Mary Clark, Traveler

Hike to Tigers Nest Monastery is Spiritual Effort

 

What the Eiffel Tower is to Paris and Big Ben to London, the Tigers Nest Monastery is to Bhutan – the country’s most recognized monument.  It has all the features of an historic wonder.  Location is stunning – over 10,000 feet above sea level in the heart of the Himalaya Mountains.  History is engaging – where Buddhism got its start in the country.  Beautiful building– white washed walls with wooden and gold trim. Add in a pilgrimage site for many devout Buddhists and you have an incredibly varied crowd at the trail’s start, all searching the mountains above to find our destination two miles away with a 1700 foot rise in altitude.

We arrived early at the trail head, hoping to avoid some of the expected crowds.  Amongst the trees were donkeys for hire, walking sticks for sale and patient guides already trying to round up their groups.

At the beginning of the trail to Tigers Nest

My brother, his wife, my husband and I stayed close to Tisiring, who had accompanied us since our arrival.  Foreigners cannot enter Bhutan without hiring a guide and driver in advance and having their itinerary approved, complete with hotels – all prepaid.  It is a tightly controlled tiny country that knows it cannot maintain its peaceful ambiance and incredible beauty if tourists were allowed to freely enter.  Our visa to the Royal Kingdom of Bhutan was for only 5 days, the exact number of days we had paid for.

Wisely, our hike to the Tigers Nest Monastery was scheduled for our fourth day, allowing us to adjust to the high altitude. Clear skies promised unparalleled views and warned of the need to dress in layers in order to shed as the day warmed and the hike intensified.  I couldn’t see our destination but knew it was nestled far above.  We began the hike, surrounded by a group of three elderly nuns with shaved heads and others from Taiwan, whose primary purpose for the visit was to worship from that sacred space.  Some did not appear fit enough for the climb but the determination in their faces said otherwise.

     In the traditional Bhutanese way, Tisiring walked with his hands clasped behind him, maintaining a gentle pace.  The first half of the trail was steeper, requiring stops at the turnouts.  We moved ahead of the crowd from Taiwan.  Gratefully, the cool mountain air helped with our energy level.  My sister-in-law, concerned from the beginning about the altitude, needed to return to the trailhead with our guide.  Since the trail was well marked, the remaining three persevered.  Halfway up, riders on donkeys turned around at a tea house.  The monastery was now visible but still distant.

 

The trail leveled out a bit and filled with freshly strung prayer flags.  We had seen the brightly colored strands all over Bhutan, placed on special occasions to release the prayers contained in the writings as the flags’ edges frayed.   Over a year’s time, the colors would pale until a new strand was mounted.

Also along the trail were small painted clay cylindrical cones or “tsa-tsas made for bereaved Buddhist families to remember their loved ones.  They are placed in spiritual locations, often favorite ones of the deceased.  Cairns also marked the path.

The Tiger’s Nest is where Guru Rinpoche, also known as Padmasambhava, was said to appear some 1,300 years ago on the back of a flying tigress. He meditated for three years in caves and then worked to convert the Bhutanese to Buddhism. The monastery commemorating this beginning was built nine centuries later, in the 1600s, although the buildings we saw have been replaced several times because of disasters. Even though it no longer serves as a monastery, it is featured in National Geographic’s book of “Sacred Spaces of a Lifetime.”

We arrived at the lookout overlooking the monastery, where most classic photos are taken including ours.  At that point, we were worried about my sister-in-law and decided to turn around without entering the monastery.  I’m sure we missed a spiritual experience, but the trek had already been full of them.  On the way down, we passed the Taiwanese group again with the elderly nuns determinedly pushing upward.  Families with three generations moved forward as a unit, often with a picnic lunch in hand. Young international trekkers easily passed the slower walkers.  Many hikers anxiously asked us how much farther it was.  For those near the top, we were honest – “not much more.”  For those towards the bottom, we just said, “a ways”, thinking some needed a reality check.

On the way down, we stopped at the tea house, enjoying the warm drink under crystal blue skies.  A woman overheard us talking, recognizing our American accents.  She came over to wish us a Happy Thanksgiving, a salutation we all recognized as out of place. But it was Thanksgiving, one that would be remembered, not for the table of food nor the family gathering nor the fall weather.  It was easy to give thanks that day for something different – nature’s handiwork, man’s expression of faith and his desire to experience it.

Leave a Comment

Fraser Island and the Lone Dingo

“I’m sure we will see some there,” Carol, our Australian friend, assured us. She was referring to Fraser Island, the world’s largest sand island stretching 75 miles across, and to seeing Dingoes, Australia’s wild dogs that number around 200 on the island.  These are considered some of the last of the “pure” Dingoes that had not cross bred with the country’s dogs. The numbers have declined in recent years and sightings have become rarer.  But Carol was confident. “We’ve been there many times and have always seen some.”

Fraser Island not only has miles of beaches to drive but also sand roads cut into the island’s interior.  To maneuver deep sand roads requires a four-wheel drive vehicle and Carol’s husband, Rob, had the perfect one – a Toyota Land Cruiser. These vehicles are popular in the outback of Australia and anywhere off the beaten path and Rob’s would serve us well driving on the island.

Before crossing to Fraser Island via the small Mantaray ferry, Rob pulled into a gas station to deflate his tires, a necessary adjustment for sand driving.  The flatter the tire, the less the tire sinks into the soft sand.  Driving straight is also encouraged to keep all front and back tires in the same rut but we would find it hard to resist an occasional wheelie.

 

When we arrived on the island, Rob took us on a spin on the nearly deserted beach, crisscrossing, speeding as if on a joyride.  The 50 mph speed limit felt like 70.  Rob offered the wheel to my friend, Mary Grace, and me.  We took turns, concentrating on staying in the ruts over a small hill of sand, avoiding the driftwood, accelerating on the open areas, always keeping an eye out for a dingo.Soon, we turned onto a deep sand road into the island, passing through a tiny community with one restaurant, searching for Lake McKenzie.  I hadn’t expected a rain forest in the sand with kauri pine trees dominating the landscape. The maze of roads was confusing with only occasional wooden signs pointing to different destinations. First stop at Central Station on the Wonggoolba Creek was to explore the deserted logging village, closed since the 1950s.  Several other Land Cruisers had parked amongst the trees.  Native Butchulla women used the creek area for birthing but were moved out by the timber industry.  The Butchulla people only recently received their native title rights from the Australian Federal Court in 2014 for hunting and fishing on the island.  We ate our picnic lunch in the company of sand monitors or goanas, very large lizards that hang out in tourist areas.  No dingoes approached.

