Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 376
July 29, 2014
Creating the Perfect Tallinn Tour – Part Two
Souvenirs
No tour in Tallinn is complete without souvenirs. Here are some of the most popular souvenirs you can buy in Tallinn:
Look for signs that read – Eesti Kasitoo (authentic Estonian goods)
Wool – Sweaters, scarf’s, mittens and hats which have traditional, beautiful reindeer, flower and Estonian designs.
Linen Items – a popular fabric that the peasants used to create plain clothing as an unofficial protest against the extravagant garments of the upper class.
Juniper Tree Items – In the Church of the Holy Spirit you can find Juniper tree crafted kitchen tools. Trivets that emit a wonderful smell when you put a hot pot on top, spoons, placemats, etc.
Kalev chocolate and candy – can be found most cheaply in grocery stores. Kalev was the largest maker of candy in Estonia. It was purchased by a Norwegian company who kept the chocolate the same. They were the only establishment that made bubble gum in the Soviet Union.
Masterpieces – As you stroll the city you can find small pathways and special gardens where craft masters are creating one of a kind masterpieces, such as the knitted items, pottery and hand blown glass.
Vana Tallinn – This liquor was mixed with champagne to create a drink called “Hammer and Sickle”. It goes to your head and knocks you off your feet! Many spices are added to the liquor to make it a sweet treat that can be added to tea or coffee. Grocery or liquor stores have the best prices for this great souvenir.
Balti Jaam Train Station Flea Market – You can find native vegetables, fruit, clothing, antiques, just about anything from the normal to extremely odd items.
Where to Stay
For those of you looking for posh comfort the 5 star Telegraaf hotel offers 86 rooms in a is situated in the heart of Old Town and fittingly the building was the main source of communications starting from 1918.
The boutique hotel Schlössle is also a highly recommended place to hang your hat and seems untouched by the test of time.
Where to Eat
Olde Hansa restaurant offers a classic medieval atmosphere with medieval cuisine and one-of-a-kind style, from staff in medieval attire to medieval music being played and traditional drinks served.
About the Author – Brian Schweitzer is the Co-Founder of Travel Guru – The smart travel community for connecting travelers and providing useful information to save time and money, with optimized travel. He has traveled to over 16 countries and counting, while living more than 14 years in St Petersburg, Russia. Brian is also a marketing and business development consultant who works with companies around the world to improve their businesses by maximizing the potential of the Internet & Information Age. He is currently traveling the world with his wife Alexandra and their son Dominick, with the goal leaving each place better than when they found it.The post Creating the Perfect Tallinn Tour – Part Two appeared first on We Said Go Travel.
Freedom on A Chicken Bus in Guatemala!
Jostling in my seat like a rag doll as the bus navigates gaping holes in the road seemingly large enough to swallow us whole, I question why I have chosen this journey. I love traveling because it always opens up new horizons to worlds previously unimagined and brings out a sense of wonderment; but it can sometimes bring out the worst in me when physical discomfort sets into my aging body.
Although I’m feeling grouchy, a smile plays on my lips at the name Chicken Bus – an expression coined by travelers who have seen actual chickens on the bus going to market, as well as those who have had the most terrifying experiences of bus drivers “playing chicken” with other drivers on the switchback mountain roads which barely have room for one vehicle at a time! The rule of the road goes something like this: whoever wins at this game of chicken gets to drive forward – while the loser has to back up their bus (hoping one of their tires doesn’t slip off the unprotected edge of the mountain road) until they find a spot wide enough in the road where the two vehicles can pass with mere inches to spare!
As I shift in my seat for the hundredth time to transfer the pressure from one butt-cheek to the other, the poor little girl who had just about dozed off on her wedge of seat falls onto the floor! Awakened from my pity-party, my heart opens wide as I remember once again this journey – in life AND in Guatemala – isn’t all about me! The little girl looks up at me and her lip quivers.
