Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 340

Croagh Patrick, Westport, Co. Mayo, Ireland.

Croagh Patrick, Westport, Co. Mayo, Ireland.

Knock Airport, Co. Mayo is claimed by proud locals to be the foggiest airport on earth; it is remote, built on a hill and, reassuringly, has a large statue of Jesus at the beginning of the runway. Once safely alongside, we walked across the tarmac, rain beating down, to find the door into the arrival lounge locked. After several minutes of waiting in the drizzle, an airport official eventually obliged and somehow raised laughter when he probably deserved complaints, by declaring, in lilting, West of Ireland tones, “It was a surprise flight, we didn’t know you were coming!”

Soon though our party (my wife, two daughters and mother) were zipping along country roads on the way to the wedding of my niece, Anne. We also looked forward to an extended three-day break in Mayo, the county of my father’s birth. The MPV toiled admirably with six of us on board and far too much luggage. When we eventually reached Westport, it was getting dark. We knocked on the guesthouse door to be met by a friendly, unashamedly ‘left-field’ landlady, dressed in floral apron,  tweed dress and a sixties beehive hairstyle.

 “Come in, come in,” she said, “I’ll make some tea. Why wouldn’t I?” 

Completely unable to answer her question we smiled broadly.  And they say it is just the English and Americans who are divided by the same language!  But we immediately felt at home here, like putting on your most comfortable slippers.

 “Where have you all come from?” she asked as she busied off to the kitchen.

 I explained that during the day we had all travelled from four separate UK cities, to which she replied:

 “Jeez, I’ll bet ye feel murdered!”

Five minutes later we were feasting on Irish soda bread and strong tea, while the landlady  explained that a ”widow woman” up the street had died that day and she was now “away to the wake”. I detected more than a slight sense of eager anticipation in her voice.

 “Just leave the crockery and help yourself to whatever you want – sorry I have to go.” And with that offer the dear woman headed for the door.

 You just don’t get that sort of hospitality in the chain hotels, even if duvets had not yet replaced eiderdowns and the owner’s cat gave us a menacing John Wayne stare.

The next day, Anne was married, romantically (Pierce Brosnan got spliced there) to Seanin at Ballintubber Abbey: that most iconic of Catholic churches, where priests had fled by boat across the lough at the back of the abbey when religious zeal consumed Cromwell.  Later we feasted, sang and danced to fast, Irish music. What a difference to English weddings, I thought, where there is a reluctance to start off the dancing. Here just about every table emptied as guests rushed to the floor. The next day, fortified by a full Irish breakfast, with black and white pudding, we strolled past the pretty blue and pink buildings, lured by the sound of the wild Atlantic hammering onto the rocks in the harbour. On our way, we counted six Guinness tankers piping the black stuff into the cellars of the countless bars as nuns strolled by.  The secular and the sacred seemed to co-exist very comfortably in this beautiful little town and the general ambience of the place was most attractive.  

The next day, I sat alone at the top of Croagh Patrick, a sharply pointed mountain, which in excess of 25,000 Catholic pilgrims climb on the last Sunday in July: Reek Sunday. I looked down on the town, the majestic Mayo countryside and the distant specks of my closest family. I felt humbled by the fact that my father had come over to Manchester all those years ago to toil and sweat to help build the city’s skyscrapers. It had been nearly thirty years since his death but we sat together on the top of the mountain that day and the pieces of my life seemed to fit together in an unusually clear and comforting way. His was not a perfect life and nor has mine been, but in my heart I heard my dad say that there is no future in the past. The chance to make the most of the years to come was what mattered more.

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

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Brazil – Where dreams are found and Angels dance around

Brazil – Where dreams are found and Angels dance around  by Raphael Lallu

Having watched the now past and successful World cup on television, i was a real follower and dediated fan. I never thought that showing Brazil, to us th world would have such a far reaching impact on me. I have now truly falled head over heels in love with this beautiful earthly paradise. The beautiful people, magnificent beaches, fantastic nightlife all around in all their cities makes it the ultimate place to visit and if need be live forever.

here are some of  the areas in Brazil that have truly captured my heart.

