Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 329

Brave for Spain’s Sake

I think it’s rare in this world to feel so purely at home in somewhere across the globe from where you were born. I think it’s rare, and I also think it’s remarkable. The small city of Granada, Spain evokes that feeling of home so deep inside myself that I can’t separate my soul from the city. Granada is a place of history, of modernity, of bulls, of endless glasses of wine, and of exploration. Upon arriving in the city, I was a sweaty pile of trembles and nerves, but after only a few hours in this astounding place, I felt I could do anything. I could profess myself in a foreign language, I could get lost on the cobblestone, I could walk into the flashing light of a nightclub and be entirely unafraid.

Los Cohorros, a place of tree-covered bluffs and winding green trails right outside of Granada and near the tiny village of Monachil, is the only place I have felt so utterly empowered to be the adventurer I had always felt growing inside me. The surrounding mountains towered over me, surrounding me in vines, apricots, and shadows. I had never felt so small, and I’d never felt so strong. As I came to a slender bridge, the same fear I’d felt stepping off the plane crawled back into my stomach. The bridge swung in the light wind, the old wood appearing soggy, like someone had fished the boards from the sea and threaded them together. The backpack hanging from my shoulders suddenly felt like it was packed with stones. I gripped the posts, my feet drilled into the ground. I stared at the bridge with such contempt, such fear. But I looked up, seeing the wide Spanish sky spread out above me like a painting. I breathed in the olive Spanish air and I knew who I was supposed to be. In that moment I knew who I was: a traveler, a curious voyager, an unafraid endurer. Suddenly I didn’t need the guide ahead of me or my friends behind me; all I needed was my own clenched fist and this bridge.

Coming from a small town, world travel isn’t high on the priority list. Everyone graduates from high school, heads to college, and comes running right back home. My passion for new places and new people made me the outsider, the eccentric girl with an eccentric goal. I know now that being who I am, being curious and courageous and accepting that home isn’t always the place that you were born, isn’t only okay, it’s important.

I don’t think I was brave for crossing that bridge in Los Cohorros. I think crossing that bridge was only the beginning in the ways that Granada transformed me. Spain made me stronger. It shoved and kicked and forced me outside of my comfort zone. And after, it comforted me. It held on to me so tightly that by the end of my stay, I didn’t know how to separate myself from the place that let me discover myself, my curiosity, my bravery. I don’t know how to repay such a place, but I’ll spend my life being brave for Granada’s sake.

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

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New York, New Mistakes

“You know you can come home.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Really.  You can always come back here. Regroup.  Go out again when you feel ready.”

“Dad. There’s nothing for me at home.”  I said the word home because, to my dad, home meant Utah.  To me, I still hadn’t found my definition of home yet.  Home felt like an empty word when I used it, and yet it had so much weight to him.

“You have been in New York City for a week now.  You can mark it off your list. You did it. Now look, all I’m saying is that you have nothing to be ashamed about if you do want to to come back. Okay?”

Nothing to be ashamed about. 

Those words rang in constant echoes even after the phone call ended.  I continued to hear this attempt at comfort from my worried and distant father as I walked up and down the streets of New York City.   I had come to the city on a whim.  I wasn’t having much luck finding a place to sleep that I could actually afford, and the search for jobs was like a never ending Easter egg hunt.  I could just leave, say, “Okay, New York City, this week was fun,” and fly back to St. George, Utah.  Why didn’t I just save the last few dollars I had and go back home?  As my father had said, I had nothing to be ashamed about.

But that was just it.  I had nothing to be ashamed about.  I hadn’t made any mistakes.  I hadn’t grown at all.  I realized that I needed to give New York City enough time to take me in, chew me up, and spit me out.

I looked up at the crowded sidewalks.  It was easy to tell who was a New Yorker and who wasn’t.  The ice was slippery, but that didn’t slow any of the New Yorkers down.  The tourists would get pushed over to a corner of a building where they would pull out a guide book (people still use those?) or their phones.  That was them stopping, regrouping, preparing, and then eventually finding a subway stop.  New York City sidewalks had no patience for gawkers.  It showed mercy to no one, but was loyal to those who accepted the fact that the city owed them nothing.

I realized then, for the first time in my twenty-two years of living, that I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to take leaps…and fall.  I wanted to make decisions… and mistakes.  I wanted something to be ashamed about.  I wanted to cross the line and get my hand slapped for it.   I wanted to float away on a balloon and have that balloon pop when I had inconveniently reached an altitude of ten thousand feet.

