Sand sittin’…star gazin’

I could have viewed the photos for the nth times, but since good memories aren’t confined to photos alone, I consider my sunburn as another reminder of the good time that was. No stones left unturned and no sand left un-stirred as warm bodies get warmer under the summer sun. Muscles were flexed while rowing (trying hard) along the sandy coast safeguarded by rocks that looked scary with their pointed edges. I could have viewed the photos once more, and more, and more. But then again, good memories aren’t a monopoly of a pause, smile, click, before my Canon.

Sore muscles, obviously overstretched from the occasional swimming and boating and walking, are reminders of how well I ate, drank (coke, usually), and became merry. With the star-studded night and pants wet from sitting on the sand, I couldn’t ask for more except that good times don’t last. Not forever. But anyhow, I learned about sea creatures (that ended up in the dinner table) and lamented about dead corals. I learned to make the sea my playground…albeit, short-lived. I learned about people. I learned about vignettes of life in that coastal town that gave me good memories to remember.

Juan was here

With tours, I learned that what competes with amazing artifacts is not another amazing artifact. It's the photo ops, the never ending poses and self-choreographed blocking. Tourists, remained simply like that, tourists. Not learners, not heritage enthusiasts. Not even amateur art critics nor folk hero supporters. Not even just a curious group eager to know what makes the collective past significant. What makes stories interesting, what makes people unique.

Seemingly most tours end up as purveyors of picture-taking bunch of warm bloods competing for space in any corner conceivable. Objectives 1,2 and 3 - immortalize a face no matter how skewed, how under exposed, how badly composed the photo will end up to be. I pity museums. Seemingly, they no longer become an avenue for historical interest, for knowledge acquisition, for wanting to know cultural identities. They turned out to be just another backdrop, another evidence for "Juan was here."