Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 336

Space Race in the USA

It’s 7 o’clock and as I leave the house the dawn-lit eastern face of the Sierra Nevada mountains looms above me.  A wide path through golden browns of brittle sages leads me to my first stop, a small abandoned bungalow, and then on to a small workshop filled with barely used tools and unfinished projects—all inhabited by cats.  I check their food and water supply, and as I finish with the felines a donkey whines from the tin-roofed barn up the hill.

For the past 3 weeks I’ve lived in a passive solar cabin on a ranch in Olancha, California, farm-sitting while the owners travel by motorhome to Louisiana.  The property is a surreal 28 acres of abandoned shacks and trailers, derelict refrigerators and trucks, a red-slat barn and dry fields, all nestled within ephedra, sage, and a few pine trees that have wandered off the mountains.  I’m a Canadian city boy from Toronto; I came here looking for space, and did I ever find it.

I continue up the subtle hill, past the well-house filled with extra feed stock, and the horses whinny when they see me, hungry.  The aged gray gelding, Shetan, 30 years old, foundered, his eyesight starting to go, looks about anxiously.  As I reach the barn doors a flock of quail waits in the bushes nearby, eager for their morning seed.  I am a far cry from my past life of only two months ago, and yet my role hasn’t changed entirely.

In Toronto I’d been a case manager with a social service organization, helping adults with long-term brain injuries navigate the difficulties of their day-to-day lives.  Although I’d loved my work and my co-workers, a voice had whispered in the back of my mind for years, prodding me to write.  And to an extent I did: I took courses and wrote short stories, and had 10000 words of a corny science fiction novel, but it wasn’t enough.  That voice needed to spend full days at a time writing, if only to see, to feel that life.  Then, in July of this year, I met a girl.  An artist and photographer coming from two years of globetrotting, now preparing to move to California to pursue a Masters degree in Fine Arts.  She was realizing exactly what that voice needed: a life of travel and the pursuit of creative passions.  In those two months we spent together—rock climbing dense ravines along the Niagara River, packed into the Osheaga festival in Montreal, laying on a dock at the High Park shore of Lake Ontario—something in me was finally able to let go.

So in September of 2014, at 30 years old, I completed one journey and embarked upon a new one, leaving Canada via Sarnia to drive across America.  I listened to the blues in Chicago in company of a PhD friend suffering from tendinosis in his wrists.  I talked politics in Des Moines with a teacher who’s obsessed with Game of Thrones.  I climbed the Boulder Canyon boulder outside Boulder, hiked off trail in Arches National Park and was only slightly worried that the parking lot towards which I was hiking was a mirage.  And via a two week stint in Pasadena with the girl who brought about all of this, ended up here in Owen’s Valley.

But for all that I’ve left behind, despite the drastic locational and vocational change, I laugh, because I suppose I’m still a caregiver, only with a small zoo of cats, quail, donkeys, and horses, instead of people.  Twice a day in the foothills of the eastern Sierra I lay out their food and water, clean the horses’ stalls, and make sure that the elderly Shetan continues to eat as he enters what will likely be the last days of his life.  In the hours between feedings I walk through the desert, I drive to Bishop and climb the quartz-monzonite boulders of Buttermilk Country, and most importantly, I write.  And that is the space that I sought when I left Toronto: not any physical space, but a creative space, and the time to focus on my true passion.

And Hannah is here with me for some days, working on her own art projects while I write about traveling and writing and finding the space to be yourself.  I think I’ve finally figured out how to make space for that, and though I don’t think I owe her my ability to do it, I am grateful that she was there to push me to try.

 

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

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Solo in the Sierras, USA

My headlamp swings like a pendulum, hanging from a carabiner clipped to the top of my tent, casting a cone of light on the void of space next to my sleeping bag—the naked nylon of the tent floor reminding me of one thing—this time, I am alone.

I had been crafting the ten day Sierra backpacking trip that had long occupied my East Coast daydreams for months, meticulously applying for all the necessary and highly coveted permits to approach Mount Whitney via the two million acre Inyo National Forest.  But I was never supposed to go it alone.    I had planned the trip with a childhood friend living Northern California— hardly a rustic outdoorsman, but he had been enthusiastic—until backing out a month before we were due to meet in Lone Pine, the sleepy town serving as a portal to the Sierras.

