Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 370

Telica Roars in Nicaragua

Telica Roars in Nicaragua

Now and then, we come across a place that is so awe inspiring it brings back your entire lifetime in front of you. It reminds you of every choice you made and every decision you took. It convinces you that when you arrived at various crossroads of life, you chose one path over another just so you could get to that exact place at that exact moment. Telica imparts a sense that you would not change the path that brought you there, even if you had the chance to.

Looking up into the sky, I am reminded of the vastness of the universe. Stars dot the black dome overhead in numbers that one cannot dare to fathom. A few hundred meters away, Telica lets out her mighty roar sounding as if one jet plane after another might is taking somewhere close. And yet amongst the bombardment of ones ears, there is a certain stillness. The thunderous noise of gases exuding out of the earth is somehow accompanied by the calm silence of the universe. It compels you to comprehend the universe’s enormity, and as you come to realize, of your own immense significance. I made up my mind not to sleep that night as soon as I first glanced at the floating clusters of stars overhead. I was not going to waste my time in such a paradise of a place. I was not going to let this moment of freedom slip away. The brilliance of the moment reminded me of my own individuality that allowed me to make my own decisions, and yet, at the same time how integrated I was into the entire universal system.

The hike getting there is equally as enchanting and liberating as the view from the top. It reminded me of nature’s candor to sprawl its seeds in any corner of the world, and consequentially, the liberties of its creations. One comes across majestic, shady trees that Mother Nature must have surely nurtured for the very purpose of sheltering those who braved to climb the volcano. The shades of the trees rejuvenate the body, the colors of the landscape rejoice the eyes, and the sounds of nature tranquil the mind. You hike through lush green vegetation around the mountain under the scorching sun, climbing up steep slopes at times. Nevertheless, one seldom gets the chance to think about the difficulty of the trek. The first sight of the volcano with its thick cloud of smoke rising above it persistently reminds one of nature’s incredible might.

The moon glistens the land at night. Its silver rays eventually disappear behind the blanket of smoke and then behind the barren flanks that characterize Telica’s summit. As dawn impedes the night, the golden beams of the sun reflect off the rocky, ferrous earth reminding one of a Martian landscape only to realize it is covered with lush green trees in the distance. The dying bonfire almost parallels the ruddy refection of the earth. As the sun marvelously silhouettes multiple layers of hills that it rises above, its rays eliminate the chill from the crisp breeze. From the edge of the crater, one can see a mosaic of tents just down below. Their scattered colors gently dance to the rhythm of the zephyr that almost gives out a sense of piety.

I had decided to impulsively join three other travelers who had crossed my path just the day before. I was not bound by time. My resolve to accompany them on the trip was fully justified there and then. And for reasons more than one, I had met them and made my decision within the split of a second. Vulcan himself must have led me there.

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The Raconteur in Costa Rica

The Raconteur in Costa Rica

Sometimes what seems trivial at first, can often free your soul, and invite bliss into your life. It can be something as simple as a rush of breeze, a setting sun, or in my case, the look in her eyes. They possessed the familiarity of an old acquaintance. The wrinkles on her face echoed years of experience and wisdom that she was about to share with me. I smiled at her. Her smile mirrored the warmth of the sun that was about to set behind me. I went back to fixing my camera on the tripod as she slowly strolled along with her walker. Once set up, I glanced back. She was still there, muttering something to the cow that was grazing by the road. I could not make out what she said but the fact that she was speaking English caught my attention. I needed a break from the Spanish that I spoke with the proficiency of a four year old. I walked over. “She’s a shy one”, I said, referring to my earlier failed attempt at making friends with the animal.

Halfway across the world from home, I was about to be set free from certain misconceptions, and preconceptions of the world around me. As my camera captured the golden light of the sun reflecting off the hills surrounding Arenal volcano, clouds of white gently floated above its peak. The continuous clicking of my camera accompanied our conversation along with the rustling of leaves and occasional birdsongs. I was about to be amazed by captivating stories only a 70 something year old could deliver. From her time as a young mother in New York City, to her days sailing solo around the world during her late 50s before moving into the calm midst of the Costa Rican rain forests in La Fortuna, she took me on a vicarious ride of her life. We then talked about war, and politics, and climate change. She eventually blamed it all on overpopulation and even tried to convince me to never have kids. Her voice, a little shaky with age, was endearing. One of the greatest pleasures of travel comes from unexpected conversations with complete strangers. And as they walk away, you’re left to ponder.