The Amazon Jungle

A place so diverse it leaves you not only astounded, but also breathless at it’s beauty. Many movies have been shot on location in this beautiful rain forests of dreams. Many stories have been told about this rare treasure trove of some of the most exotic birdlife, marine life and even the infamous anaconda resides in this treasure trove of ethereal wonders. From its sweeping grandeur of forest trees, to its vast and spectacular views all around, the Amazon truly is one of the most memorable places on earth, you could visit. So much has been said about the many dangers hidden in this Eden like paradise, but let us also remember all the beauty in the foliage, the almost hypnotic effect the colors in the feathers of the birdlife sing and tell their own sort of story. The tribes as well, have their own unique qualities they bring to the amazon, humble, reserved, yet exceptional hunters . This is a place where God’s creation is glorified.

Fortalezza

A place so beatufiul, with people so stunning, magnificent parades and so many more things to enjoy, Fortalezza is the place where i would love to live. The food, the nightlife culture, all speak of a nation so diverse, yet so united in all its diversity, that to be one of them , living in this fabulous city, would be to be elevated to new sense of freedom. If you fancy yourself daring enough to dance the nights away, while sipping the most divine cocktails, and making incredible memories to last a lifetime, then Fortalezza is the city for you.

Rio de Janeiro

Which parades and street carnavals could compare in style, beauty, and extravagaza, as the Rio Carnivals. The most beautiful people dancing on floats, on pavements, in the streets, on balcony tops, make this amazing city come alive. The costumes are some of the most elegant, ingenious and most memorable, ever to be worn or seen at parades and carnavals, the hot nights, the sexy bodies and just as sexy figure hugging elements of the costumes, make the rio carnival scene, one that is truly hard resist. This is not a place for the faint hearted, but for those who dare to dance, who dare to live and who dare to celebrate life in all it variant beauties, who knows , if you dance long enought, with the most gorgeous of people next to, you just might meet and fall in love with one of these gorgeous people.

Brazil has some of the most exceptionally beatiful people in the world. To even have a glance of them and be in their presence, is like being offered a taste of the most sought after and most priceless wine, on glancing  at it, and then tasting it, only seeks to make one desire it more and enjoy every ounce of pure bliss and once consumes it. So for me Brazil is that special haven, where Heaven chose to leave its mark for enless ages to come.

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

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Walking on water in the Philippines

I held the tattered handbag to my chest, the only possession I got as I plunge into the great unknown. I felt the soft ocean breeze as it caressed my face, and I looked at the ship that took me to my courage zone until it slowly disappeared from my sight. Tears fell from my eyes, I never felt so alone in my entire life. It was as if I stepped into another world, not even a hint as to what lies ahead.

Fear started to creep in as I walked briskly, realizing there’s nowhere to go. I stopped to keep my sanity and images of my family crossed my troubled mind. Out from a dreary expression on my face, a radiant smile blossomed as I remember why I had to leave my comfort zone and to start a life on my own, far away from home.

A fresh college graduate from a small town in the province, I flee from an impoverished life in the rice fields to the big and humid city of Metro Manila, with the hopes of finding the spirit to stand on my own feet, to embrace challenges, break barriers, and make a difference to the lives of others.

Everything seemed like an uphill struggle, I lost my way many times than I could count. I even encountered near-death experiences but those were the times I learned to be my strong, unique, true self. Metro Manila is a megacity with huge appetite for fun, from which I gained so much wisdom. Here are the priceless things I learned from my travel:

Travel Light. The sweltering capital’s bustling intensity quickly overwhelmed me, beads of sweat popped out from my skin when I took my first ride on a train. The Metro Rail Transport pitched forward awkwardly and I automatically gripped the handrail while struggling to balance on my heels. If I had tons of baggage with me, I could have not forced my way in through hordes of people inside the train. Same with life, if you hold on to grudges and misfortunes of the past, you will never find the beauty of making a step forward. As for me, I made a decision to throw away my excess baggage of shame, fears, and anxieties first before I grip the wheel of life.