Our next stop, Lake McKenzie, is considered a “perched” lake, formed by organic matter that has hardened in a depressed area.  It has the clearness of a mountain lake but with sandy shores and only 300 feet of altitude. Pushed by the need to return to the ferry landing in time for the last boat, we could only take a brief swim in the beautiful cold waters. 

On our drive back through the dense forest of trees, we began to give Carol a hard time about not seeing any dingoes.  “You promised,” we said.  Dingoes are a feral dog and yet can be domesticized.  But because of their reputation for common attacks on livestock and rare attacks on humans, we didn’t want to get too close.  Due to the large number of visitors and small area, Fraser Island is the epicenter of attacks on humans, with the most recent one just a year ago at a campground. Fraser Island visitors are warned not to feed the dingoes as that brings them too close to human activity.

After breaking out onto the beach again, we were hurrying back to the ferry, when suddenly, Carol calls out, “there’s one!”  And there it was, a lone dingo standing at the edge of the sand dunes, seemingly paying no attention to our quick stop, nor to the lowering of windows and cameras snapping away. It may have planned a quick trip into the water to catch a fish and the Land Cruiser stood in the way. Or it was looking for others in his pack. But after a short jaunt down the beach, it turned away and disappeared into the grasses.   

There’s something incredibly exciting about unexpectedly encountering an animal in the wild.  For just a moment, nature’s path crossed our civilized human path, this time giving us a glimpse of life as a dingo. As the dingo numbers decrease on Fraser Island, these encounters will diminish.  But in the meantime, Carol smiled at us in triumph.  “We always see one,” she said.  And she was right.

 

Leave a Comment

Stanley, Idaho and The Sawtooth Mountains

Sawtooth Mountains from Iron Creek Trail

My cousin, Ron Walker, has lived in Boise, Idaho for 50 years, having migrated north after early life in Texas. He’s been there long enough to watch house prices skyrocket from new residents looking for quality of life and affordability of homes. His children grew up with the great outdoors almost in their backyard and the family took full advantage of the setting. It made sense to ask him his favorite place in Idaho for our trip out West last summer. His answer – the small town of Stanley in the Sawtooth Mountains. It was great advice.When I write small town of Stanley, I mean small. In 2010, the town sported 63 citizens, down from 100 in 2000. It is a remnant from early trapping days that just happens to be in a stunning location at the base of the Sawtooth Mountains with the Salmon River flowing through. Some of its wooden buildings look straight out of Hollywood’s Western sets with flat fronts and planked porch entries. The few side roads off the main highway are dirt and there are no street signs.

View of Salmon River from our cabin

Most of the classic log cabin lodging in the area is along the Salmon River where we were most lucky to find one cabin for the one night we had available. It fronted the river allowing us to wave at the rafters headed out for a day or a week. Across the river, cows lazily feasted on the abundance of grass meadows and an occasional fisherman threw in his line. A fresh trout dinner on the riverside porch of the restaurant next door sealed the mountain air experience.We didn’t want the day to end as the descending sun illuminated nearby mountains in rust and white against the darkening blue shadows.

The highly recommended Stanley Baking Company, found simply by the numbers of cars parked around it, had a group of early risers the next morning waiting on the front porch for the bakery to open. We chatted with a group of women who had just finished a six-day run down the Salmon River. It was their 4th year they had crossed the country for the experience, and they were already talking of next year’s run. I envied their obvious sense of accomplishment. After breakfast, my husband and I drove to the Iron Creek Trailhead to begin the “hike of a lifetime” according to Ron.

The Sawtooth National Recreation Area and Sawtooth Wilderness lay side by side with a long history of protection.  As with many areas in the West, we would be walking on highly politicized paths. In 1968, the proposal of the American Smelting and Refining Company to dig an open pit mine for the extraction of molydenum (a chemical element used in steel alloys) spurred Idaho Congressmen, including Senator Frank Church, to have Congress create the Sawtooth National Recreation Area in 1971. President Obama signed an act expanding the wilderness area in 2015. The Sawtooth Wilderness is characterized by high granite peaks, separated by narrow valleys, giving a “sawtooth” look. Fifty of the peaks are over 10,000 feet with hundreds of high mountain lakes scattered throughout.

After filling out our wilderness permit, we began the relatively easy first three miles, passing from the Recreation area into the Wilderness. We passed signs that prohibited bicycles and drones, a rather odd combination.

Despite the July date, snow remained on the mountain side and more appeared as we ascended. At a sharp left turn, the path changed dramatically as the elevation increased, taking us upwards toward our Alpine lake destination. Young hikers passed us, but we had no reason to hurry. With a view at every turn, we found many excuses to stop, look, and listen.

At the sign for “Alpine Lake”, we veered off the main path that then continued to Sawtooth Lake. Most hikers, especially the younger ones, had the larger lake as their destination but not us. Hiking in your late 60’s is different. We’ve learned there are many possible turn-around points, depending on your stamina, the heat of the day, and how your hip is feeling. This Alpine Lake had the classic mountain lake ambiance – a quiet that seemed to amplify the human voice, birds flying above, slight cool breeze, clean air, blue skies and big boulders fronting the clear water. We rested near a couple of tents whose occupants were apparently out exploring.

After a snack of apples and nuts, we reluctantly turned around as we were expected in Boise that afternoon and the hiking traffic was picking up. There’s always a sense of satisfaction descending from a strenuous hike, noting the heavy breathing of the hikers ascending. And, the views are different and often more beautiful on the way down. Checking my phone at the end of the trail revealed a 9 mile hike, 20,325 steps and 32 floors of elevation. My orthopedic surgeon would be proud.

How Stanley has avoided the extreme development of nearby Sun Valley, I don’t know. But my cousin was right. It is a jewel of a location abounding in outdoor opportunities and beauty. It is my hope that such a small community can continue to hold out against any large-scale expansion. Its beauty deserves protection.

Leave a Comment

Tea in a Moroccan Berber Tent

Mary Clark, Tina Smith, Betty Swasko, and Mary Grace West with two Berber children inside tent

Being asked to tea in Northern Africa and the Middle East is a common practice, whether the hosts know you or not. When our driver stopped by the side of the road in Jordan for me to get a photo of a nearby shepherd, the herder smiled readily for the camera and asked if he could make us some tea. Since there were no nearby houses, I had to assume he had the makings for the hot drink in his bag draped over his shoulders. Sadly, we were behind schedule and could not join him. I did have time for tea with a seller of jewelry in Jerusalem, my cousin’s neighbor in Tunisia, storekeepers in Egypt, and after a massage in Chefchouen, Morocco. But one of the most memorable tea times was with a Nomadic Berber family on the edge of the Sahara Desert in Morocco.

