A Train, Some Cognac and the Ukraine War with Sergiy

 Article and photos by Tony Mangia

I arrived at the Odesa train station, a half eaten shawarma in hand, prepared for the 18-hour train trip to Zaporizhzhia hoping there would not be any delays. My contact, Kateryna, said she heard lots of explosions there last night and news reports said much of southeast Ukraine's power grid was out.

In Odesa, I had already seen the devastation left by Russian missiles accompanied by the random blare of bomb sirens and blackouts. My host, Vadym, showed me the rubble of a leveled Black Sea hotel and city apartment building both laid to waste by drone attacks—everything around them pockmarked by flying metal shrapnel. 

With a glowing warm November dusk setting on the train station platform, I couldn't tell there was a war going on if not for the number of military uniforms in the mix. It was hard not to notice the higher ratio of older looking troops compared to youthful military faces you see in the United States. Or maybe it was just short-term weathering from the brutal war conditions.

There was a Ukrainian solder leaning on the wall smoking next to me. I said hello and asked how he was doing, trying to make some small talk. He nodded back, but any chance to engage in a conversation was dashed after he immediately looked away, pulling his knit cap further down his weary face. I didn't know if he was headed to battle, but his mud-caked boots led me to believe he was coming back from the war. The soldier looked at me again with kind of a grin and wandered away to another wall. I’d hoped my American accent would open up some sort of Where are you from line of dialogue, but his quick escape left me feeling like an intrusive bug—after all, this was wartime in Ukraine.

While taking photos of the grand terminal, I saw an older couple whom I presumed to be a mother and father help a fresh-faced soldier with a large tote bag. They gave each other long hugs before he tossed the bag onto the coupe class car on the train. I would be traveling in the slightly more expensive two bed “first class” sleeping compartment—hopefully with a vacant second bunk.  

After a few hours of quiet solitude in my berth, except for the mantra of rhythmic clatter of steel wheels on the rails and an occasional horn blast, the train pulled into a station about ten-o-clock. Through a din of muffled conversations and luggage rolling down the aisle my door opened. A man in a crisp, clean camouflage Ukraine military uniform entered.    

Sergiy greeted me with a cordial, ”dobrost,” as he removed  and hung up his military jacket and gently placed a green camo backpack on the floor. I shuffled my large backpack on the floor out of his way and moved the greasy shawarma off to the side of the center table. I nodded a respectful “hello” back. We shook hands before I poked my chest and kind of timidly told him, “American.” A big smile came across his face.

“Cognac?,” was the response as he pulled a slim bottle out of the backpack. It was a generous—and quite unexpected—invitation and a language I understood.

“Sure,” I responded with surprise as we both glanced around the berth looking form a glass or cup. Sergiy motioned with his hand to drink from the bottle and then handed it to me. As the brandy warmed my mouth, I passed the bottle back to him. Sergiy then handed me a wrapped piece of chocolate.

Being unsure if this was a Ukrainian ritual, and not in the mood for chocolate, I didn’t want to offend my new roomie. I peeled of the wrapper and popped the candy into my mouth.

“Is this a tradition?” I asked Sergiy as he took a swig of the cognac before eating a peace of chocolate himself. He held up his hands and shrugged, not knowing what I said, before abruptly handing me back the bottle. I took a sizable gulp and he handed me another piece of candy which looked more like a giant sugar cube. I dropped the sweet block into my mouth.

In between silent pauses and thank yous, this practice of passing the cognac topped off with candy went on for a couple of more rounds before I tried to access my translate app to open up a genial line of dialogue. Damn, no Wi-Fi on the train. In Ukraine, until now, I usually had Vadym to help me translate.

Sergiy saw me fumbling with my phone and pointed to his phone and then mine, back and forth. He was offering to piggyback my phone to his Wi-Fi. It was something my low-tech knowledge had never heard of. And it worked.  Communication was easier, but I was confused —and maybe a little nervous— that I had to use Russian because there was no Ukrainian on the app even though Vadym told me most everyone in Ukraine speaks Russian. Still, speaking Russian seemed oddly profane to me under the country's current circumstances, but that's one of the contradictions of this war.

