I am an American, and I think what America stands for is a powerful and moving ideal. So, what you are about to read is not a tirade against my home. It's only that I feel that there is a fair amount of red on the American record. Thanks.
The Vikings and the American colonists are separated by almost eight hundred years, and thousands of miles. Irregardless of the centuries and oceans that divide them, these two peoples committed almost identical crimes against their fellow man. Yet the Vikings never bore a name as stained as the Americans. The celebrated American satirist Mark Twain once declared that “History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme” (Twain). In other words, although the Americans’ mistreatment of other races was reminiscent of the Vikings’, the Vikings were able to escape ignominy. But if both did similar things and performed similar terrors on native inhabitants, why are there so few comparisons drawn between these two historically significant peoples? Why are the Vikings so revered, so exalted for their brutality? Why are the Vikings not criticised for their crimes against their fellow man? Surely their atrocities were far bloodier and numerous than their American counterparts. Could it be merely the years that separate them, the fact that the Americans are so much closer in our collective memory?
No, the centuries do not dim the horrors the Vikings inflicted upon the Celts, the Britons, and others. Nor do the the decades lessen the atrocities the Americans have committed against the Native Americans and the African Americans. Yet historians are still apt to write of the Vikings with varying levels of admiration.
The greatest stain on American history is that left by slavery, finally abolished by the Civil War. Yet slavery is barely a smudge on the Vikings’, and is often left unmentioned. Although both peoples enslaved fellow human beings, Vikings are rarely censured for it. Then again, the Vikings only ever enslaved prisoners of war; they never labeled, never defined, any one race as a slave race. Those that were enslaved were not chosen for race, or any other determining characteristic. Slavery was a secondary part of war, never a necessary part of life for the Vikings. It was a means for the victor to assert his power of the conquered; it was never an act of selfishness. The subjugated people were seen as inferior because they were on the losing side of war, not because of the skin they were born with. The victory was acknowledged as that of the Viking over the Celt, never that of a Viking over an animal. It was a victory because one man had triumphed over another. It was not so for the white-supremacists and plantation owners, who refused to recognize the hypocrisy of their ways. These so-called Christians tried to use the bible as justification for oppressing their black brothers, holding forth holier-than-thou piety in one hand and a whip in the other. Never mind that the Old Testament declares that "He who kidnaps a man, whether he sells him or he is found in his possession, shall surely be put to death." (Exodus 21:16). For the Americans, an entire economy was built upon the backs of black slaves and upon that, a mirage of gleaming manors and genteel indolence and stolen contentment. The pain of a thousand whippings would be sooner forgotten than the pain of belonging to a people kept down by a label.
Vikings and American colonists alike overthrew native inhabitants to set up their own colonies. But again, the Vikings are lauded for their ingenuity and spirit of survival; the Americans will be forever remembered as the foreigners that ousted the once proud nations of the Native Americans, an older people than they. In murdering and burning and raping, the Vikings committed crimes against the physical person; in deceiving and lying and destroying, the Americans committed crimes against the human spirit. The Vikings did not lie, for there was no honor in it. It was honorable to kill, but never to lie to your fallen foe (Njal’s Saga), for killing affects the body, but lies affect the soul. After their initial slaughter of farmers and monks, the Northmen often settled the lands alongside the conquered, mixing bloodlines and assimilating peacefully to form enduring societies. Countries like Britain, Scotland, and Ireland give testament to this, for a significant portion of their population is of Nordic descent. The Vikings were feared in these lands for their Blitzkrieg-like attack tactics, yet the fact that they left a genetic handprint behind speaks volumes. It is generally accepted that the Vikings often settled conquered lands and became farmers (Clements). The American colonists, however, refused to allow Native Americans a chance for assimilation, preferring to keep them isolated. American expansionists and advocates of Manifest Destiny forced upon the Native Americans centuries of prolonged struggle. To ease their own guilty consciences, many such as President Andrew Jackson tried to justify their actions by claiming that removing the American Indians to rocky, infertile lands to the West was a natural means of cultural preservation. Whereas the Vikings made their intent clear, the Americans resorted to subterfuge, promising protection and peace to the wearied natives. Their lies were mostly intended to assure themselves of their own purity and piety, and to avoid admitting that their selfishness were destroying innocent people by the thousands. The Vikings knew and accepted the atrocity of their actions, choosing simply not to care.
