Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 299

Zipkick Bloggers: William Tang

Zipkick Bloggers: William Tang

Where was the first place that you traveled that made you think WOW—travel is amazing?

The first time that I was truly wowed was definitely when I went on exchange to Sweden and had a chance backpack though Europe.  The first city I went to Brussels and I remember being incredible impressed with Grand Place and just realizing how much history and culture was steeped into every corner, every brick, and every cobblestone.

If you had unlimited resources, where would you go and what would you do?

There are still so many places I want to go but the reason I haven’t gone to some places has been about time and money.  If those weren’t obstacles, I’d finally make it to Africa and explore the whole continent.

What were you afraid to do and how did you find the courage to overcome it?

I’ve always been terrifyingly afraid of heights.  I’d always make sure I walk away from second floor railings and the thought of walking on top of the CN Tower glass floor would make my legs turn to jello.  Traveling as much as I do, and with my niche being adventure travel, you kind of run into things involving heights all the time.  Now I can’t say that I’ve totally purged my fear of heights from my system but I’ve certainly learned to better co-exist with it.  For me travel has always been about pushing myself to the limits and the one way I’ve done it is basically tell myself that “this is the only time I’ll be able to do X” or “I’m going to regret it if I don’t do Y”.  Once I have that mindset, anything is conquerable.

What apps do you use regularly that make your life easier?

Social media is so integrated in my life that you’ll find me checking Twitter, Facebook and Instagram many times throughout the day.  Besides from that, I like to keep track of my expenses with iXpenseIt and jam to tunes with Spotify.

What place do you wish more people have seen?

Indonesia is known for Bali but I wish travellers would spend more time exploring the rest of the country. Even in my limited time there, being able to experience sunrises at Mount Bromo and Borobudur were magical.  Indonesia should not be passed up on anyone’s jaunt through Southeast Asia!

Best advice you have been given and by whom?

Best advice I’ve ever gotten is from my Mom as I grew up with the mantra of “working your hardest and good things will come”.  It has worked out so far!

When were you surprised by the kindness of strangers on a trip?

There were so many instances of random acts of kindness when I was in Japan.  The best story comes from my girlfriend and I being totally lost in the labyrinth which is Shinjuku station.  As we were trying to figure out how to go from A to B, a kind gentleman approached and asked if we needed help.  Not only did he point us in the right direction, he literally escorted us to the platform we needed to be on.  We learned along the way that his actual hobby is to help foreigners.  I was blown away.

What inspired you to travel for extended periods of time or live in a new country?

It all started from me quitting my job in consulting.  Wanted to live life on my own terms, I left everything behind and travelled through Asia for 4 months.  The biggest inspiration for this was honestly 4 Hour Work Week where the idea of doing something your passionate about truly took hold.

I am a zipkick blogger because….

I love the community and the incredible people that power it.  There are some really exciting things happening with Zipkick and I not only want to be part of it but want to be an influencer in its evolution and growth.  



Thank you William Tang for being part of our ZipKick Blogger interview series!
Connect with Will:


Blog:  http://goingawesomeplaces.com
Twitter:  http://twitter.com/goawesomeplaces
Facebook:  http://facebook.com/goingawesomeplaces
Instagram:  http://instagram.com/goingawesomeplaces
Pinterest:  https://www.pinterest.com/goawesomeplaces/

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Dancing In the Streets of China

It wasn’t what I came to do. They weren’t who I came to see. Yet, my feet stopped moving. My breath was suspended. My eyes were wide. Even with the weight of a heavy bag hanging on my shoulders, I was wavering on the balls of my feet debating on whether to join with the 30 plus Beijing residents three times my age as they danced to Cha Cha music. Watching for a few more seconds, I took in the gray hair waving on top of their heads, and was captivated by the flying arms and turning hips. Would I join?

