Travel and Verse

stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Page 5 of 26

The Only Way to Travel

October 28, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 109

I love all forms of travel. My favorite means of, “getting there,” of course, is by train. The whistle, that click-clack of the track, zero jet-lag, and a slow sway of wheel-on-iron gives this nerd goose-bumps. There’s something majestic and patient about going by rail. My favorite children’s program on PBS was Shining Time Station, the first TV show featuring Thomas the Tank Engine. I can still sing the entire theme song. And I thought Ringo Starr was only famous for being cast as the conductor, not as one of the four Beetles. I digress heavily, but you get the idea: I love trains.

But hark! A vehicle of another breed oozes far and away more majesty and require loads more patience than the locomotive. The train looks like futuristic teleportation by comparison.

I give you the Hot Air Balloon.

My wife and I recently took her parents to a hot air balloon festival in central Iowa. By general rule as a proud Minnesotan, I spend very little (if any) time in Iowa. But to ride a hot air balloon, one must go where the hot air balloons are. And I must confess, Iowa’s grand, open, farmland spaces offer perfect take-off and landing opportunities for ballooning.

The National Balloon Classic takes place each summer in the small city of Indianola, IA. I had never heard of Indianola. But let me tell you, ballooning is important there. And it should be. The festival there hosts balloon pilots from all over the US. Thousands of people come from all around to participate and watch hundreds of colorful balloons.

The festival runs only from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m during that week. Evening is the calmest time of day here. Ballooning is highly weather dependent. Two days of flying had been cancelled due to “windy” conditions. And by windy, I mean windspeeds higher than 8 mph. But this night looked just right. We parked our car, grabbed our lawn chairs, and found a spot overlooking the take-off area. I can’t call it a landing zone, since a whopping 0% of balloons ever land in the same spot from which they take-off. We met with our pilot and crew for a briefing.

The flight was a go. The weather checked out. And the plan was simple. The crew would first fill the balloon with “cold” air from a powerful fan. This would inflate the balloon, but not give it lift. Once it filled, the pilot would use the flamethrower-like device mounted to the basket to heat the air, giving the balloon lift. And in a moment’s notice, we were hurriedly shuffled into the wicker basket before the balloon got too far off the ground.

A quick word about the basket. Think of the not-so-groovy 80’s or 90’s wicker furniture that your parents or grandparents had/have. We all know what I’m talking about: that barely comfortable three seasons chair with the removable cushions, rounded corners, and flaking white paint. This is exactly the type of basket that hung from the enormous balloon.

I don’t know how long hot air balloons have been around, but let’s just say that technology has changed very little since then.

We lifted from the ground and slowly rose into the sky. Utter silence broke only for the occasional flamethrower blasts above our heads. And in no time, we rose the around 3,000 feet above the Iowa farmland. For an hour, we floated along. I would say that we flew, but that’s not accurate. Come to find out, hot air balloons have almost no directional control whatsoever. The pilot can control the altitude with heat. And he can rotate the balloon by pulling on a release cord, letting out air from the side of the balloon. But steering? Nope. A crew for five or six followed us in a van with a trailer, remaining in radio contact the entire time. And eventually they directed us to set down in a space between cornfields. Surprisingly, we came to a nice and soft landing in that exact spot. Each crew member then grabbed the side of the basket, the pilot gave the balloon a teensy bit of heat, and it lifted slightly from the ground allowing them to move the balloon to the road. And in a jiffy the balloon was deflated, folded, and on the trailer with the basket.

The sun was setting and our delightful balloon ride was over. It felt like a long journey. So I pulled up Google maps to see how long it would take us to get back to the festival. We had traveled a mind-boggling distance of four miles.

There are certainly faster ways to travel. But are there better ways to travel?

anthony forrest

Fading Colors of Sunrise

September 27, 2021 / / 0 Comments

A golden Sun met me smiling today.

It bled through the clouds and trees,

leaving its color on the inland sea

ahead of me.

I saw it as I walked, then ran.

So I crossed the road for a better view,

and found that the colors grew

pale, then dull—and, finally, a silent

blue.

Now the brushed-steel sky matches the cold sea.

