Travel and Verse

stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Tag: Travel (Page 1 of 7)

Back to Peru, medical campaign 2025

February 12, 2025 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 143

Yes! It’s here already!

Summary:

Once a year I travel to Peru to work with local missionaries on a Medical Campaign in the jungle. We spend several days prepping, then six days providing medical care and speaking the truth of the Gospel to the people along the Las Piedras River in southeastern Peru.

Additional challenges:

Each year seems to bring it’s own new and wild challenges to accomplish our goals. One biggie this year is the fact that the missionaries, Buddy and Loren Fitzgerald, have had to move temporarily into a local church building. Their home is quite literally falling into the river. Their house is perched on the banks of the Madre de Dios river. But with so much rain and erosion, a sinkhole opened near the house. It is now in jeopardy of being washed away. Instead of prepping for this trip in their home, we will be working in the church building and staying at a nearby hotel (not exactly the Ritz, mind you). Click here for a video of the sinkhole. Their house is the white two-story at 3:00 into the video.

Where are we going?

To put it frankly? Off the map. Our team will be traveling along the Las Piedras River for 6 days. We will take a long canoe-like boat roughly 250 miles up the river to the village of Monte Salvado, which boarders the Madre de Dios Territorial Reserve. This reserve is kind of a mix of national park/nature preserve/tribal reservation. It is home to a couple of uncontacted people groups, one of which is the Maschco Piro. The people along the river are part of the Yine tribe. Their primary language is Yine, but most do speak Spanish. On our way back we will stop at several villages and host clinics along the river.

What are we doing?

The team will set up a mobile clinic and treat patients. And we will do that in seven villages on the way back to Puerto Maldonado. During this time, our evangelism team as well as the local missionaries preach, disciple, and distribute Gospel materials.

Prep days:

An important prerequisite for setting up mobile clinics in the jungle is the preparation. And that starts months in advance with finding the right teammates. God has blessed us with a tight team of physicians, nurses, physical therapists, dentists and techs, paramedics, and support members. Gear and medication prep begins when we land in Puerto Maldonado. We will spend a couple of days organizing medication, camping gear, food, and other equipment. It all gets loaded up into a long boat and our trip begins.

The Goal:

Obviously we’ll be there to provide much needed medical care. It is very difficult and often cost prohibitive for these people to get healthcare. But as we are treating bodies, we are also treating souls. Our goal is to spread the Good News of Christ to a people in great need. While caring for them we are pointing them to the Great Physician.

Duration:

I will be leaving on Thursday, the 13th of February and arrive in Puerto Maldonado on Friday morning. I will be back in the States on the 25th of February.

How can I get involved?

Pray.

Please consider praying for and during the medical campaign. You might think, “oh I should send money or maybe even get some training and go.” And those are certainly things that can be done. But prayer is the most important work. And prayer not just something to help with the work.

Prayer IS the work. It is the means by which we worship God. Prayer brings us before Him. It unifies all of Christianity. It is a mystery of supernatural goodness that cannot be ignored. If you want to be involved in the 2025 Peru Medical Campaign, please pray.

Forrest

Peru Medical Campaign, part 2: To Give Our Light

May 23, 2024 / / 1 Comment
Daryn Popp in the middle

Travel Journal, 141

Every year I participate in a Medical Campaign in the Madre de Dios region of Peru. This year our team of 30 consisted of two physicians, four nurses, three dentists, a paramedic (yours truly), and several non-medical supportive personnel. Click here for a basic breakdown of the mission.

February 26th-March 2nd

7 days

6 villages

1 city

250-ish miles of river

Multiple days of rain

Over 300 patients

49 confessed Christ as Savior

1 Great God

 

I hesitate to write this story. To write about myself is inherently safe. But writing about someone else? That’s another matter. Opening the curtains on someone else demands careful thought and action. I tread lightly here.

But I want to tell you, no, I have to tell you about Daryn.

Immediately the Medical Campaign’s original plans had sloughed off and new plans grew to take their place. It’s simply the nature of doing things in the jungle. Timing seemed to be the biggest change. Instead of this place today, we go to this other place. We load up a truck instead of a boat. We go to meet a man about gasoline; he’s not there.

And the first day of the trip, our boat came into Santa Alicia—a place we had no intention of being. The river was swift. Far swifter than we’d ever seen. Slow boat travel landed us here, fairly close to dark. By the time we set up clinic, held a briefing, and began seeing patient’s, darkness had fallen hard on this tiny Peruvian village.

