2018 Travel Highlights
#72 - Flushed with Success by Barbara Hunt
Australian toilets are hotbeds for graffiti artists, so what a pleasant surprise it was when I used the pristine Japanese ‘loos’ at Narita Airport, Tokyo. What fascinated me was the selection of buttons on the handle to the right of the pedestal.
It had ‘spray’ and ‘bidet’ buttons, but the ‘flushing sound’ (dubbed ‘otohime’ – princess sound – after the Japanese folktale of Urashima Tarō) intrigued me.
Music makes white noise to help self-conscious women retain their dignity by masking those undesirable noises.
I did indeed feel like a princess when I emerged, head held high, my indiscretions disguised.
Australian toilets are hotbeds for graffiti artists, so what a pleasant surprise it was when I used the pristine Japanese ‘loos’ at Narita Airport, Tokyo. What fascinated me was the selection of buttons on the handle to the right of the pedestal.
It had ‘spray’ and ‘bidet’ buttons, but the ‘flushing sound’ (dubbed ‘otohime’ – princess sound – after the Japanese folktale of Urashima Tarō) intrigued me.
Music makes white noise to help self-conscious women retain their dignity by masking those undesirable noises.
I did indeed feel like a princess when I emerged, head held high, my indiscretions disguised.
#71 – Underground by Gouri Prakash
A baby lizard, slithering across the damp wall, froze in its tracks, as I shone my torch over it. The bat, however, decided to continue its meditation. 200 feet beneath the Earth’s surface, I was inside the murky realms of Onandaga Caves.
Reddish-brown stalactites, clung like unlit chandeliers, to the cave’s ceiling. One hollow after another, a hut here, a hermit there, Nature’s sculptures abounded and embellished. Constant drizzle suffused the musty air.
The door was the deformity. I pushed at it. Sunlight streamed. I stepped out. It felt, nothing short, of a rebirth, from the Earth’s womb.
A baby lizard, slithering across the damp wall, froze in its tracks, as I shone my torch over it. The bat, however, decided to continue its meditation. 200 feet beneath the Earth’s surface, I was inside the murky realms of Onandaga Caves.
Reddish-brown stalactites, clung like unlit chandeliers, to the cave’s ceiling. One hollow after another, a hut here, a hermit there, Nature’s sculptures abounded and embellished. Constant drizzle suffused the musty air.
The door was the deformity. I pushed at it. Sunlight streamed. I stepped out. It felt, nothing short, of a rebirth, from the Earth’s womb.
#70 – ELEPHANTS by Sarah Owens
Scrambling up a termite mound I watch a mother elephant wade into the Zambezi river, but her family hesitate. She sucks in water and swirls her trunk spraying them. The herd join her but a bull calf remains on the bank. His mother winds her trunk around his body and coaxes him in to join the fun, all the time she strokes and encourages him. As they move away, the mother flaps her ears and turns her gentle eyes towards me. She's not threatening, just acknowledging my presence. They move off silently into the dense Zimbabwean bushveld and disappear.
Scrambling up a termite mound I watch a mother elephant wade into the Zambezi river, but her family hesitate. She sucks in water and swirls her trunk spraying them. The herd join her but a bull calf remains on the bank. His mother winds her trunk around his body and coaxes him in to join the fun, all the time she strokes and encourages him. As they move away, the mother flaps her ears and turns her gentle eyes towards me. She's not threatening, just acknowledging my presence. They move off silently into the dense Zimbabwean bushveld and disappear.
#69 - WELCOME TO VIETNAM by Sarah Owens
Waves of bicycles, trucks and rickshaws flow around me. I'm in Ho Chi Minh City the day before Tet and the crowds are vast. The scent of sweet incense and fried rice mingles with rotting fish and ammonia from the Saigon River. The streets blaze with sunflowers, lanterns glow and dancing dragons shimmy to a throbbing beat. At midnight golden fireworks illuminate the sky. A little girl dressed in Ao Dai embroidered with golden bamboo and peach blossom offers me candied ginger.
"Cam o'n ban," I try. She giggles and hides behind her mother.
Waves of bicycles, trucks and rickshaws flow around me. I'm in Ho Chi Minh City the day before Tet and the crowds are vast. The scent of sweet incense and fried rice mingles with rotting fish and ammonia from the Saigon River. The streets blaze with sunflowers, lanterns glow and dancing dragons shimmy to a throbbing beat. At midnight golden fireworks illuminate the sky. A little girl dressed in Ao Dai embroidered with golden bamboo and peach blossom offers me candied ginger.
"Cam o'n ban," I try. She giggles and hides behind her mother.
#68 - TO BE YOUNG AGAIN by Sarah Owens
Siesta approaches and the busy streets of Granada empty. I find a quiet plaza and sit with a coffee and sugary churros. Water sprinklers gently saturate the air spreading a soft mist scented with jasmine.
"Senorita, I play for you?" I look up as a young man emerges from the shadows, his guitar slung low against his hip. He smiles at a beautiful girl sitting at the table opposite and, resting his foot on a chair, plays bold tremolo scales and flamenco rhythms. Vivid gypsy colours fill my mind, swirling skirts and stamping feet. Oh to be young again.
Siesta approaches and the busy streets of Granada empty. I find a quiet plaza and sit with a coffee and sugary churros. Water sprinklers gently saturate the air spreading a soft mist scented with jasmine.
"Senorita, I play for you?" I look up as a young man emerges from the shadows, his guitar slung low against his hip. He smiles at a beautiful girl sitting at the table opposite and, resting his foot on a chair, plays bold tremolo scales and flamenco rhythms. Vivid gypsy colours fill my mind, swirling skirts and stamping feet. Oh to be young again.
#67 - WAKING IN DARJEELING by Sarah Owens
The solemn sound of chanting wakes me. Softly at first it grows louder and louder until it crescendos with drums banging. I part the thin curtains and sunlight streams in. I catch my breath, Darjeeling bathed in a red glow from the early sun, sprawls out down the valley, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. In the distance, the snow-tipped Himalayas gleam sharp against cobalt skies. The back breaking journey to get here is forgotten. Throwing open the lattice windows, I lean out and breath pure mountain air.
The solemn sound of chanting wakes me. Softly at first it grows louder and louder until it crescendos with drums banging. I part the thin curtains and sunlight streams in. I catch my breath, Darjeeling bathed in a red glow from the early sun, sprawls out down the valley, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. In the distance, the snow-tipped Himalayas gleam sharp against cobalt skies. The back breaking journey to get here is forgotten. Throwing open the lattice windows, I lean out and breath pure mountain air.
#66 - I KNOW WHAT HEAVEN LOOKS LIKE by Sarah Owens
Our guide smiles revealing perfect white teeth.
"Hello, my name is Heaven, welcome to Botswana." So that's what heaven looks like: lean blue-black limbs, long neck and a smooth handsome face. He poles our mokoro canoe parting the reeds of the Okavengo delta with a soft swish and calls to the other guides in his melodic voice. I lie against my rucksack and settle into a dream like state. Bright dragon flies dance above the surface catching droplets of water, sunlight blazing through their turquoise and emerald wings. My fingers brush creamy water-lilies as we glide by.
Our guide smiles revealing perfect white teeth.
"Hello, my name is Heaven, welcome to Botswana." So that's what heaven looks like: lean blue-black limbs, long neck and a smooth handsome face. He poles our mokoro canoe parting the reeds of the Okavengo delta with a soft swish and calls to the other guides in his melodic voice. I lie against my rucksack and settle into a dream like state. Bright dragon flies dance above the surface catching droplets of water, sunlight blazing through their turquoise and emerald wings. My fingers brush creamy water-lilies as we glide by.
#65 - Rock, Paper, Scissors by Alan Packer
Spring sap urged a final swell to the Mallorcan olive root burrowing in a rock crack. Wood won and three tons of limestone crashed into the Torrent de Pareis.
We were not there, just scrambled over the evidence.
Then came water carrying a whole tree downward until it broke its trunk, smashing into boulders and stopping. Rock won. The torrent scoured it clean of bark.
We climbed over the trunk, afraid. The flood had gone but, trapped, we swam through the deep pools to escape. The cold scissored our breath.
Spring sap urged a final swell to the Mallorcan olive root burrowing in a rock crack. Wood won and three tons of limestone crashed into the Torrent de Pareis.
We were not there, just scrambled over the evidence.
Then came water carrying a whole tree downward until it broke its trunk, smashing into boulders and stopping. Rock won. The torrent scoured it clean of bark.
We climbed over the trunk, afraid. The flood had gone but, trapped, we swam through the deep pools to escape. The cold scissored our breath.
#64 - Tea by Vernon Lacey
‘¿Hay té?’ I ask the supermarket assistant. Is there tea?
‘¿Como?’ – Pardon- she says, puzzled.
I’m English. New in Spain. I’m pronouncing té the English way - tea.
‘No entiendo,’ the assistant says. I don’t understand.
I improvise. ‘Los ingleses – lo beben mucho.’ The English – they drink lots of it. It’s clumsy Spanish. I lift an imaginary teacup to my mouth.
Finally the penny drops. ‘¡Ah! Si. Si,’ the assistant says, all smiles. ‘Ven conmigo.’ Come with me.
She leads me to the back of the supermarket. There, to my shame, she points at the alcohol section.
‘¿Hay té?’ I ask the supermarket assistant. Is there tea?
‘¿Como?’ – Pardon- she says, puzzled.
I’m English. New in Spain. I’m pronouncing té the English way - tea.
‘No entiendo,’ the assistant says. I don’t understand.
