First Hour in Krung Thep

The fragrance of fried garlic, pork and raw fish, mix with the smell of the canal; and a whiff of sewer floats in the air. It is early morning, but the industrial Thai are already setting up market along the narrow alley, across the canal from our hotel.
 
We cross the bridge and and walk through the shaded alley, taking in the aroma. Opulent vegetation creeps over the walls and oozes through the fences. Cats roam through their own ground-level labyrinth. At a table eating breakfast sits a Buddhist monk dressed in orange robes. A crew of five in yellow shirts float the canal on a small boat and use a long pole with a net on the end to fish trash from the water.
 

We come up the stairs from the canal and find a cacophony of motorist traffic, with horns and spewing exhaust. The buildings are dingy with soot. Electrical wires seem to stretch everywhere.
 
We pass many stalls already selling food. One sells freshly-squeezed orange juice and another fresh fruit. We only have large bills and end up buying a drink at the 7-11.
 
Even at this morning hour, Khao San Road is full of people. We quickly learn the aggressiveness of the Thai. Every twenty feet we have men look at us and ask, “Tuk-tuk?” I shake hands with three swarthy individuals, all of them seeking my business. One of the drivers asks my name, and then Jenelle's. She says, “Sue.” He marches us for two blocks to the tourism office, where we sit down with a salesman who tries to sell an excursion package. We politely tell him that we don't wish to make a decision now. I'm sure the tuk-tuk driver gets a cut for anyone he can drag in.
 

Finally we make our escape back to the street and find that the heat is turning up. Abruptly, the food stalls end, and after passing over a small canal lined with trees and pink flowers, I pull out a map and we reorient our course. We pass temples of unknown names and homeless people lying on the sidewalk. A man sits on a plastic chair and reads the paper in front of a colorful wall of dragon graffiti. We see red buses that look thirty years old, with windows down and dripping with people. Two rats, the size of a shoe, crawl along the curb.
 
Needing to eat, we find a lone vendor who sells skewers of meat for 10-20 baht. The 10 baht skewers look like chunks of lung, and the 20, chicken. He, nor his wife, speak English, other than to say “ten” and “twenty,” and “chicken” and “rice.” He also sells something rolled in a banana leaf, which we wish to buy, but they don't understand and we leave it at that, only buying skewers of chicken and sticky rice in a bag.
 

We find a park with a bench where we can sit down and eat. The park is relatively quiet compared to the chaos of the city. Flowers bloom, birds play on the grass, and the trees look like gnarled lengths of yarn.
 
We use our fingers for the sticky rice, and wish we had brought hand-sanitizer. Mine comes with a pasty hot sauce that has a hint of curry, leaving my eyes watering. On our way out, we stop at another vendor and buy a bag of pineapple and melon. Everything here seems to come in bags. He can't speak English, and likes talking to himself.
 
As we walk toward the southern entrance of the sanctuary, a tuk-tuk driver looks at us, asks where we are going, and then says, “This way,” pointing north. So we turn around, but quickly encounter another driver who asks the same question, but points the other way! We ignore both and decide to follow our intuition. Five minutes later we find our destination—Wat Pho. ♠

Hike to Observation Point (album)

The Puzzle of Life

Our family recently completed a 750-piece jigsaw puzzle. I bought it as a Christmas present and it is the first time I can recall that we've worked on a puzzle together as a family.
 
The image—Mont-Saint-Michel, the beautiful castle on the coast of Normandy that becomes an island at high-tide. Likely taken near dusk, the picture shows the medieval fortress softly lit up, and the waning color of the sky in different hues of purple and pink. Additional excitement (for me, at least) was that I hoped to take my wife and daughter there in just a few years.
 
We cleared off our kitchen table, wiped it down, removed all the chairs (so we could move around more freely), and scooted it away from the wall. For the next two weeks we would eat at the bar, and the table was solely used to work on the puzzle.
 
We began with the rectangular border, finding all the straight edges and locking them into place. This alone was no easy task, exhausting much of our first evening. Then we moved to the castle, with its tower, abbey, fortifications and rocky shoreline. The most troublesome portions of the puzzle were the placid water that surrounded the castle, and evening sky, which had no distinguishing features other than different hues of purple. The further into our task, the more laborious it became.
 
