TIME TO SAY GOODBYE
I can finally see land below us � it must be North America! We�ve been flying with the jet stream for eight hours and our flight path has taken us high across the Pacific rim all the way up near the Alaskan coastline and now down through western Canada. Our destination is the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport and a star blinks on the overhead monitor designating its location in Middle America. Not that we need it, we know exactly where home is. Every time they announce our position relative to the Twin Cities, Lynne claps quietly and smiles at me � a gesture well received. She�s waited a long time for this moment and endured a lot to get here. After touching five continents, 23 countries and no fewer than15 languages, she�s ready to be home, to embrace her loved-ones, and to find a place in line again. Her parents will be there at the airport to greet us and welcome two strangers back into their home. Filial obligations will grab our attention first most likely followed by the queries of finding work and a place to live. I know these things must come for they are necessary and I do welcome them, but just as part of me would do anything to get off this plane soon, another part of me would do anything to stay on it. I don�t want to say goodbye.
In less than two hours, our once-in-a-lifetime round-the-world trip will end. We�ll be roaming goats no more. Like it or not, as soon as we walk through those airport doors back into mainstream America we will no longer stand out from the crowd, we will in fact, merely be part of it. No one will know just by looking at us that we don�t belong here, though we may still feel that way. Stripped of our identity as travelers, what will we do? Scanning the American newspaper in front of me, I find I�m not familiar with the social issues or cultural references in print. Written with such political enmity the articles seem of little significance, the names unfamiliar. We�ve spent nearly a year away from the influence of America mediation looking after only our most immediate needs, how will we ever reintegrate into this society? I take comfort in knowing there are simple familiarities to return to and, just like getting on a bicycle for the first time since childhood, it doesn�t usually take long to find your balance again.
This morning before we left the modern metropolis of Tokyo behind, I took my last breathe of fresh air on a street corner near the submerged subway station of Asakusa. Japan was to be the last culture we would touch before returning to our own so I wanted to hang on to its memory already. It was then that I remembered checking out of our hostel only a few hours earlier and bidding farewell to a young Canadian couple we�d met the day before. Seemed only fitting that the last group of travelers we would meet should be wearing maple leafs on their packs. It brought us full circle back to the first mate we made flying into Lima. The pair had been in Japan teaching English this year and was now ready to begin their own trek of the globe. We shared advice as well as extra medicine and quietly passed on the torch. Young. Energetic. What a year they will have. What a year it has been. I can�t believe it�s over. Can you?
7-29-04
MY SAMURAI
Heroes come in all shapes and sizes. Some real. Some unreal. When I was a kid I worshiped fantasy types like Luke Skywalker and Indiana Jones, heroes whose lives were full of adventure. I learned their lines and emulated their personas during countless hours of play with my friends. We toyed with imaginary light sabers and laser pistols, bullwhips and battleships, anything that might make us the ultimate warriors of our universe. As we matured, so too did our ideas about heroes. These days, now that I�m on an adventure of my own, I�m far more likely to talk at length about the influence of people like Benjamin Franklin and Albert Schweitzer than I am of fictional characters from a galaxy far, far away. Though their lives were also filled with exciting times, it was their service to others that drew my respect. And I am not alone in my admiration for this kind of selfless devotion. In an ancient land not so far from my world, there still exists the powerful memory of a once feared, yet respected class of warriors whose primary dedication was to serve: the samurai. Their traditions are revered, their deeds glorified. They are, in short, heroes to many of the modern-day Japanese, including my friend Nozomi.
Ever since I met him, I knew Nozomi to be a samurai. At a time when I was purposely walking alone in the world, he was there to help me find my way in the dark, prepare me for battle, teach me the way of the warrior. We were both traveling through China, he on his way to Tibet and I heading for Nepal, when we met on the ferry from Osaka to Shanghai. He spoke little English and I almost no Japanese. We communicated mostly through his electronic translator and a constant game of charades; nevertheless, we understood each other perfectly. It was his first time leaving Japan and my first trip to a n unfamiliar culture. Our parallels united us, and we became friends. In the ensuing two weeks we spent roaming around southeastern China together, he taught me a great many survival skills, not the least of which were how to catch a bus or train amidst the chaos of urban squalor, how to read the characters for rice and noodles at restaurants, and how to mend holes in my pants to prevent further damage. I grew up a lot in that fortnight and by the time our paths diverged in Chengdu, I had learnt the lessons I�d needed to in order to travel solo. I had gained the confidence and experience necessary to be a backpacker. I could now continue on unprotected because my samurai had served me well.
We haven�t communicated much since then, but I let Nozomi know when Lynne and I left the States last September that we�d be coming to Japan later this year. He seemed excited to host us from the very beginning but if I�d had any doubt about his enthusiasm for our reunion, it was erased by the big bear hug he gave me at Toyohashi station when we arrived near his hometown. He took us first to the home of his family and gleefully introduced us to his father, mother, sister and brother, then helped us to experience the culture of Japan as honored guests rather than ignorant gaijin (foreigners). The city of Toyokawa doesn�t see many foreign tourists so we felt honored to walk along the shady Goyu Pine Tree-Lined Tokaido (road) and visit the Toyokawa Inari (temple), two of the areas most treasured landmarks, with our gracious hosts. We drank matcha (ceremonial powdered green tea) once, ate with hand sticks everyday, and dined on delicious unagi (eel) for the first time. From pachinko (Japanese pinball) to izakaya (Japanese pub) and a trip to the local hot springs for a bath in between, Nozomi�s family showed us the best in hospitality and made certain we felt welcomed in their world.
In the end, we found it hard to leave. Even though we had been longing for home it now felt like we were leaving a new family behind just as we were coming to know them. We exchanged travel gifts with Nozomi�s family the night before our departure but I held back one special token for my friend. Though my muddy speech was interrupted that next morning by the sudden arrival of our bus back to Tokyo, its significance was not lost in translation. I think Nozomi understood perfectly what I was trying to say when, with glistening eyes, I handed him a small samurai warrior action figure.
Domo arigato, samurai.
7-26-04
LISTENING TO YOUR HEART
Bangkok International Airport. 4:30 AM. We�ve spent the night here, arriving shortly after midnight via the local train line. Our presence on the third class car seemed to be a bit of a surprise to most of the other passengers. They stared at us for most of the 30-minute ride to the airport. Even the police officers casing the railway station acted suspiciously before we left. They asked to see my ticket several times and made sure I knew that sleeping at the railway station was not permitted. I guess most travelers usually pay for private taxi service to the airport after partying late into the night. Sometimes you draw a little extra attention on the road less traveled.
