Off the Beaten Track

One of my trips to Brazil took me to a little town called Joinville in the Santa Catarina region of the country. When I asked the concierge what sights the city offered to enliven a Sunday afternoon, he wrinkled his nose. “Joinville isn’t really a tourist destination,” he said.

Sometimes those are the best tourist destinations of all.

You find yourself acting like a funky-looking local. You wander the mall, eat at a churrascaria, visit the local zoo-park. The concierge has warned you the place doesn’t have many animals, but you find animals that don’t reside in your local zoo. You watch mothers bounce their babies in their arms and you learn the Portuguese word, arara, for a bird that looks like a parrot but maybe is a distant cousin. The mother says this over and over: A-ra-ra, a-ra-ra, a-ra-ra. You learn with the baby. You don’t know the word for the bird in your own language, but now you know it in a foreign language. There’s no translating. Now you speak Portuguese. Disney World has never done that for you.

You follow couples and families and gaggles of teenagers, winding into deep green rain forest, staring up at trees with leaves like fans. You look at the plants growing beside the road and recognize some you have blooming in pots set on your windowsill. Here your potted plants grown to the size of trees. You only know two or three words in Portuguese so you can’t ask where you are or where you’re going. You can’t check how long it will take to get there or what to expect when and if you arrive. You can only live in the moment, be in the moment, experience what is, without expectation.

At the end of the road, cars line the shoulder, umbrella shaded stands sell lemonade, bottled water, and Guarana, the Portuguese version of Mountain Dew. You hand over one of your bills, five reais, and you hope the coins that the woman drops into your hand are the right change because it’s embarrassing to peer at each little coin. You tilt your head, your eyes rolling up toward the sky as you try and count each piece of copper and silver to see if you’ve got the right change back. You take your drink and climb the spiral stairs to the top of the world where you can see rolling carpets of green, rivers spilling into the sea, mountains swirled in mist, the sun slipping between blue sky above and blue water below. Looking straight down makes you dizzy, so you peer at the horizon and know that tomorrow will find you, right where you are, wherever you are.

Into Africa

My first time on the African continent and the sixth of seven continents to touch down upon. One to go (Australia), but in the spirit of staying in the moment…

My favorite memory is of the Men in Black that stood stiff-backed and ominous inside and outside the hotel in Casablanca, the cords of their white earbuds trailing into the pockets of their dress shirts and covered by black suits. (Sorry, no pictures.)

They lent a true sense of adventure to the trip, though Morocco is one of the safer countries for US citizens visiting Africa. They also saved me from being price gouged by the red-taxi drivers, though on return trips to the hotel I benefitted from no such protection.

Visitors to Morocco ought to choose a city other than Casa Blanca if they want a true sense of the country, but I never ventured farther than the mosque, Rick’s Café, and the medina (the old market) just across the street from the hotel.

If you ever visit, be sure to drop by the mosque, but if you want to go inside, check the hours because there are only a few hours on specific days when visitors are allowed inside the mosque. But even from the outside the architecture is stunning and the tower rises above all the other buildings in the city.

Women are expected to pay particular attention to their manner of dress when they reach puberty, but this can be interpreted in many different ways, from a simple head covering to leaving only the hands visible.

Casablanca is a cosmopolitan city situated on the Atlantic Ocean, with lots of sun, good restaurants, an old and a new medina, a modern (possibly the most modern) mosque, and the unforgettable Rick’s Café from the movie named after the city. But my favorite memories continue to be the red taxis and the Men in Black.

Time Travel: Colombia

I’m going to time travel for a few entries because I’ve been a lot of places in the past six months. Today, in fact, is my six-month anniversary of fast-tracking going places I’ve never been before. So I’m going to go back to my second trip, because I didn’t take any pictures or go anywhere particular the first time. The first trip, for the record was to Costa Rica. I hope I get back there someday.

Trip number two was Colombia, where I have now been twice. But the first time I actually saw something besides the airport and the hotel.

This probably isn’t a worthy travel goal, but one of the things that I liked about Colombia, once I got over the State Department Report to US citizens traveling internationally, was how people looked at me when I said I’d been to Colombia.

“You went where?” they said.

“To Colombia,” I said, “the country, not the city in Ohio.” I paused for effect. “It’s a beautiful place.”

“Weren’t you scared?” they said.

“Not really,” I lied. “It’s not like they say,” I added, truthfully this time. I like for people to think that I have more courage than the average person, but I don’t. The people of Colombia are gracious, kind, welcoming, and intelligent.

The most asked question I got in Colombia was, “So…did they tell you we were dangerous?”
Hands clasped behind my back, I looked at my new shoes, and debated whether or not to cross my fingers and lie or to tell the truth. “Yes,” I said finally, deciding on the truth, “they did say it was dangerous. The State Department doesn’t recommend traveling here, but,” I added, “I don’t find it like that at all.”

Maybe I shouldn’t start my description of this country with its biggest detractor, violence, but that is where all conversations on the subject of Colombia begin, so let’s get it out of the way.
It is true that the country ranks high in criminal violence, but the United States is also in the top 25. Nevada topped the list of most dangerous states for 2008, and that doesn’t seem to stop the influx of visitors to the gambling capital of the US. Oddly enough, Iran, Iraq, Israel, and Lebanon don’t even make the list of the top 50. That may be more a function of crime reporting than the actual prevalence of violence. Colombia is also home to one of the most notorious terrorist groups in the Americas, but they have been beaten back into the jungle since President Uribe implemented his program of democratic security. The key to safety in Colombia is common sense.