I had spent the month before the trip agonizing about doing it alone.  After Washington, D.C. winter spent awkwardly sweating in a guest-room converted to workout room and a spring full of training hikes, I had also been methodically adding to rapidly expanding stash of gear, buoyed by an unconcealed excitement.  The Mount Whitney High Country Trail map became my dining room tablecloth.  I spent an unnerving amount of time vacillating over the gastronomic merits of various free-dried backpacking meals—would beef stroganoff be more filling than turkey Tetrazzini?

I unzip my tent and step into the twilight.  Above me Mount Whitney’s towering granite spires are illuminated in the rosy hue of alpenglow in the vanishing sunlight.  My lighter flickers and in a flash of blue light my stoves hisses to life.  I systematically unpack my bear bin, only too happy to tuck into freeze-dried lasagna for two.  I can hear the steady rush of the icy water of trout laden Lone Pine Creek above the sizzle of my stove.  Below, in the disappearing light I can just see the rounded contours of the clay-red Alabama Hills, spreading like a collection of boulders mid-tumble over the landscape.

As the sun sinks behind the Sierras, I shovel steaming lasagna into my mouth with a blunt, reputedly flameproof spork and reread my National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS) Wilderness Guide, ‘Traveling solo in the backcountry is at once liberating, free, and lonely.  The solitude may be just what your soul needs…  But those new to solo travel need to be prepared for the sense of isolation in a vast space.’  I close the book and look up the boundless night sky, stars shimmering like tiny specs of glowing dust sprinkling the galaxy.

I had spent the night before staying with friends living in Death Valley—a park ranger and a nurse, expecting their first baby.   I sat in Tommy and Sarah’s living room, cradling a sweat-beaded Sierra Nevada, in the humid fog of their panting black Lab.   ‘I still think you should do it,’ Sarah says immediately when I recount my month of equivocation on finding out I had to do the trip solo.  She and Tommy had met a few years earlier while each solo hiking the Appalachian Trail.  Another solo thru-hiker they met on the Appalachian Trail even officiated their wedding.

As I slide into my sleeping bag, wind whips around my tent, jostling its corners.  I reach up to click of my headlamp andmy finger lingers of the switch—one last comfort—then, dark.  I lay stiffly on my mattress, ears prickling for any sounds other than the frictionless whoosh of my sleeping bag against the polyester backpacking mat.

At sunrise, I hear distinct vocalizations—long, jubilant howls.  I sit up in my sleeping bag, realizing only as the fog the sleep fades the calls are coyotes, wolves disappeared from the ecosystems of the Sierras by the early 1920s.  I take stock of the gear in my tent—and cough as the damp morning dew seeps into my throat.  It startles me—I realize I haven’t spoken out since I left Death Valley, my entire, constant monologue has been completely internal.

I drive to the parking area at Horseshoe Meadow, the Cottonwood Pass trailhead.  I peruse the Forest Service billboard plastered with maps and safety advisories.  A flier illustrated is tacked to the top of the board—‘Mountain Lion Recently Sighted in the Area,’—I glance down to the section on safety in lion country, ‘Do not hike, bike, or jog alone.’  I reflexively pat my shorts—feeling for bulky can of bear spray—grizzly strength—in my shorts pocket.  Reassurance.

 

I look back over my shoulder at my rental car.  The parking lot bustles with people, a flurry of packs, trekking poles, and exuberantly straining leashed dogs.  I shoulder my pack, cinch the straps, and start walking toward Cottonwood Pass.

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

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The Cave at the End of the Tunnel in Saudi Arabia

Saudi Arabia is not the first place one thinks of when asked what place represents gratitude, especially if one is a woman. I moved to Khobar, a large, industrial city in the Eastern Province of this controversial Kingdom, over a month ago to teach female students English as a Second Language in the Preparatory Department of Prince Mohammad Bin Fahd University. For someone who has travelled to almost every continent, I have never felt such gratitude towards, both, where I come from and for what the future will bring particularly in regards to my students’ prospects.            Living in a country with such restrictions on women has made me truly realize how much I took for granted in my home country, Canada. There, I didn’t have to ask my father permission to leave the country, nor did I have to conceal the shape of my body with a long black garment or depend on a man to drive me to my desired destination.  It took the loss of these freedoms for me to acknowledge and appreciate just how emancipated I am in this world compared to so many others.