It�s hard to believe this time has come. In just a short while we will take off for Kula Lumpur then transfer to a plane bound for Tokyo, thus beginning the final leg of our journey around the world. We�re leaving the region about a month earlier than we planned mainly because we took a good hard look in the mirror and no longer recognized ourselves. We weren�t happy to be on the road anymore and the tug home felt stronger than it had ever been. Two days ago, after returning from the islands down south refreshed but not really rejuvenated, we toured central Bangkok taking in a few of the main sites we missed the first time around due to sickness. From Wat Phra Kaew and the Grand Palace to Thai massage at the famous school of Wat Pho, we did our best to embrace the culture. But at the end of the day, no teak mansion, no golden Buddha, no riverboat ride could fill the holes in our souls. What we wanted most � nay what we needed most � was to be home. So from a phone booth on the street corner in the midst of a monsoon downpour we listened to our hearts and dialed up the number of our travel agent back in Sioux Falls. �How soon can you get us out of here?� I asked. �Let�s see what�s available tomorrow,� Marlin said.
Coming to Thailand was supposed to be just the start of our trek here. Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam were also in our plans. But I�m no longer interested in empirical learning any more. After nearly eleven months of absorbing history, language, and culture, my head feels numb, like when you�ve stayed in a museum way too long. I want to leave the region before hating it and return someday with appropriate alacrity of mind and spirit. In my experience, to continue on would be a waste. That�s why we have to go now, before it�s too late. Perhaps the memory of biking around sundry temple ruins on our last day in the former capital of Ayuthaya will be enough to bring us back. I hear the mountain region of Chang Mai is supposed to be fantastic this time of year. Or perhaps the pathetic images of wasted westerners passed out on Kho San Road will forever prevent our return. Who knows? Right now, I just want to go home.
7-22-04
THE BEACH
It�s our last day here at Lamai Beach. After this, no more sun, no more sand, no more sea. For seven days we�ve done little more than swim and eat. Four nights on Ko Pha-Ngan, two more here on Ko Samui, three beaches, two islands, always the same agenda. Rest. Recover. We needed time to heal before traveling onward and recuperating on some cozy Thai islands seemed like the best medicine. No high-priced resorts or fast-paced tours, just small simple bungalows and plenty of time in the water. Often looking to the sea to cool our bodies and lift our spirits we�ve jumped in whenever we could. First the tepid waters of equatorial Africa, then the sting of the Mediterranean, and now at last the calm ripples of the South Pacific. The crystal clear water feels refreshing, the sea breezes quite cathartic, yet every time I come to places like this, I can�t help but feel a bit awkward, a bit guilty, a bit out of place.
Islands like this have long been developed for tourists like us � rich people from rich countries. Coming straight from Khao San Road as many backpackers do, we never had the chance to see the Thai away from tourism. As a result, every native we meet seems to exist solely to sell us a product or service. Hello my friend. Where are you going? Want to buy something? Good price for you. Always with that famous Thai smile (sometimes donned for sanuk, or fun, other times to save face), they come at us eager to please and willing to bargain. But it�s not so much their culture they�re here to push, it�s mine.
Tattoos and body piercing, french fries and ice cream cones, gangsta rap and hip-hop flava, restaurants and hotels, diving and snorkeling, all for sale, all at discount, all in English. Am I in Hat Chaweng or Venice Beach? Confused at first, serendipity came while riding atop a cheaply rented moped. The wide boulevard was full of gas-guzzling pick-up trucks, rented cars, and loud obnoxious motorcycles all cruising a loop. It didn�t take long to realize I was looking at a classic scene of Americana. There are 7-Elevens on every corner, Gatorade advertised to quench your thirst, AT&T long distance phone service available - all fingerprints of America�s culture of business! Here I can buy CD�s and T-shirts, sandwiches and Slurpees, hamburgers and fried chicken just as easily as I would at home in the States. Of course you can still get phat thai on the islands but it isn�t the first thing on the menu. Juxtaposed yet dwarfed behind the glaring neon signs of western companies are the remains of a coconut farming culture long since modernized by a foreign power. So what�s so special about coming to Thai beaches then? Why not go to Florida or California for sun and fun? What�s the reason for coming all the way to Southeast Asia if you�re just going to play the Ugly American? Nothing. It�s simply sold cheaper, which is why I�m the one wearing an embarrassed little smile on my face today-our last day-at the beach.
7-15-04
A NEW LEASE
Finally. After three full days of fevers, sweats, coughing, and muscle aches, I�m functional again. It took that long-and another course of antibiotics-to purge the bugs of India from my system. Two capsules a day for five days. They�re spares we picked up six months ago from Ole Doc Coleman back in Cameroon. Never thought I�d need them here in Thailand. Never thought I�d need them anywhere actually. It scares me how much I�ve used the �big guns,� this year. Normally, I don�t take antibiotics at all but this year they�ve bailed me out far too often. Somehow I feel all the drugs have really done is weaken my system for the long haul. Never the less, I�m well again and we�re on the move. This time it�s the overnight train to Surat Thani, our gateway to the island of Ko Pha-Ngan. Once there, we�ve promised to treat ourselves to a little R & R on the cheap before the money�s all gone. We�re nearly to zero again and this time there�s no healthy tax return waiting to bail us out. We�ll be heading on to Japan soon with one final stop to make, one more friend to see before returning home. Of course none of this would even be possible at this point without a little help from our friends and family. A quick phone call home this morning reassured us that money would be there to see us through to the end and if that weren�t blessing enough an afternoon offer of assistance came via email from friends in Europe who did not want to see our adventures halt prematurely. Unbelievable. How did we get so lucky? It�s left both Lynne and me shaking our heads in disbelief.
And so it is with a new lease on travel life that we rattle along in darkness down the Gulf of Thailand. Next stop: the beach.
7-4-04
A CITY OF CLOUDS
For Americans, fireworks are supposed to come at the end of this day, not at five thirty in the morning. But that�s when the soft knock came on the door followed by the low-tone whisper telling us the mountain peaks were in view. It was the hotel owner and we�d asked him six days earlier to alert us if the clouds ever cleared. Six days. Had it really been that long?
We�d arrived at New Jalpaiguri on Tuesday morning on the overnight train from Kolkata, then took a share-jeep up windy roads for another 3 hours here to Darjeeling. We came for the cool climate and to possibly do some trekking but neither health nor weather have gone our way. Lynne has a bum ankle from turning it during the downpour and I got the runs � again � so neither of us was in any condition to stray very far on foot. We decided to wait it out a couple days before looking into some trails and took the opportunity to see what this mountain town had to offer. A trip to the zoological park and the prestigious Himalayan Mountaineering Institute would suffice for the first day with a tour of the Happy Valley Tea Estate headlining our agenda for the second. By the time we were heading to see the Buddhist monasteries in Ghoom on the third day, it was clear trekking wouldn�t even be necessary.