Bogota is possibly one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. Perhaps I feel that way about it because it has so much in common with Colorado Springs—snuggled up against the mountains, 2000 meters above the sea. But unlike Colorado it’s not a semi-desert. The trees are lush and growing so close together that it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. Flower bloom from cracks in the sidewalks and spring from the foundations of the buildings. It is the sort of place where you could believe that Jack of Jack-and-the-Beanstalk threw a handful of seeds out his window and woke the next morning to find a vine that climbed into the sky and disappeared into the clouds.

The city is home to a wonderful museum dedicated to the fantastical painter Botero, who painted everything fat—women with huge thighs, horses with broad chests and legs as wide as Greek columns. He paints the fear and hatred that swell inside us until it becomes larger than we are, too big for us to contain.

Correction: I previously implied that Botero was from Bogota. He is from Medellin, another city I hope to visit one day. Thank you for the post clarifying that point. I don't know who it was so I cannot give credit where credit is due.)

Then there is the Museo de Oro that intertwines the history of a lost people with the obsessive grip that gold has over the conquerors. The Incas wore gold and paid cash in salt. That in fact is the origin of the word “salary”—sal, salt, salary. The salt of the earth was, for the Incas, salt. For the conquerors it was gold, but the Inca caciques wore gold. They attached it to their heads and ears and noses and hung massive plates of gold from around their necks. They coated their buildings in gold so that as the sun rose over the mountain peaks, their cities shimmered like honey in rising light.

And then, perhaps two hours from the capital city, hidden deep beneath the earth is the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquirá. On a path that takes you three hundred feet below the surface are carved the Stations of the Cross. The journey culminates in a cathedral that is carved from the crystallized salt and can hold 8000 people. The cross behind the altar is a trick of light and imagination. From a distance it appears in 3D, a rounded column that stretches from floor to the immense, high ceiling of the cathedral. Traveling into the mine, I imagine Jesus during his three days of darkness, wandering in the heart of the earth. You can almost feel the weight of the world on your shoulders as you slip deeper and deeper into the mine. It is a place for leaving behind cares and worries, for letting the earth take hold of your fears, and for knowing that all will be well.

Salt and gold mines are not the only wonders of the place. If ever there was a place that deserved the title Emerald City, surely it must be somewhere in Colombia. The country is the source of the most stunning emeralds found anywhere in the world. According to a geologist that I met on the plane coming home, emeralds shouldn’t even be pressed into existence here. They are a wonder among gemstones. Most emerald deposits occur near volcanoes, but there aren’t any volcanoes near the Colombian emerald deposits.

“Why is that?” I said.

“No one knows,” he replied. “It’s a mystery to be solved.”

The whole of Colombia is a mystery. I don’t know if it’s a mystery I wanted solved, but it is a delight to step into the midst of it, to surround myself with the mists rising from the green mountains, to breathe, and to allow myself to be amazed.

Legacy

During the two months that I spent in Antarctica I thought a lot about how our planet is changing.

How we are changing our planet.

How I hope future generations will remember mine...

...and what I want to leave as the memory of my life.

Searching for Bones

We wander across hills of dust searching for bones. The forests are gone, the wood turned to stone. Leaves, as faint as ghosts, glimmer in the rocks. Remnants of seashells crushed into the dirt crackle beneath our boots. Above us blue sky; below us brown earth, and mystery.

What turned a forest into sand and rock?

What stole the last sloth and sealed the last butterfly in amber?

Who am I to a being so ancient that my life lasts no longer than a beat of her heart? When did the child begin to believe she owned the earth? Somewhere between the sun god and the logic of science, I have lost my place. This land that was rock, then forest, then ice, now dust, whispers away my worries.

Her fingers slip past my layers of fleece and wool and wrap themselves around my neck, slide down my back. “My belly is fire,” she says, “and I can hold my breath forever.”

I laugh, and my companions turn to see if I have discovered mammal bones amongst the seashells and shark teeth. I shake my head, and they turn back into the hills. I stick my fingers into her flesh. “Don’t let me change you.” I press my lips to her skin and let my tears fill the holes I made in her. ““I can’t hold my breath that long.”

Who will step on the bones of my children 10 thousand million years from now? Who will wonder where they went, and why?

Now the lady laughs and lifts her wings, disappearing like a butterfly in stone.

I look back on the people I met while traveling the Antarctic regions, and today seems like a good day to reflect on what made them special. Life is so short, and one of the things that stands out about these people is that they aren’t afraid to live.

I mean to say that I admire people who follow their dreams, no matter how impossible they seem. They are people of Reasons Why, not people of Reasons Why Not.

They are connected—to each other, to the earth, to exploring.

They do what they do because they want to, not because they have to.

Here’s to all the dreamers, the believers,

the passionate, the lovers of life.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Melting

Like a fleet of ghost ships sailing north, the ice travels with the wind. I seek comfort in believing these broken bits of ice are children that the glacier has nudged out of her nest. Will I never learn to distinguish a mineral from humanity again?

They rise two and three stories out of the water and dwarf our manmade vessel. How deep they stretch beneath the sea we cannot know, and our ship’s crew gives them wide berth. They are mighty, and ignorant of their power, oblivious to their fate.

Enchanted by wind and current, they press northward. They lift their sails to the sun with the confidence of those who do not know that they are sailing into death. Each caress diminishes their days. How long before they have become so much a part of the seas they travel, that they are invisible to human eyes?

I want to wrap them in my arms and tell them “Stop!”

But they would only laugh at me, because I cannot grasp that I too am melting.