Through a cognac buzz—and self-consciousness about the odor of my shawarma permeating or cabin— I tried to convey an apology to Sergiy for the smelly chicken wrap that I planned to have for breakfast. He seemed to get it and laughed.

It took some linguistic jostling, but Sergiy divulged that he was an Ukraine Army officer returning to the front lines. He had just come from a hospital and was headed back to join his unit after being wounded by shrapnel fighting with a tank division near Donetsk. Sergiy removed his sweater to reveal fresh freckles of wounds up and down his arms.  He then gestured to his right leg before standing up and dropping trou. I immediately noticed two jagged cuts where a large metal fragment pierced his thigh clean through about eight inches from his groin and even closer to his femoral artery. The wound was still fresh with stitch marks that still looked susceptible to infection, especially if he was headed to the grimy front. Despite his injuries, Sergiy seemed unfazed about going back to the trenches outside of Dnipro—a key city mercilessly bombed many times since the war began.  His blue eyes showed no sign of battle fatigue and were almost enthusiastic.

With a baffled look, Sergiy asked me where I was going and what I was doing here in Ukraine during the war. I didn't feel like making this conversation about myself, but did briefly explain that I was there to do a story about volunteers fighting the war behind the scenes. I asked Sergiy if I could take his photo. He politely said no and I respected that. Media officials had instructed me not to photograph any military personnel without permission.

Despite some progress with the translate app, there was still a lot of pauses and hand gestures to convey questions and answers between us. I did find out Sergiy had wife and two children. He quit his job as an IT in Kyiv and joined the army immediately after the first Russian attacks on February 24, 2022.  Sergiy's facial expression underscored his vow to keep fighting until Ukraine is free of any Russian occupation.

It isn't always easy to admire somebody you just met or never heard of. But that wasn't the case with Sergiy. It took only a couple of hours for his quiet hospitality and stoic demeanor and assuredness to earn my reverence. He was a man who was fighting for freedom with his life and, despite already carrying the physical scars of the war, would be going back to it. Because of a random shared train cabin, Sergiy offered me a glimpse into his life although I could still only imagine what survival on the on the front lines was really like.

Up to now in Ukraine, I had only heard the sirens and seen scorched buildings, but hearing Sergio’s sacrifices and first hand experience in battle made the brutality of this war more of a reality. His wounds made it tangible. It humbled me knowing that he was one of millions fighting for independence and the basic freedoms for his children and all of Ukraine.

There were a couple more rounds of cognac and mouthfuls of chocolate while Sergiy insisted I watch some videos of his armored unit firing at Russian targets he had recorded on his phone. High quality clips except for the pixilated identification numbers painted on the turret of the Soviet-era T-72 tank. Another contradiction. I presumed they were blurred out for security reasons. He proudly held up the screen in front of my face like they were highlights from his kid's soccer match. Sergiy grinned and nodded his head while I looked at the concussion-inducing volleys coming from the tank hidden in a tree-lined field while his fellow soldiers cheered and threw fists into the air. This was the same spot where he was wounded. It was fascinating first-person war footage.

Sergiy stepped out between the train cars for another one of his numerous smoke breaks and I started to feel the effects of the cognac and long day. When he returned I apologetically told him I was ready to sleep. Sergiy agreed, but not before one more shot. I obliged. As I fluffed the pillow and tried to stretch out under a sheet in my bed, I could see a glow from his phone and heard him quietly talk to his wife. 

There was some weak lukewarm coffees and Sergiy's smoke break the next morning before I bid him a brief goodbye and a wholehearted good luck as the train screeched into the Zaporizhzhia station. Kateryna greeted me at the door and just like that, Sergiy was gone, but not forgotten. 

I still often wonder what this war has in store for him.

Ruins on the Nile and wrecks in the Red Sea

 Photos and article by Tony Mangia

The only thing better than knocking something off your bucket list is banging out two life goals in a single trip. Which is what I happily achieved on my first visit to Egypt

Of course, number one was physically seeing the Great Pyramid of Giza (aka the Pyramid of Cheops) up close and in real life. 

