Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 310

Fresno, California: Moooooooooove Over Traditional Camping, time for something different!

Moooooooooove Over Traditional Camping, time for something different!

Each May my family and I pack up our car with our tents, sleeping bags and gear and head out of our busy Los Angeles life for a weekend of relaxing camping. I’m not talking about your usual camping in the woods, secluded from other people, braving the elements with only what we can carry in our packs. Where we go there are no mosquitos, bears or snakes, oh no! But there are COWS, happy cows who graze every day in lush pastures.

Mooooooo CWTC

 

One weekend a year for the past 4 years, the family owned Organic Pastures Dairy (who is celebrating their fifteenth year anniversary!) opens up their fields for a customer appreciation weekend of camping, games, family fun and all the raw milk you can drink (and if you’re my family, it’s a lot!)   This year there were 400 people, but you’d never know it, there’s so much space. It’s a two-day event that my family is already looking forward to for next year and we just left!

This year we arrived about 12:30 on Saturday afternoon. It was a perfect, warm afternoon. We picked our site towards the end of the field and started to set up our tents and shade tent as we waited for our friends to arrive.   The kids almost immediately took off to the hay maze (next year they will learn to put up the tent… next year) and as their friends arrived they took off as well.   The environment is one where the kids are free to run around as they want in the kid zone, or the fields, it’s a time where they get to explore and enjoy the openness of the fields.

Tents 2014 CWTC

After a brief welcome from the owners under a huge tent (filled with lots of seating, a toddlers play area, arts & crafts, refreshments and even a charging station for your phone) we headed back to our area for a relaxing drink and catch up with our friends.   The rest of the afternoon was filled with a tractor ride and tour of the farm, a milk chugging contest, a friendly game of Dunk the Dairyman, and my favorite… actually getting to milk a cow named Moolary (she was really adorable!)

Me, Lisa with WSGT & Moolary CWTC

VIDEO: Camping with the Cows 2015

Milk chugging 2015 CWTC

After a delicious catered dinner everyone gathered around on blankets and camping chairs under the stars for a movie in the field. We watched A Bug’s Life on a huge outdoor screen with cookies and milk.   The kids snuggled in as the temperatures dropped to a lovely cool evening and once the movie was done, some went off to bed and some stayed up for s’mores around the bonfires (you just cannot have camping of any kind without s’mores!) We had a friend with a guitar playing in our group around the bonfire and an evening of fun.

Dunk the Dairymen CWTC

On Sunday morning my kids and I awoke really early. They went off playing as the sunrise overtook the fields.   A bit later as more of the campers awoke everyone walked, jogged or rode the tractor to the site where Organic Pastures Dairy just broke ground for a new milk parlor that will open later this year.   The owners made a beautiful and emotional talk about their passion for sharing great health and a wonderful product with everyone gathered around.   Owners Mark (a former paramedic) and his wife Blaine (a former nurse) spoke of the nutrition, safety and comfort of their customers AND their cows.   Their milk goes through third party triple testing and can land in stores and farmer’s markets within 24 hours.   They also sell other products like cheese, butter (to die for!), cream and kefir.

Sunrise fun CWTC

 

CWTC 2015: Lisa and Sage won awards for social media participation during Camping with the Cows 2015

After, we headed back to our campsite and started to pack up our site.   We played a bit more and reluctantly got back in the car for our drive home.   Before heading on the road we stopped at their little store and filled up our cooler with milk, butter and cheese so we could make the coming week a bit more delicious.   We headed back home complaining that we only got to spend one night there at that peaceful, fun farm, but knowing our next trip back would only be a year away.   Moooooooooo!

Fresh field growing CWTC

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Singing in the Rain in the UK

 

PLAY ME, I’M YOURS slants across the side of it, white on wood. It is chain-bolted to the cement floor of Liverpool Station. London sunshine points through the window frames at cluster of seven Christian college students staring.

 “There it is. Finally, after two hours of Tube hopping… we found one.”

The stool bleats as a childlike woman pulls, acmompanied by a black-bearded man wearing a cross. They negotiate with their fingers as they skip down the ivories, finally deciding to perform ‘Where is the Love?’

Towards the end of the second chorus, a new voice warbles over all of the others. It is the sound of Broadway.

Broadway is a middle-aged blonde man with a gaping pearly smile who props his elbow on the edge of the piano top, leaning into the next line: “Father, Father, Father help us; need some guidance from above…”

Our seven voices snuff out. He beams; he embodies charisma.

“The name’s David.” He asks a few questions. We ask a few more.

“Music is my life. Sang on Broadway ten years ago. Got the lead for ‘Singing in the Rain,’ I did. Best time of my life; I’ll never forget the lights. Now I’m a choreographer in California.” Awe answered him. “Mind if I join your little chorus group?”

After a few rounds of jazzy runs, the jam session stutters towards its conclusion.

David breaks away from the piano ledge, gesturing towards another middle-aged man wearing a fixed disinterest in the chorus of twenty-somethings and a duffel bag.

“This,” he shares with the group, “is my boyfriend.”