I improvise. ‘Los ingleses – lo beben mucho.’ The English – they drink lots of it. It’s clumsy Spanish. I lift an imaginary teacup to my mouth.
Finally the penny drops. ‘¡Ah! Si. Si,’ the assistant says, all smiles. ‘Ven conmigo.’ Come with me.
She leads me to the back of the supermarket. There, to my shame, she points at the alcohol section.
#63 – Day One on the Camino by Hannah Standen
It’s hard to tell if it the drops of water running down my face are sweat or rain.
It is pelting down, my boots squelch in the mud.
Counting to ten as I put one foot in front of the other. Repeat.
My body aches, I peer up the mountain, searching for the peak.
Thick fog surrounds me, I put my head back down.
One, two, three.
I am deep in concentration so do not hear him at first. ‘Not long now’ he repeats flashing a cheeky smile.
He powers past as I begrudgingly sigh, ‘Only 29 days to go.’
It’s hard to tell if it the drops of water running down my face are sweat or rain.
It is pelting down, my boots squelch in the mud.
Counting to ten as I put one foot in front of the other. Repeat.
My body aches, I peer up the mountain, searching for the peak.
Thick fog surrounds me, I put my head back down.
One, two, three.
I am deep in concentration so do not hear him at first. ‘Not long now’ he repeats flashing a cheeky smile.
He powers past as I begrudgingly sigh, ‘Only 29 days to go.’
#62 - Tokyo Twilight by Suzy Pope
Steam from the yakitori grill blurred the mushroom parade of umbrellas down Omoide Yokocho. Rain lashed Tokyo’s streets.
Quietly sipping an Asahi I planned my escape. Salarymen with rumbled shirts and loose ties passed around a microphone.
“Billy Jean is not my brother,” they screeched to tinny beats.
I’d accidentally crashed an anniversary party.
The microphone reached my end of the bar. I stood up to leave, but red-faces pleaded with me. I was 5,000 miles from home. Nobody knew me. I sang my heart out, off-key. They bought me enough Saki to see me through to 5am.
Steam from the yakitori grill blurred the mushroom parade of umbrellas down Omoide Yokocho. Rain lashed Tokyo’s streets.
Quietly sipping an Asahi I planned my escape. Salarymen with rumbled shirts and loose ties passed around a microphone.
“Billy Jean is not my brother,” they screeched to tinny beats.
I’d accidentally crashed an anniversary party.
The microphone reached my end of the bar. I stood up to leave, but red-faces pleaded with me. I was 5,000 miles from home. Nobody knew me. I sang my heart out, off-key. They bought me enough Saki to see me through to 5am.
#61 – Let there be Dragons by Deb Bott
Indonesia’s ‘Komodo Island’ is not for the faint hearted. The tour briefing said: not to run if we had a dragon charging us ‘yeah right’.
You smell them before you see them. Weighing in around 90 kilos and 3 meters long, the Komodo dragon is a frightening sight.
At the epi center eight dragons lazed in the hot sun. A staffer threw them some chicken carcasses and holy moly. All the dragons took off like grease lightening to get their share.
Now they were disturbed, crawling around the ground, slobbering, tongues smelling, they now wanted more and were looking at us!
Indonesia’s ‘Komodo Island’ is not for the faint hearted. The tour briefing said: not to run if we had a dragon charging us ‘yeah right’.
You smell them before you see them. Weighing in around 90 kilos and 3 meters long, the Komodo dragon is a frightening sight.
At the epi center eight dragons lazed in the hot sun. A staffer threw them some chicken carcasses and holy moly. All the dragons took off like grease lightening to get their share.
Now they were disturbed, crawling around the ground, slobbering, tongues smelling, they now wanted more and were looking at us!
#60 - Ferry to Albania by Vernon Lacey
A seabird hovered in the upper air, and then fell like an arrow, disappearing in the sea haze. I watched from a ferry deck as the boat chugged across the Ionian sea, Corfu distant, and the port of Saranda in Albania fast approaching. It was 1996. I’d volunteered for a summer-long, charity project renovating a maternity hospital in the north of the impoverished, ex-communist country. I’d read stories of violent gangs on remote roads. Ambushes. Dress like a pauper, we were told. In that hyphen of time, gliding over the sea, danger seemed impossible, and my heart was at peace.
A seabird hovered in the upper air, and then fell like an arrow, disappearing in the sea haze. I watched from a ferry deck as the boat chugged across the Ionian sea, Corfu distant, and the port of Saranda in Albania fast approaching. It was 1996. I’d volunteered for a summer-long, charity project renovating a maternity hospital in the north of the impoverished, ex-communist country. I’d read stories of violent gangs on remote roads. Ambushes. Dress like a pauper, we were told. In that hyphen of time, gliding over the sea, danger seemed impossible, and my heart was at peace.
#59 - See you later, Alligator by Katie Parry
Disney World Florida. A whirl of candyfloss and creepy mouse costumes. In the Everglades, we can finally breath. Canoeing with alligators is to be the highlight. Alas, I get over-competitive during a race home and tip myself and my mother into the swamp. Panic! We thrash around, desperate to get out of the water. Our passports sink without trace. Back on dry land, I am in disgrace. My penance? To sit for hours turning individual pages of our weed-covered bird book to stop them from sticking together. And, much worse, no sour jelly beans for the rest of the holiday.
Disney World Florida. A whirl of candyfloss and creepy mouse costumes. In the Everglades, we can finally breath. Canoeing with alligators is to be the highlight. Alas, I get over-competitive during a race home and tip myself and my mother into the swamp. Panic! We thrash around, desperate to get out of the water. Our passports sink without trace. Back on dry land, I am in disgrace. My penance? To sit for hours turning individual pages of our weed-covered bird book to stop them from sticking together. And, much worse, no sour jelly beans for the rest of the holiday.
#58 - A Call of Nature by Malcolm D. Welshman
My call of Nature came one moonlit night, the rocky ridges of southern Sudan awash with silver. I slipped out of our tent, careful not to wake my girlfriend and clambered up the slope.
My relief was short-lived when each side of me deep-throated snarls erupted. I hurtled back down to the tent. The snuffles followed.
I nudged Maxeen. ‘Listen,’ I hissed, rasping purrs just inches beyond the canvas. ‘Leopards.’
She half-woke. ‘Frogs,’ she murmured drowsily and fell asleep again.
When we emerged the next morning, large pug marks encircled the tent.
‘Bloody large frogs,’ was all I could say.
My call of Nature came one moonlit night, the rocky ridges of southern Sudan awash with silver. I slipped out of our tent, careful not to wake my girlfriend and clambered up the slope.
My relief was short-lived when each side of me deep-throated snarls erupted. I hurtled back down to the tent. The snuffles followed.
I nudged Maxeen. ‘Listen,’ I hissed, rasping purrs just inches beyond the canvas. ‘Leopards.’
She half-woke. ‘Frogs,’ she murmured drowsily and fell asleep again.
When we emerged the next morning, large pug marks encircled the tent.
‘Bloody large frogs,’ was all I could say.
#57 - Brief Encounter #3 by Dolores Banerd
In Bangkok, often I breakfast at an outdoor café that opens into a guesthouse. Mostly all I see there are guests checking in and guests checking out, but today is different.
I was spooning my oatmeal when a bleary-eyed, silver-haired, sixty-something man—white—staggered out of his room bellowing, “She took my wallet, my watch, everything! Oh, my God.”
Not a muscle twitched on the Asian receptionist’s stony face.
“I warned you many times not to bring Thai girls back to your room,” she said.
Ah, a soap-dishy drama with my bland bowl of oatmeal. I lucked out.
In Bangkok, often I breakfast at an outdoor café that opens into a guesthouse. Mostly all I see there are guests checking in and guests checking out, but today is different.
I was spooning my oatmeal when a bleary-eyed, silver-haired, sixty-something man—white—staggered out of his room bellowing, “She took my wallet, my watch, everything! Oh, my God.”
Not a muscle twitched on the Asian receptionist’s stony face.
“I warned you many times not to bring Thai girls back to your room,” she said.
Ah, a soap-dishy drama with my bland bowl of oatmeal. I lucked out.
#56 - COME ON by Syd Blackwell
And are you interesting she began
as though the conversation had already
Are you interested he countered
Can you teach me something she persisted
I have been where you have not
Ah then you are a traveller
There are many ways to travel
And what ways have you travelled
I have travelled the ways of the eagle and the dove
the seeker and the lover
and walked the paths that only I may walk
Then let me walk the path to tomorrow
with you today
And interestingly he did
And are you interesting she began
as though the conversation had already
Are you interested he countered
Can you teach me something she persisted
I have been where you have not
Ah then you are a traveller
There are many ways to travel
And what ways have you travelled
I have travelled the ways of the eagle and the dove
the seeker and the lover
and walked the paths that only I may walk
Then let me walk the path to tomorrow
with you today
And interestingly he did
#55 – Lochside by James Robertson
I couldn’t take my eyes off the view that the small reception of our hostel was blessed with.
The body of Loch Ness.
I made my way from the hostel down to the banks of the loch. The serene lake, made bright blue by the reflection of the clear sky, stretched out in front of me. Far on the other side was a lush forest, unimpeded by the man-made. From left to right, there was no end to the loch in sight.
It appeared to go on forever.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the view that the small reception of our hostel was blessed with.
The body of Loch Ness.
I made my way from the hostel down to the banks of the loch. The serene lake, made bright blue by the reflection of the clear sky, stretched out in front of me. Far on the other side was a lush forest, unimpeded by the man-made. From left to right, there was no end to the loch in sight.
It appeared to go on forever.
#54 - Bear out of Nowhere by James Robertson
“If we saw a bear,” said Sally, “I’d just run.”