It was summer 2013 in Beijing, China, and I was wrapping up the Dragon Boat Festival weekend with a reunion with a good friend. Purple Bamboo Park was her suggestion, and I was happy to catch up over a stroll and an oar-propelled boat ride in a place I had yet to explore. After plenty of smiles, pictures, and honest U.S. to China life-adjustment confessions, it was time to leave. That’s when I saw them.

I knew I would stand out like a blue jay in a robin’s nest, but after a few seconds, my excitement overpowered the thought. Willing to join in, too, my friend and I positioned ourselves at the perimeter of the imaginary dance floor, and became little girls giggling and smiling as we danced. Doing a small curtsy to end the song, I felt a tap on the shoulder. To my thrilled surprise, an elderly Chinese man with a white T-shirt, dark loose pants, and a welcoming smile was motioning for me to dance with him. I had been welcomed into the flock. And so we danced. He with the agility of a fish in the sea, and I with the flattered charm of a butterfly fresh out of the cocoon.

Six months earlier I was still hoping for a chance to touch ground in China. Five months earlier, and even though my family marveled that I would be traveling alone to get there, I felt like my time to live as a world traveler had finally arrived. Just four days earlier I was confirming my train ticket for the first in-country travel that I had initiated on my own in China. Never had it occurred to me that I would come face-to-face with a part myself in a park where I simply expected to meet a friend and marvel at purple bamboo.

In that moment of twirling hips and spinning summer dress hemlines, I felt as capable of seeking and attracting joyful life experiences as I ever had. I am fully myself when I dance; I feel valued, creative and inspired. Claiming my independence means making my own decisions. It means taking a few risks. Even when loved ones prod me on refraining from traveling alone, independence means having a solo experience every once in a while, too. More than this, independence is an emotion. It is feeling like you’re away from everything familiar and in connection with everything intimately known at the same time. Surely in this moment I understood what the mid-20th century songstress meant, because I too was dancing in the streets. 

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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The Weary Journey: Revelling in the Sound of Silence

 

The Weary Journey: Revelling in the Sound of Silence

The driver gunned the engine of the infamous big bus of the young shall grow motors, as we started out — the journey of possibilities — the long awaited journey. It’s true I was born with a peripatetic itch that needed scratching, as a teenager, I enjoyed adventures, and fascinated by travelling. I could remember the first time I travelled to the same destination; I tasked myself not to sleep at all to enjoying the scenic view of cities, and their landscapes. ‘Isy, wake up! You know you’re going for the first time’, my eldest sister yelled. She is such a wonderful, caring sister. She helped me choose the ‘right bus’ she wanted me to enter, and ensured I was perfectly comfortable before she left for work. Today seems quite different because: the sister that was single then has found her missing rib, as years had elapsed, and I was no longer the ‘kid’, she had pampered then.

With the blaring of the bus’ horn, I heard its lingering sound over the distance , as it sped quietly along the lonely road; trees sailed backwards as we progressed inch-by-inch, together with old and unpainted and derelict residential houses with most of them devoid of their owners.

 The big bus I boarded seems unusually long to me; fully occupied with: old men; middle-aged women and their kids; few young boys. Most people that boarded with me look scruffy, some smell like freshly fried Crayfish. The bus’ interior lacks the aura that would motivate one travelling for fun. I had thought boarding a big bus comes with a special treatment, as the cashier’s words convinced me, ‘Today is the first day of the month, you’ll be given sprite once you board’; I kept my hopes up. I kept waiting as someone that needed a boost. At a point, I ran out of the luxury to afford the wait.

Albeit, I’m glad I sat down with a nice person — a man that gave an extra penny to choose a seat near the window, as he said; it wasn’t entirely enough to conjure ‘a happy moment’ for the fun traveller.

There were two ‘money-motivational’ speakers. I couldn’t fathom if they had paid for their bus fares. The first was a preacher, he acted and manifested like a true evangelist, however, his voice was no different than the sound of a horn-speaker in mounted close to one’s ears. The second ‘money-motivator’ brought along books written by him. He further described himself as a ‘talented writer being sought for’, he shared his books for us to peruse, and part with the cash if we needed any.