Suddenly, I am filled with unprecedented Grace and something opens up deep inside – a fissure creating a splinter of light which warms my heart; an aperture reminding me of the quintessential journeying passages of life which allow us to grow and become more fully who we are. In a moment of uninhibited openness and compassion, I scoop up the child and place her in my lap – gently and hesitantly so as not to frighten her or her family – smiling at the mother and asking the question with my eyes if this is okay?
The woman looks worn out and gives me a nod of consent, smiling tenderly at the child and giving her permission to relax in the arms of this larger-than-is-customary-in-their-world gringa with a lot more cushion than the seat of the bus she’s been trying to sit on unsuccessfully. We all begin to relax – chugging along on the bus, thrown from side-to-side with a rhythm which lulls the child into sleep.
Something miraculous and unexpected happens to my sore, aching body. My muscles relax. I find myself swaying with the motion of the bus rather than fighting it stiffly to keep from bothering the others in my seat. Like the passing trees outside my window bending and swaying with the wind in order to avoid being broken and damaged, I find myself rocking with the rhythm of the bus.
I feel my heart open more fully to the scenery passing gently outside my window. There are fields of land which evoke childhood memories of the patchwork quilts of my grandmother’s generation. I see at least 20 different shades of green, brown and yellow with accents of red, purple and white thrown into the mix of colors – like the flowers I remember dotting the quilts that covered me as a child – and I am in awe.
The beauty of the mist hanging in the valleys far below the steep mountainous road makes the land feel magical. It reminds me of the mysteries of life I came here to explore. My existence had become dull and hazy like an old mirror – the sheen worn off so the image was dark and cloudy rather than reflecting brightly all that is good in this world.
As I shift slightly in my seat, my arm tingles and awakens after holding it in the same position for too long so as not to disturb the sleeping child. This prickly sensation reminds me my soul is now awakening in a new way as well. I have found the freedom my heart has been longing for right here – on an over-stuffed “Chicken Bus” with this endearing, sticky girl with mud on her bare feet who sleeps soundly in my arms.
About the Author: Judi Puckett, M.A. is a Writer, Life-Traveler, Spiritual Midwife and Soul-Based Coach. She looks for the opportunity to see the mystical presence in her everyday experiences and finds travel to be the magical doorway to experiencing the joy and richness life has to offer!
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Home Is Where The Heart Is: USA
Home is where the heart is. That’s what I’ve always been told. Get away from here there’s nothing for you. Go places see new things. But just remember one thing. Home is where the heart is. A place I would like to go. Is where the waters are pure blue. An the grass is green as green can be. Where the sun will always shine. Home is where the heart is. There are many beautiful sites in the world. That I would like to go to. But there is one place that I would like to see most. What’s waiting on the other side for me. Home is where the heart is. The world has to offer so many things. On this earth I’ve learned one thing. No matter how beautiful it seems. It isn’t as beautiful as heaven is. Home is where the heart is. Along the road I must travel on. I will meet many new people. Who dream just like me. And I will tell them the same thing. Home is where the heart is. I’ve always wanted to jump off a cliff into the waters below. Swimming in water that is never cold. Sitting under a waterfall that is filled with caves. Caves that will take me into the unknown. Home is where the heart is. When the day comes to an end. I want to be on top of a hill. As the horizon slowly starts to set. With the one I love in my arms. Home is where the heart is. I would really like to go to Tennessee. So I can build me a farm and have my own ranch. Where my children will learn to live off the land. Working hard for what they deserve with their little hands. Home is where the heart is. Will I ever come back to see my family. Probably not because they will be right there with me. Every step of the way. Even if it means leaving it all behind. Home is where the heart is. New Mexico is a magnificent place to be. Many ancient things there to see. Especially Hawaii with an amazing ocean view. In a lawn chair staring off into the light blue sky. Home is where the heart is.