Many of my students will be the first woman in their families to graduate from a post- secondary institution. The fact that I will be a contributor to their education gives me nothing but joy, pride and strength. Most of my students will go on to achieve majors in planning, business, finance or law. And I cannot help but feel hopeful knowing that their education will lead many of them to open their own business or work with an international company, allowing them to become independent, self-reliant women. And by doing so, they will pave the way for younger female generations in their country.

This place has made me primarily grateful for the fact that I have the strength to choose my own path regardless of what others think. There were many places to move to teach ESL but something drew me to this beyond- foreign land. And despite the many doubts of my friends and family back home, I proudly stuck with my decision. I will no longer rely on guidebooks or blogs to shape how I view a country or culture; already in my short month here I have witnessed many misconceptions of this country’s people and their lifestyle.

Saudi Arabia is a place of mystique, a country proud of its rich history and culture. It chooses to be exclusive to the world and I am one of the few foreigners who have the opportunity to view it first-hand. I am privileged and thankful for this. By coming here, I now know the best way to lose fear of the unfamiliar is to experience it directly. This country is much more than endless sand dunes and crowded, traditional markets. It’s a place trying to figure out how to balance embracing modernization while holding on to its conservative lifestyle in an ever-changing world.

Dalhousie UniversityI know the next two years here will be challenging and sometimes frustrating but my choice coming here was my own, at not every woman has the liberty to say that. One might assume moving to Saudi Arabia would be suppressing, isolating and even depressing, however, in my short time here its been quite the contrary: Saudi Arabia has given me the gratitude and understanding of what freedom truly means. This is something many take for granted, without even realizing it.

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

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Dear Mt. Fuji

Dear Mt. Fuji,

I first saw you during the first sunset of 2011—fierce, beautiful. On New Year’s Day, my friend and I walked into the Yokohama Sheraton Hotel and took the elevator to the top floor to see the city stretched below. Beyond the city lights you stood, a symmetrical cone framed by an apricot and pomegranate sky. With my nose pressed into the floor-length glass window, I decided I would stand at your summit before I moved back to the United States.

One and a half years later, and two days before I flew home to the U.S., I swigged water and adjusted my backpack straps in the dark at Kawaguchiko Fifth Station. A lot had happened in the eighteen months between gazing at you and getting to you. The earthquake and tsunami in Tohoku, the region I was teaching in. A toxic relationship. Things in my control, others out of my control—everything weighted my body. I double-knotted my hiking boots.

At 9pm, my friends Jeff and Akiko and I switched on our headlamps; our goal was to reach your summit for sunrise. Surrounded by night, we started climbing the trail that snaked up your eastern side. As we climbed, I gazed at all of the headlamps winding up the mountainside like fireflies. Above, a full moon glowed. The world was silence and soft stars, and the crunch of boots on pebbles and dirt. I relaxed. I was in nature; I was free.

Buddhists say you are a gateway to a different world. I believe them. At 4:30am, ribbons of color stretched across the base of the dark sky. The three of us sat near the red torii gate at your summit, and watched the sky transform into light. As the sun broke the horizon, all of us climbers resting on your peak hushed in collective awe. Below us, a sea of clouds rolled across the landscape. Far away, billowing towers of clouds stood in place—castles in the sky are real. The full warmth of the sun stretched from the horizon, and my face gladly accepted it. Here, I existed in the present. The past didn’t matter; the future wasn’t a concept.  Here, I could let go. In the light of the sunrise, I sat in vibrant stillness and peace.

The hike back down lasted forever. My friends and I were exhausted and covered in black dust. Looking back, I’m glad the descent took a long time. You didn’t let me grab my experience at the summit and go, or grab and forget. Since that hike, I’ve thought countless times about breathing in the sunrise from your summit, about how I live my life a little more openly because of it.