Anything was possible. The dense forests could conceal any predator Yosemite might throw at us.
As we drove, cars in front began slowing down until we had stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
Sightseers leapt from vehicles, clutching their cameras. We tentatively followed, past the parked cars to the travellers by the roadside. And there she was. A body of rippling brown fur lumbered in the green meadow. Her ears twitched as she sniffed through the shrubbery.
Awestruck; we couldn’t even bring ourselves to take a photo. All we could do was stare.
“If we saw a bear,” said Sally, “I’d just run.”
Anything was possible. The dense forests could conceal any predator Yosemite might throw at us.
As we drove, cars in front began slowing down until we had stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
Sightseers leapt from vehicles, clutching their cameras. We tentatively followed, past the parked cars to the travellers by the roadside. And there she was. A body of rippling brown fur lumbered in the green meadow. Her ears twitched as she sniffed through the shrubbery.
Awestruck; we couldn’t even bring ourselves to take a photo. All we could do was stare.
#53 - All Roads Lead to Seligman by James Robertson
“On this site in 1897,” read the plaque, “nothing happened.”
And nothing had happened since. Aside from the completion of Route 66.
Walking down the street I could smell the old burning rubber imbedded in the tarmac. It was as if every American car had passed through Seligman, and with it every American town too.
The hulks of re-painted vehicles lounged by the roadside. Number plates dotted the walls coloured with red, white and blue.
A pole stood directing me to Berlin, Melbourne, Glasgow and Rome. But road signs wouldn’t let me forget; I was still on Route 66.
“On this site in 1897,” read the plaque, “nothing happened.”
And nothing had happened since. Aside from the completion of Route 66.
Walking down the street I could smell the old burning rubber imbedded in the tarmac. It was as if every American car had passed through Seligman, and with it every American town too.
The hulks of re-painted vehicles lounged by the roadside. Number plates dotted the walls coloured with red, white and blue.
A pole stood directing me to Berlin, Melbourne, Glasgow and Rome. But road signs wouldn’t let me forget; I was still on Route 66.
#52 - Basilica View by James Robertson
Despite my claustrophobia I ascended the Esztergom Basilica; the largest church in Hungary.
Enclosed by ageing walls, I took each narrow step slowly.
Once I’d survived, the landscape met me warmly. Red-capped roofs jutted out of the tree-line. Boats dotted the shimmering surface of the Danube. The only bridge in sight crossed from Hungary to Slovakia. The neighbour melted into the horizon, conjoining fertile hills with the misty skyline.
My outlook was bookend by two blue domes, topped with crosses. I’m not religious. But no Atheist could deny the beauty that the Esztergom Basilica displays.
Despite my claustrophobia I ascended the Esztergom Basilica; the largest church in Hungary.
Enclosed by ageing walls, I took each narrow step slowly.
Once I’d survived, the landscape met me warmly. Red-capped roofs jutted out of the tree-line. Boats dotted the shimmering surface of the Danube. The only bridge in sight crossed from Hungary to Slovakia. The neighbour melted into the horizon, conjoining fertile hills with the misty skyline.
My outlook was bookend by two blue domes, topped with crosses. I’m not religious. But no Atheist could deny the beauty that the Esztergom Basilica displays.
#51 - Otters by the Pier by James Robertson
We finally arrived in Monterey.
Getting out of the car, I made my way from the carpark to a small beach beside a pier which stretched out into the bay. The sun setting cut through the dappled clouds, coating the sea in yellow. Waves lapped against the concrete pier. Gulls cawed overhead. Docked ships creaked as they swayed. But there was another sound. Squeaking perhaps.
I saw, writhing in the seaweed, a young sea otter. Nearby was its mother, lying on her back, scraping shells on her belly. The baby dived playfully, slinking amongst the kelp.
I was in awe.
We finally arrived in Monterey.
Getting out of the car, I made my way from the carpark to a small beach beside a pier which stretched out into the bay. The sun setting cut through the dappled clouds, coating the sea in yellow. Waves lapped against the concrete pier. Gulls cawed overhead. Docked ships creaked as they swayed. But there was another sound. Squeaking perhaps.
I saw, writhing in the seaweed, a young sea otter. Nearby was its mother, lying on her back, scraping shells on her belly. The baby dived playfully, slinking amongst the kelp.
I was in awe.
#50 - St Mark’s Square, Venice 1975 by Robyn Boswell
In awe to actually be in the magnificence of St Mark’s Square, we gather together in a huddle around our guide, Bill. None of us notices the elderly gentleman hovering on the edges of our group. Bill continues extolling the virtues and history of this fascinating, ancient city. Finally he announces “Venice is sinking at the rate of a few centimetres a year.”
The elderly gent pushes through the crowd, clenches his fist, waves it in Bill’s face. His voice rises in anger. “Veneeze is not a-sinking! Veneeze is not a-sinking!”
His words still echo down through the years.
In awe to actually be in the magnificence of St Mark’s Square, we gather together in a huddle around our guide, Bill. None of us notices the elderly gentleman hovering on the edges of our group. Bill continues extolling the virtues and history of this fascinating, ancient city. Finally he announces “Venice is sinking at the rate of a few centimetres a year.”
The elderly gent pushes through the crowd, clenches his fist, waves it in Bill’s face. His voice rises in anger. “Veneeze is not a-sinking! Veneeze is not a-sinking!”
His words still echo down through the years.
#49 - Frosty Morning, Scotland by Robyn Boswell
The trees have sung the songs of autumn and now their bare, blackened fingers claw at the silver sky. Grass crunches under my feet and I brush swirls of white off the heather bushes lining the path. The long-horned red beasties by the fence breathe clouds into the frigid air and shake the snow out of their shaggy coats. I reach the tiny loch, ready to try my first ever step on a frozen pond. One step and a boom echoes through the still air as a crack opens up right across the loch. I jump back – not this time!
The trees have sung the songs of autumn and now their bare, blackened fingers claw at the silver sky. Grass crunches under my feet and I brush swirls of white off the heather bushes lining the path. The long-horned red beasties by the fence breathe clouds into the frigid air and shake the snow out of their shaggy coats. I reach the tiny loch, ready to try my first ever step on a frozen pond. One step and a boom echoes through the still air as a crack opens up right across the loch. I jump back – not this time!
#48 - Autumnal Glory by Malcolm D. Welshman
The forest cloaks me in the full splendour of its autumn’s mantle. The burnished browns, golds and reds of the beeches. The sweet smell of their mast drifting with the falling leaves. The distant tap-tap of a woodpecker. A fallen log, decayed. A haven for fungi, red capped, polka-dotted white, tongues of caramel brown, cream-gilled. A stream rainbow-dances over a gravel bed. Diamonds of water sparkle and flash to vanish with a tinkling gurgle into a thicket of blue-green conifers. Within, a deep bed of pine needles carpet an emerald twilit grotto. Nature’s magic is spellbinding. I stand entranced.
The forest cloaks me in the full splendour of its autumn’s mantle. The burnished browns, golds and reds of the beeches. The sweet smell of their mast drifting with the falling leaves. The distant tap-tap of a woodpecker. A fallen log, decayed. A haven for fungi, red capped, polka-dotted white, tongues of caramel brown, cream-gilled. A stream rainbow-dances over a gravel bed. Diamonds of water sparkle and flash to vanish with a tinkling gurgle into a thicket of blue-green conifers. Within, a deep bed of pine needles carpet an emerald twilit grotto. Nature’s magic is spellbinding. I stand entranced.
#47 - The Battambang Bamboo Train by Alan Passey
When we dripped from the bus the track was clear.
Two paper thin men lifted a pair of loose axles onto the rails. A bamboo board loaded with a boat motor rested between them. An axle hooked to the motor with a cam belt.
Warily, we scrambled aboard, settling to the middle.
Thin Man One yanked the starter cord and we lurched, grabbing handholds.
“Must get to the station before the real train comes”, shouted Thin Man Two above the din.
We hurtled along at ground level. I was ten years old again being fast, naughty and slightly dangerous.
When we dripped from the bus the track was clear.
Two paper thin men lifted a pair of loose axles onto the rails. A bamboo board loaded with a boat motor rested between them. An axle hooked to the motor with a cam belt.
Warily, we scrambled aboard, settling to the middle.
Thin Man One yanked the starter cord and we lurched, grabbing handholds.
“Must get to the station before the real train comes”, shouted Thin Man Two above the din.
We hurtled along at ground level. I was ten years old again being fast, naughty and slightly dangerous.
#46 - The Blessing by Alan Passey
We agreed that he was beautiful. The young shaven monk, twenty years old at most, amber robed and with skin as smooth as silk, sat smiling contentedly at the ungainly Westerners ranged before him. Each of us would receive a blessing, when, in turn, we shuffled forward, place our palms together and bend in supplication. He acknowledged each ungainly wobble on knees no longer fit for purpose.
A short prayer in Khmer, for our knees, probably. A red band tied around our wrists to signify the blessing.
Six weeks later I still wear the band. My knees are holding out.
We agreed that he was beautiful. The young shaven monk, twenty years old at most, amber robed and with skin as smooth as silk, sat smiling contentedly at the ungainly Westerners ranged before him. Each of us would receive a blessing, when, in turn, we shuffled forward, place our palms together and bend in supplication. He acknowledged each ungainly wobble on knees no longer fit for purpose.
A short prayer in Khmer, for our knees, probably. A red band tied around our wrists to signify the blessing.
Six weeks later I still wear the band. My knees are holding out.
#45 - A Taste of Time Travel by Sunny Lockwood
My Peruvian taxi driver says the most popular soft drink in the nation is Inca Kola.