 

anthony forrest

Malaysia and Islamic Bathroom Etiquette

September 16, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Foreign Bathroom Series, Chapter 7

Travel Journal, 108

Our plan was simple: take the bus across the country from Penang to Terengganu. A friend of ours lived there and had a plan to take us on an excursion into the jungle. My good friend, Matthew, and I were to meet him the next day. But between now and then, we had to get across the peninsular country. Flights were too expensive. We settled on a bus ticket, specifically, we settled on taking the bus at night.

If “night bus in Malaysia” makes you a tad nervous, it should. But I’ve traveled on my share of sketchy busses. Honestly, the biggest problem with a night bus is sleep, especially when you have major plans the next day. But I had a solution, we would simply take a handful of the equally sketchy sleeping pills I got in Japan a few days ago, and sleep the entire 5-hour trip. We did not sleep as well as we expected, but at least we felt groggy and dazed—so there’s that.

I could tell you about the bathroom on the bus, but I would have to completely fabricate that tale, as the bus had no bathroom. The driver stopped one time to pick up a couple of passengers. We used the “public restroom” at some wayside oasis that could have been a perfect spot for a murder in a foreign horror film. But then we were back on the bus, cruising toward Terengganu.

The light barely painted the horizon when the bus pulled into our station, which, as I remember it, we almost missed (Matthew, you’ll have to clarify that for me when I see you next). I had never been to Terengganu. It’s a gem almost directly across the peninsula from Penang. And I was thrilled to go there.

This simple plan of “take the night bus” didn’t really account for the several hours of waiting we would have to do when we got here. The friend we were meeting wasn’t even around until early afternoon. I love so much about Malaysia, most of it food oriented. Noodles, rice, chicken, soups, you name it, they’ve got it. But the stands and shops have to open before they can feed me. Nothing would open for hours.

When it’s nearly 5 a.m. in a foreign country after taking the probably-very-dangerous-night-bus and you haven’t slept properly and you’re tired and don’t have anywhere to go because nothing opens for another four hours…

(author takes a breath)

…whatever do you do?

Why, go sleep on the beach with you’re backpack like a homeless person, of course. I spread my hammock on the sand and rested as the sun rose on us weary travelers. But one problem remained—where to use the…facilities.

I walked across a nearby park after the sun had risen and day began. There it stood: an actual public bathroom. Few times in your life do you really need bathroom instructions, but I would recommend getting a briefing on public toileting in Terengganu, Malaysia.

Why? You ask.

More so than Penang, Terengganu is primarily Muslim. And yes, it does matter. Islamic bathroom habits are not unusual, dirty, or wrong. They are simply different from Western culture, and even deeply seated in their religion. (And there is so much more to Islamic etiquette than what is written here. I can only report on my own experiences.)

The small cement building had two entrances, men and women, clearly. I climbed the one step up into the little entry and was immediately accosted by an attendant in a robe, turban, and sandaled feet. He pointed at my shod feet and I got the picture. I removed my running shoes at once. And while I was down there, I saw dozens of what I now understood to be “bathroom sandals.” I slipped into a pair and paid my bathroom admission. (I have no idea how much, but to an American, anything is too much.)

The hallway was lined with curtained doorways, and the cement floor was soaked. I hoped it was water. I knew (mostly) what to expect. I turned into an open doorway and pulled the curtain behind me.

A hole.

It was a raised hole, but a hole, nonetheless. And next to the door was a small bucket, for…er…flushing. But the most disturbing part of the room what not what was in there, but what wasn’t in there.

No toilet paper.

Instead, next to the hole, a hose, like a kitchen sink sprayer jutted out of the wall and hung on a tiny hook. I don’t know about you, but my middle-class American, 80’s/90’s childhood did not prepare me for hosing down my backside with a sink sprayer, like I’m some kind of casserole pan somebody forgot to soak first.

I did my deed and will leave it at that. Feel free to let your imagination run wild.

I flung open the curtain just in time to watch another man open his. The man filled up his bucket halfway with water and doused the little cubicle. And before he left his toilet-closet, he threw a bucket of water down the hallway. And walking on his purified floor, he changed his shoes and left the public facility.

