Stamped Magazine Spring 2014

STAMPED Penn’s Travel Magazine | Spring 2014

TRANSFORMATION in the SHADOW of the

HIMALAYA

CAPTURING YOUR TRAVELS through a CAMERA The best ways to document a memorable experience

ADVENTURE in the

MOROCCAN DESERT

Exploring the sand dunes in All Terrain Vehicles

IMPRESSIONS See the world through your peers’ eyes...

!

E N I L ON

ww.stampedmag.com NEW CONTENT NEW PHOTOS OLD ISSUES POSTCARDS & MORE!

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content 04...............Letter from the Editor

field notes

05...............A Global Guide to Spices Let the varied blends from these destinations inspire your next meal.

06...............Fashion Packing: Light weekend

Avoid extra charges at the airport!

feature

17...............Transformation in the

Shadow of the Himalaya

impressions

22...............Living Greek An insider’s take on Athens

08...............Capturing your Travels through Camera

24...............Full Throttle

26...............From East to West: Architecture Around the World

Helpful hints from Brenda, our Photo Editor

itineraries

10...............Brazil, Naturally

The best places in the country to take a hike

12...............Shanghai by Day, Shanghai by Night Ways to stay busy in this bustling city

ATV-ing in the Moroccan Desert

A visual essay

28...............All By Myself What would you do if you were alone in Europe for the holidays?

30...............Ahlan Wa Sahalan Discovering the mysteries of Jordan

14...............Discovering Jamaica A tour of the Caribbean Island

Cover and content page photos

by Brenda Nguyen

LETTER from the EDITOR Dear Explorers, As university students we are being empowered to change the world-but how do we know what to change if we haven’t seen the world in its raw form? The acknowledgment of cultural difference is a significant prerequisite for eliciting global transformation. The content that Stamped Magazine publishes is not simply meant to add new lines to a bucket list; it consists of snapshots and interpretations of society, law, economics, politics, and customs. We ask our writers and photographers to access the depths of humanity through their work-in a form of unrestricted, hands-on research. We write articles that analyze the character and culture of the world in which we live. In this way, Stamped Magazine stimulates the multifaceted discussion of what it means to approach life passionately.

This issue is about accessing and upholding the spirit of individual communities worldwide. Our feature takes you on a metaphysical journey through Kathmandu, where we ask you to “run as far as you can around the breadth of the globe, and weave yourself into the secret, forgotten, grim, and beautiful corners of mother earth.” What is travel if not a glimpse into the birth, life, and death of a society and its inhabitants?

We harness the risk of hiking Brazil’s Petrópolis-Teresópolis Crossing, “a 35-kilometer long trail that takes two to three days to complete.”

We taste the essences of different nations through their endemic spices. We indulge in the colloquial fervor of Greece and learn that “Athens is gritty, in a way that gets on your clothes and in your lungs and never really leaves.”

The spirit of global society is not sedentary. You have the ability to carry it with you and to incorporate it into your particular context and mindset. This is your world. This is your community. This is your spirit. Shape these, or someone else will.

To the amazing Stamped staff for being ever-enthusiastic, creative, and innovative: I can’t thank you enough for helping this magazine soar to extraordinary heights this semester. I have to thank Frida Garza, Jeanette Sha, and Grace Wang for handing me the most rewarding position in the world and for lighting the original Stamped flame. A huge thank you goes to Nolan Burger, Managing Editor. You are my sanity, and deserve much more credit for this magazine than you are given. Thank you for finishing my sentences and for fully understanding a love of coffee. Last, but certainly not least, the most important thank you goes out to you, our readers. Keep living and loving the adventure.

Stamped Love, Jackie Duhl Editor-in-Chief jackie@stampedmag.com

STAMPED MAGAZINE Editor-in-Chief Jacqueline Duhl Managing Editor Nolan Burger Impressions Editor Zacchiaus McKee Itineraries Editor Nicole Malick Field Notes Editor Vidushi Bharava Photo Editor Brenda Nguyen Associate Photo Editor Charlene You Creative Director Virginia Walcott Business Manager Linda Li Contributing Writers Annie Caccimelio, Vera Kirillov, Alexis Krushell, Sarah Wilker, Christopher Nagle, Brenda Nguyen, Hirsh Shah, Sarah Witt, Sarah Shihadah, Ava Van Der Meer Contributing Photographers Hanna Dethlefs, Jacqueline Duhl, Yasmin Meleis, Christopher Nagle, Brenda Nguyen, Danielle Pi, Hannah Rosenfeld, Sarah Witt, Charlene You, Krithi Bala Layout Designers Virginia Walcott, Olivia Fingerhood, Elise Pi, Emma Soren, Matt Williams Outstanding Sales Rep Aavni Piparsania Special thanks to the Creative Ventures Fund at the Kelly Writers House for making this publication possible.

We are Penn’s student-run travel magazine. We believe travel can be affordable and accessible to students. Like travel itself, we aim to be a means for self-discovery and exploration. By highlighting novel and formative experiences, we promote cultural exchange within and beyond the Penn community.

To inquire about advertising or staff positions, please contact us at info@stampedmag.com.

field notes

A

GLOBAL GUIDE TO SPICES

By Vera Kirillov

Photos by Danielle Pi and Vera Kirillov

India: Curry Venture to India and you’ll find not the generic yellow curry powder common to US supermarkets, but an immense and colorful variety rivaling the rainbow chalks of Holi. Unique to regions and cooks, true Indian curries are ground fresh every day from toasted whole spices. Cooks start with a base of pepper, coriander, and cumin, then grinding in anything from cardamom and cinnamon, for a sweeter blend, to turmeric, garlic, and fenugreek, for a hotter, bolder combination.

France: Herbs de Provence Hailing from the southern French region which bears its name, herbs de Provence is a floral mixture of rosemary, thyme, savory, and marjoram. No one recipe for an herbs de Provence mix exists, as cooks there have long used fresh, garden-picked combinations of these four chief spices to flavor grilled fish, meat, and vegetable stews. Herbaceous and vibrant, this spice mix has become emblematic of Provençal food, which relies heavily on ripe, homegrown vegetables and fresh-caught Mediterranean fish.

