Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 347

Strenghtened By Fate in Kaduna, Nigeria

Barely two weeks after two churches were bombed in the city of Kaduna, Kaduna state, the postings for the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) was released and I was posted to Kaduna state. Naturally, I didn’t want to go there and proposed to defer my service as I told a friend who encouraged me to go and try to change the posting while in camp which I seriously considered. However, the reception of this news by my family members was a vehement NO but after convincing them that I was only going for camping where I would try to change my state of service, they finally came around. So I packed my bags and prepared for my journey.

Kaduna State had been placed on curfew after the bombings so I was quite apprehensive when our bus left the park late and after enquiring was told that we wouldn’t be reaching our destination earlier than six o’clock in the evening which was of course past curfew. It was evident to my co travellers that that was my first time of going to the state so they allayed my fears and told me not to worry, that I’d get to the camp safe which I did.

I settled in camp quite fast and started processes to get relocation away from the state in earnest. I tried all I could to get this to work out if not for anything just so my parents could have rest of mind so it was really disheartening when the lists for relocation was released and my name wasn’t among. I cried bitterly since I wasn’t yet disposed to serving in the state as several people had implored me to saying things were not as bad as it seemed. I however accepted my fate and when camp ended headed to my Place of Primary Assignment to start my work. I was determined to make the most of my fated stay in Kaduna.

In the Corper’s lodge where I resided, we were regaled with tales of massacres by our predecessors. Some of them, they had witnessed while most were stories they also had been told by the people far and near. They told us especially of a reprisal that occurred few months before we were posted and how the Christians had run the Moslems out of the southern part of the town burning down mosques and promising more if they dared to attack Christians there again. Somehow, this gave me a bit of respite which I quickly passed on to anyone down south who showed sympathy for my fate.  Gladly, I told them that where I stayed in Kaduna, the much dreaded sect couldn’t touch us.

Serving in Kaduna started to become interesting as I made friends who took me to fun places. Also, being used to the hustle and bustle of a major city like Lagos, it took some getting used to not to rush for buses or be loud in my actions. The thrill of learning a new language which was made easier by a booklet we had been given in camp and by daily conversations with indigenes eager to teach us made me to completely acclimatize and in no time, I had forgotten that I even tried to leave Kaduna state.

Some months into my service year, by a stroke of luck, I got an opportunity to work with the popular NGO, World Health Organization. Since the work was not going to be a distraction from my primary assignment, I took it. This birthed a new experience for me as the job entailed that I have a good grasp of the Hausa language, which I had yet to fully do and work in the field which may be several kilometers away from the main town. My first job took me to a village where i ad to reach on a motorcycle.

My overall experience in Kaduna state was one where I kept facing reasons to be scared and take flight but I found myself surmounting them one after the other. I could easily have convinced myself that the wise thing to do was return to the safety of Lagos but I was bolstered by the strength I saw in those people, indigenes and outsiders alike, who called it home. The attempt of their tormentors to make them give up their yearning for western education only seemed to bolster it since they all refused to abandon all they had spent a long time building and which gave them freedom to live as they dreamed. This made me appreciate courage and realize it wasn’t the absence of things to be fearful of but the decision to continue to strive to live meaningful and productive lives despite it.

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

The post Strenghtened By Fate in Kaduna, Nigeria appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Inspiration in Progress in the USA

Inspiration in Progress…

I once read something long ago that has stuck with me until this day: “Tomorrow belongs to the people who prepare for it today.” I hear it on repeat inside my head anytime I want to be lazy about my studies or anytime I think that I cannot achieve a goal. I hear it now as I stand in front of the building known as The Progressive Club—and I am instantly filled with sadness. Here sits what many consider the birthplace of the Civil Rights movement, a building now decrepit and isolated, on Johns Island—a short ride outside of Charleston, SC. Twenty-five years ago, the destructive forces of Hurricane Hugo nearly demolished the building. It now stands without a roof. Complete sections of wall are gone as if they have vanished into the sea-breezed air. The interior—left exposed to the elements—looks as weathered as the mossy white walls that remain. The place itself is cut off from the public, encompassed by a vine-consumed, chain-link fence with a lock. I can’t even touch the building with my hands.