Rolling up and glimpsing the magnificent Giza pyramid complex for the first time is an experience one can never forget — even though I didn’t expect the 481-foot high Cheops and the slightly lower Kahafre and relatively small Menkaura  to be so curiously close to the streets of Cairo. And all of the history books and National Geographic photos cannot do justice to seeing these spectacular 4600 year-old tombs rising from the desert ground—a splendid combination of human ability and enduring history—in person. 

Before my trip I had been forewarned about the aggressive and incessant pestering of camel ride and souvenir vendors among unauthorized “tour guides” all around the pyramid complex and other tourist points of interest. It was stressed to me that these hustlers latch on to you and can make the whole experience more of an ordeal than a pleasure. That was reason enough to go with a tour group for eight days. I usually travel alone or with volunteer groups, but I’d recommend having a certified guide in Egypt if not for the historical insight then as a barrier against the constant hassling which can easily ruin what should be enlightening journey. Besides, there are a lot of tombs and museums with long distances between them, something that a weeklong tour group can help simplify.

After booking a jam-packed 8-day tour throughout Egypt (with G-Adventures) and then seeing the swarms of men hounding tourists at the Pyramids and the Sphinx, I was glad I did.

Departing Cairo, our tour group took an overnight train to Aswan and then an early morning, three-hour drive through the desert to the Abu Simbel Temple, among other World Heritage sites, before sailing down the Nile River (the Nile actually flows north to the Mediterranean) to Luxor overnight on a traditional falluca sailboat, where we were able to go off on our own to local restaurants and markets. But be wary of who you deal with. One woman in our group was gung ho about going home with Egyptian saffron. She ended up buying a bag of the pricey, orangey spice from a shifty vendor and it was fake. Who knew there was a counterfeit spice ring anywhere in the world?   

In Luxor we saw the breathtaking Al-Dier Al-Bahari Temple in the Valley of the Kings. It’s built into a mountain and a marvel to behold, but, admittedly, there are only so many mummies and hieroglyphics a person can admire for eight days. So, despite the enthusiasm of Said, our well-versed guide, the ancient points of interest had me longing for a more modern day ruin jotted down on my bucket list — namely wreck diving in the Red Sea. Specifically, the renowned SS Thistlegorm.

So after saying goodbye to Cairo with a wide angle view of the city atop the 614-foot Cairo Tower, I took off for Sharm El Sheikh from Cairo (an hour flight) and taxied to an overnight stay at the Stella Di Mare Hotel —a luxurious resort (popular with Russian vacationers) for an unbelievably low $109US night! I only wish I had more time to enjoy the resorts amenities like the spa and parasailing instead of just an overnight stopover. 

Sharm El Sheikh is a sandy, blue-water beach destination near the southernmost tip of the Sinai Peninsula. Besides the beaches and pools, snorkeling and diving seem to be the other big draws. There are plenty of restaurants and clubs outside the numerous resorts and I even spotted a couple of casinos during my taxi ride from the airport.

I had booked a 4-day. 3-night “mini-safari” liveaboard dive cruise with the Snefro Fleet based at the New Marina (El Wataneya) port in Sharm El Sheikh through liveaboard.com — a reputable booking agency whom I had booked a weeklong diving trip in Thailand a few years back. A comfy twin berth cabin inside the 100-foot Snefro Spirt would be my home after we set sail.

The north region of the Red Sea is renowned for its clear blue waters, coral reefs and diverse marine life. Divers can expect to see dolphins, turtles, and plenty of white tip sharks. The best time to dive here is between February and May, but the diving is fine year round. Lucky divers have a good chance to spot hammerheads, manta rays and the giant whale shark — which had become, almost literally, the “White Whale” of my scuba quests—during the peak seasons.

Low season for diving in Sharm el Sheikh is usually December through January, so I was happy to catch the tail end of the fall by booking my liveaboard the last week of October before the water cools and the currents get pretty strong.