While Darjeeling is home to some fine Himalayan vistas, clouds and rain can often erase all but the nearest hills from view. It is the monsoon season and the wrong time of year to be here. This is my second stint in the Himalayas during the rainy season, a seemingly cruel and twisted fate. Four years ago I spent nearly 2 weeks roaming around Nepal and failed to see a single snow-capped peak. The only glimpse I got of these famous mountains came on the flight out of Katmandu. It lasted only a few seconds but the breathtaking sight of iceberg-like peaks set adrift a sea of clouds left me yearning to return for another chance. Unfortunately, coordinating our arrival to this region during the peak season was impossible so here I was again, walking around a city of clouds wondering if there were really mountains out there in the distance. Needless to say not a single mountain peak had been visible in almost a week. Because of the monsoon rains down south, the cloud cover here can be so thick at times that even buildings on the other side of the street disappear. Temples that appeared bright and colorful one minute completely vanish the next. Drizzle comes and goes as does the warm sun. Nothing stays for long, except us.
The next train for Varanasi wasn�t leaving until Monday night, so our 3-day holiday from the heat turned into a week-long stay at India�s most famous Himalayan hill station. Not that we were complaining. Coming to Darjeeling brought with it an entire cultural shift. Though technically still part of India the people here are predominantly Nepali and Tibetan, which means they have a different language, a different face, a different cuisine, and to the foreign tourist, a different attitude. Like hotel staff that doesn�t expect baksheesh, street vendors that rarely tout, and beggars that leave when denied alms. There�s also far fewer people residing in this region which may have a lot to do with the noticeable increase in hospitality. Or perhaps it�s just a part of mountain life. For whatever reason, it was a welcomed reprieve from the harsh demands of traveling through the rest of the country.
After throwing on some warm clothes and grabbing the camera we scurried up to the hotel roof top still wiping the sleep from our eyes. The sky looked exceptionally blue and clear; the valleys below resonated a deep green hue. Gazing north towards the main part of town, hills appeared in the distance where they hadn�t been before and hovering just above them was a thin layer of grey wispy clouds that drew a line of demarcation between the shadowed foothills and the snow-capped Himalayas I�d been dying to see. The sight was surreal � an entire range of white-mountain peaks dominating the landscape. Chief among them was Khangchendzonga standing at 8598m, third highest in the world. Though the Tibetan name simply means, �big five-peaked snow fortress,� for me it meant the chance to fulfill a dream and glimpse a bit of heaven by the dawn�s early light.
7-11-04
READY TO GO
Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello�
That�s the sound of the beggar boy sitting on the ground next to our table. He wants money. Just one rupee he says. Okay maybe two. The problem is if I give him some he�ll be back again tomorrow asking for more. And what about the other five beggars I can see on this block, what about them? I pretend not to hear him. It�s cold and I feel horrible but what�s the answer to this plaguing problem. There are so many needy people here in India. So many that it dulls your senses. Last night we tried to give away some left-over rice and curry to a couple of Dalits or Untouchables on the street but they all turned us down. Apparently they only need money or something they can resell. We ended up leaving the food on the sidewalk next to what looked like a make shift bed. Hopefully it won�t go to waste.
The owner of the restaurant is a nice man; he�s seen our faces four times in the last three days. He serves good food and even better conversation � plus it�s cheap, and clean by Indian standards. We�ve only eighty rupees left and, by accident, ordered more than we can afford. �No problem,� the owner says and let�s us have a bottle of water for free. Guess we�ve been good customers. It�s the kind of interaction that has made traveling through Northern India desirable, but sadly, more often than not our experiences here have been most undesirable. Constant bartering, fierce touting, vicious con-games, relentless begging, unnerving arguments, pushing, shoving, groping; it�s enough to make you want to punch out the next person who says HELLO to you. Fifteen minutes of anonymity, that�s all we get each day. The rest of our time is spent beating back the hounds. From Delhi to Rajasthan, Agra to West Bengal, and Varanasi at the end, every place was the same: holy cities, holy lakes, holy shit. No rest for the weary; no peace for the walking dollar signs. They wore me down, made me bitter and as a result, I�ve come to despise this place.
We�ve spent a total of five weeks roaming around India. That�s roughly the same amount of time we spent in Turkey, Egypt, Cameroon and Peru but I�ve never been more ready to leave a country than I am now. I have so much pent up anger and hatred for this culture it�s been eating away at my soul for some time. Perhaps it was the heat or the stench or the squalor that drove me away. Or maybe it�s been the almost constant sickness that broke my spirit. Again last night I didn�t sleep well and this morning I woke with fever and aches. But what does it matter, I�ve felt miserable even when I was healthy. It probably doesn�t help that we�ve been away from home too long or that our money is nearly gone. To be fair, there are over a billion people living in India, tough conditions for anyone I suppose, and not everyone on the street walks with the same jaded step that I do. Many foreigners here seem to float around in gleeful euphoria with dreads in their hair and baggy clothing on their bodies. I wish I could be like them. I wish I wore a smile on my face and a gleam in my eye. But I can�t. It�s just not in me.
In three hours we�ll board a jet bound for Bangkok taking us away to unknown places in Southeast Asia. Usually we�re more focused on what lies ahead as we prepare to jet jump to another part of the world, but today we�re just happy to be leaving India. �When are you coming back?� asks the hotel cleaning boy. �I don�t know,� I reply. �We�re all out of money and have to go back and work for a while.� It�s a lie; I�ve no intention of ever coming back here again. But you never know. Life can take some funny turns when you least expect it. We�ll see. For now, I�m simply ready to leave and our departure can�t come soon enough.
6-24-04
THE VOICE OF DESTITUTION
Brother�
Help me
Bring me a bed pan
I don�t want a bath today
Carry me; I can�t walk on my own
Be careful of my sores
Stop! No more! It hurts!
Don�t tie my pants tight; I like them loose
Bring me a bed sheet
Sit with me a while
Give me a massage
Will I get better?
Hold me up; I want to feed myself
I�m still hungry
More rice, more curry
Chai. Bring me chai
Look, I�m getting stronger
I need milk to take these pills
Pani (water). Pani. Pani.
Mother is here.
I�m very happy
Thank you for caring
Will you come tomorrow?
I�m so very tired
I�m not hungry
I don�t want to eat
Leave the plate on the floor
No. No. No.