            Wishing to get a more thorough look, I step up to the side of the building closest to the fence. I am unsettled that the view is mostly blocked by a sparse-leaved oak tree with long strings of Spanish moss and a white sign nailed to the side facing traffic. Ignoring it in irritation, I inch as close to the fence as possible, squinting through vines and hanging moss to read another sign, old and dirt covered, posted on what used to be the front door. 

Community Project

Please Help Restore

This Landmark. Built

In The early 60’s

 

I see partially washed out words that look like “please call…” only the phone number is completely wiped away. I walk over to the information plague to the left that briefly details the Progressive Club’s history. Founded by Civil Rights activist Esau Jenkins in 1948 and built in 1962, it served as a store and community center for the people here. The first Citizenship school was actually just a classroom located in the back of the building. Black adults would meet here—in secret—to learn to read and write so they could exercise their right to vote. It has been registered as a historic site in the National Register of Historic Places since 2007.

            Moving behind the view-blocking tree, I read the sparingly-informative sign. It looks as if someone has taken an interest in restoring the place, with the sign proudly stating that the building is in “Phase 1: Drive.” There is nothing explaining what “drive” means; only a phone number to call for more information.

I am still upset. Why has this place—with so much historical significance—not been better loved, better cared for? There are no passing tour buses, no influx of visitors, no roof, no walls. Martin Luther King Jr. and Septima Clark have stood on this very ground and made great strides for colored people in this nation.

Looking, once more, through the grassy fence, I see stacks of cinder blocks piled up in one of the back rooms. Someone was ready to do something. I am filled with a sudden desire to join the cause of fixing the Progressive Club and encouraging people to seek information about its history and significance.

I take out my phone and snap some pictures so I don’t forget what it looks like, so I won’t forget what it should mean to me. My gratitude for this place, the people who made it special, and those who have continued it legacy is monumental. It is, after all, the reason I can vote, go to any college I chose, and have any job I wish to have.

 

I’ve toured plantation homes in South Carolina, have visited the old slave-trade mart in downtown Charleston, and have seem numerous statues of Confederate “heroes” all over the South, but I have only just found out about the great endeavors that happened in the Progressive Club. I came hoping to be inspired to set high goals for myself. Now I’m inspired to help it. I look back at the “Drive” poster with a satisfying thought: I have a phone number to call. 

About the Author: Attya Davis is a College of Charleston senior majoring in English with a concentration in Creative Writing . She has been writing fiction stories since the tender age of 10 and her passion for it has yet to die out. Attya wishes to travel the world in the hope of finding more hidden gems to inspire her writings and all those who read them.

The post Inspiration in Progress in the USA appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Whim Tripper, Australia

Whim Tripper

By Ray Beard

She stood on the clean white sand in her pink bikinis under a brilliant blue sky.  A few surfers were catching four feet waves gently rolling in on an otherwise smooth sea. It was all round a picture perfect scene, albeit if she had not been in the frame I may not have noticed it.  With so many days like this you take it for granted.  She raised her arms to the sky at a forty five degree angle and they remained there for a good minute before she ran back to my side.  

“What was that all about?’ I asked.

‘A thank you for all this glory,’    

‘Oh.’

I liked her despite her peculiarities. Her many. She dried herself and announced ‘I must get back to my hotel, I have to ring Mom before she goes to sleep.’   I obeyed. A minute from her hotel in the city center of Perth, a twenty minute drive from the beach she said ‘quick, turn into Kings Park, I’d like to see it.’  I obeyed.

‘Did you know Jack is it about nine hundred acres of mainly natural bush?  I couldn’t find any other city with that sort of acreage on the edge of the CBD in a natural state. ‘

I replied with ‘that’s interesting’ rather than ‘of course I did.’  On reflection I wondered if I did.