What was more beautiful than the raconteur in her though was the fact that she was sharing her memories and timeless wisdom with me, a complete stranger. As we parted ways, she reminded me again that the world did not need more people. “However” she said, “the world does need more hugs.” She hugged me with the warmth that only a mother could offer.

She stopped by a man selling fresh coconut water. As the vendor chopped off the top of the coconut with his sharp machete, she said something in Spanish and the two shared a hearty laugh. As I stood there halfway across the world from home, nostalgia was the last thing on my mind.

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

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Catch and Release in the USA

Catch and Release in the USA

I grew up on Florida’s Nature Coast. When I was five, I watched a Florida Panther lap water at the edge of the Suwannee River behind our home. Never have I felt as wild as I did that day. Not when manatees swam beneath my dangling feet nor when I watched a water moccasin wind through the water where I had cannon balled moments, before.

Later, when we moved to the shores of the Withlacoochee River, I kept a pet flounder in a brackish-water aquarium on my dresser. I marveled when a giant fish fell from the sky and then an eagle dived down and caught it midair. I rode my bicycle supervised only by swooping owls, kites, and ospreys. I loved school, where one of my teachers would rise before dawn and put-put her little boat out into the Gulf of Mexico to collect squids and puffer fish and algae for us kids to inspect. I helped my mother grow cucumbers and kumquats. I had friends who never named the animals their families raised.

My daughter’s childhood in no way resembles my own. I’m raising her a thousand miles away in drought-ridden Texas. A good job has anchored us in city life where I often feel caged. It disturbs me that my five-year-old girl does not feel caged. To her, glowing screens are often more mesmerizing than fireflies and sunsets. Sometimes, I look at her, and feel like the child I was at her age is an endangered species.

And so, every year, my family migrates back to Florida along with the manatees and Sandhill Cranes. I take my daughter because the wild child inside of her is endangered, too, and I want it to survive.

It is there, along Florida’s Nature Coast, that I feel most free. It is there that I can float, paddle, or wade in comfortable silence and it’s there where that silence feels like a grateful prayer.

It is freeing to take off my watch and put away my phone. I don’t need at watch to see the morning fog swirl above the river, to hear the thunder and rain that punctuate the afternoon, to gaze at the sun as it melts into the gulf, to listen to the frogs sing love songs under the stars, and to appreciate the tide that rolls beneath a full moon.

Best of all, my daughter is free to find her natural place in the world. She helps her grandmother harvest grapefruits, tomatoes, and mint. They pluck grasshoppers from the garden, too, and run to the water’s edge where they dangle them from hooks. They use these grasshoppers to catch little fish and the little fish to catch huge ones. We eat the larger fish for supper and then, we go outside and see alligators, vultures, and mosquitoes, and know that we are not too big or important to be eaten, ourselves.

But it isn’t scary.

I wasn’t scared by the panther when I was a child, though I don’t tell that story to the people where I live now. I was respectful. In Florida, my daughter is respectful of the alligators and vultures we see, too. She is respectful, but not scared. She is not scared because endangered part of her has had a chance to breathe salty marsh air and swim in swift brown water and eat food that doesn’t come from grocery stores, but instead comes from the land and her own hands. She is not scared because she is seeing something she feels a part of, not apart from.

When work and school call us back to the city, the wild part of me is sensitive to the seasons and the changes in light and the direction the birds fly overhead. That part of me feels a stirring when it is time to migrate home, again.

