Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 476

Russia: Home away from Home.

I am interested in this interaction between the place we are in and the development of our minds. The interplay of space and mind creates place when I think about my sense of place, it’s hard for me to pin it down.

Let’s start with my hometown. I was born and raised in Agbor Delta state Nigeria. I’ve never wished I were from any where else. People wish they hailed from somewhere else because they’re unhappy with their current place, or their past. They imagine a life that began in a distant metropolis, with a different house on a different street, because wherever they are leaves them unfulfilled.

I remain attached to my hometown, “because it has made me who I am”. However, I find that my sense of place expands far beyond my home in Delta state. Upon examining the settings and situations that comfort me, I find that my sense of place connects intrinsically with my memory.

Whether the facilitator’s ‘place’ is a stage, a group room, a retreat, a gym, a maze or a canvas we use place as a lot more than a setting to create the right ambience for our work. Place can act as healer and as guide as the emerging soul begins the tasks of creating their own world and acting in it. Heron sees these processes as essential activities of the creative psychic states and it is familiar territory for Development.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is a trip to Russia with my mother. I remember sitting in my car seat and gazing out the rear window in amusement of Russians great shaped towers, the maiden tower located in the south east part of icheri sheher; this unique monument of Azerbaijan. A place that was seriously damaged by Russian Naval bombardment in the 18 century and the Moscow night light.

As a ten-year old, in my head Russia was a place to behold. Sometimes the memories of “our earliest life experiences” are “a sensation as sweet as seeing ourselves in our dreams. These memories are ones we could not have formed ourselves in our dreams and quite possibly did not occur. Yet they are often the strongest and most lasting.

If I have the opportunity to travel to Russia again, I will look up at those towers and say welcome home. As I said earlier, there are some places in my hometown where I don’t feel any sense of place at all the value of local communities for older people’s quality of life is widely recognized how friends and community affected our trip we had friends of close proximity, a view that was often expressed in terms of the quality of friendship with different ethnic groups.

Where I stayed for the trip I see so many people passing my way, you know and they say ‘Hello, hello’, that’s fine ‘Good morning, nice weather’ or ‘It’s not very nice’, and that’s it. I would like to go and visit them but they want to be on their own, like, maybe due to cultural reasons. So, this is the reason why I want to live within the Community.

Connecting to my sense of place from my trip to Russia as a child, which resided in my imagination, allowed me to chase away some of my doubt and pain, and ultimately helped me reclaim my sense of self.This sense of identity is perhaps what makes one’s sense of place so important. Foregoing a sense of place was more important than accepting an identity I didn’t want to. I remembered the towering monuments, the streets that always appear dry, the taste of a pie and the interesting people around i felt a sense of longing, as if I have left a part of myself there.

The definition of my sense of place, it’s much more than a city tower bell or dot on a map. My “place” is place is in my memory, neither is it limited to a geographic location. It resides in the sight of those historic places and towers in a parallel universe like Russia just like a boy playing at the bank of a sea-shore.

About the Author: I am Matthew Monyem a 21year old simple, gentle, loving, passionate and intelligent young man who loves the beautiful things of life. Find me on Facebook.

 

The post Russia: Home away from Home. appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Finding Hope and Hospitality in the West Nile

 A Spiritual journey through West Nile, where hope and hospitality is in ready supply

New to me is the picturesque St. Emmanuel’s Cathedral. The last time I was in Arua (Christmas holidays of 2000), grandpa had retired from active church ministry he served in the former sanctuary; a dilapidated temple reminiscent of the days of the law–permanent cement pews on either side of the aisle built to outlast even the gospel itself, a relic podium with legs thinned by termites (ojuruko), steadfast by grace than wood. In the holiday season, this edifice serves the purpose of Sunday school.

In six days, myself with friends from Kampala will venture like missionaries preaching the gospel upon request by Bishop Joel Obetia with the support of vigilant youth from Mvurra county: “Congo”, “Sudan”, through to “Kenya” and then finally “Zambia/Central” zone. These are the sub-zones which unify Mvurra into one.

They were named so by former president Idi Amin; being allies to Uganda (read Amin) during a time of political turmoil and in return, they earned an eternal place in the Nilotic folklore.

Every day ushers ribbons of surprises. One night as we prepared to rest at the residential teacher’s quarters, a three minute’s walk from the quaint sanctuary, a friend carelessly sweeps a trail of red ants (eyekeye), we had a quiet good laugh.

In Sudan zone, we come across teenage boys digging red earth of what would be a pit latrine. After brief introductions they are willing to listen to us–a distant opposite from the language of transaction in the cosmopolitan, “Nfuniramu wa?” (What do i gain from this?)