Most of our diving would be in and around the Ras Mohammad National Park — a protected marine reef about 15 miles southwest of Sharm el Sheikh. It is a a nearly 200 square mile reef sanctuary (the largest reef in Africa) of tropical azure water teeming with over 1,000 species of fish — many which are endemic and only found in this area of the world. There is a $25US park fee (collected on the liveaboard) that is necessary to dive here.

It was was kind of misleading to advertise a 4-day, 3-night (Sunday-Wednesday) live aboard deal when it was more like a 3-day, 3-night tour after I was informed, at booking mind you, that my Snefro shuttle bus pickup from the hotel wouldn’t be until 6 pm that Sunday night. So I lounged around the pool most of the day to kill the time.

A representative from the Snefro picked myself and the rest of my fellow divers up from our respective hotels and dropped us off at the loading dock at New Marina.  The international roster of dive mates included a father and daughter from Israel, a mother and daughter from Spain, a young couple from Denmark, a couple of solo divers from Canada, two dudes from Saudi Arabia plus another American and myself.  We all had various levels of diving experience and I found myself as sort of in the middle with nearly 100 dives under my weight belt. My crew chief (Samuel) said the COVID bans and restrictions had somewhat diminished tourism and diving in Sharm el Sheik, but business was still brisk. The smallish amount of divers on the boat  was nice since it allowed everyone to have our own cabins (although I paid for mine) and would mean less tank bumping and equipment mixups while gearing up on the deck. The friendly and helpful crew of the Snefro Spirit work hard and take many precautions regarding COVID by regularly sanitizing the decks, the cabins and rental equipment that you keep for yourself the whole trip. And masking, at least in a dive sense, means you use the same scuba eyewear without a communal mask wash basin.

We had orientation (which included a questionnaire on diving experience, equipment rentals and personal medical information) the first night before a sumptuous dinner (including my favorites: aish baladi (pita) with soft mish cheese and a baklava-type desert) where the crew and guests got familiar with each other.

I have to admit, that before my first liveaboard in Thailand, I was intimidated by the thought of the ship being filled with Jacques Cousteau-type adventurers, crusty crewmen and snobby know-it-alls, but I was wrong. It’s quite comfortable (at least a three-star experience) and was filled with pleasant neophyte, expert and middle-level divers like myself. It was one of the best travel and diving experiences of my life.

This is the beauty of liveaboards. There are all levels of divers mixed with the experienced dive masters on board. The liveaboard can provide equipment rentals, wetsuits and dive computers, A complete setup is approx. $150US (including air or nitro tanks) for the trip — saving you the hassle of lugging of equipment through airports. They even offer certification classes for higher levels and nitrox diving while you are there on the boat for an extra fee. My cost was $697US for a private cabin, three daily meals, snacks, beverages, towels and sufficient free wi-fi. Alcoholic beverages were available at a reasonable price and gratuities (a surprisingly modest $50US) were appreciated for at the end of the trip. 

While most extra services — even a private dive guide — can be arranged on board, there are a few things you will need to provide before boarding the boat.

First and foremost is your diving certification card.  Depending on the type of diving (wreck or deep) you will most likely need to be an advanced open water diver. The Snefro also wanted to see your dive log book with a minimum of twenty dives. Most liveaboards will require separate dive insurance ($150,000 emergency evacuation/hyperbolic tank coverage) which you can combine with your regular travel insurance. I always bring my own dive computer because I am familiar with it and most overseas loaners are in the metric system — which for the life of me I still can’t figure out.  

Diving with a knife or gloves in Ras Mohammad is forbidden and the trusty, rusty knife I always take and strap to my calf brought me nothing but bag check aggravation at every security point throughout Egypt. If I wasn’t so attached to the thing I would have left it at the first airport X-ray machine!

And a reminder during COVID, omicron or whatever is out there nowadays, find out if your liveaboard requires vaccination cards or negative PCR test results. The Snefro wanted a printed negative PCR test with a QR code (the same document you entered Egypt with), but other boats, airlines and resorts might have stricter rules. Nowadays, most liveaboards have liberal rescheduling policies in case you are unable to travel because of COVID (with medical proof) or other pandemic restrictions. And make sure you have a “full visa” and not just a Sinai resort stamp in your passport when diving here.