The group waves, we smile nervously, evaluating; our hearts collectively skip a beat.

“How about another go?”

One-by-one they turn their heads just barely, to notice that across the hall David’s boyfriend’s shoulders are shaking. He keeps glancing towards their self-conscious little flock, holding back sobs, his face wet.

David explains: “He’s crying because he is happy for me.” He was holding back his own tears behind the crinkle of his cheeks, still smiling. “Three days ago, my cousin died in a freak car accident. That’s why we’re here; we’re on our way to the funeral. It’s tomorrow morning.”

“He’s crying because he knows that for three whole days, I’ve not been able to smile. Laugh. Even listen to a tune; it just hurt. Living for anything hurt.”

“But you all—thank God for you. Hearing your singing, remembering my love of music, I felt joy again! Singing with you has given me the courage to face tomorrow with a smile on my face, and know that everything is going to be okay.”

We feel an invisible fog suspended in that hall, heavy on our chests with conviction. With compassion.

“We’ll be praying for you both,” Black Beard offers, “while you’re at the funeral.”

“God bless you, thank you all so much!” David answers. With tears padded back, his boyfriend simply mouths his thanks.

The cluster of seven later walk soberly back to the Tube station; we’d unexpectedly found the love we were singing for.

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

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The Salt Shaker in New Zealand

 

                                              The Salt Shaker in New Zealand

Passing by a small coffee/pizza place on Victoria Street that is currently closed brought me back to the thinking of the horrible earthquakes that changed the lives of the people in this city. There were two earthquakes: The 2010 Canterbury earthquake (also known as the Christchurch earthquake or Darfield earthquake) with a moment magnitude of 7.1 at 4:35 a.m. local time on 4 September. The second one had a magnitude 6.3 shock that occurred on 22 February 2011. Because this aftershock was centered very close to Christchurch, it was much more destructive and resulted in the deaths of 185 people.

            The coffee/pizza place was not completely destroyed, but glancing through the window I could see “ all the things that were left there” in the moment that the earthquake  happened.  I could see the tables, chairs, table covers, plates, cups, silverware and the one object that made me completely stopped, a saltshaker. It was still filled with salt, untouched by anyone else after the last person that was using it flee the place in a hurry. It was there, placed in the middle of that table, with the other sauces and napkins around standing so still, and again so untouched by anyone else.

Many thoughts came to my mind. I thought of the person who used it for the last time. Who might that person be? A female or a male? A child or an adult?  Was this person happy or sad? Was she or he enjoying his or her meal or not? Was  she or he in a hurry to finish it or just relaxing? What was her or his conversation about? What she or he with his or family or alone? 

The second earthquake happened at 12:51 p.m.,  so it was in the middle of lunch time, and then again, I thought, what  was this person  really feeling before the moment of horror about to witness? Of course, I could never know, but I can imagine the fear and despair that this particular person must have felt in that moment.  Thank God I have not experienced anything like an earthquake, but the stories I have heard horrorized me, and I can also see the damages left behind. 

 

I can still see the sadness in my coworkers’ eyes when they talk about their experiences. One of them explained to me that she was almost trapped inside a car and that her quick reaction saved her life. That for her that was a near death experience. Some of the students that I work for who were toddlers during that time, have many problems with their behaviors because of the stressed they were under. I know a particular case of a girl that can’t be seated on the back of the bus when she goes on a field trip with us because she gets extremely anxious and starts throwing up. When I asked my supervisor, she only replied that was a reaction she has manifested after the earthquakes happened.

The aftermath of a  devastating  earthquake is something that only can be well explained by those who suffered through it.  I am sure that there are many stories untold, and that will remain a mystery to me and the world. In my case, I would have  liked to meet and heard  the story of the person who was using the salt shaker. I would  never know exactly about her or his life. I will never know how this person recovered from that moment, or if she or he lost  a loved one like many others. I will never  know if this person gave up on this city and moved away,  or if she or he still lives here with the hope or a new Christchurch rebuilt.

I wish I could meet this person and tell her how sorry I feel for her or him to have to go through a disaster like that. I would also like to tell him or her, that I had also felt despair and sadness when I had to leave my country, Cuba, behind at a very young age. And it wasn’t because of an earthquake. It was because of a dictatorship was pretending to cut my young wings to fly. A dictatorship that still remains visible to the world. And that made my family and I leave our country because we didn’t have freedom. And I wish I could also say this to that person, that at least if she or he is a survivor. He or she has the freedom to rebuild this wonderful city and be a part of a new vision and a new Christchurch. I know that I am a witness and a helper to a new Christchurch, and I hope that this person is too.  

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

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How Montreal, Canada Cut Through Me

When I arrived in Montreal, my stomach turned as I smiled when I saw the snow. After twenty hours traveling, I felt the cold wind cut through my face as I stepped out the airport and it was like a knife that could either kill me or cut the bread that’d feed me. I was happy yet I was terrified. I have never traveled alone in my life and the first time I do it, I chose to be in another hemisphere for six months. I had no family, no friends and I did not speak any French.