We parked and walked through a plethora of wild flowers. It took an hour before she would budge from the plants. ‘This one must be the most beautiful flower  in the world’  she would say with regularity, to a different plant each time.  We eventually made the edge of the park overlooking the city skyline and the vast expanse of the Swan River. She raised her arms again. ‘More thanks?’ I asked. ‘Too right’ she replied,’ as you locals might say.’

‘Well, it is a long way from New Jersey’ I said.

‘That’s why I came here. I discovered Perth was the most distant city from my home.’

I laughed. ‘So I guess you came on a whim.’

‘No way. Oh, I decided to come in five seconds of learning how far away it was but I then did my research.  Do you know it’s on the same latitude as San Diego, but with more sun and with more rainfall everything is so much greener.  You have an area of forest starting just beyond the suburbs bigger than England and with some of the biggest trees on the planet and tons of brilliant local food and wine in it ……and then there’s another  million square miles in this state to explore and thousands of miles of beaches where you’ll be lucky to see anyone else……. Isn’t that wonderful, you know, having beautiful beaches all to yourself. Sorry I’m gushing.’

‘Probably. Of course if I went with you I guess that would spoil the isolation bit.’

She squeezed my arm and smiled. Darn, I was hooked.  I sighed and nonchalantly said ‘I suppose this knowledgeable Yankee could teach me a lot about this state of mine.”

‘Too right. Got a few weeks?  Lets go.’

I obeyed.

 

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

The post Whim Tripper, Australia appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

IlluminOcean: #MyDanaPoint 40 Nights of Holiday Lights

Experience IlluminOcean and celebrate the holidays in Dana Point with a mile stroll of Mingle & Jingle with literally thousands of lights sculpted into fantastic glowing sea-themed attractions.

“The warmth of the Southern California winter season. The wonders of the deep blue sea. The dazzling spectacle of sights, sound and motion that’s electrifying our ocean views like never before. Be there when the holidays brilliantly come to light in an amazing wonderland by the sand — it’s the event premiere of Dana Point IlluminOcean.”

I loved the a towering “50-foot GlowMotion tree and Lightwave tunnels that stretch longer than a football field!” Bring your friends and families and experience the first year from November 26, 2014 to January 5, 2015. There are twenty-two larger than life attractions and over twenty-three miles of glowing LED Light Strands.

VIDEO: IlluminOcean Dana Point Holiday Lights 2014

 

#MyDanaPoint @IlluminOcean 40 Nights of Holiday Lights! n

Nov 26, 2014-Jan 4, 2015 #Wonderland by the sea

A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 12:22pm PST

Have a #whale of a good time: whale watch by day, holiday lights at night. Hear the whales sing! #MyDanaPoint #free viewing! A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 12:25pm PST

Playing around with Puff the magic dragon! #Illuminocean #MyDanaPoint

A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 12:28pm PST

Celebrate the holidays in #MyDanaPoint with a mile stroll of mingle & jingle with thousands of lights sculpted into incredible glowing sea-themed attractions. #IlluminOcean A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Dec 12, 2014 at 12:35pm PST

PARTNERS PROTECTING OUR OCEAN: The Resorts of Dana Point are working together with SIMA Environmental Fund to “protect the environment — from keeping our beaches clean to ensuring waste is properly managed — …and to spread the word about our devotion to the ocean and commitment to conserving these precious resources.”

Stay in The Resorts of Dana Point and enjoy #IlluminOcean: 

The Ritz Carlton Laguna Nigel,

St. Regis Monarch Beach,

Laguna Cliffs Marriott and

Double Tree Suites Doheny Beach.

