Travel and Verse

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Category: Travel Journal (Page 7 of 15)

Americana Series, Part 2: America the Broken

October 29, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 84

The first time I went to Anniston Alabama opened my eyes to the South. My hotel sat in a bad part of the town that appeared to be all bad parts. I was there for a conference and wanted to get out and see what Anniston was all about.

I think my first mistake was walking into the nearest Walmart to buy some snacks. My eyes saw things I will never unsee. This place looked like the streets of Fallujah (Of course, I have never been to Iraq, but I do hope it looks better than the Walmart in Anniston.) Appalled by my, by far, worst Walmart experience ever, I left without purchasing anything.

Then as I walked down the street, I ducked into a gas station to try again for snacks. I grabbed a few things and stepped up to the counter. Facing me stood a young man, probably in his early twenties. However, he had already begun to lose his teeth at a rapid rate. His black, stringy hair hung down to his waist. And then, of course, he wore a black tank top emblazoned with the stars and bars of the Confederate flag.

“Ha-y’all doin’?” he drawled.

I dropped my few items onto the counter and asked, rhetorically, “Not a whole lot going on in Anniston, is there?” I winced at my own sarcastic tone.

“Anniston?” he exclaimed.

And without a beat said, “Ain’ nothin’ goin-on here but moonshine, illegitimate chid-ren, and drugs.”

Unfortunately, I walked away from Alabama with an unfair view of the place. But my second trip turned my compass to a truer north.

We walked into a Baptist church in the aforementioned town, a couple of years after my first experience. I spoke with many churchgoers that day. And each expressed the same thing. They all knew where they lived. They knew what it was like to live in Anniston. They knew that their town had problems. But there they stood—faithful to their community.

We finished the service and were informed that there was to be a potluck meal. As we broke bread with these people, the classic southern hospitality burned easily through my original impression of Anniston, Alabama. Each of these people had other people in their lives who struggled with something. And who knows? One of those struggles may indeed be moonshine, illegitimate children, or drugs.

America, more so than others, I think, shines as the land of opportunity. But we’ve for years thought that opportunity to be one of economic gains. Perhaps this Country grants us a better opportunity than simple jobs or money. We have here the opportunity to fail, then rise with fresh perspective and experience.

Towns full of broken families and many other problems dot America. But America is the land of grace for the fallen and second (third or fourth?) chances.

We are America, the broken. But broken bones heal stronger. We are a land of the broken families. But at the end of the day, we are still family—failures and all. We’ve fallen time and again, and always risen.

In this way, America is good.

 

anthony forrest 

Keep up with the rest of the series:

Americana Series, Part 1: America the Good

Americana Series, Part 1: America the Good

October 22, 2020 / / 3 Comments

Travel Journal, 83

I sit on a cement step outside a friend’s home in the lovely state of Kentucky. This little town, along with so many others in Kentucky, sits nestled along the base of hills and through a little ravine beside a small river. And if the natural beauty of Central Kentucky isn’t enough to convince you of America’s goodness, have a walk downtown. It drips americana. Tall post-Civil War homes line streets, each with its rocking-chair deck.

 

We went for a run yesterday. As we turned down the street and up side road, we greeted smiling faces. My friend runs this route nearly every day. He sees the same people. And every day they say the same types of things.

 

“Running hard today?”

 

“Good morning!”

 

“Well, hey, how-ya doin’?”

 

You’ve seen the movies and TV shows where the good folks sit in front of their good homes, taking in afternoon coolness in the shade of their porch. 

 

This is that place. They literally hold a glass of sweet tea and smile and wave at you. At least I think it’s sweet tea. I don’t really know what they drink in Kentucky. Lemonade? Who knows?

 

Whatever it is, it’s classically American, I can feel it. 

 

It’s times like these that make me feel like America isn’t facing hard times—like maybe everything is good. Maybe we’re going to be okay.