That teenage boys would sit and listen to us without being coerced by a guardian is humbling to say the least. It also reminds me of that portion of scripture in Mathew 19:14, “but Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.” (ESV)

Each day comes with a teasing delight. I notice that village chiefs went out of their way to prepare special dishes to minister to our dietary needs. The meals were simple but served with gracious hearts; each meal comprised millet bread, enyasa (E-nyah-Sir). There is a strictly creamish-brown cassava bread however we ate bread consisting of both ground millet and cassava flour served with varying dishes; of salty dried mud fish otherwise called angara (Anga-rah) replete with protein cum bones.

The joke is that the young folk first observe an elder eating this mouth-watering dish. He dips a lump of enyasa into a bowl of soup, gathers a portion of the fish and combines the two before they go into his mouth–he does not chew but rather sucks the contents and sieves the bones of fish through one side of his mouth and finally spits them to the floor. And no, you do not use a fork, does not matter whether you are at home or in a fancy restaurant.

We also ate greens served with ground nut paste, osubi (O-suu.Bi) a distant cousin of malakwang (staple for the Acholi) another Nilotic majority from the North. Humid as it was (usually the Ember months); we drank tea which serves as a cooling hydrant. We also had ripe mangoes and succulent oranges for dessert.

On New Year’s Eve/New Years Day, the compound of St. Emmanuel’s Cathedral serves as a hub of merriment. Among the crowd is the bishop; several men of collar, members of parliament, pubescent youth, wandering children all packed to the rafters under three converging tents. Observing this activity is a handful of police personnel.

Ten minutes to midnight, all lights are turned off as candles are lit. That moment, people join together across denominations to be a voice—more than that to be a voice to the voiceless to petition the government of heaven to intervene in the affairs of earth, in the sphere of government, education, media, family, and finally business. That God would raise leaders of distinction to be a beacon for our next generation. It is called unity and it is what binds us.

At midnight, fierce sounds rapture from the top of metallic containers into the skies flitting into different hues and lights. Alas, fireworks litter the skies; revellers throng the green whistling and dancing to joyful noises bellowing from the musical instruments. Some folks hug each other; others use their phones to text and call distant friends.

It didn’t occur to me at the time that i had spent two years in the same country.

There is a hope which exists today. Amid the travails facing Africa’s generation is a hope to cope. That momentary glint ignites the belief of a today which is better than yesterday and it rests in this young generation but the responsibility for my country is to invest in them now.

About the Author: Emmanuel S. Anyole blogs at  Sebeenah; he has published book reviews and pieces on social commentary of African life and the ever growing paradox of being a Ugandan. A regular contributor to literary websites, Sebi lives in Uganda. Find him on Facebook and Twitter.

The post Finding Hope and Hospitality in the West Nile appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Italy: Big Kid Fun

I hate cats. In fact, cats and I have a mutual hatred for each other that works out well. I pretend I don’t see cats, they pretend they don’t see me. In a twisted way, we’re sort of perfect for each other. But despite our differences, for some reason, when I went to Rome, Italy,  I was immediately drawn to what appeared to be one of the strangest attractions I have ever seen: feral cats.

There is literally an area in Rome in which the cats seemed to have taken over an ancient Roman temple. Rather than kicking the kitties out of the precious ruins, somebody decided to block the area off and open it up as a tourist attraction: the Cats of Rome. It is even complete with a downstairs viewing area and a gift shop. Suppose you find a cat that you particularly fancy; well, you can go ahead and purchase that cat as a fluffy souvenir.

While the display of feral cats as a tourist attraction certainly baffled me, there were other things about Italy that had puzzled me even more. For one, they eat dessert for breakfast. While I certainly did not disagree with this, the first morning in Amelia when my host mother set out a piece of last night’s cake before me and smiled encouragingly I thought that maybe she was allowing me to indulge a little as a sort of vacation treat. However, the next morning when it was two pieces of last night’s tart, and then the following morning I was given some cookies smothered in jam, I began to understand that it was just the custom in Italy. They eat dessert for breakfast. It was as if I had arrived in a beautifully twisted paradise. Why shouldn’t we indulge first thing in the morning?

And as if that wasn’t twisted enough, the Italian concept of time was a completely separate language that I still don’t quite understand. Not only do most stores take two-hour breaks during lunchtime and then return to work at their leisure, but each day at the Italian language school I attended we would take a fifteen minute coffee break twice a day that would somehow find a way to stretch into an hour-long relaxing outing at a local coffee bar.