The post IlluminOcean: #MyDanaPoint 40 Nights of Holiday Lights appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

The Last Long Day in Nepal

 

The Last Long Day

Day fourteen of trekking in Nepal. We’ve just arrived in Gokyo where an enormous frozen lake dominates the landscape. My husband Tom, our long-time friend Marcus, and I hope to complete the Three Passes Trek, circumnavigating the valley where Mount Everest reigns supreme. We’re in the company of a wonderful guide and two porters who are transporting the bulk of our gear. Since April 2nd when we landed at the World’s Most Dangerous Airport in Lukla, it’s been non-stop adventure. We’ve spent ten of fourteen days hiking in altitudes over 15,000 feet, exceeding 18,000 feet on our first pass, Kongma La. Tomorrow, we’ll tackle our third and final pass, 17,680 foot Renjo La. To my relief, it will be our last long day.

 

The truth is, I’ve reached my breaking point. Not only am I bone tired, but I’m anxious about the weather. There’s speculation about an approaching heavy snowstorm, and if predictions pan out, Renjo La will be impassable. After lunch, Tom and I cozy up beneath four luxuriously thick velour blankets, savoring the warmth of our shared body heat. As I rest, snug in our cocoon, windblown sleet pelts the window. I peer outside, and on the ridge above our teahouse, amid the swirling snow, seven ghostly figures wend their way to Gokyo.

 

Will that be us tomorrow?

 

“I don’t need to be a hero,” I confess at dinner. And because an alternate trail exists via Machherma down the valley, I propose that we split up. I’ll enlist one of the porters to act as my guide, and in four days, we’ll reunite. It’s optimal; I can bow out gracefully while everyone else completes the trek.

 

Three sets of eyes meet mine with searing disapproval.

 

First to respond is Gopal. “You’re very strong, Ma’am,” he asserts. “Very strong.”

 

I know I am, but . . .

 

“You can’t give up now,” Marcus says.

 

But, I’m so tired . . .

 

“Everyone’s tired,” Tom concludes, “but we’re just a day away . . . .”

 

From completing the Three Passes. Where everyday, someone is either airlifted out or carried down the mountain. All talk of heroics aside, I must complete this trek; there is no other option.

 

Pass day: 6:30 a.m. I shuffle in my boots against the cold. Tom powers up the video camera. “How cold is it?” he asks. His exhalations condense and then vanish in the low-moisture alpine air.

 

“Siberian cold,” I answer. “Colder than a witch’s tit cold.”

 

A translucent veil of clouds dilutes the sun. We skirt the edge of the frozen lake and begin to climb the trail. Rock hopping across a stream, I pause to catch my breath. And that’s when Gopal points out the first leg of the pass. A stairway of switchbacks zigzags straight up the nose. Way the heck up there, seemingly clinging to the rocks, a party of trekkers progresses like a pack of sloths.

 

I break down. My lower lip trembles, tears cloud my vision, and for a fleeting moment I’m filled with despair. But there’s no turning back. When I first stepped out of our teahouse and entered the chill of a new dawn, my fate was sealed. I must surmount the insurmountable, digging deeper than I’ve ever dug before. No matter how badly my hands ache or how exhausted I’ve become, if ever there were a time to ignite the flagging strength within me, the time is now.

 

This is o ur last long day.

 

Fast forward to 5:00 p.m. We’re gathered ’round a yak dung fire, cradling cups of sugared tea. Exhilarated, I retrace every step. The rewarding views of Everest from atop the dreaded switchbacks. The silent, snow-laden landscape before the last pitch of our climb. The welcome sight of prayer flags fluttering on the summit. The expressions of our porters, jubilant from ear to ear. When I close my eyes I can visualize our final push to the top, the congratulatory pats on the back and high fives all around. Gratitude, in the purest sense imaginable, courses through me; a wellspring of hope and inspiration that will endure until my trekking days are over.

 

Suddenly, Gopal is speaking. He waits until this moment to reveal the details of his own personal achievement, and his face lights up with pride. After two failed attempts in twenty years to guide a successful Three Passes Trek, I can’t believe . . . ours is his first!

 

“Did he just say what I think he said?” astonished, I ask Tom.

 

He nods.

 

I’m soaring higher than Mount Everest on the great wings of my joy.