 

I suppose I write this now in the attempt to convince myself that America’s goodness still exists. The constant political turmoil of 2020, the ongoing chaos of differing views regarding the pandemic, and the sorrowful condition of our current cultural climate has led me to this point. Though so many are asking the question whether or not America is great, I feel that we should ask a question more basic: 

 

Is America good?

 

The problem with this question is that most people regard the word good as a subjective term. When compared to the all-good God above, I suppose everything seems pretty bleak. But even God himself looked down on his creation and said it was good. Granted, mankind has fallen into evil and does its darndest to wander (Lord, I feel it).

 

But at the end of the day, I still want to know.

 

Is America good?

 

I recently posed this question to a friend of mine. He tilted his head, pensively, and said slowly, hesitantly, “sometimes.” With all that we have seen and experienced in the past several months, I clearly understand what he means.

 

However, I think I’m more of an optimist.

 

My wife and I have, over the years, traveled to all 50 of these United States. (which, by the way, is not easy to do.) And most of the people we’ve met—whether black, white, Asian-American, Somali-American, short, thin, or wide—have been just downright good people.

 

So, is America good?

 

I think so. But as the great and powerful LeVar Burton once said, “you don’t have to take my word for it.”

 

Just take a walk down a Kentucky side-street. Wave at the friendly folks. Chances are, they’ll smile.

 

My goal over the next few weeks will be to encourage my readers to take off their glasses, coated with the hazy dust of the news, social media negativity, anger, and pride, wipe them off, and hopefully see America as good. Not because of who is or who is not President; but because of the people that live here in American community.

 

We have a term for the culture of American community:

 

Americana.

 

Sure, we have some bad stuff. Evil persists. Racism lives. Wretched attitudes thrive. I will want to explore these things.

 

But I believe that the goodness of America is the rule, and not the exception.

 

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Aedan and the Roots

October 8, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Once a month, I will post a story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 82

Our bus pulled into the city of Ennis in County Clare, Ireland. The only other person to get off the bus was a talkative, late middle-aged lady holding her purse close to her chest. She was apparently the second cousin of the bus driver. After chatting with him for an hour during transit, she disembarked the bus and we made our way to the front. We exchanged pleasantries with the driver and soon found out that the purse lady was not the only talkative one on that bus.

Most of my conversations with Irish people had started the same way.

“Where are you from?” they would ask.

And every time, in all of my vast intelligence, I would respond, “the United States.” In case the point is in question, it is very apparent that I am from the United States, especially when I open my mouth. Further, the Irish have a deep affinity for the USA. And the feeling is mutual. During an extraordinarily dark time in Irish history, the American people welcomed Irish refugees and immigrants with open arms. Ireland had been devastated with a crop-killing blight, sending the island into the Great Hunger. Millions died, and help was nowhere to be found. The Irish flocked to the far reaches of the world, but mostly to the United States. But the relationship has been very reciprocal. Without the Irish population, the Civil War could have ended far differently. Our roots go deep into Irish culture, and millions of Irish in Ireland have family here. It’s nearly symbiotic.

Our conversation continues. Soon, we become friendly. Names are exchanged.

Aedan drives commuter bus all over the southern par of the island. He tells us of his family in the USA. He smiles with pride. And I can’t help but draw similarities between our two countries. All I can think of is how many people are doing the same thing right now in my own country—excitedly telling somebody of a long-lost family in Ireland.

Aedan tells of watching American TV in the 70s and how he had never had a milkshake until his first trip to America. He goes on and on and it’s refreshing. Aedan marvels at the beauty of the Grand Canyon. And I express my marvel at his Emerald Isle. Perhaps there’s a lesson there. But maybe not.

Our two countries have shared roots and connections that reach far deeper than this. But it is a beautiful thing when those roots occasionally spring to the surface.

 

anthony forrest 

The Stories we Share

October 1, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Travel Journal, 81

“You thought she was cute!” he barked.

“I did not!” I was not doing a very good job defending myself.