Let me be
Let me go
Pray with me
Our father, who art in heaven�
Kalighat � Mother Teresa�s Hospital for the Dying Destitute
Kolkata, India
6-13-04
IN SICKNESS
It hurts, in so many different ways. There's been stomach cramps, bloating, nausea, and now weakness. For the past three days I've been stricken with traveler's diarrhea. I picked it up somewhere between Jaipur and Pushkar at one of those guidebook-recomended restaurants. Severely dehydrated, I've been trying to force fluids but whatever I take in just seems to wash out the other end in greater amounts. It comes in waves and without warning. Sometimes liquid; other times gas. Not wanting to stray too far from a secure toilet, I've been confined to our room at the Hotel Prince Polonia in the Paharganj for most of the day. The weather is still appaulingly hot here in Delhi so a lot of water is also escaping via persperation. I've little appetite as well which leaves me feeling weak most of the time. Today I forced myself to eat a good portion of tandoor chicken and rice at dinner thinking it would be of great benefit to my health. Instead, I find my situation worsened by great amounts of abdominal distention and frequent eructing. I took some conventional anti-diarrheal tablets for the first forty-eight hours, then upgraded to a heavy duty anti-biotic last night. Still, the watery stool continues. I was hoping to be in better shape by tonight before my parents arrive but it looks like I'll be relying on Lynne once again to shoulder the load.
True to her marital pledge she's always been there for me in sickness or in health. Born to nuture, she offers unconditional sympathy, compassion, love, and concern, (not to mention water, Limca soda, mangos, and meds). She's the most caring soul I've ever known and I have been the greatest beneficiary of her heartfelt kindness these last nine months. In less than an hour we'll both climb into a taxi and motor off to the airport to welcome my Mom and Dad to India. I'll labour a bit but I know I'll make it. I've got Lynne to get me there.
From Goats do Roam,
Mike and Lynne
6-8-04
RUNNING ON EMPTY
Nine o'clock. Lynne's awake...for the third time. She's been tossing and turning for hours. Judging by the look on her face, it's obvious she didn't sleep well either. Who could? It's bloody hot and we're relying on a single ceiling fan to keep us cool. I took a shower before bed to clean off the dirt from two days in Delhi then needed another this morning to wash away last night's sweaty sleep. Both times the cooling effect was short-lived; after fifteen minutes of dry air, I felt hot again. Nothing to do here at night but lay still and pray for sleep to come. Not a very comforting thought when temperatures in Rajasthan routinely soar past 40 degrees (113 F) this time of year.
Ever since we left the island of Paros, where we stayed for seven days and seven nights, it's been nearly non-stop travel. An overnight ferry. An overnight bus. An overnight flight. Four countries. Six days. Little sleep; loads of kilometres. Not to mention a little added stress brought on by the inept office of the Consulate General of India in Istanbul, who seemed to have forgotten to process our visa applications over the course of our month in the region. Needless to say, by the time we arrived in Delhi, we were already running on empty. Not good when you're coming to a nation notorious for touting, begging, and scams.
Coming to the Indus Valley brought with it a chance for rejuvenation. A new continent; a new culture; a new cure for the travel blues. But instead we find ourselves exhausted by the elements and surrounded by chaos. Like the heat that first hits you stepping out of the airport, India smacks you in the face then walks beside you till the end of the block. The touts and beggers here are both ubiquitous and relentless. They seldom take "no" for an answer and everyone has a sales pitch. "Hello. Rickshaw." "Hello. Where are you going." "Hello. Sir. Hello" To survive, I put on an ugly jib to walk the streets and reveal a ferocious scowl to anyone who says hello to me in multiplicity. As if all the heat and hounding weren't bad enough, now it feels like sickness is on its way too. It's common knowledge that everyone who comes to India eventually goes down with something. Looks like I'll be the first in our pair. I usually am. Fitting that these internal maladies should mirror my outward appearance. Just another day in paradise I guess.
From Goats do Roam,
Mike and Lynne
6-2-04
THE WONDERS YEAR
It was a fool's journey to begin with, though it started innocently enough. Sitting along the harbor corniche in Alexandria less than two months ago, it suddenly occurred to me we were staring out at one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Disguised today as Fort Qaitbey, a 15th-century Mamaluk fortification, the legendary Pharos or Lighthouse of Alexandria once stood on this spot. With a visit to the Great Pyramids of Giza already behind us, I wondered if it would be possible to see all seven wonders this year. A quick check of the remaining sites revealed all were indeed within our reach save the Hanging Gardens of Babylon located near present day Bagdad. With war-torn Iraq not on our travel itinerary, six of seven would have to do.
Next on the list for us came the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus (Selcuk, Turkey). Once revered for its size, all that remains now is a single column used by a family of storks who nest at the top. Turning to Turkey's interior and eventually overland to Northern Greece, we wouldn't encounter another former wonder site until we arrived at ancient Olympia on the Peloponnese. The original venue for the Olympic Games, a giant statue of Zeus once sat here presiding over the competition. Now mostly rubble, we still enjoyed ourselves sprinting the length of the well-preserved stadium on a cool rainy day.
Our plan was to knock off the two remaining sites in the region, the Colossus of Rhodes (Rhodes City, Greece) and the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus (Bodrum, Turkey) by island hopping back to the Aegean coastline of Turkey. Though the two cities are conveniently linked by a ferry line, getting from the island of Paros (where we were WOOFFing) to Rhodes proved to be too costly so we gave up the chase.
In the end, I still managed to squeak out a trip to Bodrum though I went alone and spent a full day's time riding on buses around southwestern Turkey. After viewing the Mausoleum ruins I made my way down to the marina near the Castle of St Peter where a statue of Herodotus stands overlooking his birthplace. Father of history. Synonymous with the Seven Wonders. I mused what his thoughts would be of my attempt to see them all. Staring at him I received no answers. But I found more comfort looking at his face then out to sea knowing that just a short ferry ride from here to Rhodes would take me past two bronze deer marking the site of the former Colossus...and completion of my quest.
From Goats do Roam,
Mike and Lynne
5-11-04
BACK TO THESSALONIKI
I left my pants in Thessaloniki. I didn't mean to; it just happened. They were hanging up in the closet next to the dresshirt I bought in Turkey. I wore them both the day before and didn't want them to wrinkle in my pack overnight. But when we left in the morning, I completely forgot about them. Out of sight; out of mind. I didn't remember until we were sitting in our hotel room in the mountain town of Florina just 30 minutes south of the Yugoslav border. As soon as I went to retrieve them from my pack, I knew instantly they weren't there. If it were any other article of clothing, I'd have let it go. I've already left a pair of socks hanging on a clothes line in the Amazon. But I'm carrying only 2 pairs of pants for this entire year and neither pair is expendable. Unfortunately that meant we had to go all the way back to Thessaloniki to get them - the same place we'd began the day.
It's only about 3 hours drive between Greece's second largest city and Florina but we'd spent the entire day getting from one to the other. In order to see more of Northern Greece on foot, we decided short hopping by train would be fun. We slowly made our way west in the hopes of reaching the Prespa Lakes, a national park and wildlife refuge, by nightfall. It was a wonderful way to experience several small towns without shelling out large sums of money for accommodation in each place. The only hard part was shouldering a heavy pack all day long. By the time we had reached Florina we were ready to put them down for a while.