Mexico: Chili Peppers

Morocco: Ras el Hanout

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A Moroccan staple, this complex blend’s name belies its makeup: “head of the shop,” in a rough translation from Arabic.

Ground from as many as 30 whole spices, the mixture can differ significantly from store to store, as each shopkeeper combines the best of his current offerings into one bright, aromatic mix. A typical ras el hanout begins from a base of cardamom, nutmeg, anise, cinnamon, and turmeric, becoming earthier, sweeter, or spicier depending on the other additions to the blend. In stews and soups common to the North African country, the complex spices deliver intricate flavors to dishes otherwise made from humble ingredients.

In Mexico, you’ll be hard pressed to find many dishes which don’t include perhaps the country’s most prominent ingredient: chili peppers. Dried and finely ground, pickled, or stuffed, the bright green, red, and yellow fruit are used in Mexican cooking not only for their heat, but for their subtle flavor differences. The humble jalapeño, for example, once left to fully ripen, then dried and smoked, transforms into the chipotle pepper, lending its smoky, earthy flavor to salsas and meat marinades.

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capturing your travels

IMPRESSIONS

h g u o thr

a r e m a ac

Whether you’re studying abroad in London, backpacking across Southeast Asia, or simply taking a weekend road trip across state borders, these tips will help ensure you capture a memorable experience!

Try a Different Perspective Everyone takes the same photos. An online search for a popular attraction would yield an endless page of the same iconic images, which are probably no different from everyone else’s photos. Along with the obligatory touristy photo, make sure to take photos that reflect your own personal experience while visiting a place. Take a photo that captures the surroundings. It can be of the people, the weather, the street vendors - anything that contributed to your experience. You can always find a photo of what the place looks like but you won’t always be able to find a photo that captures the atmosphere there.

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Photograph the Mundane Many people tend to overlook the everyday people, places, and things they come across during a trip, but these things often evoke the best memories. Photograph the small things such as the path you take to class every day, the fifteen hour train ride to your next city, or the receptionist who always managed to put a smile on your face. You will remember the big things but the small details will often go unnoticed and unremembered. These details may seem trivial now but they can become one of the best parts of your experience so don’t forget to capture them!

Consider Taking Videos If your camera has the ability to take videos, take videos! Although a photo can capture a lot in itself, videos can capture certain things that a photo cannot or in ways that a photo cannot: the background noises, the laughters, the crowd, the environment, and so on.

Re-watching a video engages more than just your visual senses and it truly pulls you back into that moment, allowing you to re-experience those memories for the second or hundredth time.

Article and photos by Brenda Nguyen Illustration by Virginia Walcott

Shoot No Matter the Weather People often put their cameras away once the weather gets bad, but just because it’s raining doesn’t mean you should stop taking photos! Don’t lament when the sun isn’t shining – there are still some great potential shots to be taken. Fog, misty rain, and puddles can create quite captivating images so take advantage of the bad weather and take photos that not everyone gets a chance to take. You may not want to remember the bad weather now, but you’ll be glad you snapped some photos later on.

Put Your Camera Away Sure, your camera can capture beautiful moments but be sure to consider the role of your camera in the overall experience. Be mindful of how much of the experience is being lived through your camera and not through your own eyes. Sometimes, the best thing to do is to put your camera away and enjoy the scenery - unfiltered and unobstructed. Your own personal memory can be just as good, if not better, than a photograph. stampedmag.com

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fashion packing Going on a weekend trip? You probably want to pack light; who wants to pay one thousand dollars to check in a bag?

We’ve got some vacation-ready packing lists for every type of destination.

At the beach +

Your favorite two bikini combinations, or a pair of swim trunks

+ Travel-size sunscreen + One pair of denim shorts + Day-to-night sandals + To wear on the journey:

jeans and flip-flops!

By Vidushi Bhargava Photos by Brenda Nguyen Illustrations by Virginia Walcott 8 STAMPED // Spring 2014

field notes

WEEKEND TRIPS

In the Mountains

+

Ski Essentials: thermal leggings, goggles, hat, gloves, layers

+ Sweaters/ long-sleeve tops + To wear on the journey: ski jacket, boots, jeans

In the City + Two day-to-night blouses or shirts + Girls- nice clutch for a night out and a pair

of heels

+

To wear on the journey: a pait of good walking shoes, jeans, and a jacket if needed

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BRAZIL, NATURALLY Chapada Diamantina National Park

WHERE: The park is located in Bahia, a state in the northeast section of Brazil.

GETTING THERE: Since there is no airport close to the park, travel to Salvador first. Buses leave for Chapada daily—the ride takes around 6 hours.

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WHAT TO SEE: The park is massive, covering 1,520km2 and brimming with sites to explore. Devil’s Pool, located just miles from the small town of Lençois, is a must see. There is a large waterfall that runs into a deep pool perfect for swimming and cooling off in the hot Bahian sun. Also, locals have set up a zip line so you can jump off the top of the waterfall and glide into the water 50 feet below. This makes for a perfect day hike for those who shy away from long treks through the wilderness. Pair this with a trip to see the chapadas, or plateau-like mountains, that the park is named for. Located a short drive from Lençois, the chapadas can be climbed in close to an hour and they provide breathtaking views of the countryside below.

For the more adventurous, Buração is considered to be one of the most spectacular waterfalls in the park. The trip requires a drive to the southern part of the park near the city of Ibicoara, but the view of the falls is worth every minute.

itineraries Think the best places to see in Brazil are in the big cities of Rio de Janeiro or São Paulo?

Think again. Brazil is a huge country with beautiful nature ripe for exploring. Read on for the best places to hike and be at one with the Brazilian countryside.

By Annie Caccimelio Photo by Hanna Dethlefs

For those looking to go on a longer trek, Morrão trail is the best option. One of the most frequented trails in the park, Morrão is a long, meandering trail providing hikers with exquisite views of the chapadas and Brazil’s flora and fauna. It ends at Aguas Claras, or Clear Waters, a beautiful, refreshing pool ideal for relaxing at the end of a long hike.

Another trail for those looking for a long hike is Trilha Poço Preto.

This 7-kilometer trail will take you through the jungle surrounding the falls. But the absolute best view of the falls is found at Garganta do Diabo, or Devil’s Throat. You can reach the spot by short hike— it is highest point of the falls, where the water collides and sprays sightseers! This will be the best photo-op of the day, so come prepared.