So, as a newly educated traveler, I followed suit—cleaning my toilet room, then throwing water down the hall. I changed my shoes and stood outside of the cement building, pausing to listen. I could hear the Muslim call to prayer.

anthony forrest

Check out the other chapters to this fun series:

Part 1: Bidet

Part 2: The Lav

Part 3: Floor Towel

Part 4: 20p Toilet

Part 5: Dutch Hostel

Part 6: Hover Hole and the Hoop of Hope

Sleep and the Stations of the Cross

September 6, 2021 / / 0 Comments

There are nights when fitful sleep comes with frightful,

uneasy grins,

“mums the word,” he whispers—hand over my mouth—then artful dreams

he spins.

Images and situations

flash in a dash

—like the Cross Stations—

(in broken cathedrals unused,

unworshipped in:

an unspoken confession)

spoken in the tired mind of one tossing,

turning.

 

Then there are mornings, ah, mornings!

When sleep ends his reign, no matter the night,

or the frights

of the nights.

Sunlight rays pierce

all clouds dark and fierce,

even on overcast days.

Images, situations,

terrifying Cross Stations

still weave tales of

life

then death

then life again.

Evil cannot mix or spin

the goodness out of that story—

hope of day—a ray—during darkest night.

 

anthony forrest

Iceland: on Stykkishólmur and the men from God

August 12, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 107

I sat in the second row of our Citroën C4 van/car/shoebox as we bumbled down the pothole infested highway in southern Iceland. Shockingly enough, the strange little van-like, seven passenger car-thing held the six of us nicely, save for the crumpled last passenger in the back. Leave it up to Europe to come us with a vehicle that’s bigger on the inside than on the outside. Those tiny roads are the mother of invention.

We drove the southern coast of Iceland on the first day of our trip. The drive was lovely. Iceland displays sheep pasture and grazing lands, interspersed with jutting mountains, glaciers, and tiny towns—all of which rests along the coastline. Most Icelanders live near the coast, with fewer than 1,000 people living over 600 feet above sea level. And for the most part, the asphalt road was well maintained and smooth as glass.

But today was another story. We got a wild idea to drive across the island, to the north and west. With local bakery and local coffee under our belt, Jeramie jumped into the driver’s seat and we began our short journey.

We had driven along the southern coast a couple of days ago and thought we had an idea as to what we were doing. Easy driving ahead, we assumed. Our tiny French car tootled along nicely with Jeramie at the wheel. But the roads turned curvy and curvier. Narrow lanes grew narrower. Potholes sunk pothole-ier. And the wild land grew wilder. The southern part of Iceland is quite popular, with its interesting sites (like a 1970’s DC-3 Airplane crashed on a desolate black sand beach), and it’s fantasy-TV-esque waterfalls (Skógafoss waterfall was featured in both the TV show Vikings and Marvel’s Thor: The Dark World). But many other parts of Iceland receive much less attention.

This part of the road led us through a quiet land with fewer and fewer farms and tiny towns. I don’t want to say that it is a barren and desolated emptiness void of all life and color…but I might have to. The winding and bumpy road shook us into a batter of ready-to-be-poured human pancake mix. We all wanted a massage (I know a guy in Malaysia if you’re interested).

Up ahead, in the distance—what is that?

A mirage?

The end of the Earth? Shall we fall off its edge and perish?

No, a tiny café sat on a corner and beckoned us inside. We shook off the aches, eagerly removed the accumulated liquid waste from our bodies, procured another coffee, and crammed ourselves once more into the audaciously and inexplicable strong Citroën C4.

We drove on for quite some time again, before we arrived at the quaint and silent Stykkishólmur, poised on the edge the cold North Atlantic Ocean.

I often hear of the “middle of nowhere” or out of the way places. But rarely do I find them. Don’t get me wrong, tourists do come here…just not that often. Most of the people here make their money working on the fishing boats and nearby processing. A ferry also takes tourists from here to the Westfjords area each night. But just like everywhere else, they have a school, a grocery store, and restaurants. Just like the rest of Iceland, local artisans were at work in the shops, turning pieces of nothing into beauty. A little lighthouse sits at the tip of the tallest hill near the town, where the wind fights hard to keep it barren of plants and hikers. The views stun the viewer. Icy North Atlantic water never rests—a calm day doesn’t exist here. And today, the weather threatens, so the water crashes even colder and rougher. The delightful Stykkishólmur gave me everything I wanted in an idyllic fishing village. We even had fish and chips at a local eatery (you cannot beat the cod).  It made getting there worth it.

