stories of travel, medical missions, and more
We never stop the steps forward
Crossing borders
To a place—meet a person—tell of a thing
A string
Of ideas
Of this truth held together
Like adhesive
We believe this
Good news of a Man who is God
Sent from abroad
And cross-ed His own border
To end strife
Bring life
To the unliving soul of the lost
And all it costs
Is a few steps
Forward
anthony forrest
The first time I had Turkish Coffee, I sat in a small square in the Muslim quarter of Jerusalem. We had spent a great first day in Jerusalem and found a tiny spot to stop for a quick coffee. After 12 hours of flying and 2 hours on a bus, followed by a night of questionable sleep, we lunged headfirst into seeing it all. And the Old City blew us away. But this story isn’t about the Western Wall, or history, or the forever conflict between Israel and the Palestinian Authority. It’s about coffee. (It’s also about the COVID-19 restaurant restrictions between 2020 and 2021.) This was several years ago. I was much younger, and my love for coffee has only grown since then.
Turkish Coffee is not a type of coffee, but a coffee preparation that originated in ancient Turkey, namely the Ottoman Empire. Since then, it spread to all over Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Turkish coffee consists of a finely ground coffee and various spices, such as cardamom. It is also served with sugar. The coffee is typically served with only a few ounces of boiling water. The server will scoop the grounds, spice, and sugar into a small copper pot with a small handle and heat it to boiling several times. After it has met with his satisfaction, the coffee slurry is poured into cup. The drinker then waits for the grounds to settle to the bottom of the cup, hence most Turkish coffees are served in glass. After the coffee has had time to steep and settle, the drinker tucks into probably the most powerful cup of coffee they have ever tasted.
I hadn’t found a place in Minnesota that served Turkish Coffee until I made a stop at a small Egyptian café on University Ave in Minneapolis. I stood at the counter, shocked that I had finally found a hookup for the good stuff. Over the next few years, I frequented the café many times. The owner, Adel, and I talked quite a bit each time I patroned his shop. (Not the same Adel heard on the top 40 list.)
He lived above the restaurant with his family. He would regale me with stories of visiting his mother in Cairo and guide me through the menu of great food items he served, and tell me what it was like to emigrate to the US. One time he was held up in his café. The man had a gun and forced Adel to make him a sandwich before he stole all of his money. “No onions! No onions!” the man screamed, holding a gun barrel held to Adel’s head. But he pressed on, and grew a successful business. Ah, the American dream.
Two years ago, things changed. The COVID-19 pandemic swept the world. Fifteen days of closures and restrictions turned into something more like 15 months. Wide varieties of industry suffered. Grocery stores fared well. Amazon did just dandy. Food delivery, online video meeting services, Netflix, internet services, and politicians all made more money than they know how to spend. All of the companies designated as, “frontline” or “essential”, thrived during a time of vast economic drought.
And one of the largest industries to suffer was the restaurant industry. Sure, some places could stay open and offer takeout. But many couldn’t. A recent Time article reported that the industry lost $240 billion in 2020 and 80,000 restaurants have shut their doors. But don’t think that your favorite burger chain was the place to suffer. Reuters reported that over 80% of all restaurant traffic during 2020-2021, took place at fast food chain restaurants. It’s the locally owned and operated cafés and restaurants that suffered and closed their doors.
I got a text from a friend yesterday. It was a screenshot of the Egyptian café we used to visit. Its doors have closed permanently. And such is life now. The pandemic revealed what we as American culture value. If you want a McCafe or a Chalupa, you’re in luck. Those places are thriving and building new franchises. But you’ll be hard pressed to find a small Egyptian café, serving excellent falafel and Turkish coffee. You’ll be hard pressed to talk to a smiling immigrant pouring you another cup of cardamom-flavored coffee as he tells you about his family in Cairo. The personal touch of the local café may be dying. But we can do our part.