Laugh When You Get Lost. Laughing at your own mistakes means you always seek to see the brighter side of things. Instead of wallowing in self-pity and worry, look around you and find something interesting and focus your eyes on that. I remember when I was lost; before I start to panic, I redirected my attention to my surroundings and my gaze was glued to that wonderful sight of children munching on their ice cream, their innocent smiles somehow made my day felt better. Everyday may not be good, but there is something good in everyday.

Don’t haste. Manila is a dense stew of urban development and historic sentiment. In the midst of bustling highways and traffic jams, there’s calm in between. I’ve always made time in my busy day to travel to places that depicted rich history, culture, and arts. In here, I can put my head out, let my hair fly in the wind and see where the city takes me. Likewise, take slow walks. Sit on a bench. Take breaks. Breathe. Sing. Feel. Touch. Taste. Smell. Appreciate life’s simple joys; life is designed to be lived that way. If you’re always on a rush, you’ll miss out the real beauty that life holds. I remember Danny, a man on the street who was freezing cold on his nasty clothes. I removed my favorite leather jacket and gave it to him. He smiled. I could have missed that smile if I rushed.

Enjoy the ride no matter how bumpy it is. For me, life is a quest; I’ve been through tough times. I left the comfort of my home in the province, rolled up my sleeves for my sister’s college education. I even placed my dreams on the backseat to fulfill her dreams first. Metro Manila taught me virtues that shaped my character. For instance, waiting for a bus each morning to get to work developed my patience in all circumstances. It is also in this city that I had the opportunity to travel to Indonesia for a mission trip.

Metro Manila brings out the best in me, teaching me to walk on water; to go beyond my fears and personal limitations. Before, I was so afraid to travel, but now, I even felt the desire to travel to many places outside the country, for I know in my own little ways, I can be a hero, touching lives and making a difference wherever my feet will lead me.

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

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Enjoy the Little Things in Italy

I remember the first time I boarded a plane and travelled to a different country. There is nothing quite like the thrill of going to a place you have never been to before. It was in 2009 for a week long school outing to the wonderful Réunion Island. As soon as we arrived I could feel the island humidity engulf and welcome me. It felt strange and I loved the strangeness of it. As Bill Bryson wrote in Neither Here Nor There “I could spend my life arriving each evening in a new city”.

And that was when the travel bug bit me. Like many others I immediately made a bucket list of destinations I wish to see. Over the years my knowledge of the world has expanded quite significantly thanks to numerous travel magazines, blogs and websites. This has also led to a proportional increase in the number of items of my bucket list.

My desire to travel has led me to diagnose myself as a sufferer of wanderlust. Wanderlust is often defined as a strong urge or desire to travel. It is difficult to explain that sensation to people that have never experienced it before. John Green captured the essence of wanderlust in his novel Paper Towns with the following:

“I’m in love with cities I’ve never been to and people I’ve never met”.

How do you cure a case of wanderlust? I am not sure you can. I have come to the conclusion that the best way to ease the ache for travel is to give in to it. Last year I spent most of my savings to go to Europe. It was a 21-day Contiki tour. For three weeks I spent a large amount of time with two friends and a bunch of strangers. This trip enabled me to place ticks next to quite a few of my bucket list items. The Eiffel Tower, Coloseum, Leaning Tower of Pisa, Berlin Wall and a gondola ride in Venice.

In June and July this year wanderlust tugged at me again and I travelled to Zimbabwe, Zambia and Botswana with a missionary/outreach group. And yes, I did get to place a tick next to Victoria Falls on my bucket list. Just like the Europe trip, the accommodation was simple and a lot of time was spent in transport. But the group was smaller and more time was spent taking in the culture and nature of the surroundings.

When I go through my photos I tend to skip past the ones of me and the bucket list items. I linger at the photos with the people in it. The strangers that became family. In the end it’s the people that make the stories – not the destination. The memory of walking in Rome when a flash of rain made our entire group look like we just came out a shower still puts a smile on my face. It makes the tossing of a coin into the Trevi Fountain seem insignificant.