On the Snefro Spirit, you will be presented, on board, with a questionnaire about your diving experience and general health before that night’s dinner. Make sure you have a doctor’s note giving you the okay to dive if you do have a medical condition… or you could — if it truly isn’t a health hazard — just fib on the answers lest you want to go through a whole well-being rigmarole.

I made the mistake of checking “YES” on the  “Are you taking any prescription drugs?” line which, for COVID or other reasons unbeknownst to me, must have raised a red flag within their liability policies. I won’t go into all of the frustrating details, but my minor prescription drug would turn into a missed dive the next morning and verbal examination by a local doctor on a return trip to the marina before I was allowed to don a BCD.

Nonetheless, the first day of diving for everyone else started with clear blue skies — the only cloud being the medical cumulonimbus hovering over my head — above calm, azure water. The dive guides Samuel, Peter and Osama took small groups out for a check dive at Das Katy reef, mainly to get everyone familiar with their gear and a dry run for guides to get an idea of the levels of dive experience each person had. 

I was relegated to the sun deck while enviously watching everyone take the first plunge because of my medical predicament. After their dive, we returned to dry dock and, after a quick interview about my prescription, a local physician stamped a form and cleared me to finally put on the fins.

India’s Camel Culture Being Wiped Out By Advocacy Groups and Government Regulations

Article and Photos by Tony Mangia

It’s a cultural tradition dating back over 150 years with roots going back as far back as the 10th century when Muslim warriors made their way through the deserts of India on hump-backed beasts by way of the Middle East. Now the Pushkar Camel Fair is fighting for its life and basically the livelihood of thousands of families and their way of existing.

Every year, for the last century and a half, thousands of Raika camel dealers and their herds converge on the rural Indian city of Pushkar during an annual fair where they show, trade and sell the plump-lipped mammals with the fat-laden (not water) padding on their backs.

During the week long fest known as Pushkar Camel Mela, the holy city of Pushkar — located about 150 km southwest of the smoggy, congested streets of Jaipur in the Indian state of Rajasthan — turns into a colorful and chaotic mix of camel traders, Hindu pilgrims and curious tourists.  While the fair has lost some of its majesty and commercial importance in modern India, the festival still attracts thousands of Raika and their herds of dromedaries along with thousands more foreign sightseers and local merchants.

The scene is almost hallucinatory, as throngs of camels — many adorned with bells, colorful necklaces and decorative straps to make them more attractive to buyers — lounge around chewing their cud and bellowing at the sky.

                                          

It’s hard not to notice the circles of peaceful Raika in their bright turbans talking among the braying camels — many of which are hobbled by ropes binding a front leg bent at the knee joint so they don't stray. But, these days, instead of making deals, the conversations lean more towards how they they can make ends meet. Sunlight from a dazzling blue sky illuminate the brown, weathered faces of the beleaguered tribesmen, but their futures don’t seem as bright.

Animal rights groups, technological accessibility and government intervention are all playing a part in the disintegration of the camel trade in India and specifically in Pushkar by driving many of these prideful men out of their generational territories through legislation influenced by politically correct movements.

Advocates of camel welfare reform accuse the Raika of animal culture "abuses" such as making the camels walk long distances, being forced into "stressful" commercial exploitation like tourist rides, the insertion of nose pegs, camel racing and general neglect of their herds.

While their deep-down motives are well intentioned, one has to wonder if these do-gooders are overstepping their boundaries?

The one-time friendly confines of social media which introduced the fair to computer screens worldwide — as well as more prying eyes — is now sometimes besmirching the event with accusations of animal cruelty and environmental destruction or by luring future generations away from the deserts to the cities with the promise of a more modern life. It’s not an uncommon phenomenon. Farmers and breeders all over India, China and worldwide have watched their agrarian and herding heritages slowly vanish because of the same cyberspace catalysts.