Eat local. Don’t drive though. Sit down. Try the new stuff. Smile at the wait staff. Be patient if you have to wait a while. Leave a nice tip. Listen to the stories of strangers. If you don’t, you might miss out. The world does not need more fast-casual dining. The world needs real people, serving real food, and real coffee.
anthony forrest
I have been lonely occasionally in my life. Though for the past decade and a half, the perfect companionship of my wife has easily pushed away those feelings.
But 17 years ago, I spent the better part of a year in the mountains of Bolivia. That time formed and shaped my life into what it is now, or at least greatly contributed to it. I lived with a few missionaries and other English-speakers for several months. And soon, some of them left to go back to the States for a while. I was left on my own, helping to look after a dairy farm owned and run by an American missionary.
My days were filled with occasional things farming. I milked a few cows, planted a bit of corn (by hand, dropped into a planting tube on the back of an ancient tractor), helped to maintain the water tower, and fought for my life against the evil of South American spiders.
Other Americans lived in the nearby town of Vallegrande. I saw them several times a week. But not always. The traveled around the area doing their own thing. And every couple of weeks, I walked into town and caught a bus (microbus-pronounced meecrowboos). After a relatively uncomfortable ride for three hours, the bus finally pulled into the Andes Mountain village of Pucará. American friends of mine lived there, teaching the Bible and raising four crazy boys (He now pastors a church in Montana where his family also has one of the largest goat farms in the State—it is as cool as it sounds). I relished the time I could get to their home and rile up their kids and eat their food.
But I wasn’t always able to go. Weeks would go by during which I would speak no English (my Spanish is terrible) nor see other expats. I was a stranger in a strange land. I remember waking on a Thanksgiving morning with plans to take the broken down 1975 Honda Super Cub into Vallegrande and have Thanksgiving dinner with an American family. It took me a minute to register the sound of heavy rainfall on the tin roof. I peaked outside and saw a raging downpour. No trip to town today.
I dressed and ran from my room, through the courtyard of the hacienda-style home, to the kitchen. My Thanksgiving would consist of oatmeal and coffee mixed with sweetened condensed milk. I felt a vague nagging at my heart. I was much too young to know what it was that I felt. Youth misses so much. Or maybe time gives us eyes to see. Either way, I know now what deep loneliness feels like. It’s an uncomfortable restlessness of uncertainty. It’s a nagging sorrow which can’t really be understood when you’re going through it. I spent my day sitting in the kitchen, listening to John Denver’s Fly Away, playing my guitar, and reading. Today, that sounds like a glorious afternoon. But then it felt like milquetoast. Loneliness, longing for the company of someone who understands your context and being, turns the good things into white gummy paste.
And I was only in Bolivia for the better part of a year. These feelings of loneliness and separation come to a head when an expat comes back to the States. It took me quite some time to feel like I was an American again.
I have expat friends who’ve experienced this far more than I. They feel a “cultural homelessness.” The idea is that as an American goes to another country to live or work, they begin changing to adapt to that new culture. But they are American and will never truly lose that. So they remain an outsider, no matter how much they change. And what if they go back to the States? They’ve become an outside there as well. They’ve lost a little (or a lot) of their own culture and adhered to another.
If the American is blue and the new country is yellow, after a while, the American turns green. He’s no longer blue and he’s no longer yellow. He’s a little bit of both, mixed together. He’s culturally homeless.
“Wow,” you say, “this is terrible. Why would you tell me this? People should just stay home then! Why would I want to go anywhere or see anything if I’m just going to be changed into a lonely green blob?!”
Because green isn’t all that bad.
The world needs more green people. Green can converse and understand the cultures of blues and yellows. These third culture people tie into the cultures of others. They inevitably speak two or more languages. This type of mixed identity fills the seat of the UN, sends ambassadors to foster peace deals, teaches the Bible in other languages, ends racism in the US, forms agreements for the safety and security of mankind, and loves their neighbor as themselves.
But as the great philosopher, Kermit the Frog once proclaimed, “it’s not easy being green.” The loneliness of travel can often be unbearable. Understanding simple things about a culture is exhausting. Just eating strange food strikes fear into many Americans. Try driving on the wrong side of the road; then come back to the States and get behind the wheel—lookout world. Talk to people; try not to offend them; be the butt of jokes when you make a language mistake. It’s lonely.