Now I want to leave to get away from here. An be somebody in this old world. Well at least my grandma wants me to be. My mother would be very proud of me. Home is where the heart is. Under the Eiffel Tower I would like to stand. An ride it up all the way to the sky. Looking as far as I can look. With the wind blowing in my face. Home is where the heart is. Africa would be a nice to go too. To help out the children who are sick and ill. Who are human beings just like us. Who needs a helping hand. Home is where the heart is. All this violence in this world. Is more than I can understand. Where is the peace the love my friend. Brother’s and sister’s of this earth. Home is where the heart is. If I could I would go all across America. Trying to cure cancer, fight world hunger, and be a motivational speaker. This world is going down hill. It ain’t what it use to be. Home is where the heart is. Before all this there were plenty of trees to see. Now it’s very hard to breathe. All this pollution getting in the air. The creators trees are gone that he has given to us so we can breathe. Home is where the heart is. In my heart I am ready to go home. To be with my maker and my loved ones who have already gone. There to greet you in with open arms. Smiling a smile as bright as the sun. Home is where the heart is.
We are so filled with the world’s beauties. An with ourselves. That we don’t pay attention to the little details. Our hearts are covered by smog a blackened heart. Home is where the heart is. The wild mustangs will run on. The lions will continue to still be strong. I feel sorry that they feel they are alone. It hurts to know they have no homes to go too. Home is where the heart is. The sea being filled with oil. As the animals try to swim on. Getting all trapped one by one making a sound to each other. Abandoning all they know the home they was born at. Home is where the heart is. Dreams are big as hearts are small. Only if I could help all that is lost. Traveling far away searching for the light of day. Giving back to mother earth as we live on through her. Home is where the heart is.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Off-along-the rails in India
The babies are asleep, and all of us are rocked in the huge cradle with them; back and forth we sway. On an unexpected jolt I catch the eye of the old lady who got on at Shkodra and we smile at each other.
My friend who joined us at Clapham Junction has caught the eye of a guy in a suit and I watch them jiggling together with the movement down the rails. If there was a soundtrack playing you could imagine we were at a nightclub, standing squeezed into a small space, moving in time with one another, and Janine holding the gaze of the businessman a moment longer than she should. Flirting’s safe here; like me and the old lady from Shkodra, they’ll never see each other again.
I am travelling across India on this train. It is not a journey; it’s a way of life. You can spend all day on your bunk, like being in hospital. You are excused all duties: no-one even expects you to make your own food, and children with coin-bright eyes will smilingly – as if offering a gift – pass through the window to you breads that look like hat brims, or flat cap chapattis. And the group opposite unfold lunch bundles as if it’s someone’s birthday, and teach you the names of the foods, the names of their children. We can all be family here.
The next station is Yaroslavski, preparing for the journey across Siberia. We join the train with a man with many cases. He tells us he’s a salesman but we will find out that they are mostly filled with vodka, and by Ulan Bator it will be he who is mostly filled with vodka. He’s old enough to remember when people were sent to Siberia to be imprisoned. Now the journey somehow liberates; it uncorks his bottle. Passing the open door of his cabin is to walk through a belch of spirits.
My friend has liberated something else from inside her; she lies on her bunk with her back to the cabin and as we pass through the six time zones each seems to beat her down, invisible blows sending her backwards through biography until she sobs like a child amid the pastel painted houses of the steppe.
I’m set free in a different way: no socket, so no laptop; no signal, so no phone. No junctions so no decisions to be made. I am on a train ‘trans-Siberia’. I am a hyphen; I am not going to Siberia, but I am defined by what I pass through. This journey is my destination.
I change trains at London Paddington. I will catch the connection to the Duchy of Cornwall. We will travel along the edge of the coast, where the tides of Dawlish Warren hiss onto the line. We all stare together here, imagining stories and escape, watching the huge screens of the window like a cinema audience.
The sleeper will take me to Istanbul. No mimed oxygen masks before we settle, and we board without frisking; we move without effort: this is travel as magic as a carpet.