I think about this: almost every day I travel from some Point A to some Point B, and back to Point A. When I climbed you, I started at Kawaguchiko Fifth Station, reached your summit, and hiked back down to the Fifth Station. The Station looked exactly the same when I got back. On the outside, save the black dust creased in my face, I looked the same, too. But my insides had changed. Thank you for breaking me open, and for giving me perspective at the summit that I could take down the mountain.

I don’t remember to greet each day like I did that morning, but the desire to welcome each day like I did at your summit is there. The desire sustains me.

With adoration,

Helen.

 

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

 

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Self Discovery in Nigeria

SELF DISCOVERY

Gratitude according to oxford dictionary is the feeling of being grateful and wanting to express your thanks. Gratitude won’t occur if there was no first occurrence of gratification-The state of feeling pleasure when something goes well for you or when your desires are satisfied. It is that pleasure from a satisfied desire that moves you into showing your gr attitude or makes you become your real self and as a result of that, being driven to your seventh heaven and a t a point like this it is difficult to speak but impossible to be silent.*

You will be overwhelmed that that kind of joyous time or event swallows your pains and at that same time makes you to be short of words. It will just be amazing that you won’t be feeling any other thing a t hat particular time; you will only be feeling like expressing your gratitude. It might as well not be something going well with you or actualization of dreams or wishes but being with positive people- people that influence your life directly or indirectly, knowingly or unknowingly.

It might as well be as a result of being in a special background, field, room or seat that moves you into having sober reflection and realizing your elf or somewhere that makes you see things beyond imagination and expectation, a place that makes you realize your potentials, a place that allows you to standing up for yourself, your place of freedom, a place that whenever you steps into wipes away your pains, failure and flaws and gives you a new memory of self-realization, shows you your potentials that will help you conquer your dreams with realities, conquer your failure with success and your pains with gratitude- feeling or wanting to express your thanks to nature or those particular people that drives you into such state of satisfaction and self-realization.

Am most able to be my real self and stand up for myself anytime am emotionally up, anytime am in good emotions. Sometimes it happens at home, sometimes it happens when am with some friends, sometimes it happens when am reading or writing an article like his r when am surfing through the internet reading some things.

Sometimes when am emotionally down I visits some of my friends at street, some of which bombards my emotions and feelings to its peak by raising a discussion about technologies, education or great achievement by some people and hereby indirectly helping me in realization of ma dreams, so being with people like these inspires me to feel strong and hopeful.

Whenever am in a quiet place reading articles or magazines about technologies, due to my aspirations towards it, no matter how low my emotions and spirit is I must be moved into realizing my real self and knowing that I can achieve all those things if I stand up for myself. It is something that lifts my spirit and makes me desire to stand tall among my mates and friends.

Sometimes I realize my real self when I travel out of my hometown or state. Whenever I travel to a place like Lagos State where I see my mates with great aspirations and achievements it drives me into dreaming and having sober reflection, it makes me realize my potentials and shows me beyond my real self even beyond ma expectations and it makes me conquer my dreams with realities. It also makes me realize my weaknesses because for you to realize and become your real self you must realize and fix your flaws, only ten you would be able to put into maximum use your potentials. It makes me visualize and discover a great lot of things.

Lastly, I also feel my real self anytime I participates and wins in competitions like this, it gives me encouragement in discovering my real identity and also bombarding me into showing gratitude to God Almighty.

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

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Ascension and green turtles in the Atlantic Ocean

 

To the east of Georgetown, Long Beach appears to be a miniature Somme. It’s as though war games have been played out by an old general. I can picture him, a handlebar moustache, liver-spotted hands moving figures here and there. The wasted eggs of green turtles akin to dead men. Broken shells scavenged away by a harsh ecology. The sea adding its own madness. A metronome rhythm shanking the sands into steep banks that reptiles haul themselves up in the night and back down as the dark passes.

 

During the evening I join a green turtle tour run by Emily, Daniel, Maddie, and Maria, four British interns. We walk through poor-lit streets, passing a thorn tree where a lone donkey stood all day watching the few cars come and go. With only red light to guide us we move down the track. The sea is oscillating with each wave. There’s no moon but a vivid milky way offers a tight strip of distant stars. The Southern Cross hangs above the peak of Cross Hill where HMS Hood’s guns point out to sea.