Our first stop of the day had been Veria, a town known mostly for it's close proximity to the ancient ruins of Vergina as well as a sweet cake served with syrup called revani. We enjoyed some dessert and forewent the ruins then strolled through the Turkish quarter after stopping first at the so-called Altar of the Apostle Paul (a place where it's purported he preached from). By half past one, we were back on the train rolling down the tracks to Edessa where we enjoyed a savory lunch of bread and tuna sitting next to the roaring waterfalls that is this town's main attraction. En route, we were somewhat reunited with an Australian traveler we had met while hiking Mt. Vesuvius back in Italy almost 6 months earlier. Just so happened to be touring the same places in Europe at the same time. Twice. Weird. Stranger still was what she said to us. Due to transportation problems, she and her travel mate had already had to make several trips back to Thessaloniki while touring the region. Funny, I thought. We hadn't.
Our last hop of the day landed us in Florina by half past six, too late to go any further. Accommodation doesn't come cheap here so we spent the better part of an hour roaming the town in search of the best deal possible: 30 Euro a night for a double room. Pretty steep for us. In the process, we learned just how difficult it was going to be to get out to the lakes the next day. Because the tiny villages of Agios Germanos and Psarades have such small populations, 267 and 143 residents respectively, there are only 3 buses a week that run their way. No more til Wednesday they told us. Taxis will take you but because it's a slow industry out here they want 35 Euro for the trip - one way. The plan was to try hitching early the next morning but that all changed when I started upzipping my backpack. It was a shame. We were only 16 km from pristine natural beauty and instead of enjoying the day on a small boat exploring Lake Megali Prespa we'd be on 2 trains and another bus headed back to Thessaloniki to find my pants.
From Goats do Roam,
Mike and Lynne
5-9-04
STAYING HOME
There's an expression I once heard related to traveling that draws a distinction between travelers and tourists. It says: no matter where they go, tourists are always away from home while travelers are always at home. Well, here we are sitting at a small caf� in the tiny village of Lethoro at the base of Mt. Olympus and I feel like a tourist. We're one day away from marking eight months of continuous travel around the world and home is all we can think about. South America, Europe, Africa, and even a bit of the Middle East. How far have we come? How much more can we take? All along we've been able to avoid the monotony that comes with sight-seeing through volunteering or home stays but for the last three months we've come up empty. That's about as long as we care to go serving only ourselves. We've bet the farm on finding work somewhere here in Greece with WWOOF (Willing Workers On Organic Farms) but so far our only inquiry has produced a rejection. That, plus the rain, have done nothing to improve our mood.
We pine for our families and friends at home of course, but we also miss the constructive benefits of a stable life too. Like regular meal times; control of our diets; consistent sleeping times; strenuous exercise; intellectual discourse; non-travel related reading; etc. Health is the biggest concern right now. People often think we're starving - to the contrary! We're making ourselves heavy by filling our bellies with whatever's cheap and readily available. That meant rice and chicken in Peru, beer and brats in Western Europe, pizza and pasta in the south, fufu corn in equatorial Africa; falafel and kushari (pasta) in Egypt, and now gyros or doner kebabs in the Eastern Mediterranean. In case you didn't notice, most of the world lives on an anti-Atkins type diet. Loads of carbos! It probably doesn't help that most nutritional labels - when there are any at all - refer to calories as "energy." Doesn't sound so bad does it? We all need "energy" to function. Unfortunately, we're not burning off as much "energy" as we're taking in so Lynne and Mike are looking rather "healthy" right about now. Anyone heard of the traveler's fifteen? Though I've put on only five pounds over the last eight months, my body has changed in other ways. Chest size smaller. Tummy softer. Feet covered with callouses. Hair short and stubby. I lose my breath after chasing down a bus in full gear. The back of my knee has this queer ache whenever we hike uphill for more than half an hour. I feel so out of shape. I need more exercise in my life. More fruits and vegetables. Clean tap water. And a consistent bed time. In short, I need a home.
Well, we found one a couple days ago at Anthemiou 35, Kavala, Greece. It's the home of Giorgos Alvanos, owner of a three hundred year-old house and proprietor of the best domatia (bed and breakfast, minus the breakfast) in the Panagia or old quarter. For three days and three nights his casa was our casa. Literally. After we checked in on the first day, we hardly saw his face again until we left. He handed us a house key then showed us where the kitchen and bathroom were located before disappearing almost permanently to his upstairs living quarters. It was just what we needed. A place to ourselves; a place to call home. And a nice place at that! Shiny hard wood floors. Large shuttered windows that opened to the sea. A split queen-size bed. White fluffy pillows. Even a house cat that kept finding its way into our room. It was as picture-perfect as it comes and this was only our first stop in Greece. The deepest impact was simply in having access to a kitchen. For the first time in a very long time, we could cook. We went nuts. Pasta. Shrimp. Bread. Olive oil. Tomatoes. Carrots. Oranges. Strawberries. Wine. Tea. Olives. Feta. Bread. Did I mention the bread? Homemade, fresh-baked, hot-out-of-the-oven peasant loaf. Mmm. And low "energy" too! Not likely, but who cares. Each of us also got to enjoy something we'd been craving from the life we left behind; components of our daily bread if you will. Lynne's was chips and salsa; mine cereal and milk. Though most of the day centered around healthy eating, exercise also found its way back into our lives. Every morning included aerobic walks along the sea front with stretching and calisthenics performed back at the house. Added exercise came from repeated trips to the supermarket which required marching up and down the steep hill we lived atop. In between, there was plenty of quiet time to read, write, or listen to the sounds of our neighborhood. "Can you believe where we are?" we'd say. "We're living in Greece!" It was a dream come true.
There were some sites to see around Kavala as well. Just fifteen kilometers northwest of the city lie the ancient ruins of Philippi, home to the battle site where two Roman armies once fought for control of the empire. The outcome would forever alter the course of western history making Rome imperial rather then a republic. Some forty years later, St. Paul would arrive to these same shores and begin spreading the message of Jesus throughout Europe. Despite the historical significance of the surrounding area, our feet never explored beyond the town center. We didn't have to; everything we wanted was available within our cozy little neighborhood. Besides, nothing seemed more appealing to either of us than simply staying home for a while.
