In mid July every year, all over Mongolia, business in the boomtown capital of Ulaanbaatar and in the tiny towns dotting the country comes to a standstill — as day laborers, miners, shopkeepers and almost every man, woman, and child head to their yurts to prepare for the Naadam Festival.
(Photo: Mark Fischer/Flickr)
New Orleans is a drinking city. From the oldest bar in America, to legally being able to take your drink outside in a “go cup,” to drive-through daiquiris, and the invention of the Sazerac cocktail, NOLA is all about booze culture. But where to go? The city is packed with bars, so on my recent visit with my dog Karl, I checked out quite a few — and now present the top three spots. Continue reading
When one thinks of hazing, one usually thinks of college fraternities and sororities. But, my friends, the American Greek system has nothing on the Mongolian nomads.
During my trip to Outer Mongolia this summer, I learned about the Nomad Code — which, according to my guide, Timur Yadamsuren from Intrepid Travel, is basically, if anyone rolls up on your door, you have to give them food, drink, and shelter. “If you don’t, they might not survive. And the next time you are traveling, they will give you shelter — or you might not survive.”
The road trip started off so well… and sober.
Related: How to be a True Nomad: Milking Camels in Mongolia
My crew and I called on this Nomad Code outside of the Singing Sand Dunes in the Southern part of the country, with a friendly ger (yurt) family headed by Ankhaa. We were quickly joined by his curious neighbors. But Timur had neglected to tell us about Mongolian hospitality — or, as Americans might call it, hazing.
The local poison sold at every kwickie mart in the country. Photo credit: Richard Hirst/Flickr.
After eating camel milk curd, drinking camel milk tea, and then milking said camels to replenish the liquids we had downed, my crew and I were about to go on our way when we remembered the bottles of vodka we had bought for presents to give out to helpful families during our road trip. Our host Ankhaa and his neighbors definitely qualified, so we whipped out a bottle of Chingghis Khan vodka for the families.
What we didn’t realize is that if you present a bottle, you are also expected to drink it with the host. We also were unaware that Mongolian “shots” are soup bowls, and you are expected to down it in one go … and that you cannot have just one.
My producer Nicola with her fifth bowl of vodka. Togtoy!
This summer, I fulfilled a lifelong dream: visiting Mongolia. I’d read about Genghis Khan and his conquests for years and had always wanted to visit — a bucket list dream come true, if you will. I decided to do a road trip, as, 800 years after the Great Khan died, over one-third of the population still leads a nomadic lifestyle, living in gers (yurts), with their cattle (camels, cows, goats, and yaks) roaming the fields outside. Not much has changed over the years except for the method of transportation. In the older days, the ger would be wrapped up and put on a camel’s back for the move to fertile fields, while today, it is loaded up on a truck.
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My chariot on the ultimate Mongolian road trip — an old-school, soviet-style van with no shocks and no seat belts. (Photo: Paula Froelich)
And, as there are few hotels outside of the capital, Ulaanbaatar, one must rely on the Nomad Code to survive. Which basically means rolling up on an unsuspecting family and asking to spend the night.
My guide, Timor from Intrepid Travel, explained.
“If someone comes to your door, you must give them food and shelter,” Timor said. “Or they might not survive. And the next time you are traveling, they will give you shelter — or you might not survive.”
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Welcome. Yurts, or gers, like this are seen throughout the country. (Photo: Paula Froelich)
The first ger we rolled up to was outside of the singing sand dunes. It had been a long day and I had climbed a 50-meter-high sand dune. I was hungry, dirty, and tired. Thankfully, Ankhaa, the owner of the yurt, was hospitable.
Ankhaa in his ger, looking very Jean Paul Gaultier. (Photo: Paula Froelich)
According to Cajun legend, deep in the Louisiana Swamp is the Rougarou — a large, werewolf-like half-man, half-beast creature who preys on people who venture too far into its terrain.
Photo (modified) by Angie Garrett/Flickr. Design by Lauren DeLuca for Yahoo Travel.