Devon was telling a story I’ve heard many times over. Its hilarity does not diminish with the telling.

We sat around the living room of an old farm house, laughing. I hadn’t heard or told or even thought about these stories in ages.

It’s the one about how he bribed me to talk to the attractive young lady working behind the counter at a coffee shop in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. I apparently had an enormous glob of whipped cream protruding from the end of my nose. This detail is debated by only myself.

“And then I slammed 50 Bolivianos on the table and told him,” Devon continued, pointing accusingly at me, “‘if you go up to the counter right now, I will pay for the coffee.’”

“So he grabs the money and rushes up to the counter.”

Everybody is roaring.

“He pays.”

“Comes back…”

Dramatic pause…

“…and it was still there!”

Perfect setup, timely delivery—Laughter abounded.

I fought hard to put up some kind of defense and fell horribly short. But it didn’t really matter. I was laughing too hard to blush.

Earlier that day, we took the exit for Lodge Grass, Montana on the Crow Reservation. My wife read off the directions from the text message Devon had sent.

“…turn right, and go over the railroad tracks. Climb the hill. The road will turn into dirt. Drive for a mile or so. You’ll pass three grain bins. Take the road to its end.”

Let’s just say that our friends live out of the way. I looked around. This part of southern Montana reminds me of another place. I met the Dosson family in Bolivia many years ago. It was high time for a visit.

Though I cannot pretend to read minds and hearts, I am sure that they would say their time in South America changed their lives. They lived there for several years. In fact, their children were just that, children. They’ve grown now and I can no longer hold my own against the lads (not that I ever could. But now all doubt is gone.) The boys have families, careers, passion, and pursuits of their own now.

But there we sat, in the farm house in a land of cattle, goats, farming, and western living. Their lives have taken them from one rural place to another. Anymore, we don’t have a whole lot in common. My wife and I live far different lives than they. But it doesn’t really matter. Our commonality lies not in lifestyles or pursuits. Our commonality lies in our shared past.

Sure, places connect us.

But not as much as the stories we share.                    

 

anthony forrest

Screening and Reading

September 24, 2020 / / 0 Comments

I did as I usually do—tossed my red and black, well-worn backpack onto the conveyor belt, watching it disappear into the TSA scanner. I walked with my stocking feet into the bad-human-detector and waited for the security agent to declare me safe for flight.

With the world in crisis mode, most travel and flying has come to a near freeze. And I had not traveled in six months. Many aspects of flying have changed. If you enjoy a middle-seat (anybody?), you’ll just have to settle for a row or an aisle. Flight crews exude an extreme kindness, possibly a symptom of gratitude to be working right now. All airlines require passengers to wear face masks constantly. Snacks and in-flight service no longer resemble the delightful array of cookies and coffee that I love so much. But most importantly, TSA security screening lines no longer filter out the door and down the road. My wife and I waited for a mere 5 minutes at the Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport.  The benefits and drawbacks to the changes in flying weigh about the same.

I peered into the scanner and watched my bag pass through the opening and be quickly spirited away by one of the agents. Most of the time I don’t have any trouble. I have this security stuff down to a science. But occasionally I bring something slightly strange that results in undue attention—a bag of wild rice, coffee from Malaysia, or several pounds of solid copper.

You know, the usual stuff.

But I had no idea what could be setting them off today. The agent looked at the monitor then back to the bag, opening it. Curious, I leaned in slowly and glanced at the screen. A rectangular blob sat nestled deeply in my bag, bricklike.

I snorted.

He withdrew my threatening object: my worn and heavy copy of Les Misérables.

“Huh,” laughed the agent, “I’ve never read it. Is it any good?”

We chatted a little as I repacked my bag. The book is nearly 1,500 pages long and literally resembles a brick. No wonder it set off their scanner.

I do some of my best reading on the plane or in the airport. What else is there to do? Sure, I could look at my cellphone or watch a movie on the back of the seat in front of me. And I often do those things. But when the noise overwhelms me and I bore of screen time, I pop in a pair of earplugs and can read for hours.

