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During President’s weekend I found a great airfare to Honolulu on the island of Oahu for a long “pop-up” weekend. One of my favorite hotels is the Outrigger Waikiki Beach due to it’s location – right in the middle of Waikiki Beach. It’s beachfront rooms offer one of the most photogenic spots for outrigger canoes, catamaran sailboats and the morning sun rising above the dormant Diamond Head volcano. Another perk about this hotel is it’s complimentary Waikiki Connection trolley. With over 20 stops throughout Honolulu, I took the trolley my first morning to the base of Diamond Head to hike from inside the volcanic crater to the top along the rim. It’s a good morning activity before the sun heats up the two mile trail. In the late 1700s, Western explorers and traders believed the calcite crystals on the slope of the craters were diamonds, and the name Diamond Head…
Frosh week, pompoms and marching bands notwithstanding, the phrase ‘university town’ conjures up visions of mom‘n pop bookstores, the distant lilt of campus ditties and students composing under the Old Oak Tree. In Pune, one must factor in the host nation. As our bus skirted the city’s outer ring, we encountered three sights common to India; opulent wedding processions, impoverished tent cities and traffic jams to eternity. Pune was an Indian city to its core, with all the color and mania and crowds I’d come to expect, a university town as described by The Simpsons’ Apu, graduating first in his class of seven million. I’d checked in at the Centurion Hotel and rashly paid for the first two nights in cash, to show them I was a big man. This left me skint but near the bus station, an ATM coughed up the requisite rupees and I drifted through a…
Monday, 31 October 2016
AFESIP Cambodia: Helping Sex Trafficking Survivors Re-integrate
Written by Andrea Oikawa
A ball of orange fired up the Cambodian sky, casting heat on the makeshift market stalls lining Phnom Penh’s Veng Sreng Road. Cars dotted the road and yawned past the protruding awnings, pop-up shops and pedestrian consumers. Veng Sreng slowly stretched itself awake as the clock rolled around to nine in the morning. AFESIP Fair Fashion’s Executive Director Rotha navigated his truck towards the AFESIP workshop and spoke of the grisly not-so-distant history behind Veng Sreng’s serene façade. Less than three years ago, the workers of this largely industrial area took to the streets in protest for higher wages. The unfortunate result: Five deaths and at least 40 injured as government troops rained AK47 bullets on the crowd. Without Rotha filling in the background, I’d have remained ignorant to these tragic events of early 2014. The AFESIP workshop shows a similar façade; situated on a peaceful side street near Veng…
Not long ago I found myself on the shores of Mediterranean Turkey. In the course of this voyage, I booked a tour to see Pammakule and Heirpolis. Ancient ruins and mineral deposits on the sides of cliffs . . . seriously, there is little better to fuel the fire of my inner nerd and wanderlust gal. Though, perhaps one of the perks of this trip was the promise to bathe in the mineral waters of Cleopatra, slather myself in healing mud, and stand in the sun absorbing vitamin D while it dried. After all, I do live in the northern hemisphere, New York City to be exact, so the odds of my ever holding the recommended value of vitamin D is a sliding scale of slim to never. Though, in eleven countries and and thirty-three US states (nine of them having lived in) I have become fairly accustomed to embracing…
Few things color a tourist destination more than being described as “the Paris of this” or “the Oxford of that.” The letdown is almost inevitable. Back in the Seventies, my parents had returned from a tour of the Soviet Union and I still recall my father’s comment regarding Leningrad, “the Venice of the North.” “Some bloody Venice,” my father said. Madurai is a different case. This ancient burg, the spiritual center of Tamil Nadu state, has origins dating back to the Third Century B.C. Under the enlightened auspices of the early sultans, it burst into flower as a major cultural and commercial hub, attracting scholars, poets, merchants and traders. At its height Madurai was known as “the Athens of the East.” I despise Athens. The appellation of course, applies to Athenian glory of centuries past, not to the dirty, oppressive Greek capital of today. My hope then, in arriving here…