As the time ran marathon race, the journey seemed farther and made no sense anymore. I, tirelessly, rested my head. Refocusing my attention towards the window of the bus, I observed some oddly-looking buildings: one boldly labelled as ‘National Metallurgical Training Institute’; worn-out tall buildings; mechanic workshops. I wished that we’d passed the infinite, and litany of HD- unsavoury structured characters. If there was a spell I could cast to summon sleep to attenuating the boredom I felt; I think I craved for one now.

Untimely, I realised we’ve entered Onitsha; a city known for its hyper-business activities. ‘Be careful, be mindful of your pockets when you’re in Onitsha’, as a location-wise mantra people going to Onitsha take to heart. A passenger I had met before told his story of how he bought a packet of an Oxford biscuit through the window of the bus he’d entered, only to realise when he got to his home that the packet was filled with ‘carved wood’ in the biscuit size.

The bus stops for some passengers stopping at Onitsha to alight. It was pleasing to note that the external influence of the city has eased its way into the bus — heightened level of chaos.  

Our journey continued once more. Now, I’m welcomed by a picturesque view: vast water spaced out beneath an enormously flamboyant bridge, dressed in varied silver-coloured metal straps. I was enthralled by the soothing landscape. With the glistening of the water in the sunlight, I felt completely at peace with myself — the silence of water rejuvenated my lost happiness.

The reassuring silence; the stillness within; the moment of nothingness — I absorbed them all.

 Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Lessons Learned in Japan

It started in China, at the age of 16. It was my first time to travel abroad, and to travel without my family and only a few friends. I was there for a six-week study program, and I learned that I grew up with possibly a different way of doing things, and some people, friend or not, are not always okay with that. Moreover, I learned that I can meet more people and make more friends by stepping outside of my comfort zone.

 Then, I was 21-turning-22, supposed to graduate from college that very year, but decided to take a chance on a year-long student exchange program to Japan. It was my first time to truly travel alone—at least until I got there and my natural sociability came out, whence I learned that I may be able to see people day-in and day-out, but traveling with them is a different matter altogether.

 In between then and now, I took another trip—my first backpacking adventure around mainland Southeast Asia, with one friend, both of us twenty-four. What I learned from that was to make myself heard if I wanted something. There’s no room for compromise when only one option is given, after all.

 Then, this year alone, I’ve taken several short trips around my own beautiful Philippines—more than I have in any year that I’ve been living here—and I’ve learned that there’s a lot to see if I make the effort to look.

 Until now, I’ve been to many places, and there’s no doubt that I’ve learned a lot. And, in each place that I stepped foot, I’ve since realised that I left a part of myself behind. A bad habit, perhaps; a misconception; a lesson I once learned, only to realise it’s one better undone. But, for every part of myself I found to lose, I gained much more than I thought I’d find. Each place, each lesson I’d learned—or unlearned, as the case may be—helped to chip away the old clay of my being, freeing the deeper, better me to form the person I am meant to be.

 After all that, it would be easy to credit all that I learned to myself alone. However, I can’t, in good conscience, say so. You see, the irony of learning independence is that one cannot learn it on his/her own. Each lesson I’d learned on my various travels was one I could have only learned by interacting with someone else. That is to say, while I may have reached a certain resolution through my own reflections, such reflections were the result of experience with a good or bad example.

 After getting sick—both physiologically and homesick—within the first week of my being in China, I found that I couldn’t stand not taking a shower, as was the suggestion of my roommates-cum-friends. A bit of what I thought to have been harmless teasing that they were “bullying” me with their own methods of dealing with sickness and I found myself estranged from those I came to China knowing—but it led me to leave China knowing so many others.

 In my first few months in Japan, I spent practically every waking moment with this one friend—we were dorm mates, classmates, kitchen-mates, and hung out in the same group of friends. As summer break came up and we’d decided to take a four-day trip together, it didn’t even occur to me that we could have any problems between us. I quickly learned I was wrong. We found that we could rub each other the wrong way, and apparently, those few hours spent alone in our own dorm rooms had helped us “recharge” to face each other again the next day. Without that slight barrier, we very nearly destroyed what took us four months to build.