Somehow I knew—some how the city told me through its groaning railways, its expensive coffee and chocolate croissants, and the way it never stopped moving and never turned its lights off—that New York would give me my mistakes.

Ask any New Yorker riding the subway and they will tell you, with a flicker in their eyes from the forbidden warmth of a mistress, that this city is about the struggle.  They will laugh and quote the rest of the locals and say “The. struggle. Is. Real.”

Despite the warnings of a ruthless and frosty February and March approaching New York City, I’m set on staying.  All of my hopes and dreams here come down to this favor I ask of the city: Be good to me in that you let me make the biggest mistakes of my life.  Don’t sugarcoat my twenties.  Let me fall.  Let me have something to be ashamed about—and let that shame neither hold me in one place nor push me away.  Dear city that knows no sleep, no rest, and no boundaries, let 2015 be the year of the most beautiful mistakes of my life.

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

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Heaven The Place Of God in India

 “Heaven”—is what I cannot reach!

Heaven is something which can’t work on expression

It is something which is not making enemies

It means we have to work in all seasons

It is the work in which we have to work in a nice vision

And not thinking like putting in everyone mind our impression

It’s a simple living and livelihood work

It’s not giving apple to a beggar

And become a member of heaven

It’s a work which is more than eleven

It’s not doing mischievous by telling bad words in a conversation

It’s a work of doing a confession

It’s a work of being a doctor and then removing infection

Not putting injection

It’s a work of not doing good work and teach a yourself lesson

I tried my best to do all this work

And this is like making a pledge of not doing mischievous in vacation

People say heaven is a true mans place

I did my business and gave everyone concession

This is doing a Eating food and not giving the payment

I thought I will climb the highest mountain and then becoming a Jain lord

I thought doing good work it’s easy to reach heaven

But no, having your patience is one way to reach heaven

But don’t think it is the only one thing to reach heaven

We don’t illuminate the darkness so it’s not possible to reach heaven

Ya so “Heaven”—is what I cannot reach!

 

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Reimagine yourself in Machu Picchu, Peru

We all know them.  Those people that say, “I’ll do it when…..” fill in the blank.  When I have more money.  When my kids are grown.  When I have more time.  When I am older.  And that phenomenal thing called time occurs and suddenly it is too late and all we have is “I wish I hads….” left.  I was one of those people until I stepped up and decided not to wait any longer.  An unexpected death of a friend spurred me to act before I was one of those wondering where the time had gone.

I had been divorced for three years.  I was a single mom of active teenagers.  I was a teacher.  And I was only identified my those characteristics.  Through the years I lost who I was.  I started finding myself again.  I did ten triathlons.  I started a masters at University of Central Florida.  As I got closer to graduation, I wanted to challenge myself to step out and be a brave individual somewhere where no one knew how I was identified.  I had always wanted to see Machu Picchu so I began the thought of my adventure of hiking the Inka Trial.

I had traveled internationally before, but always had someone to meet and travel with.  This time, I was on my own.  Learning not only about a culture, but about myself.  My children were not keen on the idea of me traveling to a foreign country alone, but we had a year to prepare. My daughter took me shopping.  My son worried.  Despite all of our fears, they dropped me at the airport and with hugs, wet cheeks and well wishes, I was standing there alone.  Almost as soon as I entered the airport, my heart soared thinking about the grand adventure I was about to undertake.  Fear was gone.

After 18 hours of travel from Orlando to Cucso, via Lima, I arrived exhausted and exhilarated!  Pushing my limits, I dropped my bags at the hotel and instantly went to find the trekking company I had booked for the hike.  Brave is one thing, careless is another.  I should have taken into account the altitude and lack of decent food, but excitement took over. One misstep and now I had a knee scraped to the bone and gouges in my palms from a tumble on the uneven cobblestone streets.  What terrible timing.  I had a day and a half to nurse myself, but I started to trek bandaged up.  Push on.

It was an amazing few hours into the hike, then the rain started. I am not sure what else I expected for March in the rain forest, but it was tough.  Basically four days of steady rain.  Day and night.  I was hiking with fourteen strangers that quickly became friends and between us, we found ways to stay dry, enjoy the great food cooked by our porters and laugh.  I took 1500 pictures of things that I never would forget.