Mysore, to put it delicately, makes a lousy first impression. Clanking into the bus-clogged, frenzied Central Station on a Sunday afternoon, lugging baggage sans map through the simmering maze of streets, neglecting of course, to book lodging ahead, had me snarling and snapping and grinding my molars in five minutes. Toss in the prerequisite honking (Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain – this stuff is all by the way – India’s main religion is the Cult of Horn, which they practice devoutly and ceaselessly) and the charm of the “Sandalwood City” was lost on me. On the other hand, one may have a more phlegmatic temperament (keeping in mind that the sub-continent is not a first impression kind of place), settled in, had a shower and counted to ten, in which case Mysore can be a delight, as classically ‘India’ as it gets, boasting a splendid market, some fine squares, a very…
Sitting in traffic, I looked out the open rickshaw vehicle. It was pitch black on our drive to the restaurant. I could make out the shadows of the many people milling around the streets. The mob of people was so close they could touch me through the open side of the rickshaw. People huddled around small wooden tables with candles lighting the merchandise down the sides of the streets. Sitting in that car, I realized, I was in Africa. I was halfway around the world from my home. I did not go out at night unless I was with other people. As a woman traveling alone in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, I had to be savvier than others might have to be. Some people see a woman alone as an easy target for crime or to take advantage of when negotiating prices. “Wow, you went by yourself. That’s brave. I…
If you are Portuguese, chances are you’ve heard of Timor Leste, you might not know where it is, but you’ve heard of it. As a Canadian, you may have heard of East Timor, its unofficial name, but the more that I told people where I was going on holiday, I got more quizzical looks than approving nods. When I think back on it, I am not sure how I settled on Timor Leste for my annual holidays, but somewhere within the past six months I set my dates, bought my tickets and went to visit the travel clinic for a dizzying array of shots and medications. Flying to Dili, the capital, isn’t easy. It can only be reached via Singapore, Bali in Indonesia and Darwin on the northern tip of Australia. This type of isolation and challenge already had me excited because any country that is this hard to get…
“No crocodiles today,” said Nazmul. “It’s too cold.” We’d made our first stop of the tour. Well, the second – we’d pulled up earlier by a pastiche of tents and kiosks so Nazmul could get a cup of tea. But ultimately, we’d reached the Dargha Mosque and Khan Jahan Mausoleum, a place of pilgrimage, honoring the saintly Turkish general who’d been responsible for the birthing of this “lost” city. Nazmul parked the car and took me inside (that I was allowed into the mausoleum was unusual in itself) where an old gentleman received us kindly and pointed out the general’s crypt. There were no other visitors, which also seemed odd, until we were outside again, where a large throng had already descended the steps to the “crocodile pond.” This was the Thakur Dighi in fact, a man made water tank common to the district but the lush vegetation had encroached…
Never did I realize that it was a journey of no return. Never did I realize that the trail I followed that day, on a sunny mid-autumn day in 2014, was an answer to my heart’s calling. The Magome-Tsumago trail in Japan is part of the 700-km Nakasendo Highway in Kisoji (or Kiso Valley) which extends from Nagano Prefecture to Gifu Prefecture, weaves through and along the mountains of the Central Alps. The Highway was a vital ancient route for traders traveling between Tokyo and Kyoto during the Edo period. Defying time and change, both Magome and Tsumago are post towns which were rest stations for those traders. Both are joined by the trail like a red thread that draws a good marriage between yin and yang. My journey from Magome to Tsumago was launched with a climb. A rustic water mill rotated leisurely outside of a house with Edo-architectural…
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In the land of dreams, each country’s passport stamp surely has its own color and scent. It is never a generic, odorless black. Instead, the blueness, greenness, even orangeness, would fill up my nostrils in a celebration of travel – instantly reminding me from where I have just come. I imagine the hand of an unknown customs agent holding the stamp’s handle, then pounding the base into the small rectangular box of ink for a refill, then finally sailing down onto the pale blue piece of booklet paper where it gently twists, and twists, to ensure a proper stamp. What would the stamps of Latin America be in dreams? I know the colors of their flags in reality. I know red and green is Mexico – a colorful burst of hot peppers, the unofficial emblems of their land. I know Chile is a solid-looking blue and red, adorned with a…
(c)Yutriz Pernía