"What's it taste like?" I ask.
He smiles mysteriously, "Unforgettable."
Suddenly, despite historic churches and monuments, all I want is to taste Inca Kola.
I get my wish.
Inca Kola is yellow. Not pale yellow like lemonade. Piercing yellow like neon on a rainy night.
One sip and I'm immediately a child again, standing at our local grocery candy counter. Dusty sweetness. Excitement. Little kid giddiness. What time travel magic!
Another swallow and I understand. I get it.
Inca Kola tastes like bubble gum.
My Peruvian taxi driver says the most popular soft drink in the nation is Inca Kola.
"What's it taste like?" I ask.
He smiles mysteriously, "Unforgettable."
Suddenly, despite historic churches and monuments, all I want is to taste Inca Kola.
I get my wish.
Inca Kola is yellow. Not pale yellow like lemonade. Piercing yellow like neon on a rainy night.
One sip and I'm immediately a child again, standing at our local grocery candy counter. Dusty sweetness. Excitement. Little kid giddiness. What time travel magic!
Another swallow and I understand. I get it.
Inca Kola tastes like bubble gum.
#44 - Broome, Western Australia by Helen Bing
Early this morning, the sun had turned the water a gentle turquoise, and the silvery light danced on the surface. Now the tide has filled the bay and the colour has intensified. A light breeze touches the surface.
The coastline that this morning sizzled with rich reds have now morphed into softer, sandy tones by the sun’s shadows. Scraggy trees silhouette the clear skyline. Gulls screech across the water.
It’s raw. It’s pristine. It’s Western Australia.
Early this morning, the sun had turned the water a gentle turquoise, and the silvery light danced on the surface. Now the tide has filled the bay and the colour has intensified. A light breeze touches the surface.
The coastline that this morning sizzled with rich reds have now morphed into softer, sandy tones by the sun’s shadows. Scraggy trees silhouette the clear skyline. Gulls screech across the water.
It’s raw. It’s pristine. It’s Western Australia.
#43 - In a Caravan Built for Two by Helen Bing
Thirty six hours from New Zealand to England, with 3 children, ready to
spend our first night of our 3 month stay in my sister-in-law’s 12 foot
caravan. That included the tow bar!
We’re jet lagged, and overwhelmed after a day with the extended family.
We’re tired.
Now it’s just us, the luggage and the caravan. We need sleep.
The sling style top bunk for you my daughter.
The divan bed below is for you, my son.
In between Mum and Dad, young one.
Sleep well, one and all.
Thirty six hours from New Zealand to England, with 3 children, ready to
spend our first night of our 3 month stay in my sister-in-law’s 12 foot
caravan. That included the tow bar!
We’re jet lagged, and overwhelmed after a day with the extended family.
We’re tired.
Now it’s just us, the luggage and the caravan. We need sleep.
The sling style top bunk for you my daughter.
The divan bed below is for you, my son.
In between Mum and Dad, young one.
Sleep well, one and all.
#42 - SUNSET by Syd Blackwell
From the sandstone bluffs
that rise abruptly
above the sand at Atlántida
the summer sun had not yet set
From the perspective of the beach
it was just disappearing
and a ripple of clapping
rolled into a wave
A mostly standing ovation
for this day’s duration
thank you for the sun now done
Applause crept up the bluffs
until all about me
homage was paid
to the sun
for the day it had made
From the sandstone bluffs
that rise abruptly
above the sand at Atlántida
the summer sun had not yet set
From the perspective of the beach
it was just disappearing
and a ripple of clapping
rolled into a wave
A mostly standing ovation
for this day’s duration
thank you for the sun now done
Applause crept up the bluffs
until all about me
homage was paid
to the sun
for the day it had made
#41 - Berlin East by Adrian Sturrock
The bar is ambiguously lit, allowing each table complete anonymity amongst the dark corners of the room. I laughingly describe the décor as ‘heroin-chic’; it is stark and decaying. This isn’t my usual type of haunt, but I do find comfort in it. The graffiti that has grown like wild ivy outside, consuming concrete and metal, appears to have spread its way in through the doorway and infected every aspect of the building with its imperative to communicate. It’s ugly; it’s unflinching; it’s reassuring. It says that Berlin is owned by its people, not by statesmen or sterile corporations.
The bar is ambiguously lit, allowing each table complete anonymity amongst the dark corners of the room. I laughingly describe the décor as ‘heroin-chic’; it is stark and decaying. This isn’t my usual type of haunt, but I do find comfort in it. The graffiti that has grown like wild ivy outside, consuming concrete and metal, appears to have spread its way in through the doorway and infected every aspect of the building with its imperative to communicate. It’s ugly; it’s unflinching; it’s reassuring. It says that Berlin is owned by its people, not by statesmen or sterile corporations.
#40 - Drowning in Berlin by Adrian Sturrock
I’m sitting in a bar with a friend, just a few hundred metres from a stretch of remaining Berlin Wall that flanks the river on this side of town. It’s late October, it’s well past dusk, and the rain that has consistently fallen since I arrived in this city is busy reflecting and animating the electric lights of surrounding buildings, passing cars, and the occasional glare of the overhead trains that intermittently rumble past our window. My first impression of this city is that it is hard, brutal, monochrome. Why then do I instantly feel comfortable here?
I’m sitting in a bar with a friend, just a few hundred metres from a stretch of remaining Berlin Wall that flanks the river on this side of town. It’s late October, it’s well past dusk, and the rain that has consistently fallen since I arrived in this city is busy reflecting and animating the electric lights of surrounding buildings, passing cars, and the occasional glare of the overhead trains that intermittently rumble past our window. My first impression of this city is that it is hard, brutal, monochrome. Why then do I instantly feel comfortable here?
#39 - A Thai Swim by Mark Boyter
My skin has turned the colour of hazelnuts. I float, and it glistens below the surface and catches the white filament lines from the sun. Nut brown in aqua. A wave laps into the sand, thins, dissolves, and is gone. Then another. Then quiet.
The steps at my hut are sandy and they burn against my bare feet. Coconut wood, baked silver and warped in the sun. It is just noon. Hang my towel on the clothesline. The horizon shimmers, azure over emerald. There is another island. The palms rustle, and then again, and then quiet. Like yesterday. Like tomorrow.
My skin has turned the colour of hazelnuts. I float, and it glistens below the surface and catches the white filament lines from the sun. Nut brown in aqua. A wave laps into the sand, thins, dissolves, and is gone. Then another. Then quiet.
The steps at my hut are sandy and they burn against my bare feet. Coconut wood, baked silver and warped in the sun. It is just noon. Hang my towel on the clothesline. The horizon shimmers, azure over emerald. There is another island. The palms rustle, and then again, and then quiet. Like yesterday. Like tomorrow.
#38 - Just 24 hours - Paris to Amiens by Elizabeth Moore
An early train from Gare du Nord. The hotel waitress named Matilda. World cup games streaming in the foyer. An early start to Hamel. Site of the 93 minute battle. An allied victory. The trenches still outlined in the soil. Surrounded by wheatfields. Poppies growing among the sugar beet. Driving to Villers-Bretonneux. Passing the lonely road taken to battle. The graves in white military rows. The beloved family name chiseled in marble. A time to talk to one never met. Tears for the life never lived in full. Lest We Forget.
An early train from Gare du Nord. The hotel waitress named Matilda. World cup games streaming in the foyer. An early start to Hamel. Site of the 93 minute battle. An allied victory. The trenches still outlined in the soil. Surrounded by wheatfields. Poppies growing among the sugar beet. Driving to Villers-Bretonneux. Passing the lonely road taken to battle. The graves in white military rows. The beloved family name chiseled in marble. A time to talk to one never met. Tears for the life never lived in full. Lest We Forget.
#37 - Not eating noodles the right way by Julie Watson
I enter the brightly lit noodle shop and point. The house speciality, please. Knotty brown noodles in a seaweed soup. My first day in Japan - a gaijin, fresh off the plane.
I sit, wait, nervously twiddle the bamboo waribashi, practising my chopstick technique. A steaming bowl arrives. I dip (don’t spear), clasp firmly, raise and suck.
Help! I’m being watched. A Japanese family. All eyes glued on me. What’s wrong? Uncoordinated chopsticks? Slurping?
“Hidari-kiki?” asks the mother.
Left-hander? Then a lightbulb moment. Yes, I am! Rarely seen in this land of 90% right-handedness. But my table manners went unnoticed.
I enter the brightly lit noodle shop and point. The house speciality, please. Knotty brown noodles in a seaweed soup. My first day in Japan - a gaijin, fresh off the plane.
I sit, wait, nervously twiddle the bamboo waribashi, practising my chopstick technique. A steaming bowl arrives. I dip (don’t spear), clasp firmly, raise and suck.
Help! I’m being watched. A Japanese family. All eyes glued on me. What’s wrong? Uncoordinated chopsticks? Slurping?
“Hidari-kiki?” asks the mother.
Left-hander? Then a lightbulb moment. Yes, I am! Rarely seen in this land of 90% right-handedness. But my table manners went unnoticed.
#36 - Cinderella in Përmet by Elizabeth Gowing
My plate had been studded with amber, jade and ruby. These were Përmet’s famous ‘gliko’ sweetmeats, made from walnut, aubergine and pumpkin.
The secret lies in first soaking the rinds in lime. Then they’re boiled in sugar and lemon juice with geranium flowers to produce a tender, fragrant treat.
With lunch finished I was now trying another southern Albanian indulgence – the nearby warm springs.