I cannot begin to describe Les Misérables. But I will say that Victor Hugo’s impactful novel has been hugely important to me. I finished it in six months and six days, at 9:15 on a Saturday evening.

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Tragedy in the Channel Islands

September 17, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Once a month, I will post a favorite story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 79

My stomach dropped as my thumb scrolled over the screen on my phone. I read in horror about the 75-foot dive boat, the Conception, which caught fire and consequently sank to the bottom of the ocean. At first, details were sparse. But over the course of 2 days, clearer and clearer information was revealed. California and scuba diving communities throughout the US were shocked to hear 34 of the 39 passengers and crew members had died in the tragic accident that occurred September 2nd, 2019. On the ocean floor in the Channel Islands lies the remains of the Conception.

The Channel Islands off the coast of California are wild and windblown. Cold water and ethereal kelp forests make for a very unique diving experience. The Channel Islands are not a convenient place to visit. They are out of the way and nearly inaccessible. And maybe that’s what draws us. A couple of years ago my dad and I dove the Islands. We boarded the Truth—sister ship to the Conception. Truth Aquatics hosts many live-aboard dive experiences a year. There’s just something about being aboard a ship in a rural area.

We dragged our gear onto the deck as the sun set the distance. Each passenger boarded that evening and settled in for the three-day excursion. We hung around on the deck, excitedly. Everybody eyed each other’s gear and chatted about the upcoming dives. It may be cold in other areas of the country, but in Santa Barbara California, the sun always shines. Although it is a little cool, it’s still my kind of weather, shorts and a sweatshirt.

I can imagine what was going through the minds of the victims the night before the Conception caught fire. I laid there and excitedly waited for sleep to come as I thought about diving that beautiful piece of ocean. The waves rocked me to sleep and the gentle hum of the diesel engine lulled my mind into unconsciousness.

Before I opened my eyes to see my surroundings, I could hear and feel and smell my whereabouts. My sleeping bag was wrapped tight around my neck and shoulders. The three-inch pad on which I slept the night before provided shocking amounts of comfort. When we boarded the Truth, my dad said that we needed to pick out bunks close to the front of the boat. Not only would the boat’s listing and swaying feel gentler, but the nearby engine compartment would give off a drone that would muffle all other sound.

And he was not wrong.

From above, smells of coffee and bacon floated down the hatch. I opened my eyes and saw the California sunshine peeking into the boat. My watch read 6:30 a.m. I could tell that others were up and moving about. And from someplace, I heard music. The 69-foot Truth listed gently and the diesel engines continued to hum.

I swung my legs off the upper bunk, trying not to kick my dad in the face. Each step on the wooden stairs creaked under my dirty bare feet. As I climbed stairs to the top deck, the music wove into focus. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were singing about the various subcultures of a Southern California lifestyle. On the counter by the stereo sat a boxed-set CD anthology. Topside, I was met with smiling faces of neo-hippy dive masters and deck hands. They live for this.

“Coffee?” asked a 20-something with blonde dreadlocks.

“My people,” I thought.

I wrote my name with a dry erase marker onto an aluminum mug. Taking a sip, I looked out at the nearby Santa Cruz island. The sun was up and warm, but not hot. Small ocean swells promised lovely diving. And misting saltwater somehow made the black coffee taste even better. We would be diving for two days, all day. The crew of the Truth knew how to give their divers a good time.

Coffee anytime.

Tons of food.

Comfy bunks.

Hot showers.

Gear setup.

And bottomless tanks of all the air you could breathe.

This was going to be incredible. My dad had roused and breakfast was getting under way. This was the life. We love to dive together. We know how each other thinks and we are very comfortable as dive partners. We love the adventure. And we love the ocean.

The dive community is tight-knit and comes together for two things, for love of the ocean and to experience it together.