Regarding this legendary beast, History.com says, “The Cajun legend of the Rougarou can take on multiple forms. Originally derived from French stories of the ‘loup-garu,’ or ‘wolf man,’ the monster is most commonly described as a bayou-dwelling werewolf with glowing red eyes and razor-sharp teeth. The beast is usually said to be a cursed man who must shed another’s blood in order to break its spell and reassume human form, but the tale varies according to the teller. In some versions, the Rougarou can turn its victims just by locking eyes with them; in others, it takes the form of a dog or pig rather than a wolf. Still others paint it as a shape shifter that can assume different human and animal forms at will. Because it can switch its appearance so easily, some even conflate the creature with the legendary Skunk Ape of southeastern U.S. swamp lore. In most Louisiana parishes, the Rougarou myth is employed as a kind of cautionary tale. Children are told that the fiend will come for them if they don’t behave, and Catholics are warned that it hunts down those who break Lent.”
A rougarou on display at the Audubon Zoo in New Orleans. (Photo: praline3001/Flickr)
Since I was in that neck of the woods, I decided to try and see it for myself and check out another supposedly tall tale — the ginormous DinoGator, an alligator that measures up to 50 feet long. Think Lake Placid on steroids.
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Ready for my monsters.
I love Americana. The Big Ball of String versus the Largest Ball of Twine? Yes please! Every state has its oddities and awesomeness. Texas has The Beer Can House in Houston, Washington has the ginormous Milk Bottles in Spokane, California has the Cabazon Dinosaur statues, Oregon has the largest Paul Bunyon statue and Louisiana has… the Abita Mystery House.
On the road from New Orleans, LA, to Biloxi, MS, is the small town of Abita Springs, where John Preble set up his popular and odd roadside attraction, the Abita Mystery House.
The entry to the Abita Mystery House.
Open for over 15 years, the “Mystery House” – also known as the UCM Museum, is a maze of buildings, starting with a vintage gas station (now a gift shop – more on that later), a hot sauce house that is home to every kind of hot sauce in the world (supposedly), and an exhibition hall which houses miniature small town scenes that poke fun at traditional Southern life including Mardi Gras parades, UFO landings, alligator wrestlers, Carnivals and more.
But the real precious items are in the House of Shards – where real live carnival exhibits, once seen on the road and believed by millions to be genuine artifacts are on display.
The original Merman!
Mixed in with a huge “Bassigator” (a fearsome looking half bass, half alligator animal that needs to appear in a SciFi movie stat), and a “real life UFO landing!” that consists of an airstream trailer with aliens plotting world destruction on the inside, are the old time fortune telling booths. Pop in a quarter and you get your fortune – which usually exhorts you to spend more money, naturally.
Leroy has some serious chompers.
When many people think of Hurricane Katrina, they think of New Orleans — but the Big Easy wasn’t the only place devastated by the storm. Ten years ago, right as the hurricane came ashore, it made a sharp right turn and headed straight for the Mississippi Gulf Coast — plowing into towns like Pass Christian, Ocean Springs, and Biloxi.
Few people in Ocean Springs, Miss., expected Katrina to be so strong.
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Donna Brown, the hero of Ocean Springs, Mississippi. Photo: Mario Framingheddu.
“We’d lived through other hurricanes before,” Donna Brown, the manager of the Gulf Hills Hotel, said. “But, as the hotel is on high ground, we always were full during the storm alerts from neighbors. Every room was full that night. But nobody expected it to be as bad as it was.”
The Gulf Hills Hotel, which housed over 300 people after Hurricane Katrina. During the storm, the entire golf course and everything surrounding the hotel — with the exception of the hotel itself — were underwater. (Photo: Courtesy of Gulf Hills Hotel)
As the water started to rise, Brown ordered everybody inside. During the major surge — with a wall of water coming toward the hotel and everything surrounded — she saw a family struggling to survive.
“It was a family from down the hill,” Brown said. “Four elderly adults and two dogs in a small boat. One man was trying to lead the boat, the dogs were in the boat, and the others were hanging off the boat.”
Brown quickly organized a human chain and dragged the people to safety.
“They stayed with us for months,” Brown said.
The banquet hall normally hosted weddings, but more than 120 people slept on its floor for over three months after Katrina. People slept on old blankets at first, until Walmart donated pallets and cots. Because it wasn’t a designated shelter, the Red Cross and government agencies wouldn’t donate supplies. (Photo: Courtesy of Gulf Hills Hotel)
Tucked away in the Lower Ninth Ward, just blocks from where the levee broke, is a unique museum, even for New Orleans. Located in a building in the back of 1317 Tupelo Street is the House of Dance & Feathers — a rough-and-tumble museum dedicated to the Mardi Gras Indian tribes. Founded by Ronald Lewis, the head of the Choctaws, the museum is full of feathered headdresses, intricately beaded chest plates, glittery costumes and, in the corner, a case of water worn shoes, that, despite the wear, still hold their fabulousness.