There had been no-one at the natural pool so I’d stripped, and lolled here in the blue water feeling the sulphur-softness on my rejuvenated and sweetened skin; experiencing what can happen to pumpkins in Përmet.
My plate had been studded with amber, jade and ruby. These were Përmet’s famous ‘gliko’ sweetmeats, made from walnut, aubergine and pumpkin.
The secret lies in first soaking the rinds in lime. Then they’re boiled in sugar and lemon juice with geranium flowers to produce a tender, fragrant treat.
With lunch finished I was now trying another southern Albanian indulgence – the nearby warm springs.
There had been no-one at the natural pool so I’d stripped, and lolled here in the blue water feeling the sulphur-softness on my rejuvenated and sweetened skin; experiencing what can happen to pumpkins in Përmet.
#35 - VIBRATIONS by Syd Blackwell
Winter driving in northern British Columbia is tough. My whole body was tingling. I found a motel. I just wanted to flop on the bed for an hour. I switched on the room light and then I saw it! I had a Magic Fingers Vibrating Bed ! I´d never seen one. However, I didn’t need more motion. I just flopped on the bed. And it started vibrating! Then it stopped. I got up, checked the bed, checked the coin box, and then warily lay back down. Nothing happened. Later, at the restaurant, everyone was talking about the small earthquake.
Winter driving in northern British Columbia is tough. My whole body was tingling. I found a motel. I just wanted to flop on the bed for an hour. I switched on the room light and then I saw it! I had a Magic Fingers Vibrating Bed ! I´d never seen one. However, I didn’t need more motion. I just flopped on the bed. And it started vibrating! Then it stopped. I got up, checked the bed, checked the coin box, and then warily lay back down. Nothing happened. Later, at the restaurant, everyone was talking about the small earthquake.
#34 - A Number Followed by Lots of Zeros by Ronald Mackay
“For your expenses, Sir. Please sign.”
The wad of twenty-eight million pastel-coloured Rupiah notes surprised me by their modesty.
I signed; locked most in my room-safe; attended my appointment.
“We’ll talk in the gardens created when Java was Dutch.”
We planned, reviewed, agreed all project details.
A screech, irate, blocked my exit from the restroom. The official hand demanded payment due. Uncertain, I selected a pretty note. A number followed by lots of zeros. The screech transformed into a prayer, hands pressed together in recognition of the divinity in me.
For whoever tips a year’s earnings indeed must be divine.
“For your expenses, Sir. Please sign.”
The wad of twenty-eight million pastel-coloured Rupiah notes surprised me by their modesty.
I signed; locked most in my room-safe; attended my appointment.
“We’ll talk in the gardens created when Java was Dutch.”
We planned, reviewed, agreed all project details.
A screech, irate, blocked my exit from the restroom. The official hand demanded payment due. Uncertain, I selected a pretty note. A number followed by lots of zeros. The screech transformed into a prayer, hands pressed together in recognition of the divinity in me.
For whoever tips a year’s earnings indeed must be divine.
#33 - There’s nothing funny about the philtrum by Mark Boyter
When you are in Pokhara, Nepal, in a two-chair wood frame barber shop getting a straight razor shave, and after the barber has lathered your whiskers and dabbed your moustache and stropped the razor and proved it once, twice, through a square of paper and scraped clean your throat and cheeks and he takes you by the nostrils and pulls your head back and presses the blade firm against the hollow of tightened skin above your lip and in the mirror you see your friend pull his nose and snort, the most important thing to remember is not to laugh.
When you are in Pokhara, Nepal, in a two-chair wood frame barber shop getting a straight razor shave, and after the barber has lathered your whiskers and dabbed your moustache and stropped the razor and proved it once, twice, through a square of paper and scraped clean your throat and cheeks and he takes you by the nostrils and pulls your head back and presses the blade firm against the hollow of tightened skin above your lip and in the mirror you see your friend pull his nose and snort, the most important thing to remember is not to laugh.
#32 - BRIEF ENCOUNTER #2 by Dolores Banerd
Mosquitos? I’ve met many, but none were as excited to see me as the ones I encountered at a modest guesthouse in sleepy Nong Khai in northeast Thailand.
They laughed hysterically every time I slathered myself with repellent then buzzed with glee as they furiously attacked me gorging on my blood until bursting.
What’s worse? They ruined my chances for a sizzling tryst with a new friend, a rakish Dutchman. Apparently, he was put-off by my incessant scratching, scratching, scratching and my body (once so luscious) with dozens of ugly red bumps failed to entice him. I’ll never forgive them.
Mosquitos? I’ve met many, but none were as excited to see me as the ones I encountered at a modest guesthouse in sleepy Nong Khai in northeast Thailand.
They laughed hysterically every time I slathered myself with repellent then buzzed with glee as they furiously attacked me gorging on my blood until bursting.
What’s worse? They ruined my chances for a sizzling tryst with a new friend, a rakish Dutchman. Apparently, he was put-off by my incessant scratching, scratching, scratching and my body (once so luscious) with dozens of ugly red bumps failed to entice him. I’ll never forgive them.
#31 - BRIEF ENCOUNTER #1 by Dolores Banerd
The hunky Swede I met by chance at a sidewalk cafe in Bangkok started to explain to me why he can’t tell anyone back home what he and his buddies saw (and did?) in Pattaya, the raunchy sex capital of Thailand. He seemed genuinely disgusted.
I am eager to hear the lurid details—practically salivating—but before he can spill them the driver of the van taking him to the airport blasts his horn.
I was so disappointed, but felt better the minute I moved Pattaya to the top of my list of places to visit. I can’t wait.
The hunky Swede I met by chance at a sidewalk cafe in Bangkok started to explain to me why he can’t tell anyone back home what he and his buddies saw (and did?) in Pattaya, the raunchy sex capital of Thailand. He seemed genuinely disgusted.
I am eager to hear the lurid details—practically salivating—but before he can spill them the driver of the van taking him to the airport blasts his horn.
I was so disappointed, but felt better the minute I moved Pattaya to the top of my list of places to visit. I can’t wait.
#30 - It’s a Small World by Robyn Boswell
After a few weeks in the dryness of the Australian desert, Innot Hot Springs was an oasis, promising a chance to soak our weary bones. My sister and I soaked in the motel’s hot outdoor pool under a cascade of stars, chatting to the only other guests, an Australian couple. Hearing we were from New Zealand, they said they only knew one person in New Zealand, in Dunedin, almost as far away from our home as it was possible to get. We only knew one person in Dunedin. Chatted further. Their friend was our friend’s brother. Strange, but true!
After a few weeks in the dryness of the Australian desert, Innot Hot Springs was an oasis, promising a chance to soak our weary bones. My sister and I soaked in the motel’s hot outdoor pool under a cascade of stars, chatting to the only other guests, an Australian couple. Hearing we were from New Zealand, they said they only knew one person in New Zealand, in Dunedin, almost as far away from our home as it was possible to get. We only knew one person in Dunedin. Chatted further. Their friend was our friend’s brother. Strange, but true!
#29 - Shaky Isles by Robyn Boswell
12am. Woke up as my bed slid backwards and forwards across the floor. Looked across the motel room at Julie sitting bolt upright in her bed. Said to her “Is this an earthquake?” No reply. Suddenly everything began to groan, crack and bang; cupboard doors crashed open and shut, open and shut. The beds kept sliding then juddered as they bounced up and down. The land roared. Eventually Julie said “Is it supposed to last this long?” Slowly the movement stopped and absolute silence reigned. On reflection, a 7.8 was an overwhelming introduction to my first earthquake.
12am. Woke up as my bed slid backwards and forwards across the floor. Looked across the motel room at Julie sitting bolt upright in her bed. Said to her “Is this an earthquake?” No reply. Suddenly everything began to groan, crack and bang; cupboard doors crashed open and shut, open and shut. The beds kept sliding then juddered as they bounced up and down. The land roared. Eventually Julie said “Is it supposed to last this long?” Slowly the movement stopped and absolute silence reigned. On reflection, a 7.8 was an overwhelming introduction to my first earthquake.
#28 - Just One Day by Robyn Boswell
Blue, smudgy early morning light in Wells Beach, Maine. The grey clapboard houses standing shoulder to shoulder crowded the beach. So alien to my eyes, used to the South Pacific’s clear, sharp colours. I wandered down the hard sand and dabbled my feet in the cold crispness of the Atlantic Ocean. Hours later, late afternoon, in bold, brash, noisy Los Angeles. I took a taxi to Santa Monica, wandered down the soft sand by the pier and paddled in the warm Pacific. My ocean, but still not my home. One day, two great oceans.
Blue, smudgy early morning light in Wells Beach, Maine. The grey clapboard houses standing shoulder to shoulder crowded the beach. So alien to my eyes, used to the South Pacific’s clear, sharp colours. I wandered down the hard sand and dabbled my feet in the cold crispness of the Atlantic Ocean. Hours later, late afternoon, in bold, brash, noisy Los Angeles. I took a taxi to Santa Monica, wandered down the soft sand by the pier and paddled in the warm Pacific. My ocean, but still not my home. One day, two great oceans.
#27 - Amritha by Brigid Gallagher
The temple guide placed two small medals featuring Sai Baba and Shirdi Sai, in the palms of my hand, before an amber liquid began to fill them from NOWHERE!
"Please drink," he urged.
I felt the taste of heavenly flowers tantalize my tongue, before my palms filled yet again with the delicious nectar.
"The liquid is known as Amritha," he continued.
I drank once more, as the wonder was repeated for a third and final time, then I handed him back the miracle producing medals.
"You enjoyed?
"It tasted divine," I replied.
I left the temple feeling incredibly blessed.