The last day as we were coming down into Machu Picchu, I began to slow down.  Smell every flower.  Hear every rain drop.  See every distant peak.  I wondered how I got to be so small in such a big world.  I wondered how to make the best impact.  I knew when I returned, I would be a changed person.  Less fearful.  My children would be proud of their mom.  I hope as they age, they look back at their 45 year old mom, a Don Quixote, and not be afraid to take chances.  Life is too short not to be brave.  Try new things.  Test those limbs.

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

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Braving the Snow Drifts of Watson Lake Canada

 

Braving the Snow Drifts of Watson Lake Canada

By Jennifer Calvin

 

            The beautiful scenery of Watson Lake in the Yukon Territory of Canada was hidden beneath the quiet blanket of whispery snow. My mother and I had awoken to the snow blinding whiteness. It was early October and very near the point of dangerous travel through Canada. We, however, were determined to push forward; snow or no snow.

 

            Canada was our route of travel. We left the reds and yellows of changing fall leaves in New Hampshire to journey to the vast yet beautiful state of Alaska. The Alcan (Alaska Highway) encompasses a rather large chunk of our travelling days. The total length of days would be ten (not the nine as predicted prior to our episode in Watson Lake).

 

            Even though the snow was coming down, we were tough Northerners and knew how to travel in the conditions of wintery weather. It was rather odd that the snow we encountered did not exist before or even after Watson Lake, at least not in extreme amounts. Pictures of the infamous Watson Lake sign posts were barely visible. Up until this point we had a nice collection of exquisite photos of the trip. I was determined not to miss this historical land mark before heading down the road. So, out into the snow storm I went, with camera in hand to get the pictures necessary to prove our adventures along the Canadian route.

 

            Ten minutes later, we are heading on our way once again, with UHaul in tow and some snowy pictures of Watson Lake. We did not get far when I felt that one of the tires had blown. I slowed the vehicle down and pulled into the nearest gas station for help. The woman working at the gas station stated that AAA would not come out to help as they were some 400-500 miles away.

 

            My mom patiently waited in the vehicle while I spoke with the woman. I looked at my mom and knew that I was the only one who would be able to get us out of this situation. I did not want her to become stressed over what was about to unravel…us broken down with a flat tire, hauling a trailer, with no help in sight, in 20* weather, with no cell phone service, at a gas station that I found out was only open for a few more days as they were closing for the season, and not enough funds for us to really call for help even if there was help to call.

 

            Thankfully a kind man was getting gas and offered to help us with the tire change. I had a spare so it would not be a problem, or so we thought. After removing all of the items packed in the back of the SUV and putting them on the frozen ground, we were able to finally figure out how to remove the spare tire. New vehicles these days do not make it simple for older individuals. Two hours later, with the spare tire on we were again on our way. This angel in disguise had rescued us, braving the very cold temps, kneeling on the ground with his knee that he had recently had surgery on, who made the moral decision to stay and help after many thoughts of fleeing and leaving us stranded.

 

            One would think that one flat tire on a ten day trip would not be so bad, and I would readily agree, if that was the case. Two hours down the road I stopped to gas up the Nissan. We always stopped when we saw a gas station because we never knew when the next one would come along. Many of them were closed for the winter and it was too dangerous to risk driving without cell phone service and the sparseness of the people who travelled during this time of year.

 

            Once the tank was filled, I ventured inside to pay the cashier. A gentleman on his way out of the establishment caught my attention and revealed yet another flat tire. This one was on the UHaul trailer itself. I managed to slowly drive across the street to the only garage in town (UHaul will not allow customers to change their tires it must be done by a garage). The mechanic was out of town and we waited for five hours before his return. Again I put on the face of bravery. Pulled out my word find book and told my mom that everything would be just fine. The roads of Canada had claimed two of my tires in a mere two hours, but in the end, my bravery was inspired by this wonderful country.