 

I caught a cab and felt like a child as I stared outside the window and took everything in.  I was so stimulated, not only visually, because Montreal was beautiful but mentally because I had just realized that I did not know this city, I did not know where to go, how to take the bus, what social conducts were acceptable, I didn’t even know how to dress for -19°C… Just like a kid, I would have to watch and imitate so I would eventually learn how to be part of this culture. And so that’s what I did, I watched…

 

As a week went by and I still had no friends, I was alone and depressed. I could not concentrate on simple tasks such as doing laundry so I decided to take a walk. As I sat on a bench at a park not so near the place I was staying, I started thinking about how everything would just go on even if I used the knife. Not even one person in that city would notice my disappearance and a tear ran down my face. I needed human contact so I approached strangers on the street and asked them where would be a fun place for me to go and have fun.

 

Late that night, I went to St. Laurent Boulevard and just looked for a place I could not be alone because I could not afford to do so. I entered an Irish Pub and asked for a beer as I sat on the counter. I was never a drinker but it seemed to be the only thing I could do at that moment so I could stay far away from that knife.

 

After a couple of beers, Anthoine approached me and asked me what I was doing alone. I told him I had just arrived in town and didn’t have any friends yet. He listened patiently to my laments and kindly told me about the time he went to Africa by himself. How hard it was at first but how much he learned from it. That was what I needed, some empathy. Because even though I knew how incredibly fortunate I was to travel to another country and experience a different culture, I was still lonely.

 

As we continued talking, I realized he was young, cute and, just like this name, praiseworthy for his academic achievements. I liked him, so I asked him to spend the night with me. And he did. We talked for hours, he told me about his childhood, how he liked his wine and listened to my stories until we both fell asleep.

 

The next morning, we kissed and I asked him if he wanted coffee. He did. As we sat across each other quietly, he took my hands and told me I was weird.

 “Why?”, I asked.

“You do weird things with your fingers”, he said as he referred to my double joints.

“It’s okay though, everybody is a little weird”, I said as I cut the bread.

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

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New Zealand: Every day a Different Journey

article by Dean Nelson @GayWhistler PART 2 OF 2

Every day a Different Journey

There is one thing to be said about jet leg it allows you to get up and going first thing in the morning. In my case, I knew I would wake up early so the night prior I had stopped at the local grocery store (which is always one of my favorite places to check out!) and picked up a few breakfast items I could enjoy while hitting the road in the wee hours of the morning.

I had gone to bed fairly early after a big travel day and having an “Unexpected Adventure” the previous day (click here to read that story). I sprang awake at 5AM, grabbed my day pack, jumped in the car and started racing (sort of speak) towards New Zealand’s most Eastern seaborne city of Gisborne approximately 4-hours from Rotorua.

Gisborne was one of the first cities in the world to usher in the new Millennium sunrise and therefore had created a special wall along the Midway Beach looking over the bay towards the iconic Young Nick’s Head and the Kaiti Beach. My mom had given me for Christmas 1999 my name to be included among the original 32,000 names. Now that I had a destination and mission for the day – I was on my quest to find the Millennium Wall of Gisborne and see what other interesting things I would find along the way.

The drive was exhilarating as I navigated in near darkness the twisty mountain highway as the aura of daylight started to reveal the exotic fern forest. It was almost 7AM the sun was just starting to rise from the depths of the Bay of Plenty near the tiny village of Opotiki. It was time to pull over, run around and enjoy the first rays of sunshine on this crisp autumn day. I really enjoyed the tranquility of the surf crashing, the birds singing and just bare witness to the majesty of this pristine beach scape. It was the perfect place to enjoy my breakfast snack after doing a couple sun salutations.

Re-energized I continue down the highway to Gisborne. As I entered the city I eagerly looked for any signage to help me find the Millennium Wall. I drove around for a bit and finally stopped and asked a couple guys at a local store. Little did I realize that I would set off an exciting debate as to where this landmark would be. In all fairness, the first guy I asked, was most likely in his twenties so the hype of this monument may not be as interesting than I and some of the older customers may have thought. I was off an my quest to find this wall. My first stop was to a painted wall from school kids in 1999 to celebrate the coming millennium. Colorful hand-painted tiles adorn an otherwise industrial elevated Wainui road in front of the Wharf Cafe. Clearly this is not what I was looking for, but it was one of those pleasant surprises that I am sure I would have missed.

Next stop, I was off to Centennial Marine Drive on Midway Beach near the Olympic Pool Complex. Alas I found the Millennium Wall as well as my name. It wasn’t as grand as I had imagined but nonetheless, exciting to see that it really does exist and my name had been itched in granite for all to see (if they can find it!). It may have been a different journey than what I had imagined however I did discover that the Millennium Wall stood guard over Poverty Bay, and the Midway Surf club, a popular spot for surfers to come and ride the surf. Just down the road is a great eatery right on the water’s edge, Peppers Beach Cafe. Here I enjoyed a late breakfast while watching the surfers. Both the service and food was good.