There is also the difference in their cultural identity, their historical character. The Vikings are known badasses hardened by struggle and weather. The Americans, on the other hand, were less equipped to handle adversity. That’s not to say that the lot of them were a bunch of pansies , but as seen in the example of Jamestown, many believed themselves to be above work. They were reluctant at best to get their hands dirty. It is difficult to respect a people that would kill while keeping their gloves white and their shirts starched. The Vikings never stooped to such vanity. Maybe it’s because the Vikings understood death and killing better than the Americans did. While rifles and pistols allowed the holder to shoot at targets from a distance, the northmen had no choice but to thrust metal through flesh and bone. For a moment, the blade forges a connection, a give-and-receive bond. Then it is pulled out and cleansed with earth. The bullet is so cold, so impersonal. But at least it allowed the Americans to keep their gloves clean.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
La Ciudad de Puerto Vallarta Jalisco
Puerto Vallarta was first built in 1851. It is named after Ignacio Luiz Vallarta, whose statue stands proudly in the city square. There were a great many other things made of what I think must be copper or bronze-statues and chairs that looked like statues. Fantastical creatures, with faces twisted into smiles and grotesque scowls. The day was overcast, yet the metal was warm to the touch.
Our tour guide in Puerto Vallarta was a man called Gabino. When Señor Gabino spoke, his hands did half the talking. He was a head shorter than me, deeply tanned, with a white mustache and bushy brows. He spoke to us in Spanish and English, for there were Spanish-speakers on the tour with us.
I didn't buy anything in Cabo, or Mazatlan. But in Puerto Vallarta my mother handed me two hundred pesos and a stern warning. I can tell you, that I happily and wholeheartedly ignored the latter. Bartering is the most fun a person can have, until her mother actually gives her money. But I swear the vendors can smell the scent on money on you, and they redouble their efforts to trap you into overpaying.
I bought a few prints of Frieda Kahlo, a necklace with the Mayan zodiac carved on shark tooth, and two mugs made of sand! Don't ask me how they did it, or how on earth those things are dishwasher safe.
We stopped many times just for pictures. My father fancies himself a photographer, and so his opinion Señor Gabino rose each time the bus screeched to a halt beside a beach, or a marketplace.
I took a picture with an Iguana! His name is Lucas, which I found bizarrerly entertaining. For whatever reason.
The place we stopped at for lunch was magnificent. Señor Gabino told us that he chose the spot not for the food-although I can tell you that the food was prime-but for the view. And what a view it was. There was a river and several waterfalls and rapids and forests on both sides. There were people ziplining and I regretted not having the time to join them. I've never been ziplining before.
"It's a river, with the sound of falling water nearby. There are many trees-so much green. But it's not a bright, Irish sort of green. It's kind of dusty, warmer somehow. The rocks are warm, the ivy strong as it winds around the wooden bannisters"
"There is a loud commotion. A couple of caged birds, upset at being imprisoned, are letting all of Mexico know of their outrage. I don't know what kind of birds they are, but they're a lime-y, yellow-y green and quite large.
The waiter told me that they are Guacamallas, a kind of parrot. Sorry, I have to guess at the spelling."
After lunch we drove on for a while, until we reached a tequila distillery. It's one of those comfortable family-owned places. Come to find out, I'm good at drinking tequila! But my brother is only twelve and I thought it was funny when he handed me his little plastic shot glass and whispered: "Cindy, I don't want anymore." I have never seen him that red. I wish I took a picture.