The Raika camel husbandry community has always been more like a large family than a merchant's association, and that includes the revered camels — who can live up to 20 years. And throughout their lifetimes, caretakers must provide medicine, food and training for each animal. It's a costly and round-the-clock occupation.

India, as a country, has the fifth largest population of camels in the world (estimated at around 300,000) and, although the camels' numbers are increasing globally, in India, that figure — as well as the the Raika's plight — are falling drastically. This downward slide in camel population and commerce trickles down from the breeders to the traders all the way to the artisans who utilize the wool, skin, bones and even camel dung to make blankets, leather goods, furniture inlays and paper.

The state of Rajasthan is where nearly 80-percent of India's camel population is. Gujarat and Haryana are the only other states where camel breeding is allowed.

Recent laws imposed by the government — driven and publicized by environmentalists and animal rights movements — are changing the Raika way of life by restricting tribesmen from traditional herding grounds and resources. Some of the restrictions includes less access to national parkland and stiffer grazing laws — limiting their migratory patterns and making their journeys to Pushkar and other locales more arduous for the camel herds. 

And there are other obstacles the modern-day Raika must overcome to make ends meet — including revising some ancient traditions and spiritual beliefs.

Historically, there was a ban on the selling of female camels to buyers outside of the Raika tribe and tradition forbade the slaughter of camels for meat entirely. Even selling the wool and the processing of camel's milk (drinking it fresh is okay) was believed to bring about a sort of bad karma and frowned upon. The only income for the Raika was really through breeding and selling.

However dire the Raika's sinking outlook from the quicksand of their circumstances came some flimsy lifelines — namely, new radical and pragmatic attitudes by the herdsmen.

Bull (male) camels — which were the only ones sold at the fair until 2000, when cows (females) were finally permitted to be put on the selling block — are now allowed to be butchered for meat by the Raika tribe, but not in Rajasthan where the slaughter of camels is illegal. 

The Catch-22 dilemma facing the Rajasthan-based Raika is that the Rajasthan Camel Act of 2015 provides penalties for taking any camels out of state for slaughter, castration or the insertion of nose pegs. That legal decree, like a camel's leg tether, basically restricts the Raika's ability to supplement their income by slaughtering their camels for meat.

All states have banned the butchering of any cows (female camels) outright to help sustain the camel species.

The Rajasthan Camel Act's strict maxims now drives some herders to illegally sneak them into Gujarat and Haryana for slaughter. And, in addition to avoiding authorities, the Raika also face the possibility of dealing with interference from animal rights activists who reportedly try and rescue the camels.

It's seems ironic, and almost blasphemous to the Raika, that the herdsmen have been reduced to killing their sacred camels — an act once considered barbaric in their beliefs — to salvage their culture of camel breeding.

Homestay Volunteering Is A Great Way To See A Foreign Country

Article and photos by Tony Mangia

International volunteering became sort of an annual ritual with me about five years ago after an eye-opening and exciting three weeks teaching English in Kenya. What began as one-time, lending a hand in some small way journey soon became a yearly excursion overseas before turning into the bi-yearly excuse to explore less ventured and vastly more interesting places in the world — with charitable group benefits — it has become for me today.

The act of volunteering has cannily become equal parts self-serving travel support as much as an opportunity to do some sort of good in the world. 

As a photojournalist, I am always looking for the off-the-beaten-path sort of destinations and usually travel in spring or fall when the climates are more bearable and most rainy seasons are dormant. Of course, there aren’t the mobs of tourists and college students in the background of every shot either. Volunteering offers me the chance to get up close and personal with different communities of the world without feeling like one of those tourists.  And besides the satisfaction of helping other people out — and occasionally their fellow Hominidae (Working on an orangutan reserve in Malaysia) — it is also a great way to get acclimated to a less developed country — namely its culture, food, language and customs — with the help, support and guidance of a local volunteer team and the families you get to stay with. A one or two week crash course, so to speak. There is nothing more intimidating or a feeling of helplessness than being dropped off blindly into an environment way different that our western world without a clue. Just getting used to foregoing the creature conveniences we usually take for granted — simple amenities like hot water, air conditioning and sit-down toilets — can take some getting used to. Those squat toilets may be more natural and beneficial to your system (so they say), but not when your bad knees scream at every bend like mine do. Still don’t know why they don’t put handlebars around that hole in the ground. While most homestay experiences may take you out of your comfort zone for a spell, they also offer adventurous travelers a bartering-type opportunity to help others in exchange for getting a helping hand in return.