The next evening a group of us (only girls) were lost at 23h00 and couldn’t find the camp site outside Rome. On the way two young (and attractive) men zoomed past us on a Vespa and shouted something along the lines of “Ciao belle”. This was accompanied by the romantic blow of a kiss. Eventually we found the camp site. We were physically drained and with blisters on our feet, we all fell asleep with a smiles on our faces.

My brother back-packed alone through Vietnam and the first story he related back to me involved him playing a drinking game with about 20 other strangers on a boat. He doesn’t remember their names but he remembers the moment and the joy he shared with them. These experiences add meaning to Rule #32 from the move Zombieland: “Enjoy the little things”.

One of the beauties of travel is to share moments with strangers. You don’t know them and they don’t know you. This affords you the opportunity to reinvent yourself. But you don’t. You are exactly who you are supposed to be in the company of these strangers. This is why travel helps you to discover yourself. Even though you can pretend to be someone else you always end up being your true self. This novelty is independent of destination and available to all that are willing leave behind the comforts and familiarity of home.

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

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Was It Enough in the USA?

Not every person who passes through this life intentionally deposits misery on their fellow traveler, but conversely sometimes we unintentionally bestow grace.

The impact of an encounter, 15 years ago,  still hums in my mind. A gentle reminder of this fact,  “what difference did it make” is not always answered completely or immediately but “you should have” invariably has a certain and rapid conclusion.  Let me explain,  the small persistent voice within us, which stops us in our tracks, is never inappropriate or late.

One autumn evening ,  I made  a quick detour to a self-serve recycling machine.  While some might have considered it risky, I knew the area was well lit with enough activity from shoppers. As I neared the end of my chore, I heard voices. There was a deeper female voice and as I turned around I saw a couple of men.  While the men weren’t shouting  her response was loud.  As I was evaluating a possibly unsafe situation, I realized she was  deaf and speaking loudly due to the open air space.  I faced her and began communicating in her language.     Surprised, but now calmer she  answered my questions.  The conversation lasted a few minutes, and I learned she was living on the street.  I asked if she need a ride somewhere. No, she was ok. She explained she lived in the fenced-in area behind the grocery store.  My heart sunk. It was only a matter of time before she would be harmed while sleeping.  I asked again if she needed help.  No, she said,  as she straightened her frame firmly and resolutely as if to reassure me she was safe, strong, and invincible.  Keenly aware I was outnumbered I decided to leave and quickly drove away.

However, I could not dismiss the fact this young lady was gravely in danger.  I knew she was a ticket for some “friends” to tap into her disability income but if someone needed more than she had  she would be at risk to be harmed.  Slowly my distance from it all grew, one block, another block, now a stop light. How could I help her?  I had no free time.  There was no public transportation  up the hill where I had an empty-problem home.  Darn.  I turned the car around and sped back, she was there but not the others.  I told her she could stay at my place for the night. It’s too dangerous on the streets.  Part of me hoped she would say no, instead  she hopped in my car.  As we drove down the same road I had just left, she rolled down the window and yelled to her “friends” walking in the opposite direction.  They ignored her.  I said a prayer “Oh, Lord let her see the significance”.

As we drove I explained I had a sick father and I could not pick her up until ten or eleven the next morning. I would try to figure a way for her to get down the hill on a regular basis but I did not know how long she could stay.  She was agreeable.  I don’t know why she trusted me.  She revealed it was a fight with her family which caused her to leave home.

We drove about two miles, then we started up the hill for another ½ mile.  My mobile home sat on a view lot at 1400ft elevation. The area was only lit by the moon.

 I told her she could not smoke, the area was high risk for fire.  She opted to sleep outdoors on the patio which was screened-in with a spectacular view of the city lights and  valley.  I cautioned her not roam around at night, rattlers and bobcats did prowl the area.