Kermit also said that, “green is the color of Spring, and it can be cool and friendly-like.” The rewards of travel greatly outweigh the woes. I have a friend who is moving back to Southeast Asia in a couple of weeks. To him and all the other brave souls out there building a better world, I say, “cheers!”
“You look beautiful. Green is definitely your color.”
anthony forrest
On a recent visit to Missouri (more of which you can read about here), I had the opportunity to talk with several retired missionaries. So many of these people had spent the entirety of their lives giving of themselves to God, caring for the people of this world.
When confronted with all the craziness that is the near-cultlike American Christmas Gift-Giving, I have found myself asking why?
Why do we spend so much time, effort, money, and mental strain on selecting or making the perfect gifts for our friends or family? I confess that my heart tends toward the cynical. My immediate reaction is that Americans are so obsessed with self-image, that even giving gifts is a form of social status marker. It feeds into a culture of reciprocity that turns into an ugly cycle. We spend money on stuff to give to others, which causes others to spend money on stuff to give to us, and so on it goes. We might as well all just keep our money and buy whatever we want and forgo the embarrassing clothing exchange at Kohls. No, you did not get my size right!
Of course, this is all hogwash. Sure it may be true to some degree and in some situations, but again, I’m far too cynical.
I heard a honking car outside. We had been visiting with a couple who had lived and served as missionaries in Russia, when we were interrupted. I slipped outside to find a gentleman who I met earlier that day waving me over to his silver Oldsmobile. He and I hit it off right away. He collects clocks. And I happen to really enjoy pocket watches. Smiling, he passed me a very old, silver pocket watch. He regaled me with information and stories about watches and railroad timekeeping.
Most people give gifts out of the kindness of their heart—for Love, which is this week’s Advent theme.
Humankind was formed to be the image of God (Gen. 1:27). This image refers to not only bodily form and the spiritual nature of God, but to the characteristics of God. And His prevailing characteristic is love. Christ’s tale of coming to Earth, living a self-less life, teaching and preaching, and saving Humankind culminates in a very special gift—the gift of self-sacrifice. Christ came to Earth. And that’s what we celebrate now, during Christmas. But He came for a reason, to die in our place.
Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends (John 15). Self-sacrifice is the ultimate gift. What more in the name of love?
We remember probably the most famous verse in the whole Bible—that, God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life (John 3:16).
anthony forrest
Follow along with the Advent tradition! Here are a few passages of Scripture for this week’s theme:
Love
And be sure to check out each one of this year’s Advent stories:
Advent, Part One on the Idyllic Christmas
He stood in front of me, tears in his eyes as he spoke of the men and women who served God faithfully.
Were these tears of sorrow? No, these were tears of Joy, which is this week’s Advent theme.
So many things give me joy. I have been accused of liking everything—every movie I see in the theater, every discussion topic, every hobby I learn, and every food I eat. You may think that this is a good thing, but I assure you, no. It just makes me want all the toys and things this life can offer. I want a telescope, a new bookshelf, a polaroid camera, new records, three more bookshelves, three-thousand more books, running shoes, a rowing machine, a kite, and an espresso machine for my birthday. This is not good. It just means that my joy is fleeting and then I’m on to the next thing.
But Ron spoke of a different joy. Stories full of real joy.
All the stories are the same, but they’re also so very different. The stories tell of so-and-so, down the lane, who lived and served on an island off the coast of Japan. There was Ms.________ who worked in the country of Chad (Africa) for 35 years. Oh, and don’t forget her neighbor; she was a single missionary and married later in life. They worked in both Scotland and Jamaica.
Ron and his wife, Joy, live in the backwoods village of Silva, Missouri where, nestled in the trees of the holler, lies the thriving community of Missionary Acres. Over the sprawling property sits a 25-acre park (complete with walkway and gazebo) and over 30 houses. When a missionary seeks retirement, a great option is to come here. This is no assisted living or nursing home. These are simply real houses, housing real people, who’ve done and continue to do God’s real work. Down each lane, you’ll find over 600 years of combined Christian service (yes, you heard that right). Missionaries from all over the world have moved here, seeking retirement and rest. And they may be retired, but these people know nothing of rest.
