Chee-che-RAW-nee: a casual field-sociology of tour guides | PopAnth - Hot Buttered Humanity
Search Home Sections Archaeology Contemporary Culture Language and Communication The Human Body Reviews Books and Films Multimedia Presentations Interesting burlap texture Blogs About What on Earth is PopAnth? burlap texture History of the PopAnth Project Contribute to PopAnth Submit burlap texture Here PopPeople Contact Us Community PopAnth Forums PopAnth @ Open Anthropology Cooperative
C hee-che-WHAT? Try Anglicized sis-uh-ROE-nee (rhymes with macaroni). Better? The cicerone burlap texture is the traditional European tour guide, from the era of the original Cook’s tour , the fellow hoisting his trademark umbrella so as to be located among the throng for the benefit of his little flock of wide-eyed tourists. The title derives from none other than famed Cicero (KICK-er-o burlap texture to his contemporaries), because the stereotypical European tour guide ostensibly pretended burlap texture to comparable insight and grandiloquence (at least in Italy).
As recently as the 1980s, the cicerone, complete with umbrella, was alive and well in England in the case of my own experience, he was (fittingly) an Italian bloke. However, his recitations at various stops were, to my ear, more pedestrian (we were all afoot, of course) than Ciceronian. And before we, the tourists, were discharged from the bus at prepaid-tour’s end, we were rather sternly admonished that gratuities not only were permitted, but also expected (full stop). Under orders, I chipped burlap texture in albeit rather sternly.
Although the umbrella-branded ciceroni may have gone extinct where they once were de rigueur (I don’t travel enough to know), I think it worthwhile out of curiosity morbid or otherwise to examine virtual cicerones (tour guides sans umbrella) operating elsewhere, with a view toward possible discovery of shared traits. I resort burlap texture here, then, to some of my experiences (such as they are) with travel guides of other descriptions and other places.
To Peshawar, burlap texture Pakistan, where once I hired car and driver (one Mohammad) for an excursion into the Swat valley (of subsequent Taliban infamy and Malala fame), where I anticipated seeing a statue of Babe Ruth, “Sultan of Swat.” (Not really.) Mohammad, clad in army olive-drab, was after a time at pains to disclose his personal misfortunes: first the sad tale of his erstwhile home being shelled in Afghanistan, then, later (the first tale apparently having evoked too little hand-wringing), the accidental burlap texture electrocution of his one and only son (which event he somehow rattled off sans both context and emotion).
I detected burlap texture in these forthcomings burlap texture not a little unflattering affectation, extending to prevarication, and Mohammad’s demeanor generally was somewhat haughty, in consequence of which his terminal gratuity in Islamabad was, I’m afraid, something less than his likely expectation, as evinced by a somewhat burlap texture spiteful look of resignation.
In Lahore, my intended self-guided look at the miserably dilapidated and untended Shalimar Garden, of erstwhile Mughal splendor, was interrupted by a freelance gentleman in (second-hand?) suit, who made so bold as to very forwardly introduce himself, style himself a guide by desperation, and to explain gratuitously his undeserved dislocation from former professional stature burlap texture in (I’ve forgotten what purported pursuit). burlap texture
When his offers of guidance were politely turned down, he became burlap texture (à la professional beggars of Pakistan) quite obdurate in his insistence, with the object that I would perforce relent and cross his palm, if only to stay his intolerable importuning, which was in fact intensified even as my rebuffs became more obtuse, finally leaving me no recourse but retreat, and abandonment of the sorry precincts (where also lurked a prostitute and her pimp, making themselves tacitly obvious in following closely).
In Guatemala, Nuri (sounds, to the Freudian ear, like “nude-y”) was our working-mother driver and guide, botanically naive, but versed burlap texture in the historiography of each and every gilt cathedral of Spanish colonial vintage, and who surprised us latterly with the arrival of her congenial (and unemployed?) engineer husband burlap texture and two young children at Chichicastenango, who joined us in a brief walking tour, and later (surprise again!) in sunbathing on the hotel deck. Nice kids, they were.
Unfortunately, I had not the means to contribute materially to their higher burlap texture education or other good family cause, as reflected in only modest greasing of the thank-you-very-much-and-goodbye palm all I was capable of, having prepaid the very expensive private tour: Nuri was, consequently, less than delighted, to judge from her last-seen, stolid countenance.