Centuries ago, Native Americans carried their dead to Florida’s Nature Coast for burial. There are shell mounds by the shores, still. I hope to someday have my ashes scattered among the oyster beds and Spanish moss and sand gnats, too. It is the place I return to the earth while living and the place I want my body to return to the earth when I die. It’s the place my soul will always be free. I imagine my daughter being the one who lets me go. Until then, I must continue to fly back to the Nature Coast with my girl as often as I can. If I succeed, when she lets my ashes soar with the eagles and ospreys and float with the gators and turtles, she will be respectful, but not scared. She will be wild enough to feel the closing of a circle and the turning of the tides.

About the author: Elizabeth Parker Garcia teaches Communication Studies for the University of Texas- Pan American. No matter where she goes, she feels called back to Florida, the place she feels most free.

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

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The Open Air Mall in Zambia

It is the beginning of summer and I am at the mall buying shorts. I’ve been here for all of five minutes, and already I can feel a headache starting between my temples. The sales rep comes over.

“Are you finding everything alright today?”

I look at him and then at the selection before me and then back at him. I need a pair of shorts and I don’t really care which ones I end up with, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to make a decision. Every time I land on a pair, I think of all of the other things that I could do with that money.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I don’t know why, but at that moment I am reminded of a trip I took to Zambia years ago. I was eleven and it was my first big trip out of the country without my parents. We spent two weeks in the bush working with local students and helping to paint a school. The last day we went to an open-air market in Livingston.

The market was set up in a field in the middle of the city. Thatch huts and colorful streamers. Local craftsmen had come from all over the country to sell their wares. An old man with white hair was playing the drums near the entrance and women walked by in the colors and patterns of Africa.

“Aha, my friend. Come in to my shop.”

“You are my good friend, I will make you special deal.”

“Please, please, come into my shop.”

It would be tempting to say that if I were older and wiser I would not have fallen for the shopkeepers’ raps. Certainly if I’d been as I am now in the mall in summer with the various demands of money pressing against my temples, I would have resisted. But in that moment in Zambia I was butter in the hawkers’ hands.

In the first shop I went into, I bought a little stone carving of a leopard standing on its forelimbs. I also bought a stone hippo and a pair of wooden salad tongs. The white teeth of the salesman grinned and flashed in his black face as I pressed dollar after dollar into his palms.

In the next shop I bought a pair of stone zebras lying on their sides. More money. I unfolded the bills without thinking and handed them over. They were the greenest things in that dry, dusty marketplace.

So it went in shop after shop. Lions, giraffes, wildebeests, I added them to my collection until all of the money I had brought with me was gone. I thought I was finished after that, but the savvy merchants weren’t done with me.

“My friend, my good friend. I want you to have this bowl so you can be happy. What have you got in your backpack?”

And so it began again. My shorts, my shirts, my socks, my pants. One by one they came out, traded for pieces of Africa in stone and wood. I didn’t think about it. There was no voice in the back of my head saying, ‘You’ll need these clothes later. Think about the future. Another stone giraffe? Be reasonable.’ I was acting on impulse and it felt great.

Back in the mall in America with a selection of shorts before me, I find myself wishing I could channel some of that careless younger self. My headache is growing louder and I can see the sales rep watching me. I pick a pair at random. Sixty dollars. That’s a weeks worth of food or my phone bill or a couple oil changes.

“Are you sure I can’t help you, sir?”

“What? No, I’m fine.”

“I’ll be right over there if you need me.”

Eventually I select a pair of shorts. I bring them up to the counter and pay for them, but there is no pleasure in the act. As I am walking out of the store, my shopping bag feels heavy with the opportunity cost of the clothes that I have purchased. I think back to that day in Africa.

I walked out of the market tired and sweaty. My bag was heavy with rocks that crunched and knocked against each other. I had traded away all but the shirt on my back and had no clothes to swaddle them in. Despite my burden, I felt light and free. I watched the sun disappear over an orange horizon. Baobab trees were silhouettes in the distance and I could still faintly hear the sound of drums.

I was young then, young and stupid. But I was also free, and happy, and living in the moment. I think there are a lot of things my older, wiser self could learn from that.

About the Author: SC Slater never forgave his parents for naming him SC. After a brief and unsuccessful career as a roofer in Charleston, Slater turned to writing as the only other occupation in which his given name would not appear entirely ridiculous.

