Bait, Beer and Breakfast Biscuits

State Road 24 in North Florida.

We bought bait, beer and breakfast biscuits, alligator meat was sold by the pound and they had homemade jams.

This is 'the south'.

I had flown into JAX the night before from Madrid. Jetlagged and groggy, the morning's fishing came early. Southeast out of Gainesville down southern highways in the cool North Florida morning with a too-small-for-the-gulf fishing boat in tow. Between plantations of quick-grow Georgia Pines, majestic oaks bearded with spanish moss reminded me I was no longer in Castilla. Out here, off the interstate grid, the sameness of what lies off the grid thankfully remains...different. Deep drainage ditches border the highway and culverts wait for the heavy rains and the odd alligator. Enormous pick up trucks and boat trailers parked in every other driveway with the odd satellite dish rusting like garden gnomes on the front lawns.

We had got an early start but a pitstop had to be made.

The town of Archer passes by, a traffic light, a lonely boarded up Mexican restaurant and a beat looking used car lot. These roads out here still wait for passing trains. Warehouse looking churches dot the landscape letting you know that they know Christ and are making him known more aggresively than their competitors. Outdoor marquee letters tweet their messages of salvation and gardening style wisdom amisdt a flutter of stars and stripes.

Next comes Bronson where an Ace Hardware, local restaurant, package liquor store and chain gas station signify a town at the crossroads. Off the interstate, small, family-run businesses still make a go of it. Too far off the grid to interest McDonalds but just busy enough for these peeling businesses to keep afloat. The town of Bronson lets you know you've left with a colorful carved sign nestled in the tall pines and the flat road rolls on till the next crossroads.

Otter Creek is a major crossroads across 4-lane highway 98 and there I see the marquee:

BREAKFAST LUNCH D NN R
CIGARETTES
BAIT BEER PERMITS
WORMS

Hand painted on the side of the building under the corrugated tin roof.

Smoked Mullet Live Shrimp Boiled Peanuts Deer Corn and Hunting Supplies

This is the stop.

Hershel's Quick Stop...what North America looked like before the franchise explosion.

Homemade, just greasy enough Breakfast Biscuits with sausage to chase away the side effects of chasing the sun across the Atlantic.

Live shrimp, worms and enough beer to keep hydrated.

Ready to fish.

Out through the mangroves and into the open gulf in a tiny tin boat designed for lakes.

The speckled trout started biting.

It was a good day.

Raising a Different Glass in Roads and Kingdoms: It's 5 O'Clock Somewhere

The scene of the crime

I had narrowly avoided massacring a dozen newly hatched chicks in a box, whose chirping had accompanied us up from Qax. Stumbling backwards as the rusted-out Soviet-era bus corkscrewed us deeper into the Caucasus, I instead tumbled into the lap of heavily mustached Georgian-speaking shepherd. He didn’t smile...

Writing in Roads and Kingdoms 5 O'Clock Somewhere series...drinks around the world.



The first time we went up in the summer, wild camping below the range that leads to Daghastan, Russia and beyond. Few tourists leave the folds of Baku in Azerbaijan and those that do escape, even fewer go beyond Shaki. Up here the stiff divisions drawn by the Soviets in Moscow blur and the frontiers that the locals carry in the hearts blend into each other.

We stopped in Qax on the way up and then up to Ilisu. Georgian churches mix with Azeri mosques up here. The world of Ali and Nino, a place where divisions are less defined. 

The valley was alive with the fruits of the waning summer and the honey we found, delicious. Lamb is king in these valleys and simple chick pea stews with lamb fill the few menus you can find. 

Vowing to return after the snows had cleared we returned. A welcome party was waiting until the rising sun killed off the morning chill. Tea is served...and once again. 

The winter snows were still high up but the valley was green. Parts of the river surged with snowmelt and some of the bridges bore the scars of the brunt.

The editor prefered a trimmed ending to the original version which read like this.

Our tea glasses were filled to the brim and a toast raised. “To Allah”, my host exclaimed as he motioned to me to drain my glass. By the fourth or fifth toast, I had lost both my balance and my inhibitions and cautiously asked my host about raising a cheers to Allah. The answer was easy he claimed. Mohammed only forbade drinks made of fermented grapes or grains and what we were drinking came from his own honey and potatoes so there was nothing taboo.

As the toasts continued, I was happy that the Iranian and Saudi battle for the Azeri soul remained in their elaborately financed mosques in the bigger centers and that the biggest concerns up along this lost frontier between Azerbaijan and Russia, between Europe and Asia, between East and West was how could I leave home without a photograph of my family and how was it possible that I couldn’t speak Russian. 

Post Academy Life: 5 ways to move beyond teaching at Language Academies in Spain

Open a job search for ESL job openings around the world at any time of the year and a sunny southern corner of Europe is bound to tally the most hits. A place where, if you subscribe to RP pronunciation patterns, the rain falls mainly on the plain. A place I have called home off and on for more than 15 years, Spain...

And thus starts my piece in EFL Magazine. Click over for a look.

The Rain...

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.

The rain here in Caceres always reminds me of the words of fellow Mercedes Calles Premio de Periodismo winner, Juan Manuel de Prada, when he wrote that San Mateo ‘parecía desmigajarse, empapada por el agua’ (the church, watersoaked, began to crumble). His story sang true, the city undergoes a transformative change the few days a year when the rain indeed sets in for a full-day wetting. The warm ochre colors that I fell in love with when I first arrived begin to dim and fade, slowing returning to their natural colour of earth. The arab roof tiles designed to bake in the sun repel the water as best as they can while dark humidity stains spread along the walls. The birds that normally sing and soar above are nowhere to be seen or heard. The distant mountains that can normally be seen from up in the barrio San Antonio blend into a flat grey curtain that falls upon the steppe. I always wonder what the tourists think as they gather their first impressions while scurrying around the old town beneath their umbrellas, jumping over the rivulets that can turn into full-fledged streams running over the rough stone streets when it rains particularly hard. Tracing one of those streams the other day down la Calle Amargura I came across two tourists who were puzzling over one of the new signs that have gone up around the old city. Discreetly stuck to the reconstructed part of the tapia wall, the sign read “Torre de Caleros” but as they peeked from underneath their umbrella there was no tower to be seen. I pointed towards a house on the right side of the street but they didn’t believe me that the ruin they saw was indeed a twelfth century tower that had been converted into a house over the centuries. Seen from street level, it just looked like an abandoned old house. What they couldn’t see was the mostly caved in roof and the half-meter cactus growing next to the leaning chimney. Crossing under the Arco del Cristo and with a view from Caleros, they would have seen Juan’s words sadly come true as the tower and the city’s patrimony slowly crumbles away.

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.