Nobody expects the worst to happen.

Nobody expects a fire to break out aboard your ship at 3 AM.

All the safety measures in the world can’t fight against unforeseen tragedy.

Because bad things happen.

The best we can do is to pray for the families, support the community, and remember the lost souls that sank that terrible night aboard the dive ship Conception.

Rest in peace, fellow lovers of the ocean.

anthony forrest

*Update: the sinking of the dive boat Conception is now considered the worst maritime disaster since 1865.    

A Ring to Bind Me

September 10, 2020 / / 0 Comments

I wear little jewelry.

Mind, I have attempted to wear a bit extra here and there over the years. When I was a teen, I wore on of those obligatory Christian WWJD bracelets. And later I wore the occasional necklace—which don’t flatter me, to say the least. But now I only wear two pieces of jewelry.

I obviously wear my wedding band.

The only other piece of jewelry I wear is a lone ring on my right hand.

Several years ago, my wife and I traveled to Israel to visit friends. While there, we saw Jerusalem in all her glory: back street market hung with silky scarves, ancient stone walls with bullet holes from the 1967 war, many religious relics and locales, and more food than you can imagine. The land is holy to nearly everybody—and not just here, in this city. Not too far from Jerusalem stands a wall, separating Israeli controlled land from Palestinian Authority controlled land. The city of Bethlehem is also a beautiful city, ravaged by war and constant dispute, but like Jerusalem, it is beautiful all the same. Walking down a side street market, I spotted a table covered in Olive wood decorations, nick knacks, chachkies, and whatnots. As I perused the table, a ring caught my eye—simple, unassuming, and made of a material that I never see. I bought that ring and wore it on my right hand. That is, of course, until it broke due to the stress of wearing it, exposing it to the cold Minnesota winter, or simply because I banged it on something. I tried to repair it a couple of times to no avail.

Years later, I strolled a street on the border of Thailand and Myanmar. The heat drove us under tarps giving shade to food booths (and vendors selling probably the strongest iced coffee I’ve ever tasted, but that’s another tale). We spent a week in the north of Thailand in the Chiang Rai area, visiting friends, experiencing the culture, tasting the food (and coffee), and taking in the weather and scenery. It is easy to love Thailand. Everything about that trip brings a sparkle to our eyes. So, when I looked down at one of the vendor tables and saw a handcrafted jade ring, I just had to have it. The dark green jade color seeped into my eyes. I slipped it onto my hand—now completely understanding how Bilbo and Golem felt. It was precious. It had a weight about it. Jade also signifies healing. As a paramedic, this ring was a perfect accoutrement. I wore it for years—that is, until I finished washing my hands and began to dry them on a towel. The ring felt like it was slipping off. But I looked down and, behold, the one ring was broken into two pieces.

I wear another ring on my right hand now. But it’s a simple place-holder. One day, we will travel to a far-away land. That place will touch my soul. And I will again find a special ring to bind me.

 

anthony forrest

Fish and Chips, Three Ways

August 27, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 77

Seattle, Washington, 2015

I peered out the small airplane window and glanced worriedly back to my watch. There was simply no way I was going to make the next flight. But maybe, just maybe it would be late and I could run to the gate. I had a vision of myself running like OJ Simpson, stiff-arming people through the airport. (We’re talking pre-scandal OJ. Check it out here. You’re welcome.)

I looked back out the window and saw my gate. What luck, I was pulling into the gate adjacent to my next flight. But alas, my luck ended there. I watched helplessly as my next flight pulled away from the gate and taxied down the jetway. That was it. I had no other options for getting from Seattle to Ketchikan, Alaska until the next afternoon. I now had an unexpected stopover. And the solution to an unexpected stay in Seattle is simple—Pikes Place Market.

Backpack on shoulder, I stepped off the bus in front of the iconic sign, right above the fishmongers. After several minutes of gleeful fish-throwing observations (Yes, fish throwing. Check it out here.), my stomach told me to find some fish of my own.