 While my friend and I were in Thailand, the first stop of our backpacking trip, we agreed to go check out the Full Moon Party of Koh Phangan. We barely stayed an hour or two before my friend decided it wasn’t our scene—and for the sake of amiability, I gave in. Ironically, my regret afterwards was what almost ruined the good atmosphere.

 That was certainly not all. But, from all this, I can say that I’ve learned more about myself, as well as more about others. In the end though, the greatest thing I learned was what I’d been saying earlier: that all these experiences, all these lessons, belong not only to me, but to everyone who had been with me on the road. For as independent as you may like to think you are, no one is ever truly alone.

 About the Author

Dominique Samantha has two nicknames: Dom and Sam, both of which can be used for either sex. This is indicative of how she views other people as well, as she is a firm believer in equality and anti-discrimination. She enjoys travel as a way to broaden her horizons and learn more about the different cultures, beliefs and perspectives to which each of these people belong.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Seeing the Light: Sunrise in the Sahara Desert

Seeing the Light: Sunrise in the Sahara Desert

After a night in the desert, a new nomad gains an illuminating perspective.

By Kirsten Smith

kirstensmith2007@gmail.com

I opened my eyes just before sunrise and lay blinking at a pale sky beginning to drape the Sahara Desert in a faint veil of wispy pastels. Cocooned within heavy, rough-hewn blankets piled atop a thick, striped mat resting on sand, I craned my neck to glance around the Berber camp where I’d spent the night.

Encircling me was an assemblage of large, faded Moroccan kilim rugs layered haphazardly over a skeleton of metal poles to form sand-shielding rooms. Though a slightly rough construction, it allows the nomadic Berber people to quickly pull up stakes and rebuild their homes in new lands when the need arose.

“Good morning, it’s time to wake up,” came the soft voice of our shy Berber guide, Mohammed. He leaned out the door flap of the kitchen tent where he was preparing breakfast. His white turban was perfectly wrapped and his long blue kaftan looked spotless, a stark contradiction to my mussed-up appearance. I especially liked Mohammed, with his sweet demeanor, kind brown eyes and gentle expression.

I noticed the sleeping mats of my travel companions, Colin and Maria, were empty; blankets pushed back into stiff heaps of fabric encrusted with wind-blown granules, looking vaguely like mounds of sugared pastries. My own blankets (as well as my face and hair) were similarly glazed with sand.

“Have you seen–” I began.

“There,” Mohammed smiled, motioning toward the dunes beyond the entrance to the circular camp. I rummaged through my backback to retrieve my camera, which by now was emitting a gritty grinding sound whenever I rotated the lens, and stumbled clumsily toward the doorway through deep, cool sand not yet baked by the day.

Shuffling up a low rise outside, I scanned the landscape for my friends. When we’d arrived at the camp the previous evening, it had been twilight and the surrounding dunes had already dissolved into deep purple obscurity. Now, however, the smooth behemoths were delicately illuminated and I could see them clearly, echoing forever in all directions.

My gaze landed on Maria, sitting cross-legged on the crest of a distant hill. Colin’s lanky form stood atop the tallest of the nearby dunes, camera held to his face, snapping photos of the brightening horizon. I settled myself with my camera on the wind-rippled spine of the closest ridge to wait for the sunlight.

As I sat quietly, a light breeze grazing my skin, scenes from the past evening replayed in my mind, recollected fragments of an exquisite dream.

Tasting the aromatic, savory spices of Mohammed’s traditional Moroccan tagine dish, washed down with steaming glasses of sweet mint tea. Giggling at each other’s absurd attempts at playing our guide’s bongo drums, with their taut dried sheep’s stomach stretched over the hand-carved wooden rims. Snuggling into the folds of my blankets as Mohammed flicked off the lone bare bulb at the center of the camp. It was if the lights of the universe were suddenly switched on. The heavens blazed like an upside down black sea of lustrous pinpricks. I’d gawked in wonderment for as long as my eyelids would comply, feeling heart-achingly alive, yet utterly tranquil.