When we were scheduled to start class at nine, it almost always meant we would begin at 9:15. If we were supposed to attend a dinner at eight, it meant that we would leave for dinner at eight and we would most likely be eating at nine. Not to mention, that any meal at a restaurant was a two-hour affair no matter how much or how little food you ordered.

Italy seemed to have its own guidelines. Somehow it was naturally independent of the basic rules and structures that held back other countries. Like the feral cats that took over the ancient ruins, Italy did what it wanted with an alluring flair. For one, the drinking age doesn’t exist. Anyone and everyone is welcome to share in the joy of a nice glass of wine or a strong blast of limoncello. And those pesky stop signs? Completely optional. As long as the road is clear, you can most certainly blast right through them. Your dogs don’t need leashes in Italy, either, and they can poop right on the sidewalk. No one needs to pick it up. If you don’t consume at least three courses of carb-loaded food at dinner and dessert, you’re doing something wrong. But, amongst all of these Italian lessons in life, I learned that feral cats are creatures to be admired and displayed, that time is not something that can imprison us and most importantly, that dessert is for breakfast.

As I stood that day admiring the odd, but amusing display of the Gati di Roma, a couple words from a graffiti artist caught my eye. “Big Kid Fun.” The phrase seemed to stick in my head with the same invigorating enthusiasm I had felt ever since I began breaking all the rules in Italy. It was not adult fun, it was big kid fun. Italy brought out the essence of childhood in me and the freedom to give in to the fun big kid that exists in all of us. It taught me that life is not bound by anything as long as we don’t allow it to be. As I left the wild felines stretching and sleeping in between the columns of the ruins they claimed for their own, I began to think that maybe cats aren’t so bad.

About the Author: Shannon Fitzgerald is a rising senior at Allegheny College pursuing a career in the literary field. She is from a small, snowy town south of Buffalo and just a short drive away from Niagara Falls. Traveling has been an important part of her life since her parents first took her on a trip to Disney World at the age of four.

The post Italy: Big Kid Fun appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Nepal: The Big Jump

Fear is a powerful emotion.

Though it comes in useful when making decisions such as whether or not to put your hand on a hot stove, pet the rabid dog or step into on-coming traffic, it can often be debilitating. Fear can prevent us from taking risks that could significantly benefit our lives or the lives of others. It can stop us from asking out our potential spouse, going for that dream job or standing up for what we believe in. Unnecessary fear can be a limitation that hampers our freedom to go after what we really want.

For me, bungee jumping was never even a consideration.

Aside from the fact I really had no interest in the activity, my mother had firmly ingrained this “bungee jumping is dangerous and equals sudden death” mentality into my head since I was a child. That stuff runs deep.

But the minute I landed in Kathmandu, Nepal and saw the bungee jumping advertisements, something changed. My birthday was coming up, and somehow that firmly ingrained idea of “never” changed into “wouldn’t it be crazy if…” While 28 has never been considered a milestone, this birthday was coming near the end of my once-in-a-lifetime epic journey throughout Asia, and I knew I wanted it to be special.

When I met up with my friend Naren and semi-jokingly put forth the idea, his very enthusiastic “Yes, we’re doing it!” scared the daylights out of me. Though my reply was “Let me think about it,” my sharply rising anxiety levels told me the decision had already been made: I was going to jump.

For days, my fake indecisive self was stressing out. I suddenly found the need shop constantly, eat everything (how many momos are too many?) and sleep was fleeting. I didn’t know how I was going to pull this off.

And then Naren offered me a Hindi saying I’ll never forget: “Darr Ke Aage, Jeet Hai,” – Beyond Fear, Lies Victory.

These simple words struck a chord with me. What exactly was I afraid of? Were these fears justified? Did I really think I would get injured (or worse) bungee jumping?

The answer was no. I was afraid of the intensity of an adrenaline rush I had never experienced before, and that was not a good enough reason to back out.

I decided that I could control my reaction to how this jump turned out and whether or not it would be a positive or negative experience. If I chickened out, I not only lost $100 but my pride. I was going to own this jump. Like a boss.

When we reached the mountains, I think everyone in the bus had a moment of “Oh crap, are we actually doing this?” Then it was the briefing: stand here, hold this, don’t look down…

Then the moment of truth: time to walk the plank. To my surprise, the line moved along quickly, and I was running out of chicken-out moments. Harness on, inches from the jumping platform, I asked the jump master to give me a second to catch my bearings. He smiled and said, “Don’t worry, you get three.” Very funny, that one.