TIPS: Lençois is the perfect place to stay while you explore the surrounding park. Try the Pousada dos Duendes hostel, where the owner speaks perfect English and the staff serves up homemade Brazilian meals twice a day. The hostel also provides guided hikes with English speaking guides, which is crucial in a park as big and daunting as Chapada Diamantina.

TIPS: Don’t forget your passport! This will allow you to pass on to the Argentine side and get the full experience. The falls are taller than Niagra Falls, and as wide, so there is plenty to explore. Stay at one of the two hotels inside the park. This will allow you easy access to the falls, which are walking distance from both.

Iguaçu Falls (Iguazú in Spanish)

WHERE: The falls are located on the border of Brazil and Argentina between the Brazilian state of Paraná and the Argentine province of Misiones.

GETTING THERE: The falls are easily accessible from the Brazilian side through the town called Foz do Iguaçu. The airport is served by the major South American airlines such as TAM. Catch a taxi or a bus to the Iguaçu Falls National Park from the airport for a small fee.

WHAT TO SEE: Iguaçu Falls are a must see for nature lovers traveling through South America, and you may want to spend at least two days at the falls, in order to see them from both the Brazilian and the Argentine sides. On the Argentine side you can start off hiking the Macuco trail which leads to a smaller part of the waterfall and provides many opportunities to see some of the local wildlife. Next you can hike what is referred to as the Lower Trail where you can take a boat ride to really get a spectacular, close-up view of the main part of the falls. Bring your poncho because you get so close to the falls you will get soaked!

A great trail on the Brazilian side is Trilha das Bananeras: it ends at the river where visitors can kayak along the river.

Petrópolis-Teresópolis Crossing

WHERE: Located in the state of Rio de Janeiro, located about 2 hours outside of the city of Rio, the trail runs from the entrance to the Serra dos Órgãos National Park at the city of Teresópolis to the park entrance in the city of Petrópolis.

GETTING THERE: Fly into Rio de Janeiro and take a bus (or drive) to the trail.

WHAT TO SEE: This trail is not for the faint at heart, or those who fear the great outdoors. It is a 35-kilometer long trail that takes two to three days to complete (yes, this means sleeping outside!).

It passes through the Serra dos Órgãos mountains, so the trail is sloping, winding and at times poorly marked—so it is best to go with a guided group. The trail starts near a river and then meanders into the mountainous forest. The hike from Pedra do Sino to Açu is probably the most stunning portion of the trail, as well as the most difficult. It is very rugged with irregular terrain, but along the way you can take in the view of Rio de Janeiro in the distance, at 6890 feet. It’s a once in a lifetime sight.

TIPS: Guided tours should provide tents, meals during the hike and bilingual, well-informed guides. This is the safest and the most comfortable way to do the extensive three-day hike. They also will take care of obtaining your permit in the park, which can prove to be difficult or expensive if you aren’t a Brazilian national. Be friendly!

You will probably encounter many hiking enthusiasts along the trail that can provide you with inside information about the best places to see as well suggest other hiking hotspots throughout Brazil and South America.

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SHANGHAI Itineraries

By Hirsh Shah

Photos by Carolyn Lim and Liz Pecan

Shanghai, pearl of the Far East, is the college student’s playground – a metropolis pulsing with dumpling carts, silk markets, museums, parks and nightclubs.

Shanghai is a colossal city spanning 2,400 square miles inhabited by 23 million people. That’s nearly three times the population of New York City. Make the trek to this vibrant city while you’re still an intrepid college student before that arthritis kicks in.

BY DAY...

Fuxing Park

Fuxing is located in the former French concession of Shanghai and features a lake, fountains, shady paths, and colorful flowerbeds. Once you get past the ‘exotic’ name of this park, it is the perfect place to start your day with a stroll underneath the sycamore trees or tai chi alongside Mao-suited men. If you make it to the park early enough, you’ll find elderly Shanghainese folk playing mahjong next to Chinese opera singers belting their hearts out. Fuxing is a microcosm of Chinese leisure culture that you can’t miss.

Shanghai World Financial Center

Shanghai’s culture belongs to the city’s bustling streets, but to really understand the city’s might, drop $30 to see the never-ending megalopolis from the 100th floor of this building. From 1,500 feet above street level, you can look out miles into the distance unable to see an end to Shanghai with housing developments reaching beyond the horizon. The best part: the 100th floor features an overhanging glass floor that lets you look straight down onto the street below. You’ll feel like you’re levitating thousands of feet above the ground!

Coco

Take a quick mid-afternoon coffee pit stop at Coco, a famous Taiwanese bubble tea chain ubiquitous in Shanghai, for a taste of liquid happiness. For those unfamiliar with bubble tea, this fa-

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mous drink is composed of milk tea and tapioca balls. When it’s hot out, a cold Coco pick-me-up will wake you up and cool you down.

Old City

This neighborhood is inside the old walled city, a slice of Shanghai that remained exclusively Chinese during the foreign concessions era. Today, it has become commercialized with many retail stores and even offers a Starbucks. However, the compound is undeniably picturesque; be sure to check out the Taoist temples – their traditional Chinese architecture will astound you. To eat: chow down on xiaolongbao, or Chinese soup dumplings. These traditional pillows of love will fill your stomach, satisfy your palette, but not break the bank. You can get 14 large dumplings for just over $3. Be warned—a line to get one serving of xiaolongbao can last up to 90 minutes during lunch.

The Bund

This major embankment and street borders the Huangpu River and features a multitude of Western-style banks and trading houses erected by foreign powers that entered China after the 19th century Opium Wars. If you’re into architecture, rent an iconic orange bike from Forever Bike Rental and cruise down the Bund to check out the classic European, Art Deco, and Gothic-style buildings that dominate this boulevard. Local tip: if you want to have a nice French dinner with a gorgeous view of the Bund and the Shanghai skyline, eat at Mr. and Mrs. Bund. Be sure to try the tangy candied lemon and lemon tart.

...AND NIGHT Boxing Cat Brewery

Upon walking into the brewery, customers notice the rustic firehouse-style design of this restaurant-bar. Coupled with the contemporary furniture, pool tables, and fuse ball tables in the bar area, Boxing Cat puts together a very fun and modern atmosphere.