Ron told story after story that were the same, but different—same format, same style, same faithfulness. For almost 60 years, Missionary acres has given Missionaries, Pastors, and Christian school teachers and administrators a place to hang their hat in retirement.
I really hesitate to call this place a “retirement community.” This isn’t a place of shuffle board and bingo. God’s servants truly never retire. A Christian is called continually to show the love of Christ to the people around them. Age sets no boundary.
They care for people. They serve, just like they did when they were in Africa or Europe or the USA. The only think that’s changed for the retirees is their age. But the work is still the same—showing people the love and joy found in Christ.
Here live the heroes of the faith.
And they are people of a great joy. And when Christ was born, the angels spoke the same message that missionaries worldwide continue to speak. It is a message not of fear, but a good news of great joy for all people. (Luke 2)
In our current spiritual desert of a world, many people are comfortably content with the dry and sad joys that don’t last. But Christ makes the wilderness and the dry land glad. (Isaiah 35) Jesus Christ came to this earth bringing the only lasting joy that mankind will ever have. Toys and more bookshelves might make me fleetingly happy, but the true lasting joy of Christ is truly satisfying.
anthony forrest
Follow along with the Advent tradition! Here are a few passages of Scripture for this week’s theme:
Joy
And be sure to check out Advent, Part One on the Idyllic Christmas as well as Advent, Part Two on Real Peace
We were attracted by a Christmas festival in Baltimore, Maryland. We flew into the good ol’ harbor town of Baltimore specifically to enjoy “The Authentic German Christmas Market” called the Christmas Village. Cozy winter visitors come from all around to take in warmth of this little Christmas scene.
Tiny cottage-like buildings dot the inner harbor at West Shore Park. Vendors sell their crafty goods. Heaps of giant pretzels stacked feet high can’t be missed. Carolers sing. And jolly bearded folk offer mulled wines and ciders to warm the heart and soul. Lights hang low, just above head. Don’t forget to ride the old fashions Christmas carousel. Handcrafted ornaments hang on candlelit trees, waiting to find their home in yours. When you walk away from the Christmas Village, even the most shrunken, Grinch-like heart will undoubtedly grow three sizes.
We walked the lovely little village, ciders in hand. Baltimore surprisingly delivers a wonderful Christmastime opportunity. But like all big cities, all is not calm. All is not bright.
The Second theme for Advent is Peace.
What does peace look like?
Without even looking up a definition, I tend to think of peace as the absence of conflict, suffering, and sorrow. But sometimes peace can be harder to define than simply the absence of certain things. While darkness is simply the absence of light, that does not mean that all light is better than the darkness—take a house fire at night, for example.
So when we walked along the harbor walkway after the Christmas Village and saw a man sleeping on a bench, my gut reaction was that he was simply asleep. But my second thought was that it was 15 degrees outside, he wasn’t wearing appropriate clothing for the weather, and he had several emptied bottles of booze nearby. The man may have had the appearance of peace, but he was far from at peace. He was barely breathing and would have no doubt died on that park bench. I described his situation to the 911 dispatcher and an ambulance arrived shortly thereafter.
The book of Isaiah tells us that unto us a Child is born. His name shall be called the Prince of Peace (among other wonderful things). (Is. 9) And when he did come to earth, a group of angels announced from the sky that this Child, Jesus, brought peace and goodwill to men. (Luke 2) Jesus didn’t just come to earth to ease conflict or dull the pain of existence. He came to earth and brought a real, lasting peace. The peace is Jesus himself. His salvation is not that he came and left. His salvation is that He came and the presence of God has not left. It is no longer dark. And the light is the warm glow of the Son of God.