There is a specific way to drink fine tequila. You are to drink it down at once, and then breathe in through the nose and out the open mouth. Slowly, without haste. To my surprise, there was no burning sensation-only warmth. Warmth that seemed to spread from my tongue and throat to my cheeks and fingers and belly. Our English speaking guide smiled at the expression on my face and said that if you drink too fast, or too much, the feeling disappears. Why, then, do people drink too fast or much?
We had to rush after that, and we were late getting back to the ship. There were a lot of stragglers, though, and the crew didn't mind. In fact, they seemed to expect it.
 |
I didn't buy anything in Cabo, or Mazatlan. But in Puerto Vallarta my mother handed me two hundred pesos and a stern warning. I can tell you, that I happily and wholeheartedly ignored the latter. Bartering is the most fun a person can have, until her mother actually gives her money. But I swear the vendors can smell the scent on money on you, and they redouble their efforts to trap you into overpaying.
I bought a few prints of Frieda Kahlo, a necklace with the Mayan zodiac carved on shark tooth, and two mugs made of sand! Don't ask me how they did it, or how on earth those things are dishwasher safe.
We stopped many times just for pictures. My father fancies himself a photographer, and so his opinion Señor Gabino rose each time the bus screeched to a halt beside a beach, or a marketplace.
I took a picture with an Iguana! His name is Lucas, which I found bizarrerly entertaining. For whatever reason.
The place we stopped at for lunch was magnificent. Señor Gabino told us that he chose the spot not for the food-although I can tell you that the food was prime-but for the view. And what a view it was. There was a river and several waterfalls and rapids and forests on both sides. There were people ziplining and I regretted not having the time to join them. I've never been ziplining before.
"It's a river, with the sound of falling water nearby. There are many trees-so much green. But it's not a bright, Irish sort of green. It's kind of dusty, warmer somehow. The rocks are warm, the ivy strong as it winds around the wooden bannisters"
"There is a loud commotion. A couple of caged birds, upset at being imprisoned, are letting all of Mexico know of their outrage. I don't know what kind of birds they are, but they're a lime-y, yellow-y green and quite large.
The waiter told me that they are Guacamallas, a kind of parrot. Sorry, I have to guess at the spelling."
After lunch we drove on for a while, until we reached a tequila distillery. It's one of those comfortable family-owned places. Come to find out, I'm good at drinking tequila! But my brother is only twelve and I thought it was funny when he handed me his little plastic shot glass and whispered: "Cindy, I don't want anymore." I have never seen him that red. I wish I took a picture.
There is a specific way to drink fine tequila. You are to drink it down at once, and then breathe in through the nose and out the open mouth. Slowly, without haste. To my surprise, there was no burning sensation-only warmth. Warmth that seemed to spread from my tongue and throat to my cheeks and fingers and belly. Our English speaking guide smiled at the expression on my face and said that if you drink too fast, or too much, the feeling disappears. Why, then, do people drink too fast or much?
We had to rush after that, and we were late getting back to the ship. There were a lot of stragglers, though, and the crew didn't mind. In fact, they seemed to expect it.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Christmas in Mazatlan
We pulled into Mazatlan during breakfast. Earl Gray never tasted so fine as it did that morning. As I always do, I was writing as I drank my tea and ate my breakfast.
"We missed sunrise, it being about 7:10, but it is still beautiful. I don't think it's fair that everyone makes such a fuss about sunrise and sunset and then forgets the sun's other positions in the sky. Dawn and dusk are equally as commonplace as the sun at breakfast time. Not that the sun could ever be commonplace, regardless of where it is in the sky...The sky is all somber gray and dull blues-maybe even green in some parts. There is a line of cloudes, heavy at the bottoms but fluffy at the tops. Beneath them is a curious trail of what looks like steam. I was fixated by that, I remember. It, too, is very beautiful but now that we have pulled closer to Mazatlan I can see that it is smoke from some factories. Such a shame that so stunning a scene is under the cloud of pollution. But it's funny that something so awful could be beautiful too."
Going ashore was much smoother in Mazatlan than it was in Cabo because the Norwegion Star actually docked and we could just walk ashore, so to speak. Good thing too, because half my family is easily seasick. Oh, the irony.
