I read some facts and figures about the Itaipu Dam that simply boggled my mind:
- The construction of the Itaipu Dam, for which 50 million tons of rock were moved, took 16 years [1975-1991].
- The dam is 643 feet high and almost 5 miles long.
- The plant has 20 generators, which altogether have a capacity of 14,000 megawatts.
- The construction of the dam cost 25 billion US dollars.
- The dam supplies 90% of Paraguay’s energy and 25% of Brazil’s electric power.
Truth be told, I couldn’t wrap my head around such numbers. Continue reading
Can you imagine walking among thousands of rats without freaking out? I couldn’t, but I did, anyway, in the Karni Mata Temple. 
In 1873 Colonel Simião Jurumenha bought a sugarcane farm and built the cachaça factory of Douradinho in Redenção, some 80 kilometers south of Fortaleza in northeast Brazil. Ten years later slavery was abolished here, 5 years before the rest of Brazil. 130 years later, I visit the still functioning factory-cum-museum and am impressed by how well the images of those first ten years have been kept alive. 
Running through a town? What kind of way of exploring a place is that, you may ask. Did I get to see anything at all? Yes, I did. In fact, running was exactly what made my visit to the colonial town of Goiás Velha memorable. 
We should have come with a guide, we realized in hindsight. Nobody spoke English. We had been convinced our taxi driver had understood we wanted to visit a silk factory. However, when we walked through the doorway we realized we had ended up at a carpet factory. 
From our apartment I looked out over the beach, the mouth of the lagoon and the ocean. During the morning hours it was quiet. A fisherman might be returning with his catch or somebody was going for a stroll along the shore. Somewhere after 11 am tranquility transformed into hustle and bustle, as if a silent alarm had gone off. 
The goal of our Hindu pilgrimage is almost in sight: an ice stalagmite. A holy one, mind you. I flop down on an ice-cold stone and vigorously rub my feet that have turned blue and lost all feeling after I climbed stone steps without number in subzero temperatures. Barefoot, that is. 
With over 50,000 people selling and buying, the Sunday Market in Kasghar is the biggest in China. Its origin goes back to the golden age of the Silk Route when delegations from all different empires came here to trade. Today guidebooks highlight the market as one of northwest China’s ‘must-sees’. Our expectations were high. 
Hexagonal tiles of salt stretch to the horizon hemmed in by bluish mountains. The crunching of salt crystals beneath my feet sounds like stepping on fresh snow. I’m encompassed by total silence in an otherworldly spectacle that is largely devoid of life. 
Two Aymara shamans are building a bonfire and laying out offerings for good health and fortune: a dried lama fetus and sugar tablets depicting a house, moneybags and other symbols of wealth and health. Dressed in bright-colored ponchos and woolen headdresses, the amautas walk about in a circle formed by devotees and a couple of foreigners. They interrupt their preparations by calling onto Pachamama (mother earth) and Pachakama (the universe) to bless the New Year. 
Girls dressed up as pink, white and blue angels, choirboys in purple outfits, women wrapped in red shawls, men dressed in white carrying lanterns, candles or a staff. All have their role and place in the annual procession to commemorate Corpus Christi. 
Tiger footprints. We stop in our tracks. Excitement rises. Our guide kneels and studies them, and concludes they are old ones. Disillusion comes with a hidden sense of relief. There is a gun-carrying guard with us, but still.