About the Author: Elizabeth Gowing is the author of ‘Travels in Blood and Honey; becoming a beekeeper in Kosovo’ (Signal Books, 2011) – partly written on a train – and ‘Edith and I; on the trail of an Edwardian traveller in Kosovo’ (2013). She is the co-founder of the Kosovan charity, The Ideas Partnership.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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July 28, 2014
Most Popular Post: @WhartonMagazine! #video #marketing
Thank you to Wharton Business Magazine for publishing my story:
Harnessing YouTube Marketing PowerIt is the MOST POPULAR POST on the site right now!
When Junior Mapesone commented, “That’s in front of my house in Manono,” on one of my first travel videos from Samoa, my first thought was, “Wow! Someone watched my video!” By the time I did my Monwya Night Market video and received the comment, “I miss my city,” I realized that I was helping people with my videos, in this case with remembering neighborhoods and family members who sometimes they could not visit.
Connect with Lisa: Watch her Monwya Night Market video above.
People were not only watching but also helping me in my travels. I received a correction on how to spell someone’s aunt’s name in Samoa and heard about the best ice cream parlor near a location in one of our videos.
When I meet with clients about social media, we often talk about YouTube as the second largest search engine on the planet. Many people have concerns about and are intimidated by making videos. I highly recommend Lisa Lubin’s book, Video 101: Tips & Tricks for Awesome Visual Storytelling. Her tips are very practical, and she is an award-winning filmmaker with years of news and television experience.
Tips from her book include:
• “Shoot and Move: Do move yourself and your camera when not filming.”
• “Vary your shots: Vary angles, and focal length. Get low. Get high.”
• “Let your camera do what we don’t normally do in real life: We don’t get too close to people (unless we are about to hug or kiss them). Let the camera invade personal space.”
Lubin’s No. 1 rule is to get sound.
“Videos are nothing without great natural sound,” Lubin writes. “Too many people think of sound as secondary. It is not. It is just as important as good video.”
Lubin’s shooting tips and editing tips tear sheets are full of helpful hints that you can bring with you on a shoot or into the editing room.
Jason G. Miles’ series of books on social media have changed my strategies. His book Instagram Power assisted me in going from zero to over 1000 followers in three months. I found another of his books, YouTube Marketing Power: How to Use Video to Find More Prospects, Launch Your Products, and Reach a Massive Audience, full of ideas that you can easily take advantage of.
Miles’ advice to tap into YouTube’s massive social network is: “Do something specific, consistent and excellent.”
My experience matches one of his quotes: “Your videos are, in essence, a conversation with your viewers, so be authentic and engage your viewers. Even if you only end up with one subscriber, you may never know the difference you are making in that one individual’s life.”
I like his reminder that videography does not have to be hard work but simply a commitment to “publish more frequently. Have more conversations.”
One of the most common mistakes he sees among business owners is that they undervalue YouTube as “a legitimate platform” and give up because they don’t see immediate results.
“Making online content is a long-term investment and should be treated as such,” Miles writes.
I agree with Miles that there is no “secret sauce,” but the dedication and effort to make great content that people want to share is worth it. Your videos can drive traffic and results for years. I have over 280 videos on my YouTube channel and 230,000 views. I started with a Flip video camera and 10 minutes of instruction from a fifth grader. Taking the first step is always the hardest part of any project.
THANK YOU TO WHARTON BUSINESS MAGAZINE for publishing my articles!
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Freedom At The 22nd Level in Nigeria
Freedom At The 22nd Level
As I open the door of the car, my nostrils are bombarded with the incessant stench of garbage and urine. The parking lot is filled with random people; vagabonds who live here, with their never-ending arguments about everything from politics to football; trader women who provide the vagabonds with local cigarettes and astonishing alcoholic concoctions; swindlers that walk up to you and try to sell fake products at the price of the original.
I walk through the lot towards the exit, dodging puddles of rainwater, mud-filled potholes, and the usual drunkard or mad man. Exiting the lot, I enter one of the busiest roads in Lagos State: Marina Road.