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

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An Act of Bravery in Spain

There are those who are pessimists by blood and wanderers by spirit. To be both, you must be brave, and to be neither, you must be strong-willed. I am neither and both, but I am invisible. Exclusively, I divined in the peacefulness of sitting beneath a tabletop and writing endless stories of characters that enabled me to travel beyond my simple fear and pessimism. Wanderlust ran through my veins, but never could I venture out into the real world. Invisible as I aimed to be, someone always found me and encouraged me to enter a journey I deemed too frightful and dangerous for my confidence. That was before I found a passion; I found a love. My desire to learn and cultivate knowledge leaked into a passion for languages and literature. Simply put, the romantic ghost of life paid me a visit and called me exactly as I was: a fraud. For how can one write tales of adventure if they have never been present enough during their own? I changed. I became visible to myself and the world around me, and I came out from beneath the desk to see those who had looked for me, those whom I had ignored. I booked myself a one-way ticket to Europe with my boyfriend and when I finished high school, I had a pencil and paper, a backpack, little money and all my dreams to live before the dreadful terror that is responsibility made its devastating descent upon my life. I left my invisibility cloak at home and I stepped over the threshold, entering the real world.

At 5am on the plane to Spain, my boyfriend and I were seated beside a charming elderly woman. I say that because I was taught respect for elders as a child, however if she were young, I would probably call her the most frustrating pain in my neck. The entire flight consisted of her committing atrocious crimes against common etiquette and making continuous sexual references, despite her comments on my relationship with my boyfriend. 

“You two are so young, and you better not be doing the naughties until you’re married!”  she had said to us, only to respond after I asked why she was going to Spain, “Oh, I want to find me a young Spaniard.” 

How do you say hypocrite in Spanish?

“Fea!” – “Gorda!” – “Eres tú la morona!” 

My arrival in Spain was more than perfect. I had been geared up for the typical obscenities shouted by youths in the city, but now it hit me. I was in a completely new world. English was a delicacy, yet to me, Spanish was easily the most delicious at this point in time. A calmness reverberated through me as we met with my host family and travelled two hours in their car from Madrid to Valladolid. Spain was so painfully beautiful; the colours, the scarves, the dancing legs and the beautiful grins, unworried faces and fast-food stalls. I could see large spaces. No longer did I want to sit under a table and write stories, I wanted to look out and see the lake, the scenary, and write in truth. Write about the beauty of bravery, leading to an ultimate discovery of the world and oneself. In passing a square with the Spanish flag, amongst a car of Spanish chatter, I felt a heat rise in my throat and a saltiness dripping down my cheeks. The tears flowed and the smile broke. 

For me, Intuition represents an invisible balm on a body; it may soothe in times of undecided distress; prepare in times of fear; strengthen in times of confidence; advance in times of intellectual desire and you know it has reached full potential when you have no explanation; when you know. You simply feel it in your bones, in your core, that you have reached this place and you understand something unique about it. 

Welcome to your place in the world, bienvenido a España, the chilled air declared before me. 

My intuition brought me here, and my travels extended beyond one country, to a new world, where I became visible in one decision. The decision to follow my passion. I found my place in the world in one decision, one intuition, one love. 

Only when I realized that my fears existed not for my inability to succeed, but my concern that I am powerful beyond belief, could I find my place in the world. And commit to one act; 

An act of bravery, to be seen.

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

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Temple of Preah Vihear: Sacred amidst Tensions

When I found out that it was possible (albeit near-impossibility at that time) to visit this sacred temple on a day trip from Siem Reap in 2012, I immediately grabbed the opportunity to see it while it was then — once again — enjoying a short “time of peace”. For a very long time in the past, as a disputed territory, the promontory of the Temple of Preah Vihear and its environs have had some serious history of crossfires between the Cambodian and Thai military forces. In fact, a few months prior to my visit, several soldiers from both camps were killed in an unexpected clash.

The iconic first gopura, which contains some of the most impressive carvings in the temple complex.

Three years after that brave trip, as I look back, it is still perhaps the single most unique experience I have had in visiting a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Back then, it took me nearly four hours on a private vehicle to reach the temple from Siem Reap. Given the road constructions recently, the travel time is now reduced to nearly half of what it took when I went there.

The Temple of Preah Vihear never failed my towering expectations, to say the least. After all, it was confidently inscribed on only one criterium: “(i) as a masterpiece of human creative genius”. So far, only this temple, the Taj Mahal, and the Sydney Opera House are inscribed solely on this basis.

The second gopura: the carving style of the pediment is different from the first one.

In my opinion, the temple rightly deserves to be on the same ranks as Angkor Wat and Bayon, if not even better. The incomparable beauty of this site stems from the following:

1. its history – older than those in Angkor, dedicated to Shiva and, according to some sources, is also one of a few that has a history of critical lingam worshiping;

2. its architecture – the extensive 800m-long layout of the temple is unique, the galleries surrounding the central sanctuary served as inspiration for the arrangement of Angkor Wat 300 years later, and the carvings offer a different style from those in Angkor (notice the style of its nagas, and the impressive quality of its carvings can only be compared to those of the much younger Banteay Srei) .