From Goats do Roam,
Mike and Lynne
5-5-04
GETTING TO GREECE
It's pouring rain. The skies are cloudy and gray. We're only a few blocks from the sea yet the water is barely visible. The prediction is for continued rain the rest of the day and possibly into tomorrow. With such a depressing forecast you'd think we'd be in sour moods. But we're not. Instead, we're cheery, punchy, and on the verge of laughing every 5 minutes. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that we're renting a room in a 300 year-old house near the heart of Macedonia. Or the fact that our domatia (bed and breakfast minus the breakfast) sits on a quiet little cobblestone street just wide enough for a single car to pass through. Staying in the pretty costal city of Kavala is enchanting for sure, but that's not what keeps bringing a smile to our faces. It's how we arrived in Greece that's truly amazing!
The easiest way to get from Turkey to mainland Greece is on the 10-hour bus direct from Istanbul to Thessaloniki. Fast. Comfortable. Efficient. But how exciting would that be? Always ready for a travel adventure, we decided to wing it. That means starting with a short but conventional bus ride out of Istanbul through the green hills of Thrace. We had traveled this way once before not so long ago en route to Gallipoli, but this time we'd get off at Kesan instead of turning south for the Aegean coastline. Arriving just before twilight, we elected to stay for the night after a mere 3 hours travel west of the Bosphorus. There we found cheap food, basic accommodation, and very friendly people. Early the next morning we caught the morning commuter bus for the 30-minute ride to Ipsala, the border town to Greece. That's when things got, shall we say...interesting.
The guide book says, "the actual Turkish border is 5 km west of Ipsala, reachable by taxi," and that, "the Greeks have declared the border area a military zone and do not permit anyone to walk in it..." Right. So guess what we did. With no more buses available and not a taxi in sight, we hitched a ride on the first mode of transport that stopped along the roadside. Now...riding atop large sacks of grain on the back of a flat-bed trailer towed by a tractor can have it's advantages. You really get to see the countryside as it slowly rolls by. Men working the fields by hand. People looking up to stare and wave. It was the first time we had really felt apart of the local culture. Especially with the old-before-his-time farm hand sitting next to me making friendly morning conversation - in Turkish! You just don't get that traveling on the tourist circuit.
The two farmers dropped us off at the control station on the Turkish side of the border as they continued on their merry way down a country road. Once there we were informed by the border police that although our pedestrian situation was tolerable hitherto, it would be a "big problem" on the Greek side. We would not be permitted to enter the country except in a vehicle of some kind. So we sat. But not for long. After maybe 20 minutes on the curb, two older and well-dressed Greek men gestured for us to come over. They had plenty of room in the backseat of their Opel and offered to lift us across the border and as far as Alexandroupolis. Wonderful! That's exactly where we wanted to go. They didn't speak much English but the ride was very comfortable. We made good time too as the driver kept a steady pace at 160 km/hr (99 mph). They eventually left us on the roadside just outside the city and pointed out how to walk into town. But why stop here, I thought. Things were going so well as it was. Let's push on to Komotini or Xanthi if we can. Two hitches later and we found ourselves here in Kavala having met a chemical engineer and an army mechanic in the process. Both made for delightful company and allowed us to experience more of Northern Greece than any sterile bus ride would have. The first driver took us all the way to Xanthi where he was going for a business meeting and recommended we head for Kavala; the second took us all the way to the city center on his way to work and picked us up just as the rains were starting. Funny how things work out sometimes. It was the same with our accommodation. After visiting with the friendly staff at the tourist information center we found what would be our last ride of the day. The city of Kavala runs free transport up the steep hill to Panagia, the old quarter of town and the tram line just so happens to pass right by our domatia or Giorgos Alvanos's house. I'm sure it was quite a sight to see, Lynne and I packed tightly into a Disney-like choo-choo train with about a dozen old Greek men all trying to tell each other when we should get off. Oomm-pa!
From Goats do Roam,
Mike and Lynne
4-28-04
SLEEPLESS NIGHTS
When I was thirteen I suffered from insomnia. I used to lie awake at night for hours unable to sleep. Time would tick away. Slowly at first, then seem to accelerate as more time passed. I'm not exactly sure what caused it. Perhaps it was the hard adjustment from elementary school to junior high or the horrible hormonal imbalance of puberty. For whatever reason, I experienced many long sleepless nights that year.
I usually went to bed around ten and was asleep before the end of the KELO-land news broadcast. If I wasn't that meant it was now ten thirty. DONG. One chime at the bottom of the hour. I could here the old mantle clock ticking from downstairs and like the protagonist of an Edgar Allan Poe story, I grew more anxious with every hourly chime. Next came the musical theme to the TV-show M.A.S.H., Mom and Dad's "winding down" evening program. My mind would start to worry why I wasn't tired anymore. I'd felt tired earlier. Even yawned before going up to bed. What had happened?
DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. Eleven o'clock. The theme to 'Combat' would start to play. Mom would usually retire for the evening leaving only my Dad downstairs with the sounds of the clock and TV as my guide to time. Sometimes he'd make it through til the end of the show, other times not. But I always new I'd be up alone if I didn't fall asleep by eleven thirty. Dad falls asleep fast. And snores loudly. Both would cause me further angst.
DONG. One chime at the bottom of the hour. The next sounds from downstairs were usually in this order: the TV going off, the back door sliding open to let the dog out for one last pee, and finally the latching of the front door. Locked down for the night. Now the creaking of the stairs would start as Dad climbed up to his bedroom. Sometimes his knee would click every other step or so, the same way mine does now when I tackle stairs. Like father like son. He would slide into bed leaving me alone. Just darkness and silence. I don�t' know what I worried about - my appearance, fitting in, girls not liking me - mostly I just worried about that fact that I wasn't sleeping!
DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. Twelve o'clock. Midnight. Sometimes Dad's snoring would mask the sound of the clock ticking downstairs. This could be both a blessing and a curse. If I heard the ticks I would concentrate on listening to them and worry that I wasn't tired yet, but if I couldn't hear them I lost track of time which made the next event disorientingly horrifying.
DONG. One chime. Was it the bottom of an hour or one o'clock? If it was the bottom, which hour was it? Twelve? One? Now I had to get up and check my alarm clock which I always faced away from me so I wouldn't perseverate on the time. Obviously it worked like a charm. Once upright, I'd usually walk past my parents's bedroom to see if they'd stir. If they didn't, I'd continue on to the bathroom and hope the flushing of the toilet would tell them someone was still awake. I just wanted to know someone else wasn't sleeping too.
DONG. DONG. Two o'clock. Now I would panic. One of two things would happen, both resulting in waking up my parents. One way to arouse them would be to create a moderately loud disturbance like punching a wall or dropping something on the floor, to which my mother would usually respond. The more direct approach involved walking into their room to wake them up, also to which my mother would usually respond. "Mom. Dad. I can't sleep." Most of the time they'd pull out a spare mattress and place it on the floor next to their bed; other times they'd sit up and talk with me for a while trying to find out what was bothering me. Either way I'd eventually drift off to sleep. These bouts weren't consistent. Sometimes two or three times a week. Other times only once in ten days. I'm not even sure when or how they stopped but eventually the worries went away.