I bypassed several nicer-looking places with patio-seating and large menus. I knew what I was looking for: a hole-in-the-wall. Sure enough, on the pier and under a shanty sat three greasy stools and a small counter. The stocking-cap-wearing chef (?) threw a pile of fried fish and French fries on a day-old copy of the Seattle Times. I doused the luscious heap of Pacific Cod and fries with fresh-squeezed lemon and gratuitous amounts of tartar sauce (call me a heathen). Nothing beats the west coast for the market flavor of fish and chips.

Howth, Ireland, 2019

The small fishing village of Howth sits just east of Dublin. In fact, it’s one of the most pleasant train rides leading out of Dublin. Ivy-covered houses line the tracks that lead all the way to the ocean. When you get to the ocean, you’ll find a lovely little village with a lot of scenic hikes and great food. Some say that on clear day, you can look out toward England and see Hollyhead, near Liverpool. Ireland supports the cliché. Ireland is exactly what you’d expect: green, beautiful, friendly, all the people have wonderful accents, and the food is outstanding. But in a place where they literally call fish and chips “Dublin Caviar” how does one decide where to eat? Nearly every restaurant and pub serve outstanding food. But when you step off the train in Howth and walk just a little way up the street, you’ll see Leo Burdock’s. Please, if you go to Dublin, eat there. We placed our order and began to take a picture of the restaurant. But the owners would have nothing of it.

“Come on back,” they said with a smile. So, I jumped the counter and got my picture with the laughing crew. We chatted about Ireland and America until our food came. They sat a glorious mound of fish and chips on a platter in front of us. Each serving is two pounds of fish and potatoes. This time, I poured the malt vinegar with reckless abandonment.

Grand Marais, Minnesota, annually

Blindfolded and dropped onto the North Shore of Lake Superior, most people would guess they were in Maine or some other rocky and oceanic local—unless, of course, you’ve been there. The Lake stretches for miles and miles and states and states. And every year, my family heads up there in search of solitude and rejuvenation. The frigid water laps the rocky coast. Pines and boreal trees sway with the almost-constant breeze. The small town of Grand Marais is a favorite in Minnesota. Most residents of the State love it and make the journey at least once a year. And just as you drive into the town, look to your right and you will see a little café called Dockside Fish Market. The Lake teems with an abundance of Whitefish, Pike, Walleye, Salmon, and (my favorite) trout of many types. When I was a lad growing up in Wyoming, I didn’t really think that anybody ate any other fish but trout. I had not been confronted with the great Northern Pike or the elusive Walleye. I now love it all. But each year at Dockside, I get a basket of Lake Trout. We usually sit on the patio in the back and we eat our fish and chips in the cool breeze of Lake Superior. It is a tradition we are not soon to break.

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: The Holocaust, Pearl Harbor, and Meaningful Travel

August 20, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Once a month, I will post a favorite story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 76

I have said this before, many times. And I will, no doubt, say it again.

Traveling is different than vacationing.

Sometimes, after walking in work or church or upon meeting a friend for coffee, I will hear a question that I get a lot.

“Were you on vacation?”

It’s a good question. Friends and acquaintances see pictures of my wife and I on social media. Perhaps we’re standing near an old statue in another country, or eating barbeque in the deep south. We have smiles on our faces. We are indeed enjoying ourselves. But to say that we are always vacationing would not be accurate. But it’s unfair to drop into a philosophical discussion on the subtle (and not-so-subtle) differences between travel and vacation when having a five-minute chat. It’s more important than that.

While vacation may appear the same as travel, it is vastly different. But I’m not going to begin bashing vacation. Sometimes you just need to sit on the beach and take in the ocean breeze. Taking a break from the stresses of career and life in general helps to reset the mind and greatly benefits emotional and mental health.

Please, by all means, take a vacation.