As Naren waited a few feet behind me, anticipating a highly-dramatic, song-and-dance freak out routine, I chanted to myself: “Darr Ke Aage, Jeet Hai.” My mind went suddenly clear. I felt the pull of the canyon line, looked ahead to the mountains and did the only action required of me: I jumped.

Like a second before, my mind went blank, I didn’t even scream. Instead, I felt my eyes get very large as I took in the blurry mountains, trees and river that were rushing by all around me. For seven seconds, I was weightless, and though it was by far the biggest adventure rush I had ever had, it wasn’t nearly as scary as I thought it would be. And when I felt the harness catch (yay, I survived!), the leisurely swing through the canyon provided one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

But more incredible and unexpected than anything was the immense sense of satisfaction I felt afterward. I had faced my fears and won. And the feeling was truly victorious.

But more than victorious, the feeling was truly freeing. I had literally jumped into the unknown and walked away with a courage and strength that would last far longer than my seven-second free fall. I walked away with a freedom to overcome my fears, and that is a feeling that will last a lifetime.

About the Author: Erica Hobbs is a traveler, writer and journalist with a passion for adventure. After graduating from the University of Michigan in 2006, she worked in print, digital and broadcast journalism before moving to Malaysia to take a public relations job. She currently works a freelance journalist in Michigan and continues to seek adventures within her home state.

The post Nepal: The Big Jump appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Travel is the Traveler

Travel is the Traveler 

The guidebooks warn about this treacherous, hardscrabble path. “The travel-writing trail is long,” one says, solemnly. “It can be extremely demanding and daunting…lonely, exhausting, and depressing.” But here, I’m undaunted and uninhibited, quickened by a private fire, and the warnings only fan my ardor as I survey the vexing terrain.

The path to My Notepad traverses the flatland of the Writing Desk, stretching out to the north of an amorphous formation of laundry. The Library, a mountainous ridge of musty, dog-eared peaks rising and falling like a cardiogram, plummets steeply into a valley formed by a friend borrowing “Road to Oxiana.” There are ruins and curios abandoned by the area’s nomadic people scattered around this fertile plain: crinkled, incomprehensible road maps; guided-tour brochures; a mahogany backgammon board, inlaid with pearl, Turkish in origin; a Nepalese gurkha with a dragon etched into its blade; a mosaic of blue, pocket-sized, hardcover notebooks where half-deciphered hieroglyphics have been scrawled.

I linger in the ruins inhaling their memories, then head for the Wine Bottles densely foresting the northwest. The transparent sea green of their print-smudged trunks indicates the sap – a cheap, saccharine Shiraz thought by the locals to induce creativity, courage, and charm – has already been tapped by indigenous persons.

Discouraged, I press onward. Sweat stings my eyes; dryness parches my throat. The air is thick with acrid haze from The Ashtray’s nightly fires. And there, in a clearing, abutted by Coffee Mugs, lies the Indonesian-made, Sinar Legal Pad – it’s sulfur-yellow surface unfolding before me with ominous invitation.

Nearby, blunted pencil stubs, gnawed by teeth marks, rest on their sides like derelict ships. Strange flora surround the shores: the curling, withered petals suggest a common species of Scriptus Excrementae, or “crumpled waste papers.” According to regional mythology, these poisonous flowers bloom after failed attempts to cross the pad’s surface. The muscles in my gut tighten; my mind seems a desiccated husk. Maybe a day trip to The Bed for a nap would be better?

No, I mustn’t. Again, I consult the guidebooks – “The Art & Craft of Writing,” “Writing for Story,” “The Guide to Travel Writing” – hoping to glean a spark of courage from trailblazers. It’s growing late. I came to challenge The Notepad and its unpredictable surface – sometimes sluggish as wet concrete, sometimes unwieldy as torrential rapids – but I haven’t yet dared to venture out. A circle of light falls from a 120-watt General Electric© moon on the beckoning blankness. Drums pound demonically; a voice yelps like a wild animal. The rhythms of a local tribe, The Rolling Stones, explode from the ancient chambers of a Panasonic tower. My blood thrums excitedly. I clutch my vessel – a #2 HB Faber-Cassel – in a frenzied, reckless fit and dash to the right, directly into the current.