It had been a complicated morning and very hard to break away to go up the hill, just to bring her down.  This was not feasible. I was devastated.  I doubted if one night away from the streets would change her mind.  I pulled up to my house and looked around, aware she would not hear me and I might startle her.  She was sitting on the outer patio.   She was quiet as we drove.  I apologized but  I did not have a consistent schedule to get her up and down the hill.  She said it was ok.  I asked if she slept well. Yes, she replied.  I begged her to go home. She ignored me. And then she said something I will never ever forget.  I took four baths.  FOUR? I asked.  Four, she repeated.

I think  of her often and wonder if the solitude of the hill for a night was enough to make a difference.  Enough to resolve the cause to leave home.  Enough to separate her from the rebellion of the street

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

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Home Is Where Your Heart Is; Mine is in Málaga, Romania

Home Is Where Your Heart Is

The world is a book and those who don’t travel read only one page – Saint Augustine of Hippo

Being the person who’s read only one page from the book of life is a role I refuse to play. Some people are naturally open-minded while others have to have their minds opened with a crowbar. I come from the latter category. Before traveling abroad I was pretty sure my home was the center of the universe and everything happening outside of it didn’t matter or didn’t exist. Dumb, I know!

Traveling made me see how meaningless and unimportant I am compared to all the breathtaking places and cultures that exist on the globe. And even if every single place has its unique beauty, the city that inspires me the most is Málaga.

Many years ago I had a dream. I was walking down a beach with soft and sparkly sand, dressed in a grey blouse, with the wind tangling my hair. The sun was falling into the sea and the reddish-orange color stopped me from seeing afar. I was feeling so relaxed and peaceful. It was a feeling I haven’t experienced since I was little and had no care in the whole world. I was free of chores, drama, disappointment and hatred.

Since then I’ve looked for this place and this feeling whenever I traveled. I didn’t think I would find it until I settled in this magical place called Málaga. I was there for 3 months with a scholarship and at first I was terribly alone. I counted the days until I could finally return home.

It wasn’t love at first sight, but as they say: ‘it doesn’t matter who comes first, but who lasts the longest!’ I haven’t seen every part of this world yet, but I know Málaga is the place that calls me back over and over again. Why? The answer is so simple that it might seem silly.

Málaga is the place that taught me to be grateful for every morning when I was waken by the hum of the cars and people starting their day; for every time I saw the sun coming out of the sea announcing a new day to the smiling Spanish who took care of their little businesses; for every time I met new people and they all greeted me with kisses on my cheeks as if we would have known each other since kindergarten; for every muscle that twitched inside of me when I looked at the majestic cathedral; for every star I counted from the rooftop of the Molina Lario hotel; for every love that started and consumed itself in this vibrant city.

It’s a fantastic combination of love, traditional music, unique mixtures of Moorish architecture, delicious food and a welcoming culture. Here, people value every second they have and happiness is sealed into their hearts. And they teach you how to appreciate the little things, the groups of people that you happen to join and all the places that you see for the first time. You can’t be sad in Málaga!

Málaga is the place where you feel at home and where you are accepted regardless of race, age or religious views. It’s the place where you can be whoever you decide to be and where you have a big family that supports you from the shadow. The breeze of the sea fills the void that you get when you are not sure about the future, whispering calmly that ‘you are going to make it’. Málaga is your home when you’re abroad!

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

 

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Playing Football in Egypt

Travelling to an unknown place is surely exciting but it can also be daunting. There is fear, a feeling of uneasiness coupled with eagerness to know the unknown, especially if one is going to a place which is culturally very different from theirs. The language can be a barrier as can be the lifestyle yet the streak of adventure that is dormant in us tries to push all obstacles aside.

I made a list of the things I needed to organise before dwelling too much on my trip. I always wanted to go to Egypt so when Rafiq, my friend was visiting his family back in Cairo, he suggested that I go with him. It had been my childhood dream to see in person the pyramids, the pictures of which I had only seen on the internet and in some films. I took the vaccinations as my doctor suggested, arranged for travel insurance,  got a global currency card, made sure that my passport was up-to-date, beside other things.

I was to stay with Rafiq at his parents’ place, so I didn’t book any hotel, nor did I do any research of the place. Frankly, I was depending on my friend. My wish was to see the pyramids and the sphinx because they were still fresh in my mind from my knowledge of history.