The smell in the environment changes almost immediately. The air shifts into a kaleidoscope of odors; an inexplicable yet amazing fusion of fragrances too numerous to be counted, too distinct in its oneness to be divided. Each aroma mingles in immaculate blend with every other, like an intricate design skillfully sown upon cloth. My skilled nose can distinguish a few: body odor, food, perfume, soot, money; all of this and so much more, coming off nearly a million people and thousands of vehicles that tread upon Marina Road every single day.
I cross the road, with some difficulty, having to weave between cars driven by rush-hour crazed workers. The air is filled with the sounds of honking horns, screamed obscenities, and the sporadic screeching tire. I make my way through a large alleyway, packed with shop-less roadside traders selling groceries, household appliances, paintings, and other products, into one of the skyscrapers.
As usual, I haggle with one of the security guards over the money I should offer him. Eventually, we reach a deal and he lets me through into the elevators that lead to the many offices above. Unlike every other person in the building, I do not work here. What I do here is rather emotionally inclined.
I enter the elevator and press button ‘22’. As the elevator smoothly makes its way up, men and women in impeccably tailored suits move in and out on different floors, while I stand unmoving at the very back of the cab; they are variables but I am constant. The thought makes me smile. Finally, I reach my destination. I exit the elevator and stroll towards my favorite spot in the world: The balcony of the 22nd floor.
Looking out, I can observe miles and miles of Lagos; the Atlantic Ocean spreading into the horizon; the cars and people, grasshoppers. I can see beauty everywhere I turn. The city becomes a painting in my eyes and I can see every brush stroke, every curved line. I can distinguish the flawless art of architecture and nature, balancing out carefully on a pivot. I easily notice the astounding blend between the huge buildings and its wealthy occupants and the little thatched-roofed fisherman huts just beside the ocean. The irony is overwhelming.
An infinite sense of utopia bubbles within me and overcomes me utterly. I laugh, cherishing its very resonance. Raising my arms sideways, I lift up my head toward the sunlit sky and close my eyes. I am on top of the world. I feel omniscient. I feel intoxicated with power. I feel like the owner of the universe. I feel strong. I feel whole. I feel free.
About the Author: Nnanyelugo Yahka-Mba (pen name: Nnanna Mba), aged 19, is currently in his third year pursuing a B Sc. in Biochemistry at Covenant University, Nigeria. He enjoys playing with words, using them to paint pictures. He loves reading novels, especially fantasy and horror.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Solace in the Southern Alps, New Zealand
Wilderness has long been a source of intrinsic romantic notion with all generations of man, perhaps because the word itself stems from the word “wild.” Uncultivated, uncontrolled, unrestrained wilderness beckons to many of us that seek to peel away the layers of cultivation, punctuality, and boundaries that modern life has imposed. Travelling is similarly intertwined, in this sense, with the idea of wilderness. They go hand in hand in that the traveler is often in search of a new “wild,” and whatever wilderness he or she finds then becomes the impetus for the next journey. The search for wilderness has long left me a starry eyed traveler; I dreamt of what more was in this world since long walks in the New England woods as a child. Places in this world have called to me since I can remember, and it was this search for new wilds that left me to wander, to travel, in order to see all that I could. It was during these wanderings, in the Southern Alps of New Zealand, that I found the greatest product of travel: freedom.