Gisborne is also known for some of their wines and it looked like they had a handful of wineries nearby. On route home was the Spade Oak vineyard with Steve Voysey as their head wine maker. The award winning vineyard situated on the family-owned estate on the flats of Gisborne’s sun-washed central valley. These wines, from the flagship Spade Oak Reserve through Heart of Gold to the V Series, capture the soils, sunshine and passion of Gisborne’s central valley region, in a mixture of exciting varieties and styles. If you plan on popping in, please note, you must make an advance appointment to tour the winery and tasting.

As the central valley fades in my rear view mirror I am in awe of the ever changing landscape before me. I wind my way through the mountain passes and along the majestic shorelines I arrive at my next destination, Hells Gate. Click here to read my TripAdvisor review on Hells Gate, 50 acres of rumbling and steaming geothermal features was once sacred ground for Maori warriors to heal their wounds and remove the “tapu” of war. This would be my treat after a long day of driving, to spend a few hours taking in this natural wonder and then retreating to the comforts of the healing waters. The Hells Gate Mud Spa, in stark contrast to the Polynesian Spa the night before, was more of a rustic and authentic Maori experience.

The changing facilities were all outdoors with a thatched roof. You are given a plastic bin to place your belongings and acted as your portable locker. Besides the lack of luxurious changing rooms and being exposed to the night air, I really enjoyed the experience. The night sky was vibrant and you could see Venus, Mars and the Southern Cross quite well. You are surrounded by the gurgling and bubbling of the nearby geothermal park which just added to the rawness of this sacred space.

After a full day I finally made my way to the Okoroire Hot Spring Hotel. The hotel was completed and opened in 1889 and still has that old world charm. Located just outside of Rotorua on an acreage in the village of Tirau. The hotel reminded me of an old country club that wealthy families in the day would come to vacation. Besides the obvious, private hot spring, the hotel also has their own 9-hole golf course, volleyball, tennis court, nearby hiking and biking trails and of course their own restaurant. It was time to call it a day.

Travel Resources:

– There are many rest stops and camping areas just off the side of the highways. The government of New Zealand Park and Recreation has some great travel tips. Visit doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/places-to-go/central-north-island

– Things to see and do in Gisborne newzealand.com/ca/gisborne

– Millennium Wall in Gisborne, New Zealand gdc.govt.nz/millennium-wall

– Gisborne Wineries gisbornewine.co.nz

– Hells Gate Geothermal Park & Mud Spa hellsgate.co.nz

– Okoroie Hot Spring Hotel okohotel.com

Travel Tip

Do a bit of research ahead of your trip and get a sense of some of the things you may want to see and do. I like to schedule one or two “must see/do” to help create my purpose for the day, and then allow the day to unfold as things pop up. Stopping in at a tourists shop and looking at the Post Cards will give you an idea of the most iconic things to see, but do make the extra effort and ask some of the locals for things to see and do. You would be surprised what you may discover.

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Last-Hour Beach, Ghana

It is quite delightful, thoughtful and insightful to unfold the trend of events coupled with certain scenario which specifically take place at the subject-line setting which is located in the ‘Western Region’ of the nation, Ghana.(West Africa)

‘Last Hour’ literally ‘End Period’ in a view-point or perspective of the ordinary person on the street. For so many years, this place serve as a locale for both the discerning young and old alike. Well, it’s obvious always seconds turn to minutes ad hours turn to days as far as matters of humanity and nature are concern. To the educated mind, man’s life-style is characterized with the act of love-making, merry-making and money-making which also bring about moment of leisure and pleasure, precisely after periods of hard work. Frankly, Saturdays and Sundays are often associated with church activities and other social functions both in the Christian cycles as well as traditional ways of livelihood. Notwithstanding, being a witness as well irregular attendee to the place especially on Sundays when coping with the harsh scotching sun condition becomes unbearable. Besides, swimming in the shallow sea becomes an alternative option to ensure satisfaction and comfortability.

Last-Hour Beach is an area as well arena with purely culture-like outlook in terms of its decorative ambiance which often attract both the local folks and global expatriates. Without mincing words, sights and sounds of locally produced music takes domination whenever special occasional event take place there. Sometimes, the enticement of romantic ‘Love-Birds’ present set the lonely man to an atmosphere of seemingly emotional conduct. However, every Sunday bring to bear togetherness of both family members and student friends with oneness of hearts in merry-making, precisely in an act of drinking all kinds of alcoholic as well as non-alcoholic brands of beverages. More-so, eating all kinds of foods ranging from ‘Kebab’ meats to fried-rice meals is quite convenient for all and sundry.

Last-Hour Beach, during ordinary week days can serve as suitable place for the religious mind with respect to the act of meditation on specific days such as Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays it can also serve as an ideal place for relaxation and sensation. I has spacious environment for vehicles to park, whiles the kids can also be entertained in the beach sands when it comes to varieties of sports meant for exercising the muscles. Perhaps, this piece of article remains incomplete without dealing with diverse forms of attitudes, characters and behaviors of certain individuals who come to the place with negative mindset, viz being careful not to leave money in the pocket or mobile phone in the bag. This will help to avert from facial expression of melancholy as if a person has been robbed from his or her life partner. Generally, LHB – Last Hour Beach is a comfortable place of socialization, familiarization and inspiration for both citizens and non-citizens alike.

