Author Archives: Jeff C

The Road to Morocco

November 3, 2019 by Jeff C | Comments Off

I promised myself I wouldn’t let a full year go by before finally sorting through (and sharing) my photos from a 2018 trip to Morocco.   

 

 

If you’re reading this, you probably know that I love to travel to new, unusual places.  And you probably know that I enjoy almost all those trips and generally come home telling mostly-positive stories even about places that have plenty of oddities and problems.  (See, for example, my reports from Cuba and Iran and Myanmar and Colombia and Guatemala . . . .).  I’m pretty open-minded (or at least non-judmental) about cultures very different from my own.  But there was something ‘off’ about Morocco.  Although the small group of folks I traveled with were unbeatable, and though the trip was expertly planned and the accommodations as swank as I could ever have hoped, I wouldn’t count Morocco among my favorite destinations.

I expected (naively, I suppose) Morocco might be similar to Iran — where I’d had a truly great trip in 2017.  It wasn’t.  I think the counterintuitive problem is that, unlike Iran, Morocco has long been an established and popular tourist destination for Americans and Europeans.  (Bob Hope and Bing Crosby sang “Off on the road to Morocco” and Humphrey Bogart did his play-it-again-Sam in Casablanca in 1942, though both were actually filmed in the American Southwest.).  In Iran, people were just excited to see and meet American visitors intrepid enough to trapse their cities and deserts.  In Morocco, they learned long ago that “visitors” are “tourists,” and tourists are revenue sources.

My pictures from photography trips usually include lots of images of local people.  But you won’t see many people here.  Almost everyone I photographed (or tried to photograph) asked for money in one way or another.  That’s something I try to avoid:  to me, it can ruin the authenticity of both the experience and the photograph.  Others just shooed me away entirely — which I actually prefer.  Some would actively invite you to take their picture — only to expect payment when you did.  It was hard to know what you were getting into. 

It’s fine when people don’t want to be photographed — I completely respect that.   And there’s nothing inherently wrong with them doing it only if they get paid.  I’m just not usually interested.

I was fascinated at how quickly so many locals morphed from entrepreneur to beggar to extortionist.  Their initial approach was to try sell you something you clearly did not want (kids trying to hand you an obviously worthless trinket or adults giving unrequested, intrusive ‘guide’ services).  When that failed to generate a cash response, they’d often keep their hand out and just ask for money.  When that failed, they often did not give up:  uncomfortable persistent harassment was not uncommon. 

 

 

My whole complaint about visiting Morocco is the lack of a feeling of authenticity.  The country’s biggest mosque — The Al Hassan II in Casablanca — was built in 1993.  Up close, it looked more like a Las Vegas mock-up than a real or historic or sacred site.  Morocco sits at the edge of the Sahara Desert, so twice we paid local guides to get us deep into the desert, but both times wound up on well-trodden sand within sight of highways and hotels.  And those pictures below of the camels in the desert?  Of course they’re a set-up.  A guide dons the traditional robe as part of the gig, and knows just where to lead the herd at sunset for the best photo opportunities.  Fun to do and see, but not as real, authentic cultural experience.  It’s just hard to be anything but a touristy tourist in Morocco.

The “snake charmers” I saw all over Marrakech’s market square on my first evening in the country proved to be something of an omen for the rest of the trip.  The snakes are de-fanged, so it’s all rather faked anyway.  They’re not “charming” for the sake charming; they’re there as a tourist draw.  If anyone comes even close to raising a camera in their direction, a couple of those “charmers” would aggressively rush over with their hands out, preventing any photos until and unless you ‘tip’ them.  And the nasal-sounding ‘flute’ playing is terrible.  I just skipped it and went looking for a diet coke.