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

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Hollywood: The NICE GUY is OPEN!

What is The NICE GUY? The latest bar lounge hybrid experience from John Tezian, Brian Toll, Markus Molinari and Adam Koral of The h.wood Group.

John Terzian says, “This is [The h.wood group's] first venture into a restaurant/lounge concept, it was an organic step for our brand, we created a fun and upscale lounge atmosphere that has been lacking in Los Angeles.”

And guess what this time —  NICE GUYs will #FinishFirst!

 

 

The press preview dinner Thursday night was fantastic and the grand opening is tonight Friday, August 22, 2014.

The NICE GUY is a cozy Italian-inspired lounge that is a reservation-only destination.

 

 

Benjamin Russo and I showing off The Punch Bowl at The NICE GUY.

Christopher and Cameron, our top-notch friendly bartenders, suggested that it can serve up to 15! Perfect for your next party.

 

 

We tasted two of the pizzas, the DUCK BAHN MI with Duck Confit, Fontina, Pickled Carrots, Thai Basil, Sriracha and the 
FIGS, CARAMELIZED ONIONS, GORGONZOLA, BASALMIC GLAZE,THYME. I am ready for another Fig and Gorgozola pizza right now! I also loved the meatballs with spicy tomato sauce and crispy basil.

 

 

Nicole, John, Katie and I took suggestions from our wonderful server, Codi, and tasted three of the tempting dessert creations. The fresh baked chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven, the Affogato with hazelnut ice cream and the made to order donuts with chocolate and hazelnut glaze. Who can resist fresh chocolate chip cookies? They were great but definitely go with the donuts! (in photo: Katie, Lisa, Ben and Diane)

 

 

Katie sat in the flower-patterned comfy booth to enjoy the sultry sounds of live piano playing and singing. Come here to swoon with the 50’s inspired décor and discover new friends at the traditional Chef’s table. We made many new friends and cannot wait to return for the savory taste sensations!

 

The 411: The NICE GUY

Reservations Required 310.360.9500

Hours: 6pm-2am. Late Night Menu begins at 11pm. Open everyday but Monday.

Address: 401 N La Cienega, between Melrose and Beverly, 90048

Valet Parking: $10

Chef John Carlos Kuramoto (formerly of Michaels in Santa Monica) says “guests will enjoy a full menu ranging from healthy to the unexpected!”

Mixologist: Brian Stewart (formerly of Soho House LA)

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Uganda: No Place Like Home

“And on the eighth day, God created Ugandans!”

Anonymous quote

In the beginning was money, which money was elusive and had everyone in a cat race pursuit.

Armed with reams of paper, several khaki envelopes and a basketful of optimism, i make my way up Apollo Kaggwa Road to the environs sprawled with the sky scrapper buildings that cast a magnificent view on the Kampala sky. Particularly, Serena Hotel, Imperial Royale Hotel, Sheraton Hotel and later in the evening, a fanfare theme party at the Speke Resort Hotel. I’m helped with the fact that these hotels are within walking distance of each other.

It just so happens that my day did not go according to plan. When you think the Marks & Spencer suit will do the talking, you are told to try again next tomorrow. I want to reach across the counter and give the smart talking lady a piece of my mind.

It seems the service industry creates false hope for her clients by claiming a ‘tomorrow’ that rarely manifests.

Not quite the one to give up, i randomly walk into the infamous Independence park (when you have nothing to do, you are better off walking); a steel-reinforced concrete Independence Monument stands in the pockets between the intersection of the Grand Imperial Hotel, Sheraton Hotel and Speke Resort in downtown Kampala.

During day time, it is a sanctuary of rest beneath the variant green tree shades and bougainvillea; for many idle folk who lack a meaningful economic activity to pursue.

At night, an assortment of legs here and wheels populate the environment such that the evening life takes on a frenetic pace. Beer and cocktails are served; glasses click as toasts are made to denote a hard day’s work now under the bridge.