Today is the 23rd of June, 2014. Today is the day I almost died. Until recently, the world of free-solo climbing was a world totally unknown to me. It was a world shrouded in mystery. For those who aren't familiar with the climbing jargon, free-solo climbing refers to the act of climbing rock considered class 5, a la dangerous enough to warrant the use of a rope, without the rope. I had been climbing for just over a year, a trivial amount of time in the world of climbing. I was pretty confident in my physical ability and considered my mental control of fear a lot better than it actually was. I had also recently moved to the picturesque town of Boulder, Colorado, a relatively compact town based on the edge of the Rocky Mountain National Park, and at the base of what is called “The Flatirons”. The most prominent…
“Some say this is the end of all India, here where the three seas meet. But there is only one sea, and this is the place where everything begins." This is Kanyakumari, India's southernmost tip, according to a devotee of the illustrious Hindu monk Swami Vivekananda. The anonymous man is committed to taking care of the Swami’s shrine. Not the huge memorial built on a rock in the middle of the sea right ahead, whereas a 130 feet statue stands, but a small altar, carved in black stone back in the 1960s, hidden behind the great Devi temple and disregarded by Kanyakumari’s visitors. Most people come to this city at the border of Tamil Nadu and Kerala to ask for benefits at the Devi Kumari temple and enjoy the sunset from Mahatma Gandhi's museum balcony. But the man doesn’t mind. His mission in life is to keep the shrine fresh…
Saturday, 01 February 2014
A Cricketing Passage to India: Watching and playing the national sport
Written by Robert Davies
“Woooosshhhh” goes the sound of the red painted tennis ball as it flies past my head. The laughter from the boys standing nearby, when I swing my arms round and try to hit the ball that has already passed me, is thunderous. Welcome to Indian cricket. Street style. I had come to India to watch England play two Test matches and then, in an effort to gain an understanding of the country, to see a few of its sights. Street cricket wasn't on the agenda. But the sights, though beautiful, had left me empty and the freneticism of Indian life bewildered me. I needed to connect with India in another way, and found cricket was the answer. You can forget the Taj Mahal anyway, if you are a fan of cricket. The sight you want to see is Eden Gardens, Kolkata; cricket’s answer to that great palace. I was there…
“I’ll have a diet coke.” “One American Bourgogne” replied the waiter cheekily. I was completely mortified. So it was true, they really do hate Americans in Paris. Ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration. I was sixteen at the time (a year ago) and absolutely, utterly conscious of the fact that I was clumsy American in the most immaculate, intellectual, and stylish city on Earth. I thought I was well ahead of the game in my black dresses and minimalist accessories. As usual, I was wrong. France, in general, was defined by a cool effortlessness, and the fact that I had my hair, makeup, and clothes perfectly matched became my flashing neon sign – one that shouted “HI! I’M NOT FROM HERE.” Don’t believe me? My very first day in the city of lights brought me to a Starbucks (expert tip: embrace the local French coffee shops instead) and I approached the…
It was the first day of July. It was the day I arrived in an old city in the southeastern region of Turkey. Everyone had warned me back in Istanbul about it. Don’t go in the summer especially in July and August they would tell me. The city was called Batman. I defied all those who told me no. I was in Batman and I wouldn’t and couldn’t admit it. But, yes, that morning I set foot in the city, the weather was extreme. It was worse than any heat wave I had experienced. That morning, it hit 108 degrees fahrenheit. I arrived at the hotel at 6 a.m. from Istanbul, just a mere 2-hour flight. After showering and sleeping for a few hours, I descended for my first and main destination, HASANKEYF. The town name itself was luminous and mysterious sounding. Though I was not an archaeology expert, I…
It was the event that would solidify my love for solo travel. It was also the most intense moment of my entire life. Before my travels began to Peru I was faced with a painful breakup, and the fact that the trip we had planned together would be faced alone. I decided that it was best to still go off on my travels, and it was the best decision that I have ever made. I had been warned by all of my friends and family to be very careful, especially as a young North American girl traveling alone, and there was one day when I was neglectful, leaving my iPod out in my empty dorm room while I went sandboarding. A taxi driver had wandered into my hostel and up into my room, and had taken my iPod. While I was frantically searching for it, this man re-entered my room…