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

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I Left My Heart In Kenya

Every night I slid between the course fabric sheets of the small upper bunk, I could feel the crossbars of the crudely constructed frame through the thin foam mattress; yet it was a welcome respite from the weariness accrued from the long day’s events.  I caught the smoky fragrance, like a campfire, emanate from a strand of my hair. The African nights proved far too cold to shower away the remnants of the day; it would have to wait till morning.  I would journal each night by flashlight or by candle (depending on available battery power), and read a little; some of the pages still bear the oily stain from the spilt candle wax.  Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t catch my bedding or my long tresses afire.

Every morning I would rise early to “shower”.  I could hear our helper chopping wood in the distance. She’d made the long walk to the river to gather water in a huge, five-gallon bucket.  She transported the heavy cargo on her head all the way back to the camp.  She lovingly heated the water for those of the mission team that wanted to wash up in the morning.  The warm, dirt tinged water felt heavenly as I poured it over my head.  I always took the same toiletries on these journeys: liquid dial soap, mint shampoo and conditioner.  Heavily perfumed, they effectively purged the strong aromas from my sticky skin: sweat, oil, smoke, insect repellent, all washed away, at least momentarily, until I slathered them all on again.

Then, we would have breakfast; one day we even shared warm pancakes, a collective effort pulling together  ingredients from home: instant pancakes, thick, sweet syrup, canned meat, packaged fruit, scrambled eggs (from the local market), and strong, Kenyan coffee.  Then, I would don my heavy, black, rubber rain boots, which stunningly set off my long, colorful, cotton skirt, to traverse thick muck, and stroll through “town”, where I marveled at the beautiful people selling fresh vegetables, vendors offering their wares, and rumbling, rustic old tractors puttering by, braying donkeys straining under heavy burdens.  Finally, I ambled over to the clinic, the manifestation of an urgent dream, a joint effort, but my hope and dream.  Before the end of the week, we would see hundreds of patients in Olmekenyu: Kipsigis, Kikuyu, Kisii, and Massai.  They set aside tribal rivalries and came together for a common goal: to pursue medical care to ease their suffering. Some walked seven days to arrive at our doorstep, along with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of others.  I sat at a small wooden table next to a nurse, who served much like a doctor, diagnosing and treating a myriad of conditions from malaria to pneumonia, fungal infections, ear infections, actually, all kinds of infections, hypertension, multiple injuries.   I caught a glimpse of the name of her patient and mine, two young women, who looked nothing at all alike, but shared the same last name.  I looked quizzically at the nurse, “Sisters?”.  She responded frankly, “Co-wives”.  Interesting.  I pressed on.  Others of our happy entourage served as “crowd control”, others worked in the pharmacy, and still others, performed dental procedures.  This particular day, we worked through lunch time, and, quite starved nine or ten hours later, eagerly received a small meal prepared by one of the locals who brought us warm, fried bread and a small piece of roasted meat.  Tasted heavenly.  After we finished clinic, I went to Mercy’s home.  She is the little girl the clinic was named for.  Our first trip, her mother presented her to me, knowing I was a doctor, to see if we could help.  This was our “scout” journey, and one that was intended as a spiritual outreach.  We had no medications.  She was seven or eight, slight framed, and febrile from a large, infected burn covering half of her back.  Hot porridge had poured over her, causing a third degree burn which was now “soupy” with infected tissue.  My heart was heavy.  We gave the mother funds to take her to a clinic two days journey away.  This return trip, I was astounded to see little Mercy, healed, and so grown up.  She had filled out, and had a healthy plump, not only to her cheeks, but all over.  What a welcome site!  Her mother was so happy I’d agreed to come to her home.  The adobe walls were set off with a thickly thatched roof.  The obelisk structure ordinarily mounted in the center of the roof was distinctly absent from this home, signifying that the father and husband of the home was there no longer.  When I arrived inside, I stifled the urge to cough every moment; the blazing fire inside the home served multiple purposes: to cook, to provide warmth, and the smoke rising from the fire served to drive away insects from the thatching overhead. Every molecule competed with the space’s life giving oxygen. I perched myself on a low rising mound of the hardened mud, a sort of seat, covered with an animal hide, as she smiled and pointed out the important details of the home.  I could not speak Kipsigis or Swahili, but told her in my most earnest, sweetest voice how beautiful her home was. She understood.  She was grateful that I crossed the threshold of her home, and I was just as grateful that she opened her heart and her home to me, the stranger that reached out to help save her little one.  As I left, she cradled my hand in hers and escorted me back up the treacherous hillside, dodging brambles and piles of warm cow dung, back to camp.