I tend to travel solo so I can take all the photos I want without anyone looking at their watch or hear the restless tapping of another person’s foot hinting at moving on. Getting the right photographic light can sometimes take a lot of time and patience— a toleration mostly only serious photographers know or care about. After finishing your daily chores as a volunteer, it’s easy to wander off on your own, even though most volunteer organizations stress keeping a close relationship within the groups —  such as dinners and activities together — to build camaraderie. I still choose the lone wolf approach whenever possible. The whole group together principle is more of a protective measure than an actual Kumbaya existence, but in the company of other volunteers, I’ve found that these organizations offer more than just a friendly, welcoming comfort zone for the lonely traveler in a foreign land, they offer security. And those on a budget can take advantage of that hospitality by saving money on tours, flights and accommodations once you get to their country. For example, when I volunteered in Kenya, the $1500 three-day safari I saw on my computer in the U.S. before I left actually cost me about $400 in Kenya because Beatrice, the woman whose family I home-stayed with in Nairobi, had connections to better deals. I recommend researching the tours and adventures beforehand, so you know how to clarify what you are looking to your volunteer hosts once you arrive. Sometimes language and technological issues (Limited internet, phone etc.) make it a little harder in some places, so the more information you bring with you, the better.

So there I was last May, touching down in Kathmandu after a pleasant, but tiresome 30 hour air journey from JFK — with a late-night layover in Dubai where I had the last real Western mean I would enjoy for a while — a quite delicious, McArabia Chicken (sliced chicken, tahini, lettuce, tomato and onions on pita) sandwich at the terminal McDonalds. My biggest challenge after the volunteer group sent a cab to meet me at Dubai International Airport? Figuring out how to adjust my watch nine hours and forty-five minutes ahead to local time. I couldn’t, so I spent the next three weeks just deducting two hours from the hands on the watch and noting if it was night or day. The younger volunteers on my trips are always amazed I don’t have a smart phone and that I can go weeks without taking selfies, scrolling social media and ignoring all the Internet noise that comes with it. The first time they see a Luddite like me still using a flip phone and notice I can’t even change the time on it, they really crack up.

Kathmandu, the capitol and largest city in Nepal, might be the dustiest place I’ve ever been in and that includes earthy cities such as Nairobi, Kandy in Sri Lanka and Myawaddy in Myanmar — all during their dry seasons. Through my taxi window, I observed the small storms of dirt particles lifted up by motor vehicles mix with the unending buzzing of scooters and motorcycles blowing puffs of exhaust into a throat choking nightmare. The durable Royal Enrights seem to be the choice of motorcycle here, as they are in India and many southeast Asian countries and it isn’t uncommon to see a family of five straddling one together. My taxi driver told me the number of motorized bikes on the streets of Kathmandu increased from 8,000 ten years ago, to over 80,000 teeming the streets now. He wasn’t happy about it either.

The only creatures that don’t seem to worry about the two-wheeled menaces zipping around town are the sacred cows you see grazing smack in the middle of any thoroughfare, leisurely chomping on the grains and fruit that people lay in front of them as offerings.

Face masks are almost a necessity and sold everywhere and it’s not uncommon customized or personalized ones adorn faces like fashion accessories. The tannish clouds of dirt still can’t hide the brilliant colors adorning everything from Nepalese clothing to brightly painted buildings. It must be maddening to the old women constantly wiping the ever-swirling dust off their tables of exotic looking foods (Which I wouldn’t chance eating) and interesting knick-knacks with tattered straw brooms only to see the fine granules of earth coat everything again minutes later. The ever-present powdery brown nuisance tainting everything takes some time getting used to. Did I mention face masks?

