A Fall that Makes Niagara Small

Remember when the National Parks weren't overflowing with motor homes dragging trailers and there wasn't a 6-inch-thick book of rules and regulations to read through before registering for a campsite? Tucked away smack in the middle of the province of British Columbia lies a provincial park that will take your nostalgia away. 540,000 acres of prime bear habitat in the Cariboo Mountains where paddlers can avoid the wakes in North America's largest motor-free body of water. Retreating glaciers surgically carved careening canyons and veering valleys out of coursing lava flows, all of which come complete with picture-postcard waterfalls that run out of see-to-the-bottom lakes. Coming to Canada for the first time? Niagara Falls nothing, the local Helmcken Falls almost triples it by dramatically falling 463 feet out of one of those glacial cuts.

#hiking #wildlife #canyons #outdoors #fishing #glaciers #mountains #nature #lakes #lake #camping #park #waterfalls #kayaking #parks #getaway #canoeing #statepark #waterfall #glacial #bears

Originally published on Trazzler

De-Use It - A tale of coursebook misuse

Last month I was asked by one of the editors of IATEFL's TDSIG newsletter to contribute to their Teacher Development Stories series and I came up with the following.

They say you never miss the water till the well runs dry and as is often the case, they were right. For years, the institute where I work had shown keen interest the ongoing development of its teachers. Training sessions were organized throughout the year, the occasional methodology book was acquired and money was even found to help teachers attend conferences around the country. But times are tough here in Spain and while it took some time to finally filter down to this modest, lost corner of the country, last September we found ourselves forced to become apostates to the country’s new religion, Austerity. The new fundamentalist prophets ruled that Teacher Training and CPD was frivolous and non-belief in the new creed would not be tolerated. Deprived of this flow of ideas, the few teachers that remained were forced to go deep underground and hide their activities. The teachers’ room turned from a place where Thornbury’s latest posts were once debated upon to an arid waiting room where nameless transitory teachers would drift through without even saying hello, let alone stop to discuss the best ways to straighten out Spanish syntax problems. The few of us still interested in developing ourselves as professionals were on our own. 

As conditions worsened and job insecurity set in, many of us found ourselves auto-censoring our classes, playing it safe in order not to provide any excuses for letting us go. Under the new regime, the teacher’s role in the learning process was minimalized and the coursebook became the new prophets’ holy book. Faced between the unemployment line, in a region with around 30% out of work, and the coursebook, I chose the latter.

After struggling through a few classes where I made a vain attempt to ‘teach to the book’, an epiphany came to me and realized that I could establish my own individualized CPD programme by learning to de-use the very book that had become the de facto syllabus. I purposely use the prefix de- because un- seems too overtly negative for my plan. I wasn’t going to not use the book and thus find myself looking for a job, but was simply going to find as many ways as possible to use it differently and in the process it would become my most used TD book of the year. Unit 3B, with perhaps the most paint-drying boring text possible became my newest teaching challenge. How was I going to not only lift it off the page but make it somehow relevant to my learners? Unit 3B’s challenge led me to dust off my old methodology books and delve deeper into the internet for ideas. In my quest, I involved my learners in my project. How could we make this text more interesting? Could we alter the text in some way or perhaps write something similar together on a subject that actually interested everyone? The book and its de-use became the goal.

As the year progressed and my students became aware of my personal challenge, the challenge itself became a motivational factor for the groups. I found they no longer were asking what they were going to be learning that day but had become interested in the process of how they were going to do it. The process of de-use engaged them and encouraged them to look beyond the mere grammar point on page 87.

There simply is no replacement for active discussion with other teachers on topics that matter to us, but when faced with a dry desert, any drink of inspiration will do.

Sunday Goodbyes

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.

Sunday afternoon in the Calle Moret in this everlasting climate-change-denyer's indian summer. At first glance everything looks the same. Graffiti splatters the shuttered shop windows that used to bear life and the few businesses that are still open are also closed up tight for a well-deserved day of rest. After all it is Sunday in Spain and moreso in Caceres. But a closer look, and listen, shows that it’s not just another sleepy Day of their Lord. About halfway down the pedestrian street a few people appear, then a few more and suddenly there’s a large crowd. After the recent altercations between the raging nationalists that have happened in the main square, you could start to feel nervous but there are no flags, anger or confrontation here, just smiles, dance steps and cries for more. This is a meeting of a different sort. A way to say goodbye and to celebrate the last few days of friendship, stories and of course, music. Tables of friends from everywhere from Barcelona to Bilbao to Burgos and Badajoz, sitting together enjoying the weather, the delicious paella, the cold beer and of course, the music. For just a few hours there’s more talk about pianos and pentatonics than Pujols, Pujdemonts and politics. After the 3 days of the Blues festival, this is where everyone says goodbye. Musicians bound for concerts in Madrid and the coast later that day stop for a brief moment and join in with the house (in this case street) band before the long ride to the next concert. The return to the routine for others is put off, if for just another hour or two and enough time to listen to a few more songs. Curious children cautiously approach the drums, amazed that just three people playing instruments can make so much noise. It’s a bit of a secret event, one that for some reason doesn’t appear in the official program of the festival, but those who know, know, this is where the goodbyes are sent and as long as the band plays on, tomorrow is still that, tomorrow.