The third gopura: the walkway leading to the fourth gopura prior to the main central sanctuary is dotted with lingams. One lingam near the portal can be seen in this photo.

3. its relevance – a major pilgrimage site for Khmer kings, as well as a rare key temple off-route the Angkorian Royal Road;

4. its location – situated right beside a cliff, on top of the Dangrek Mountains to a height of nearly 600 metres. From the temple, one can already gaze at the Golden Triangle, an area shared by Cambodia, Thailand, and Laos; and, lastly,

The Golden Triangle

5. the geopolitical struggles and controversies associated with its WHS-inscription in 2008, and the earlier landmark International Court of Justice (ICJ) ruling in 1962. More recently, in 2013, another ICJ ruling finally awarded the contested peripheral forest zone of the temple to Cambodia, putting an end to the long-standing dispute between the two Southeast Asian kingdoms.

As a military zone, several soldiers are stationed in and around the temple complex. A political statement such as that in the photo clearly asserts Cambodian ownership over the promontory and its immediate vicinity.

As the Temple of Preah Vihear lies in an active military zone, it comes, then, as no surprise that not many travelers take the effort in seeing this site when I made my visit. In the five pleasurable hours that I spent there, I only managed to see about three other civilians — who might just be even locals — in the temple complex.

Aside from the breathtaking view from the top, I truly enjoyed receiving blessings by chanting monks guarding the central sanctuary; as well as exploring the interior of the largely ignored vegetated Tower of the Long-haired Lady that is reminiscent of Ta Prohm in Angkor.

The central sanctuary that is guarded by chanting monks. Outside, a soldier is also on guard.

 

The tower of the long-haired lady, an isolated structure that has been overgrown by plants and a tree.

Clearly, I got the strong impression that the Khmer people are indeed proud of the Temple of Preah Vihear as suggested by the displaying of the flags of UNESCO, Cambodia, and the World Heritage Committee not far from the first gopura. Such subtle declarations never fail to get noticed.

The temple of Preah Vihear together with its brother temple atop Phnom Chisor in the province of Takeo, which I also got the chance of visiting back in 2010, will always have special places in my heart for the wonderful experiences they have left me. In sum, the Temple of Preah Vihear clearly and easily justified itself as being one of the best single sites I have seen so far.

A view of the plains of the Preah Vihear province. This was taken at the edge of the Dangrek Mountain cliff.

There is no entrance fee to the temple. But, at the base camp, visitors have to pay for the motorbike that will transport them to the top for a fairly reasonable price. On this trip, I also went to the nearby town of Anlong Veng, visiting some ‘Khmer Rouge’ related sites such as the house of Ta Mok and the final resting place of Pol Pot.

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Carry-On/Carry On in the USA

Carry-On/Carry On

by Sarah Vedomske

            49 pounds of cotton and denim–that is what my checked bag, my Normal People Luggage, holds. It is a selection of clothing I’ve pained over for weeks, whittling down, rolling tighter and tighter like burritos, rearranging so every last gap is filled like a game of Tetris. I wheel it behind me and give it to the baggage handler as soon as I can. My carry-on, my Not So Normal People Luggage, I cradle. My life depends on what is held inside: paper test strips, which I smear drops of blood onto each day, orange-capped syringes I slide into my stomach, glass bottles of cold, clear insulin which, as a type 1 diabetic, my body stopped producing on its own years ago. I have enough supplies to last around 6 months. After that, I will have to navigate a foreign healthcare system–a daunting task–though, not daunting enough to stop me from going on this trip. Not even daunting enough to persuade me to close the loop on my one-way ticket. This one-way ticket is the freest I’ve ever felt.

            Pulling out copies of prescriptions, I mentally prepare to put up a gentle fight–to defend my disease and the dozens of liquids it requires in greater-than-TSA-approved-quantities. I separate my medicine from my laptop from my shoes from my passport, and watch the plastic bins slide through the x-ray scanner. I strain to find my medicine on the screen amidst rainbow-hued technological blobs, to know when the right moment to explain myself will be, but I can’t tell any of them apart. Finally, I blurt, “I have diabetes! That’s my diabetes medicine in there!” The man behind the conveyer belt looks me hard in the eyes for a second. My heart races. This is my first time traveling alone, I feel as fragile as blown glass.