There is no simple way to describe visiting Fiji. From the outside it appears a rather “safe” place to visit; English is one of the official languages and even the currency has the comforting presence of the Queen. But hearing locals talking amongst themselves in Fijian, the beautiful scenery and the friendliness of the people: you realize quickly that you have arrived somewhere very special. A traveler to this beautiful country steps off the plane and upon feeling the tropical heat while walking from the plane to the terminal immediately feels like they are following in the footsteps of the great explorers, charting untamed lands and undiscovered places. The greeting of a band of Fijians playing instruments and singing welcoming songs to visitors might seem a bit contrived. However it soon becomes clear that it is this friendliness you see throughout the islands. Fiji would definitely be a great place…
I’ve taken many memorable vacations over the course of my lifetime. Each vacation I’ve taken has left me with fond memories, new friends, and a new outlook on my surroundings. One recent vacation, in particular, left me with more than I could ever imagine from a simple week-long trip. I didn’t have to travel very far to this destination; in fact, I technically didn’t even have to leave the continent. A short bus ride to the airport and a 4-hour flight was all I needed to get to one of the most unique, diverse places in this hemisphere. My reasons for going to Cuba were very clear; Beautiful beaches, unique culture, low crime rate and, of course, the city of Havana. I also wanted to experience a place that hadn’t been “Americanized” like a lot of the other Caribbean Islands. Since I was traveling alone, I erred…
Imagine that a warm evening on Miyako-jima, a small island in the Japanese archipelago of Okinawa, is coming to a close. You have twenty five kilometers to go until Boraga beach, where you plan to set up camp for the night. The road is isolated, unmarked by electric lamp posts, and the red-orange glow of the sun is fading fast. Hills rise up before you, each one steeper than the last. You start panting for breath, legs getting heavy. You have only a few minutes to make it to the beach before darkness falls. Finally you hear the crashing of waves and roll in to a stop, relieved. But as you set up a tent in the last dim rays of the sun, you realize that all the shops on the beach (meaning, the one restaurant and one souvenir shop) are closed, and you have nothing to eat. Luckily, you…
"There is not a lot to do in Yachats, Oregon, but that is what makes this seaside hamlet such a great destination." - travelguideofamerica.comPerfect, I thought. This was what I needed. After ending a six year relationship only three short months ago, I yearned to go somewhere to heal my broken heart and rejuvenate my spirit. The remote coastal town of Yachats, Oregon (pop. 749) sounded perfect. I flew into Portland, taking an early flight from Denver, and rented a car. There are a couple of different routes to the coast. I had chosen a route through the wine country, taking I-5S to OR-99W then to OR-18 W/OR-223 S/SE before heading south on US-101, the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). Although a bit longer time-wise, the picturesque views made it well worth it. There was something about the symmetry of the vineyards that calmed me; the rolling hills of the fertile land…
Friday, 03 February 2012
Containers in the Atlantic: Being a Passenger on a Container Ship
Written by Rebecca Ann Hall
“You’re going WHERE?” inquired friends. It wasn’t so much my destination(s) that fascinated them: Guadeloupe, Martinique, Colombia and Costa Rica – rather the fact I had chosen to get there by ship, and not a cruise ship. I was going to be a passenger on board a Del Monte ‘banana boat.’ In short, I was going to experience life on the high seas on a container carrier. “But why?” asked my father. “The journey’s all part of the fun…besides, you should understand, being an ex man of the sea” I replied. Having been nurtured since birth on stories of the great high seas and countries afar, my wanderlust for all things original had certainly been, in part, from his gene pool. I boarded the Hornlinie German ship in Le Havre, France. Registered in Liberia, she was an impressive sight – the bridge (where we all slept, ate and wiled…
After studying in Sydney, Australia and contracting a permanent case of the travel bug, it became my life’s goal to backpack Europe the summer after college. I can remember friends excitedly promising that they, too, would love to accompany me on a backpacking tour of Europe after we were done with school. However, as the Eurotrip approached, it became clear: this was something I would have to do alone. Friends who had been previously gung-ho about making the journey began coming up with excuses: I don’t have the money, I need to search for a job, my parents aren’t comfortable with the idea of the trip, my significant other isn’t supportive. With about six months to go before I would be leaving for the continent, I was down to two travel buddies, neither of whom had laid out any cash yet. And, when it got down to the month…