But as I struggled to find pieces that would lock together, my mind began to contemplate the similarities of assembling a jigsaw puzzle and living a life. I began to realize that life is, in reality, a jigsaw puzzle. We spend our days wrestling to figure it out. One of the key differences is that at least with a jigsaw puzzle, we have a perfect key to refer to. In life, it is true that we have examples and guides, but to know how the final outcome should look, is largely a mystery.
 
It is also true that the final image of our lives is yet to be determined. There is a heavy debate over predestination vs. self-determination. Do we choose what our final picture will look like, or is it already determined? I don't know. But from my experience, life is a combination of chance and choice.
 
The first lesson I learned: there is a lot of trial and error. How many times do you place a piece where you think it might go, only to find out it doesn't belong? That's basically what you're doing 95% of the time! Does that sound familiar in life?
 
Second, we must have patience and persistence. If we quit the first time we got frustrated, the puzzle would never get done. Sometimes, especially when we got to the monotonous stage of the sky, I became bored. If you're ever going to succeed in life, you have to endure to the end.
 
Next—teamwork. When others are pitching in and removing some of the burden, or lending their expertise, or encouraging, or perhaps synergizing with your own efforts, then the work becomes much easier. I found it was beneficial to have my daughter, Jenna, help us with the puzzle. She had assisted her friend, Macy, with several puzzles at her house, so she had a little more experience than the rest of us, and could teach us a trick or two.
 
I learned that we must refer to the key often to remember how the picture is supposed to look. Like I stated earlier, there is no perfect picture in life that will show us exactly how to arrive at our final destination. But we can look at grandparents, or read classic literature, or study theology, or whatever it may be, and learn from others who have already trod this path called life. It might just make it a little easier.
 
Sometimes I found that I had to try the same piece several times, on different days. Maybe I was trying to fit it in at a slightly wrong angle, or didn't try every side. I don't know. I just know that there were some pieces that didn't fit one day, but then fit another.
 
On the flip-side, there were a couple of times we had a piece that we thought fit, and even left it there, but later, upon further examination, we learned that it didn't belong. When this happens, it can throw off everything! How many times does this happen in life? We think we did it right, but have to humble ourselves and change a habit, correct an action, right a wrong.
 

Now, almost three weeks have passed since we completed the puzzle. It is still sitting on our kitchen table, pushed to the side and surrounded by dirty plates, left-out ketchup, envelopes of junk mail, or anything else. We scooted the table back against the wall, but haven't replaced the chairs yet. (We're waiting to do that after we mop the floor.)
 
So, what have I learned? I would have thought that all those life lessons would still be on the forefront of my mind, circulating with other heavy topics as things to ponder. Perhaps, I would have thought, that I would begin to apply them, and use them to improve my life.—Yet, the truth is, I can't even remember what they are! I can barely remember if I fed the dogs this morning! How can I apply something that I have already forgotten? Now THAT may be the most puzzling aspect of all! ♠

The Fight for Independence in Catalonia

My first experience with the movement for Catalan Independence came in early 1993 as I was serving as a missionary in the town of Reus, just 109 kilometers southwest of Barcelona. A man approached us on the street and invited us inside his apartment. I remember his dwelling as being dark and bizarre, with partitions made out of beads, dim red lights and no windows. We quickly learned that he had no interest in what we had to share, but rather, he insisted on us translating a drafted letter into English to the newly-elected president, Bill Clinton. The letter would petition help from the United States in assisting Catalonia to secede from Spain. I don't recall all the details from that encounter, but somehow we managed to wiggle out of it.
 
One year later I found myself living in Girona, which lies just an hour from the French border, and deep within the cultural boundaries of Catalonia. Thinking nothing of it, the first day I showed up to church wearing a pin of the Spanish flag on the lapel of my suit. A well-intentioned member of the congregation came to me afterward, and spoke in a low, unassuming voice, pointing to the flag I was wearing: “If I were you, I wouldn't wear that around here.”—Enough had been said. I took it off and never wore it again. This brief conversation instilled in me the deep rift between the Catalan people and the Spanish government.
 

Catalonia has a unique language and culture.