Everything was in order from my perspective and I was in the seventh heavens looking forward to my jaunt. A week before we were to depart, Rafiq came down with fever and he was diagnosed with chicken pox. My little world came crashing down with my hopes crushed to pulp. I’d already got the ticket a month ago; otherwise I wouldn’t have got the special rate. Cairo was the only place I heard of and got a blurry picture of it from Rafiq. I wasn’t sure how I’d manage on my own; I was counting on him totally. I started debating whether I should venture on this trip or cancel it. Rafiq was insistent that I go and stay with his family. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea but the thought that it would save me some money was alluring and I finally agreed to it.

Rafiq’s brother, Afzal, picked me up from the airport. My keen endeavour to speak Arabic was curtailed with his fluent American English. Cairo was what I’d expected – densely populated, highly polluted and saliently vibrant. I was overwhelmed.

The pyramids and the Sphinx took my breath away – unbelievable to see the famous remnants of ancient Egypt. Standing facing them, I felt I was transported to that era. Next day I flew to Luxor on my own as the urge to experience the aura of the temples of Karnak beheld me. On either side of the River Nile, were spectacular monuments, the sight of which left me in awe. I wished the obelisks would hold the floating clouds over the sun to give some shade. The massive statues of Rameses II with his unusual head gear and beard was something I marvelled on.

The sun blazed and on the way across the river I stopped at a little village. I tried to get the name but it sounded something like Al Ghawar. My broken Arabic and sign language helped me. I also managed to get a bite of pitta bread sandwich. The intense heat sapped my energy and finding a palm tree, I decided to rest. I looked around enjoying the quiet ambience in contrast to Cairo, with passersby smiling and greeting me. One young man approached me and we struck a conversation. My Arabic was creating confusion so I gave up; his English was understandable and he was eager to show me around. We walked down the sandy path with low single storeyed houses on both sides and abundance of palm trees. Little further away some boys were playing football and they asked us to join in. I hadn’t played in a while but the environment was welcoming enough to try it again, in spite of the sand and the heat. With my shoes and socks off, I played with them like old friends. The youths made me relive my younger days.

The hypnotic tranquillity made me feel blissful; here people led a simple, serene, easy life. I thought about my city where life was a rat race, everyone was trying to clamber up at the same time. The thought of going back to it was not something that I was looking forward to. I spent the night at my new friend, Jamaal’s house after having an awesome dinner cooked by his mother and sister.

 

The experience was endearing and worth remembering than the historical monuments that I went to see. Relishing the food and site seeing saw me spend some more days in Cairo. I took the metro to the Coptic Museum and to Khan el-Khalili bazaar where I experimented my bargaining ability. The sincere hospitality endowed on me surpassed all barriers that I was apprehensive about. 

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

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His Cambodian Smile

His Cambodian smile

His smile is more animated at night, caught in a flickering firelight he tells ever more tales of old, stories of his life and of his dreams and you cannot help but fall in love with his country, his life and his dreams. To him, Cambodia is a land fighting still- fighting an heroic battle to get back on its feet and he is at its heart.

We were exhausted. Two days feverish excitement, flights, delays, more flights, immigration and then ancient Siem Reap’s whistle-stop tours of picture perfect temples; we were exhausted. Then we drove to Camp Beng Meala. Suddenly, we are thrown back into jungle; memories of previous tours still hauntingly close. We stow our equipment, douse ourselves in Deet and generally refortify. The cicadas, ever present, chirrup their defiance. We are warned not to stray from the path, our guide warns us; this area has yet to be cleared.

Han, the guide, beams as he paints with his words and smile, the people that live here. He is walking us though the village. At one farm, he confides to us how lucky he was to be able to gift them some hens and ducks. They now have a small but sustainable income in their garden. “It is just her, alone with five children,” he tells us. Wherever he walks he is greeted with whoops and high-fives. No one passes Han without a hug or a hello. In the village centre, two young women whisper conspiratorially, he leans across to me, mimicking them whispering that the one on the left is a “lady boy”. SHe throws back her head and laughs with abandonment. Han loves and is loved by all.