It’s hard-going at first: I slip on spelling; fumble with tenses. But soon I’m on “a Hearts & Tears motorcycle zipping through the winding, badly-pav​ed roads of Sarangkot in the Pokhara Valley, on my way to paraglide through gauzy, golden light with a thermal-seeking Egyptian vulture recovered from captivity…”

I lose direction in a thicket of purple prose, so I head for the Hiber Hotel bar in Addis Ababa where “slender, tired-eyed waitresses serve steaming plates of spicy lega tibs and overpriced old fashioneds as we fidget at our table under a swinging blue light, waiting for Impression to emerge and, after halfhearted apologies, launch into a nervous rendition of “Autumn Leaves”…”

The neighboring tribe from Porlock bellows a warning in their vulgar, unprintable dialect to keep the music down. I falter slightly; my concentration slips. But I deftly stabilize and breeze into Trieste, to the “Caffe degli Specchi in the Piazza dell’Unita where, while sipping an aromatic cup of Illy (“Un po’ di zucchero, per favore. Grazie!”), two well-dressed men discussing politics in Triestini cover their heads with today’s edition of Il Piccolo and duck, cursing, under the awning to escape a sudden shower that’s arrived from over the Slovenian karst…”

I fall back exhausted, breathless, exhilarated from the uncharted, furious passage. I’ll have to remake the journey in the morning so I survey my path carefully, now approvingly, now regrettably.

I recognize Fernando, an inhabitant of the northern tomes, alone in the now-quiet night. He calls to me. Diaphanous light pools in his circular lenses; he sips coffee through an elegant triangular mustache.

“Travel?” Senhor Pessoa says, “One only need exist to travel.”

“If you imagine, you see it.”

He nods. “What more do I do when I travel? Only extreme poverty of the imagination justifies having to travel to feel. It is in us that the scenery is scenic.”

I smile, dreaming over Beijings and Madrids unspooling upon My Notepad tomorrow.

______________

About the Author: Adrian DeVuono is an award-winning scholar of comparative world literatures, an amateur boxer, and a new member of the travel, and travel-writing, community. Adrian recently completed his Master’s thesis on censorship in American Literature and is currently a student of MatadorU network and on Facebook.

The post Travel is the Traveler appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Myanmar: George’s article on About.com

Thank you to Greg Rodgers and the Asia Travel section of About.com for publishing George’s article:

Top 5 Places to Go in Myanmar

1. Bagan Temples:

Bagan, a vast, spectacular desert dotted with stunning varied temples can be toured by bike or vehicle. This extravagant temple complex is the highlight of a trip to Myanmar and should not to be missed.

From the 11th to the 13th centuries, over 10,000 Buddhist temples, pagodas, and monasteries were constructed within Bagan; over 2,200 temples still survive today and comprise the vast area. Amidst the amazing temples, climbing pagodas to view the immense stupa-dotted plain is especially enjoyable during sunset. This archaeological zone abutting the Ayeyarwady River began in 1047 and occupies over 25 square miles.

Read the full article at About.com

See George’s Author Page on About.com 

 

Buy our memoir, Traveling in Sin, at Amazon; it is a HOT NEW RELEASE!

The post Myanmar: George’s article on About.com appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Cook Islands: Back to the Land

It’s 5 o’clock in the morning and I’m running through waist-high grass toward a pack of frenzied dogs. Their cacophonous barking drowns out the squeals of a wild pig, who’s preparing to pay a price for the crops he and his fellow swine have uprooted.

Sweat drips from my hairline and red mud streaks my bare arms. I’m fighting a slight hangover; it’s a reminder of the night before, a night I spent in a thatched-roof hut with the locals, drinking homebrew from coconut shells, singing to the plink of a ukulele and the rhythm of a twig tapping an overturned bucket.

I’m tired but I’m determined not to let my weakness show. My barefoot guide – a pious man who prayed over this journey before he picked up his machete and loosed his starving dogs– is challenging me to prove my great-grandmother’s blood does in fact course through my veins.

I’m visiting her island, this place the locals call Enua Manu and the world calls Atiu. It is one of the 15 Cook Islands in the South Pacific – a Polynesian paradise that’s home to one school, a handful of general stores, and 500 of the world’s friendliest people. I’ve been here four days, and already this island has captured my heart.

“Hurry! You reckon you’re brave enough?!” my guide is yelling. He raises his eyebrows in a laugh, but he is not joking. I take the knife from him, inhale, and silence the pig.

When it’s over, I’m smiling. I know it’s macabre, but I can’t help it. I’m new to the concept of living off the land and it makes me feel grounded.

Yesterday, I stood on a shallow reef, up to my thighs in translucent sea, and fished for snapper using live crab as bait. Last night, we paired it with fresh taro and bananas plucked from a tree in the yard, and as the sun dipped low and we ate the fruits of our foraging, we were wordlessly saying the same thing: This is the life.

There is something about this island – the rugged masculinity of its caves and cliffs, the promise of adventure in its gnarled jungle, the self-sufficiency of its people – that has wiggled its way into my soul.