To kick it up a notch, Boxing Cat is one of China’s first microbreweries and produces its reasonably priced beers in-house – a unique find in the sea of mixed drink focused bars all over Shanghai. Local tip: first thing, try out the Standing 8 Pilsner, the brewery’s signature lager, for a classic taste of Boxing Cat beer.

VUE

Shanghai isn’t only a horizontally sprawling city – it was built vertically, too. The bar VUE is located on the 32nd and 33rd floors of the Hyatt on the Bund, and it features spectacular panoramas of the business district and the Huangpu waterfront. Come relax with a drink on the daybeds or, in summer months, drown your sorrows in the whirlpool on VUE’s terrace.

M1NT

Located on the 24th floor of a Shanghai skyscraper, M1NT exudes luxury. Shanghai’s most prominent expats and members of the gilded class hang out here. Don’t be surprised if you encounter a prince or a K-pop artist having a one of M1NT’s top shelf drinks in the lounge. The good news: there is only a cover charge or minimum if you reserve a table at M1NT, so don’t be scared off by its first tier status.

Bar Rouge

If you want to party like a rock star, spend the night at Bar Rouge, a rooftop bar and nightclub. This sexy joint features European house music influenced with sounds of the Far East and offers sweeping vistas of the Shanghai financial district. As if that were not enough, Bar Rouge hires professional dancers to show you how it’s done on stage with the Shanghai skyline behind them. That said, be mindful of steep drink prices at this joint, as they cost at least $16 a pop.

WHEN TO VISIT:

Late spring or early fall when the weather is moderate and the city is not inundated by tourists.

GETTING THERE:

Fly directly from JFK to Shanghai Pudong Airport with service from United, China Eastern, or Delta Airlines. Beware: direct flights last 15 hours.

GETTING AROUND:

Metro – the Shanghai metro is growing rapidly and user-friendly. Fares range from 50¢ to $1.50, depending on time of day and the distance you are traveling.

Taxi – cabs are affordable and a fast way to get around during offpeak hours. Just make sure your driver turns on the meter so you are charged fare-ly.

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A JAMAICAN ADVENTURE IMPRESSIONS

A TOUR OF THE ISLAND

You will fall in love with Jamaica the moment you see the island appear from the plane, with its sunny Blue Mountains peaks emerging from the mist. This piece of land in the middle of the Caribbean Sea is the country of a thousand churches, the original temple of reggae, the hometown of the legendary Rastaman, Bob Marley, and the fastest man on earth, Usain Bolt. The island, whose motto is “Jamaica No Problem,� offers unmatched hospitality from the Jamaican people and unmatched natural beauty in its forests, valleys, waterfalls, deep coves, lagoons, cliffs, and jungle. Thanks to tourism, Jamaica remains underdeveloped, and the majestic beauty of the island has been preserved. All you need is a backpack: follow this 5-city itinerary across the island to find priceless natural treasures.

Article and photos by Sarah Witt

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Itineraries

Kingston

Despite a reputation for being dangerous, Kingston, Jamaica’s sprawling capital, is filled with hidden gems. Visit Bob Marley’s house, where you can tour his recording studio, see his old guitar and even look through a bullet hole that almost cost him his life in 1976. Also explore the colonial Devon House (the architectural dream of Jamaica’s first black millionaire) and the Royal Botanical Gardens (commonly called “Hope Gardens”), or simply get lost in the vibrant streets and admire the Rastafarian murals. Kingston has a lot to offer to anyone who is eager to grasp the Jamaican soul. After some time in the capital it becomes clear that Kingston’s bad reputation is undue.

The Blue Mountains

The misty Blue Mountains offer the most fantastic panorama of Jamaica. You can hike or bike through the mountains to witness and touch nature at its finest. The roads of this under-explored area are narrow, covered with giant holes and unmarked. But the ride up to the mountains is definitely worth it, as the scenery is simply awe-inspiring. On your way, you will find many quaint villages with friendly locals. If you do night hike, you can make it to the top of the peak in time to witness a breathtaking sunrise. You can also taste the fragrant, world famous Blue Mountains Coffee. The altitude, the forest cover and the climate provide the conditions for growing the best coffee in the world. Visit Alex Twyman’s coffee plantation, where they are proud to say that they send their coffee directly to the Queen of England.

Port Antonio

When Errol Flynn discovered Port Antonio, he declared, “Port Antonio is more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen.” It is a land of rainforests, tumbling waterfalls and secluded white-sand coves. You should absolutely spend a day at Frenchman’s cove, a little piece of paradise. What makes this beach so unique is the fresh river that meets the ocean. Crystal clear turquoise waters also await you at the Blue Lagoon. Locals used to believe that

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the lagoon was bottomless, and called it the “Blue hole.” It has since been discovered to be somewhere around 180 to 200 feet deep. The water seems to have a touch of magic about it, as the color changes throughout the day depending on the way the sun shines upon the surface.

Ocho Rios

Because of the lush vegetation in this area of the northeast coast, Ocho Rios is commonly referred to as the “garden center of Jamaica”.

On your way from Port Antonio to Ocho Rios, take a ride on a bamboo raft down the Rio Grande River, immersed in a deep silence that is only interrupted by bird songs. One of the first things on your Ocho Rios list should be the river falls. You can climb hand-in-hand over slippery rocks against rushing water, making your way through the torrents toward the top of this natural wonder. You can also make a pilgrimage to the village of Nine Mile, the birthplace and final resting place of the legendary Bob Marley, or spend some time with Jamaican locals at Reggae Beach.

Negril

Negril was the destination of choice for free-loving hippies in the 1960s. This spot on the far west end of the Island is an enticing seven-mile beach with tranquil crystal waters and rugged seaside cliffs. An inevitable hot spot in Negril is the famous Rick’s Café, resting at the top of a cliff. Once you enter the café you can take the stairs down to the incredibly blue water that almost looks drinkable. However you may also choose to jump into the sea from the cliffs or catch some very skilled locals making risky dives from as far as the tops of trees on the actual cliff. In any case, make it to Negril in time for sunset: the view from the cliff is absolutely breathtaking and the live band plays tasteful reggae songs.

It sets the perfect Jamaican vibe.