After a 45-minute minute ride from the airport, my driver dropped me off at the Kathmandu Peace House guest house the volunteer group set me up to stay for the first few days of my journey. Peace House is a popular name for these inexpensive hostel-type accommodations, so make sure you get the proper name and address before arriving or you’ll go crazy looking for it. I opted to pay extra ($6US per night) for single room privacy and comfort for a few days before the two-weeks of dorm-like, communal accommodations most volunteer trips utilize.

I was tired and dirty from the flight, but couldn’t wait to get out and about Kathmandu, so that shower could wait. I wandered the narrow streets in the tourist section of Kathmandu known as Thamel with camera in hand probably overusing the greeting namaste to everyone I met or took a picture of. It took a little time to get used to the narrow or nonexistent sidewalks, the heartbreaking street beggars and free-wheeling traffic, but it definitely got my photographic creative juices churning. Strangely, the first thing I noticed through all of the merchandise and gear pertaining to Mount Everest or the trinkets and t-shirts adorned with the omnipresent Buddha Eyes (Two alluring peepers, usually with a touch of eye shadow, symbolizing the wisdom and all-seeing ability of the Buddha) was the number of dreadlock hair styles on the Westerners. This place must be the White Guys with Dreads capital of the world. I counted about a dozen the first few hours I was there, probably more than I’ve seen in a lifetime in New York City — and that includes trendy Williamsburg.

I was cautious where to eat, and scouted around before I snacked down on my first (of many more to follow) meal of dal bhat, a Nepal staple usually consisting of white rice, lentil soup, chutney vegetables and roti flatbread at a place called the Mint Cafe, the coziest looking restaurant I could find. It was delicious, filling and only cost about 450 rupee, or about $4.50US. Little did I know at the time that dal bhat would basically be lunch and dinner for nearly two weeks while on homestay with my volunteer family, but — for now — this regional dish  was different and delectable.

Throughout the dusty streets of Kathmandu are plenty of temples to explore and ancient Buddhist stupas or Hindu shrines splattered with colorful flowers and melted candles to photograph. Hindus make up about 80% of the Nepalese population, but Buddhist symbolism seems to be everywhere. I’m guessing because Buddhism holds that Buddha was born in Nepal and is rooted in Nepal’s history. I worked out my airline-cramped legs wandering through the narrow streets, hopping out of the way of scooters and curiously peeking down alleys, into open-air barber and butcher shops; while passing the numerous lines of pedicabs and female street vendors selling fruits or fragrant spices.

Seeing China's Mysterious Li River By Boat Is A Trip Back in Time

Article and photos by Tony Mangia

China can be a frustrating and exhausting place for even the most laid-back traveller. With all of the pushing and shoving, the smog, crowding and communication barriers, it’s easy to have your enthusiasm smothered as you tour this great country. So it’s no wonder if a short boat cruise away from it all might just be the antidote for your frayed nerves?

Well… yes and no.

I set off for a few days in Yangshuo from Guilin via a Lijiang River tour boat after three weeks of bouncing around overcrowded Beijing and Xi’an.  After touching down in Guilin — luggage lost by China Air — with no planned itinerary, I began my quest for sanctuary. And, like just about anywhere else in China, nothing seems to be easy as it sounds.

The Li River, as it is more commonly known, is a winding band of mostly clear water in southeast China that flows  about 430 kilometers down from Cat Mountain in Xing’an County north of Guilin into the West River. I would be traveling between Guilin and Yangshuo, an 83 kilometer liquid ribbon which traverses through thousands of mystical and scenic mountains rising like giant bumps in the land. The banks of the Li feature spectacular landscapes and dozens of small towns and villages which still have an old-style architecture.

The reflections of the magical mountains ripple in the greenish water as numerous waterfalls spill from the cliffs replenishing the river in the rainy season.

And in the month of May, when I started my little excursion, it is the beginning of the monsoon season — or as it more poetically known — ‘plum-rain weather.’

And it isn't as pleasant as it sounds.