But how does one travel? Most of the time, travel wears on you. Travel tends to be a lot of work. It involves less rest and relaxation. And when you get back, all you feel like doing is sleeping. But if it’s so much work, why travel at all? Because travel is growth. It informs your soul and changes your perspective on life and the lives of other people.

Mark Twain published Innocents Abroad in 1869, but I think his words cut deeply into today.

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

June, 2017

We stepped off the train into the heat of the German summer. We had not planned on this. However, our flight out of Munich back to the US wasn’t scheduled to leave for 8 hours more. One of the biggest travel tips I give others is to not miss opportunities, especially when you have extra time. We had extra time. And not too far from Munich lies the small city of Dachau. If that name sounds familiar, it’s probably because you heard it in a history class. Atrocities happened here. It was the first of many concentration camps during WWII. Thousands of people suffered and died at the hands of an evil regime. Jews, Catholics, political prisoners, homosexuals, gypsies, and anybody else that didn’t fit rightly into the Third Reich’s false picture of utopia, were imprisoned here.

We carried our bags on our shoulders because we couldn’t find a luggage locker at the nearby train station. We payed our fee and entered the massive complex. Overhead a cast iron, barred sign read “Arbeit macht frei.” Work will set you free.

It never did.

Acre after acre of sprawling complex-turned-memorial displayed pictures, signs, statues, and artifacts of the evil capabilities of mankind.

This room was used for solitary confinement.

The poles over there are where the Nazis used to hang rulebreakers.

See that door? That leads to where the “doctors” performed medical experiments.

How fitting that we were stuck with hauling around our luggage for three hours. But the weight we felt that day couldn’t have been made worse by a couple of bags. We sweat and staggered around until we couldn’t take it anymore. We could have spent two days studying and viewing the Dachau Concentration Camp. But there was no way. We can only take so much death and dying in one day.

Come, follow me to Hawaii.

May, 2018

Our mothers joined us for a fantastic and relaxing adventure to Oahu. We drove the island, ate tons of great food, relaxed, and spent time by the ocean. Most of it was vacation. But it had one blemish, leaving a bitter (but important) taste.

We stood near the bay at Pearl Harbor. Thousands died here during a surprise attack from an exotic country with which we weren’t even at war. The Imperial Japanese military carried out one of the most iconic and deadly attacks of the 20th century. Their goal was to destroy US aircraft carriers, delaying or preventing any US involvement in a brewing Indo-Chinese and Pacific conflict. Though no carriers were destroyed, thousands of people lost their lives. The US entered into war with Japan the next day. Americans died. Japanese died. And though we tend to think about “who won” WWII, nobody really won. Everybody lost.

Our boat cruised the watery graveyard. We saw pieces of ships rising above the sea, as the guide spoke of bombs falling and fires starting. I imagine battleships, full of fuel oil, leaking into the ocean. An oil slick on the surface, six inches deep in some places, ignites into a black-smoke fire. Bombs drop onto ships. Seamen leap to avoid death, only to find it faster in the hellish, burning ocean.

The visit to Pearl Harbor was amazing, but not because it was fun. It was amazing in the truest sense. Loss of life should always amaze. The incident was not that long ago. And it was perpetuated by fellow humans. Pearl Harbor changes you; teaches you.

Not every traveling experience will brand sadness into your soul. But sometimes it will. Neither Dachau nor Pearl Harbor are good places to vacation. But they are excellent places to travel. Taking the time to travel is soul-instructing and character-changing.

Travel if you dare to better yourself. Gather your bags and make a personal journey. Grow yourself and become more human. Release the prejudice in your grasp. But take caution, traveling is not for the faint of heart.

For travel can be fatal to preconceptions.

And it is much different than going on vacation.

anthony forrest

Postrervalle

August 13, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Note the exquisite handwriting of 12-year-old me.

Travel Journal, 75

My thoughts take me to 1999. I’ve written about Bolivia a couple of times. But long before I lived there as a high-energy, guitar playing 18-year-old, my entire family spent a month in the town of Vallegrande, nestled in the Andes Mountains.