Wilderness and travel have long been catalysts in my life; I chose to move to the mountains after graduating from college, and as soon as I had saved enough money serving coffee and cheap beers, I packed my backpack and bought a one way ticket to Hanoi, Vietnam. After backpacking through Asia for several months, the spark of adventure still burning brightly inside me, I decided to travel to New Zealand, where I lived for a year. I found my home in the heart of the Southern Alps on the South Island of the Land of the Long White Cloud. It was here that I discovered a passion that would become a piece of my everyday routine- trail running. At home in Colorado, there was no sort of expiration to when the trails and mountain passes around me would be closed, but in New Zealand, the fleeting time I would live there left a sense of urgency to explore as much as possible. I began to hike the trails around the area with a feverish intensity, knowing full well that at the end of the year I may never be there again. It was with this pressing sense of exploration that I realized I would cover more ground if I ran. I soon began running almost every day, consumed by an insatiable need to see as much as I could. There was a trail behind my house, in particular, that became a sort of daily pilgrimage for me, the Fernhill Loop. The first time I hiked the beginning of the trail, I toiled on the uphill, panting, wondering if I would ever have the time or energy to hike the whole thing. It wasn’t until I pushed past the mental burden of the physicality of the climb that I realized the only way I would see all I wanted to was if I ran. The first time I ran just below the summit of the trail, not knowing how close I was to the top, before I turned around. I was limited by how hard I perceived it to be, the idea embedded in my head that I couldn’t possibly run that far. After the next few tries, all making it to the same point, I finally realized that it wasn’t my legs, it wasn’t my endurance, it was that I wasn’t truly free. I wondered why I felt so limited; I had moved across the US when I was younger, I had boarded a plane to a country full of unknowns, I had set goals and achieved them. It was in this moment that the gate opened, I realized that the only limitation was myself; all my time spent travelling in search of this new wild had brought me to this pivotal moment I had always been running towards: self realization, actualization, and ultimately freedom.
Standing at the top of the climb for the first time was the moment that I realized I was free, I am free, and I could never be caged. I was looking down on this incredible place, towards the other end of the Earth from where I was born, on a slope to which my legs had carried me. I was flanked by the peak of Ben Lomand, the piercing blue waters of Lake Wakatipu spread before me with the peaks of Walter and Cecil’s erupting from the shoreline, the Remarkable Range to my side. I had pieced together a vital piece of the puzzle to my own life- the strength within myself that had willed me to want to see more, and the mental freedom that was needed to achieve such a goal.
About the Author:
A self proclaimed connoisseur of local beer (particularly IPAs and those of the hoppier variety), locally roasted coffee, and jagged mountain peaks covered in snow, I’m a New Englander by birth who fell in love with the mountains. I enjoy athletic endeavors that get me outside and on an adventure, be it training for an alpine marathon or chasing winter through multiple continents with my snowboard. I am an avid traveler, and when not found at my home in Colorado, I’m typically camping, hiking, snow shoeing, road tripping, or looking for my passport.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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July 27, 2014
Freedom by Truck in Canada
The place I feel most free may not sound free’: it’s dark, small, and I do a lot of sleeping there. No, it’s not a room under the stairs, a storage closet, or a woodshed. My place of ultimate freedom beat the lonely waves of the Pacific Ocean, the expansive sand dunes in the Gobi desert, and the formidable Rocky Mountains. This place where I feel the most free doesn’t have room for a fridge or a stove, but I live there anyway. Give up? It’s the back of my truck.
So now you know I’m homeless, or at least I don’t live in a home like a ‘normal’ person. Don’t feel pity, I live in my truck by choice. I bet you’re wondering what made me leave my apartment, quit my job, sell my possessions, and hit the road in a 6’ X 4’ X 4’ padded, slightly ventilated box. The answer has a lot to do with freedom, and the unexpected places life can take you.
For years the majority of my waking hours were spent inside an office, and one day the single glimpse of the sunset on my way home from work didn’t seem like enough. I wanted to see the sun set over the ocean, mountains, and the prairies. It was time to see the world with my own eyes, not in a magazine, a newspaper, or a photoshopped jpeg.
After a resignation letter, notice to my landlady, weeks of Kijiji sales, and five Goodwill drop-offs, all I had owned was my truck and its contents. I had kicked out my work-self and my consumer-self, and giving the driver’s seat to the self that was less concerned with appearance and expectations. I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t scared to hit the road, but this time excitement was riding shotgun, fear got the backseat.
Everyone was supportive, but not everyone understood why I left my home and job to live in a truck. The answer is freedom, and my freedom is possibilities: not knowing what to expect, where I’m going, who I’ll meet. Knowing my future was comfortable, but the unknown beckoned me with an irresistible call.