 

We stand still in the warm air as we wait for Daniel to radio back. He’s searching for a turtle in the near catatonic egg-laying stage. These green turtles are the largest of their kind. On Ascension Island the world’s second largest nesting occurrence of this species lasts between December and April. This is a small, young island. The green turtle is an old species. Yet they improbably met across an ocean. The female adults will have been returning every three years for decades. Adult males will return every year, they expend less energy than the females.

 

When the call comes we tread carefully round the pits, following red light from head torches. And there she is, hauled up on a beach miles from anything else, except the sea where she lives, mates and travels between coastal plains.

 

Open wounds along her midriff show where males have clung on during sex. The deep lacerations are the marks of inconsiderate lovers. She will have stored the sperm to release it on her own terms. The females drag themselves up these steeply shelved beaches over several egg-laying sessions. At the start of the season fat rolls out from their shells. By the end of the season they’re emaciated. In this fat-reduced state they still need to swim to the coastal waters of Brazil.

 

As we watch her I sense she’s lost in the moment. Part exhausted, perhaps a little elated at dropping her offspring into this carefully dug pit. With each convulsive tremor journeying across her body another egg is deposited. Egg after egg descends as we listen to wave after wave lapping. The Milky Way sparkles like a universal bioluminescence.

 

We witness this ritual that’s travelled before us through evolutionary time. There is a privilege in being beside her. We wait till she begins pushing sand across her eggs. Then we leave her be.

 

The same night I’m lucky enough to watch turtle hatchlings emerge. Out of the sands they swarm, the slap-patter of tiny flippers mimicking the noise of an insect colony. Once orientated they rush towards the sea, little clockwork bodies scampering across the sand. On Long Beach they’re relatively safe, but on more rocky stretches Sally-lightfoot crabs scurry to capture them and once caught they have their living bodies picked apart. Land crabs will do the same, tearing at the young turtles as their flippers try to drag some friction from the air.

 

Despite the macabre nature of such scenes the place is fascinating; we stand beside the world’s largest green turtles, on an isolated Atlantic island where the world’s second largest nesting of these animals takes place. In the warm night air we feel every moment with these mothers, laying eggs from which one in ten thousand may survive and return here in thirty years’ time. We are lost in the idea of that journey, from Ascension to Brazil and back to Ascension. It is easy to root for them with those odds, and as we do we become lost in our own journeys.

 

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

 

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Jökulsárlón, Iceland

J ökulsárlón

Christina van Deventer

When I first came to Iceland I had barely entered adulthood. I was young, unemployed and scared to death of the gaping hole that was where my future was supposed to be. Thus far, everything had been pretty much pre-ordained. I would go to school, have certain kinds of friends and when I grew up I would go to University and study something that would sound more important than it was. In my mind that something had always been Music. I´d been schooled in every aspect of it since I was little, naturally I would want to see it through to the end. But I wasn´t going to, because for me, like for so many other teenagers, the future was untreaded territory in which anything could happen. That was why, mere weeks before I was about to start Music studies back home in South Africa, I found myself in Iceland, chasing a different future.

Like every great story, mine starts with a boy. We´d met in Chicago and pretty soon his arctic world collided with the sunny, multi-cultural world to which I belonged. Iceland was where we´d see if the relationship was worth pursuing.

I arrived around four o´clock in the afternoon in freezing mid-December temperatures and pitch black skies. Great, I thought. I paid all my savings to come to a country where the sun won´t come out for the entire time I´m here.

On my first day in Reykjavík, it rained. And it was dark. Only for an hour did I glimpse the dusk, which turned to dawn for a short while before the darkness was ushered in once more. No, not darkness, blackness.

Luckily, inside my boy´s family home, things were going swell. I could tell I was liked and the feeling was mutual.

In my first days in Iceland, we went to see all the usual touristic spots. The Golden Circle, Hallgrimskirkja in downtown Reykjavík and the lighthouse in Seltjarnarnes. We fed the ducks at Tjörnin, we did the walk down Laugavegur and we even went to Grasagarðurinn, Reykjavík´s botanic gardens, although, it being winter and dark, there was little to see.