Berbers are the proud indigenous people of Morocco and date back to 2500 B.C. They’ve lived through the Egyptians, Romans, French and Arabs who brought Islam to the area. Approximately 60% of the population of Morocco, including their long ruling King Mohammed VI, are at least part Berber. Today, the Berbers are divided into three main sects, each with its own dialect. Until the 1980’s the Berber language was not allowed in school but that has changed. Many traditional Berbers live in the valleys and mountains and are farmers or herders. But there remains some who live near or in the desert and who will move with their herds during the changing seasons. A few still go by caravan deep into the Sahara for trade.

Our driver had encouraged us to take tea with a Berber family. We drove through the strong, sandy desert wind to an area near dunes with scattered traditional tents. Heavy, black woven textiles made by the Berber women from goat’s wool, formed the walls and covers of the tents. A flap could be tied back to allow entrance. One of the tents already had a van in front of it, indicating other tourists were inside. Houssain  parked our van in front of an area with three tents huddled together. We got out and simply waited.

Our driver and guide, Houssain Ait Mhamed
with two Berber children

Two children popped out and stared. I made a common traveler’s mistake by immediately pulling my phone out to take some pictures. The children turned away and tried to hide. I could tell by the look of our guide that I had committed a faux pas. He approached them slowly, smiling, chatting, charming them as he pulled out some candy. They happily responded and were then willing to pose with him for a photo. Soon their mother ducked out of a back tent and indicated we should enter the largest tent. She was, obviously, accustomed to visitors dropping in.

Inside the tent, beautiful hand-woven rugs covered the sand. The bedding from the night before had been rolled up and formed a soft bank for us to sit against at the edge of the tent. A small covered table awaited the tea to be served. Reds dominated the fabric.

The children had become downright friendly and wanted to play with our phones. After a few pictures, we let them look at the photos, but they knew their way around and quickly found games to play. After some time, the mother entered the tent with a tray of Moroccan tea and sweets, both very sugary to give energy to the family and visitors. Although asked to stay, she declined and left us with the food and children. Houssain  explained that the Berber women, by tradition, would never stay in a room where there was a man that was not part of the family. The men of the family were absent as they had taken their sheep and camels to find water and grass.

As we drank our tea and sampled the sweets, I listened to the strong wind outside and could see the dust swirling around through the open flap. It would be a familiar sound to the family. Thanks to the sturdy woven walls, the air inside remained clear enough that I had no need for my asthma inhaler.

We asked Houssain how much Moroccan dirham we should leave for the experience. His response was however much we wanted to. We asked what was normal or standard. His response was that it was up to us. I don’t remember what we left but we hoped it would be perceived as generous. The children were sad to give up our phones but smiled and waved as we left. Their mother hurried them inside as they awaited the next car to arrive. The desert people have always been welcoming of strangers but today it is the strangers who help support the family. It was our pleasure to do so.

Mary Walker Clark is a retired attorney turned travel writer. Her stories may be found at her blog, Mary Clark, Traveler and her podcasts at KETR, 88.9. She lives in Paris and may be contacted at maryclarktraveler@gmail.com

Leave a Comment

Yoga in the Wild Brings Unexpected Discoveries

Most travelers incorporate special interests into their trips. Some even make it the focus of the vacation. Golfers check off prestigious courses. New York City visitors come for the Broadway Shows. For history buffs, Civil War battlegrounds attract a large following. I have an older friend who will go out of the way to see bridges that he’s interested in. And one of my regular traveling buddies always insists on massages regardless of the country, which experiences deserve its own column. I’m a yoga aficionado and seek out notices on coffee shop bulletin boards for local yoga workouts. In Cancun for a family destination wedding, I joined early risers at a beach kiosk to greet the sun with yoga morning salutations. The leader was an energetic young man who added jumps from floor to standing for many of the positions, a choice I soon avoided. But I enjoyed seeing the upside-down beach and ocean from a downward dog position after being sure no other participant was behind me. I’ve shown off my warrior stance in a yurt in New Mexico, the large common space on an Emirates Airbus A380 to Dubai, and the Siddahayatan Retreat in Windom, Texas. But my favorite yoga experience was “Yoga in the Wild” offered by “Get In the Wild” tours near Arches and Capitol Reef Nationals Parks in Utah. It included much than yoga. The tour popped up in my search for interesting outings in northern Utah. Photos of a side plank (with one arm supporting the body and the other arm in the air) at the edge of a cliff with a beautiful view was enticing to me but not my height averse husband. After a phone conference with the owners, we were assured the yoga locations could be adjusted according to the participants’ “comfort level”.

Christopher Hagedon
Melissa Hagedon

At mid-morning on a cloudy October day, we met Christopher and Melissa Hagedon, a perfectly suited adventure tour couple. Christopher knows his geology and Melissa her botany. We were in the San Rafael Swell that is managed by the Bureau of Land management (BLM) and was designated a Federal Wilderness in March 2019. Registered guides are required to seek spaces where it is unlikely to encounter another tour. This was especially appealing after the crowds at Arches and Canyonland National Parks.

Before we could throw out our yoga mats, Christopher and Melissa had something to show us. We hiked the rocky hill in front of us, without benefit of a trail – over large boulders, down sandy embankments, quickly moving through a marsh area that had a quicksand suction in the middle. The week before a boy scout on the tour got stuck in the sand, requiring the use of a rope to pull him out. All I could think of was the old Tarzan movies when a character slowly disappeared as the quicksand sucked him downward to the horror of the TV viewers, including me.

Our destinations were two caves, a large and a small one, with wide open-air openings. Native Americans had long discovered both. Their 700 to 4000 year- old pictographs of elongated stick figures and animal outlines adorned both caves. One cave had an ocular opening, meaning a round break through the stone to the sky. It felt like an eye into the universe above. Christopher assured us we were one of very few hikers to ever see these paintings as they are not on a map and access to the land is limited. He discovered the caves without help and had never seen other hikers in the area. I understood why native Americans spent time in the caves – isolated, safe, comfortable, nearby water source. We had lunch with their spirits.
Coming out on an outcropping of rock, Melissa announced it was time for yoga. Despite the hard and uneven surface, the view across Robbers Roost, a hideout destination for criminals on horseback, was wide and deep. In the distance, the snow-covered Henry Mountains held their own secrets. Above, clouds moved with the wind as cliff swallows rode the currents.   The workout was not intense. Melissa may have worried about our stamina and balance, especially on the rocks. But it was enough that the time spent at the end in the dead man’s pose was deeply relaxing. My mind tried to return to all that I needed to do back home, but a bird sound or br eeze brought me back to the present moment. Yoga was made for those moments.