It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, the truck fogs up when I sleep, I’m at constant risk of being kicked out by the security, and there’s no running water. But I go and stay anywhere I want and do whatever I want to do. I’ve been cramped, hungry, tired, and dirty, but I wouldn’t have it another way. I’m enjoying life more than I ever did working in an office: I’ve watched the sun rise over a lake in Northern British Columbia, explored tidal pools on the Pacific coast, and SCUBA-dived shipwrecks in Georgian Bay. I look forward to sunny days more than I ever did before; I appreciate comforts from my old life, but also realize I don’t need everything I thought I needed. I want to put my arms around every day and hold it close until the sun goes down.
Rolling out of the back of a truck in a parking lot doesn’t sound like the beginning of the best day of your life, but living in a truck has taught me that no matter where you wake up it’s what you do with your time that counts, not where you sleep.
About the Author: Heather left it all behind to travel across Canada in her truck. After she visits every province, she’s not sure what she’ll be up to but is open to suggestions, as long as they don’t involve getting back into an office.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
Feeling the urge to take a road trip in Canada? WSGT found these travel books and gear to help you prepare.
Lonely Planet Canada: The best guide there is to Canada.
North America Atlas: Figure out where you’re going!
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A place that allows you to feel free
I would love to see the sun rise and set while I stand on the top tower of the great walls of China and then I would eat the delicious looking Chinese noodles I see on TV before I go to bed or I could go mountain climbing in Himalaya, China on Mount Everest where the clouds are so close that you could touch them when you stand on your toes.
I wonder when I would go to Jordan. There I would lie on a balloon bed and meditate as cool breeze sweeps across my body while I float in the gentleness of the Dead Sea or I could fly to great Britain and go see the Stonehenge-where computing first started. There I would touch the stones and feel it’s texture and hope I get a super computer brain after that. At some points in our lives we had wanted to visit different parts of the world or just go some where to relax and feel free, to clear our heads, to commune with nature, to explore our surroundings, to take a minute to pay attention to the things around us like; the shape of the cloud or the wonders of the stars.
A boy once asked me a question, he wanted to know how many times I looked at the sky in a day but I thought it was a funny question-foolish precisely, but on a second thought I asked my self, how many times do I actually look at the sky in a day? For some people once, others twice or thrice while some others do not at all. May be we are too busy to look at the sky or we just have more important things to do like attending to our needs-our lives depends on it.
There is a popular Nigerian saying for the workaholics “body no be firewood” meaning: the body isn’t firewood that should be used until it burns to ashes. So whether you are an employee that has to execute tasks or an employer that’s needs to meet deadlines, we all do need rest. Most times we deny our selves the opportunity to really enjoy that vacation either because we don’t have the right amount on our credit cards or we are not sure where to go.
For a long time I had wanted to go out to a place where I would just forget my troubles and enjoy the scenery but I didn’t get the chance to do so, plus I had limited cash so I stuck to my normal routine of attending my art training, hanging around the house and attending some cooperate meetings. It got to a point that I was so bored and stressed out that I began to skip training sessions-I just needed a break.
Soon enough an event sprang up-my sister wanted to celebrate her birthday which was by then one month gone. We decided to go to the beach. There, I rode on a horse, played in the water and danced till dusk. I was so relieved that few days after, I could still hear the soft sea breeze and at some point I found my self dancing to the songs that were playing in my mind-the songs I had heard on the beach. That experience at the beach made me feel some what independent as I followed my heart making sure that I gratified my fantasy, there was no hold-back. How I would love to hang out more often.
What could be hindering you from going to that place that you have always dreamt of? Is it the time or the money? Well… you don’t need a truck load of dollar bills to have fun neither do you need to have a whole month to have a vacation, you could go to a nice place on a weekend or just grab a pack of popcorn and a cup of juice and watch a movie right in your living room or any other thing so long it makes you happy, rejuvenated, free, independent.
There is an adage that says “the only thing you would regret twenty years from now(the future) is the thing you didn’t do” so don’t be bothered about where to go or the size of your pocket like I stated earlier, you can hang out anywhere so long you feel free, independent!