Meanwhile, I was having a lot of hot chocolate to wash away all the strange meals I was being fed. Skate, prepared in ammonia on Þorláksmessa (23rd December), whole-roasted Ptarmigan on Christmas Eve, salted foalmeat, whale-steak and various types of fish, all of which I hadn´t even known existed. Thankfully, I managed to talk my way out of having hrútspungar (ram´s testicles) and hákarl (cured shark), and out of drinking Brennivín.

While I was having a great time with what I hoped would be my future in-laws, I was slightly disappointed that it hadn´t yet snowed, since I´d never had the privilege of seeing snow before. This little admission convinced my boy to bring me to a glacier where there was always snow. Except, we couldn´t go on top of one, because it would be too dangerous in winter. So we did the next best thing. We drove from Reykjavík to Jökulsárlón for the day.

We set out from Reykjavík at around nine in the morning, all the while praying there wouldn´t be any snow cancelling our plans along the way.

We stopped for something to eat at Kirkjubæjarklaustur, possibly the most enchanting town in all of Iceland, and headed past the Elfhomes towards Jökulsárlón. Thus far, we´d seen a lot of grass against backdrops of black and white; snowcapped volcanic mountains that would make any picturebook look bland in comparison. Soon, however, the landscape took on a new dimension. Mountains fell away, making space for endless stretches of black sand. Black desert, I thought, because it seemed like nothing would be able to survive out there. Along the road, these black deserts started reaching into the ocean. Where colour lacked, contrast certainly didn´t. Finally, I saw a glimpse of Svínafellsjökull, a tongue of the greater, more well-known glacier, Vatnajökull.

´We´re almost there,´ my boy said. Not long after, he pulled over the car.

It was a bit of a hike, one on which I saw nothing but more sand. Then, coming up on a hill, the world opened up around us.

´Welcome to Jökulsárlón,´ he said, leading me downhill towards the water.

I couldn´t stop staring. It was looking at heaven, or something godly. Blue ice floating in water so still it had the appearance of polished mirrors in the dusk. Yes, it was dusk already, because we´d been driving all day. Five minutes later, everything was shrouded in darkness, but we´d seen what we´d come for and my future had started taking shape. I couldn´t leave what I´d seen behind forever, so I didn´t. I never completed my studies in music. I did, however, make Iceland my home.

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

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Embracing Chaos in Jakarta, Indonesia

It was a familiar sensation – the stroke of humidity, the potent smell of car engines and sights of families sitting on the floor, talking and laughing with one another. Arriving at Soekarno-Hatta International Airport always engenders two contrasting feelings – a sense of belonging to and detachment from the culture that is my roots.

My incurable case of curiosity has led me to various experiences in different corners of the world, from teaching English at schools in Poland’s busiest seaport to physically observing the “Occupy” movement in various towns across Southern California. I have experienced many moments of gratitude in these instances, but none so strong as the moments of gratitude I feel visiting the place where I spent the first few years of my childhood, Jakarta.

My parents have often told me that Jakarta is a place you love or hate – there is no middle ground.  I myself have a love/hate relationship with the place. The strict cultural expectations that I feel governs my thoughts and behaviour sometimes leaves me feeling constrained and lost in my own identity. Yet the insignificance of this confusion becomes apparent against the backdrop of raw, constant struggle that I see everyday. From the domestic worker who arises daily at the crack of dawn and attends to her boss’ morning routine, to the little boys selling bottled water in the middle of polluted highways during Jakarta’s notorious traffic jams. It’s not only seeing what they have to endure every day that puts things in perspective, it is also seeing their gratitude of receiving simple acts of kindness and their willingness to enjoy life with the circumstances that they have been presented with. I remembered an encounter with a taxi driver who has to move away from his wife and children in order to earn more money and support them. This required him to forgo paying rent, leaving him to sleep on his brother’s floor and for most days, eating nothing but rice and red kidney beans soup. To many of us, this conjures a life of discomfort. Yet to this taxi driver, the cheery laugh that accompanied his life story shows a man who feels like he wakes up every day with a stroke of good luck.