After meeting up with our tour, we stopped at a bakery: La Panadería Malpica. Elezar, our tour guide, explained to us the process in which bread is baked there. It is very traditional, with a wide oven and great wooden racks for cooling. My mother gave me a few pesos and I bought a bag of them, still warm and very sweet, from the old lady. She did not speak English, so I had the pleasure of asking in Spanish. She was very kind, smiling as I asked her:"Esta cosa blanca...es
azúcar?". It was sugar, by the way.
We walked, contentedly munching on the good, fluffy bread, down the street a ways until we reached the home and workshop of José, the tile-maker. Watching him make tile was fascinating. First he cleaned and oiled the tile mold with a wooden brush and dripped some paint over it. It looked random, but he declared that he knew exactly what it was going to look like. His movements were so sure, so deft, that I'm sure he did. He filled it with a plaster mixture-not all at once, but in dollops, splitting the mold into sections. Then he took a pencil-"solamente una lápiz simple"-and swirled it carefully in the plaster. I can't remember exactly what he did next, but I think he packed it with some kind of sand mixture and pressed it with a contraption that Elezar told us applied two tons of pressure.
José also did not speak English, so Elezar translated for him. José's spanish was very soft, almost like a drawl. But not a drawl. The word "drawl" sounds wrong, so forget I even said it. But I digress. I bought a tile for Profe Sanchez, my Spanish teacher.
Next we stopped in Concordia, which was established in 1565. Their furniture, which has earned them renown, is gorgeous. Colonial, and mostly made of the Mapa cut from the Sierra Madre mountains.
A long, winding road up into the Sierra Madre and we reached the mining town of Copala, built the same year as Concordia. According to Elezar, 95% of the buildings in Copala are still standing from the days of the Spaniards. They grew a great many fruit trees here; bananas, mangoes, papaya, coconuts.
The best part of Copala was its church. I am not Catholic, yet I stood trembling in its mighty shadow. The bricks were faded by sun and wind and rain, and the roof was crumbling, but I have never seen a church like that. The man that sat across the aisle from me on the tour bus was a history teacher-I heard him tell Elezar so. He said that all that church needed was a relic, and Catholics from the world over would flood Copala, making pilgrimages. Maybe it's a good thing, then, that Copala doesn't have a relic. Or maybe I'm being ignorant.
Lunch was in a little place with a sign that read: "Restaurante Desde 1881". There I had the most delicious cheesecake I have ever had in my life. It was topped with some kind of nut and a fruit called the guayaba, that tasted a little bit like pear. It was less rich than American cheesecake, and less sweet. I could have eaten it by the truckload, but then...I am an American. Haha.
So, that was a little part of Mazatlan. As ever, a few hours is never enough to truly experience a new land and a new culture, but even that faint taste was rich. I hope to return to Mazatlan someday, and do a better job visiting.
"We missed sunrise, it being about 7:10, but it is still beautiful. I don't think it's fair that everyone makes such a fuss about sunrise and sunset and then forgets the sun's other positions in the sky. Dawn and dusk are equally as commonplace as the sun at breakfast time. Not that the sun could ever be commonplace, regardless of where it is in the sky...The sky is all somber gray and dull blues-maybe even green in some parts. There is a line of cloudes, heavy at the bottoms but fluffy at the tops. Beneath them is a curious trail of what looks like steam. I was fixated by that, I remember. It, too, is very beautiful but now that we have pulled closer to Mazatlan I can see that it is smoke from some factories. Such a shame that so stunning a scene is under the cloud of pollution. But it's funny that something so awful could be beautiful too."
Going ashore was much smoother in Mazatlan than it was in Cabo because the Norwegion Star actually docked and we could just walk ashore, so to speak. Good thing too, because half my family is easily seasick. Oh, the irony.