And there is one guy that kind of holds it all together during times like this.

Daryn works quietly in the background, filtering drinking water, setting up lights, troubleshooting missing tent parts, directing patients to respective locations, and doing whatever needs to be done before you even know there’s a problem. He’s a sedate fella. He won’t yell and he certainly isn’t going to make you want to yell. His quiet and saintly demeanor are injected with a wry smile and a hilariously dry sense of humor. And this guy can sing. But Daryn above all loves Christ and can’t keep it to himself. He’s here because he needs to be here. The work needs him. And he cannot help but serve.

At Santa Alicia, a Peruvian lady heard us talking to Daryn and mentioned him by name. Seems her sister had recently had a baby. And what’s astounding about all of this is that she named the baby after Daryn. His name is not one you hear in Spanish, much less the Yine Tribal language. But this quiet servant of God was honored with a namesake in the middle of the Peruvian jungle.

In Spanish, there’s a very interesting way of saying that someone had a baby.

“Dar la luz.”

When we say that someone gave birth, we literally say that she, “gave the light.” Its origins are actually pretty clear. The Blessed Virgin Mary gave the light of the world when she gave birth to Christ.

And now Christ tells us that we are the light of the world. As Christians, we are to “let [our] light shine before others, so that they (those in sin and darkness) may see [our] good works and give glory to [our] Father in heaven.” (Matt 5)

Daryn’s example is hard to miss. He has the light of Christ and each year he diligently lets it shine. It shone so bright that a Peruvian lady gave her child his name when she, “gave the light.”

And so it goes on: Christ’s Good News of salvation from sin and death. For, “in him was life, and that life was the light of men. That light shines in the darkness, and yet the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1)

The darkness cannot overcome the quiet saint showing the light of Christ.

 

anthony forrest

Follow along for more to come on the 2024 Medical Campaign in Peru. And click here for even more stories of my work in Peru.

Missions in Malta: the Tanis Family

May 16, 2024 / / 2 Comments

Travel Journal: 140

A city on a rock. Desolate in parts, and pristine in others, Malta lies at the crossroads of the Mediterranean Sea. It’s lost someplace between Tunisia to the west, Sicily to the north, and a stone’s throw from Libya in the south. It’s tiny in space and huge in population. Malta holds the number five spot for highest population density in the world (most populated in Europe). It can feel like a city-state. Think of Singapore or even Washington D.C. Apartments rise because there is nowhere to go but up. Mr. Bean-sized cars fly from lane to lane, vying for position (walking the streets is similar). And though there’s barely room to breathe, Malta still has trees and open space. It’s a paradox. Rough and calm, loud but silent, baren and beautiful, green and tan, stone and water: it’s everything at once.

Malta feels like the middle of nowhere.

But it’s not nowhere.

It’s everywhere.

And by that I mean there’s a little bit of every place embedded into Malta. The language is a mix of Arabic, Italian, Sicilian, and even a touch of English. And that’s due to British governance which lasted 150 years, ending in 1964. Sound like a mixed bag? You’d be right.

Though wars and regime changes and geopolitical struggles may adversely affect people, it does wonders for the food. I say that only with a little tongue and cheek. Maltese food reflects this: Turkish kebab, Italian pizza, British meat pies, and traditional Maltese fried rabbit. You can get Greek Mezza right after a first course of Octopus Stew with a side of spaghetti (don’t ask).

And it is at this crossroads where we met Luke and Anna Tanis and their children. My wife and I had the privilege to visit and get a little taste of the Gospel work in Malta. They minister here at a church in Gzira, close to the capital of Valetta. Their energy is infectious. You can feel the love they have for the people of Malta and the love they have for the God who made this wild and wonderful place. In a place where nearly 100% of the churches are Catholic, they minister at one of only three or four Baptist churches. And their ministry looks a lot like the food scene.

There’s a map on the wall at Bible Baptist Church with pins pointing to origins. Sunday sermon notes are available in multiple languages. It seems they come from all over to live in Malta. And it’s here that Luke and Anna show them the love of Christ.

Anthony Bourdain said once that, “… food, culture, people and landscape are all absolutely inseparable.” The Tanis family has set down roots into a rocky, diverse place to bring the Good News of Christ to people from all over the world, right at their fingertips.