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

 

The post The Last Long Day in Nepal appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Open your arms and fly in Zerkine, Tunisia!

Open your arms and fly!!!

 

I woke up from my nap and I dust off the mattress of snow… The breeze plays with my cheek it was cold as ice but really fresh .That moment I born again…..I accomplish with birds the Gloria of night and then  I grave a tomb for my blues  and I incise on it the charm of forgetfulness . I swear that it will never be sorrow clouds in my life! I really consider that day one of the miracle that happens in my life.

In Zerkine; a small village where calm needs to make noise and the lost find a road to the light. I was only watching the paradise of nature  for  a moment I felt that trees in its slanting  saluting me and the sky with his vast carpet understands me I was only representing the speech of my life under a big green tree.

Suddenly the word that was judged by a death penalty confesses and said you were a monster after you across the bridge of success you became a beast. And now you have nothing because nothing lasts and time makes you regret because you broke many hearts which makes you smile when you feel like losing your own desire. They still have the same look the same affection and a power of hope that destroyed your depression…During these times your life became an electric shock  in each page of the your history ’s book you  suffer more . That time your blue sky denied and your sun rays died .The speech stop for a while because in each time when I say a word the stars of Zerkine cry with me and my heart prayed to be a new human being. In the middle of this maze I found  a true friend only Zerkine’s nature accepts a monster like  me  and without my permission the leaves of trees dry my tears  and I put all  my mistakes all my souvenirs on their trunks . Each leave changes my whole realm; and I become a new human being.

I shouted and I scream “I am alive nothing will break me down I ‘m much more stronger than a solder no boundaries lines could kill my ambitions” .Now I am burning all my history pages and I promised myself to never look back because

After all I will just cause to myself a headache.

I told the trees I will stop caring and trusting others but I promised them to never give up because I will come back and makes my enemies pay the bill of their failure programs .Hello world !this is me the New one .I don’t have to complain or even to explain whose unique only the marvelous Zerkine nature will understand him .It pushes me kindly to chose between the Be or  not to Be .I got that fire of Sonia Sanchez And like Socrates and Van Gogh I will finish my life not afraid of life games or even from death I may die from wrench but I will always follow that sound of soul which runs from a body I will always  cherish for freedom .Like  a flower which misses  a sun like a mother who lost her son I will be a paper which waits a pen that what Zerkine’s Land taught me ! Now I write but in the deep of my heart I know that it is hard to describe this feeling as it is harder to understand between the lines .All what I knew and I will know is these stars and gulls ; the secure and rest nap in April’s palm hand and the breeze .

These extinguish the briefs in my heart and full my life with passion and love. It makes me open my wings and fly over paradise. Dear Zerkine; your imprints are engraved in my mind; your clamor still creating enthusiasm in me until now.

Your events ; your pictures and your whispers ; all gone and left only pretty  souvenirs  remembering them gave me the strength to stand up again  .It decorates my face with smiles and It helped me to support life’s flaps .Now I am so grateful because everything that you are Zerkine is who I am ..Who I am today .Thanks to you I started from “Zero” again and why not catching the “Hero” .Thanks to you I am not broken hearted again and thanks to you I understand life rules well.

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

 

The post Open your arms and fly in Zerkine, Tunisia! appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Imagine yourself in ancient city Lviv, Ukraine

Prepare yourself for a long fly through time, across the cities and the countries, so you could go in one beautiful day, which will give you a nice Ukrainian city Lviv.

Overcoming all the distance using magic intervention, you become the hero of my story. After all, that is you in this city who gives me a priceless inspiration.

You sit on a comfortable wooden chair with wicker headboard. You have solid masonry under your feet. It is noon now, and the entire area is full of melodious chimes. You rub by mechanical gesture your tired feet which did not have the rest from the morning.

If you look down, you’ll see that the pavement made from the stone, as if from the last century.

In front of you is a small table on which there is your hot cup of coffee.