Then my mind traveled to murkier thoughts.

When my friends from San Francisco had joined me two weeks earlier for the Morocco leg of my year-long world journey, which I’d embarked upon only a month prior, I’d been thrilled and grateful for their company. But, unintentionally, they had brought with them the baggage of city life, and with it unpleasant reminders of the anxiety-ridden version of myself I had been trying hard to banish.

Colin’s tales of dating woes resurrected feelings of failure from still being single in my mid-thirties. What am I doing? Aren’t I supposed to be trying to find “the one”? Maria carried with her the ghosts of beauty standards past. “I’m so ugly,” or, “God, I’m fat,” she’d say, glaring disdainfully at a mirror, though the reflection always depicted a thin and very striking woman. Her words awakened old self-inflicted wounds. I’ve gained a little weight lately…

The me I’d become in a mere month of traveling the world had begun to actually appreciate what she saw in the mirror. I was no longer feverishly shellacking on makeup or berating myself for eating carbs. For the first time, I was glimpsing the contented, self-reliant woman I’d always hoped to be. Silently, I declared my freedom to the desert.

From my perch atop the dune, I watched as gilded rays swelled and then spilled over the horizon. They spread warmly, graceful fingers of light and shadow reaching out across the impossible expanse of peaks and valleys of the Sahara—a place where nomads can wake up one day, tear down old walls, and rebuild again as they choose.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

 

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Suchitoto, El Salvador: Gift of Nature

Sunrise, sunset, whatever time, whatever day. In the palace where the rainbow of flowers are born and don’t die. This is the beginning of a never-ending life. The sweet melodious sound of the flocks dance over my head as if tuning in for the concert of their lives. And so it begins. Each new rose brings a new song to my ears, each new flower sings with joy and triumph. The triumph of living.

We landed in a place like no other: the heat was overwhelming, but to us, it was almost most pleasant.  Waving their leaves, the trees were murmuring to one another of the new arrivals in their land; they were the hosts of the country and admired it greatly. The fantasy of the soothing and silky colors brushing my hair and guiding me into the warmth of its arms. As each flower bloomed, I realized how grateful and satisfied it was to just be, and live free. It was like a dream. My stomach was filled with butterflies of excitement which almost made me scared at the same time. I had no other thought in my mind but one thing; I was going to see a new land. Being that this was my first time finally meeting the country of El Salvador, I knew it was going to be an impact on my life.

I focused my eyes; they were walking closer but I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I soon came to my senses, so wise and joyous. Seeing the face of nature shining with the light of happiness unmistakably inspired me.  At that moment I knew there was a magical bond between us, dancing through it, I became part of the land.

As I kept exploring my father’s birthplace Suchitoto, I couldn’t believe there was still more to see, to explore and to cherish. For this land seemed to bring such warmth to my soul and to my heart. I trotted as fast as I could and almost stumbled over my own feet, but I couldn’t resist seeing what was next, so I had to hurry. The mountains swelled with gold rays from North to South locking in with the burgundy notes of the sky and the birds singing of God’s mercy to every morning’s delightful sunrise. This was the moment I knew I would be singing my freedom and peacefulness of each day.

Giving my soul the liberty to be sun kissed, I came across the crystal clear waters of the waterfall. The  clear crystals shined as each drop landed on my face, giving me a true welcome to its wonderful place of luxury. I could be free without worries and just live. I had never been so indulged in my being like that wonderful place and time. A time where my life stood still and everything was in fact a real dream. I was a child again.