 

anthony forrest

Around the World in Two Days

February 14, 2024 / / 0 Comments
Conductor in Milano, Italy

Travel Journal , 137

I have felt like Phileas Fogg several times in my life. Never heard of him? If you don’t know who that is, I recommend looking into the classic story by Jules Verne: Around the World in 80 days. If you have never read the book, I highly recommend doing so. And even if you’ve never read it, you’ve probably either seen one of the movies or adaptations. My favorite being the 2021 TV series from the BBC starring the fantastic David Tennant. The whole idea of the story goes that a very wealthy man in England is challenged to the task of completing a journey around the world point to point, in 80 days flat.

 

Between steamer boats, trains, and well-tuned pocket watches, Phileas Fogg manages to get himself all the way around the world and win the bet. Along the way, Mr. Fogg is slowly transformed. At the beginning all he simply cares about is completing the challenge. The money doesn’t even seem to concern him. He wants to get from point a to point b. His compatriot, Passepartout, disagrees with his travel technique. He thinks that experiencing a lot along the way would certainly be far more fun. During the book, Phileas, ever the English soul, ignores passing scenery it has trained window, and even at times, withholds travel niceties from himself. He just plays his cards and sips his brandy. And despite of all of this, Phileas Fogg finds himself dragged headlong into precarious situations. He meets interesting people. Solves interesting and even impossible challenges. And even in the end, the stoic pride of England even falls in love with a woman from India.

 

My mind drifts to this story quite frequently. My wife and I tend to travel quickly from one place to the next, seeing a lot along the way. I have in the past had people tell me that we don’t spend enough time in one location. Three days in London? That’s not enough time! Oh, you can’t experience Japan unless you’ve lived there. You definitely need to spend an entire summer in Thailand. Travelers tend to be kind of snobs (I’m guilty too). Usually the time requirement for experiencing locations gets longer and longer depending on who you talk to. But going to location briefly and moving on is not without its benefits.

 

I specifically felt like Phileas Fogg when we were traveling through Italy. We started at a must-see location. Rome. And much like Mr. Fogg we also stayed in interesting places. The sisters at the nunnery graciously opened their arms and we stayed two nights within walking distance of Rome Central train station and the Coliseum. Is 2 days enough to see Rome? That really depends. If you want to see it all, experience it all, wait in line at St Peters Basilica, tour ancient ruins, and get inside looks at old and mysterious places, maybe not. But still we saw an experienced so much. And then we were off. From train station to train station we traveled. Making our way north into Switzerland. We stopped along the way on the coast ate good food, and saw the beautiful sights. The stunning Med. Blazing through Italy may not be the best way to get the perfect quintessential Italian experience. But much like Phileas, the countryside out your train window cannot be ignored. No matter who you are, you simply cannot ignore people when you’re traveling. You think you can. But eventually someone will walk up to you and have a question. Where are you from? Do you have any change? Do you know the directions to x? And no matter what, things will certainly happen to you along the way. You may not find yourself trapped in India and rescuing a damsel in distress (see chapter 5 in Vernes’ book.) But things will indeed happen to you nonetheless. And you will certainly walk away changed. So, the next time somebody scoffs, “you should have been in New York at Rockefeller Center during Christmas because that’s the only time to really experience it.” Or the next time somebody says you really need a week to understand Dublin. Or, “you should probably leave the resort in Mexico because you’ve not experienced the real Mexico.” Just think of Phileas Fogg in a top hat playing cards on a train. And never let someone criticize how you travel. It’s all far too subjective. And it’s all very, very personal.

 

anthony forrest

 

Scotland: Ancient Ways

June 3, 2023 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 130

Cobble stones older than America line the narrow streets, all of which seem to lead up to the ancient castle perched on the tippy-topmost ridge. Darkish clouds hang down, drawn onto the stone structure. It makes no sound and wants nothing of passersby. For all intents and purposes, Edinburgh Castle keeps to itself. And so does the rest of buildings and churches and houses. Each building connects with another—all a grey stone or tan stone. Some parts, like the aptly named Old Town, are indeed quite old: Middle Ages. These places haven’t changed in nearly a thousand years. Others, like the ridiculously named New Town, are still 18th century structures. This boggles the American mind. The 18th century is the beginning of time for us. And if all of the bustle and people were to evaporate and disappear forever, one has the impression that Edinburgh would go on, just the same. And the castle would simply keep looking down, as if waiting for something. Cathedrals, chapels, and churches dot the city, breaking up any monotony. No matter where one walks, a steeple stands tall.