A simple lack of conflict doesn’t cut it. Without the peace of Jesus, we might as well be drunk on a park bench in a t-shirt and jeans in the middle of winter. That kind of peace is artificial and deadly. A lack of conflict means nothing without the true Agent of Peace, the Prince of Peace. The presence of Jesus displaces conflict, war, sorrow, sadness, pain, and death.
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone. (Is. 9:2) For to us a child is born. His name shall be called Prince of Peace. (9:6)
anthony forrest
Follow along with the Advent tradition! Here are a few passages of Scripture for this week’s theme:
Peace
And be sure to check out Advent, Part One on the Idyllic Christmas
What makes the perfect Christmas? Could it be the anticipation of setting up the tree? Barely making it past Thanksgiving before it goes up? Could it be family traditions? How about the food, gift-giving, shopping, get-togethers, or the Grinch?
Is there a recipe for the idyllic Christmas?
My wife and I went looking for that answer one year. We packed a weekend bag, boarded a plane, then watched expectantly as we descended through the clouds, making our pilgrimage to the land of Christmastide. What better place to look than the one state whose very existence serves to fuel Christmas dream?
Ah, Vermont. Thou home of nearly every Hallmark movie. We had found a nice deal on a romantic backwoods’ inn in the quaint village of Chester, Vermont. I had scoured the depths of the internet to find a great place to spend an ideal Christmas weekend. The results astounded me. Every town in Vermont is an ideal place to spend Christmas. So I picked, at random, a little town with a little inn. Not a hotel. Not a motel. An inn. And I tell you, there’s a difference.
You stay at a hotel because you get to.
You stay at a motel because you have to.
But you stay at an inn because want to. An inn beckons people. Even Joseph and Mary wanted to stay in one (no room). Quaint inns dot Thomas Kinkade paintings and can be found in fantasy novels.
And the Fullerton Inn is the quaintest.
The lovely New England inn is nestled gently in the northern Appalachian Mountains. Each of the windows bore shutters. And the many railings displayed numerous wreaths. We walked in and immediately knew we were in the right place. The place was hung with green. A blaze roared inside the stone fireplace. But above all, the simply enormous Christmas tree caught our eye. As we walked through the entry ogling it, a small bustle of ladies scooted by and one of them stopped near us.
“Oh, you’ll have to excuse the mess,” she declared, “the whole town is getting ready for the Christmas festival!”
Literally, just like a Hallmark movie.
That week we saw carolers and Santas, ate gingerbread cookies, and drank hot chocolate. We’d never been so nostalgic about Christmas—never had such an idyllic and festive time. We talk about it every year.
But neither nostalgia nor Christmassy romance can fill the heart-sized void that all men and women feel. The traditional Christian celebration called Advent (Latin for the coming) begins on Sunday, November 28th this year.
And the first week is all about hope.
I can’t speak for you, but the reason Christmas means so much to me is that I yearn for it. We’ve spent a full year building to something. All the other holidays are over. I’m looking into the next year, worried about whatever is to come. But as soon as I dig out my copy of A Christmas Carol and hear the Hallelujah chorus from Handel’s Messiah, I start to feel that draw. The nostalgia, warmth, expectation, longing, desire, and everything else I can’t put my finger on all comes crashing in on me. And that’s the way it should be. For the Christian, we use this time of Advent to focus on the One true gift of Jesus Christ—God Himself come to earth *to seek and to save that which was lost.
That feeling of longing and waiting is good. Use it. Watch your Hallmark movies (the Fullerton Inn was featured in this one). Drink that second cup of hot chocolate. String popcorn and cranberries (google it). And feel that draw. Something, Someone, good is coming.
The draw you feel this year; all that nostalgia and expectation weighing on you, I say, look to Jesus this Christmas season. Remember His coming. He makes each Christmas idyllic.
anthony forrest
Follow along with the Advent tradition! Here are a few passages of Scripture for this week’s theme:
Hope
I love all forms of travel. My favorite means of, “getting there,” of course, is by train. The whistle, that click-clack of the track, zero jet-lag, and a slow sway of wheel-on-iron gives this nerd goose-bumps. There’s something majestic and patient about going by rail. My favorite children’s program on PBS was Shining Time Station, the first TV show featuring Thomas the Tank Engine. I can still sing the entire theme song. And I thought Ringo Starr was only famous for being cast as the conductor, not as one of the four Beetles. I digress heavily, but you get the idea: I love trains.