I am used to being in control, of scheduling every minute of my day with to-dos and appointments in my never-ending quest for success and efficiency. Having spent the greater portion of my life at an environment where this is the norm, an unexpected delay or failure in achieving a goal can send me into momentary lapses of depression and hopelessness. I take for granted what many of these people in Jakarta – such as having constant access to clean water and being able to be on time for appointments 99% of the time – would consider luxuries. I dramatize the impact that a harsh feedback given by my boss would have on my life, all while the domestic worker at the house next door to my auntie’s is probably counting the pennies that she needs to save for her child to remain at school.

After a few days, I have found that the only way to enjoy being in this crazy city is to embrace the chaos that comes with it, and expect that nothing will go according to plan. Only then do I realize the triviality of things that I consider “problems” faced on a daily basis. At the beginning of my trip, I would curse at the amount of time we spend in traffic, and sigh when an excursion to find something prove to be unsuccessful. I would get offended when an encounter with a distant relative turns to lectures on how I should be living my life, or unwanted comments about my physical appearance. Day by day, however, all of this simply becomes part of my life here. And when good things came my way – the pleasant surprise that I felt allowed me to appreciate it just that little bit more.

I always leave Jakarta with a sense of excitement for my next undertaking, whatever that may be, and an overwhelming gratitude of what I already have in my life. The confusion regarding my identity remains, but the realization of what I can do with this unique perspective sets in, and I leave feeling grateful, strong, and eager to carry out the next steps I have set for myself.

Coming out of Soekarno-Hatta International Airport, I step into a taxi and recite the address of my parents’ Jakarta home, preparing myself to embrace the chaotic week that I know will follow. I know that at the end of it – I will leave with a fondness only reserved for this place that introduced me to the world.

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

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The Road Less Travelled in Nigeria

The Road Less Travelled

I spent 4 years in Nsukka, a small town located in the Eastern part of Nigeria- Enugu State to be precise. I won’t forget the time I spent there in my lifetime- the rich brick red sand, the soft green hills, the everyday sight of elderly women riding motorcycles and of course, Ogige market! Nsukka was home away from home for me.

Ironically, I never wanted to travel to Nsukka. I had desired to have my tertiary education in Lagos- a metropolis located in the Western part of Nigeria. Lagos was where I had lived all my life and I couldn’t think of giving up the ‘fab life’ of a Lagosian for the ordinary life of a student in Nsukka; but sometimes, being ordinary is good enough, even if it doesn’t seem so in our human eye- I later discovered this truth during my stay at Nsukka.

Dad literally forced me to apply for admission into the University of Nigeria, Nsukka; it was his Alma mater and he believed the change of environment would do me some good, seeing that I was an introvert and one of my neighbours once referred to me as a hermit. Fortunately, I got into the University of Nigeria, Nsukka and I embarked on my 9-hour journey to the little Eastern town. In my first few months there, I learnt a few greetings in the Nsukka dialect like ‘Ine Aga’ meaning ‘How are you’ and ‘A di m oyi’ meaning ‘I am fine’ or ‘A di m oyi keteke’ meaning ‘I am very very fine’.

Nsukka was the least place I expected to have fun, but my time there taught me something about travel – The success of a trip is not always dependent on the nature of the surroundings, the people that occupy these surroundings also have an equal role to play. Nsukka is an old town, and if not for the University which was established there, it would have been long forgotten but still, the people of Nsukka have magnificent hearts. They are hardworking, humble, interactive and light-hearted. I made several friends amongst the petty traders, who mere mostly indigenes of the town; anytime I had a bad day, seeing their bright smiles despite their hard circumstances, gave me hope and strengthened me.

A particular guy comes to mind- Chukwy- he was an indigene of the town and owned a little provision store on campus. He opened for business as early as 7am and closed at about 10.30 pm. What amazed me most about Chukwy was that he was slightly autistic but still struggled to make conversation with us- his customers- and diligently carried out his duties. Seeing Chukwy every other day, made me believe that no matter what life tossed at me, with the right attitude, I could handle it.

Several other people in Nsukka taught me to own my challenges, for instance, the elderly women who rode motorcycles. Woow! The first time I saw this it gave me goosebumps, I stood in awe, staring at the bravery and courage of a woman who was at least in her late 50s ride a motorcycle. It showed me the little power our circumstances had, in relation to the power our minds possessed.