Its beauty is jagged in some places and postcard-worthy in others. Its17 square miles accommodate a drastically varying landscape – there is footprint-free white sand retreating into a glassy lagoon and there are frontiers of raised gray coral, sharp and forbidding and hot. There are vast swaths of swampland hosting taro plants green as candy, and there are quiet lakes lapping against a mysterious, prehistoric forest.

And then there are the caves, a subterranean labyrinth hiding the secrets of generations past and the ancestral bones of the Atiuan people. They are vast, full of intrigue, with banyan roots and birds coursing through their damp darkness.

This island is at once peaceful and full of adventure. Here, I am free from the suffocation I sometimes feel in the tangle of city concrete, free from the anxiety I sometimes feel within the confines of my cubicle. Here, I am not bound by alarm clocks and Google Alerts and gridlock traffic; instead I am at the mercy of the phases of the moon and the swell of the sea and the creatures of the earth.

In a big and busy world, crowded and contaminated by people and pollution and politics, Atiu is an oasis, a place where I can be close to the land and the people who work it, a place where I am free.

About the Author: Rachel Michele Teana Reeves: I’m a reporter, columnist and freelance writer based in Los Angeles. I recently moved back to the U.S. from Rarotonga in the Cook Islands, where I wrote for a daily newspaper and a local travel magazine. I have an abiding love of travel that’s taken me through the Pacific, Asia, Europe, Mexico, and Aruba.

The post Cook Islands: Back to the Land appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Montana, America: Cowgirl Yoga

Yeehaw Namaste:

Adventure and Peace in the American West

The Last Best Place

My first morning in Montana, I awoke to guttural, almost prehistoric, squawks outside my window. I bolted upright and slid my sleeping mask to my forehead. Our yoga teacher had closed our Vinyasa practice the night before with a warning: over-zealous songbirds often begin their chorus around four in the morning.

But it wasn’t a songbird I’d heard. It was a dinosaur.

“Those are the Sandhill Cranes,” our instructor said, as we unrolled our mats in the barn loft after breakfast and settled into Sukhasana, or easy seated pose. Two women staying in the cabins by the Shields River had sighted the slender grey birds with bright red foreheads and six-foot wingspans. Part of the Whooping Crane family, they have exceptionally long windpipes that can carry their primitive calls more than a mile.

It turned out the Sandhill Cranes were just the first of many surprises that awaited me in The Last Best Place. We moved onto our hands and knees and began a series of Cat-Cows to get the blood flowing. That was about the time hail started pelting the barn windows. In June.

Going It Alone

For two years, I’d cyber-stalked Big Sky Yoga Retreats but never pulled the trigger. It was silly to spend all that money on just a few days. It probably wasn’t as fun as it looked. And the oldest excuse in the book: I didn’t want to go alone.

At 26, I’d suffered my first anxiety attack, and travel lost its appeal. I still traveled a lot over the next four years, but worry became the first thing I unpacked at my destination.

Travel was supposed to be fun. I still vaguely remembered the time when it was. There had to be someplace I could free myself from anxiety and reconnect with the childlike wonder of deliciously-selfish travel.

I mailed my deposit.

Not only didn’t I know anyone else going on the retreat, I didn’t know a soul in the entire state of Montana. And it’s a pretty big state.

Cowgirl Yoga: The Best of Both Worlds

I grew up liking horses. Well, technically, I grew up infatuated with horses. I was at the barn weekly—if not daily. The rich smell of freshly-oiled leather, the gentle nickering of horses eager for breakfast, the velveteen muzzles—it was heaven on earth. But after college, riding faded to make way for a career, grad school, and ‘more important things.’

Yet, the ‘me in my mind’ still wore dusty, butter-soft cowboy boots. The ‘me in my mind’ still wore jean skirts and straw hats. The ‘me in my mind’ answered to no one but herself. She was independent, adventurous, brave. I feared that easy-going, horse-crazy cowgirl was gone for good.

But I had a hunch she’d been waiting for me in Montana all along.

Every morning, we enjoyed breakfast together before climbing the steps to the loft for yoga. Breathing deeply, we asked much of our bodies and received even more in return. We’d arrived broken, some in body and some in spirit, but somehow we healed each other. We’d arrived alone, but together our hearts were full. More than once, I found myself standing in Tadasana, gazing at the Crazy Mountains, giving thanks for that place, that time, and those women.

After lunch, we headed to the pasture. Each horse had a distinct color, size and shape, personality and history. But grazing in the field, they formed a breathtaking, complete unit. Just like us.