But hark! A vehicle of another breed oozes far and away more majesty and require loads more patience than the locomotive. The train looks like futuristic teleportation by comparison.
I give you the Hot Air Balloon.
My wife and I recently took her parents to a hot air balloon festival in central Iowa. By general rule as a proud Minnesotan, I spend very little (if any) time in Iowa. But to ride a hot air balloon, one must go where the hot air balloons are. And I must confess, Iowa’s grand, open, farmland spaces offer perfect take-off and landing opportunities for ballooning.
The National Balloon Classic takes place each summer in the small city of Indianola, IA. I had never heard of Indianola. But let me tell you, ballooning is important there. And it should be. The festival there hosts balloon pilots from all over the US. Thousands of people come from all around to participate and watch hundreds of colorful balloons.
The festival runs only from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m during that week. Evening is the calmest time of day here. Ballooning is highly weather dependent. Two days of flying had been cancelled due to “windy” conditions. And by windy, I mean windspeeds higher than 8 mph. But this night looked just right. We parked our car, grabbed our lawn chairs, and found a spot overlooking the take-off area. I can’t call it a landing zone, since a whopping 0% of balloons ever land in the same spot from which they take-off. We met with our pilot and crew for a briefing.
The flight was a go. The weather checked out. And the plan was simple. The crew would first fill the balloon with “cold” air from a powerful fan. This would inflate the balloon, but not give it lift. Once it filled, the pilot would use the flamethrower-like device mounted to the basket to heat the air, giving the balloon lift. And in a moment’s notice, we were hurriedly shuffled into the wicker basket before the balloon got too far off the ground.
A quick word about the basket. Think of the not-so-groovy 80’s or 90’s wicker furniture that your parents or grandparents had/have. We all know what I’m talking about: that barely comfortable three seasons chair with the removable cushions, rounded corners, and flaking white paint. This is exactly the type of basket that hung from the enormous balloon.
I don’t know how long hot air balloons have been around, but let’s just say that technology has changed very little since then.
We lifted from the ground and slowly rose into the sky. Utter silence broke only for the occasional flamethrower blasts above our heads. And in no time, we rose the around 3,000 feet above the Iowa farmland. For an hour, we floated along. I would say that we flew, but that’s not accurate. Come to find out, hot air balloons have almost no directional control whatsoever. The pilot can control the altitude with heat. And he can rotate the balloon by pulling on a release cord, letting out air from the side of the balloon. But steering? Nope. A crew for five or six followed us in a van with a trailer, remaining in radio contact the entire time. And eventually they directed us to set down in a space between cornfields. Surprisingly, we came to a nice and soft landing in that exact spot. Each crew member then grabbed the side of the basket, the pilot gave the balloon a teensy bit of heat, and it lifted slightly from the ground allowing them to move the balloon to the road. And in a jiffy the balloon was deflated, folded, and on the trailer with the basket.
The sun was setting and our delightful balloon ride was over. It felt like a long journey. So I pulled up Google maps to see how long it would take us to get back to the festival. We had traveled a mind-boggling distance of four miles.
There are certainly faster ways to travel. But are there better ways to travel?
anthony forrest
Our plan was simple: take the bus across the country from Penang to Terengganu. A friend of ours lived there and had a plan to take us on an excursion into the jungle. My good friend, Matthew, and I were to meet him the next day. But between now and then, we had to get across the peninsular country. Flights were too expensive. We settled on a bus ticket, specifically, we settled on taking the bus at night.
If “night bus in Malaysia” makes you a tad nervous, it should. But I’ve traveled on my share of sketchy busses. Honestly, the biggest problem with a night bus is sleep, especially when you have major plans the next day. But I had a solution, we would simply take a handful of the equally sketchy sleeping pills I got in Japan a few days ago, and sleep the entire 5-hour trip. We did not sleep as well as we expected, but at least we felt groggy and dazed—so there’s that.