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July 26, 2014
Alone with the Divine in Pakistan
Alone with the Divine in Pakistan
No one in the world but God knows where I am.
Four o’clock in the morning: Karachi, Pakistan. It was the season of the Hajj, and the above thought struck me as I sat in the small airport café. My plane had been late arriving from Bangkok, I had missed my connecting flight to Lahore, and had been informed that all flights were sold out through the next week. And in those days before cell phones and 9/11, I had no way of getting in touch with my awaiting friends to inform them of my predicament.
This was not my first time in Pakistan, nor in this particular café. As I ordered a hot milky chai, I contrasted that experience with my current one. As a teen-ager eight years previously I had been traveling with my family, and our arrival had been quite different.
Arriving in Karachi’s airport in 1982 (also delayed en route to see our friends), we had been surprised by the warm greeting of a manager from our Pakistani host’s Karachi enterprise. Learning of our missed connecting flight to Lahore and that all subsequent connectors were already oversold, that gentleman ushered us into this very café and ordered us some refreshment. Then taking our passports and tickets, he returned shortly with boarding passes for the next flight departing for Lahore. We knew we had entered a world with which we were not familiar, where “connections” smoothed the way for us to continue on our journey; we appreciatively took the boarding passes and regretted the family that had been bumped from that flight to make room for these interloping Americans.
Now traveling as a young woman, there was no business manager to greet me when I landed in the middle of the night nor to help me navigate missed connectors so that I might arrive at my Lahore destination. I was alone in this unknown city, wondering how I was going to reach my destination amidst the crush of Muslim pilgrims en route to their sacred city.
As I sipped upon the sweet fragrant tea and pondered my options, the airline employee who had told me three hours previously of the sold out flights came into the café. Recognizing me, he came over to my table and asked me why I was still there, suggesting that despite the sold out flights, I should try to get on the next flight out to Lahore leaving in an hour and a half.
Not understanding how I could possibly get on the flight without a reservation, I grabbed my two small bags and dashed to the airline check-in, only to be greeted by a disorderly mass of humanity sprinkled with huge cardboard appliance boxes and gargantuan piles of luggage. Clutching with my few belongings, I was surprised when a man in the line motioned this misplaced Westerner ahead of him to midway in the line, and again surprised when another man, seeing that I was traveling light, indicated I should go all the way to the counter.
When I arrived there, I slapped down my ticket and passport, overpaid the transit fee in U.S. dollars (which was received most gladly), and was awarded a coveted boarding pass, which I took most gratefully. I then went to the departure gate, to bask in astonishment at what had just transpired.
As I entered the waiting area, I noticed a small nook with a prayer rug, provided for traveling pilgrims to maintain their daily prayers while in transit. Although I did not practice the same faith as my fellow travelers, I felt a tremendous sense of gratitude to the Almighty, the Merciful, who had known my predicament and had worked through various unexpected strangers to help me progress on my journey.
With neither family nor friends at hand, I felt an enormous sense of freedom as I not only arrived in a strange land alone, but also overcame the obstacles I had encountered upon arriving there. Although I was somewhat concerned that I could not apprise my friends of the reason for my delayed arrival, there was a sense of liberation that despite being alone, I could manage the challenge and find gratitude in the experience – an approach with which I endeavor to live all of life.
And God always knows where I am.
About the author: Dawn Young’s first words were “bye-bye,” which eventually led to a series of overseas odysseys, beginning as a teen-ager and continuing today in her roles as a French teacher and mother of two young men. She credits many of her adventures to a spirit cultivated by her mother – who raised her on stories of her Pakistani “Uncle Alam and Aunt Riffi” – and her maternal grandparents – North Carolina farmers whose hospitality to a young Pakistani student at North Carolina State University in 1956 led to their families’ connections over time and space. Dawn tries to cultivate that same spirit of “relational ambassadorship” in her North Carolina students and children today.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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