            “Hey, me too,” he grins. “Type 1?”

            “Mhm,” I nod, wide-eyed. Relief rolls through my body as my luggage rolls, without conflict, to the other side of the belt.

            “It’s tough to pack all that crap, isn’t it?” he says, watching me scramble to shove all of my medicine back into my bag. “Take care of yourself. Safe travels.”

            TSA, in my opinion, is the most stressful part of airports, and it’s usually not as bad as I think it’s going to be. After getting through that and finding the right gate, it’s all lattés, bestselling books, and staking out a seat until the plane departs. My gate is crowded, so I sit on the floor, and lean my back against a big window, as “Fleeting One” by First Aid Kit flows through my headphones.

            I don’t know where I’m going, but no one is coming with me.

            I won’t give up chasing the sun, here I go, look at me run.

            I wonder, as all kinds of people stream past me, is there any place that holds a wider range of emotion than an airport? Most people rush by in a mad frenzy, as if the plane is going to leave without them any second now. Surely it isn’t that pressing for all of these over-zealous walkers. It must be some kind of herd mentality.

            I want to stop each one of them and hear their stories: who is going on vacation and where to? Who is moving and how far away? Who is returning home and who is leaving home and who cried the whole way here? Airports are transitory places; we’re teetering on the cusp of something different, something new, something possible. Courageous souls are carrying on, waiting for flights, coming, and going all over the world right now.

            These people are on business trips, working to pay off credit card debt and put food on the table. People who feel stuck and are daring themselves to get unstuck, or are going home to surprise their mother on her birthday. People who are switching states, countries, continents for love, money, or, as Robert Louis Stevenson put it, “not to go anywhere, but to go. [To] travel for travel’s sake.” They, too, hope that their plane won’t be delayed, and wish the airport had free wifi. They, too, are sore from lugging their heavy, weathered bags. They, too, are tired or nervous or excited or all three.

            These people are carrying the saddest, funniest, dreamiest stories in their wild beating hearts. It’s a brave troupe.

            I then realize that I, too, am a part of it, with my carry-on full of medicine, clutching a one-way ticket in my trembling hands.

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

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Thailand: An Eden for Elephants

 

              One of the reasons for selecting Thailand as a vacation destination was my desire to interact with elephants. I was told that Thailand was the place to experience them, and I even joked that I was looking forward to spending time with an animal I wasn’t too fat to ride. But when an opportunity presented itself for me and my wife to visit an elephant sanctuary, I didn’t know if I was brave enough to see elephants crippled and abused by members of my own species.

              I finally jettisoned my hesitation and we made the visit. At an elephant nature park 60 km north of Chiang Mai, I saw my first Thai elephant, and began my fascinating yet painful education of these magnificent creatures. At the dawn of the twentieth century there were approximately 100,000 elephants in Thailand. There are now fewer than five thousand. Elephants were used to supply the world’s unquenchable desire for teak. Then in the 1980s the timber industry was outlawed in Thailand to preserve remaining forests. Elephants no longer had jobs and most were sold to vendors for the tourist industry. These elephants were expensive to maintain and not always treated well.

              In the 1990s, an elephant nature park was created as a sanctuary for rescued elephants. Here, the animals were allowed to live much as they would in the wild. Sticks were no longer used to punish elephants that didn’t obey human commands. Instead of corporal punishment, only positive reinforcements in the form of  food treats were used. For an abused elephant, this must have seemed like heaven.

              Before coming to the park, one of the elephants had been sold to someone who beat her terribly. When she became pregnant and gave birth, her owner wouldn’t let her tend to her baby and it died. Depressed, she refused to follow commands. The frustrated owner took a sharp stick and blinded her. The nature park came to the rescue, purchasing her for three thousand dollars and bringing her to the sanctuary. Another female elephant, a longtime park resident, stepped away from the herd to greet the new arrival. Exploring the stranger with her trunk, she soon discovered the damaged eyes, bellowed, and entwined her trunk around the blind elephant as if to say, “I’ll be your eyes.” The two have been inseparable for ten years.