After meeting up with our tour, we stopped at a bakery: La Panadería Malpica. Elezar, our tour guide, explained to us the process in which bread is baked there. It is very traditional, with a wide oven and great wooden racks for cooling. My mother gave me a few pesos and I bought a bag of them, still warm and very sweet, from the old lady. She did not speak English, so I had the pleasure of asking in Spanish. She was very kind, smiling as I asked her:"Esta cosa blanca...es
azúcar?". It was sugar, by the way.
 |
| The Title in English (Spanish was on the other side) |
We walked, contentedly munching on the good, fluffy bread, down the street a ways until we reached the home and workshop of José, the tile-maker. Watching him make tile was fascinating. First he cleaned and oiled the tile mold with a wooden brush and dripped some paint over it. It looked random, but he declared that he knew exactly what it was going to look like. His movements were so sure, so deft, that I'm sure he did. He filled it with a plaster mixture-not all at once, but in dollops, splitting the mold into sections. Then he took a pencil-"solamente una lápiz simple"-and swirled it carefully in the plaster. I can't remember exactly what he did next, but I think he packed it with some kind of sand mixture and pressed it with a contraption that Elezar told us applied two tons of pressure.
José also did not speak English, so Elezar translated for him. José's spanish was very soft, almost like a drawl. But not a drawl. The word "drawl" sounds wrong, so forget I even said it. But I digress. I bought a tile for Profe Sanchez, my Spanish teacher.
Next we stopped in Concordia, which was established in 1565. Their furniture, which has earned them renown, is gorgeous. Colonial, and mostly made of the Mapa cut from the Sierra Madre mountains.
A long, winding road up into the Sierra Madre and we reached the mining town of Copala, built the same year as Concordia. According to Elezar, 95% of the buildings in Copala are still standing from the days of the Spaniards. They grew a great many fruit trees here; bananas, mangoes, papaya, coconuts.
The best part of Copala was its church. I am not Catholic, yet I stood trembling in its mighty shadow. The bricks were faded by sun and wind and rain, and the roof was crumbling, but I have never seen a church like that. The man that sat across the aisle from me on the tour bus was a history teacher-I heard him tell Elezar so. He said that all that church needed was a relic, and Catholics from the world over would flood Copala, making pilgrimages. Maybe it's a good thing, then, that Copala doesn't have a relic. Or maybe I'm being ignorant.
 |
| What a church! |
So, that was a little part of Mazatlan. As ever, a few hours is never enough to truly experience a new land and a new culture, but even that faint taste was rich. I hope to return to Mazatlan someday, and do a better job visiting.
Thank you for your time
Thursday, January 2, 2014
A Drink With Gatsby
The Norwegion Star, as with most other cruise lines, has as its secondary concern the continual entertainment of its guests. The primary being reaching the destination without being hijacked or something, I guess.
I already said in an earlier post that I can't stand clubbing music, such as the music played outside on the "party deck". It's too loud, but more importantly, I have no idea what to do with it. Everywhere you look you see people dancing or jumping or moving with the beat. Even the people eating, or getting in line to eat, are participating. But I'm not. Not because I'm some kind of pseudo-grinch, but because I'm chronically rhythm challenged. My grandmother is a better dancer than me.
I like music you can listen to sitting down. Standing up is okay too, if no one expects you to do anything with your awkward self.
There was a little space with a stage and a bar, with a bunch of squashy gold-toned swivel-chairs scattered in between. An art gallery bordered one side, and an Italian restaurant the other. The Gatsby Lounge. I liked to sit when there was music playing and write in my journal. I never actually had a drink, unless you count ice water and virgin pina coladas, which, might I add, I have lost a taste for.
I only ever happened to be there when on of two artists were there: The Belmonte Brothers (the ship itinerary lists them as the Belmonte Duo but I have a strange prejudice against the word "duo") and Stan Sykes.
I listen to a lot of world music, but mostly Celtic and German. Until then, I had never really listened to very much Latin music. Until then. It was literally a cultural revolution or something, because as soon as I stepped foot into a place with free wi-fi I RESEARCHED. Luis Silva, Luis Miguel, Pablo Milanes, etc. etc.
