The Smoke that Thunders

Tokaleya Tonga: Mosi-oa-Tunya The Smoke that Thunders Watching the Zambezi fall Stories behind the images #nonotfar Link in description . . . . . . . . . #worldslargest #worldsbiggest #waterfall #waterfalls #smokethatthunders #thegroundshakes #zambezi #visitzimbabwe #zimtravel #zimbabwe #travelzimbabwe #africa #rainbow #mistrainbow #igerszimbabwe #igers_waterfalls #igers_rainbows #cataratas

Una publicación compartida por Troy Nahumko (@troynahumko) el Mar 30, 2018 at 3:02 PDT

It was a hangover of African proportions, the size and depth of the continent itself. Vague images of the night before included: urban elephants attacking faulty taxis, a woman who loved WWF wrestling, baboons, townships, dance-offs, Afrikaans and Africa itself.

Chibuku was a new word I'd rather forget.

The sun shone brightly as I awoke, mangled in a hammock.

The night before...

No coffee in the hostel...the instant had run out.

Man, is that sky bright...the deep blue above reaching out to the endless horizon, trudging into town. I couldn't remember the last time or even the last thing that I had eaten.

Out of sight but the Smoke that Thunders lets you know it's not far off.

Call centres and moped scooters making more noise than normal.

Zim style meat pies and nuclear orange soda pop.

Forget the coffee.

There's only one way out of this.

Nothing to do with it

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

Just as the bartender put down our cañas, my companion somewhat skeptically asked, “But how is it possible that you, a Canadian, are complaining about the cold here in Spain?” And he was right on two fronts, I am Canadian and indeed I had been complaining about the cold, but I persevered, “After having lived abroad so long, I’m not sure how much ‘Canadian’ is left in me but even that last little bit is sick and tired of winter, especially as it is technically now spring!” A temporary truce was called when our tapas was served and as I enjoyed my morcilla (blood sausage), I got ready for the next volley. “Really, down here we can’t complain. Look at how they getting punsished just north of here in the mountains and beyond.” And once again, he was right, the images on TV were terrible reminders of my frozen childhood back in Canada. But then I thought, even though I share some empathy for those suffering the wet feet, frozen fingers and slippery streets, that’s one of the biggest reasons that I was standing here in Caceres and the bar and not shoveling snow elsewhere, I hate the cold and long ago decided to avoid it as much as possible. The fact that it was cold elsewhere really had no bearing on the fact that it was still cold here in the run up to Semana Santa (Easter Holy Week) and it shouldn’t be. For someone like me who would be happy to be in sandals 365 days of the year, the few months a year of cold that we do have here in Caceres was dragging on too long and now the added travails of the forthcoming incense fogs and suddenly cut streets paraded by hooded penitents was worsening my mood, no matter how good the morcilla was. “First of all the rain, then the cold and now the crowds of suddenly fervent people who lose all semblance of Christian goodness when you try cross a procession on your way home, it almost makes me want to swear,” but then I remembered that the Spanish courts were investigating people with renewed vigour for blaspheming and saying things like that and stopped short. “You would have been killed in those Arab countries that you lived in for saying something like that,” smirked my companion as he ordered another round. And once again, he was right but that’s just the point. Not only had I chosen to live somewhere without snow but also somewhere where I thought you could speak your mind. Comparisons can be odorous and in these cases, odious. 

Caceres in the Globe and Mail

Watching storks come in for a landing here in Caceres feels a bit like rubbernecking. These large birds swoop out of the Mediterranean blue only to slam on their air brakes in an awkward battle against inertia. This emergency manoeuvre turns what was pure gliding elegance into an ungainly attempt to hit their mark, especially when their chosen landing pad is the impossibly slender spire atop one of the many Renaissance churches in this smallish city in southwestern Spain. I haven't seen one miss … yet

And so starts my walk with local Chef, Francis Refolio in one of the most beautiful, yet little known Spanish city, Caceres.

Special to the Globe and Mail.

Educating Girls: EdTech, Role Models & Rock 'n Roll

Something a bit out of my ordinary.
Should be fun, can't think of a better way to celebrate the day.

For an after the fact recap, click over here.

Thou Shalt All Think the Same

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

One of the first things that drew me to Spain back in the nineties was a feeling that people generally minded their own business. Sure, they might comment, criticize or even ridicule those who wore socks with sandals, ate in the street or simply did things differently, but at least they let them do it. While the hyper-entrenched norms of society exerted an enormous pressure on people to fit in, non-conformists were mostly looked down upon, but not necessarily punished. If someone wanted to transform a lovely nineteenth century house in their village into a three story apartment monstrosity, well, if the law somehow let them do it, it was their choice to do so. The homogeneity of streets and entire Spanish villages have suffered enormously due to this, but if that’s the look the owner wants, well? Taste is after all a very personal thing. Unlike my native Canada, if young people wanted to sit in a square at eight in the afternoon and simply talk, albeit at that volume that only Spanish teenagers can produce, well it was a public space and the police wouldn’t show up to move them along, using that ever so Anglo-saxon concept of 'loitering'. Waiting on a platform for a train on a torrid August afternoon, there was always a vending machine that not only sold sugary syrupy death, but also ice cold Mahou. Once upon a time, a responsible adult could choose between Coca Cola or beer, now you no longer have the choice. We're forced to take the Coke because otherwise you might be hurting someone’s feelings. I might believe that climate change is a farce, that Puidgemont’s hairdresser is cutting-edge, that Trump’s hair is actually his own, that muzzles (mordazas) are meant for dogs, that man never landed on the moon, that the proposed Lithium mine might be a good thing for the city, that kings and queens are better left in fairy tales or that Coca Cola is disgusting. Laugh at me for all I care, even strongly disagree, but let me think it, please. If no physical or otherwise threat is being made or no outright lie is being said, let me think it and even say it. I can honestly now say that I have been visiting and now living in this country long enough to say that there are things about how this country used to be that I really miss. It makes me terribly sad to say, for fear of going to prison, that the emperor is indeed wearing clothes.

And Now Something Different for Lunch

McDonald's may be ubiquitous But diversity is hard to beat down Today's menu: Cooked Shrimp Snails Frog's Legs Pig's Feet Pork Jowl Fried Fish Stories behind the images #nonofar http://nonotfar.blogspot.com . . . . . . . . #tapasbar #tapas #cocinaespañola #andnowforsomethingcompletelydifferent #mykindaplace #spanishgastronomy #spanishfood #detodalavida #extremadura #badajoz #frogslegs #deeptravel #thatgreenhurtsmyeyes #foodlover #eattheworld #foodie #nothingfancy #soulfood #snails

Una publicación compartida por Troy Nahumko (@troynahumko) el Feb 27, 2018 at 7:24 PST