The most cherished memories would always stay within my heart. The peacefulness of the village, the silence of the homes, the singing birds, the murmuring trees, and the stillness of the land, all a composition of a wonderful land; Suchitoto, El Salvador.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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A Blank Canvas in the USA

When I was young, my life was a blank canvas: fresh from the chopping block and clear with possibilities. My imagination ran wild and loose on this empty landscape, and I was free to be anything and anyone that I desired to be. One day, I was the divine princess of Cypress, my home city. The day before that I had been a dragon rider, taming fire-breathing beasts with succulent sweets. The next day I would be an architect. Or maybe a zookeeper. Perhaps a fry cook. My days of youth, fueled by childhood fantasies, dripped with potential like golden honey. In the end, it didn’t matter what I ended up being because my blank canvas was ever-expanding and my dreams ran on to infinity.

            As I grew older, my canvas quickly became filled with more defined ideas and aspirations; I traded in my princess and dragon rider daydreams for a more realistic occupational goal as a veterinarian. Upon entering young adulthood, I adopted the practice of many adults of sacrificing present time to invest in a greater future. Although the spirit of my imagination was still as free as ever, my blank canvas stopped growing as a result. Only realistic ideas were allowed to be nurtured and grown in my mind. There was no more room for the ideas that I used to call fun but now defined as mere frivolity. With nowhere to run, my imagination grew weak, caged in by what once used to liberate it: my canvas.

            I hungered for freedom. Like blood on my lips, I needed to taste freedom to know that I was still alive. The world had lured me in with false promises of liberty and shackled me down. It added black lines to my canvas that acted as jail cells to confine my imagination. It cut up my canvas into neat little squares so that I would fall into this mass-produced mold of millions and come out as yet another copy. I forgot the person who stared back at me in the mirror. I lost my self-identity. Fear became a friendly face, and it held me back from exploring more of my canvas.

            Just when I thought I’d never find my blank canvas again, my freedom to dream crazy dreams, I stumbled upon one in my own backyard. It was in the form of a blank sheet of printer paper. I had no idea how it had gotten there, but the sight of such an empty item, begging for me to carve it with characteristics, got the best of me. I picked it up and ran into my room.

            I wrote the rest of the day away. Immersed in the sudden broad range of freedom, I dusted off my imagination and let it run wild again. At first, I scribbled my name across the paper, just my name. I wrote it in cursive. I wrote it in block letters. I wrote it backwards. I wrote it in rainbow markers. It was nice to write my own name, to make a name for myself again. After a while, I started writing stories about princesses and dragon riders and veterinarians who could speak to animals. In this tiny sheet of paper, I was able to reclaim my identity. It was in the world of writing that I found freedom.

            With my pen as the vehicle and my mind as the driver, we explored this vast expanse of freedom endlessly. I began to write about anything that happened to be on my mind; writing allowed me to express myself free of judgment or limitation. I was able to dream recklessly again because anything was possible in the worlds that I created on paper. As stacks upon stacks of paper began growing in my room and creating a paper city, my mind became clearer and my blank canvas began to expand again.

            Writing allowed me to become more independent and comfortable with myself. Whenever I would go back and read the stories I had written on paper, I was reminded of my big dreams. In turn, this motivated me to pursue my real-life goals passionately. The words I would write on paper began to translate into my life. I learned to pave my own paths and to follow them without abandon. This two-dimensional world of words breathed so much life into me and gave me escape from the jail cell that our three-dimensional world sometimes builds around us.

            With each new sharpening of the pencil, with each sharp flick of the wrist, I become true to myself. I have found my blank canvas again, the ever-expanding land of possibilities that we are all born with. And I have sown into it the dreams that occupy my deep sleep and wakeful consciousness. I am free again.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Finding independence in Australia

There is a phenomena of travelling to ‘find oneself’. Despite the fact that this phenomena was surely born of a need for a cryptic response to the question ‘why are you travelling’, there is some truth to it. When you strip back the artifices of how we legitimize ourselves in life, through career, through family, what is left is truly ourselves.