The region of Catalonia in the northeast corner of Spain has a long and complicated history, of which I don't claim to be an expert. Over the past several hundred years, their culture has gradually diverged from the rest of the Iberian Peninsula, in a similar manner as that of Portugal. They speak their own language and have a form of government that gives them much more autonomy that other regions of Spain.
 
Still fresh in the memory of many of the older generation is the reign of General Francisco Franco, a dictator who ruled Spain with an iron fist for 40 years until the 1970's, prohibiting the use of the Catalan language and executing many who fought against him. Since his death, the culture of Catalonia has made a huge comeback, and Catalan nationalism is at an all-time high.
 

Banners in Girona support Catalan independence and freeing of political prisoners.

Recently I had the opportunity to return to this part of Spain for the first time in seventeen years. I knew that tension was high. Staying abreast of local news, I watched many videos of protests and demonstrations. On October 1, 2017, the Catalan government held a referendum on whether or not to secede from Spain. Previously, the Catalan parliament had passed legislation authorizing the referendum. In spite of efforts by national police, which included violence to stop the vote, the overwhelming majority of Catalan people supported secession. The Spanish government would not tolerate this and put a stop to it by arresting several key political figures who had promoted the illegal vote. The Catalan Parliament was dissolved and article 155 of the constitution was invoked, which imposes direct rule over Catalonia. The President of Catalonia, Carles Puigdemont, has since fled the country and is living in exile in Belgium. He is charged with sedition, rebellion and misuse of public funds. To say the least, the situation in Catalonia is very tense.
 
On the third day of our trip, we arrived at my beloved city of Girona. A medieval city that was founded by the Romans, Girona is picture-perfect, with a labyrinth of narrow streets and a massive cathedral that overlooks from a hill. It is located one hour north of Barcelona, in the heart of Catalonia.
 
One of the first things I noticed was the yellow and red-striped Catalan flag was hung everywhere—most from balconies. Some of the striped flags had a blue triangle at the side, with a white star. These represent Catalan independence. There were also many yellow ribbons hung about, some on buildings and others on lapels. These represent the political prisoners.
 

Girona is a beautiful medieval city in the heart of Catalonia.

During our first full day visiting the city, we came across what appeared to be a rally of some sort. The gathering was on a residential street, down the hill from the Monastery of Sant Pere. In spite of its proximity to the touristic area, it was far enough off the path that the only people there were of local flavor.
 
A platform with a microphone and speakers was set up in the middle of the road. Although nothing had begun yet, we could tell that something was soon to unfold. In the meantime, people visited in the street, a child kicked a soccer ball around, friends hugged and welcomed old acquaintances, and music played in the background. The atmosphere was very relaxed and jovial.
 
A banner near the platform suggested “Spanish injustice.” Other signs and t-shirts read: “La Forja, Jovent Revolucionari.” My best efforts of translation conclude that “La Forja” to be rendered as the forging ( to found, cast, mold, construct, create, establish), and “Jovent Revolucionari” as youth revolution. Wikipedia describes La Forja as a “left-wing Catalan independentist youth organization” that carries the ideology of Catalan Independence, socialism, feminism, anti-capitalism, and ecologism.
 
During our time there, two people spoke to the crowd. Both spoke in Catalan, so my understanding was a little spotty. The first man seemed more to take care of business, and talked of some of the efforts of the group. The second man, although more brief, gave a rally cry. He urged the continued support for Catalan Independence, adding, “Long-live the republic! Long-live the youth! Long-live the land!” He added that they would also fight for democracy, for socialism, against capitalism, for feminism and equality. “We will fight in defense of our land and our territory!”
 
The rally ended with loud music blaring over the speakers, people waving banners and torches, and smoke being released into the air. Those in the street danced to the music. I noticed a poster hanging from the balcony that read: “The combat continues.”
 

Rally in support of independence, held by an organization called La Forja.

The next day, I had the privilege of reuniting with some old friends who had lived in Girona their entire lives. Teo, Enric and Marta are very much Catalan, speaking the language in their home. (Teo was actually born in Andalusia, but moved to Girona after she married Enric.) We spent the entire day with them and they took us in their car to the beach at Palafrugell. We ended the day at their home in Girona, where they fed us a dinner of jamón, pork loin, tuna, roasted red peppers, cheese and olives.
 
