Somewhere between Vox & Hunter S. Thompson
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City + Hood
Landing in Havana was, in some ways, surreal for me. This city had been cloaked political taboo for so long that it occupied a mostly theoretical space in my mind. Seeing rural Cuba fly by as we made our landing in Jose Martí Airport removed this cloak quickly and unceremoniously. Despite all the build-up this trip had had, all I could think about was how surreal it was to finally be in this country.
“Cuba. Here it is. It’s real. And I’m in it.”
Ísafjörður [ees – ah – fyur – thur] is the capital of the Westfjords, which are a remote Icelandic province in the far northeastern reaches of the country. It translates to something like “Ice Fjord,” which is pretty fitting, and a shining example of Iceland's love for hyper-literal names. Today we’ll begin by talking about the Westfjords as a whole, but first, some clerical housekeeping…
Waking up in Dhaka I hear the ringing of bells on rickshaws, people yelling, and dogs barking. I am staying on the 9th floor of an office building that rises high over the slums on Dhaka’s southwestern outskirts. I look out the window, and I can see a rainstorm blowing in from the south. The Muslim call to prayer eerily wafts over the half-finished buildings all around me from the local mosques.
When I got to the ticketing counter for Tiger Air, I told the woman at the counter that I was traveling to Yangon. She looked skeptical. “You’re traveling to Yangon? Really?” she said, squinting.
“Uhh… yes?” I replied groggily.
I was required to go through security twice before I got on my flight (the second time at the gate) and when I finally did, the plane was only about 1/3rd full. It was not a smooth flight, so while I’m white-knuckling my seat, let me fill you in on Burma really quick.