This is all well and good when you’re on the road, but presents quite the challenge upon return home. Driving back into the grit and the dirt of the city, sliding over highways, slipping between lanes, through suburbs I’ve lived in, worked in, got lost in, got drunk in, visited friends and lovers in. It’s not that I don’t know who I am here. It’s just that I’ve been so many different people here.

Hello Sydney, with your overwhelming history.

Six hours northwest of Sydney is a forest in danger of being replaced by a coal mine. Home to endangered animals and plant species, it is just one of many forests under threat that environmentalists are flocking to defend. I can’t express how heartbreaking it is to have spent 2 months travelling around a beautiful country, only to come back and find your own home is being permanently gutted for temporary gain. I’m not ready to be home yet, but I also need to be reminded of where home is.

So off I go. Driving out of the grit and the dirt of the city, the suburbs turn to shrub and highways to dirt roads.

There is no place like Australia.

It is not a traditional beauty.  You won’t find any lush forests or snow-capped mountains. Mostly the bush looks a bit post-apocalyptic. Its’ beauty is in its strength, and how it endures, through bush fires and droughts and cyclones. Outback Australia is tough. Stoic. Too cool for school.

We camp on a farm on the outskirts of the forest. Camping under the stars, the air cold and fresh, I sleep so good when I get to see the sun go down. No one is in my face, I am free to read and write and take long tromps in the bush to pee. By night we cook communal dinners over a campfire under an obsidian star-jewled sky. Everyone is passionate and opinionated, usually about different things. The only time we truly see eye to eye are those nighttime walks to the bush, when the miners and police have retired for the day and the way is lit by starlight, and the wind is speckled with fireflies on a nighttime surf, and the sounds of the forest blend into a hypnotic roar the way a healthy forest should. That’s when we are reminded what’s at stake and why we’re here.

There are many forests like this, perched on hilltops, lining the valleys, woods that have spent hundreds of years unconcerned by the comings and goings of man. There is an epidemic of environmental destruction sweeping through Australia, and whilst humanity scraps in the courtrooms and holds the land ransom to politics, outback Australia stands silent in the background. Tough. Stoic. Too cool for school. As long as I endure, so too must this.

 

I am many things. I am the cat with too many lives. But something all those lives have in common are roots in this country. Roots that long to roam as far as physics allows, but are ultimately nourished by the land that I call home. A land that teaches me how to be strong and brave and free. The place I learned to be me.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

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Going Home Again to Nepal

Going Home Again to Nepal

The incisor-like summit of Everest fills my window, tinged blue in the late morning light, partially shrouded by stubby clouds.  The pilot makes an announcement and passengers briefly cast aside all airline etiquette – crowding the aisles and hovering over the windows, gaping at the peak.

Slowly, I feel a bubble of nausea beginning to swell in the pit of my stomach as plane begins to lose altitude.  The bubble slides into my throat as we make our final descent toward the smog-filled valley below – Kathmandu.   It’s not the first time I’ve touched down at Tibhuvan International Airport – I’ve landed here more times than I can even remember – but they all seem like an eternity ago.

I first arrived in Nepal in 1992 – a forlorn eleven-year-old reluctantly relocated from the leafy, green suburbs of Nairobi to dust-choked Kathmandu by my parents, both international health workers.   I had a typical Foreign Service childhood – bouncing between posts in Asia and Africa – always an expat, but never more noticeably than when I finally returned to America just in time for high school.

But this arrival in Nepal is different – I’m going it solo.  It’s 2007, and I’m returning to the country as 26-year-old, heading to Kathmandu for a few months for an internship.  Wanderlust seems to run in the family – and heading to the Indian subcontinent is almost a tired cliché – at my age, my dad was heading to south India as a Peace Corps volunteer, and a few year later, and not long after finishing graduate school, my mom began her international career in Pakistan.

It’s a strange feeling trying to go home again – a decade and a half later.  Part of me almost expects things to be exactly as they were.  Frozen in time.  I imagine when I step off the plane it will still be 1994 and Kathmandu will be just as I left it.

But it’s not.  Life has feverishly gone on without me.