If you look ahead, you will see time-darkened walls of the Cathedral, from which ancient saints look straight inside your soul.

 Moving a bit in the chair, you turn right and see the Chapel of the Boim family – a powerful building from metal and stone, where on the top sits Jesus Christ. Yes, in Lviv even Jesus depicted as on the rest. This is one of a kind sculpture that depicts Jesus in a relaxed manner.

Tourists walk lazy past the chapel with their bags embroidered “I Love Lviv”, stuffed to the brim with this delicious chocolate and traditional Ukrainian souvenirs. Some of them stop, and start to make photos near monuments. Local residents do not pay any attention to the flash of cameras; they have been accustomed to this for a long time.

Now it rains here, but you have hidden under the canopy, and you can slowly sip a coffee and admire the rain washes off as summer heat and invisible traces of tens of feet on a stone road.

Taste of coffee is bitter, and fills you with energy, gives confidence that all your dreams come true, if you just make a wish.

You take a sip, and breathe a pleasant aroma of just brewed coffee according to your taste. Flavor that shatters all the stone streets of the city, it comes alive by the sound of the guitar, the lonely street musician, stopping briefly only for one dance next to him, flies past ancient churches, always with wide open doors. This flavor stays in the heart of the city – in its town hall, surrounded by four fountains. On each of the four fountains stands an ancient sculpture of the god. Here you can see Poseidon with his trident, and the ancient warrior Diana.

The city fills the hearts of the people of Lviv with love so much that they could not leave even a lifeless sculpture without a pair. Poseidon sculpture stands beside his faithful wife Amphitrite, and it seems as if beautiful Adonis leans to the Diana. These statues are frozen forever in marble and watch silently for many centuries the people that are sitting on the benches, their fate, new tourists who descended from the High Castle, designed to protect the whole of the medieval city in case of danger, wearily collapse or drink the water.

You make a second sip and see the Lviv in different light, now you are approaching one of numerous unraveling mysteries of this city. Now, you are remembering the beautiful Gothic spires of churches, baroque arches, flowers on the exquisitely forged city lights. All the centuries-old history of the city, the country, with its diverse culture, interesting traditions, all this in every ray of sun, punched out of the clouds over the Dominican church, in a drop of rain falling over the faces of the sad saints, all this appears in unusually strong thirst for life. Thirst, that feels everyone who has ever come for a day to the city.

And now, just close your eyes, and take another sip of coffee under the dance of rain on the stone pavement.

About the Author: my name is Kateryna and I am from Ukraine. I’m 28 years old and writing is my hobby and the way to earn my living. No matter that it is the war in one part of my country, Ukrainians are friendly and always welcome people all over the world.

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

The post Imagine yourself in ancient city Lviv, Ukraine appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Gallivanting in Goa, India

I met Mariana in the Spanish class, which were I attended last year in summer at the University of Mumbai. She was from Portugal. We both enrolled late for the course and often had to work together after the lectures to cope up with the class. It was shear serendipity. We hit it off quite well.

 

One day she was feeling homesick and was missing her family and friends. So, to cheer her up, I decided to take her on a trip to the solitary Portuguese province in India – Goa!

 

Goa is famous for its swaying palms, white sandy beaches and frosty beer. We landed in Panjim, the capital of Goa. This charming city also goes by the name of Fontainhus, which is a local language means, a place that has fountain at foot of the hill. We hired a motorcycle and started exploring the Goa on wheels.

 

We were transported back in time of Portuguese-Goa era as we drove past the beautiful homes and villas belonging to the last surviving Portuguese families. Colorful souvenir shops, European-style cafes and restaurants, and narrow streets give the city a cheerful, warm disposition. Mariana was surely enjoying these home-coming signs.

 

The influence of 500-year Portuguese rule is to be seen everywhere in Goa, in the exquisite gothic architectures like Basilica of Bom Jesus and the Church of St. Francis of Assissi; and also in the East-meets-West cuisine, which combines seafood with coconut milk, palm vinegar and local spices; and being a place of tropical climate, the flavors here are intense. No other food in India can claim such contrasting yet homogeneous taste.