There are no words to fully capture the greatness and the natural beauty of this island. As the Jamaicans like to say, “Once you go, you know.”

IMPRESSIONS

TRANSFORMATION in the

SHADOW of the

Article and photos by Christopher H. Nagle

HIMA LaYA

Article and photos by Chris Nagle

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feature

According to Buddhist myth, the story of the four sights outlines the formative experience of Prince Siddhartha, the individual who would eventually be known to the world as Gautama Buddha.

Born into a life of ignorance and royal privilege, Siddhartha’s first journey outside the walls of his palace bestowed upon him four sights of distinctive character: an old man, a sick man, a corpse and an ascetic.

Together, these sights revealed to him the truest nature of human suffering as well as the path to eject oneself from the mandate of suffering through the path of ascetic discovery.

The revelation within these visions instilled the Prince with a sense of urgency in life, which would catalyze his journey of singular purpose towards the highest truth.

On a recent trip to Nepal, I was looking forward to an enlightening experience.

Yet unbeknownst to me, I would complete the very same formative experience as Siddhartha within the arc of a single sun.

His four sights became mine.

The moment I stepped out of my airport taxi at the threshold of my hotel, adrenalin rushed down my spine. Thamel, the rough-andready tourist borough of Kathmandu, was similar to Bangkok’s notorious Khao San Road, without the former’s omnipresent Western crowd. Thamel was a labyrinth of side-streets and uncanny side-glances, beggars and hawkers, ancient faiths and gritty despair.

Hindu shrines, the inset stone deities gifted with oblations and worn soft by eons of weathering and human handling, were smeared with bright ochers and saffron garlands You could find them interwoven unassumingly into back alleys barely broad enough for my shoulders.

A wilderness of the new pounded at my senses.

The story of my time in Kathmandu could be said to begin in earnest with the break of dawn on the second day. Around 8 a.m., through a quasi-professional tourist office located next to my guesthouse, I chartered a private taxi for around $25 USD to shuttle me among the area’s numerous UNESCO World Heritage sites. Wandering the city streets is to place one’s self deep within history, with only brief instances of recognition shocking the soul back to the pres-

ent. I frequently wondered if it was 1013 A.D. or 2013 A.D.—or if it even mattered.

Something was different that day, at the very core of things. I was a morphing ego commanded by the historical precedence of the streets themselves, linking my consciousness to the experiences of ancient truth. In the hot haze, I could be Prince Siddhartha himself.

We arrived at the temple complex known as Swayambhunath,

a series of religious buildings and monasteries atop a hill west of Kathmandu city. In the center was a stupa with a Buddha illuminated on the facade. The complex is colloquially known as the Monkey Temple, due to the tribes of holy monkeys that live within the site.

Joining the cir-cumambulation around the stupa, my eyes were fixed upon the eternal, golden stare of the Buddha, whose penetrating stampedmag.com

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feature trance was only brokenwhen feral dogs skirmishing among the penitents’ feet stole my attention.

The golden paradox of the monumental central stupa of Swayambhunath is, above all, its nature as a testament to the permanence of human endeavor; however, constructed in full knowledge that its holy presence will too be swept to nothing one day, as it is swept clean from the mind’s eye upon the return of one’s gaze to the sprawling valley below. If it truly existed behind my turned back, I perhaps will never know. After two pensive hours, I decided to depart. The steps down to the street were lined with charismatic hawkers peddling goods, short-haired Buddhist priestesses and a rambunctious coterie of monkeys. I saw the first sight: an elderly man led toward the temple by his family as a capstone pilgrimage or a final rite—and saw old forged into new. To breathe the same air as these beings was to let some lesser parts of you die forever, and I passed from that temple, perhaps to never see it again.

The second destination that day was Patan Durbar Square, a monument hub comprised of ancient wooden and stone-cut buildings. Within the first few minutes, a charismatic boy began pestering me to purchase an “unofficial tour” of the area, offering me a large discount compared to the government tours. I suspected it was a scam, but I eventually caved due to his impressive grasp of English. It turned out to be one of the best gambles of my life.

After about thirty minutes of small talk, the boy asked me if I wanted visit the Kumari. I immediately agreed, once I remembered: the Kumari is a living cloistered child goddess of Nepali Hinduism. Her abode happened to be in our vicinity. I never would have been able to coordinate this meeting, yet this local boy was leading me to one of the most intimate and sacred of religious experiences possible in the Hindu faith. Following my guide for a few blocks, we arrived at and entered a multi-story brick structure, the house of the Kumari. I was kept in an unassuming antechamber for fifteen minutes or so, and then ushered in to

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behold the Kumari by an older woman. After kneeling, I placed a small offering in a bowl in front of her miniature golden throne and received an auspicious smear of red ochre on my forehead in turn.

Exiting the structure, I saw Siddhartha’s second sight: disease. I locked eyes with a small man lacking

legs and fingers on his left hand and with only one grey, cataract-riddled eye. Seated in hunched agony near the gate of the holy house, he aimed piercing cries in my direction, borne of a tongue beyond my knowledge.

Although my guide hastily shuffled us away, I couldn’t help seeing his suffering, which before then had been so

feature far removed from my first world existence. The experience cemented the proximity of human suffering in my mind for the duration of the trip.

Back in the plaza, I wished a cool adieu to my short-lived companion, and entered my taxi under the midday sun.

By the time I had reached the next site, the day was marching to a close and I had one destination left to explore. On the holy River Bagmati, I saw the third sight and fourth sight of the Buddha—a dead body and the ascetic aspirant—at the Pashupatinath cremation ghats. This river is considered the source of Nepalese civilization and urbanization.

The surrounding temple complex is one of the holiest temples to the Hindu lord Shiva. The site is

peppered with hundreds of ageless shrines—four-cornered citadels of the gods meant to curve the human will towards the end of ends, towards holy moksha. It housed both deity statuary and transient ascetics who were dedicated to achieving a higher plane of existence and to denying the cycle of human suffering. Some in sparse loincloths, their corporal existence aspired to the otherworldly. With the paths to spiritual liberation as diverse as the stars above, who can say which is right?

Holy cows grazed on the knolls arising in the middle of the shallow river, unaware of the cremation rites around them.