The trip back felt as dismal as before. But now it was raining. Each of us were now truly feeling the effects of not only travel and jet lag, but the pummeling we endured on the way out here. All but Jeramie, our unfazed driver, dozed into a trance.

I felt the car slowing rapidly. Jeramie was saying something about it raining and a man outside. I opened my eyes and found that he had turned the car around. He parked the car on the opposite side of the road and got out of the vehicle, into the pouring rain and 45-degree weather.

He had stopped to help an older man change a tire. There was no service station in site and we were at least another hour to Reykjavik. Jeramie was out there in a t-shirt. His wife was gathering his jacket from the backseat. So I threw on my jacket, grabbed his, and out the door I followed.

Turns out, the gentleman was at a loss. He was no more capable of changing the tire himself. Jeramie had the edge of the vehicle off the ground by the time I got there, and we finished the job together. The gentleman spoke little English.

All he could manage to say was in his very broken accent, “You, thank you. You…men from God.”

Our trip back turned out to be an important one—more important than a simple site-seeing excursion. But an opportunity to help an older man and actually be the hands of God. I’d have missed it in my daze. But Jeramie kept a sharp eye. Solid work, brother!

 

anthony forrest

more on Iceland:

Iceland: on Covid testing and travel in a post-pandemic world

Iceland: on hot springs

Iceland: on the people and culture

World War II and the Power of Story

August 5, 2021 / / 2 Comments
My Great-Grandpa Donald Butler

Travel Journal, 106

Nobody talks about the second day. We hear mostly about the first day. Sure, June 6th of 1944 deserves attention. The initial landing at Normandy beach in France, that immovable D-Day (codename Operation Overlord), stands in the minds of Americans like a WWII monument.

But what about the second day? What happened on June 7th?

Wave after wave of allied military transport continues to land on the now crowded beach. And not the kind of crowd you’d typically see at the beach. Though some of the bodies had been moved to designated areas, innumerable still lay about the war-stage. Though the sun shines through spotty clouds, a greyness hangs in the air. It looks like a storm is building. Spools of concertina razor-wire jingle as the sea pushes it up the sand, and then back down the sand. It’s not going anywhere. The wire doesn’t float. It just makes a clinking noise and catches Army-green jackets. But nobody can hear the noise. The constant, disorienting rhythm of distant, and not so distant gunfire pummels every eardrum for miles.

It’s amazing how the ocean still holds onto the blood and rubbish of battle. Bodies lay everywhere. The flowing and moving water still just keeps it all close to shore. Guns and barricades and broken implements and empty cigarette packs lie around like a haunting yard sale. The seagulls, apathetic to human plight, seem to be enjoying themselves.

Hundreds, no thousands, of amphibious vehicles landed yesterday. Now, today, many more keep showing up. A boy who lied about his age jumps out of the back of one of those vehicles, and into the freezing water. He wants to be here. Well, he did want to be here. But that’s changing rapidly. His buddies feel the same way. But now they’re very wet, very cold, and very scared. Bullets fling past them at every angle. They are rushing into a fight that they thought they understood. But who understands war? He thought he understood it until the metal platform of that amphibious vehicle slammed into the sea, and an ugly scene of the real face of war lay before he and his buddies.  A lot of his buddies, and maybe him, will be dead within a few days. Maybe this day. And he knows it. So he holds his rifle close to his chest and pushes up the beach with the other men. Nearby, a commanding officer shouts orders and action-plans. But he can’t hear his CO over the waves and the gunfire and the beat of his own heart. A seagull squawks, fighting another seagull over a bloodied bandage. Unheard razor-wire sloshes in the waves.