I still suffer from sleepless nights on occasion but now the disturbance is more external than internal. Like tonight. We're on a thirteen-hour overnight bus ride to Cappadoccia in Central Turkey. And I can't sleep. I usually blame the sleeplessness on the upright orientation of the seating, but the constant lateral movement and hot to cold temperature changes don't help any. Others around me are asleep or at lest trying. Not me. I'm busy writing. Making good use of transit time I say, though I'll pay for it tomorrow when I'm walking around Goreme like a zombie. Twenty-six hours without sleep and just two days after staying up for forty-four hours surrounding the events of Anzacs Day. Not healthy I'm sure but at least I'm not worried about it.
From Goats do Roam,
Mike and Lynne
4-11-04
EASTER IN ALEX
Easter Sunday. Tough time to be away from home. It makes me miss my family and long for the way this holiday used to be or at least the way I remember it. Warm and sunny. Festive and fun. Just the five of us. Easter at our house always began with an early morning hunt for our baskets. Not just the baskets mind you but all your candy too. Each item hidden separately all around the house. We'd usually draw names the night before in order to be fair about the best available hiding places. Any given year might assign Kelly the kitchen, Dawn the dining room, and me the living room. Sometimes you'd draw the same room two years in a row, other times they rotated pretty regularly. All was left to chance. Bedrooms were off limits for obvious reasons; so were bathrooms. Once in a while we used the hallway but it's hard to hide candy in an open room with few corners and shelves. Despite how I'd like to remember it, Dawn would usually end up finding all of her treats first. Not because she had less to find, but at the time she was simply the best player at hide and seek. Kelly, being the youngest, would often need Mom or Dad's help to find all of her candy and I was too systematic about my search to ever take in the fastest yield. It was the same with the Easter egg hunt we always held in the afternoons. Dawn, Mike, Kelly. A typical finishing order unless someone else intervened. The best part of the day by far was watching our parents go head-to-head on the adult hunt. Inevitably, someone would end up either on the ground or with a few cracked eggs in their bucket. Grown-ups can play too rough sometimes. Ham and potatoes was the usual holiday meal and deviled eggs would make their annual appearance after the egg hunt. It was always a bit disappointing to see your artistic creations cracked and tossed after only one or two days but hey, eggs spoil and they must be eaten. Of course very little of the main meal was ever actually consumed by me. Long before supper time I'd usually ruined my appetite from eating too much chocolate all day long (a tradition I still proudly maintain). Much to Mom's chagrin, I often treated Easter like the Halloween of spring. My main concern was hoarding and coveting chocolate. It was rare that we were allowed to have it at home so when it was around I simply went crazy. Hollow or solid. Tall or short. Round or slender. I ate them all. Ears first. Then from the bottom up. I liked saving the face for last. Mostly because they were decorated with sweet candied eyes or a crunchy nose. Mmm. I get hungry just thinking about'em.
This year we're in Egypt for Easter. Alexandria to be exact. It's the perfect place to begin our transition to the Mediterranean states. We leave for Turkey and Greece in a few days and so must soon say goodbye to our Egyptian brethren. But not before we explore one last part of this unique land. Our hotel is just a block from the sea front and we look upon her blue waters often from our seventh floor balcony. Arriving late our first night we hadn't any time to plan something special for Easter Sunday so we just started walking along the harbor corniche. Oddly enough, the first thing we happened upon was a group of fishermen hard at work catching in rather large off-shore nets. We joined the small crowd that had formed along the sea wall and watched them for nearly a quarter of an hour. The meticulous nature of their work marveled us. Everyone seemed to have a role with no one person more important than another. There was one man in a small row boat placing the huge snaring net out in the sea; two others swam near the center of the line to prevent any tangling; half a dozen others supported the line from shore. They tugged and pulled, splashed and swam, rowed and steered. All to bring in the fish. It seemed like a lot of work for such a small catch. Only half of one bucket was filled. We were told this was their fourth casting for the morning and they would continue fishing late into the day. Such a display of faith and dedication. It was then that Lynne turned to me and said, "You know Jesus was a fisherman too...only...a fisher of men." There was a certain gleam in her eyes, the same kind her father has while watching the fast-talking itinerant salesmen at the Minnesota State Fair every year so I knew this was one of those special moments in life. It was beautiful watching her watch them. She was totally connected to the spirit of the action. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. Her face was lit up; her smile wide. I knew then that the Easter message everyone else was listening to in churches back home had found her.
We eventually moved on and spent the rest of the day strolling along the Eastern Harbor getting better acquainted with this magical city from the past. Alexander the Great. The Pharos lighthouse. The ancient library. They're all just memories now. But to me, memories are perfection. Never tarnished. Unbreakable. I remember the good and let the bad fade. Like my memories of Easters gone by in my little hometown on the river. No. They weren't always happy times. But I can't remember them otherwise. And I don't want to.
Alex is a seaside city and, given the experience we'd had, fish should have been on our dinner plates that night but instead we felt like a reminder of home was what we wanted to eat. That's right. Big Mac, fries, and a Coke. To top it off, we stopped at a candy store and bought each other chocolates. An egg for Lynne and a big bunny for me. In the end, it didn't matter that they probably weren't made especially to celebrate Easter or that the manufacturers' label on my carton of fries said it was proudly made in the U.A.E. (United Arab Emirates). I still stuffed my face with chocolate and had to hunt for my food. It wasn't home. But it was perfect. Like my memories of home.
From Goats do Roam,
Mike and Lynne
4-4-04
DAHAB
We've heard it happens. We never thought it would happen to us. People come here intending to stay a short time and never leave! We stayed in Dahab a total of twelve days. That's longer than we spent in the entire country of Kenya.
First of all, the setting has a contrasting beauty. Desert mountains next to a sparkling sea. Camels and water. Plus, the lifestyle is very laid back. The fact that it is very inexpensive to sleep and eat here definitely helped the length of stay. We decided to "get all wet" with our scuba diving experiences. We took a refresher dive for review of equipment and skills as it had been 10 years for me and 2 years for Mike. It was great to be back at it! For me it was a dream come true to finally dive in an ocean. We really wanted to dive the "Blue Hole" dive site for which this region is known (it has a depth of 800 meters, most divers only go to 30 meters). We decided to take the Advanced Divers training as a way to be able to make the 30 meter dive. It involved 5 dives each working on a different skill such as buoyancy or navigation. We ended up spreading the dives out over several days. Mike had difficulty with clearing his ears due to a lingering cold. After a trip to a local doctor, a shot in the behind, ear drops, and two kinds of pills, Mike was good to go. The extra time gave us a chance to work on our scuba homework, snorkel, and lay in the sun. Diving the Blue Hole was a cumulation of the skills and sights from the past days. To start the dive, we dove head First down "the Bells", a vertical tunnel named because of the ringing sound caused by divers tanks bumping the sides as they descend. During our dive we got to see the incredible marine life, colorful coral, and the vastness of the Blue Hole.