 

The beaches are the most appealing part of the Goa tour. There is something to offer to everyone: from luxury beach resorts to makeshift huts, and from wild parties to an evening in the wilderness.

 

These white sandy beaches are washed by warm Arabian Sea current, which makes the water perfect for swimming at any time of the day, and the adventure-lovers can of course indulge themselves in various water sports.

 

In the evening we were sitting on the beach holding hands and watching the red fiery ball sinking the depth of the distant sea, making the water even warmer! The tingling sensation of the grainy sand was exquisite. Life seemed just like a chunk of fine dry sand to me; as more firmly we try to hold it in our hand, faster it slips away! I looked at Mariana, she was looking far-away at the reddish horizon, her blue eyes had an orange tint and the sea breeze was blowing through her curly hair swiftly. I just wanted to pause that moment forever.

 

Later some hippies gathered around the beach. They were playing guitar, Bongo drums, and were singing a joyous Portuguese folk song. Suddenly Mariana started dancing to that tune like a captivated ballerina, leaving all her homesick thoughts behind.

 

The easy charm of the Goan people and soothing placidity of the place made my job of cheering Mariana a lot simple.

About the author:

 

I’m Satish Kawathekar from Mumbai, India. I’m 25 years old. Exploring new places and getting to know about foreign, exotic cultures and life-styles are my hobbies. Marathi is my first language, apart from that I speak Hindi, English, German and little bit Spanish.

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

The post Gallivanting in Goa, India appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

I wanna see you be brave *,USA

A lifetime ago I fell in love with whitewater kayaking. I discovered the sport during college. I met a man who claimed to share my passion.  For a year we kayaked the St. Francis in Missouri when the water levels allowed, the Arkansas River in Colorado, then the Chattooga in Georgia and the Ocoee of Tennessee. 

Things changed and we stopped kayaking. Not my choice but I did not fight it. I still dreamed of one day returning to the roiling current cascading past boulders, dropping into holes before barrelling through waves cresting overhead.  When the kids grew up. When I had more time.

I finally realized the man no longer shared any of my passions, so I set off to reclaim my one true love from twenty-five years earlier. I booked a week-long introduction to kayaking class at the Nantahala Outdoor Center in North Carolina. Despite a bloody, gouged shin from swimming yet another rapid, I bought a boat.

Life, work and kids continued to distract and drain me. I dabbled at whitewater kayaking, and it is not a sport that welcomes dabbling.

“If you don’t like cold, wet weather, you’re in the wrong place,” said my kayaking instructor while sneering at me as I whimpered about practicing an eskimo roll in Pennsylvania’s Youghiogheny River last summer. My paddle chopped at the water as my Jackson Little Hero bounced off a rock past the eddy he had directed me toward. 

He shook his head as he snorted. “Just a turd floating down the river.”

I steered toward the next eddy on the right, turned too sharply too soon and promptly flipped upside down. The rushing cold water shocked me as it filled my sinuses. I jettisoned out of the boat, not even bothering to attempt an eskimo roll. Coughing up river water, I kicked and dragged myself toward the shore as my instructor rescued my boat.

While slumped in my chair later that evening by my campfire, a voice startled me from my reverie.

“You’re here alone? You are so brave!” the woman declared, her jaw dropping open as she scanned the kayak and mountain bike strapped to my car’s roof rack. 

I shrugged my shoulders. For a second, I agreed with her. I turned down her offer of a hotdog grilled by her boyfriend.

The next day I peddled toward some singletrack near my campsite in Ohiopyle State Park. An early morning drizzle had glazed the rocks. I struggled up the hills, slipping in the muddy sections I hauled my bike through before falling once again, out of control. With my feet still clipped in, my butt landed on a rock the size of a fist. I howled in pain and started to bawl. No one else was dumb enough to mountain bike this slick trail that day. For once, I had no audience for my failure.