I could tell you about the bathroom on the bus, but I would have to completely fabricate that tale, as the bus had no bathroom. The driver stopped one time to pick up a couple of passengers. We used the “public restroom” at some wayside oasis that could have been a perfect spot for a murder in a foreign horror film. But then we were back on the bus, cruising toward Terengganu.
The light barely painted the horizon when the bus pulled into our station, which, as I remember it, we almost missed (Matthew, you’ll have to clarify that for me when I see you next). I had never been to Terengganu. It’s a gem almost directly across the peninsula from Penang. And I was thrilled to go there.
This simple plan of “take the night bus” didn’t really account for the several hours of waiting we would have to do when we got here. The friend we were meeting wasn’t even around until early afternoon. I love so much about Malaysia, most of it food oriented. Noodles, rice, chicken, soups, you name it, they’ve got it. But the stands and shops have to open before they can feed me. Nothing would open for hours.
When it’s nearly 5 a.m. in a foreign country after taking the probably-very-dangerous-night-bus and you haven’t slept properly and you’re tired and don’t have anywhere to go because nothing opens for another four hours…
(author takes a breath)
…whatever do you do?
Why, go sleep on the beach with you’re backpack like a homeless person, of course. I spread my hammock on the sand and rested as the sun rose on us weary travelers. But one problem remained—where to use the…facilities.
I walked across a nearby park after the sun had risen and day began. There it stood: an actual public bathroom. Few times in your life do you really need bathroom instructions, but I would recommend getting a briefing on public toileting in Terengganu, Malaysia.
Why? You ask.
More so than Penang, Terengganu is primarily Muslim. And yes, it does matter. Islamic bathroom habits are not unusual, dirty, or wrong. They are simply different from Western culture, and even deeply seated in their religion. (And there is so much more to Islamic etiquette than what is written here. I can only report on my own experiences.)
The small cement building had two entrances, men and women, clearly. I climbed the one step up into the little entry and was immediately accosted by an attendant in a robe, turban, and sandaled feet. He pointed at my shod feet and I got the picture. I removed my running shoes at once. And while I was down there, I saw dozens of what I now understood to be “bathroom sandals.” I slipped into a pair and paid my bathroom admission. (I have no idea how much, but to an American, anything is too much.)
The hallway was lined with curtained doorways, and the cement floor was soaked. I hoped it was water. I knew (mostly) what to expect. I turned into an open doorway and pulled the curtain behind me.
A hole.
It was a raised hole, but a hole, nonetheless. And next to the door was a small bucket, for…er…flushing. But the most disturbing part of the room what not what was in there, but what wasn’t in there.
No toilet paper.
Instead, next to the hole, a hose, like a kitchen sink sprayer jutted out of the wall and hung on a tiny hook. I don’t know about you, but my middle-class American, 80’s/90’s childhood did not prepare me for hosing down my backside with a sink sprayer, like I’m some kind of casserole pan somebody forgot to soak first.
I did my deed and will leave it at that. Feel free to let your imagination run wild.
I flung open the curtain just in time to watch another man open his. The man filled up his bucket halfway with water and doused the little cubicle. And before he left his toilet-closet, he threw a bucket of water down the hallway. And walking on his purified floor, he changed his shoes and left the public facility.
So, as a newly educated traveler, I followed suit—cleaning my toilet room, then throwing water down the hall. I changed my shoes and stood outside of the cement building, pausing to listen. I could hear the Muslim call to prayer.
anthony forrest
Check out the other chapters to this fun series:
I sat in the second row of our Citroën C4 van/car/shoebox as we bumbled down the pothole infested highway in southern Iceland. Shockingly enough, the strange little van-like, seven passenger car-thing held the six of us nicely, save for the crumpled last passenger in the back. Leave it up to Europe to come us with a vehicle that’s bigger on the inside than on the outside. Those tiny roads are the mother of invention.