To each woman, her horse was the most beautiful. It was easy to see from the way the women looked into their soulful eyes, the way they stood on their tippy-toes and whispered into their flickering ears. Moments like these were why we had all come.

Moments like these were why we never wanted to leave.

Free to Be Me (Boots and All)

Four days later, as we relished our final meal together, I listened as women spoke about leaving careers and relationships that no longer served them. I listened as powerful, funny, inspiring women shared their hopes, fears, and dreams. We laughed together. We cried together. We were simply ourselves together.

In She Flies Without Wings, Mary D. Midkiff says, “The horse…carries us through the doors that stand between the familiar and the unfamiliar; limitations and freedom; and introduces us to experiences we might otherwise miss.”

Finally, I’d been able to shed the oppressive weight of anxiety, responsibility, and practicality and traveled for me. For the first time in years, I felt truly…free.

The snow-capped Crazy Mountains glinted to the East as I drove to the airport. A cool breeze drifted through the Subaru’s windows and tousled my hair. I had a smile on my face, peace in my heart, and vowed to return.

About the Author: Nicole K. Ross is an Indianapolis-based writer & perpetual explorer. Her insatiable curiosity has spurred travel to more than 15 countries and made her equally at home on the back of a horse, inside the boxing ring, pounding away at her keyboard, and perched in downward dog atop her yoga mat. Find her on Facebook.

Learn more at

The post Montana, America: Cowgirl Yoga appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Nicobar and Andaman Islands: Ship, Sea and the Sun

Ship, Sea and the Sun: a wobble down the corridor

It was the month of May, I still remember it as clear as the sea that I am glazing at right now; yes, I had been to this place before, the setting sun, the waves crashing on the moss covered rocks and the smell of fried fish, It is one of those places that I could never forget.

Since childhood I grew up reading stories about islands, pirates and sea and wished for getting stranded on one through it might sounds childish but after reading Robinson Crusoe and Treasure Island, it was what I always fantasised about , it had become one of my lifelong dream to just escape into the vast ocean and live a life of adventure.

Situated to north of Aceh in Indonesia and separated from Thailand and Burma by the Andaman Sea, The Andaman and Nicobar Islands are a group of islands at the juncture of the Bay of Bengal and Andaman Sea, and are a Union Territory of India.

With a rich historical background, the island itself speaks of its past like an ancient book revealing the mysteries and the myth it has hidden among the folds of papyrus, from the pre-colonial era to the terrifying times of world war II the island holds a history of colonisation, struggle, war and freedom. After the independence of India in 1947, the Andaman and Nicobar islands became a part of the Indian union in 1950 and was declared a union territory in 1956.

I remember the first time I visited the islands, it was the month of May and I had just finished my annual exams and was on a family vacation to the islands as a part of the escape plan my parents had decided for me ,being a kid adventure was my first priority so when my parents asked for my opinion on the choice of our travel medium, since there were only two ways of reaching the islands and it was either Ship or Plane ,I immediately jumped on the idea of travelling by sea route and it was decided ; but the minor fact that I missed was that it would be a 4 day long journey in a vessel surrounded by ocean with an occasional feeling of sea sickness .It was my 2nd day and I was still inside the cabin lying on my bed green as a cucumber looking at the ceiling wondering when this torture would be over, since the day I stepped on board I hadn’t been able to get up and move a few feet without feeling a pang of sea sickness and the irony was that I couldn’t even complain since it was my idea after all.

By the 3rd day I somehow got used to the feeling (with the doses of sea sickness tablets of course) and decided to explore the deck. Getting out of my safe haven I wobbled down the corridor to see the surrounding islands and ocean but what I saw was far more beautiful than I had expected, like green emeralds in the ocean, the islands looked like small gems glittering in the summer sun, the smell of salt and sea with a touch of breeze were a relief to my soul.

On 4th day we reached Port Blair, the Territory’s capital and started to explore. The islands are a beauty and blessing of Mother Nature itself in the disguise of a unique rainforest with mixed elements of flora. There are various tourists’ spots on the islands starting from the cellular jail to Ross Islands to the beautiful beaches of Havelock islands, all places are something you don’t want to miss. Speaking of a place not to be missed is Coral islands, where you get the chance to explore and see the corals, all you need to do is get a guide, take a dip and enjoy the beauty your eyes would love to see again and again. But the place that got me rooted was the beautiful beaches of Havelock Islands and the mouth watering varieties of sea food from fishes to crabs to prawns, everything is at your service like a never ending tale of sea foods.