An old monk calls him over to consult on some matter. As the monk turns, shifting his orange robes, across his back I see ripple a large tattooed panther. Cambodia is a country of contrasts.

As we wind our way back to camp, Han stops at a huge rock; someone asks him about it- how did it get there? This great slab of granite so out of place. He does not know. But the inner child is grabbing at him and, urging us all to join him, he scrambles to the top and there he squats and surveys his village. His people. The rock is warm. The sun has worked on it all day. In the distance we can hear the radio playing out across the village, monks are chanting, insects singing. All is calm.

Behind us we hear scrambling as an older lady climbs the rock. We are in her garden. She carries a plate filled with freshly picked bananas, small, sweet, delicious. She welcomes us all and echoes Han’s famous Cambodian smile. And the sun blushes in the sky.

The next morning, we are prepped as we head out to the local school. This is what we came here for; we have some rebuilding work to do- teacher housing and a water tower. What we are not ready for is the pit in the middle of the school grounds; Two bamboo poles rigged together in a makeshift ladder leading down to the pea green pool. This is where we are collect water for the cement. Han smiles as he tells us this is also where the children scramble up and down at breaks to drink. This is, after all, what they have. Suddenly the water tower is not just a project: we are changing maybe even saving lives.

The work is hard, the land, bare- but not barren. Ferns shrivel at our passing, in true Cambodian spirit what looks dead later re-unfolds green and filled with life. A scorpion hides in a brick pile, only to skitter out across my friend’s hand, she flicks it aside, irritated. Before she can consider what it was, it disappears back into the landscape.

Two days working under a hot sun is hard, but the humility it brings makes you proud. Then, with the water tower complete and a small donation made to keep it filled, we sit beside a campfire, under a starry sky. Tomorrow we travel to Phnom Penh to see more of this country’s disturbing past. Tonight, we listen to our spirit guide weave stories old and new. After, as we make our way back to the camp, Han spies a scorpion. Playfully, he reaches out, spinning it by the tail. I leave him playing there; Han, dancing with a scorpion in a minefield- beaming his Cambodian smile.

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

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The temple of villain in India.

               The temple of villain!

               Few years back, while I was travelling to Uttar Pradesh for one of my friend’s wedding, who was a wildlife conservation officer near Kanpur. The trip was really enjoyable. One of our botanist friend Avinash was explaining the vegetation and the geographical differences of that area through folklores and songs. Wow, he was good in that. Our folklores and songs ventured right from the aesthetic Tamil Sangam Literature (one of the oldest pure literature available in the world) to the exotic aboriginal people – the Gonds etc. In one of the songs, he had mentioned the name of king Ravana (The very adorable villain from the epic Ramayana) and his temple. What? Yes! I had the same feeling. Ravana, our great veena exponent (Veena is a typical Indian string instrument which has the tradition of five thousand years!!!)

               Raja Ravana possessed a thorough knowledge of not only music, or political science but also in Ayurveda. Then we were informed that Ravana’s temple was in Kanpur. That was the moment of excitement. How could we go back without seeing that? I couldn’t give any attention to the wedding ceremony. I couldn’t stop thinking about the great musician and Dravidian king Ravana and his charm. His warfare techniques. In that folklore they clearly mentioned that Ravana was very knowledgeable and attained Gyana (wisdom) He was well versed with Tharkka Shastra (the science of discriminating knowledge), poetry, grammar, music, Shilpa Shastra and also horticulture. He could identify almost all the plants and its medicinal values in his blessed kingdom. . 

                         Luckily the next morning was the day of Dasseraha (a unique festival celebrate in Indian on women power which for ten days) the only day when one can see the temple opened for worship. That night I was thinking and dreaming about the story of Ramayana and its hero and villain. Why did they create ideas like this? For whom? What was their intention? Why did they kill all the Shiva devotees or his disciples who were kings? Was it a real story, the Shiva-Vishnu conflict? I slept, anticipating the next Ravana morning. Hardly 15 minutes travel, we saw a small structure and an idol that resembled almost all the description mentioned in Ramayana. Ten heads and many hands. I was little upset when I saw this statue but I loved his thick mustache. Many devotees came from different part of the country to worship him. 