The subject of Catalan Independence came up several times. Teo pulled out her phone and showed us pictures from the October referendum when the Spanish National Police used violence to prevent the Catalan people from voting. They were images of bloody and battered people.
 
Marta explained that one of the key issues is that Catalonia pays more in taxes than the rest of the country, yet receives fewer services considering the amount they pay. The people here are fed up. Now, the Spanish government has arrested several people connected with the rebellion. The Catalan consider them as political prisoners. Both Marta and Enric emphasized that the Catalan are peaceful people and wish to resolve this by non-violent means.
 

A few days later, our travels brought us back to Barcelona. It is interesting to note that although Barcelona is the capital of Catalonia, and the center of the independence-movement, it was much less Catalan than Girona. I attribute this to the massive amount of immigration over the past several decades, especially from South America and Africa. There are still flags and signs that display local patriotism, but not nearly in the quantity that we saw in Girona. Also, at least in the area we visited, I didn't hear the Catalan language spoken as much as I did further north. In Girona, it was everywhere.
 
One morning we visited Montjuïc Cemetery, a massive, yet beautiful burial ground located on a prominent hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Very much off the tourist radar, it is replete with elaborate headstones, mausoleums and statues—well worth a visit, especially if you're like me and are fascinated with cemeteries.
 
Hidden in the northwest corner of the cemetery along a road that can be difficult to find is Fossar de la Pedrera, or Cemetery of the Quarry, as it is translated from Catalan. During medieval days of Barcelona this site was used as a quarry for some of the major buildings.
 
The stone cliffs that were once chiseled away are still visible, but now there is vegetation growing over the surface. The large niche in the hillside is isolated and peaceful. A vast portion of ground is covered with grass and there are memorials and a statue.
 

During the dictatorship of Francisco Franco, Fossar de la Pedrera was used as a burial ground for those who were executed. It is estimated that between 1939 and 1952, nearly 1,717 people were killed, most of them by firing squad at Camp de la Bota on the northeast side of Barcelona.
 
It is no wonder that the Catalan harbor such a resentment toward the Spanish government. Today there are many people who were alive when these atrocities took place, or whose family was affected. Although not as drastic, I can imagine that what is happening now is reminiscent of the political prisoners from seventy years ago, who were ultimately executed.
 
On the perimeter of the fossar is the grave of Lluís Companys. It's not your typical burial spot. It is covered by a low arch and surrounded by a pond with floating lilies.
 
Lluís Companys was President of Catalonia and was executed in 1940, not far away at Montjuïc Castle by the Franco regime. He is the only incumbent democratically elected official in European history to have been executed.
 

Statue at Fossar de la Pedrera, in the Monjuic Cemetery.

During our final evening in Barcelona, we made the trek up the other side of Montjuïc to the Magic Fountain, an amazing display of water and lights, choreographed to music. The show only plays four days a week, and only in the evenings. The vantage point from this location is magnificent. One can see the towers of Plaça d'Espanya and the old bullring, as well as most of the city, all the way to the hills near Tibidabo.
 
And there were thousands of people. I wasn't expecting so many. I guess that's what happens when a city gets overrun by tourists. There were thousands the last time I watched the water display, but that was during the 1992 Olympics.
 
Shortly before the water show began, a group of a dozen-or-so silent protesters surrounded the fountain with large posters. Each one beheld a picture of a different person, each with the caption: “Freedom. Imprisoned since October 16, 2017.” The words were in English—an obvious attempt to educate the throng of visitors. They stood in silence for about five minutes, then left.
 

Silent protest in Barcelona.

It has now been seven months since my visit to Catalonia. Occasionally I will watch the Spanish news on RTVE and the issue of Catalan Independence is still at the forefront. There have been rallies held in the streets, and some have blocked major highways in protest.
 
As a personal opinion, I don't know how this will end. Spain will fight (and I believe rightly so) any move by Catalonia to secede. They would have nothing to gain. If it were to come down to violence, Catalonia would lose, as Spain has the advantage of a military. 