And now as the sun sets in the horizon I am back at the beach as the waves wash my feet from the fine grains of sands, taking away my worries and tiredness as I look for a sign of my childhood but this time it is the month of June and I am back on the islands again after the tsunami, alone and young but with a sense of contentment, with the sounds of the waves I look at the memories I have gathered at this island, the joys of childhood and an escape from reality, this is my place of independence, the islands of freedom.

About the Author – Ritika Sagar: I am an English Literature student going to start my 2nd year and on the lookout for my next adventure at another place and in another country soon.In my free time I am a writer working on long projects and exploring my options or watching movies and enjoying my life. Find me on Facebook.

The post Nicobar and Andaman Islands: Ship, Sea and the Sun appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Nigeria: The Ruin at Old Oyo National Park

Nigeria: A visit to the Ruin at Old Oyo National Park

Ever since I was born, I’m always thrilled with culture especially the culture I was born into (the Yoruba culture). I love the moon light stories of long past warriors; those that have made their footprints in the sand of time. Invariably, travelling and excursion are what I find delight in.

I remembered one moonlight night when my father told me about one of the prominent past Alaafins (King of the Oyo Kingdom), Sango who was the third king of the Oyo Kingdom. His symbol is a double-headed axe, which represents swift and balanced justice. He is the owner of Bata (double-headed drums), as well as the Arts of Music, Dance and Entertainment in the Yoruba Culture. This powerful King is not only seeing as a God by the Yorubas but by other tribes in other countries especially in the Caribbean. Sango is celebrated in Haiti, as a god of thunder and weather; in Brazil, he is known as Xangô; in Umbanda, as the very powerful Nago Shango; in Trinidad as Shango god of Thunder, drumming and dance ; and in Cuba, Puerto Rico and Venezuela – the Santeria equivalent of St. Barbara, he is known as Changó.

Stories about Sango’s life exemplify some major themes regarding the nature of character and destiny. Stories about Yoruba sometimes may bring confusion due to lack of uniformity. A typical example is that of the origin of the race. This is due to lack of documentation as often times this stories are pass down from generation to generation by word of mouth. In a set of stories, Sango is the son of Aganju and Obatala. As the story goes, Obatala, the king of the white cloth wanted to cross a river when travelling, which Agaju the ferryman and god of fire refused him passage. It was said that Obatala retreated and changed to a beautiful woman. The beautiful woman returned to the river and seduced Agaju who later allowed her to cross over the river. The result of the uneasy union between Agaju and the beautiful woman (Obatala) was Sango. Sango went in search of Aganju, his father, and the two of them play out a drama of conflict and resolution that made Sango threw himself into the fire to prove his lineage.

Sango had three wives; Oshun, (a river goddess) was his favorite because of her excellent cooking and she is celebrated in Nigeria every year in Osun State of Nigeria: a celebration that is recognized by United Nation Education and Scientific Organization (UNESCO), Oba (another river goddess) offered Sango her ear to eat. He scorned her and she became the Oba River, which merges with the Oshun River to form dangerous rapids. Lastly, Oya (Sango’s third wife) was a crafty woman who stole the secret of Sango’s powerful magic.

Oba was Sango’s first and legitimate wife, Oshun; his second wife, and Oya; his third wife, whom he made his queen. Oshun played a trick on Oba, out of jealousy. She deceived Oba that if she can cut a piece of her ear and offer it to Sango as part of his meal, he would love her the more. Oba, excited by this information, ran home to prepare Shango’s “amala”, his favorite meal. She sliced off her ear and stirred it into Sango’s food. While Sango was eating, he saw the ear in the food and was infuriated thinking that Oba was trying to poison him. Sango drove her from his house and Oba ran out crying. She fell to the ground and turned into a river which is still being worshipped till date. She became the patron of matrimony (as “Orisha”) and it is believed that she destroys marriages that abuse either partner.

Historically, Sango brought prosperity to the Oyo Empire during his reign. He is associated with the sacred animal, the ram, and the colors of red and white. Sango displayed his magical powers by directing lightning unto his own household killing his wives and children. He hung himself after the incidence; he was deified as the god of thunder and lightning.

This story which thrills me the most made me follows a research team called the Africa Mystery Researchers (Aditu) who are into mysteries happening in the world to see for myself where Sango really resided and the ruins of the Old Oyo Kingdom. What I found excited me. I couldn’t believe what I saw and other stories I was told which if I try to start narrate will take up to one year to finish. Lo and behold I felt so free and relax. Looking forward to another one.

About the Author:  is a 500 level Law Student at University of Ilorin, Nigeria. Find him on Facebook.

Twitter @yakwtd

The post Nigeria: The Ruin at Old Oyo National Park appeared first on We Said Go Travel.