+    +    +    +    +

Another odd feature:  Flags.  As we drove through the countryside, there were Moroccan flags everywhere.  Tiny villages would  have 100s of flags installed along the roadside.  Flags were sometimes every 100 yards or so on completely unpopulated stretches of highway.  Imagine the most flag-obsessed town in America on the Fourth of July:  this was pretty much every town, every day.  But these were government-installed displays and they felt very different.  Maybe it was the ugly all-red flags (with a green ‘pentagram’ star), or maybe it was knowing that Morocco is governed by a sometimes heavy-handed king, but this had no feel of authentic patriotism.  It felt more like a monarchical government reminding you that it was everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

  

Croatian Sailing and Slovenian Cycling

April 20, 2019 by Jeff C | Comments Off

This wasn’t a ‘serious’ photo expedition like some of my trips.  This one was about sailing, biking and general sightseeing with a handful of friends, old and new.  Just a few thoughts and a few pretty pictures to share . . . .

Lake Bled, Slovenia was a highlight of the trip.

Sunset over the Adriatic Sea, from a hotel balcony in Rovinj, Croatia.

I always tended to think of Croatia and Slovenia as a lot more exotic and far away than European destinations like Italy or Austria or Greece.  But it turns out that the foreign-sounding capital city of Ljubljana, Slovenia is just a couple of hours’ drive from either Venice, Italy or southern Austria.  And the Croatian coast is just a hundred miles across the Adriatic from the east side of the “boot” of Italy.  That geographic proximity gives a pretty good hint of what you’ll see when you’re sightseeing: pretty coastlines, tree-covered mountains, hillside vineyards, Mediterranean islands, and towns that are a couple of thousand years old.

Somehow the people of both countries (very similar to each other but with different languages) seemed familiar.  Few would stand out in any American town, and I could imagine myself blending in almost entirely (lots of people with blue-green light eyes and Mediterranean skin).   Though tourism is definitely getting more popular here, it’s new and small enough that the people are happy to see and welcome visitors.

I spent one week on a sailboat off the Croatian Coast near Split, and the next on a bicycle going in and out of Slovenia, Italy, and Croatia.  Both were great trips with the good company of mostly new friends and my long-time colleague and law firm partner Grant Harvey.  Grant and I worked together then retired from the same Houston law firm, and he rides bikes, flies airplanes, and enjoys travel photography, so we’ve always got lots to talk about.  And we occasionally agree on something political!  Occasionally.

Split, Croatia, is a major cruise and boating port

 

 

 

This was a little gravel landing strip on the island of Hvar, Croatia. (No, I did not fly there! and yes, I resisted the strong temptation to steal that sign.)

Grant Harvey, my very good friend for the last 25 years or so. Grant organized this trip, so I’m in his debt. This is him on our chartered sailboat, somewhere between Split and Hvar Croatia.

 

Rovinj, from the sea, on a ferry back from Pula.

A quaint old lounge area at a hotel in Bled, Slovenia.

The biking went in and out of Slovenia, Italy, and Croatia. Croatia is a member of the EU, but somehow I still needed my passport even for a bike ride.

 

 

Sailboats off the Croatian Coast, near Split. Croatia is an extremely popular sailing destination. Even in the ‘off’ season when I was there, I could sometimes see 100s of other sailboats at sea.

The gallery here includes a shot of an old Russian submarine “garage” and hideout – a reminder of my Cold War youth and of times when we had a different view of this part of the world.  That horse in the bad selfie with me is one of the Lipizzaner stallions at their home in Lipica, Slovenia.  Almost all of them are white; the handful of black ones are genetic celebrities.  The ancient Roman looking stuff is ancient Roman stuff: at the fourth-century “palace” of Roman emperor Diocletian, and (with me) the colosseum at Pula.  That odd statue in the last image is a truffle, in the Istrian truffle region of Slovenia.

Child Advocates Superheroes Run VI 2018

October 21, 2018 by Jeff C | Comments Off

CLICK HERE FOR A MUCH LARGER BATCH OF PICTURES. 

This “Incredible” group was one of the hundreds of families who came out to run and to support Child Advocates of Houston.