The time was too short, we would soon pack our things and set off, back to Narok, then to safari.  I was being rushed; the rains were coming.  We needed to hurry or we would be stuck; there exists no mud like that which resulted from the relentless downpour during the “rainy season”.  But I had to finish up.  Another patient, a late arriver had come for me to look at an animal bite, make recommendations, dispense one last medication.  We had delayed just long enough for a young mother to desperately trudge the final steps of a long journey; she was burdened down with two, very heavy, very sweet bundles: a toddler with a bronchial infection, and baby, hugely swollen from protein malnutrition, kwashiorkor.  The mother was very sick as well, with a serious pulmonary infection.  If we hadn’t delayed to provide care to the one with the dog bite, we would surely have missed these precious ones, and the babes would no doubt have perished.  We packed them in the vehicle with us, and, snug as sardines, we set off.  The delay cost us greatly, we wouldn’t beat the rain. We became inextricably bogged down in thick mud. The middle section of the vehicle’s frame became caught on a mound of earth, the tires spun mindlessly and uselessly through rivers of muck.  The stuff spun off onto our faces and clothes as we tried fruitlessly to push the heavy utility vehicle off the mound.  We were hopelessly stranded.  We all prayed and, after an hour or so, we heard a low rumble in the distance.  Then we beheld our saviors, lithe framed, ebony skinned angels, clad in brilliant red plaid wool cloths, mounted on the most enormous, and most beautiful ancient tractor I had ever laid eyes on.  That they were out and about on this overcast day was a mystery, that these Massai cattlemen/farmers came to our rescue, even more so.  They coupled our vehicles together with heavy rope and hoisted us off of the mound.  Effortlessly.  I will remember their kindness the rest of my life.

We arrived in Narok, still wet, straight through, my flip flop broken, skin badly chaffed, from holding the broken thong on, squeezed between two toes; the body of the foam shoe flopped wildly with each step.  Not only were my cheap shoes wrecked, I was as well; gritty mud, drying, clung to my flesh, peppered my face, soiled my clothes and clumped in my hair.  We made our way up the hotel stairs to tidy little rooms.  The piping hot water rejuvenated my senses, soothed my aching pours, driving life into my weary body and soul.   It’s so strange how one can shower each night, dress in soft clothing and slip so unappreciatively into warm, pillowy bedding, without a thought as to the worth of the privilege.  But, batter yourself senseless, scrape and scratch every square inch of your skin, soak yourself with frigid rain, drench yourself with mud, pulverize every muscle, and the ritual takes on special new meaning.  I think I slept like the dead that night.

We deposited the sick little things at the hospital and paid their expenses.  We later learned, they survived and healed nicely.

Then, we set off for safari in the Massai Mara. What a beautiful journey.  I marveled at the rugged beauty of the Mara.  We sped through the tall grasses.  I poked my upper torso and head through a hole in the roof and gripped the sides of the opening as we sped through the golden valley.  The wind played with the tips of my hair, flowing from under my floppy hat, tethered with a cord under my chin.  I was the sole passenger that day. I must have shot a hundred rolls of film on our trip, thirteen that day alone.  Another day, we all traveled to the hippo pool.  The driver “negotiated” with the militant guarding the area along the border.  He let us pass.  I was stunned that the hippos congregated with the crocs, nonplussed by their presence.  Surely their tender flesh would serve as a tasty morsel, and yield easily to the rending of the razor sharp teeth of the reptiles.  But I discovered that hippos are a ferocious and formidable foe to animals and humans alike, not sweet bedtime creatures to be snuggled, they were not to be toyed with.  We spotted a rare white rhino, herds of wildebeest, cackling hyena, a happy family warthogs, and my favorite: a pride of lions, with little cubs feasting on the morning kill, then tousling around with the adults of the pride.  I will treasure the memories of the animals, but even more, I will treasure the lovely people, with their shimmering dark skin, their bright smiles and brilliantly colored garments.  I discovered that though their homes are different, as are their food and drink, their clothing and language, yet their hopes and dreams are much the same as ours: to lead meaningful lives, to have enough to eat, clean water to drink, medication to ease suffering, and loved ones to surround them.  I miss Africa.  I left a part of my heart in Kenya.

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

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Be Brave in the USA

“Be brave,” I commanded myself while riding the subway downtown.

I had whispered those encouraging words under my breath a lot since having moved to New York City four months prior.  I was the girl who needed to keep being brave.  Starting a new job had been scary enough, but when my new career as a flight attendant had also required that I move to the Big Apple, the task had been almost unthinkable.  I was the girl who had grown up in a state in which more cows than people resided!  For me, New York City was a faraway, mythical land; a place as foreign to me as China.  Fortunately, with the support of many family members and co-workers, I had made the move and was thriving in my new home.  Certainly there had been days of getting lost and hours spent figuring out the local transit system, but ultimately, I had grown as a person and adjusted to the strange, urban environment.  I knew I could be brave, but with the thought of facing a gravesite, I felt my bravery would truly be tested.

There were only two more metro stops to go before reaching the World Trade Center subway station and so internally I reviewed my mission.  I was finally going to visit the 9/11 Memorial.  I was finally going to pay my respects to the men and women who lost their lives on that tragic day in 2001.