Corpses, bound tightly in white linen, were set upon wooden pyres, doused in oil, and set

ablaze. Smoke plumed from the wooden structures and swathed the banks in grey. The experience of a Hindu cremation on a holy river defied my reality.

The smell one intuitively recognizes as burning flesh and the brief glimpse of a half-scorched body, combined with the wails of mourners and the seamless mechanics of the ghat attendants, all rest on a single point in time.

Was this the moment of transcendence, where the knowledge of self merges with the knowledge of all? Splash.

The structure toppled into the water. Children continued to play in the cremation headwaters. Life never stopped. The sun was setting, and I left that day, unfamiliar with the way things used to be.

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IMPRESSIONS

LivingGreek The world saw Greece in blue and white. Blue water and white sandy beaches, blue roofs and white washed houses, blue and white stripes on the country’s flag. Always blue and white, never gray like dirt, or red like blood.

Unfortunately, about five years ago, these two colors were squeezed onto Greece’s color pallete. In 2008, a Greek teenager was killed by two police officers in Exarcheia, a neighborhood of downtown Athens. The shooting and the violence that resulted from it took on a life of their own in the media; you couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing black-masked youths and burning cars. The capital city of the beautiful country of Greece had turned from an emblem of cultural prominence to a flaming mess of discontent. Athens’ public image never fully recovered. Video footage of riots continued to run on a loop throughout much of the next few years. Athens remained firmly on the do-not-travel list.

Unfortunately, this was not the end of bad press for Greece. In the past several years, Greece has suffered an extremely public and

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severe financial crisis. An increase in spending after adopting the Euro, coupled with the concealment of debt and tax evasion led to one of the largest financial crisis in history.

The forced reduction of government spending has lead to thousands of layoffs and an even weaker economy, further hurting Greek citizens and creating even more unrest in Athens.

“Athens is gritty, in a way that gets on your clothes and in your lungs and never really leaves” The interesting part of the story is that protests and riots are nothing new to Athens.

Embedded in the Athenian identity is the right to protest, whether it be about government policies, election results, or a government workers desire for a higher salary. Protests are actually announced; one can look

By Sarah Wilker Photos by Sarah Wilker and Krithi Bala at a schedule of protests for the week, and police shut down roads for protesters almost every day. Multiple days a week groups of people gather in Syntagma Square, in front of the Greek Parliament building. Sometimes they stay there, walking back and forth down Leuf Vasilissis Amalias, holding their signs and shouting every ten minutes or so. Others times they begin to march, turning right past the Parliament building onto Leof Vasilissis Sophias, marching past numerous embassies until they’ve said their piece. Then they turn down a side street, heading for home.

Athens was my home from early September to late December. Approximately seventy American students arrived just as the summer ended and took up residence in the working class residential neighborhood of Pangrati.

Class was held on the acropolis, and dinner was always family style and usually over three hours. Yet for me, this was not the best part of studying abroad in Greece. For me, the best part was Athens.

Athens is not at all beautiful, at least in

IMPRESSIONS

a traditional sense. White washed buildings and sandy beaches do not belong in Athens; in fact, about eighty percent of the images one finds in a travel book of Greece have nothing to do with Athens at all. The remaining twenty percent belongs to the Acropolis, the treasure of Greek archaeology and the symbol of the city’s historical glory. And it really is something, to look out your window and see the Parthenon, all lit up against the smog filled sky, a treasure among the trash.

The streets of downtown Athens are covered in half smoked cigarettes, candy wrappers, and liquor bottles. The stones of Syntagma Square are coated in a layer of dirt, perpetually needing to be swept and never ever clean.

Kids and adults alike, out of work and out of school, sit along the low walls of the Monastiraki metro stop, eating tiropita or souvlaki, talking to one another in a language so different from English that it swirled aimlessly around my ears, only a few words able

to move past the point of pleasant noise and into the realm of understanding.

Athens is gritty, in a way that gets on your clothes and in your lungs and never really leaves. It is unabashed, a realest in the face of its own identity, one of those rare places that’s comfortable being both beautiful and horrifically ugly at the same time. I walked everywhere I could in downtown Athens, winding my way through the streets for hours every day, listening to the sounds of traffic and the Greek language roar in my ears so often they became white noise. I walked until I could get anywhere without a map, using the Acropolis as my compass for the city, familiar graffiti more helpful than street signs. To love Athens is to love its heavy air, its uneven streets, its after-hours shadows. To love Athens is to love walking late at night, seeing the city when all the glow of sun is gone, quieter but never truly silent. The more smog I inhaled the more I loved it, the dirt-

ier my clothes got the happier I was to wear them. Unrest was not a detriment to my Athens experience; it was a crucial piece of the city’s identity.

This is not to say that times in Athens aren’t hard. The city is still struggling financially; more and more people lose their jobs every week, and protestors continue to line up in front of the Parliament building. But to love anything, including a city, is to love it for its strengths and its weaknesses, its beauty and its ugly. To love Athens is to love the writhing mass of people trying to live their lives atop the dirty ruins of classical glory. To love Athens is to love a city so much that you know all its flaws and still would do anything to go back. I loved Athens more deeply than I have ever loved another place in the world.

Syntagma Square is still covered with a gray film of dirt, and there’s a part of me that hopes it always will be.

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FULL THROTTLE ADVENTURE ON THE DUNES OF MOROCCO Article and Photos by Ava Van Der Meer There’s something a little unnerving about waking up to the glare of the hot Moroccan sun filtering through a tent of thickly woven fabric. It’s as if you’ve woken up to another dream, and have to readjust to a reality stranger than invention. But there I was, in the Erg Chebbi Dunes of the Sahara, twenty-two miles south of the city of Erfoud, where my dad had the brilliant idea of taking us on ATV-ing.

Brilliant as in we had never been on ATVs before, let alone on fifty-foot, wind-blown sand dunes. They towered above us, one of the two largest groups of dunes, or ergs, in Morocco. Scintillating and majestic, it was difficult to even accept their existence when juxtaposed next to our meager campsite. Not to mention, they were the same dunes featured in such movies as The Mummy and Prince of Persia.