Crammed on a wooden bench, slightly damp and smelling of salt, I sit among fifty-odd strangers, shoulders touching, as our boat the Reef Quest charges out to sea. The air is thick, the kind of choking tropical atmosphere that I imagine one could swim through. Every molecule of my sun-burned body is consumed by anxiety. With each slap of the catamaran against the ocean’s choppy surface I am transported closer and closer to the Great Barrier Reef. In less than ninety minutes I’m going to become a scuba diver—and I don’t know how I feel about that. Let me be clear. I never wanted to be a diver. In my thirty-one years of existence I’ve aspired to become all kinds of things: skateboarder, snowboarder, surfer, and wakeboarder. But diver? That never entered my mind. Not until I found myself stuck in between Sydney and the Gold Coast of Australia with…
When traveling alone, it’s often helpful to have a secret mission. It keeps up the morale and gives you a pathway into your surroundings. In a foreign land, a secret mission is especially useful, helping you to look like you belong there—you’ve come for a reason, and you know what you’re doing.My goal was to find out how those cows got up onto that mountaintop.Seeing cows might not be high on most travelers’ priority list when they come to Bali. With an island full of colorful ceremonies, ornate temples, and surfers’ havens, livestock doesn’t command much notice. But, when I arrived in the town of Candidasa (“Chan-dee-dasa”) to find it a bit too touristy for my tastes, I looked up to see a group of local bovines and felt they just might have the answer.They stood high on a rounded precipice overlooking the village, which overlooked the sea. The hill…
I step out of my rental car. Into the hot sun. I pick my way through some prickly pear cactus to stand next to a barbed wire fence strung together with gnarled mesquite “posts.” A giant vulture perches on the other side of the road. It stares at me with its red face and featherless neck. The slight breeze carries a hint of something scorched. The utter silence and isolation of the place is heightened by the distant calls of some bird. I pour some water from my bottle in the palm of my hand and splash it over my face and stare out across the rock-strewn and sun-bleached landscape that southwardly grades to the fringes of a distant mountain range.And that is when it comes to me. I am actually here, in “the West”, amidst a rocky terrain of prickly pear, spiky lechuguilla, creosote bushes, yucca plants and thorny…
Hay-on-Wye is a small Welsh market-town that straddles the Welsh- Anglo border and sits huddled within the Brecon Beacons National Park. It is nothing out of the ordinary, except that it’s positively groaning with the weight of its many thousands of second-hand, specialist and collectors’ books. This is a town literally packed with words, and come June every year, the bibliophiles arrive in their droves for the annual Literary Festival, booking up the quaint B&Bs and draining the tearooms of Earl Grey as they pore over the multitude of bookshops and gather to hear the greatest literary minds of the year speak. However, I went to Hay-on-Wye in mid- September, and not during the festival. The crowds were gone. The campsites were empty. And the books that are left still sit, waiting to be browsed by men with beards and backpacks and women in dusty velvet skirts; they are crammed…
A personal account of growth through travel As a species, we define ourselves by moments and stretches of time. My time in High School, the time I lived in Toronto, my time in University. And today: The time I was truly on my own. I sit in the small bus depot in Reykjavik, writing in my journal as a girl walks by. I don’t look at her eyes or legs or any other cliché bits that single, slightly desperate guys are known to watch for. What really stands out is the sound of her heels as she walks to the café and back. Clop, clop, clop. I stop writing and just listen – until it fades. I catch the bus and after a few hours it turns into a narrow canyon that opens up all around us. There are a few small buildings, a large camping ground and a raging…
I wait for the bulls to run towards me, glancing at my watch. It’s five minutes before eight a.m.; all the maniacs focus their attention toward the gate of the corral ahead of us. My heart beats so fast, the thumping that rumbles through my body resemble hip-hop bass and punk drums. I can’t believe I am standing here in the front line of a sea of runners in the Encierro in Pamplona, Spain. Around me, some faces hold looks of excitement, while others appear frightened. I can’t help but wonder; are we in this together or is it everyone for themselves? I imagine it would be even crazier if I could somehow get a close-up photo of one of the bulls. Is that even possible?