Mary Walker Clark is a retired attorney turned travel writer. Her stories may be found at her blog, Mary Clark, Traveler and her podcasts at KETR, 88.9. She lives in Paris and may be contacted at maryclarktraveler@gmail.com.

“Get in the Wild” site

Leave a Comment

The Raas Festival on Majuli Island, Assam, India

The Raas Festival on Majuli Island, Assam, India

The Brahmaputra River, with its strong masculine name (Son of Brahma) is one of India’s largest and flows from far northeast India south until it passes into Bangladesh, finally emptying into the Bay of Bengal.  It provides navigation for boats, irrigation for fields, and yearly flooding during the Monsoon season.  We pulled up to the southern shore of the river, needing to cross to Majuli Island, largest river island in the world and site for the annual Raas festival each November.  Over the last 100 years, the annual flooding of Majuli’s sandy soil has shrunk the island by two-thirds, losing whole villages.  It is disappearing so quickly there are travel stories advising tourists to visit before it disappears but I discovered few travelers have heeded that advice.
I felt the anxiety of our guide and driver as we approached the river’s edge.  Lines of cars and hundreds of motorcycles waited to board the few available ferries.  For two hours, we inched forward, aware of the fading light, watching helplessly as a line of military cars and officers cut in line.  Just as it was our turn to board, another car tried to cut in front of us.  Our driver jumped out and yelled fiercely at the cheaters, banging on their car.  They finally backed down and we were the last car on.  I tried not to think of stories of sinking overloaded ferries.
The boat was jammed with pilgrims bound for the festival.  On the main floor, two kerosene lanterns dimply lit the crowded space.  Claustrophobia crept in as the night grew darker and I moved to the top of the boat. On the upper deck, my sister-in-law and I realized we were the only women enjoying the night air with a stunning shimmering super moon reflecting the waters of the river. I relaxed for the first time and enjoyed the smooth two-hour ride to the island.
The next day was the first of the festival when the Raas Leela, signifying the unification of the individual soul with the Higher soul of Lord Krishna through unconditional love, is acted out and danced by the entire island’s population, including children. These plays would go through the night.  The many satras on the island, or monasteries, were open for lodging and worship by the pilgrims. 
We began at the Kamalabari satra, meeting a young monk who had lived in the monastery since a child, spoke perfect English, and was well traveled.  He was known for his Satriya dance.  In the temple, our guide explained the confusing symbols and reincarnated gods surrounding us and showed how to enter the holy space– hand to the ground, the chest and the head.  Soon, a monk with a bowl and cymbal began a hypnotic chant that only the five of us were present to hear, drawing us into the sacred space.
At the largest satra in Auniati, many men and women wearing white with the red and white Assamese stole over their shoulders, approached the temple. Tour buses and cars filled the parking lot.  Butter candles and salt were for sale.  The crowd became denser as we neared the temple.  My husband towered over the crowd.  And then the picture taking began in earnest.  We couldn’t progress without posing for pictures.  A group of women surrounded me from behind, walking with me, laughing, pinching my face, a sign of love.  We seemed to be the only foreigners there.  A news team asked to interview us about our experiences.  The Assamese, three and four deep, surrounded the film crew and took their own pictures of us.  Our guide admitted he had never seen a crowd response like ours.  Our hotel owner even thought that many of the pilgrims had never seen a white person before.  It is strange to think pictures of us are floating around northeast India.
After experiencing the Auniati Temple’s interior, crowded with pilgrims, air heavy with incense, smoke from candles, bells, chanting and praying, we traveled to Chamaguri, home of a well-known mask making village.  The masks were used in the Raas Festival for dancing and storytelling.  My brother posed with a museum employee in a monkey god mask, looking out of place in his white shirt and khaki pants.  Here, the crowds had disappeared, and we could quietly observe the chanting monks in white inside the nearby Samoguri Temple.
Our return across the Brahmaputra River was not as dramatic.  The next night was spent in Thengal Manor, a 1929 English country mansion with servants.  I felt whiplashed between times – a crazy, rich and intense 24 hours, with a mighty river to unite the cultures.  India is filled with such moments. 

 Mary Walker Clark is a retired attorney turned travel writer. Her stories may be found at her blog, Mary Clark, Traveler and her podcasts at KETR, 88.9.  She lives in Paris and may be contacted at maryclarktraveler@gmail.com.  

Leave a Comment

The Glamping Experience

Panoramic view of Tiziri Camp in Morocco 
Most of us have now heard of glamping, aka luxury camping, a mix of glamour and camping – the tourist industry’s answer to those who like the idea of sleeping outside but not carrying all the needed paraphernalia.  It appeals to aging campers, picky sleepers and tender children.  Many may think first of the luxury tents provided to African safari tours, but the idea has caught on world-wide, including our own neck of the woods. 

Tents near Uluru Rock
Inside tent near Uluru Rock
I’ve had two very different glamping experiences.  On a trip to the outback of Australia, I carefully suggested to my two female friends that we forego the stay in a non-descript western hotel and try a more rustic tour that provided real beds in tents but a shared bathroom across the campfire.  My roommate, Mary Grace, had never camped at all and cautiously signed on to the idea.  
Camp near King’s Canyon, Australia

We joined native Australians, four French, two Germans, and a handful of New Zealanders in a very full van traveling across the Uluru-Kat Tjuta National Park to Uluru rock and King’s Canyon, stopping at prepared camp sites.  The tents barely held two single beds, a bed light of maybe 20 watts, and a bit of floor space for our bags.  Mary Grace was pleased with the beds and we tried not to think of the many Australian snakes we had recently seen at a zoo. 

While the beds were a step up from traditional camping, much of the remaining experiences felt like a true outdoor event – early rising to see the sunrise over Uluru Rock (previously called Ayres rock), sharing coffee with fellow travelers as we awaited our pancakes, night skies undiluted by nearby lights, and a common grubbiness from the hesitancy to use precious water to shower. Mary Grace was proud to check camping off her list of first-time experiences, thought her sons would be proud, and expected it to be her last foray into the campfire world.