Another successful year for the Child Advocates of Houston Superheroes Run!   We had 1,000 runners and raised about $150,000 for the best charity in town.  And the rain held off until the exact moment everyone was already headed home!   This was year 6 of the event.  I’ve threatened to step down as Chairman and turn it over to someone else once we’ve raised a cumulative $1 million (which we’re creeping up on!)…but we’ll see.

I’m forever in the debt of our Race Director Angie Parker (who has done this race with me all six years), and the Child Advocates Events director Hayley Jaska.  Both are efficient, expert professionals who do their work with the spirit of dedicated charitable volunteers.  The event would have fallen apart without them.  I am similarly in debt to our sponsors, a great many of whom are my own dear friends.  I worry that sane people will avoid befriending me since most every Houston friend of mine gets their arm twisted to support this event.  

If you’re from Houston, take a look at these pictures and make plans to join us in October 2019.   It’s for a great cause.  Child Advocates’ volunteers serve kids who have been taken from their homes due to suspected abuse or neglect.  The volunteers guide and support the kids, gather the facts, and work with the courts and the State to find permanent, safe solutions.  CA recruits, trains and supports those volunteers.  My consistent pitch for Child Advocates as Houston’s best charity is this:

  1. CAI helps kids in our own hometown who are in desperate situations through no conceivable fault of their own.
  2. CAI’s one-time intervention seeks to permanently and efficiently solve problems and affect the kids’ entire lives, without creating dependency or requiring permanent or ongoing assistance.
  3. CAI’s cause is financially undersupported, largely because few potential large donors have close personal experience with, or risks of, this kind of extreme child neglect or abuse. There’s nothing wrong with donating to your own alma mater or church, or to charities addressing diseases that affect you or your family, but that can leave a huge gap for charities like Child Advocates.  I think this is true philanthropy.

These few pictures are just the tip of the Superhero iceberg:  CLICK HERE FOR A MUCH LARGER BATCH OF PICTURES. 

See prior years’ writeups on the Superheroes Run here:  2016, 2015, 2014, 2013.

 

 

 

 

 

Iran: The Islamic Republic

November 24, 2017 by Jeff C | Comments Off

#8 in a series that started here.

Two ladies show up to pray at the Pink Mosque in Shiraz.

 

Aramgah-e Ali Ibn Hamzeh Shrine in Shiraz. The interior is a mosaic of tiny mirrors.

 

An informal mosque. When we peeked in the door during a service, someone rushed out to encourage us to come inside. Men and women were separated by a drape, and I could only go on the men’s side. There about 150 women, and about 8 men, including this very friendly guy. Of course, they brought out tea and cookies.

 

Imam Zadeh Saleh Shrine and Mosque in Tehran. Iranian Muslims spend a lot of time paying tribute to martyrs.

 

Images of Iran’s original Supreme Leader, the “Ayatollah” Ruhollah Khomeini, and its current Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei, are everywhere.

One of the first sights I visited in Iran was a perfectly preserved and functioning 17th Century Armenian Christian church, the Holy Savior Cathedral – complete with crosses and elaborate paintings of Christian crucifixion and nativity. During the trip, I saw reproductions of The Last Supper (DaVinci’s painting of Jesus and his twelve disciples) in multiple public places. I also saw large monuments and relics from Zoroastrian groups (an ancient monotheistic religion) that were prominently preserved and protected. My assumptions about how other religions fared in the “Islamic Republic of Iran” were wrong — or at least incomplete.

Unlike the radical Sunni ISIS movement, Iran’s leadership has not generally destroyed monuments or culture of other religious groups.   The ancient Persian-Iranian imperial hero Cyrus the Great was known for his tolerance of the diverse practices of the people he’d conquered, and Iranians seems to take some pride in that example. The Republic’s Constitution sets aside five Parliament seats specifically for the country’s minority religions (Armenian and Assyrian Christians, Zoroastrians, and Jews), whose small numbers would otherwise leave them wholly unrepresented.  