Monday, 03 May 2010
Cartagena, Colombia: Buses in South America, To Look or not to Look?
Written by Brendan van Son
I stepped off of my plane into the humid Caribbean air confronted by a familiar regret regarding the next leg of my journey: another Latin American bus! In South America, it seems like on every single bus journey you’re putting your life into the hands of stock car racers who haven’t been told that they’re now driving a bus. On the steep-edged, sharp mountain curves, one often hears the questionable rumble of the pressure to the driver’s gas pedal — the result of which would test even an astronaut’s G-force tolerance levels. Bags on the ground and objects in the overheads are often launched across the bus in the seemingly gravity-free environment. The locals, who are quite used to the situation, carelessly continue reading the latest futbol news or bouncing their unbuckled kids on their laps. Speed limits seem like more of a recommendation, as drivers appear to have no…
‘Hi! Hello! Where are you from?’ I stepped off the little boat knee-deep into the azure waters. A few meters away, children from the island yelled out to me. I waved to them as they dodged one another on the sand, waiting for me to step onto the beach. Apo Island is tiny.
Friday, 22 January 2010
Wings, Wheels and Waves: An Exploration of Costa Rica's South
Written by Stephanie Hartka
The flaps go down, the wheels descend out of the body of the aircraft and suddenly the tiny plane shudders to a halt. The light is golden and I am surrounded by palm trees as far as the eye can see. “Welcome to Quepos Manuel Antonio!” exclaims the handsome young pilot over his shoulder. It’s the first leg of my five-day excursion into Costa Rica’s southern and less-explored villages and jungles; a vagabond’s dream come true. I arrive in Quepos Manuel Antonio not as a tourist, but as a chronic itinerant. I’ve come to look at this place as bit of an obsession; it is as if some vortex constantly pulls me back.
When Hurricane Katrina visited southeast Louisiana on August 29, 2005, it didn’t knock first. The wolf-wild winds huffed and puffed and destroyed more than 350,000 homes. Almost 2,000 people lost their lives in the hurricane and the subsequent floods. The city itself didn’t escape. Unlike the immovable house of bricks in the fairy tale, New Orleans’ metropolitan area was battered and then lost under fifteen feet of water, resulting in over 200,000 homes and apartments being damaged beyond repair.
Tuesday, 01 September 2009
The Ultimate Adventure: Skydiving, Riverboarding, and Rafting
Written by Lesley Boutilier
What do you get when you combine the extreme adventure sports of whitewater rafting, riverboarding, and skydiving? It’s called the ultimate adrenaline rush and Millinocket, Maine is the only place in North America where you can do it all in the same weekend. Gone are the days of relaxing on a river, taking in the scenery from a comfy airplane seat, or paddling quietly in a canoe. New trends in travel include extreme adventure sports and pushing the limits. At the base of Mount Katahdin, Maine’s highest peak, I found Penobscot Adventures, Three Rivers Jump and Raft, and the experience of a lifetime! Rafting the Class V Penobscot River, riverboarding the whitewater rapids, and skydiving from 11,000 feet was the most insane, adrenaline-filled weekend of my life!