Across the street, i hear hissing in the manner of a school boy to a girl who crossed his urine marked path. For a minute i imagine it is due to my wacky outfit complete with a wig.

I manage to cross the road. It is a quarter past eleven O’clock.

When i finally reach the other side of the road, two women walk away like my company was a turn off leaving a trail of cigarette smoke in the air.

The woman they left behind wobbles toward me like i had solicited her services. I find out her name is Nakky Rose. We talk like two school mates on a college bus en route to school. I solicit her views on government’s proposal to re-write the national anthem:

Kale, for me i think, gavumenti is not serious

. She weighed in her opinion.

Nze, kale simanyi naye that woman yetaga esaala.

Nakky picks her words carefully.

I notice she adjusts her skirt every time a car drives past us. The skirt she wore would be an equivalent of Myley Cyrus’ outfit (only leather black) for her twerk video complete with some painful high heeled shoes. She covers her back and bare arms with a shawl long enough to keep the bitter cold in check until her next paying customer.

Without knowing, Nakky informs me about her immediate plans to quit the sex trade to start up a restaurant business. She pauses as if to rethink her words then asks me what i think of her standing by the road side. A long silence eats up our conversation.

Soon i realize i must be on my way, Nakky gives me her number. She tells me she would like me to meet her son who will be sitting his A-level exams this year, perhaps i can persuade him to read harder so that he can have a government scholarship and she can proceed with her dreams of a food chain business, one at a time.

I inform her about my young brother, that little bastard of a man just got a government scholarship for a Building and Construction Management degree at Makerere University.

For a moment, Nakky’s face lights up. It is impossible to tell how many grams of makeup she wore that day but it is then that i notice her red lips part to give way to a wonderful smile.

We part ways, two strangers of the night—all in search of the proverbial gold. In an economy where some have mastered the art of parasitism plundering government’s resources others like Nakky go about their day to day business.

It is against such rich tapestry, tucked in myriad opportunities that make K-city a number one destination for the entrepreneurial merchants. What does it mean to be Ugandan?

Let me find out but perhaps Sir Winston Churchill had a point when he said; “Concentrate on Uganda.”

Notes:

Nze, kale simanyi naye that woman yetaga esaala:

I for one don’t know but that woman Member of Parliament needs prayers!

About the Author:

Emmanuel Anyole is an avid reader, blogger, reviewer and lover of books. The most uplifting writing advice he received was from 2001 Nobel Prize Laurette, V.S. Naipul who said; “There’s plenty of room at the top!” You can read his reviews and short stories on Africa Book Club and Mashiriki Journal.

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New Zealand: Where My Inner Spirit Soared

New Zealand: Where My Inner Spirit Soared 

Is your adventurous spirit bogged down from the stresses of daily life, or does your true personality emerge when you travel abroad?

I’m sure most would agree that it’s easier to let loose and be yourself when you’re thousands of miles from home. These theories began to prove out on my first group trip to Spain & Portugal, when something began to stir inside me. Later, I continued to test these ideas in New Zealand.

Looking back over the years and trips, I recall what I had given up to travel, or better put, for a new lease on life, that included travel and allowed me to follow my passion to write.

Australia had always been my dream destination – to visit, or even relocate. Sadly, I heard about the one year working holiday visa a little late. I was in my late 20’s and the cut off was 30, so I ended up on a different path that would take me to many places near and far.

It took a while to organize my trip, and based on the tour schedules my first experiences in the southern hemisphere would turn out to be in New Zealand. It would be my first trip over the International dateline, and to where the water drained in the other direction.

Many refer to this region as ‘down under’. I hesitate to use that expression after happening upon a unique map of the world at a gift shop. It showed the world with New Zealand and Australia upside down and on the top of the poster. Would extraterrestrials concur?

The theme song for our two week group trip, from the south to north islands of New Zealand was ‘Vertigo’ by the band known the world over as U2. It appears souvenir maps are not the only place you can develop the symptoms of vertigo in New Zealand. Un, dos, tres – enter Queenstown – the southern island hub of world famous adventure sports where you could likely develop that v-word.