What am I doing here? I’m fifty-one years old. Maybe it’s time to grow up. Time to give up on youthful fantasies I can no longer chase.

I limped back to my campsite. That night it rained and rained. I dreamed my tent washed away.

After a fitful sleep I crawled out of my bag and grappled with my wetsuit as I forced it over my stiff limbs. My windshield wipers slapped back and forth while I drove to the outfitter headquarters for my prepaid group intermediate kayak class. Of the six signed up, only four of us defied the downpour. Me and three guys. One dropped out after swimming too many times as we practiced our eddy turns, ferries and peel outs below Z Rapid by the bridge.

Our instructor wore a pink helmet and had gathered his curly hair in a ponytail. He eyed us hesitantly before asking if we felt ready for the class III-IV lower Youghiogheny. No one flinched.

“Let me try a roll first.” I drifted toward a deeper section just below the bridge. I gulped a lungful of air as I flipped myself upside down. I placed my paddle alongside my overturned boat, slapped the surface with one end of the paddle, then flung my torso backward while I snapped my hips. The instructor smiled as water streamed down my face.

I swam nearly every major rapid on the Lower Youghiogheny that week, including Dimple and Cucumber, but I managed a whitewater roll four times, twice even in a hydraulic that windowshaded me, flipping me over again once I righted myself.

I returned home with more than just a frightening bruise on my butt.

 

* from “Brave” by Sara Bareilles and Jack Antonoff

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

The post I wanna see you be brave *,USA appeared first on We Said Go Travel.

Returning to Normal in France

Windows were rolled down to breathe in the healing mountain air, as we commented to each other, as we always did, on how fresh and alive the mountain seemed. After the 10-hour drive, sitting in a line of cars waiting to go through the Mont-Blanc tunnel seemed easier this time.  The twins waited patiently for our turn to pay and receive the information card, and my daughter reminded me to turn the radio to the emergency station.

This time was different.  We’d done the drive from Rome to Chamonix multiple times, with friends and family for our annual summer vacation. This year, my husband was not going to run the unimaginable distance around Mont-Blanc as a participant in one of the Ultra Trail of Mont Blanc annual train running races.  We were not meeting friends to cheer him along and help me drag our kids from spot-to-spot to give hugs and support.  His mom wasn’t flying into Geneva to join the support party.

It all started with a cough and ended in a diagnosis of stage 4 non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and a year of treatment in a language not our own in a health care system that seemed as foreign to us as an outer-planet landscape.  After spending years in Rome, Italy, my husband, the main bread-winner and reason we were away from family in the US and England, was dying. Ten months later, after intense chemo and a long period of radiation treatment, doctors told us he would live. If we were lucky, he wouldn’t need a stem-cell transplant.

We sat in traffic, waiting to celebrate that the doctors were right and to hope they would keep being right. The traffic moved slowly, and eventually we entered the tunnel.  Right before entering, we glanced up, saw the sparkling snow atop the mountain, and watched a glacial stream crash down through a pristine pine forest.

The kids started getting antsy, knowing that through the tunnel was their “home away from home”, their “happy forest”.  My husband and I glanced at each other and smiled….we were celebrating life, family, and survival in a place with grandiose splendor worthy of this moment.

Exiting the tunnel the kids’ energy increased as excitement for Richard’s Patisserie baguettes and French pastries ran through the car.  The winding road from the mouth of the tunnel to the quaint ski town of Chamonix allowed glimpses of the glaciers, pine forests and eventually the town center.  Our son dictated directions excitedly to our staple lodging….Bibendum Chalet on the outskirts of town.  Nestled in the “happy forest”, our chalet provided the healing comfort of a known entity, where kids could play and parents could rest and our life could begin to be normal again.

That night, after arriving, eating, and getting the kids to finally sleep, my husband and I sat on the balcony toasting his survival.  Finally, I could breathe again. 

 

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

The post Returning to Normal in France appeared first on We Said Go Travel.