How long is this going to last? They’re told the Allies are “winning.” But what does that mean anyway? How can this be what it looks like to win? But deep down, he still wants to be here, in Normandy, France; fighting for the freedom of not just Americans, but for those under oppression. There’s talk that Hitler has prison camps that some call “death camps.” It’s a place for Jews, and Catholic priests, and homosexuals, and political foes, and everyone else that the Third Reich thinks unclean and unworthy of humanity. But those are only stories he hears. Only time will tell the truth. If only this war could end. So he fights his way up the beach further to the next barricade, to the next assignment, and, later, on to the third day of the landing at Normandy beach. They made a lot of headway yesterday. But today, the 7th of June, the second day of the D-Day invasion, the fight continues…

Of course, I wasn’t there. I’m in my mid-thirties, sitting at a kitchen table writing about a topic I can barely broach. D-Day took place 77 years ago. Admittedly, I didn’t even really research anything. I have no idea if that’s what it looked like to be there. I made it all up.

Or did I?

I don’t know about you, but WWII history intrigues me deeply. History in general takes up massive hard drive space in my brain. But what you just read about the second day at Normandy was complete fiction.

Or was it?

Sure, I set the scene and painted a picture. I can make educated guesses as to the nature of waves and seagulls. I wasn’t at Normandy, and I’m certainly no historian. But I have been influenced, just like you and everybody else in this country, by the history taught us and the people who lived it. We are influenced by the living memories of others and the fruits of their labors. However, the fact remains that I simply wasn’t there. We rely then, on those who came before us to teach us through story and memory.

My great-grandpa, Donald Butler, like many other American grandfathers, fought in WWII. In fact, he actually did land at Normandy beach on the second day of the invasion. I don’t know much about his time there. I never asked him about it. That’s one of the many topics I wish I would have asked him about before he died. But I remember him and I remember the history enough to at least think about what it was like. According to my great-grandma Jean and my Grammy (their daughter, my grandma), he was with the second wave at Normandy, and trucked supplies all over the country. I’ve recently been thinking about Great-Grandpa Don and his stories, his contributions to the National Memory that continue to build a post-WWII world. Like the time he almost ran over General Patton. Or the time that he shot all the lights out of the barracks, much to the chagrin of his Sergeant. But most of all, the time he landed at Normandy beach on the second day of Operation Overlord. He and the story of Normandy beach have influenced my thinking and existence to a fundamental level.

I recently thought about Grandpa Don while I walked through the labyrinth that is the National WWII Museum in New Orleans, Louisiana. If you happen to make it to The Big Easy, ease your way pass the French Quarter, pass the cheap booze, and pass the souvenirs. Do yourself, and mankind, a favor. Go to the National WWII Museum. Educate yourself, teach yourself, and remember. Wall after wall of relics, history, uniforms, weapons, and war paraphernalia lay out a story of heartbreaking truth. And guess what? It’s not just their story.

It’s your story. The people who fought during that time, formed this time—the time in which you live right now. It’s all the same story. This is why we study history and are drawn to the true tales of our grandfathers.

One of the exhibits at the National WWII Museum is called Dimensions in Testimony. Men like my Great-Grandpa Don have stories that need telling. The Shoah Foundation sat with several of these men and talked for hundreds of hours, recording their oral history and experiences. Through the use of artificial intelligence, an interactive, programed recording can have a “conversation” with the museum-goer.

The screen in front of me displayed a man sitting on a chair. I pressed the button on the podium microphone and asked a question, “what was it like seeing the prison camps for the first time?” The picture moved and the recorded man began to talk and tell me of liberating the prisoners.

A famous quote says something about being doomed to repeat history if we don’t learn from our past. It’s a tight and nicely packaged saying that strikes a chord with most people. It suggests that we learn from our past to build our future in a better way. But history, such as D-Day, does not influence our future. I can’t change the future—nobody can. It hasn’t happened yet.

History informs us on how to live in the now—in this time. It’s active, alive. Learning WWII history, hearing a story, or see a museum could dislodge an emotion or thought, rewire your brain, and make you live differently.

You may go to a museum. You may see pictures of Dachau or Auschwitz—sunken, sullen people with rags hanging from their bodies stand looking glumly at the camera. You may think to yourself, “that’s a person. They did that to a person.” You may leave the museum and find yourself treating people with a bit more kindness. History changes us in the now.