Everytime I travelled to Nsukka, there was always something new for me to learn from her people. The four years went by quickly and on my last trip back from Nsukka, I was teary-eyed. I knew I would miss the town and her people a lot, but most importantly, I was happy that I had made the trip in the first place. I was grateful to have discovered my little town of no regret.

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Welcome To Tiger Kingdom in Thailand

Welcome to Tiger Kingdom

High-pitched horns wailed in the chaotic traffic on the outskirts of Chiang Mai, Thailand. The exhaust from rickety jalopies and revving dirtbikes was captive in the congestion. I covered my nose and mouth with my shirt, which was damp with perspiration from the prominent humidity, because I sat in a windowless tuktuk, a three-wheeled motorcycle/automobile crossbreed taxi. The driver, a tan, scrawny man wearing faded jeans, a tank-top, and worn leather sandals, turned around and said, “Sorry for traffic, my friend. Very close to Tiger Kingdom.”

After escaping the traffic, the driver opened up the throttle down a dusty road, which paralleled a murky-brown river. He slowed the tuktuk to round a corner and then I saw the wooden “Welcome to Tiger Kingdom” sign up ahead. My legs jittered and I could not sit still.

Upon arriving inside Tiger Kingdom, I paid the driver and exited the tuktuk. I walked up the stairs to find tiger themed pencils, mugs, hats, shirts, and stuffed animals on racks and in display cases surrounding the front desk. A sweet Thai woman behind the desk asked what tigers I desired to pet. My options included baby tigers, young adolescents, or full grown, eight-hundred-pound behemoths. I chose the latter and paid the equivalent of fifteen US dollars to lounge with the tigers for fifteen minutes. The woman pointed to a hallway in the stained, wooden building and told me I would discover many tigers.

Just as I made it down the hallway, I came upon a gargantuan enclosure with a pool, several trees, boulders, and two tigers inside. An employee trained a tiger with a thin bamboo pole. He pointed to various places and this menacing, regal creature stopped at the end of the pole, whereby it received a juicy piece of meat as a reward. The other tiger, lounging atop one of the boulders, yawned and revealed its intimidating fangs. It shook its head, chuffed, and resumed sunbathing. These tigers looked healthy, full of life, and the staff obviously cared about them. When researching this outing in Chiang Mai, people raved about the beauty of the facility and the fact that the tigers weren’t drugged or harmed in any way. After seeing these majestic creatures, I could not fathom drugging them for financial gain, which certain places near Bangkok do.

I continued along the dirt footpath and wandered around enclosures with various sized tigers inside. The large tigers lounged and people lay on them, scratching the furry bellies. The little cubs played around like kittens, clawing at balls of string and other toys in the enclosure. The adolescent tigers were the most active, horsing around and playfully biting. One man, who was inside the adolescent tiger cage, got frightened when two tigers got more rowdy than he was prepared to handle. But the staff member remained calm, gently approaching the beasts and separated them. I was inspired by the connection these people shared with the animals. They understood the harm those tigers could cause, and seemed grateful to be in their presence.

“You are petting tigers, my friend?” A male staff member asked me. My face was pressed against the cage. My fingers clutched the cage and I felt like a child at the zoo for the first time. I turned to the employee and nodded. “Come this way.” He opened a door, closed it, and then opened the second door leading into the enclosure. My heart raced. I was fresh flesh amid five eight-hundred-pound beasts. The employee, who wore tattered jeans and a Tiger Kingdom shirt, smiled at me as he pointed to one of the tigers. “This is Big Joe. Please, lie down,” he said, gesturing me to lie on the tiger.

 

The tiger’s warm fur was smooth. Big Joe turned his head around to look at me. His onyx eyes were piercing. In that moment, I fully appreciated the severity of the situation and was grateful not to be a shredded piece of meat between his teeth. I understood my place and recognized Big Joe as a greater, powerful being. Thais revere tigers because they embody courage and strength and while I acknowledged those traits, there was an innate gentleness present. Perhaps the Thai trainers transmitted compassion to the tigers via their Buddhism. By respecting and loving the animals, they in turn respect humans. I consider myself privileged to have entered into that reciprocal relationship between man and beast. 

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