Inside tent at Tiziri Camp
But then there was Morocco.  In planning the trip to Morocco with a local tour agency, I saw on the proposed itinerary a night in the desert in a tent offered at standard rate or luxury rate.  Being the frugal travelers that we were, we chose the standard rate. But after our guide took one look at our gray hair, he gently suggested the upgrade to luxury – an astute recommendation with little additional cost.

The Tiziri Camp had just opened two months before our arrival, and we were out of sight of the other camps used by various agencies.  For our night, the four of us were the only travelers, meaning a very personal experience. In the tent I shared with Mary Grace was a sandy floor entirely carpeted with Moroccan rugs, adequate light, heated sheets and a personal bathroom.  Snacks and bottled water were for the taking without charge and wifi was even available. This was a big step-up from our Australian experience.

In the dining tent, beautiful place settings with fine china and crystal glasses awaited the four- course meal. Our smiling waiter greeted us with the traditional tea and then began a parade of Moroccan dishes.  After dinner, we were invited to join local musicians around a blazing campfire under the same clear night sky we had seen in Australia.  Mary Grace and I even managed to arise early enough to watch the sunrise.  We sunk deep into the cool sand as we struggled up the dune behind our tent but arrived in time for a magical moment of the desert awakening.

Campfire circle at Tiziri Camp
Closer to home are glamping options – a secluded bell tent near Broken Bow, Oklahoma for $160 per night or a unique teepee near Tulsa on a horse ranch for $80 a night. Throughout Texas are opportunities to stay in tree houses, tent, yurts, airstreams and teepees.  I love the El Cosmico’s name near Marfa and it offers all the above.  Our daughter used the “Under Canvas” organization’s site near Mt. Rushmore in South Dakota for her family’s first luxury camping experience and loved it.  This company is expanding and how has eight locations near many of our favorite national parks. Prices vary significantly but all provide a unique experience.

Many of these locations can be booked on AirBnB as can other interesting lodging options.  For me, I’m happy to avoid another stay at the predicable chain hotels that promote their hot breakfasts or comfortable beds when these amenities are equally available closer to the great outdoors.  You just have to look for them.

Leave a Comment

European Travel 50 Years ago – a Widow’s Diary

At our first Bed and Breakfast in London,
June, 1969
In 2008, I discovered my mother’s three volume diary from a family journey taken almost 40 years before.  My brothers and I remember the trip well.   How could one forget a ten-week European tour?  But only now as adults with children could we understand the courage this took.  Mom had been widowed with five children under the age of 20, and yet planned the trip herself at a time when European travel was just opening up for Americans.
This decision was not completely out of the blue.  My mother fell in love with traveling in 1931 at the age of 11.  In the midst of a depression, she ventured out of Texas for the first time.   Her father had little money and her mother had died when she was five. But her grandmother took her to California by train to visit family.   Mom’s face was always transformed at the mention of San Francisco.  She was seeing the San Francisco Bay for the first time with its deep blue water and the city on the hill and she was never the same after that. The trip revealed a world awaiting discovery and her exploration began after she married a West Texas farmer and had a few babies.
        Every summer, Mom would put her children in the back of a Plymouth station wagon and head out to a predetermined destination in the United States. Distance didn’t matter. Seattle, Los Angeles, Colorado, South Dakota, Washington, D.C., were all in her sights. My father claimed the potato and cotton crops required his attention, though he would still occasionally fly up and join us. By the time I left home, my brothers and I had checked off 35 states. But it was after my mother was widowed in 1966 at age 45 that she looked beyond the continental U.S.
In 1969, she decided the family needed to see Europe. Her original plan was a guided tour of the major cities in Western Europe.  But Bonnie, a family friend, convinced Mom that she could do it independently and more economically, even if it included children ages 20, 19, 17, 15, and 13.  Bonnie enticed my mother with comments like “You have to eat ice cream and read the Herald Tribune at St. Mark’s square.” Courageously, Mom decided to try it.
Arranging a trip of this magnitude was right up her alley.   My mother was born to organize.  This was the woman who maintained a list of the outfits she wore to her various clubs and school board meetings, so duplications were kept at a minimum. Grocery lists were arranged according to the layout of the store and the menu for the week.  As a volunteer, she kept track of recipes for local cookbooks and of names for church directories.  In our summer travels, each of us was given paper sacks pulled out of a box that held age appropriate games or reading material.  The sacks were distributed slowly over the length of the trip.  Five kids times five sacks times three surprises equals an active imagination and a lot of organization.


Of course, planning a European tour was something else.  The publication of “Europe on $5 A Day” in 1957 abolished the myth that Continental travel was only for the wealthy.  Promises of $1 a night hotels in Spain and 50 cent meals in Italy caught voyagers’ attention.   With the dollar trading at four German marks, a British pound equaling $2.25, and charter flights starting to appear, Europe wasn’t just attractive, it was attainable. And our family wasn’t alone.  In 1969, five million Americans (2.25% of the population) traveled abroad.  This was a significant increase from 1950 when only .45% of the population ventured out of the country.  Our baby boom population and higher income contributed to the growing numbers. But it was a far cry from the 27 million, or 10% of the population, who traveled abroad in 2000.   In 1969,  a European tour still was very unusual, especially in Plainview, a town of 18,000 in the Texas Panhandle, where my mother was born and raised.
Mom dove in.  She bought Europe on $5 a Day, Fodor’s Guide to Europe, and Fielding’s “Tours”.  This was long before faxes, cheap telephone calls or the internet. Friend Bonnie suggested an itinerary and Mom filled in the rest. The U.S. Postal Service was used to reserve hotel rooms at every major city on the route.  Thin, inquiring aerograms flew out of our home at 2601 W. 11th Street,  to wide- flung European destinations.  Two to three weeks later, letters in rich, thick envelopes appeared with exotic stamps and return addresses.  Formal language acknowledged receipt of her request for two rooms and most hotels confirmed the reservation.  Occasionally, a deposit was required.  Credit cards were not widely accepted at the time and we didn’t have one.
 Mom used a Volkswagen dealership in Lubbock, Texas to order a green Volkswagen van to be delivered to London where we began our trip.  The cost of $2,299.80 included $7.00 for push-out windows and $39 for an AM Radio.  The equivalent in today’s prices would be a modest purchase price of $13,633.  Where she found the information about shipping the van back to the United States, we don’t know. But in pre-internet days, it was an impressive feat.
Other preparations included clothes for all of us.  They had to be “drip-dry”, the precursor to no-iron. Jeans and t-shirts were out.  We were allotted three outfits each.  In our pictures, my brothers look amazingly well-dressed with slacks and button-down, short sleeve shirts.  Mom went so far as to buy nylon underwear for the boys.  The oldest brother rebelled, but the younger ones acquiesced, while complaining under their breath.   Baseball season was already lost for them, so what difference did uncomfortable clothes make.
I had some of the strangest clothes. Skirts were required in many churches in Europe.  So Mom cleverly made an outfit for me that was flexible.  She sewed two one – piece shorts outfits with a reversible wrap-around skirt.  One set was brown with white polka dots and the other white with brown polka dots.  It didn’t look so bad with the skirt on, but in the shorts alone, I appeared totally shapeless.  Add to that my habit of wearing my long hair in pig tails and my short five feet height, and you got, well, you got stares.
Student travel and discounts were then readily available and a  perk for university students.  Thanks to having two college aged children in the family, we could purchase airline tickets through Student Travel Inc. in Austin, Texas.   The charter plane landed in London and ten weeks later, departed from Brussels.  The price was right  – $279.00 each ($1,654.47 today). “Tourist-Economy” fare with Pan American Airways would have cost $500 per ticket ($2,965 today).  Wisely, Mom bought six tickets for Charter #8.  The confirmation letter even informed us that we would be flying on a Boeing 707 and that our flying time would be nine hours with a refueling stop in Maine.  Since passenger jets were only introduced in 1958, this bit of information on the plane was not always a given.