The temple guide placed two small medals featuring Sai Baba and Shirdi Sai, in the palms of my hand, before an amber liquid began to fill them from NOWHERE!
"Please drink," he urged.
I felt the taste of heavenly flowers tantalize my tongue, before my palms filled yet again with the delicious nectar.
"The liquid is known as Amritha," he continued.
I drank once more, as the wonder was repeated for a third and final time, then I handed him back the miracle producing medals.
"You enjoyed?
"It tasted divine," I replied.
I left the temple feeling incredibly blessed.
#26 - The Marriage by Helen Bing
New Zealand one week after our due sailing date. Generator problems. 3.45p.m., wearing our smartest clothes, my friends and I held on to our paper streamers - the norm for 1975.
A voice behind us said, “You’ll be holding on to them for a long time.”
“No,” we replied. “We’re sailing at 4.”
“If you’re right, I owe you drink, if not, you owe me one.”
He was right - inside information.
A week to honour the bet.
Four weeks - getting serious!
Five months - a wedding on the other side of the world.
Forty-three years - still sailing.
New Zealand one week after our due sailing date. Generator problems. 3.45p.m., wearing our smartest clothes, my friends and I held on to our paper streamers - the norm for 1975.
A voice behind us said, “You’ll be holding on to them for a long time.”
“No,” we replied. “We’re sailing at 4.”
“If you’re right, I owe you drink, if not, you owe me one.”
He was right - inside information.
A week to honour the bet.
Four weeks - getting serious!
Five months - a wedding on the other side of the world.
Forty-three years - still sailing.
#25 - FOUR, PLEASE by Nancy McBride
Moving in to my hotel in Saint Malo (FR), I’d barely crammed my suitcase, backpack and swaddled self into the antiquated, one-person elevator, and was selecting my floor when a shorter woman, swathed in a huge cape that swallowed her whole, stealthily insinuated herself in, too, her oozing cape filling any gaps. Compressed. Intimate. Awkward. Jerking, we haltingly ascended. Gears loudly cranking its load upwards, she looked up apologetically, “C’est petit.”
I brightly replied, “Oui, mais automatic!”
Then we both smiled at our clever rhyme as we jolted to a stop, ultimately untangled and went our separate ways.
Moving in to my hotel in Saint Malo (FR), I’d barely crammed my suitcase, backpack and swaddled self into the antiquated, one-person elevator, and was selecting my floor when a shorter woman, swathed in a huge cape that swallowed her whole, stealthily insinuated herself in, too, her oozing cape filling any gaps. Compressed. Intimate. Awkward. Jerking, we haltingly ascended. Gears loudly cranking its load upwards, she looked up apologetically, “C’est petit.”
I brightly replied, “Oui, mais automatic!”
Then we both smiled at our clever rhyme as we jolted to a stop, ultimately untangled and went our separate ways.
#24 - BEACH DAZE, 1954 by Nancy McBride
Misquamicut Beach, RI: We’d ride a wonderful old carousal. Up and down, up and down, the painted horses lulled us around and around to the honky-tonk music of a calliope. Half of that time, we viewed the Atlantic gently lapping the shoreline.
Matunuck Beach, RI: We awoke being swallowed whole by a massive turbulent, hurricane-whipped tidal wave tearing us loose from our reality. Clinging to our cottage, now ark, we were viciously tossed, saturated, half-submerged, spinning around and around, no refuge in sight. Frantic and exhausted, we cheated death for interminable hours. No shoreline. Mayhem. And then…
Misquamicut Beach, RI: We’d ride a wonderful old carousal. Up and down, up and down, the painted horses lulled us around and around to the honky-tonk music of a calliope. Half of that time, we viewed the Atlantic gently lapping the shoreline.
Matunuck Beach, RI: We awoke being swallowed whole by a massive turbulent, hurricane-whipped tidal wave tearing us loose from our reality. Clinging to our cottage, now ark, we were viciously tossed, saturated, half-submerged, spinning around and around, no refuge in sight. Frantic and exhausted, we cheated death for interminable hours. No shoreline. Mayhem. And then…
#23 - Jet-lag Doesn’t Exist by Ronald Mackay
Our organization forbad it.
We worked, then on to Schiphol. We returned, from where barely mentioned.
“Your task! Audit the EU initiative to reintroduce nutritious grains.”
“Eastern Europe?”
“Bolivia, Ecuador and Peru. Quinoa, amaranth.”
“That’s it?”
“Millet in India and Nepal.”
“How long?”
“Twenty days. Then a report To FAO in Rome.”
“Right!”
No direct flights link India with Latin America. I chose Toronto as my hub.
Done!
Twenty-one separate flights; 4,200 Ks of trucking to villages. Looking, listening, asking, reading. Analysing, calculating, writing, confirming and rewriting.
Sleeping? Barely! But alert. The evaluator is always alert.
Jet-lag does not exist.
Our organization forbad it.
We worked, then on to Schiphol. We returned, from where barely mentioned.
“Your task! Audit the EU initiative to reintroduce nutritious grains.”
“Eastern Europe?”
“Bolivia, Ecuador and Peru. Quinoa, amaranth.”
“That’s it?”
“Millet in India and Nepal.”
“How long?”
“Twenty days. Then a report To FAO in Rome.”
“Right!”
No direct flights link India with Latin America. I chose Toronto as my hub.
Done!
Twenty-one separate flights; 4,200 Ks of trucking to villages. Looking, listening, asking, reading. Analysing, calculating, writing, confirming and rewriting.
Sleeping? Barely! But alert. The evaluator is always alert.
Jet-lag does not exist.
#22 - A South American Conversation by Mark Boyter
The dreadlocked young American in the Quito guesthouse leaned into her chair, cradling a mate de coca. “How many times you been robbed?”
I looked at her.
“Everyone I ask says they have,” she said, “so I stopped asking ‘If’.” She took a sip.
“So, how many times?”
“Three,” I said. “Bolivia twice, Ecuador once. My camera at the bus station in La Paz. My wallet in the market in Potosi. My watch on the bus to Guayaquil. Sitting in my seat, arm in the open window. Thief had to jump three feet.”
She smiled and took another sip. “Everyone.”
The dreadlocked young American in the Quito guesthouse leaned into her chair, cradling a mate de coca. “How many times you been robbed?”
I looked at her.
“Everyone I ask says they have,” she said, “so I stopped asking ‘If’.” She took a sip.
“So, how many times?”
“Three,” I said. “Bolivia twice, Ecuador once. My camera at the bus station in La Paz. My wallet in the market in Potosi. My watch on the bus to Guayaquil. Sitting in my seat, arm in the open window. Thief had to jump three feet.”
She smiled and took another sip. “Everyone.”
#21 - Snake Charmer by Alan Passey
Hey guys - We got this. She shouted at the window as they came dragging a dustbin and carrying a long stick.
We stuffed towels into the daylight streaming under the door just as the snake snuck by towards the adjoining outhouse.
It almost made it. Our saviour flipped the stick, hooking the snake into the bin and slamming the lid down tight as it climbed the wall.
We’ll show this to Hank. She grinned. Local snake man.
At dinner, Hank appeared at the door. The snake curling around his hand.
He’s real friendly, he said.
We couldn’t have moved faster.
Hey guys - We got this. She shouted at the window as they came dragging a dustbin and carrying a long stick.
We stuffed towels into the daylight streaming under the door just as the snake snuck by towards the adjoining outhouse.
It almost made it. Our saviour flipped the stick, hooking the snake into the bin and slamming the lid down tight as it climbed the wall.
We’ll show this to Hank. She grinned. Local snake man.
At dinner, Hank appeared at the door. The snake curling around his hand.
He’s real friendly, he said.
We couldn’t have moved faster.
#20 - Just off Sutter by Alan Passey
Indigo sky morphed into dawn breaking cover onto Sutter. The chill smacked my cheeks. A steam vent hissed from the ‘Frisco underworld. Lonely figures hunched to the early shift.
Somewhere I heard a radio. Classical music. Songs I couldn’t tell. Heading away from the bay I found myself walking towards the radio, slowly getting louder.
Then there he was. Alone on an empty street, his voice chiming from the city walls sending deep rounded tones rolling out towards the morning. A tenor, singing for himself. For the joy of singing, and the solitary wanderer who just might happen by.
Indigo sky morphed into dawn breaking cover onto Sutter. The chill smacked my cheeks. A steam vent hissed from the ‘Frisco underworld. Lonely figures hunched to the early shift.
Somewhere I heard a radio. Classical music. Songs I couldn’t tell. Heading away from the bay I found myself walking towards the radio, slowly getting louder.
Then there he was. Alone on an empty street, his voice chiming from the city walls sending deep rounded tones rolling out towards the morning. A tenor, singing for himself. For the joy of singing, and the solitary wanderer who just might happen by.
#19 - Lithuanian Sauna by Philip East
The heat is enveloping. With each thrash of doused birch on scorched rock
a new wave of fire wrought steam catches in the throat, as pores are wrenched open and as filth and sweat glisten and pool.
I cannot stand it anymore.
Bursting out onto the manicured lawn I leap into the murky pond. One final suspension in the dying light of a sparkling Baltic Spring, the privet hedges and thick forest, the vegetable patch and chain link fence, the distant barking dog.
Then the fall.
The heat is enveloping. With each thrash of doused birch on scorched rock
a new wave of fire wrought steam catches in the throat, as pores are wrenched open and as filth and sweat glisten and pool.
I cannot stand it anymore.
Bursting out onto the manicured lawn I leap into the murky pond. One final suspension in the dying light of a sparkling Baltic Spring, the privet hedges and thick forest, the vegetable patch and chain link fence, the distant barking dog.