To add to the brilliance of my father’s plan, the guides did not speak a word of English. To be fair, they didn’t speak the indecipherable Berber tongue of the native people, either. With their diverse ethnic backgrounds, the semi-nomadic Berbers were difficult for even other locals to understand. However, the Arabic inflictions of the Spanish guides left me in a confused daze, struggling to recall my fifth grade Spanish skills. Their dark turbans cast

long shadows over their faces, collaborating with their robes to shield their skin from the already penetrating sun. It was almost comical how out of place we looked next to them in our street clothes and multi-colored helmets. After grabbing a quick breakfast of coffee, bread, cheese, and honey, we set out into the sand and sun. Immediately something should have clicked that this was not the best of ideas or safest plan he had ever concocted, but, being all too trusting, I soon got saddled in my very own four-wheeled power machine. The thing with ATVs in sand is you can’t slow down—slow means lost traction, means the potential to slip backwards and completely flip into a heap of metal and skin.

The guides made sure to signal this to us, acting out the consequences in a series of frenzied hand motions. However, they neglected to touch upon the dangers of going too fast, wherein the bike takes on a life of its own.

I tried my best to trail right behind my parents, following the incoherent guides every twist and turn. My main focuses were trying not to slip down the dunes and staying diligently on the dune crests as if I was surfing golden waves. It was beautiful, exhilarating, tiring, and surprisingly enjoyable. I raced up one hill and down the next, heart pounding as I tried to force all that could go wrong

from my mind. My hands gripped the handlebars as I floored up a steep 35-foot dune, watching my breath steam up the inside of the helmet. Faster and faster, I heard the bike roar beneath me, felt my hands refuse to let off the gas for fear of slipping backwards. And then I unknowingly hit one sandy crest. Hard. Before I could think twice, I was flying off the other side of the dune.

The next few moments seemed to go by like a stop-motion video, as I clawed myself away from the bulk of the ATV that was rolling on top of me as we hurtled down the dune together. I vaguely remember my mom screaming my name, and crushing feeling of the bike hitting my helmet, before I yanked my body free from the frame and tumbled to a stop.

My body was shaking, mind reeling, palms sweating in the gloves.

My helmet was cracked, and yet I was in one piece. Safe. Scared witless, but safe nonetheless.

Later as we were huddled together for warmth in the cold desert night, I realized how close I could have been to finding myself in a fatal accident, trapped miles away from a suitable hospital in the middle of a desert. True, I had a few bruises, bloody scrapes, and a splitting headache, but I was fully functional and even little proud. I, a California high school girl, had ridden an ATV up insanely steep sand dunes without the slightest bit of direction, and continued to survive hurtling ten feet off the ground through air and sand. Smiling contentedly, I proceeded to eat the daily tagine dish, a meal cooked in an earthen, tent-shaped pot over coals.

The moon soon rose over the oasis and the silver dunes cradled our little campsite. Like that, my adventure faded into the thick, cultural history of the desert.

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IMPRESSIONS

From East to West:

Kyoto, Japan | Hannah Rosenfeld

Bangkok, Thailand | Jackie Duhl

Budapest, Hungary | Hannah Rosenfeld

Florence, Italy | Charlene You

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Architecture Around the World

Kathmandu, Nepal | Chris Nagle Cuzco, Peru | Sarah Witt

Barcelona, Spain | Yasmin Meleis Washington D.C. | Hannah Rosenfeld stampedmag.com

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IMPRESSIONS

All By Myself

Experince the wonders of Europe with the best company- me, myself, and I. Article and photos by Alexis Krushell “Sorry, hon! Something’s come up with your dad’s work, and we’re not gonna be able to meet you in Europe for the holidays. Looks like you’re going to be spending Christmas and New Years by yourself.”

I was overcome by a wave of panic. My family had been scheduled to meet me in Paris only days later, and I was counting down to the impending upgrade from a hostel bed to a hotel room, and to the end of stuffing hard-boiled eggs into my pockets during “free breakfast” to save on food-money (which undeniably received a lot of awkward glances when pulled out during tours). After overcoming the initial shock at the idea of being stranded in Europe alone, the predicament seemed to serve as a final test necessary to overcome in order to accomplish a genuine abroad experience. After convincing a roommate to spend an extra week with me, a testament to the sense of spontaneity one inevitably acquires during semester abroad, it was settled: Christmas and New Years

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would be celebrated away from home.

Following some thorough research, (read: Google-imaging a handful of European capitals), Bern, Switzerland was selected as the Christmas destination.

Only days later, we had dropped off our bags at the hostel and were strolling to the town center to enjoy a well-balanced meal of hot wine and freshly made caramel in the Christmas markets. Having exhausted our plans, the next logical activity seemed to be a visit to the tourist center to learn what would be open on Christmas Eve and Christmas day. Not much, they admitted. However, the Bärengraben, or “bear pit,” where the brown bears of Bern reside, would be open for the remainder of Christmas Eve. The bears were unfortunately hibernating, but the small museum next to their “pit”, (actually a fenced off field), proved interesting, and the brewery next to it even more so. The afternoon was spent drinking a local pint, and relishing a breathtaking view of the city that resembled a Disney rendering

of a Christmas village. Although it wasn’t the same as being curled by a fire in the company of family, the evening was a satisfying alternative.

Along the meander back to the hostel, a whir of music and chatter emanated from one of the few restaurants that had remained open- Desperado, a Mexican restaurant and bar. Cheers-ing margaritas over a plate of nachos with someone you’ve only known for a few months might not be the typical way to spend the 24th, but the experience seemed to solidify the sense of independence that one hopes to achieve after a semester in a foreign country. The ugly-sweater party at club Wankdorf was the main hype of bar conversation, and our plans for the night were determined.

True to European-form, the club-goers arrived around 1am, many of whom clearly suffering from an overdose of “family time” that could only be cured with alcohol.

Christmas Eve was thus spent dancing to Euro-pop in a haze of fake snow and strobe lights.

IMPRESSIONS

The following day, rather than waking up to a barrage of presents, we found ourselves on a train to Lausanne, a small city nestled in the Alps and adjacent to Lake Geneva. An hour later, the train began approaching the city and its passengers crammed their noses to the windows in order to fully appreciate the breathtaking view of snow tipped mountains reflected onto the crystal expanse of the lake. This sense of awe faded, however, with the realization that, once again, we had made absolutely no plans. While huddling over a map of Lausanne, waving our phones haphazardly in an attempt to use the compass tool, and resenting the contagiousness of the French laissez-faire attitude, a middle-aged man

approached us.