Three of the many activities on offer include; Bungy jumping (leaping off tall structures with elastic cords around your ankles), Zorbing (rolling downhill inside a giant transparent plastic sphere), or plainly Skydiving (out of perfectly good airplanes) could all induce vertigo, though I’m not qualified to diagnose anyone personally.

If I were to warn visitors, I may consider a label on one or more of the following activities;

The ride up to the ‘The Remarkables’ viewing platform – a mountain range skirting the lakeside city.

Take off and landing in a four seat light aircraft on 90 mile beach in the far north of the country – known as the Bay of Islands.

Sand boarding down giant sand dunes on a boogie board could also make one a little dizzy, or from the blood pumping trek up the sandy surface – there were no chairlifts to be found.

Finally, if it exists, you could get the reverse affliction from staring up at the monumental Mitre Peak (over 5000 feet), and other natural rock formations surrounding Milford Sound.

Perhaps, these are the risks of travel freedom…

Now let’s talk about iconic birds, or in this case flightless ones. Not the tasty green centered fruit with a fuzzy skin being called a kiwi. The local living kiwi (a symbol of New Zealand) is a cute brown ball of a bird. Though it can’t fly, I wonder if its spirit feels free to soar?

New Zealand’s air is clean, it’s water fresh, and it’s sky wide – a place that lowers your inhibitions, letting you discover your inner self. Here you’ll have the freedom to try all types of unique soul searching.

I used this freedom to test my bravery, and discover my personal passions. It cleaned my slate – to inscribe who I was meant to be.

The kiwi bird may be flightless, yet I felt free to fly in New Zealand.

About the Author: Jeff Shoer – Food & Travel Experientialist. Having traveled the earth in search of spiritual and food loving destinations, he hopes to walk off the calories en-route to more great places and finds. Check out my upcoming blog’s landing page - foodintravel.com

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

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Send me on my way in the USA

Send me on my way in the USA

Declaring that you’re voluntarily taking a 72 hour trip by train is apparently enough to have people question your sanity. But the time between boarding in Detroit, the 20 degree weather having delayed the train right from the start, and getting back on solid ground in balmy California, proved to be surprisingly relaxing. No laptop. No screaming deadlines. A fifth of Jameson disguised as Vitamin Water proved to make friends easily, and somehow I found myself in the Amtrak lounge car at midnight with Jake and his dog Bella, sharing liquor and an overpriced microwave burger.

There’s this thing that happens when you’re young, single and talk about wanting to move to a different country; you end up getting a lot of marriage proposals.

In Jake’s defense, he was the first one to back it up with a ring.

The small bag he pulled from his jacket was filled with jewelry, which he said he was planning to sell once we arrived in California. “It kind of sucks. I’ve got all this valuable stuff on me but only had a few bucks in cash. So I spent it on beer when we stopped in Denver”, he said, wolfing down his half of my burger. “Train trip without food is do-able, but not without beer.” The rings turned out to be beach treasures, found in Florida with his uncle’s metal detector, which was one of his hobbies when he wasn’t growing pot on the hill behind his house. “The secret is that you’ve gotta talk to the plants. They’ll grow like crazy and become so strong. They feel the love you put out there.”

Feeling the love for him meant taking off whenever he felt like it, in this case to find some long lost friends in Sacramento and make goat’s cheese in a commune. “Or maybe I’ll go to Portland. Wherever life guides me, you know? I’m a shaman. I heal people. It’s what I’m here for.”

The result of no cell phone reception, a limited stash of food and a nightly train ride through some of the most impressive landscape you’ve ever laid eyes on, is that it makes you feel utterly free. Many of my friends had gone off to Thailand or Australia to find themselves, but for me it was right there on a train across the Rockies. Meeting new people means being confronted with who you are – it’s not about going on a quest, but about how you decide to tell your story.

Thirty seconds, or maybe 30 minutes if it’s a really long night, to introduce yourself with all of your purpose and being to these new temporary friends, and an endearing shaman guy just might pop the question as he offers you a golden ring with an emerald. “It suits you. Green and strong, free. It’d be just so you can get the paper work settled – I can keep things completely platonic. No worries. Like I said, I’m all about helping people.”