                   They repetitively uttered “Ravana maha prabhu namaha… Ravanaaya namaha…” very interesting isn’t it? I saw many people claiming that they were descendants of Ravana the great. Few told me that the story of Ravana in a very different way which I didn’t see in the epic Ramayana. They said that the rivals burnt Ravana’s prosperous kingdom and killed him along with his family… but he was the true Shiva Bhakta, a man of wisdom, a philosopher and a great lover. I left the temple with mixed emotions but I also felt that a ray of sorrow penetrated my conscience. We were travelling back to Delhi, but I was still there at the temple, not physically though. 

Hey my sweet heart… I want to ask you something, shshh… very confidential. I am going to call you my Ravana. Is it OK for you? If not, tell me. Anyway am not going to change that name. Am also adamant just like you. Hey Ravana, Thretha Yuga Emperor, my Vainika (Veena player), no I don’t want the raga gowrimanohari (in Carnatic music system we believe that this raga has the power of attraction.) now. Please play raga Amruthavarshini (the raga which has the power to make rain), my love…

 

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Bunny Men in Macedonia

Bunny Men in Macedonia

Tamara Lazaroff

 

On a borrowed bicycle I’m cutting through a burnt-out field. In the distance I can see two old men – one short, and one tall and lean – carrying big bunches of weeds like bouquets draped in their arms. They are walking towards me as if in slow motion. And I am moving towards them, a little faster, but not much, along the lumpy dirt path.

Finally, we are face to face. I brake. They stop and smile, showing me the remains of their poor teeth that look as if they’ve just had acid poured on them that morning before lunch. In other words, they are brown eroded sticks; pointed sabre-flint; black nervy stumps. But the old men’s eyes are kind, soft.

‘Zdravo,’ they say.

‘Zdravo,’ I say. ‘Shto pravite?’ – which means ‘what are you doing?’ as well as ‘how are you?’

The short one answers first. ‘I’m collecting food for my rabbit.’

The tall one says, ‘And I’m helping him. I’m his friend. We’re widowers. Both our wives are dead.’

‘Well, that’s the way it goes. That’s the way it goes,’ they say and say.

Then the short one wants to know, ‘How ’bout you?’

I say, ‘Well, I am a student. I’m a guest here in your land. I just finished the Summer School Seminar for Macedonian Language, Literature and Culture in Ohrid.’

The tall one says, ‘Oh, yeah. I saw it on TV last night. On the news.’

‘Bravos,’ says the short one. ‘Your Macedonian is very good. Honestly, I would’ve thought you were from around here.’ He smiles with his mouth closed. Then, generously, he opens it. He’s too kind.

I am kind too.

I say, ‘I like your T-shirt.’

It’s bright yellow and announces in loud English fluorescent letters: YOUNG, SINGLE & FREE. I ask him where he got it.

‘From a shop,’ he says and shrugs.

‘His nephew bought it for him,’ the tall one informs. ‘From the old bazaar.’

I ask, ‘Did your nephew explain what the words mean?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘He doesn’t know English. He studied German at school.’

So I translate.

And one blushes.

The other sighs long.

We smile at each other some more. All of us with mouths open – tonsils, teeth, gums, throats. I look at them. They take in me. And I wonder what they are making of mine – my teeth. Do they see cemeteries? Do they see head stones, newly planted in a concrete-solid, invincible row? Or ivory cradles? I wonder – what?

‘Well, thanks for the chit-chat, dear maiden,’ says the short one. ‘It was very nice to meet you. But now we have to go.’ He indicates towards the weeds in his arms and then the path. ‘The rabbit is waiting, hungry, in his cage for us.’

‘Even the rabbit has to eat,’ the tall one asserts with a sudden solemn expression.

I nod in agreement. ‘Yes, the rabbit does.’

Of course, he does.

Of course.

I nod and nod.

And then we go our ways, me and them.

But it is really the same way. Yes it is.

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