“Qu’est-ce que vous cherchez? What are you looking for?”

I jumped on the opportunity to ask for directions to the town center. The man, Maurice, said that he was on his way there, and on the walk explained that his son was celebrating Christmas with his girlfriend and his wife was working; we bonded over the peculiar sentiment of spending the holidays away from family. Maurice, a math professor at the University of Lausanne, demonstrated his teaching skills as he toured us around the city for the next couple of hours, giving mini-lectures on the history of various buildings and churches. The tour was completed in a small café, with a pitchet of

locally fermented wine made from grapes that grew on the mountains across the lake. After finishing the last sip, Maurice thanked us for spending the afternoon with him, and continued on his way.

That night back in Bern, my roommate and I pondered over our good fortune of meeting Maurice as we dipped chunks of toast into a steaming pot of cheese fondue. While the day may not have been spent opening gifts with family members, strolling the streets of an Alpine town with a pseudo-tour guide seemed like a much more appropriate ending to an incredible semester- and there was still New Years to look forward to.

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AHLAN WA SAHALAN

IMPRESSIONS

DISCOVERING THE MYSTERIES OF JORDAN

Article and photos by Sarah Shihadah

T

he desert air gently warmed my stiff joints as I deplaned at Queen Alia International Airport after thirteen hours of flight.

Although my arrival in Jordan had taken place after domestic unrest in Syria derailed my original summer plans, I was nonetheless eager to spend the next three months in Amman. As I entered the terminal to purchase my twenty-dinar (~30 dollar) visa, a tall, curly-haired security officer greeted me in Arabic, “Ahlan wa sahalan.”

Translated most often as “welcome,” the phrase draws from two words— “family” and “comfort/ease.” Essentially, this traditional greeting expresses, “Come

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in, and may you feel at ease as if you were among family.”

“Ahlan bekum,” I responded, with what was probably a too-wide smile— despite my Arab heritage, my conspicuous blonde hair means I am more likely to be greeted in English or broken French than Arabic.

A few moments later I emerged, stamped passport in hand, into the welcome hall. The wide, tiled room was filled with the clamor of about thirty Jordanians who had gathered to welcome two of their own returning from a honeymoon. Arabic love ballads blared from a stereo balanced between two young men in dark-washed jeans, while a cluster

of older women ululated and friends swarmed the newlyweds with warm embraces. My grin widening, I scanned the hall, spotting a short man in a dark green suit jacket holding a sign with my name. As I weave my way through the spirited crowd, he greets my appearance with a smile. “Ahlan wa sahlan.”

My time in Jordan flowed along the contours of this welcoming spirit, as my hosts embodied this invitation to create a sense of belonging in a strange place. I found myself dining often in the homes of my instructors and Arab colleagues, packing around noisy, fragrant tables alongside their children to enjoy elaborate meals of mensuf (lamb cooked in yogurt sauce), makloubeh (roasted chicken, fried eggplant, and spiced rice), or diwali (stuffed grape leaves). While I spent some weekends with fellow ex-pats on the entertaining but slightly-contrived club scene of Rainbow Street, I passed many more with Jordanian and Palestinian friends over tea and argileh (hookah) at one of the many nameless cafes throughout the city.

These interactions, which improved my Arabic and perfected my handgestures, occurred spontaneously at nearly every venue imaginable. Whether indulging in yet another plate kanafeh— the region’s most irresistible dessert of sweet, rich cheese and syrup-soaked crust—or cabbing back from visiting Byzantine ruins, even the most casual or professional encounters quickly slid into warm, personal exchanges. “Why are you here? Why do you study Arabic? That is

amazing, mashallah! What does your brother do? Are you married? What do you think of Obama?” As we spoke, these questions slowly knit understanding from our colliding curiosities. More than sharing a vocabulary, I was learning to see what others saw—in me, in their world— and I was honored. Ahlan wa sahalan.

I developed great rapport with a few of the cooks at Hashem’s, a restaurant famous with tourists and “locals” alike as the holy grail of hole-in-the-wall cuisine.

I spent many evenings at one of the plastic tables that spilled from the openair restaurant onto the narrow sidewalk, scooping creamy hummus into my mouth while discussing the unfolding events of the Arab Spring. Waiters and fellow diners often chimed in with their own opinions, initiating a spontaneous political forum over our falafel. Later, laden with a heavy meal and churning thoughts, I'd walk part of the way home, passing Roman ruins and boot-leg DVD shops on the way.

“We have the latest,” shopkeepers cooed.

“Come look, ahlan wa sahalan.”

While life in Amman lends itself to pleasant routine, much of the country remains untamed. Modern Jordan has many of its roots in the nearlytimeless presence of Bedouin culture, and a widespread ethic of environmental respect permeates even in the cities.

My classmates and I took advantage of Jordan’s extensive network of nature reserves, hiking through the pristine and bio-dense Dana Valley outside Amman. A short drive from the bustling city center brought us to the Dead Sea,

where we spent a day caking our bodies with pungent clay. Later that summer, I encountered the wild beauty of the southern desert at Wadi Rum, or “Moon Valley.” Here, my companions and I slept in tents beneath an impossibly wide and quiet sky, perching on mesa-like hills at sunset and finding renewal vast gold expanse around us. Ahlan wa sahalan, our guide murmured to us as we returned from our hike. He bent intently over a small stack of firewood, coaxing a flame from the brittle fragments while night draped itself around us.

On one of my final evenings in Jordan, I accompanied a dear friend to his favorite lookout atop one of the many hills that encircle Amman. Over our several months of friendship, I’d grown close with his many sisters, nieces, nephews, and friends, enfolded in the warmth of their seamless sense of family.

Below us, towns, orchards, and refugee camps sprawled across the gently sloping hills. As we surveyed the purple-orange hues of the summer sunset, he pointed out the distant cluster of twinkling lights on the other side of the Jordan Valley.

“From here we can see Palestine,” he explained. I gazed in the direction of his finger and wondered at the different shades of “home.”

I blinked, I thanked him, “for everything.”

A faint chill in the breeze carried thoughts of autumn through the air.

“Ahlan wa sahalan, sister.” stampedmag.com

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