scouting the Outpost, part 1
The Outpost is everything he says it is. (Yes, this island, this country, does have a name, but I won’t be the one to reveal it -- although, sorry, Lox, it won’t be hard to figure out, given my descriptions.)
In the airport, upon arrival, I smelled urine. There were some people with cat carriers, and I thought that explained it. But when I stepped out of the airport into the cool night air, the smell got even stronger, despite the wind. I boarded the coach with the rest of the tour group, breathing through my mouth, and just when I was starting to wonder if the smell was coming from me, I heard the woman behind me say, “There must be a hippodrome around here.” There was no hippodrome, just a pungeant welcome to the Outpost.
Finally got into the hotel room, stuck in the card, and the TV came on, playing what? The Bride of Chucky. The horror show continued in the bathroom, which was full of ants.
Saturday. Woke up to that infamous 95% eclipse of the sun (the stupid hotel curtains didn’t quite close), the remaining 5% of direct sunlight coming through the window being enough to rouse me at 6 a.m., much earlier than I would have hoped after so few hours of sleep. But I was ready to go. Got on the bus early, got a good seat, out of the sun, but within sight of the guide. We arrived at the archaeological museum in the capital city, and were rushed through in 45 minutes, from room to room, and tomb to tomb, some reconstructed, with or without their plunder. I was fascinated with the convincing evolution of a phallus into a cross and the fertility statues I am starting to resemble. No time to dilly dally in the museum shop or anywhere else. We were on our way.
Next stop, prison. From the cells to the gallows to the “imprisoned graves” themselves, we saw it all, accompanied by all the sordid, sad details of the tortures and executions of the local boys at the hands of the British. And how fast the cameras came out when that noose came into sight. “Grab your children by the hand,” the guide said, lest they fall into the ghastly pit. That was the least the parents could do. It was very disturbing.
When it came time to get back on the bus, the arguments ensued. I should say that we were a mixed group, some retired couples, some young couples (some with young kids), some families with teenagers. But somehow, the combination turned us all into a bunch of kindergarteners. Why? Because everybody switched seats. It was ridiculous. I got in a fight over my seat in the front, but finally gave in and resettled in the back, which was worse -- I couldn’t hear the guide at all for all the thousand arguments about who confused the seats and who should be ashamed. Finally, we stopped downtown, in “the people’s neighborhood,” for our two hours of free time, away from the bus and away from the group.
I did what a tourist is supposed to do -- went up to the observatory, walked the pedestrian streets as far as they went (which in this case was a barbed wire barricade with gunmen on either side, but hey, that too is a tourist attraction in this country), shared a halloumi sandwich with a cat, who liked it a lot more than I did. I bought a souvenir magnet.
Back on the bus, we went to the Archbishop’s palace. I was more impressed by a catfight there in the street that resulted in an extremely impressive long-distance escape. We walked to the Statue of Freedom, another monument to those who were tortured, killed, and imprisoned by the English. The members of my group got right in the middle of the statue, put on their best smiles, said cheese.
The Death Tour continued with one more stop -- a cemetery, a monument to our guys, fighter pilots and soldiers from Crete, shot down by accident by the locals they were on their way to rescue. “When it happened, they said the Americans did it,” one man said, perpetuating an outrageous inaccuracy, but one that obviously still has an appeal. “Well, yes,” the guide answered, not exactly clarifying the situation, “Kissinger was the butcher of [the Outpost].” I took it all a little personally.
(to be continued)
In the airport, upon arrival, I smelled urine. There were some people with cat carriers, and I thought that explained it. But when I stepped out of the airport into the cool night air, the smell got even stronger, despite the wind. I boarded the coach with the rest of the tour group, breathing through my mouth, and just when I was starting to wonder if the smell was coming from me, I heard the woman behind me say, “There must be a hippodrome around here.” There was no hippodrome, just a pungeant welcome to the Outpost.
Finally got into the hotel room, stuck in the card, and the TV came on, playing what? The Bride of Chucky. The horror show continued in the bathroom, which was full of ants.
Saturday. Woke up to that infamous 95% eclipse of the sun (the stupid hotel curtains didn’t quite close), the remaining 5% of direct sunlight coming through the window being enough to rouse me at 6 a.m., much earlier than I would have hoped after so few hours of sleep. But I was ready to go. Got on the bus early, got a good seat, out of the sun, but within sight of the guide. We arrived at the archaeological museum in the capital city, and were rushed through in 45 minutes, from room to room, and tomb to tomb, some reconstructed, with or without their plunder. I was fascinated with the convincing evolution of a phallus into a cross and the fertility statues I am starting to resemble. No time to dilly dally in the museum shop or anywhere else. We were on our way.
Next stop, prison. From the cells to the gallows to the “imprisoned graves” themselves, we saw it all, accompanied by all the sordid, sad details of the tortures and executions of the local boys at the hands of the British. And how fast the cameras came out when that noose came into sight. “Grab your children by the hand,” the guide said, lest they fall into the ghastly pit. That was the least the parents could do. It was very disturbing.
When it came time to get back on the bus, the arguments ensued. I should say that we were a mixed group, some retired couples, some young couples (some with young kids), some families with teenagers. But somehow, the combination turned us all into a bunch of kindergarteners. Why? Because everybody switched seats. It was ridiculous. I got in a fight over my seat in the front, but finally gave in and resettled in the back, which was worse -- I couldn’t hear the guide at all for all the thousand arguments about who confused the seats and who should be ashamed. Finally, we stopped downtown, in “the people’s neighborhood,” for our two hours of free time, away from the bus and away from the group.
I did what a tourist is supposed to do -- went up to the observatory, walked the pedestrian streets as far as they went (which in this case was a barbed wire barricade with gunmen on either side, but hey, that too is a tourist attraction in this country), shared a halloumi sandwich with a cat, who liked it a lot more than I did. I bought a souvenir magnet.
Back on the bus, we went to the Archbishop’s palace. I was more impressed by a catfight there in the street that resulted in an extremely impressive long-distance escape. We walked to the Statue of Freedom, another monument to those who were tortured, killed, and imprisoned by the English. The members of my group got right in the middle of the statue, put on their best smiles, said cheese.
The Death Tour continued with one more stop -- a cemetery, a monument to our guys, fighter pilots and soldiers from Crete, shot down by accident by the locals they were on their way to rescue. “When it happened, they said the Americans did it,” one man said, perpetuating an outrageous inaccuracy, but one that obviously still has an appeal. “Well, yes,” the guide answered, not exactly clarifying the situation, “Kissinger was the butcher of [the Outpost].” I took it all a little personally.
(to be continued)
posted by soap at
11:10 AM
3 Comments:
You are on your way to putting me out of business! :-)
Keep the rest of the series coming.
[...] just a pungeant welcome to the Outpost.
It's not just me who can smell it, then.
Apparently, the stench is of putrefying organic material as the flamingo-hosting salt lakes dry up and turn into salt flats.
The last day included a walking tour within meters of the salt lake, which has indeed started drying up around its edges (we even saw what the guide said was a flock of flamingos in the distance), but I didn't notice a thing. I guess I was in a different frame of mind by then, senses too overwhelmed to take in anything else.
And in defense of the Outpost, I should say that in general, it smells pretty good. Its cities are landscaped beautifully -- there are gardens and flowers everywhere you look. And the countryside, wherever it is lush enough, is full of evergreen and honeysuckle.
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