The Student Travel Inc. organization, assuming you had never done this before and needed direction, issued two pedantic Charter Bulletins (No.1 and No.2). They made specific suggestions as to what guide books to use (Fodor’s was in and Frommer’s was out), mode of transportation (leasing or buying a car was the best with Eurail pass a second choice), who to use for your photographs for passport and student IDs (professional, please) and even the need for your banker to know how to wire money.  The implication was that small town bankers wouldn’t know the steps which was probably true at that time.   
Since the air passage price depended on the fullness of the flight, we were encouraged to sign up other travelers.  We were expected to be impressed at the “computerized flow chart that shows the location of all of the aircraft at specific times and dates” which would finally determine our exact departure time.  What they DIDN’T want was for us to call them about costs, departure times, etc. They would provide all that information in due time –    21 days before the flight!  “Trust us,” “We’ve done this before” was their mantra.
Our first train ride from the London Airport into town
June 5 was “D-day” as Mom wrote in her diary. We were dressed like we were going to church.  Three of my brothers wore a shirt, tie, and sport coat.  I was in a flowered dress and both Mom and I had corsages given to us by my aunt.  It was the only time I ever wore a flower on a plane but it signified the specialty of the occasion.  An itinerary of the “Walker’s Waltz” across Europe was left with family members. The charter flight out of Dallas left one and a half hours late.  But nothing dampened our excitement – Europe for ten weeks.
Mom had read her guidebooks well and was prepared to travel economically, especially with food.  We stayed in moderate lodgings where breakfast was always included. The European emphasis on breads, butter, and jam didn’t impress any of us.  All agreed the English breakfast of eggs, toast, bacon, jam, tomatoes, juice, and hot tea was the only decent morning food of the trip. Lunch was a picnic or a meal where the locals ate – cafeterias, department store dining rooms, university dining halls, train stations, or often at what Mom referred to in her diary as a “joint”.  “We ate lunch at a joint – food was OK.”  In France, Switzerland and Italy, dinner was often included in the price of the room, another savings.  Two rooms, breakfast and dinner for six went for $36 in Chiavari on the coast of Italy.
We are fighting over the baguettes.  Please note the
robes two of my brothers are wearing which Mom
thought were important enough to take up
precious suitcase room.
We knew when a meal was expensive by its inclusion in her diary.  Lunch at the Louvre cost $6.50 for six ham sandwiches, six drinks, and four ice creams. Mom considered that high.  Of course, today that meal will set you back $88.  The most dear meal was at the Hilton Hotel steakhouse in Paris.  We were starved for American food and tired of bubbly water.  The splurge for the BBQ and steaks totaled $33.  “Expensive as the devil, of course, but worth it” read this diary entry.
             We started picnicking more as the trip progressed including an unexpected picnic insidethe van, inside a train transporting our car, inside a mountain on our way to Lugano, Switzerland.   The menu was also unusual – lemon chess cake, two oranges, potato chips, and water.  Mom didn’t include any complaints but there had to have been some mutterings.


Many new food experiences were noted – steak tartare and pretzels in Germany, Swiss cheese fondue, cooked Romaine lettuce, Indonesian food, German wiener schnitzel, English beef and kidney pie and the famous Austrian Sacher Torte.  Danish pastries were so superior to the “danish rolls” we had at home, it was hard to believe one descended from the other.  In England we enjoyed our first high tea and at Coventry Cathedral, a gooseberry crumble served at the church rectory rated the superlative of “best”.  Today, none of these dishes sound exotic because of widespread traveling and availability of international cuisine in the U.S.  But in 1969, they were all new to our palates.  Some were disappointing (the Sacher Torte was dry) but others captured us.  After the discovery of wiener schnitzel, two of my brothers tried to order it wherever they went.  I still wrap my spaghetti around a fork using a large spoon as a brace, as taught us by the Italian waiters.  And for years following the trip, my mother searched for gooseberries.
We covered approximately 4000 miles as we drove through England, France, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, Germany, Denmark, Holland and Belgium. My older brother (20) and I (19) took turns driving.  According to Mom’s diary, we got lost a lot, drove in a bus lane in Paris, chose back roads to find restaurants and small hotels, and used maps extensively.   We purchased gasoline coupons in Italy (30% discount cards for tourists) and hoped the hotel discounts promised would work.
Isle of Capri, Italy.  I don’t know who the guy in the passenger seat is.
 I laughed at Mom’s description of ordering and paying for a lunch at an Italian roadside café.  “You first paid for the food to get a sales slip, then went to the (food) counter and fought the crowd to get your choice.  Didn’t matter whether you were in line or not, people would push their way right in front.”  I could have written that description  in 2008 at a roadside café on a tollway in Sicily.  Some things haven’t changed.
Much of our time was spent with the usual tourist activities.  As a commercial art major, Mom was determined we would explore the major museums.   To see the actual Magna Carta and original scores by Bach and Mozart at the British Museum was thrilling for this farmer’s widow.  The small, unassuming Mona Lisa at the Louvre was open for close examination, free of the massive crowds of today.  In Florence, Mom learned the fruit wreaths used at home were named for the artist, Lucia Della Robbia, who painted the sculptured fruit frames in bright colors.  And Tintoretto’s massive paintings at the Scuola de San Rocco in Venice were pondered for their contrasts in light and dark. 
Plenty of time was set aside for shopping.  Cheap ski equipment impressed my brothers.  The purchase of skis by my oldest brother at the Galeries Lafayette in Paris exposed our ignorance of tourist refunds.  We thought a discount was offered, but it was actually the right to turn in our receipts at the border and have a refund mailed to us.  All of this took two interpreters and two hours to understand.  The rest of us chose to buy ski boots.  I have no idea what we were thinking.  It just seemed cool at the time.  The equipment came in handy when we unexpectedly got to ski in Zermatt, Switzerland.  Even with new boots and skis, we must have looked pitiful coming down the mountains with socks for gloves.  For the remainder of the trip, we had to shuffle the skis and boots around in the Volkswagen bus to make room for our increasing purchases.  Thankfully, Mom collected spoons from each country which took little space.