              We were afforded an opportunity to watch several elephants being treated for injuries, as well as experiencing them doing what they enjoy most, bathing in the river. Buckets were passed out allowing us to toss water at them, but elephants are bigger than I’d imagined and throwing a bucket of water high enough to reach their backs was challenging. My wife must have had trouble distinguishing me from an elephant because she doused me with more than one bucket of water. Experiencing these gentle giants playing in the water like children was exhilarating.

              There were approximately thirty-five elephants at this park, mostly female. It didn’t seem like that many elephants until we started feeding them—those guys could pack it away. The boys like to fight with the females—and often lose. They’re kept separate, but not always. Babies are born at the park. At the conclusion of our stay we traveled to a section of river where two females guarded the park’s newest resident, only three months old. One of the adults was injured in Myanmar when a buried land mine blew off her rear foot. In spite of her ability to hobble about, she wasn’t doing well. Then the other elephant gave birth and recruited the crippled elephant as a nanny. Now the injured elephant has a job and the two adults are happily raising the baby together.

              Visiting an elephant sanctuary was thrilling yet humbling; I couldn’t help feeling guilty for the abuse heaped on these magnificent creatures. I never got my elephant ride, but I did receive strength to step outside travel brochures, to avoid cliché photo opportunities and discover a more honest reality. This experience made me feel as brave as a superhero, ready to spread the word that we all need to be better caretakers of our planet and all its inhabitants, even if it means denying chubby tourists like me from getting that ride. 

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First Time Bed and Breakfast in Scotland

 

First Time Bed and Breakfast in Scotland

 

Well, because we’re not a hotel – and you’ve never B & B’d,

here’s some tips when you’re in Scotland that will help you to succeed.

And the first thing you must understand, no matter where you roam,

there’s a fundamental difference between a HOTEL AND A HOME.

As you’ll be dealing with the owners, not just someone on the staff,

you had best be kind and friendly or you’re OUT UPON YOUR ARSE.

And, because we’re not a hotel – TAKE DEPOSITS? Answer, “yup.”

Brings us revenue in winter and ensures that you’ll turn up.

And you’re bound to know our climates wet, while yours is very warm,

so be sure to walk upon our paths and NEVER ON OUR LAWN.

And the reason you might wonder, why the Scottish really cares

It’s because our grass has sticky mud; you’ll TRAPSE ALL UP OUR STAIRS.

And, because we’re not a hotel – there’ll be shopping to be done,

so don’t turn up on our doorstep to come in at HALF PAST ONE.

As we have to change the beds and clean, to make it nice for you

And so we’re busy “making ready” and not done TILL AFTER TWO.

Instead please make the most of things and plan the day before

as we need some time to call our own – we’re yours JUST AFTER FOUR.

And, because we’re not a hotel – we might ASK THE NIGHT BEFORE

what you’d like cooked for your breakfast and the time you’d like it for.

It makes such sense and helps us, but we hate it when you sulk,

but it saves on waste, to cook it fresh – than store it hot in bulk.

And when you see our bowl of fruit, by all means have a munch,

but it’s there to be your BREAKFAST, not to SUBSIDISE YOUR LUNCH.

 

And, because we’re not a hotel – we will wave you off each day,

as we’re off to have OUR BREAKFAST, just as soon as you’re away.

That’s how we keep the prices down and pass it on to you,

by taking time to plan our day, to do what we must do.

We’ve such a lot of things to clean, once you are out the door,

so if you can, we’d like you GONE BY TEN or JUST BEFORE.

And, because we’re not a hotel – and we are somebody’s home

we would like for you to feel relaxed and treat things like your own.

So straighten up your messy clothes and put your toys away

and by all means pick your towels up and snacks from yesterday.

Remember that WE LIVE HERE TOO – it’s us that drives the brush

Don’t be acting as if rock stars; screwed up beds and THINGS TO FLUSH!

And, because we’re not a hotel –  it comes naturally to most

to meet and get to know you, more like friends and not a host.

Seems we get on well with everyone, that ventures to our house

and much prefer to laugh at life, than treat you like a mouse.

We only ask two little things – RESPECT and BE YOURSELF

then relax, enjoy and make the most – no sitting on the shelf.

 

And, because we’re not a hotel – here’s the last thing we shall say.

It’s not easy playing B&B – it’s a lot more work than play.

And we hope that you’ll enjoy your stay – and it feels like a reviver

As we need for you to SAY NICE THINGS, when next on trip advisor.

We really hope this little guide has helped you hear our voice,

And that you’ll be brave in Scotland and MAKE B&B FIRST CHOICE

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