Dad, mom, sister, brother, and I packed up our 90’s clothes. Armed with a sparkling-new Sony Handycam Hi8 camcorder, we flew to the heart of South America. This would be a kind of survey trip to help our family decide on whether or not we would move there and become missionaries. Though life would take us in another direction, that first international trip helped to shape my life.

During our travels, we spent some time in the village of Postrervalle. The name translates to “the last valley.” It’s the end of the line; the quintessential middle of nowhere. Parts of Bolivia remind me of my own home state of Wyoming. It’s arid, desert-like, and has a sort of cowboy feel to it. We traveled there during Carnaval. This custom includes a weeklong celebration of indigenous beliefs mixed with assimilated pseudo-Catholicism. But mostly, it’s an excuse to party. For days on end, the music rarely stops. Alcohol flows. Food stands and vendors line the plaza.

And for some reason, I remember the rain and the mud…

We sit at a small plastic table, huddled close due to the cold. These parts of the Andes Mountains are cool this time of year. I smell the food cooking and have no idea what it is. But when my dad asks if I want the sausages hanging nearby, my instincts scream, “yes!” Soon, a plate of sausage, rice, potatoes, and salad arrive and I tuck in neatly. Even though I’ve been stuffing my face with candy, I can always still eat. My chocolate supply is running low. Earlier I bought a handful of chocolate sticks (which taste like low quality Easter chocolate) with little comic strips inside the wrapper. I clean my plate, but don’t eat my salad. Our family stays away from the produce. Dad says it’s because we don’t want to get sick. Fine with me. I didn’t want to eat my salad anyway. I’m 12. I want chocolate.

I finish my food and look out to the street. It’s only 4 p.m. and already dark. Actually, the whole day has been dark. The surrounding mountains hide the sun earlier than the true sunset. Above, black rain clouds mask the only remaining light. The foreign festival gives me an uncomfortable feeling.

Darkness sits in this valley like the smoke of a smoldering fire.

The day’s drizzle seems to have stopped, but the mud prevails. Our chilled bodies warmed, we walk down the muddy street laden with trash and running chickens. I remember the story that my dad’s friend told us around a bonfire last night. Apparently, the locals think that the house in which we are staying tonight is haunted. He talked about people hearing things in that house—sounds of strangers dragging one foot. That sort of thing. I don’t buy it. At least, that’s what I want everybody to think. In a place like this, who knows. Postrervalle used to be spiritually dark—witches and demons dark. That is, until he and his mission’s team brought the light of God. And that light has shone in the darkness since. But on a rainy day with foreign music and muddy roads, my mind tingles with hesitant curiosity.

Haunted, you say?

It’s night. I’m lying in a sleeping bag on a straw mattress in the haunted (?) house. Though we’ve all been in bed for hours, I hear the throbbing of the drums and the beating of the music in the town plaza. They’re celebrating. On and on they’re celebrating. And to me, every beat sounds like a stranger dragging his leg. I finally fall into a restless sleep, tossing and turning with the twisted dreams of an imaginative 12-year-old.

But now it’s morning. The sun is shining. I look outside and see that it doesn’t look all that dark anymore. The mud still cakes the roads, but the music doesn’t play. I throw my sleeping bag and backpack into the rusty Toyota pickup. I eat some bread and a chunk of cheese as I climb onto the truck. And rolling down the muddy road home, I glance back at Postrervalle—that last valley. The end of the line.

You know what?

Now it doesn’t look all that bad.

But I know that night will come once again. The drums will beat. And then, at least in my mind, the ghosts will come out to play. The only cure for this darkness is the light.

I’ve been back to that village in the years following my first visit. And though the light continues to seep through the cracks in that dark place, the work in Postrervalle is far from over.

But that was over 20 years ago. Who knows what goes on now in the mountain village of Postrervalle, Bolivia?

 

anthony forrest

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