In 1969, every country had a different currency.  Without ATMs, Mom had to bring sufficient traveler checks for the entire trip.  She learned to store the checks in the hotel’s safe.  Still, there was a constant calculation of how much would be needed to be changed for the stay in each country.  And, bank hours had to be factored in.  On a Saturday in Venice, we were down to $35 to last through the week-end.  We had to choose between a gondola ride and a real meal.  We went with the boat ride and ate cheese and crackers in the hotel room.  Interestingly, the European countries were just beginning to explore that year the idea of a common currency in their drive for economic and monetary union. The first policy statements were approved in 1969 by members of the EEC at a summit at the Hague.  It took 30 more years for it to happen (January 1, 1999).
The best experiences were personal.  At a very out of the way country inn in France, the stout owner appeared surprised to have an American family arrive. Our exchange was often through pantomime since my school French didn’t pick up the subtleties of her conversation.  Madame Reine Nantou particularly loved our being from Texas, using her hands as pistols to demonstrate her understanding of our heritage.  She imitated a snorting pig to illustrate the pork dish on the menu.  And she was horrified when my youngest brother asked for Coca-Cola, insisting on serving wine to all of us.   Even after these 40 years, I still remember her fresh tomatoes as the best I’ve ever had.   It was also our first experience of a prix fixe.  At our departure, Madame insisted on giving us wine glasses.  As we waved good-by she blew kisses.  She singlehandedly changed our impression of the French.
In 1967 our family had hosted a foreign exchange student from Asperg, Germany, named Helmut.  His family was happy to return the hospitality and welcomed us with the best food of the trip – sausages, cream cakes, pretzels, goulash, home-made noodles, pickled cucumbers, strawberry torte shortcake, and wine and beer.  It was at their home we realized Europe was still recovering from the war.  The Gabauer family had to build a fire to heat the water for our showers and they had no telephone.  Mom used the home telephone of Helmut’s girlfriend to call Texas, the  only phone call of the trip.


 Helmut joined us later in the trip on our drive through Germany and Denmark.  He was particularly instrumental in introducing the older kids to beer halls.  The casualness of teenagers drinking in Europe surprised my mother and excited the rest of us.  But we had to be careful not to match them drink to drink.   They had years of conditioning on those of us who came from the 21 year drinking age country. 
A visit to the Mumm Champagne factory in Reims introduced my youngest brother, age 13, to his first alcohol buzz.  We all were taken with the idea of free alcohol at the end of the tour and managed to explore two breweries that summer.   My older brother and I found youth clubs in most of the major cities for late evening fun.  Discos had not yet arrived.  At a Jazz Bar in Rome, Meadowlark Lemons of the Harlem Globetrotters sat at our table to chat.  In Berlin, we felt out of our league in a darkened, candle lit cabaret straight out of the 1930’s.  Phones in the booths were used to invite other patrons to dance.  No one called us.
 
The siblings share many favorite memories – skiing in Switzerland, snorkeling in Sorrento, Italy, celebrating the 4th of July at the American Embassy party in Rome, figuring out the bidet, exploring the Salt Mines in Austria, and crossing Checkpoint Charlie on a tour into East Berlin.  In July, Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.  We were up very early to watch it at our pension in Salzburg, Austria, and later joined crowds on the street peering into store windows with televisions. 
In Switzerland, I think.  I’m wearing a wig, which was quite popular then.
By the time we arrived in Brussels ten weeks later, we were ready to return to American soil, especially my mother.  She reports none of us wanted to do anything in Belgium.  Our luggage had doubled despite boxes of goods that had previously been mailed.  Without wheels on suitcases, all of us were loaded down. The van was dropped off to be shipped.  Our plane was six hours late in departing but no one cared.  It was time to go home.
Upon returning, Mom was the toast of the Texas Panhandle.  Everyone wanted to hear what it was really like “over there”.  I found her notes for a speech she was asked to give about the adventure.  It was a take off on the question all travelers dread: “Which was your favorite country?”.  She broke the countries into categories.  Austria had the best scenery, Italy the most impressive art, England the friendliest people, etc.  For her, though, the most moving experiences were patriotic ones – being at the 4th of July party in Rome and watching the moon landing.  She missed her country and was happy to return.  Looking back, she wistfully ended her speech with, “I always thought I had as much chance of going to Europe as man had of walking on the moon.  And then there was the summer of 1969.”
It’s now been 50 years since we first explored Europe.  Mildred Walker, the subject of this essay, died in 2010. Her dementia had prevented her from remembering many of the details of the trip.  When I read the diaries to her, she just smiled and said, “We had a wonderful time, didn’t we?”  Yes, we did, and this adventure opened up the entire world to our family’s exploration which continues to this day.  All it took was Mom’s courage to try.             

Leave a Comment

What we liked in apartments and missed in hotels in Spain


Apartment in Granada, Spain

The explosion of new spaces for overnight stays has given travelers many more options.  While the large hotel industry is not yet worried, local municipalities are starting to rethink how their hotel/motel tax is collected.  They should.  Over 30 million people have used Airbnb since it started six years ago.  VRBO and Homeaway have been stealing customers from hotels for even longer, causing a dip in tax revenues. 