One week after the start of summer, the sun sets late in the coastal town of Pyonsan, on South Korea’s Southwestern coast. It’s around eight o’clock and the sun, a golden orb, is shining through the clouds near the horizon.
I had been traveling alone through South America for three weeks when I awoke the morning of my 20-hour bus ride from San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, to Salta, Argentina, with a throbbing headache and transported myself to the bus stop more slowly than my brain deciphers long division.
As the bus neared Vukovar, a city known as the biggest river port in eastern Croatia, there was no getting around the fact that something bad had happened there. The giant tank parked on a nearby field leading the way into town was my first clue.
Walking through the relaxed streets of Viñales, on my way to the Cubanacán travel office to rent a bike, a Cuban rides up flashing me his yellow bike and asks, “You want to rent my bike? Best bike in all of Cuba. Try it out if you don’t believe me.”
There I was, flipping through a guide book in my hostel bunk, while crunching noisily on vitamin C drops and sniffing back the head cold that I had picked up somewhere in the rainy streets of Auckland. It was day three of my solo adventure to the North Island of New Zealand. With limited time, I decided to explore the Bay of Islands at the utmost tip of the land, rich with native Maori history, geographically blessed with one hundred forty-four islands, and some of the best sport-fishing in the world. I was dripping with anticipation—and as sick as a dog.
Sunday, 28 September 2008
Santa Barbara: A Bike Ride through the American Riviera
Written by Brent Bakeman
I left Esau’s on State Street after a satisfying meal of chicken fried steak and eggs, and walked outside for a breath of fresh air and a look around. It was a beautiful Santa Barbara day -- 73 degrees and not a cloud in the sky. People walked up and down the busy street in shorts and t-shirts busying themselves with some shopping and enjoying the day. .The large college population and world-class shopping in Santa Barbara bring money up from bigger California cities like Los Angeles and San Diego. Downstate past the 101 Highway, pristine beaches lay ahead where sunbathers, surfers and bike-riders gather to be near the ocean breeze – the perfect place for people-watching.
I wandered back along Placencia’s crumbled main street, and found the Pickled Parrot, a palm-thatched bar and grill where Christina’s boyfriend Greg worked as a bartender. I pulled up a stool at the bar and glanced around at the liquor selection; needless to say, their rum options were numerous. Greg must have been in his early fifties, with long, flowing gray hair, a neatly trimmed beard and crystal-blue eyes. He reminded me of a deadhead scientist, equipped with wire-rimmed spectacles that clung to the abrupt angle of his long nose. With a grunt and a nod he acknowledged me as he finished mixing a pink cocktail for another patron.
This was my first trip to Central America. I had arrived with intentions of writing a fly-fishing and kayaking story on Glovers Reef with friend and fellow photographer Paul Kerrison, who had made arrangements with a local adventure company for the expedition. Hungry for some Caribbean sun and relaxation, I flew down a week before Paul's planned arrival. Another friend of mine, Jim Mercure, owned a small plot of beachfront property in Placencia (said to mean “peaceful point”), a village in southern Belize. He welcomed me to stay there but warned of unsure conditions. An unwanted guest had arrived in October 2001, by the name of Iris. Iris began as a tropical storm way out in the Caribbean Sea, but just before making landfall it quickly gathered strength and grew into a monster category four hurricane, with its sights set on Placencia. I wasn’t sure how the storm’s aftermath would…
The elves freeze as the shuttle chugs past their invisible homes in the volcanic rock on either side of the two-lane road. I squint hard. I may have spotted one. Or, it may have been a trick of the shadows - not an elf at all but a dwarf, gnome, troll, or skrimsli. I am not in Middle Earth, but what inspired it: Iceland. The land of sagas and Vikings. It is an astonishing landscape of volcanoes, geysers, waterfalls, and fjords. J.R.R. Tolkien hired Icelandic nannies to tell his children tales in a language unchanged for hundreds of years. I am here on a covert mission to be similarly inspired, and to find an elf or two.