Make no mistake: Non-Muslims make up maybe 2 percent of the population. And the flip-side of those 5 reserved parliament seats is that the other 285 seats are effectively reserved for Muslims. Other minority religions – notably the Bahai and Sufi — are not recognized and thus effectively prohibited. In several ways, followers of the minority religions are treated as second-class citizens – affecting, for example, their ability to hold most public offices or inherit property. The recognized Christians in Iran are almost exclusively members of distinct ethnic groups who conduct their services in their own languages (not in Farsi), and thus they pose little risk of converting Iranian Muslims to their faiths. (According to the U.S. State Department, such conversion is still theoretically punishable by death.)

Iranian hostility toward Israel can be strong. Israelis are not allowed into Iran, and we (Americans) were told that if our passports even included a stamp from a prior trip to Israel, we would not be allowed into the country.  Surprisingly, at the huge National Museum of the Islamic Revolution and Holy Defense in Tehran, there was an exhibit – complete with respectful images of Jesus and Mary and the Jewish Star of David — giving tribute to members of the “minority religions” and their contributions in the Iran/Iraq war.   But just outside, the Star of David (as a symbol of Israel and/or Judaism) was part of the conspicuous label for the trash cans.

This Zoroastrian structure near Isfahan looks ancient, but it’s only a few hundred years old. It’s for ceremonial cremations — sort of.  Zoroastrianism is one of the recognized minority religions in Iran.

Imam Zadeh Saleh Shrine and Mosque in Tehran

The shrine to the Ayatollah Khomeini, on the south end of Tehran. He’s been dead nearly 30 years, but it’s about half finished. It looks like a combination of 1/4 Vatican; 1/4 Galleria Shopping Mall; 1/4 Trump Taj Mahal; and 1/4 real Taj Mahal.

A notice in the airports warns women that the Islamic dress code is mandatory.

Many hotel rooms had arrows like this. They point toward Mecca so Muslims know which direction to face when saying their prayers.

A version of Leonardo da Vinci’s “Last Supper” on the wall of a diner-style restaurant in Shiraz.  [Muslims believe that Jesus existed and that he was a great prophet, perhaps second only to Muhammad. Though they don’t believe in a crucifixion and resurrection in exactly the same way Christians do, they do believe that Jesus ascended to heaven and that “it was made to appear” to the Romans that Jesus was being killed by crucifixion.  The Quran makes reference to an important meal that Jesus had with his disciples, though it’s not clear that the timing of that meal was necessarily on the eve of his death (as Christians believe about the “Last Supper”).  So Muslims might quibble about whether Leonardo’s painting was necessarily the “Last” supper, but they’d otherwise believe and agree with its general content.  That doesn’t fully explain why it’s the sole religious image on this diner wall in Shiraz, but remember that images of Muhammad are generally prohibited.] 

Elaborate paintings of the Christian Nativity in the 400-year-old Armenian Holy Savior Cathedral in Isfahan.

Smartphones at the tomb of the 14th Century Shirazi poet Hafez.

The Khomeini Shrine

 

 

These graphics were on each of the dozens of trash cans outside the Museum of the Islamic Revolution and Holy Defense in Tehran. Somehow the Jewish/Israeli Star of David deconstructs into bombs, which then drop into a trash can. I wasn’t able to get a real explanation.

 

 

 

 

Iran: Deserts, Shepherds, and the Power of a Swift Smack to the Shin

November 21, 2017 by Jeff C | Comments Off

 

If you want to see the sights of Iran, you’ll spend a lot of time traveling through the desert.  But sometimes, the desert itself is the attraction — both for striking scenery and interesting folks.   I spent one night in a small town in the scrubby deserts, one in a mountain village, another at the edge of a vast sand-dune-and-rock-mesa desert, and another in a hillside tent with with a few dozen sheep and goats penned up 15 feet away.

 

Sunrise in the Lut Desert. Its precise location is “a long damn ways from the major cities of Iran.” It goes on like this for a hundred miles or more. The things you see in the background are natural (not man-made), and most of them are less than 100 high and easy to climb.  In this area near the highway, it was tough to keep the dune buggy tracks out of the picture.

