine friends always invited me back.

And for the record, I didn’t get addicted. The yerba mate has a similar stimulant to coffee or tea. And the only high I got was from being at 6,970 meters (nearly 23,000 feet).

How to Wear a Chador Without Falling Flat on Your Face

Photo by Khashayar Alyassi

The first time I wore a chador for anything longer than a five-minute “photo op” to amuse my husband’s Iranian relatives, I wished I’d taken the time to practice. Preferably in the privacy of my home, in front of a mirror, for a couple hours. Or weeks. Or months.

Instead, I was in a rather public place: the Shah Abdol Azim Shrine just south of Tehran. As one of Iran’s holiest pilgrimage sites, no woman gets past its iron gates without a chador. My sister-in-law and I arrived chador-less, which turned out to be no problem at all, since you can rent one for just a few cents at the door.

This garment, for those who don’t know, is a voluminous semicircle of fabric that conservative Iranian women drape about their heads and bodies in public or mixed company. It has no buttons, zippers, or even sleeves. While the predominant color is black, chadors come in a variety of patterns, from black-on-black brocading to floral designs, and colors, from navy blue to maroon.

The first challenge came when we stopped at the gate to the shrine’s wide courtyard to put on our rented chadors. Which end goes up? The flat side goes on your head, of course, and the curved hem toward the ground. That should be a no-brainer. Still, I somehow got it wrong and stood there wondering why so much fabric was flopping into my face, while the hem of the chador barely reached my knees.

Fortunately, Iranians have a strong sense of hospitality and are quick to help out—especially when they see a khanoum kharijee (foreign lady) in distress, whose sister-in-law is helplessly dissolving into a fit of giggles. Five women, all wearing chadors with skill and grace, rushed to my rescue and quickly set me straight. Then they gave me a crash course in the proper way to wear a chador.

Step 1: Find the center of the cloth and drape it loosely over your head. “Loosely” being the operative word here, as I quickly discovered once I’d gotten the chador properly in place. It didn’t take long for the garment to shift and settle, tightening until my head felt like it was caught in a vice. Now I understood why Iranian women are forever readjusting their chadors, unwrapping and rewrapping them, loosening the fabric draped over their heads. But when I tried doing that, I only ended up getting hopelessly tangled in the chador’s folds.

Step 2: Wrap one side of the chador under your left arm, pull it across your body and clamp it firmly to your side with your right elbow. Hold the other side of the chador across your chest and clutch it closed at your throat. Huh? Confusing, I know. But with a little practice, it can be accomplished.

Having mastered the basics, I managed to walk across the shrine’s courtyard without tripping and falling flat on my face, only to be confronted by a new problem once we reached the entrance to the inner sanctum. What was I to do with my shoes? I had to take them off, of course. No civilized person would consider trampling their dirty footwear over a shrine’s smooth marble floors and lovely Persian carpets. But how was to I pick up my shoes and carry them when I had only two hands and both were fully occupied keeping my chador from falling off?

Step 3: Cheat. Forget steps 1 and 2. Grasp the chador firmly in both hands and drape it over your head. Hold it closed under your chin with one hand. You’ll look silly and feel like a fool. The chador will fly open and flap against your legs as you walk, and it will threaten to trip you up unless you take small, ladylike steps. But who cares about that? You’re wearing a scarf and manteau (thigh-length tunic) underneath anyway, so you’re decent under Islamic law. The presence of the chador, however artlessly it may be worn, is enough to make you presentable for entering a holy place.

Since that day at the Shah Abdol Azim Shrine, I haven’t been able to watch a chador-clad woman walk down the street without feeling a sense of envy mixed with admiration. She can hold a toddler’s hand while carrying a full load of shopping bags and talking into a cell phone clamped between shoulder and ear, never once missing a step. Maybe I’ll be able to do that someday—after a couple more decades of practice.