He’s a better catch than the proposal you received earlier on the train, from the bearded, middle aged St. Louis native, who proudly sported his red dungarees and assured you that his girlfriend wouldn’t mind because “…there’s plenty of me to go around, you know what I mean?”. During a quick stop in Salt Lake City in the pitch dark, you join Jake outside to have a smoke and take in some fresh air. Twelve hours later, you’re saying goodbye to each other as you head towards the bus and he trails off somewhere with his dog, still holding the last bit of Jameson you gave to him.

There’s probably a cheesy Paulo Coelho quote about the journey being more valuable than the destination, but you know that actually holds some truth when San Francisco doesn’t turn out to be what you were hoping for. The great thing about traveling solo though is that it doesn’t always have to be amazing. Discovering a city doesn’t suit you at all can be considered a win because congratulations, now you know where you don’t belong.

So when you stumble to a vegan taco stand at 2 a.m. with that gorgeous Brazilian guy, you realize that it’s fine to say you like L.A. a lot more than San Francisco. Even though the locals here will crucify you for that. Your trip and this city have now become part of your introductory story, and you didn’t even have to climb a Thai volcano to figure out this part of yourself.

About the Author: Adi works as a writer and communications specialist for non-profit and human rights organizations, travelling across the world.

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

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Seeking Peace in Thailand

Seeking Peace

“We seek peace, knowing that peace is the climate of freedom.” Dwight D Eisenhower

The water slapped against the side of my kayak as a wave rolled in from the wake of yet another speedboat carrying tourists to and from Loh Dalum Bay. I paused to redirect the kayak, cutting through the disturbances in the water and paddled onwards, towards an undetermined destination. The island of Koh Phi Phi is one of Thailand’s most popular destinations due to its unique beauty and ability to shamelessly cater to foreign tastes. Hundreds of beautiful people from all over the globe flock to the island each day to bask on white sand beaches and revel in a resonating night life. It was these hundreds of people speaking foreign tongues and offering up skin to the sun that pushed me towards the kayak vendor, seeking a route of escape. I paid my deposit of 200 baht and quickly started paddling towards the sea and away from the hectic beach. A few other kayaks were up ahead, turning left. I paused, and then turned right.

For a brief moment I regretted my decision, as tourist boats sped past. Some slowed to allow passengers to stare and wave at me but others disregarded my existence altogether, leaving me to rock back and forth in their frothy wakes. I paddled on, not knowing where I was going and with no destination in mind besides the next curve of the island. I set my sights on the next impressive precipice, and then the next, knowing each rocky outcropping might be hiding something novel and beautiful. I hit a rhythm in my paddling and my strokes became confident and calm. The boats became less frequent and the thrill of being out on the sea alone to explore stirred a smile in my heart. I saw long tail boat up ahead taking tourists into the sea caves carved into the cliffs and paddled past them, searching for a place of solitude. In the next cove I found a shallow inlet to a stunning blue lagoon. The opening was too narrow for tourist boats to invade but my kayak could easily navigate the entrance. I waited for a small wave to sweep my kayak over the reef and into the pool and then set down my paddle to drift to the center of my newfound paradise. I lay back, letting my feet dangle off the side and into the warm and beckoning water. Closing my eyes, I let the sun radiate heat into my bones.

The sense of freedom had been growing from the beginning of my journey in Thailand. I travelled to South East Asia alone, on a three week backpacking adventure to find something worth remembering. What began as a busy itinerary in Bangkok and Chiang Mai was slowing to match the rhythm of the southern islands. An introvert at heart, I spent each day of the trip soaking in as much culture and new sights as possible but also craving the quiet moments of reflection. The privacy and quiet beauty of that lagoon nestled in Koh Phi Phi’s shoreline welcomed me, and I found myself feeling as though time had no influence there; I was far from home but completely at peace.