Back on land...Dahab itself is right along the Gulf or Aqaba of the Red Sea. The country of Jordan can be seen on the other side on clear days. Restaurants and shops lined the streets. Colored lights illuminated the area and reflected in the water. The sea was very choppy at the beginning and the end of our stay. At other times, it was placid and glass like. We enjoyed snorkeling at Eel Garden and outside of our Penguin Hotel. It is amazing to look out at the water and initially not realize what a beautiful world exists 15 feet away under the water.
It felt lake a mini vacation to drink milkshakes on the beach at a resort. Hard to believe we were doing it so inexpensively- $1.25/n�ght for a simple room and we ate for about $5/day. Despite being in such a touristy environment, we got to know some locals. We got to know a few people at our First hotel 7 Heaven (especially me- being a woman in Egypt can have it's advantages along with the annoyances. I miss getting flowers every morning!) We had fun getting to know our instructor Merlies (German) and her boyfriend, Ahmed (Egyptian). They were helping Mike get his little massage business started. We got to have a yummy Egyptian meal at their house. We also became friends with two shopkeepers, Ahmed and Osama. They offered us shai (tea) as we walked by their shop after dinner one night. To their surprise (and my own), Mike said "yes." Ahmed prepared tea and for the next hour and a half we had a wonderful conversation about our countries and the perceptions we have. It was an opportunity to form an opinion talking face to face rather than only by what the media portrays of either country. We all shared the frustration with how we are portrayed and by some of our governments decisions that affect the whole world. It was also helpful to see another side of the people constantly saying"Hello. Take a look in my shop. Where are you from?" They may be students, teachers, or parents.
We also connected with several people in the travelers circle. We met a nice British couple, Damian and Jo, on the overnight bus from Luxor. We met for dinner and drinks every night they were in Dahab. It was fun to hang out with another couple. The travel circle is especially small in Egypt. The First day in Dahab, we ran into our Felucca Buddies- the Aussie Girls. Tina, Sophia, and Alecia were chillin' on the lounge chairs at the Penguin Hotel. While catting, they said they were going to go and color Alecia's hair. I was having a bad hair day and that very morning had thought about making a change as I won't be cutting it this whole year. After bombarding them with lots of questions (I had never dyed my hair before), girlish excitement, and Mike's support, I went to the store and bought a box of hair color- light mahogany. It was a fun bonding moment! Sometimes it's good to hang out with the Girls! They are a fun group and have been close friends since childhood. It made me a little sad that for whatever reason, I didn�t have more of these "sleep over" type moments when I was younger. So, at 30 I colored my hair for the First time and what a better place to do it than miles away! It turned out alright- reddish tented hair is not my hair answer, but fun to try! About a week later, I was just leaving my spot on the beach (Mike and I were taking a couple hours apart for a break) and another Felucca Buddy called out my name. It was Rod, the French Canadian. We were the Dahab veterans so we shared what we had learned about Dahab. All the important stuff: the good bakery, cheap internet, fun hotels, etc. Later in the week, when we moved to his hotel, he gave us a tip on a great, cheap seafood restaurant. Rod was in the group that hiked to the top of Mount Sinai. It was a beautiful hike! Also, at our new hotel we reconnected with Matthew, a German who was on another feluucca (sailboat) from the same company as ours. We hung out a few times and went to see a movie about backpackers called "The Beach."
Whether below the sea, on land, or high above in the mountains our time in Dahab was wonderful. When I pictured Egypt, I didn�t imagine all of this.
4-1-04
AN UNEARTHLY EXPERIENCE
There are myriad pilgrimages available around the world. Some people spend their lives dreaming of traveling certain paths to strengthen their faith. In Europe, we never made it to Spain or southern France and therefore missed the chance to walk the Camino de Santiago, a popular trail thousands crawl along every year. Climbing Mt. Sinai was never the primary reason we came to this peninsula; Dahab called us to dive, pure and simple. But after spending a chunk of money on scuba diving refresher courses and advanced certifications our time under water had quickly come to an end. Not ready to leave the beautiful landscapes of rocky mountain desert just yet, we opted for a day trip to St. Katherine's Monastery and the famous Mt. Sinai.
Seated together in a mini-van along with six other travelers from our hotel called Penguin we left the cool blue coastline behind and set our sights on the dry and desolate interior. A little less than two hours later we landed face-first in tourist hell. St. Katherine's is a popular destination for vacationers from around the region. Most come from Dahab, like us, or the wealthier playground of Sharm el-Sheikh just down the coast. They arrive by bus loads to visit this still-functioning 4th century monastery. It's a fairly large site but only a tiny portion is open to the public. As a result, the narrow streets outlining the Church of St. Katherine are usually choked with people scrambling about to get their photograph taken by the Burning Bush (not the original) or the Well of Moses. Thankfully, the monastery closes at noon so most of the people eventually drift off back to their beach resorts leaving only a handful of hikers around willing to spend the rest of the day climbing to the summit of Mt. Sinai.
There are two ways to the top: the gradual camel trail that winds it's way around the back of the mountain or the 3750 Steps of Repentance that require a steep frontal approach. Because of the hot desert heat a popular trend is to trek up the trail during the night, sleep at the summit until sunrise, then descend the rocky steps at first light for stunning views of the monastery below. Not wishing to sleep out in the cold we reversed the course by tackling the steps under the afternoon sun and breezing down the camel trail under a gloaming moon. Both ways, it felt like an unearthly experience. Our group had splintered shortly after we entered the monastery which meant that Lynne and I were able to hike up in virtual isolation. Stunning lunar-like rock formations surrounded us with every step. The higher we went the more we saw. Both of us enjoyed the peace that often comes with prolonged silence and remained quiet for most of the afternoon. It was a rare chance to connect your spirit with nature's. Hear the wind. Smell the air. Feel the presence of life. And contemplate the significance the mount. Jews. Christians. Muslims. we all know the significance of this place. These are the mountains of Moses and Elijah, where Man met God and set the world on a path towards monotheism (and presently division).
Eventually our group reformed at the summit and together we enjoyed a few hours of splendid camaraderie while we waited for sunset. As daylight faded and the surrounding landscape took on a red martian-esque appearance we snapped photos for each other and prepared for the journey back down to earth. Though our hike to the heavens was an ephemeral pilgri