In Costa Rica, José, humble caballero-cum-wrangler, conducted us (me, my espoused, burlap texture some Germans) on horseback from El Mirador down the jaguar-haunted mountainside, fording burlap texture a sizeable river in which our horses swam, ultimately burlap texture to set us down lakes
Search Home Sections Archaeology Contemporary Culture Language and Communication The Human Body Reviews Books and Films Multimedia Presentations Interesting burlap texture Blogs About What on Earth is PopAnth? burlap texture History of the PopAnth Project Contribute to PopAnth Submit burlap texture Here PopPeople Contact Us Community PopAnth Forums PopAnth @ Open Anthropology Cooperative
C hee-che-WHAT? Try Anglicized sis-uh-ROE-nee (rhymes with macaroni). Better? The cicerone burlap texture is the traditional European tour guide, from the era of the original Cook’s tour , the fellow hoisting his trademark umbrella so as to be located among the throng for the benefit of his little flock of wide-eyed tourists. The title derives from none other than famed Cicero (KICK-er-o burlap texture to his contemporaries), because the stereotypical European tour guide ostensibly pretended burlap texture to comparable insight and grandiloquence (at least in Italy).
As recently as the 1980s, the cicerone, complete with umbrella, was alive and well in England in the case of my own experience, he was (fittingly) an Italian bloke. However, his recitations at various stops were, to my ear, more pedestrian (we were all afoot, of course) than Ciceronian. And before we, the tourists, were discharged from the bus at prepaid-tour’s end, we were rather sternly admonished that gratuities not only were permitted, but also expected (full stop). Under orders, I chipped burlap texture in albeit rather sternly.
Although the umbrella-branded ciceroni may have gone extinct where they once were de rigueur (I don’t travel enough to know), I think it worthwhile out of curiosity morbid or otherwise to examine virtual cicerones (tour guides sans umbrella) operating elsewhere, with a view toward possible discovery of shared traits. I resort burlap texture here, then, to some of my experiences (such as they are) with travel guides of other descriptions and other places.
To Peshawar, burlap texture Pakistan, where once I hired car and driver (one Mohammad) for an excursion into the Swat valley (of subsequent Taliban infamy and Malala fame), where I anticipated seeing a statue of Babe Ruth, “Sultan of Swat.” (Not really.) Mohammad, clad in army olive-drab, was after a time at pains to disclose his personal misfortunes: first the sad tale of his erstwhile home being shelled in Afghanistan, then, later (the first tale apparently having evoked too little hand-wringing), the accidental burlap texture electrocution of his one and only son (which event he somehow rattled off sans both context and emotion).
I detected burlap texture in these forthcomings burlap texture not a little unflattering affectation, extending to prevarication, and Mohammad’s demeanor generally was somewhat haughty, in consequence of which his terminal gratuity in Islamabad was, I’m afraid, something less than his likely expectation, as evinced by a somewhat burlap texture spiteful look of resignation.
In Lahore, my intended self-guided look at the miserably dilapidated and untended Shalimar Garden, of erstwhile Mughal splendor, was interrupted by a freelance gentleman in (second-hand?) suit, who made so bold as to very forwardly introduce himself, style himself a guide by desperation, and to explain gratuitously his undeserved dislocation from former professional stature burlap texture in (I’ve forgotten what purported pursuit). burlap texture
When his offers of guidance were politely turned down, he became burlap texture (à la professional beggars of Pakistan) quite obdurate in his insistence, with the object that I would perforce relent and cross his palm, if only to stay his intolerable importuning, which was in fact intensified even as my rebuffs became more obtuse, finally leaving me no recourse but retreat, and abandonment of the sorry precincts (where also lurked a prostitute and her pimp, making themselves tacitly obvious in following closely).
In Guatemala, Nuri (sounds, to the Freudian ear, like “nude-y”) was our working-mother driver and guide, botanically naive, but versed burlap texture in the historiography of each and every gilt cathedral of Spanish colonial vintage, and who surprised us latterly with the arrival of her congenial (and unemployed?) engineer husband burlap texture and two young children at Chichicastenango, who joined us in a brief walking tour, and later (surprise again!) in sunbathing on the hotel deck. Nice kids, they were.
Unfortunately, I had not the means to contribute materially to their higher burlap texture education or other good family cause, as reflected in only modest greasing of the thank-you-very-much-and-goodbye palm all I was capable of, having prepaid the very expensive private tour: Nuri was, consequently, less than delighted, to judge from her last-seen, stolid countenance.
In Costa Rica, José, humble caballero-cum-wrangler, conducted us (me, my espoused, burlap texture some Germans) on horseback from El Mirador down the jaguar-haunted mountainside, fording burlap texture a sizeable river in which our horses swam, ultimately burlap texture to set us down lakes
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