But it is impossible to quell the determined voice of the Catalan. This is a showdown that has been brewing for centuries. Most of their concerns are valid. And it seems to be the trend—all over the world—that the youth are rising and making their voice heard. They want change, for better or for worse.
 
No, there is no easy solution. ♠ 

"Free Political Prisoners" reads a banner in Tarragona, Spain.

Tarragona, Spain!!!

Climbing the stairs to the Balcony of the Mediterranean, one can see the coast below, spread for miles. The train station is across the rails from the beach. A warm breeze blows over our face and toward the Rambla Nova, which extends at our back into the city.
 
We are in the port city of Tarragona, known in the days of Augustus as Tarraco. With the exception of Mérida, it has more Roman remains than any other city on the Iberian Peninsula. Kaitlyn and I enjoy the view, stopping to take a photo. We are on a day-trip from Barcelona, having caught the regional train.
 
A short walk leads to a large Roman amphitheater, also overlooking the sea. It is possible to wander around the perimeter and enjoy the view for free. Although for a small fee you can gain an up-close experience and learn more about the history. We pay 3,70€ to enter the site.
 

Amphitheater of Tarragona.

A basilica and cemetery were built in the center of the amphitheater several centuries after the Romans.

The amphitheater was built near the end of the first century. Below the arena are two underground galleries, over which large beams used to support a wooden floor, keeping them hidden from the spectators. A series of trap-doors could open allowing gladiators and animals to be raised into the arena for a triumphant entry. At its peak the amphitheater could seat 15,000 spectators.
 
The amphitheater was also used for public executions. In 259 A.D. Bishop Fructuosus and his two deacons were burned alive. After falling into disuse, a Visigoth basilica was built in the arena in memory of the martyrs, using stones from the amphitheater. In the 6th century a cemetery grew up around the basilica. In subsequent years it was used as a monastery, and then as a prison for prisoners who were helping build the port in 1780. Again the site fell into disuse. It wasn't until the 20th century that the glory of the old Roman amphitheater was rediscovered and restoration began.
 

Old street in the medieval quarter of Tarragona.

By this time it is becoming hot and we are getting hungry so we climb another set of stairs and enter the old medieval labyrinth of Tarragona. Here the streets are narrow and many are devoid of any shops.
 
We find a small café on a corner and sit at a table on the cobblestone street. Our meal comes in two courses. I order a plate of melon and thin slices of jamón, each arranged separately, but meant to be eaten together. Kaitlyn chooses calamares a la romana, which are calamari rings, deep-fried like onion rings. For my second course I order morcilla con cebolla, which is blood sausage with onions. It tastes surprisingly good.
 

Cathedral of Tarragona, Spain.

Detail of Cathedral.

We wander a little longer in the old part of town, up a flight of stone stairs to the cathedral. The old section of Tarragona is complete with city walls and a Jewish quarter. There is so much more to explore, but being pressed for time we return to the Rambla Nova to find the bus stop. Along the way we run into the sister missionaries and talk with them for a few minutes.
 
On the Rambla Nova there is a tall statue of a human tower, which is a popular pastime in Catalunya. Known locally as Castellers, these towers are created as participants climb to stand on each others' shoulders to a height of six or seven levels, and sometimes higher. A child of 8 or 10 years old will climb to the pinnacle and raise his or her arm to signal that the tower is complete. The tradition originated in the town of Valls, which is near Tarragona. The statue on the Rambla Nova is life-size and the human replicas are stacked several levels high.
 

Statue of Castellers on the Rambla Nova.

On Avinguda Prat de la Riba we find the stop for bus number five and pay 1,50€ each. The bus takes us on a roundabout and to the outskirts of town where we are now on the autopista. Just a couple miles out of town, we are dropped off on the side of the motorway, which at first glance appears to be nowhere.
 
We walk up a hill to a car-park and find several paths that take off in different directions. They all lead to different parts of The Ferreres Aqueduct, also known as Pont del Diable, or "Devil's Bridge."  This Roman aqueduct has stood the test of time for nearly 2,000 years. Twenty-five arches span the canyon and at one time brought water to the populace of Tarraco.
 
Now days the visitor can walk across the top where water once flowed. The aqueduct was a major architectural feat, consisting of hundreds of large stones, built into arches, perfectly fitted together to create a massive bridge.
 