“Be brave,” I told myself again.

I had read online that the 9/11 Memorial is open daily from 7:30 a.m. to 9 p.m. and that more than 17 million have visited.  I, however, was reluctant to go.  In fact, a part of me dreaded going.

As a flight attendant, I held a deep connection to the plane crashes that brought down the Twin Towers.  Although I was just a teenager when it happened, the significance of the horrific events that I had seen on the news that day were not lost on me.  My father was a pilot for a commercial airliner and (Praise be to God!) he had just left New York that very morning of September 11th.

As a pilot’s daughter, I had flown frequently throughout my childhood and until 9/11, had never seen flying as unsafe.  It was a terrifying moment to suddenly think that your father’s life, just like the lives of the people on the four crashed planes, could end in an instant.  Perhaps surprisingly, this revelation did not deter me from eventually seeking a job in the airline industry.  If anything, for me 9/11 fueled a deep desire to emulate the acts of bravery and displays of sacrifice that abounded that day.  I was inspired by the countless number of heroes that put themselves in harm’s way to save lives including firefighters, police officers, emergency responders, courageous New York citizens on the scene, and the individuals on United Airlines Flight #93 that crashed in rural Pennsylvania.

My musings on these tremendous acts of heroism faltered as the subway train pulled to a jerky stop.  I exited the car and shuffled up a stairwell with a swarm of bustling people.  When the crowd dispersed, I was left alone at the intersection of Barkley and Church Street standing in the shadow of the recently completed One World Trade Center building.  I craned my neck back and caught my breath as I gazed at the enormously tall fixture of glass and steel.  I knew that a few blocks away I would find the 9/11 Memorial.

I had seen pictures online of the two square-shaped reflection pools that mark the former location of the Twin Towers.  Water pours across the two empty holes which are paved in concrete brick.  There is a bannister bordering the uppermost level that is lined with sleek, gray panels on which the names of the dead are inscribed.  I squeezed my eyes shut and envisioned myself standing there in at the reflection pools and the moment I did, the tears came.

“I can’t.  I can’t do it.”

The thought of defeat repeated over and over in my mind.  I wanted to see the memorial.  I wanted to pay tribute to those brave and heroic people, but that important visit did not happen.  Instead, I turned and fled back into the subway to make the hour ride return to my place in Queens and to save the journey for another time.

Although my visit to the gravesite was unfulfilled, I am left with a small bit of hope that bravery is not instantaneous.  Bravery, I hope, is a mindset, a trait, a determination that we must seek to find within ourselves and once found, something we can cultivate so that it can someday be used for the good.

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

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Bahamas: “I Love You Too”

Peaks of a golden sun glowed through the palm tree leaves as the glistening aqua water gently greeted the shore. Meanwhile, the house was as quiet as a church during prayer. I crept down the ladder from the loft and wandered into the kitchen to make my initial cup of coffee. Easing the door open, I stealthily slipped out and sauntered down to the shore. I sat down on a cement wall letting my toes tenderly brush the smooth white sand. A smile crossed my mouth as a light breeze tousled my hair, and I inhaled deeply allowing the salty air to flood my nasal passages. In just a bit, the sweet sun would become viciously hot, and I desperately wished to enjoy the view before this transformation took place. Faintly behind me, I heard the playing of a soft hymn alerting the house that the day’s activities would soon commence. I took a moment to mentally prepare myself for what today would hold, and then raced up the stairs before anyone would notice my absence.    

            The group stumbled down the stairs of our beach house after a long night spent packing, and loaded into the two golf carts. After a short ride through the colorful streets of the half-mile wide island, we arrived at the ferry dock. Per usual, the ferry was late, so we talked fishing with the locals and wandered in the nearby gift store. At last, we heard the familiar crunching of cement wall against fiberglass as the ferry came to a halt. Freshly made banana rounds and sugary Goombay juice was already loaded into coolers and for sale on the run-down boat. After about a twenty-minute ride, the sluggish ferry pulled up to a dock on North Eleuthera. We disembarked and were immediately greeted by smiling faces. The Haitian children tugged on our hands to speed up our walking towards Blackwood. We trekked through the rugged terrain until finally arriving in the Haitian village for the last time.

            I had traveled with Broughton’s FCA down to the Bahamas for a week. Our mission was to teach Haitian children residing in the Bahamas about Christ through sports. These children and their families escaped from Haiti in hopes of a better life on Eleuthera; however, they live in constant fear of being sent back home. This past Christmas, a large government raid forced many of these refugees to return. Some made their way back to the Bahamas on illegal ships, but most had no choice but to remain in Haiti. Their lifestyle on Eleuthera is in no way desirable, but it does not even compare to the horrors they endured back home. They live in one or two-room houses with a piece of cloth serving as a door. Of course they have no electricity, air conditioning, or running water. One member of each family is forced to walk many miles every day to retrieve clean drinking water, and once a week or so, the whole family will make the trip to bathe. Without the ability to work and generate income, these immigrants are forced to rely on the generosity of the missionaries for much of their food supply. Even with the help of the evangelists, there isn’t nearly enough food for everyone in Blackwood; therefore, lack of proper nutrition greatly lowers their immune systems. Hygiene is another serious issue in the Haitian community, causing illness to spread rapidly, like wild fires. Many of the Haitians suffer from life-threatening diseases; however, seeking adequate medical attention could lead to their deportation for non-citizenship. Our mission team brought food, toys, hygiene supplies, and other necessities for the Haitians, but it was clear our team of ten hadn’t brought nearly enough.