Caucasus Welcoming Party

Caucasus welcoming party. Waiting for tea. Stories behind the images. Writing about a search for honey and ending up with vodka in #roadsandkingdoms because it's always #5oclocksomewhere More pictures in the link. http://nonotfar.blogspot.com.es/2018/01/raising-different-glass-in-roads-and.html?m=1 . . . . . . . #azerbaijan #caucasus #caucasusmountains #welcomingparty #vodka #vodkatasting #vodkatales #honey #nonotfar #oldmen #streetscape #streetscene #tea #drinkingchai #chai #papakha #papakhahat #village #villages #villagelife #waiting #lonelyplanet #lp

Una publicación compartida por Troy Nahumko (@troynahumko) el Ene 18, 2018 at 4:02 PST

A Betting Man Forced to Be

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.

I’m not really a betting man. I can clearly remember when my great grandfather used to get dressed up take me on his weekly trip to his place of worship, the track. I can also recall being more interested in the horses themselves rather than who ended up winning the race. In all the times that I played concerts in the American gambling meccas of Las Vegas or Atlantic Beach, I can count on one hand how many times I played the slot machines and that was probably only to get the free beer that you got while sitting at the machine. Traveling through the gambling capitals of Asia, the range of the different gamblers interested me much more than the games themselves. In fact, believe it or not, here in Spain I don’t even play the Christmas lotto. But now that my holidays have finally arrived, I’m going to take an enormous gamble. A bet that won’t involve a blindman selling scratchcards or the results of a football match, but in fact a ticket agent at RENFE (the Spanish train company). I’ve got a flight I need to take in Madrid and I’m going to gamble and take the train to the capital on the same day. Where’s the gamble you might ask? Perhaps you haven’t seen all of the accidents that have taken place on the commuter trains that they call long-distance to Madrid the past month. I’ve given myself five hours between when the train arrives and when my flight is scheduled to depart but I wonder what the bookmakers in London would make of those odds? Who should I complain to if I miss my flight? Maybe President of Extremadura can ask his dear friend and fellow party member, Pedro Sanchez to ask in Congress why we still are using infrastructure from the nineteenth century while we export bullet trains to Mecca? The odds on that working are about as good as they were when Monago finally wrested Extremadura from the century of PSOE rule only be completely ignored by his friends in Genova. If indeed I do actually arrive on time, do you know how I’m going to celebrate? I’m going to look for the nearest Lottery seller.

Overlooking Muscat, Oman

One of the hottest places I have ever been...ever seen a thermometer hit 50°C/122°F? #nonotfar Stories behind the images. nonotfar.blogspot.com . . . . . . #muscat #oman #mosque #mosquesofworld #mosques #corniche #extremetemps #middleeast #arabianpeninsula #islamicarchitecture #islamicart #islam #azul #traveltales #travelstories #travelwriting #instaoman #visitoman #omantravel

Una publicación compartida por Troy Nahumko (@troynahumko) el Ene 17, 2018 at 3:04 PST

Spain's Hidden Summer Surprises

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.

As I watched my kids search for a free space in the kiddie pool so that they could practice their newly acquired skills the other day at the Ciudad Deportiva outdoor pool, wondering why the pool next to it inexplicably sat closed off, I came to realize what an important part of life public outdoor pools play in Spain. Tourists trudging through the UNESCO cores that dot this country under the fierce midday summer sun in search of a typically Spanish experience that they can tell their friends back home about often wonder why the only life they seem to come across are people trying to sell them something. Why are the city centres only filled with tourists? Where are the people that actually live amongst these beautiful, if terribly hot stones? What they don’t know is that the locals lucky enough to not be working are either themselves on holiday, in their villages…or cooling off at the closest public pool. I can’t think of many other places in this country where you can encounter such a broad cross section of society gathered in one place. Not even the awkwardly segregated school system comes close to reuniting so many people from such different backgrounds together. Families complete with picnics who come to spend the day, teenagers being teenagers, groups of retired men and women, immigrants like myself and even a brave few who were actually there to do sport, all trying to find a bit of wiggle room. The local pool is the definition of summer for many that find themselves far from the coasts and damed up rivers that flow down from the moutains during these months. I know a few other travel writers desperate for a story that goes beyond how beautiful Santa Maria is at sunset that would pay for this hidden insight into Spanish society but at least until they open that third pool up again and perhaps a few more, I think we should keep this refreshing secret to those of us who live here. 