Then the fall.
#18 - ON A STREET IN BOGOTÁ by Syd Blackwell
Potato chips someone has dropped
now broken on a grimy walk
the ragged man bends low to ground
and sweeps the bits into a mound
his blackened fingers lift the crumbs
to bearded mouth with hunger numb
but passersby do not see this
his desperation they all miss
Bogotá, Colombia
03/07/12
Potato chips someone has dropped
now broken on a grimy walk
the ragged man bends low to ground
and sweeps the bits into a mound
his blackened fingers lift the crumbs
to bearded mouth with hunger numb
but passersby do not see this
his desperation they all miss
Bogotá, Colombia
03/07/12
#17 - Hitchhiking Alaska by Delores Topliff
My teen-age sons and I worked one summer near the Arctic Circle. When the fuel pump died on a borrowed Suburban, I hitchhiked.
Friends committed to driving me to Haines for college meetings canceled. With no public transportation available, I hitchhiked to Fairbanks on a semi.
Greyhound only traveled to Tok Junction, then Haines the next day. Maybe I’d sleep in a church?
An unlooked-for acquaintance 1700 from home boarded my bus. “Accompany me to Whitehorse,” she insisted.
That meant backtracking, but she pulled rank.
The next morning, unexpected friends driving to Haines appeared. I traveled comfortably and on time.
My teen-age sons and I worked one summer near the Arctic Circle. When the fuel pump died on a borrowed Suburban, I hitchhiked.
Friends committed to driving me to Haines for college meetings canceled. With no public transportation available, I hitchhiked to Fairbanks on a semi.
Greyhound only traveled to Tok Junction, then Haines the next day. Maybe I’d sleep in a church?
An unlooked-for acquaintance 1700 from home boarded my bus. “Accompany me to Whitehorse,” she insisted.
That meant backtracking, but she pulled rank.
The next morning, unexpected friends driving to Haines appeared. I traveled comfortably and on time.
#16 - Border Smiles by Ronald Mackay
“Our Passports.”
Viviana tucks them into the truck papers. I concentrate, overtake long-distance transports returning to Bolivia and Brazil from Chile through Argentina.
“Check them?” We’re into corkscrew bends; a tunnel; customs; immigration.
“The date’s wrong! The permission’s dated last year.”
“Damn! Back! All that way!”
“They won’t notice!”
“Officers are paid to notice.”
“Not in Argentina!”
……….
“Truck papers?” Uniformed scowls.
Viviana smiles. I squirm. Officers scrutinize, move lips.
“Such a beautiful place!” Viviana interrupts. Smiles. Gestures to snow, peaks.
Officers raise puzzled eyes. Nod. Stamp. Gesture. “Bienvenidos a Argentina!”
I ease out breath and clutch.
Viviana smiles. “See?
“Our Passports.”
Viviana tucks them into the truck papers. I concentrate, overtake long-distance transports returning to Bolivia and Brazil from Chile through Argentina.
“Check them?” We’re into corkscrew bends; a tunnel; customs; immigration.
“The date’s wrong! The permission’s dated last year.”
“Damn! Back! All that way!”
“They won’t notice!”
“Officers are paid to notice.”
“Not in Argentina!”
……….
“Truck papers?” Uniformed scowls.
Viviana smiles. I squirm. Officers scrutinize, move lips.
“Such a beautiful place!” Viviana interrupts. Smiles. Gestures to snow, peaks.
Officers raise puzzled eyes. Nod. Stamp. Gesture. “Bienvenidos a Argentina!”
I ease out breath and clutch.
Viviana smiles. “See?
#15 - Nine Percent by Valerie Fletcher Adolph
We were visiting the whisky country of northeastern Scotland, staying with a farmer who grew barley for the local distillery. One day we followed the whisky trail, at each distillery given a ‘wee dram’ and told about the distilling process. I learned that as whisky matured in barrels approximately 9% was lost to evaporation.
Later that evening in the farm kitchen our host brought out a large medicine bottle, full of deep golden brown whisky. Each of us drank generously, toasting each other, the barley crop and Scotland.
Then our host explained “That was part of the 9% .”
We were visiting the whisky country of northeastern Scotland, staying with a farmer who grew barley for the local distillery. One day we followed the whisky trail, at each distillery given a ‘wee dram’ and told about the distilling process. I learned that as whisky matured in barrels approximately 9% was lost to evaporation.
Later that evening in the farm kitchen our host brought out a large medicine bottle, full of deep golden brown whisky. Each of us drank generously, toasting each other, the barley crop and Scotland.
Then our host explained “That was part of the 9% .”
#14 - Malady in Moresby Papua New Guinea by Roger Knight
Nothing is more nightmarish, that to succumb to some debilitating tropical illness far from home. For me, this experience was made worse, as, back in the early 70’s, the only hospital in Port Moresby, was a leprosorium.
Waiting to be seen by the doctor, among the lepers, with their melted faces and withered limbs, along with Papuan women, suckling piglets with their bare breasts, made me think that this was a fate worse than death.
In my hand, I desperately clutched my appointment card, which to my further horror, was in fact intended for use as a morgue tag.
Nothing is more nightmarish, that to succumb to some debilitating tropical illness far from home. For me, this experience was made worse, as, back in the early 70’s, the only hospital in Port Moresby, was a leprosorium.
Waiting to be seen by the doctor, among the lepers, with their melted faces and withered limbs, along with Papuan women, suckling piglets with their bare breasts, made me think that this was a fate worse than death.
In my hand, I desperately clutched my appointment card, which to my further horror, was in fact intended for use as a morgue tag.
#13 - Bahrain’s Arab Spring by Roger Knight
At the time, what created the most disquiet for me, at the height of the unrest, was not the unofficial road blocks manned by masked youths, the rubbish collecting in the streets, or even the Saudi militia flexing their muscle, but the visceral chanting at night.
Like an anthem of subjugation, it’s potent protest would reverberate through me, to such an extent, that I had to wear earplugs, in order to get any sleep.
The energy conveyed, from the Shia villages around, felt so powerful, that no amount of tear gas, birdshot or military intervention could stop it.
At the time, what created the most disquiet for me, at the height of the unrest, was not the unofficial road blocks manned by masked youths, the rubbish collecting in the streets, or even the Saudi militia flexing their muscle, but the visceral chanting at night.
Like an anthem of subjugation, it’s potent protest would reverberate through me, to such an extent, that I had to wear earplugs, in order to get any sleep.
The energy conveyed, from the Shia villages around, felt so powerful, that no amount of tear gas, birdshot or military intervention could stop it.
#12 - Diving the Mecca wreck. South Corniche Jeddah Saudi Arabia by Roger Knight
In the muggy darkness, we gear up for the long reef walk out, where sting rays dart away from under our feet.
Finally, we drop down on to the Mecca, just as dawn breaks, spreading shafts of light that slowly dispels the darkness.
In her reclining position of final rest, in over 30 metres at her bow, she still holds her ill fated cargo of rotting silk, that wave, like frayed coloured ribbons among the soft corals and fish that have now assumed permanent residence in this converted aquarium.
In the muggy darkness, we gear up for the long reef walk out, where sting rays dart away from under our feet.
Finally, we drop down on to the Mecca, just as dawn breaks, spreading shafts of light that slowly dispels the darkness.
In her reclining position of final rest, in over 30 metres at her bow, she still holds her ill fated cargo of rotting silk, that wave, like frayed coloured ribbons among the soft corals and fish that have now assumed permanent residence in this converted aquarium.
#11 - A whale pod sighting off Bermuda by Roger Knight
Just off the south shore, thirty or so Sperm whales had gathered. I was immediately in awe of this marine mammal armada, lying as though at anchor, so close to the island.
They had enormous box like heads, that were squared off, and some were shooting columns of water high into the air through their blow holes, like a collection of geysers.
They all seemed to be in such gentle repose, despite appearing like some alien invasion force.
Just off the south shore, thirty or so Sperm whales had gathered. I was immediately in awe of this marine mammal armada, lying as though at anchor, so close to the island.
They had enormous box like heads, that were squared off, and some were shooting columns of water high into the air through their blow holes, like a collection of geysers.
They all seemed to be in such gentle repose, despite appearing like some alien invasion force.
#10 - Spear fishing off the Coromandel peninsular New Zealand by Roger Knight
Spearing a Kingfish, is a real tussle and thrill, given their valiant fight for survival, strength and size. Not unlike trying to land a Marlin.
With a Kingfish, the fight is at much closer quarters. The trick is to put your hand into their gills and hold tightly on to them, before bringing them to the surface.
But this comes at a price.
Impaled on a spear, the distress of a dying fish, transforms the hunter into the hunted, as a shark can be easily alerted to this many miles away, quickly homing in on it’s newly identified prey.
Spearing a Kingfish, is a real tussle and thrill, given their valiant fight for survival, strength and size. Not unlike trying to land a Marlin.
With a Kingfish, the fight is at much closer quarters. The trick is to put your hand into their gills and hold tightly on to them, before bringing them to the surface.
But this comes at a price.
Impaled on a spear, the distress of a dying fish, transforms the hunter into the hunted, as a shark can be easily alerted to this many miles away, quickly homing in on it’s newly identified prey.
#9 - Water Melons by Ronald Mackay
Both barren roads lead to Khebir. The coastal longer; the desert shorter.
I wait. The horizon yellow, shimmering.
Water melon-laden, a truck brakes.
“El Khebir?”
I climb up.
Pleased, he chooses desert. “Alone, I no risk!”
Blistering heat. An hour. A tire blows.
More nimble, I place the jack. I raise the axle on soft asphalt.