Sweet Luna and her little brother Lewis bounded towards me with open arms as I stepped onto the arid playfield in the middle of the village. I knelt down to hug them, and Luna began to cry in my shirt while Lewis nestled his head into the crook of my arm. I remained still for a while, comforting them while they caught their breath.

“Momma hasn’t fed us this week. She doesn’t care about us. I hate her,” said Luna, still sobbing.

My heart ached, and I fought back tears thinking about my departure the very next day. “How could I continue to help them when I returned home?” I thought.

I was genuinely concerned for the well being of Luna and Lewis, and I wished I could bring the two of them home with me. These precious children don’t deserve to face the many hardships each day holds in store for them, just as I don’t deserve the many blessings God puts in my life.

I had packed a small lunch for myself, but decided these two needed it more than me. Their faces lit up as I pulled out a smashed PB&J, two little packs of goldfish, and my water bottle. They crunched the goldfish noisily, and I cringed hoping it would not attract the other children, as I didn’t have any more to share. After devouring every morsel, Luna and Lewis were ready to resume playing in the field. My already burnt face and shoulders roasted to a ruby-red under the unforgiving sun for the fifth day in a row, but I wasn’t about to let that small obstacle spoil my last few fours on the island. We chased stray dogs and goats through the unpaved streets, tossed a rubber ball, and made bracelets out of coarse strands of rope with a few beads. The simplest of activities brightened their day, and their jubilant smiles brightened mine.

When it was time to say goodbye, I could not hold back the tears any longer. The thought of leaving these children not knowing if I would ever see them again was devastating. I took Luna by the hand, and we sat down under one of the few trees on the outskirts of the field. I had been wearing a silver cross necklace the whole week that my parents gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I unhooked the delicate chain from around my neck and let it fall into my palm. I grasped the necklace tightly and watched as tiny tears splattered her cheeks when she realized it was time to say our goodbyes.

“I will never forget you, Luna. You are such a strong girl, and I can’t wait to see what God has in store for you. I want you to have this necklace to remind you of Christ’s everlasting love for us, His children. I love you, and I promise I will be back as soon as I can.”

I clasped the necklace around her small neck, and she reached up to touch the cross in the middle.

“I love it, Abbie. Thank you. I wish you didn’t have to leave now.”

I stood up from the bench, and she outstretched her arms for me, so I carried her to the entrance of the field. We stood there for a moment hugging, but I knew I had to hurry to catch the ferry. I set her down, mustered one last sad smile, and waved as I began walking back down the dirt road. She called after me,

“Abbie!”

I turned around and saw her small shoulders heaving as she stood crying in the middle of the street.

 

“I love you too,” she yelled.

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

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Fresh and Fast in Beverly Hills: Pure By Michèle La Porta

Pure By Michèle La Porta is located on the popular Beverly Hills street, South Beverly Drive. On a weekday, you can’t miss all of the people on their hurried lunch breaks, grabbing a bite up and down the street. If this is you, look no further than Pure. It’s the perfect spot for fresh, healthy food that’s ready for you to take on the go.

All the food is packages in to go containers, allowing you to grab and go, or eat there. The options are all locally farmed, organic and artisanal. Everything is prepared on site daily.

 

 

 

If you’re in the area, don’t forget to try these can’t miss menu items:

Crispy Tuna

This delicious menu favorite has a bed of brown, red and black rice, topped with seared tuna, and accompanied with a house made truffle soy sauce.

Green Peas and Mint Soup

This soup is the pea’s answer to gazpacho. You can have it served warm or cold. I decided to try cold, and was delighted with the refreshing, creamy flavor!

Signature Salads

The Chicken Thai Salad is the perfect light lunch on the go. If you only go and get one thing as your meal, this is an excellent choice. If you’re looking for something more unique, try the Zucchini Spaghetti. In a house made pesto sauce, shredded zucchini replaces noodles in this classic pasta dish. You’re eating healthy, but feel like you’re getting a pasta treat!

 

Starlette Cakes

A Pure original, Starlette Cakes are a light greek yogurt mousse, topped with fruit. They are also available in original flavors, like matcha tea. These are all non-fat with no sugar added. They are a simple and refreshing, tart dessert to satisfy your sweet tooth!

Fun fact: If you choose to eat there, Pure’s tables feature herb centerpieces. While they also look pretty, they are there for you to add to your food! Feel free to pick a sprig of mint or rosemary and add it to your dish!

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