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“Those were my shoes that were all ruined by Katrina,” Lewis said. “Ostrich, alligator — thousands of dollars of my good shoes just ruined. I used to wear them during the parades, but now I place them there to remind people of what was lost. They’re still too nice to throw away.”
Lewis hand-beaded this chest plate and saved it from Katrina.
Ten years ago when Katrina hit, Lewis’ home and museum were covered in flood waters.
“I lost pretty much everything that I didn’t take with me,” he said. “I grabbed these beaded works and a few other things, and my wife and I fled. When I came back it was all gone.”
Lewis and his wife spent almost a year with family in Thibideaux, La., before coming back to New Orleans and rebuilding from the ground up — with help from “the great people of America.” Lewis, like many families in the Ninth Ward, didn’t receive direct compensation from the government or the Red Cross. “Fortunately, I was on NPR and so donations came in,” he said. “Don’t get me started on the government ‘funds’ or the Red Cross.” He shakes his head. “I don’t like to dwell on bad feelings.”
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Just last month, Lewis finally put the finishing touches on his house and museum.
Ronald outside his museum. (Photo: House of Dance & Feathers)
“I’m trying to keep this culture alive. It started in slavery, when the slaves were allowed out on Sundays — the only day they could congregate — to Congo square and they would beat the drums with the Indians. We learned form the Indians and started our own tribes — which march in Mardi Gras and in weekly parades from September to May.”
For two and a half weeks in late spring every year, Sydney takes over the mantle of City of Light (sorry, Paris). The city-wide Vivid Light festival transforms Sydney “into a wonderland of ‘light art’ sculptures, innovative light installations, and grand-scale projections for all to enjoy — for free,” promises the website. “It is a magical celebration of light-design excellence and the world’s largest outdoor ‘art-gallery’: a unique Vivid Sydney experience.”
And it is wild. The facades of public buildings appear to come alive — taken over by (video) vines and (projections of) the ocean. Forests of fluorescent trees sprout up by the waterfront and musical steps that rival that famous scene in the movie Big are everywhere.
It is magical, transformative, and fun. If you’ve ever wanted to go to Australia, book your ticket for the end of May so you can check out Vivid. It is worth every free penny.
The Australian Outback is a lot like the American West — vast, beautiful, and lonely. Animals outnumber the people about 500 to one (depending on your source), and everywhere you look are canyons, deserts, and flat. Lots of flat … and a never-ending sky. But Australia’s outback is about 10 times larger than the American West — and millions of years older.
Once, around 350 million years ago, much of the Australian Outback was covered by a huge inland sea. Today, nothing is left of that ocean except huge salt flats that dot the landscape around Uluru (formerly known as Ayers Rock), Kata Tjuta, and Mount Conner — the three most recognizable features in the Outback.
The wide-open landscape of the Australian Outback. (Photo: Paula Froelich)
Unlike Uluru or Kata Tjuta, Mount Conner, while still considered sacred by the local Aboriginal people, lies in the middle of a million-acre cattle farm owned by the Severin family. (The land was privatized in 1938, and all Aboriginals were moved off. But because Mount Conner isn’t as sacred as the other sites in the area, no one has come to claim it, so the land remains in private hands.) Located off the Peterman highway, a one-lane dirt road, many people call it “Fool-uru” because of its similarities to Uluru and its history.
“Back in the day, people would come from Alice Springs on the Peterman Highway — it was the only road out here from Alice Springs for years — and they would see Mount Conner and say, ‘Oh! Uluru!’, and turn around and go back home,” my friend and guide Stacy Beswisk laughed. “Many people never actually saw Uluru.”
These days, only the Severin family members have access to the top of Mount Conner (the youngest son was married there several years ago) but, as with Uluru, the drive around it is spectacular.
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Mummified bug in the salt lake. (Photo: Paula Froelich)
Even more interesting is Lake Swanson, also on the ranch but about 10 miles away from Mount Conner.
Surrounded by salt bush and a few desert oaks, which Beswisk estimates are around 450 years old, the huge salt lake is all that’s left of the inland ocean.
“They used to mine salt here,” Beswisk said. “No more. … Now you can’t take it out of the country.”