“Modern” nomadic shepherd/goatherd Ali Mardon-loo, left, with his son, Bahram.

Kids bathe while dad stomps the laundry. A spring-fed canal through an old caravansarai in Shafiabad, near the Lut Desert.

Mother and daughter, in the small town of Chupanan.

Vehicle tracks went everywhere in this part of the Lut Desert

Ali Mardan-loo, my nomadic sparring partner turned friend-for-life. I get a B-minus for this portrait: his herd of sheep and goats are on the hillside behind him, but I didn’t have my lens set correctly (this is f4.5 at 120mm) so the distant flock is too blurry to be recognized. I fixed it in other versions of this picture, but Ali’s facial expression wasn’t as good.

A dry lakebed near Chupanan.

 

A high point of my trip through the desert was a stay with a family of traditional nomadic shepherds.  I guess they’re “modern traditional” shepherds, because they actually owned a small car, but their primary lifestyle was one of sheep and goats and tents and meals cooked on campfires as they moved their herds cross country for seasonal grazing.  At night, nine of us slept side-by-side-by-side in an open-sided tent about 30 feet by 10 feet. 

The patriarch of the group was Ali Mardon-loo.  Ali was about my age; his two sons were helping out with the herds and with his American guests while his wife cooked a mountain of 18-inch round flatbreads over an outdoor campfire.  Ali spoke Turkic — not Farsi as most Iranians speak, and certainly no English.  One of his sons could translate from Turkic to Farsi, and our guide could translate Farsi to English.  His other son — who’d been sent off to boarding school at age twelve — spoke all three languages and could translate directly.

I saw Ali and another herder briefly playing a game using their shepherd staffs  — a lot like our sport of fencing, except that it’s all below the waist and the goal is just to whack your opponent in the shins.  He said something to his youngest, who looked at me and said “He’s looking for a challenger if you will play.”  Uh-oh.  I figured I was about to get whacked, but I had one shred of hope:  I took a semester of fencing when I was in college and it seemed like maybe some of the basic principles would translate to help me survive a round of Turkic Nomad stick fighting.

 
 For better or worse, within a minute or so, I delivered a smack to Ali’s shin.  I guess I’d “won,” but given my inexperience, I hadn’t gauged well how hard or fast to go.  It made an awkwardly loud noise.  I was mortified that I’d just whacked and maybe injured our gracious host, but after Ali hopped around and recovered for a minute, he smiled ear to ear and shook my hand.  For the rest of the evening, we were buddies (notwithstanding the zero overlap in our language capabilities).  At dinner, he sat across from me and declared to everyone that we were best friends.  He kept putting more and more food on my plate.  He gave me a bracelet his wife had hand made, and ceremoniously announced that he was giving me a lamb (apparently this is a high honor, but Happily a only symbolic one; I never had to take custody of any ovine.)  He dubbed me an honorary member of the Mardon-loo clan, much to the amusement — and exclusion — of his other five American visitors.  Never again will I underestimate the bonding potential of a good whack in the shins.  

Me and Ali. He’s posing with his rifle — a prized possession usually prohibited in Iran. As a shepherd, he’s allowed one gun to fend off wolves. I’m wearing the bracelet his wife made. Everyone kept suggesting that he and I looked alike??

 

Ali, moving the flock

Sunset in the Lut Desert

Sunrise in the Lut Desert

 

 

A friendly face in Pereshkaft village near Shiraz, Iran. This old guy was sitting with a buddy on the roof of a hillside house, watching the sunset.  They seemed like they were eager to share all kinds of stories with us, had we spoken a common language.  Women in this village were very reluctant to be photographed; one of them told us she’d like to but her husband wouldn’t approve.

View from the hill overlooking Chupanan. Those things on the tops of most of the houses are “wind towers,” which channel some of the breeze into the house and vent out hot air.