Back home in America, the word “freedom” is often tied to mental images of fireworks, stars and stripes waving in the breeze, and patriotic history lessons. My understanding of liberty has always been a loud declaration, an announcement filled with pride and victory. Yet I have never felt freedom as tangible as I did while lying in the tranquillity of that lagoon. Not a soul knew where I was, or what I was doing at that very moment. I was completely alone in that sparkling blue corner of the world, with only the sound of the tide shifting and the birds nesting in the rock face to fill my thoughts. I could stay and rest or push out and explore. They were simple choices, but they belonged to me. Within the peaceful minutes spent drifting in the lagoon, I let my mind throw off the weight of responsibility and ambition and settle into the warmth of the moment.

That evening, back at a pulsing beach bar with a strongly mixed cocktail in hand, I stared across the bay to where the spilled ink sky blended into the Andaman Sea. In one more week, I would return to my life at university and back to a routine of lectures, meetings, and late nights of studying. But out there in that kayak I had found precious moments of peace, and in that peace was a freedom to go wherever I wanted and become whatever I aspired to be. New friends pulled me back into the party, towards the fire throwers and thumping music. I laughed and let them usher me into the crowd. My bags were packed for the morning ferry, ready for a new day and a new adventure to unfold. The waters ahead would be new to me, but I could steer my kayak in any direction and see where it might lead.

About the Author: JoAnna Faircloth: Originally from the USA, currently a veterinary student at Massey University in New Zealand. Enjoys travelling and volunteering abroad. Backpacked through South East Asia earlier this year.

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NYSC orientation in Nigeria

A bird on hand is much better than many on tree. At times, giving eyewitness account only reduces a story to nothing but understatement or exaggeration. Although, I’ve not lived too long on earth but in my quest to know “what it feels like to be free”, I’d failed, I’d suffered, I’d been ridiculed, I’m learning, I’m improving and I’m growing.

I’d realized that series of invented stories are poisons (except few). In fact, they poison my blood to induce effect. Last year, my dream came true. I envisioned it; it was real, now I’m delicious.

In 2013, I was mobilized for a 365 days industrious service to my nation which is known as the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC). It is sequel to all graduate before they are launched into the labour market. Initially, I was elated to be a second-class graduate from a reputable University in Nigeria however, the story changed. I was infuriated and bewildered to be mobilized to the northern part of the country which we’ve been indoctrinated to be proudly walking with insecurity. My eyes were filled with tears, but I had no alternative but to go face the impromptu challenge. Then I took off for an eight hours journey to Kebbi state which is known as “the land of equity”.

Although the adventure threw very cold water on me but I survived. I courageously survived like a camel in the desert. In Kebbi state, my deformed perceptions were reformed. Northerners were fanatics and other evil attribute which they’ve been attributed with. Then I remembered the adage which says “never judge a book by its cover”.

The first impression they say last longer. Genuine hospitality was my first impression from a citizen of that peaceful state. Then, I vomited all the erroneous impressions I had for them such as terrorist, extremist, to mention a few. I also realized that it was a concocted blasphemy against them.

Kebbi state is one of the most peaceful states in Nigeria where both plants and animals are treated equal. Similarly, the citizens are peaceful, friendly, social, welcoming, to mention a few. The state is blessed with too many natural resources such as gold, tin, copper, to mention a few, and the predominant occupation of the citizens is my laurel; fish farming.

That indeed is a freedom I will never forget. I was taught how to lawfully generate wealth through fish farming which I’d never taught of in my life. In fact, my lecturers never taught me that throughout my four years in the University. After all the struggles I experienced I was able to find my way to freedom in a way that I never envisioned in my life.

Truly, “where there is a will, there is a way”. My mission to Kebbi was not by accident but by compulsion but I had a will. One of my plans in life is to be a change maker. To help the poor, the needy, the sick, to mention a few but that will is too arduous without plentiful wealth. As I type this, I’d help wanton number of people in life despite my youthful age.

Finally, thanks a lot to the Federal Government of Nigeria, because none of these would have happened if I had sidestepped the NYSC scheme or had not been open to learning about myself and another culture of people. It was only because I had a will; I sought freedom, then I could make my way in life; that I found freedom in life.

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