We drove the southern coast of Iceland on the first day of our trip. The drive was lovely. Iceland displays sheep pasture and grazing lands, interspersed with jutting mountains, glaciers, and tiny towns—all of which rests along the coastline. Most Icelanders live near the coast, with fewer than 1,000 people living over 600 feet above sea level. And for the most part, the asphalt road was well maintained and smooth as glass.
But today was another story. We got a wild idea to drive across the island, to the north and west. With local bakery and local coffee under our belt, Jeramie jumped into the driver’s seat and we began our short journey.
We had driven along the southern coast a couple of days ago and thought we had an idea as to what we were doing. Easy driving ahead, we assumed. Our tiny French car tootled along nicely with Jeramie at the wheel. But the roads turned curvy and curvier. Narrow lanes grew narrower. Potholes sunk pothole-ier. And the wild land grew wilder. The southern part of Iceland is quite popular, with its interesting sites (like a 1970’s DC-3 Airplane crashed on a desolate black sand beach), and it’s fantasy-TV-esque waterfalls (Skógafoss waterfall was featured in both the TV show Vikings and Marvel’s Thor: The Dark World). But many other parts of Iceland receive much less attention.
This part of the road led us through a quiet land with fewer and fewer farms and tiny towns. I don’t want to say that it is a barren and desolated emptiness void of all life and color…but I might have to. The winding and bumpy road shook us into a batter of ready-to-be-poured human pancake mix. We all wanted a massage (I know a guy in Malaysia if you’re interested).
Up ahead, in the distance—what is that?
A mirage?
The end of the Earth? Shall we fall off its edge and perish?
No, a tiny café sat on a corner and beckoned us inside. We shook off the aches, eagerly removed the accumulated liquid waste from our bodies, procured another coffee, and crammed ourselves once more into the audaciously and inexplicable strong Citroën C4.
We drove on for quite some time again, before we arrived at the quaint and silent Stykkishólmur, poised on the edge the cold North Atlantic Ocean.
I often hear of the “middle of nowhere” or out of the way places. But rarely do I find them. Don’t get me wrong, tourists do come here…just not that often. Most of the people here make their money working on the fishing boats and nearby processing. A ferry also takes tourists from here to the Westfjords area each night. But just like everywhere else, they have a school, a grocery store, and restaurants. Just like the rest of Iceland, local artisans were at work in the shops, turning pieces of nothing into beauty. A little lighthouse sits at the tip of the tallest hill near the town, where the wind fights hard to keep it barren of plants and hikers. The views stun the viewer. Icy North Atlantic water never rests—a calm day doesn’t exist here. And today, the weather threatens, so the water crashes even colder and rougher. The delightful Stykkishólmur gave me everything I wanted in an idyllic fishing village. We even had fish and chips at a local eatery (you cannot beat the cod). It made getting there worth it.
The trip back felt as dismal as before. But now it was raining. Each of us were now truly feeling the effects of not only travel and jet lag, but the pummeling we endured on the way out here. All but Jeramie, our unfazed driver, dozed into a trance.
I felt the car slowing rapidly. Jeramie was saying something about it raining and a man outside. I opened my eyes and found that he had turned the car around. He parked the car on the opposite side of the road and got out of the vehicle, into the pouring rain and 45-degree weather.
He had stopped to help an older man change a tire. There was no service station in site and we were at least another hour to Reykjavik. Jeramie was out there in a t-shirt. His wife was gathering his jacket from the backseat. So I threw on my jacket, grabbed his, and out the door I followed.
Turns out, the gentleman was at a loss. He was no more capable of changing the tire himself. Jeramie had the edge of the vehicle off the ground by the time I got there, and we finished the job together. The gentleman spoke little English.
All he could manage to say was in his very broken accent, “You, thank you. You…men from God.”
Our trip back turned out to be an important one—more important than a simple site-seeing excursion. But an opportunity to help an older man and actually be the hands of God. I’d have missed it in my daze. But Jeramie kept a sharp eye. Solid work, brother!
anthony forrest
more on Iceland:
Iceland: on Covid testing and travel in a post-pandemic world
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