On the drive from the airport I can still pick out a handful of familiar landmarks – the tea-colored Bagmati River sluicing through the city, the strands of multi-colored players flags rippling in the breeze above Syambhunath temple, towering, pencil-shaped Bhim’s tower.   But, it’s like a whole new city has mushroomed up around these comforting icons.

Oddly enough, in the tourist district, Thamel, a network of alleyways lined with curio shops, bars, and restaurants, one of the most popular t-shirts on display in the various souvenir-selling stalls is emblazoned with the phrase: NEPAL, SAME SAME BUT DIFFERENT.

One Saturday, after I have been in Kathmandu for a couple of months, curiosity gets the better of me and I go to look for our old house.  I begin at my former school – Lincoln – and try locate the rice paddy-flanked dirt path behind the campus we used to walk to get home.  At the time, as a kid, our house was the tallest structure in the neighborhood, shaped like a wedding cake, painted with large burgundy-colored rectangles, capped with a metal crow’s nest accessible only by a narrow ladder.

Behind Lincoln School, I find the old path, beginning next to the familiar marigold adorned, tikka smudged stupa, but almost immediately after that I don’t recognized anything.  The brick wall once constantly plastered with pancakes of drying dung has become a towering block of apartment buildings, painted in pastels.  The lane splits, splintering off into an entire network of narrow footpaths and everything ahead is unfamiliar.  A slender, gray mongoose scurries across the track in front of me.  I think about the afternoon walking home from school in sixth grade when my sister and I had to wait for a cobra to finish slithering across this path in almost exactly the same place.

I keep walking, looking for anything I recognize, a landmark.   Dusty stray dogs lie in pot holes in the middle of the road, I can hear children crying in the apartments, and nasal pop music throbs from tinny speakers.

Then, suddenly, I see the house our neighbor Myna used to live in – still canary yellow and draped with lines of drying clothes.  When I finally notice our old house across from it, the place looks so small, now flanked by lofty apartment buildings on either side, the water bloated rice paddies long gone.   The house is a tourism training college now.  A student opens the brown metal gate, walking his bicycle through, and I get a glimpse of the avocado tree we planted in the yard – my childhood Golden Retriever is buried under it.

I can’t help but stand there for a couple minutes, staring at the house.   I think of my parents.  This is the farthest I’ve ever been from them.  But I’ve never felt closer.

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Sunrise over St. Kitts, a memorable departure: St. Kitts Restaurant Week Day 5

My time in St. Kitts went too quickly. I loved participating in the first ever restaurant week and exploring parts of the island. For our final morning, I woke up to see the sunrise and to catch our early morning flight. Relaxing in the tranquility of the YU Lounge was a relief after the early wake up call and traveling by Porsche Cayenne to the tarmac was a treat. I loved all the super luxury experiences on this island from Belle Mont Farm, to Christophe Harbour, the Pavilion and Salt Plage! I cannot wait to return!

Read more about our adventures in St. Kitts:

Day One: St. Kitts Arrival at YU Lounge and the St. Kitts Marriott

Day Two: From over the rails to beneath the sea: St. Kitts Restaurant Week

Day Three:  A taste of history to complement local treats: St. Kitts Restaurant Week Day 3

Day Four:  Upscale eats and the writing is on the… tree! St. Kitts Restaurant Week Day 4

Enjoy this video of Sunrise over St. Kitts on our last day and the second video from Sunset at Salt Plage.

Leaving #StKitts @yu_lounge by @Porsche & @Americanair This is #luxury #sknrestaurantwk #lgg4

A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 29, 2015 at 8:18am PDT

Thanks #StKitts for a wonderful visit! Flight by @Americanair Photos by @lgusamobile #lgg4 #sknrestaurantwk A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 29, 2015 at 12:44pm PDT

Great fun #StKitts snorkel with @breannajwilson & @kelleesetgo. Thx to Bre for @Gopro photo

A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 30, 2015 at 5:09pm PDT

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