I spoke with the brothers after their last show the day before we docked home and it seems they are working on an album. I wish you could have heard them in that lounge. I wish you could have heard the way the guitar danced and the piano trilled. I wish you could have heard the way their voices blended-so seamlessly, so sinuously. I have never heard any music like that. Even I could have danced to it.
The brothers themselves were what I would call romantic figures, meaning that had I been writing a novel, I'd have found a way to write them in. Their nametags-which I sneakily glanced at-said that they were Colombian. Julian was the guitarist, and he wore his hair in a neat pony tail-very artsy. His brother Daniel accompanied him on the piano, although it's difficult to say who accompanied who.
When I fist saw Stan I thought he was somebody else that I knew and so almost ran screaming at him. Almost. It was a close call. He played Motown/70s stuff. A lot of the Temptations and Stevie Wonder and Otis Redding. Jamal, if you're reading this, he could have been your twin. He was funny, too. They put a blow up penguin on his piano and he kept pretending to choke it.
I'd add some kind of video clip (seeing as I'm pretty good at internet stalking now) but I think that might be crossing some lines. But you should all youtube them. Especially the Belmonte Brothers, because I already found clips of them :).
Never mind, I've gotten over my qualms. Here's a few clip (the following clips don't belong to me, etc.):
Hope you liked part 3 in my Mexican Cruise Installment. Have a nice day!
I already said in an earlier post that I can't stand clubbing music, such as the music played outside on the "party deck". It's too loud, but more importantly, I have no idea what to do with it. Everywhere you look you see people dancing or jumping or moving with the beat. Even the people eating, or getting in line to eat, are participating. But I'm not. Not because I'm some kind of pseudo-grinch, but because I'm chronically rhythm challenged. My grandmother is a better dancer than me.
I like music you can listen to sitting down. Standing up is okay too, if no one expects you to do anything with your awkward self.
There was a little space with a stage and a bar, with a bunch of squashy gold-toned swivel-chairs scattered in between. An art gallery bordered one side, and an Italian restaurant the other. The Gatsby Lounge. I liked to sit when there was music playing and write in my journal. I never actually had a drink, unless you count ice water and virgin pina coladas, which, might I add, I have lost a taste for.
I only ever happened to be there when on of two artists were there: The Belmonte Brothers (the ship itinerary lists them as the Belmonte Duo but I have a strange prejudice against the word "duo") and Stan Sykes.
I listen to a lot of world music, but mostly Celtic and German. Until then, I had never really listened to very much Latin music. Until then. It was literally a cultural revolution or something, because as soon as I stepped foot into a place with free wi-fi I RESEARCHED. Luis Silva, Luis Miguel, Pablo Milanes, etc. etc.
I spoke with the brothers after their last show the day before we docked home and it seems they are working on an album. I wish you could have heard them in that lounge. I wish you could have heard the way the guitar danced and the piano trilled. I wish you could have heard the way their voices blended-so seamlessly, so sinuously. I have never heard any music like that. Even I could have danced to it.
The brothers themselves were what I would call romantic figures, meaning that had I been writing a novel, I'd have found a way to write them in. Their nametags-which I sneakily glanced at-said that they were Colombian. Julian was the guitarist, and he wore his hair in a neat pony tail-very artsy. His brother Daniel accompanied him on the piano, although it's difficult to say who accompanied who.
When I fist saw Stan I thought he was somebody else that I knew and so almost ran screaming at him. Almost. It was a close call. He played Motown/70s stuff. A lot of the Temptations and Stevie Wonder and Otis Redding. Jamal, if you're reading this, he could have been your twin. He was funny, too. They put a blow up penguin on his piano and he kept pretending to choke it.
I'd add some kind of video clip (seeing as I'm pretty good at internet stalking now) but I think that might be crossing some lines. But you should all youtube them. Especially the Belmonte Brothers, because I already found clips of them :).
Never mind, I've gotten over my qualms. Here's a few clip (the following clips don't belong to me, etc.):
Hope you liked part 3 in my Mexican Cruise Installment. Have a nice day!
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