We walk across the top and then scamper down the hill along a trail through the brush until we are directly below the gigantic structure. It is amazing to think of the labor that must have went into such a project.
 

Pont del Diable, a Roman aqueduct that brought water into the city of Tarraco.

Distorted image of aqueduct.

After exploring all that we can of the old Roman aqueduct, it is time to catch the bus again. At this point, I am not exactly sure of the best way to return to Tarragona. Our bus stop is located next to the busy highway and is only for north-bound buses, which is the opposite direction we want to travel. We wait for twenty minutes without seeing a bus, with the exception of one or two whizzing by in the opposite direction. We are the only people at the stop and are worried about being stranded, as it is a two-mile walk back to town.
 
At last, a red and white number five bus slows down and comes to a halt in front of us. The conductor assures us that the bus will eventually loop around and head back into town. In the meantime, we enjoy the view as we drive through the small suburb of Sant Salvador, before coming back around to the highway and then into Tarragona proper, dropping us off on Avinguda Prat de la Riba.
 

Looking down Carrer Major from the cathedral.

At this point, Kaitlyn has two priorities that she seeks to accomplish. We find a men's clothing store with neck ties displayed in the front window. We step inside and peruse the collection. After several minutes, Kaitlyn finds a purple tie that satisfies her requirements as a gift for her boyfriend, and stays within budget. Priority number one—checked off.
 
We walk further down the street and find a pastry shop selling all sorts of confectioneries: napolitanas de chocolate, croissants, cañas. What a delight and olfactory pleasure it is to walk inside a Spanish bakery! But when it comes to cakes, or tortas as they call them, they come up short. We find a few single servings that appear to be soaked in rum, but that's not what she's looking for. At last she finds (as close as we will get) the perfect slice of cake. We purchase the pastry for 3,75€, and the lady packages it for us inside a cute brown box. Priority number two—half checked off.
 

Roman Forum.

Juxtaposition of the old and new.

On the Carrer (street) del Cardenal Cervantes, surrounded by urban apartment buildings on two separate blocks connected by a bridge, is the Roman Forum. A couple thousand years ago, this was the center of activity in Tarraco and site of several government buildings. Today, all that remains are four roman columns, two arched niches, and several low-walled ruins that were once complete structures.
 
I pay 3,50€ to enter the fenced enclosure, while Kaitlyn decides to wait for me on a bench near the street. I spend twenty minutes wandering around the ruined buildings. There are a few interpretive signs, but most goes unexplained. I can only imagine how many homes and other structures existed during the prime of Tarraco that are now lost to time, or buried beneath the sea of apartment buildings.
 
As the sun moves toward the western horizon, we have one more item of business to take care of. We walk toward the formidable line of railroad tracks that separate us from the sea. Certain that there is a passageway to the other side, but not certain where that might be, I decide to ask a lady walking down the street. She motions down the road and to and underground staircase on the other side of a park. We thank her and follow directions.
 

Sea-side promenade.

After another twenty minutes of walking to arrive at a point that could have taken five had we been able to move in a straight line, we find ourselves at the water's edge. We descend a short flight of steps, remove our shoes, roll up our pants, and feel the smooth sand as it forms around our feet. This is nice! The sun is low in the sky and the gentle waves lap across the beach. We lay our belongings over a towel and enjoy wading in the water. Kaitlyn takes a stick and writes in the sand before a destroying roller comes in and obliterates her message.
 
Then comes time to complete priority number two. Kaitlyn unwraps the cake from the cute brown box and she holds it up and poses for an eyewitness photograph. Then she eats and enjoys. It is a tradition of hers to eat a slice of cake at every beach she visits.
 
Although we could stay much, much longer, it is time for us to leave. We brush the sand from our toes and replace our socks and shoes, shake off the towel and roll it back up, and slip it into the pack that I pull over my shoulders. We walk back toward the port and then down the stairs that go beneath the tracks, and then back to the station. When the train comes, we get a seat next to the window that faces the sea. As the sun goes down and the hues of the sky turn pink and sight of the sea and turns dim, I sit and watch and wish I could stay longer. ♠