Late night food truck blues in Baixa da Banheira, Portugal

Late night food truck blues in Baixa. #portugal #burger #sagres #beer #burgerlove #latenighteats #cerveja #afterthegig #egghamburger #coldbeer #foodtruck #nonotfar

Una publicación compartida por Troy Nahumko (@troynahumko) el Dic 24, 2017 at 2:42 PST

Another Round!

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.

After the last class before the summer break the other day, a group of students and I went across the street to the bar to celebrate what was coming to an end and of course what lie ahead. It was just before noon and as we lined up to the bar, a few people were having their first or maybe second breakfasts while some kids were enjoying snatches of freedom as their mothers took a well-deserved break over coffee. Cortados, solos, con leches and teas were ordered and everything was completely normal until one student said, 'I don't know what to have, I don't usually go to bars.' The world suddenly stopped on a dime and I turned and joked with him that I must be more Spanish than him, because if there is one thing that I absolutely love about this country, it has to be its bars. There is truly no equivalent to the Spanish bar anywhere else in the world, at least in the fifty or so countries that I have had the chance to visit. Even the word itself, while remarkably similar in many languages, holds a complete different connotation and meaning here. Say the word bar in English and a dark and closed place comes to mind, yet here in Spain, from early morning to late at night, this institution adapts its rhythm to the needs of the community as we go about our day. Churros in the morning, a caña and pincho at midday and even around six in the hora de la nada (the time between) as a friend calls it, it’s there for what you need. Abroad you may see the word tapas affixed to a restaurant sign but as you walk in, you realize that they’re likely to serve paella with chorizo and have Mexican sombreros on the cieling. It’s something that can’t seem to be exported and even here some may want to try and modernize it by adding the word ‘gastro’ and offer specialized tortillas for just five euros. They can keep their fancy gin and tonics though, as we say in English, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it and there’s definitely nothing wrong with the combination of a cold caña and boquerones on a hot day like today. 

Transport in Yazd, Iran

Sandwiched between two immense deserts, Yadz has been a welcoming oasis for a long time, no really, a LONG time. Whether UNESCO is right in claiming it is one of the oldest continually inhabited places on the planet or not, the cool shade thrown by the shapely adobe walls and the refreshing breezes trapped by the badgirs (windtowers) will sate any parched traveler in the baking summer heat. . Stories behind the images. http://nonotfar.blogspot.com.es/2016/08/sandwiched-in-between-2-deserts-yazd.html?m=1 . . . . . . #yadz #visitiran #irantravel #exploreiran #adobe #desert #windylanes #bagdirs #unesco #boyonadonkey #muletraffic #donkey #mule #architecture #islamicarchitecture #dontbelieveeverythingtheytellyou #nicepeople #greatbread #breaddelivery #deliveryservice #donkeytransport #donkeydelivery

Una publicación compartida por Troy Nahumko (@troynahumko) el Feb 1, 2018 at 12:23 PST

La Pequeña Georgia

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.

Four years ago yesterday, while the rest of Caceres was celebrating San Jorge (Saint George), I sat in the maternity ward of the local hospital awaiting the arrival of my second daughter. I say awaiting her arrival, because as she was the second, I knew that she wasn’t arriving via Stork Airlines and the look on my wife’s face let me know that it wasn’t going to be an easy landing. 

It’s a holiday here and everyone knows that it's just that much harder to get up and go to work when you have to, yet there wasn’t a trace of regret in the attentive faces of the staff helping my partner through this. Their own families were surely getting together that day and it goes without saying where they would have rather been but there was absolutely no spite in their actions. The health of my wife and the baby were the only priorities at that moment. If her birth would have seen us living in many other countries, I would have had to take our credit card from between my wife’s teeth and pray to the dragon slayer that our limit was high enough to pay, but thankfully, the only prayer here that was needed was for their well-being. 

I look at my four year old daughter today and think about her future and wonder what awaits her. Will she be lucky enough to be able to start a family without having to take out a loan simply to be able to give birth to her children in a safe environment? Will I be able to pick up her kids from school or will I be forced to continue working beyond my seventh decade? Will whatever is left of public funds have disappeared in EREs, Canales in Madrid and luxury cars for greedy men in Cataluña with the same name as the Saint? 

The Patron of Caceres is a figure that crosses national boundaries and even religions. He had some serious dragons to take care of in the past but I think that a much greater threat exists today than what the dragon traditionally represents. I’m not one for prayers but if I were, I’d ask for just a little less greed so that she too can have things at least as good as we enjoy now.