He sweats.
“Right!”
He wrestles.
Time slows. I watch as jack penetrates asphalt; as the differential approaches my skull.
He jams the wheel.
I breathe, crawl back into the sun.
Neither of us speak.
The sun smiles. The desert grins. “Got you now!”
Both barren roads lead to Khebir. The coastal longer; the desert shorter.
I wait. The horizon yellow, shimmering.
Water melon-laden, a truck brakes.
“El Khebir?”
I climb up.
Pleased, he chooses desert. “Alone, I no risk!”
Blistering heat. An hour. A tire blows.
More nimble, I place the jack. I raise the axle on soft asphalt.
He sweats.
“Right!”
He wrestles.
Time slows. I watch as jack penetrates asphalt; as the differential approaches my skull.
He jams the wheel.
I breathe, crawl back into the sun.
Neither of us speak.
The sun smiles. The desert grins. “Got you now!”
#8 - MANTA SAFARI by Alyson Hilbourne
I adjusted my mask, dipped my head below the surface and was rewarded with a huge manta directly below me, its mouth open, wing tips upturned like an A380, silently cutting through the water.
Everywhere I turned more appeared, slicing the cloudy, plankton rich sea, dark shapes uncloaking as they came into view.
They were hard to count. Twenty, thirty, fifty of these ocean titans swam below us, oblivious of the tourists and marine biologists snorkelling above, as they gorged for a few short hours on the food bonanza brought in by the high tide.
(Hanifaru Bay, The Maldives)
I adjusted my mask, dipped my head below the surface and was rewarded with a huge manta directly below me, its mouth open, wing tips upturned like an A380, silently cutting through the water.
Everywhere I turned more appeared, slicing the cloudy, plankton rich sea, dark shapes uncloaking as they came into view.
They were hard to count. Twenty, thirty, fifty of these ocean titans swam below us, oblivious of the tourists and marine biologists snorkelling above, as they gorged for a few short hours on the food bonanza brought in by the high tide.
(Hanifaru Bay, The Maldives)
#7 - South American Rescue by Delores Topliff
Our Jeepney reached the South American river town. After dust settled and people, pigs, and chickens departed, my 14-year-old son and I, here to help schools, looked for our contacts.
No-one.
There’d been some mistake.
A friend had written, “If anything goes wrong, find shopkeeper Antonio Anau.”
My son guarded our luggage while I walked dusty streets asking for Antonio.
Clerks rattled off rapid-fire Spanish. He’d had surgery and was gone.
Dogs bite fearful people. I couldn’t fear.
Finally, through another doorway, I glimpsed a man I’d seen once in the U.S.
In town for other reasons, he “rescued” us.
Our Jeepney reached the South American river town. After dust settled and people, pigs, and chickens departed, my 14-year-old son and I, here to help schools, looked for our contacts.
No-one.
There’d been some mistake.
A friend had written, “If anything goes wrong, find shopkeeper Antonio Anau.”
My son guarded our luggage while I walked dusty streets asking for Antonio.
Clerks rattled off rapid-fire Spanish. He’d had surgery and was gone.
Dogs bite fearful people. I couldn’t fear.
Finally, through another doorway, I glimpsed a man I’d seen once in the U.S.
In town for other reasons, he “rescued” us.
#6 - OGBUNIKE CAVE by Anierobi Maureen Ogechukwu
Ogbunike caves are associated with living traditions and are said to be used by the people for many centuries. The site still retains its historical and spiritual significance. There is an annual festival called "Ime Ogbe" celebrated in commemoration of the discovery of the caves. The biodiversity of the site has remained almost intact. The integrity of the site is attested to by the presence of the primary forests around the caves. Nkisa River flows by the side of the caves into which the water that drains from the caves empties itself. Ogbunike cave is a UNESCO tourist site.
Ogbunike caves are associated with living traditions and are said to be used by the people for many centuries. The site still retains its historical and spiritual significance. There is an annual festival called "Ime Ogbe" celebrated in commemoration of the discovery of the caves. The biodiversity of the site has remained almost intact. The integrity of the site is attested to by the presence of the primary forests around the caves. Nkisa River flows by the side of the caves into which the water that drains from the caves empties itself. Ogbunike cave is a UNESCO tourist site.
#5 - Monarchs of the Forest by Ronald Mackay
We drove with the windows down, the better to enjoy the crisp air and the scent of the pine forest. In an hour we’d be back in the Distrito Federal and our rented house in El Pedregal.
Without warning the sun vanished. Thousands of drifting objects so obstructed our vision that I was forced to stop.
A volcanic eruption?
As I slid the stick into reverse, Pearl called out, “Butterflies, Ronald! Millions of orange and black butterflies!”
They clung to the windshield and to us even as we descended from the jeep.
“The migration of the monarch!”
“They’re glorious!”
We drove with the windows down, the better to enjoy the crisp air and the scent of the pine forest. In an hour we’d be back in the Distrito Federal and our rented house in El Pedregal.
Without warning the sun vanished. Thousands of drifting objects so obstructed our vision that I was forced to stop.
A volcanic eruption?
As I slid the stick into reverse, Pearl called out, “Butterflies, Ronald! Millions of orange and black butterflies!”
They clung to the windshield and to us even as we descended from the jeep.
“The migration of the monarch!”
“They’re glorious!”
#4 - 13 @ Thailand by Sally Hewitt
On Koh Chang he shaves first signs of his adolescent moustache, breaks voice and masters a moped, all at breakneck speed.
Koh Samet persuades his bare feet, underwater dives, choosing calamari over cheeseburger.
In Bangkok he unglues his phone from his hand, eats chicken feet noodles with chopsticks.
Hua Hin hears him urging tuk-tuk drivers to “Lil! Lil!”and hurtling down Black Mountain waterslides.
In Pattaya he go-karts to winner, stacks it, laughs. His crowd handling and a wrong turn into Soi 6 raise one momentary blush.
Flying home, he rejects my nana hand. “Sal, I can handle turbulence now.”
On Koh Chang he shaves first signs of his adolescent moustache, breaks voice and masters a moped, all at breakneck speed.
Koh Samet persuades his bare feet, underwater dives, choosing calamari over cheeseburger.
In Bangkok he unglues his phone from his hand, eats chicken feet noodles with chopsticks.
Hua Hin hears him urging tuk-tuk drivers to “Lil! Lil!”and hurtling down Black Mountain waterslides.
In Pattaya he go-karts to winner, stacks it, laughs. His crowd handling and a wrong turn into Soi 6 raise one momentary blush.
Flying home, he rejects my nana hand. “Sal, I can handle turbulence now.”
#3 - BIG BAD BIKERS by Syd Blackwell
Easy rider and his momma
cruised the highway up to Glossa
felt the wind blow through their hair
wore cool shades to cut the glare
stopped to look whenever they liked
posed for pictures on the bike
ate bad pizza drank good beer
at some taverna near the pier
stopped for swims in turquoise bays
where naked tourists catch the rays
scooted home before the rain
riding wet is such a pain
lived this life so vulgar and raw
on a 50cc Yamaha
(Skopelos, Greece, July 1989)
Easy rider and his momma
cruised the highway up to Glossa
felt the wind blow through their hair
wore cool shades to cut the glare
stopped to look whenever they liked
posed for pictures on the bike
ate bad pizza drank good beer
at some taverna near the pier
stopped for swims in turquoise bays
where naked tourists catch the rays
scooted home before the rain
riding wet is such a pain
lived this life so vulgar and raw
on a 50cc Yamaha
(Skopelos, Greece, July 1989)
#2 - The Miracle Cure by Gabi Reigh
Marianske Lazne, a spa town tucked away in the mountains of the Czech Republic, has been a mecca for hypochondriacs for over 200 years. Rewind back two centuries and you would glimpse aristocrats promenading through its neo-classical colonnades, sipping sulphurous waters from ornate porcelain cups, tending to their organs with the care and concentration of gardeners cherishing their prize-winning roses. Each spring proclaims to cure a different condition, and I feel confident that, if I sample each of their nauseating elixirs, my spleen, kidneys and liver will be entirely rejuvenated by the time I fly back home.
Marianske Lazne, a spa town tucked away in the mountains of the Czech Republic, has been a mecca for hypochondriacs for over 200 years. Rewind back two centuries and you would glimpse aristocrats promenading through its neo-classical colonnades, sipping sulphurous waters from ornate porcelain cups, tending to their organs with the care and concentration of gardeners cherishing their prize-winning roses. Each spring proclaims to cure a different condition, and I feel confident that, if I sample each of their nauseating elixirs, my spleen, kidneys and liver will be entirely rejuvenated by the time I fly back home.
#1 - Croatia - land of lakes and waterfalls by Gabi Reigh
Rastoke, the historic centre of Slunj in Croatia, is a fairy tale land of turquoise lakes and luminous cascades. As we started to explore it on our first morning, it offered a surprise at every turn. The river gurgled brightly over rocks, under dark-stained, medieval bridges, and as we followed its bend we passed waterfall after waterfall, the place seeming more and more unreal, magical, beauty piling onto beauty, as if we’d opened a secret door and found ourselves cast as extras on the set of a Disney movie.
Rastoke, the historic centre of Slunj in Croatia, is a fairy tale land of turquoise lakes and luminous cascades. As we started to explore it on our first morning, it offered a surprise at every turn. The river gurgled brightly over rocks, under dark-stained, medieval bridges, and as we followed its bend we passed waterfall after waterfall, the place seeming more and more unreal, magical, beauty piling onto beauty, as if we’d opened a secret door and found ourselves cast as extras on the set of a Disney movie.