I may not have been on that beach in Normandy, France on June 7th, 1944, but my great-grandfather was. And maybe yours was too. Their stories and experiences shape how we live. Those who don’t learn from history may or may not be doomed to repeat it. I don’t know. But if you have a chance to go to the National WWII Museum, I can promise you a better understanding of the story in which you live, and maybe even a slightly improved world.

Or better yet here’s an idea, if you can, talk to your great-grandparents. Boy, do they have stories for you.

 

anthony forrest

break the night

July 26, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Should the summer sun break the night

and rise silently in the eastern sky;

bringing hues of reds and golds,

peeking through the trees and folds

of leaves,

then I shall be there

in the morning,

when the birds cry

their morning-warning.

And sitting on the deck

in the New Light

I shall watch the summer sun

break my night.

Hope of day begins.

 

anthony forrest 

Iceland: on the people and culture

July 15, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 105

How can anybody put to paper a place like Iceland?

The Land of Fire and Ice—a mystical place of tradition and beauty, of art and literature.

Iceland’s natural resources are its greatest treasure. And I’m not just talking about the land itself. The tiny island the size of Ohio married the Viking people centuries ago. There’s never been a unification more seamless.

To my knowledge, Iceland is the only country in the world whose people did not displace or conquer another people group in order to live there. The Viking people landed on Iceland’s shores and found it cold and icy in the winter. But summer arrived. And much to their surprise, this icy land grew green and (relatively) lush. Settlement commenced.

And the land was far more than green. Cold, clean water flowed from bubbling springs. Grass fed their livestock. Steaming water from innumerable hot springs gave them heat. Mountains, glaciers, water, ocean, fish, and full summer sun—this land had it all. The only downside is the dark, dark winters (hence all the reading, see below).

Icelandic people strike me as similar to the Japanese. They pursue specific tasks and craft with similar passion, but for different reasons. The Japanese pursue excellence in so much of their lives. Order a coffee or go on a museum tour. The sheer excellence in what they do astounds me. But to them, seeking perfection gives them satisfaction in a job well done. It’s an honorable and accomplishing thing to do something at its highest form.

The Icelandic people also strive for excellence. But they do so for the joy of the thing. They work for the love of old, old traditions. Historic ways must not be lost. A hauntingly beautiful and mystical status quo needs to be upheld. And that’s not a bad thing. Their pursuits lean toward the crafts and arts. Whether metal work or writing, Icelandic art bleeds honest simplicity. You’ve never wanted to own a thick woolen sweater so badly in your life. The hand-dyed yarns come together lovingly. And they’re not just a souvenir—the Icelandic people wear them daily with pride.

They are a people of books and reading books. Reykjavik is a UNESCO City of Literature. I stopped into one of the many bookstores in Reykjavik. More books are published per capita than any other country in the world. According to a 2013 article from the BBC, one in 10 people will publish a book in their lifetime.  And most of them are published during the Christmas season during a time called Jolabokaflod (or, Christmas Book Flood). Booksellers publish huge catalogues. And books are the most popular Christmas present.

Simple traditions, like reading and crafts, persist all over the country. Go for a drive. Look at the buildings, the homes. The first thing you will notice is the lack of variety. Most homes and churches and schools have the same cream-colored walls and red roofs. One of our friends found this odd. So she took it upon herself to find out why this was. She asked grocery store clerks, gas stations attendants, people on the streets; none knew the answer. Until finally one Icelander said that the predominate Christian denomination in the late 1800s was the Lutheran Church of Denmark. The Danish flag being red and white, most houses since then have been built reflect the Church of Denmark.

As always, the written surveys of places and cultures that you find written here, flow fully from my own mind and perspective. And if perspective is anything, it’s subjective—different for everybody. What you see and feel in a foreign place will, in fact, be far different than what I see and feel. And it seems like whenever I write about a place or a people, I find myself never quite capturing the truest nature of the thing. How can but a few words on a page elicit emotions and summon the ghosts of a strange land?

Alas, I try my darndest.

This quick glimpse may give you a basic idea of the Land of Fire and Ice.

But in the end, the best was to know a place is to go there.

 

anthony forrest

 

more on Iceland:

Iceland: on Covid testing and travel in a post-pandemic world

Iceland: on hot springs

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