Over the last 5 years, I’ve used VRBO and Airbnb on numerous occasions – New Orleans shotgun house, recently renovated apartment in Siracusa, Italy, farmhouse in Tuscany, attic apartment in Paris, France, and a small garage apartment in Albuquerque.  They have been positive experiences with only a few surprises. We recently explored Spain and decided in advance to only use VRBO and Airbnbs, rather than a mix of both.  It was a hard decision as I do love the small, charming hotels in Europe which are very difficult to locate in the U.S.  But we needed at least two bedrooms and the apartment scenario seemed more appropriate.  Here’s our take from our trip.

Observations of Apartment Stays
           Space, space and more space – separate bedrooms and baths plus living areas.  Suites in a hotel with the kind of space an apartment offers would be cost prohibitive to most travelers

           Allowed possibility for bringing in food for breakfast and other meals.  All had coffee makers and most provided coffee and tea. We ate breakfast in almost every morning and brought dinner in twice.  And that cheese and crackers with a bottle of wine was great in the late afternoon.

           Hosts were helpful – some more than others.  It was nice to get one who spent time pouring over a map to be sure we were oriented and could make restaurant suggestions, etc. 

           Felt more a part of the city and neighborhood.

           Easier communication among us traveling.  With 2 or three hotel rooms, we would have had to use phones or go the rooms to communicate.

           Washing machines were available in two apartments which was helpful.

           We had balconies in three of the four apartments – a lovely addition.

           Wifi was available in all.

           Had booking fees but am not sure if the stay was subject to local taxes. 

           Had some issues with neighboring apartment noise and street chatter.
What we missed in not having a hotel.

           Always someone there to check you in.  For the apartment, you have to coordinate arrival times which can be tricky in a foreign country, especially if you can’t use your phone easily.  Whatsapp was a very popular app for communicating with landlords.

           Extra keys are available if you lose yours or leave them inside.  Most apartments had two sets of keys which was enough for this trip.

           Has regular maid service with clean towels, extra pillows, etc.

           Local telephone in room

           More likely to have lots of TV stations.

           Could change rooms if your room were loud. 
Suggestions in the Future

           Stay in a hotel the first and last stop for easy check-in and to be assured of a good night of sleep.

           Use the apartment route if you are more than 2 or 3 persons.

           Use the hotel for one night stays and apartments for 3 or more nights.  For two nights, it depends.

           Be prepared for communication with landlords.  It should be worked out in advance.

Leave a Comment

The Day Our Flight was Canceled in Lalibela, Ethiopia

View from Lalibela Airport, Ethiopia

On a beautiful, fall morning, our guide, Muchaw Derebe, picked us up for the thirty minute drive to the Lalibela Airport.  Seven stops were made along the road to take pictures – of farmers using oxen to plow the fields, distinctive circular Orthodox churches, Chinese working on the roads, and children eager to be photographed.  It was a leisurely drive and we arrived with time to spare.


Our next stop was Axum where the acclaimed Ark of the Covenant resides in a chapel, accompanied only by a solitary priest. We were also looking forward to meeting up with some fellow travelers,  seeing obelisks and stelae from ancient Aksum, and attending a local wedding, all followed by a drive through the back mountains of Ethiopia.  The long awaited plans were coming together.

The Lalibela Airport is modest in size but spectacular in location.  A large plateau hosts the runways and in the distance mountains and valleys lie in shadows.   Only one couple waited with us for the flight to Axum.  Departure time of 9:35 am came and went.  A new group of travelers filled the waiting room and left on their plane.  Inquiries yielded limited information.  Our plane had mechanical difficulties and needed a mechanic and part flown to Gondar, where the plane waited.  Two to three hour delay expected.  Anxiety set in.

Muchaw Derebe, Betty Swasko, Tina Smith waiting
One small café upstairs offered minimal food and drink with most listed on the menu unavailable, including milk.  Our guide surprised us when he returned upon hearing of our delay and had four large bottle of water in tow.  We settled in for the wait.  I reviewed my pictures with Muchaw in order to correctly identify the various churches in Lalibela.  We took a couple of walks outside the airport, noting recent plantings along the driveway.  Guards waved us in as we returned, recognizing our faces by now.
  
Pasta served by airline in airport lobby
In the lobby, CNN played on a very small television next to a dead palm tree.  At 3 p.m., the airline served us pasta with a spicy red sauce.  More stranded travelers had filled the lobby throughout the day, an international group from the United Kingdom, the United States, Israel, and Japan.  With English as our common language, we visited across country lines. 

At 4 p.m., a rumor circulated that the plane was in the air but at 5:20, the flight was officially canceled due to bad weather at our destination – eight hours after our scheduled take-off.   Our now enlarged group climbed into a waiting van and more visiting took place.  The British couple lived apart – the husband measured public opinion in Baghdad while the wife lived in London.  Two young Israeli girls were traveling for seven months after serving in the military, an accepted practice in many families.  My Japanese chemical engineer seatmate wanted to know how many countries I had been to.  And across the aisle, I talked with the other Japanese, a woman who worked in their embassy.  The return trip to Lalibela passed quickly. Each of us got our own hotel room in a round thatched roof building.  Dinner was also on the airline.  Many of our travelers gathered for a drink before eating and continued the visiting. 

Our guide had other plans for us.  Muchaw wanted a happy ending to such a long day.  At 8 p.m., he picked us up and we drove to the Torpido for a true Ethiopian culture experience in a part bar, part dance hall. We entered the incense infused gathering place found down an alley.  Red Christmas lights dimly lit the space while small tables circled an open area.  Honey wine with three levels of alcohol was served.  All smiled at us as we followed Muchaw to a table and sat facing the center.  Soon, a beautiful singer and the accompanist on a one string masenquo entered and began singing, circling the room and incorporating funny comments into the music about the familiar clientele – a kind of Ethiopian rap.  All laughed and clapped.  Muchaw translated for us but sometimes was laughing too hard to do so.  The singer even stopped at our table and sang about our beautiful country and how much she loved America.  Many stood to dance the shoulder shaking Ethiopian style called the eskusta.  We couldn’t stop smiling. 

The next morning, we gathered with our new friends for breakfast, drove the now familiar road to the airport and held our breath until our plane took off.  Because of time constraints, we had to rearrange our itinerary. At the Gondar Airport, we hugged the Israeli girls and the American couple and waved at the rest before entering a waiting taxi. 

  Yes, we missed Axum and the wedding and the drive through the mountains but we passed a unique and unscripted day with new friends and experiences.  It fit my long held belief that the worst travel experiences can result in the best travel stories.  This was one of the best.


Leave a Comment