"This bus is going to fall," I stated and asked concurrently in my Swahili 101. The buddah-bodied, sarong wrapped woman to my right laughed at my big worried eyes. "No, young sista," her electric white teeth glowed through me. "Hamna tabu."
When people heard I planned to travel to Europe by myself at the age of just barely eighteen I received concerned, confused and condescending remarks from just about everyone. They looked at me like I was crazy, and then to my mother like she was equally crazy for allowing me to do it. It was as if they didn’t believe I’d be able to handle it- the unfamiliar atmosphere, responsibilities, independence. I didn’t let it phase me, however; the closer I got to my date of departure, the more confident I felt about going.
Night falls over Guanajuato muting its vibrant stucco homes and coaxing a soft, warm wind through the narrow streets. Rooftop dogs begin the twilight bark-and-howl, catching up on the day’s gossip. Church bells ring out, and the sudden twinkle of yellow streetlights illuminates the town nestled into the valley below me.
Wednesday, 22 August 2007
The Vikos Aoos National Park: Greece's Wild and Beautiful Backcountry
Written by Michael Heins
Arriving after a long ferry ride from the island of Naxos, I dashed through Athens, and hopped on the intercity train that heads north toward some of the greatest natural wonders found in this mythic land.
Friday, 08 June 2007
When Globetrotting Solo, Know Your Roddick from Your Ronaldinho
Written by Erika A. Strauss
Click, swat, whoosh, smack . Repeat. Clap, Clap, Clap, Clap, Clap. "No!" Silence. Two heads acknowledged my entrance with a finger- to- lip, then returned to the glowing box above my Zambian hostel's bar. I dared only mime for a drink. Like a blind man, the bartender's hands fumbled with my request, his eyes transfixed to the screen.
While traveling through southern Andalucia, on the road from Sevilla, the region's capital, to the village of Casariche (about 130 kilometers away), I was reminded of earlier rural travelers I had heard about, who had never reached their destinations. They were victims of Bandoleros: armed men who would rob those passing through the southern mountain range of Sierra Morenain the 18th and 19th centuries.
Sunday, 25 February 2007
Rocks And Roadkill: Thoughts on Road Tripping in New Zealand
Written by Karen Elowitt
Guidebooks and advertisements perpetuate an image of New Zealand as a pristine, unspoiled territory, almost sterile in its purity – which on the whole it is. Soaring peaks rise above shimmering crystal-clear fjords, icy glaciers cut through craggy mountain passes, and picturesque herds of fluffy sheep lazily wander across the endless green rolling hills.
Thursday, 21 December 2006
Aftermath of Katrina: Still Standing Amidst a Land of Ruin
Written by Denny Kinlaw
In Buras, Louisiana, there are very few distractions. Electricity has been out for over a year with the exception of an occasional generator covered in mud and the only business open in a ten-mile radius is a gas station with a spray painted plywood sign that reads, “now open.” At night the locals gather there and drink $2 beers wrapped in plastic bags that the clerk sells from the back door.
In early 2005 I decided that I wanted to return to Spain to live permanently. I had been stationed there during a stint in the military some years before. At the time I was working as an English teacher in Mexico. I love to cycle so I decided to do a little cycle touring before I settled down in Spain. Once I made the decision, I started to plan. I polished up my old mountain bike, tuned it, spent a lot of time buying panniers and equipment, and began to train.
At the end of a long relationship, I responded in my usual manner by planning a Great Escape. I hastily purchased a single airline ticket from a dubious internet site that guaranteed that, if I was willing to get myself to the airport for a 3 a.m. departure, I would reach distant, exotic Key West with only two insignificant stops in Dallas and Minneapolis.
I’ve been to England twice before, to the beautiful Georgian city of Bath in particular, because as a Jane Austen aficionado, a “Jane-ite,” if you will, that’s what we do. We follow in her footsteps, we look for the Jane connection, and we read each of her six novels (and the juvenilia, the marginalia, and the letters) as if they were travelogues.
Listening to the wind whisper through the Missouri Breaks about 20 miles down stream from the ghost town of Virgelle, Montana, the words of Don Quixote flashed across my mind:
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