Rows and rows of dark and kind of damp stone buildings go on sprawling until they suddenly cease in fields where deer run. A city dropped onto a map of countryside, hills and mountains all around. Certainly, it is not supposed to be there. Someone should speak to the manager. There must be a mistake. It’s an unchanging town, trapped in its own history. And maybe that’s why people go there. Travelers and tourists look for that feeling of unchangeability, an ancient place. They go seeking the old ways. Or they go seeking answers to who they are. Especially in a place like Scotland. If you want to find out if your last name is Scottish and which clan you’re from, you’ve certainly come to the right place.

Most of the time, Edinburgh teems with people, tourists and residents alike. But all of the action happens later, and not at 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday. The streets of Edinburgh were as empty as they ever are as we walked down the lane, on our own search for the unchangeable and ancient. And I’m not talking about the castle (though he looks upon us). We walked toward The Church of St John the Evangelist. Very rarely do tourists darken the door of churches. In fact, the day before, I walked past another older cathedral and saw a tourist peek into an exceedingly ancient church structure. She half-smirked and said that she didn’t need to spend the 2£ on the tour. Nobody wants to go to church. And yet they’re all looking for something more, darker, deeper, ancient, and satisfying. But that’s why we walked the chilly Scottish lane toward the mystery of God. We seek the same beauty and ancient unchangeability.

We came to a sung eucharist service: a celebration of the Lord’s Supper accompanied by the choir of St John’s. The service commenced with the singing of Psalms and recitations by us churchgoers. We stood and sat and prayed and sang. An older gentleman in front of us told us about the history of the church (he’s been there 50 years). At length, we all stood and filed past the priest and rectors to receive the body and blood represented in a cracker and wine. Back to our seats. More choral music. More praying. A blessing was given as the service closed.

This all seems innocuous or even dull to so many people. “Church is boring. Christianity is dead. I’m not religious. Religion is just a crutch.” These statements usually come from a point of superiority. It usually feels like the person you’re talking to is trying to tell you that they have it all figured out. They don’t need my tired old God. And yet they line the streets to see the Crown Jewels of Mary Queen of Scots. Or they take selfies in front of the most beautiful structure in the city. News flash—that’s a church.

I don’t have it all figured out. On the contrary, my hurts and problems and questions sting just as much as the next guy’s. Prolific author and apologist G.K Chesterton had it right when he said that, “the riddles of God are more satisfying than the solutions of man.”

The ancient and unchangeable ways of God satiate that taste and desire for more. There’s a reason the most beautiful structures in this world point to heaven.

 

anthony forrest

Back to Peru, part 1: prepping and praying

January 28, 2023 / / 1 Comment

Travel Journal, 128

Warning: this article contains a brief discussion on suicide.

“I cannot believe this sporting goods store in central Minnesota doesn’t have any jungle gear during the month of January.”

Thinking it felt pretty silly. Saying it out loud was shear madness. I stumbled around Scheels looking for things like dry sacks, inflatable camping seats, rain ponchos, and anything else waterproof that I could get my hands on.

For the past few years, I have been involved in a medical mission in the jungle of Peru. There are many medical ministries in this world. Some are capable and able to set up huge clinic sites to reach people in difficult situations. Take an organization such as Samaritan’s Purse for an example. They mobilized thousands of medical professionals as well as garnered millions of dollars of humanitarian aid for the extreme need along the borders of Ukraine. The Salvation Army does the same for hurting people all over the world. Larger organizations have their place.

But what about the village of 80 on some unknown river in a (seemingly) godless jungle? Who reaches them? There’s no Boing 737 loaded to the gills with supplies and Bibles headed their way. Something like that is just not feasible. Even a team of 100 couldn’t make the trek. That’s where we come in. For seven days we go from village to village with a kind of tactical medical team. We keep the team tight. A doctor, a handful of nurses, a team of missionaries and locals, and myself, a paramedic—maybe 15-18 people. During the rainy season we load up heaps of gear onto a long boat and travel a couple of hundred miles into the reaches of the Amazon. We will treat and minister to hundreds of patients and lost souls. These people know nothing of proper medical care. And they know even less, if anything, about our Great Physician, Jesus Christ. We will bring them the Good News of Christ—dead, buried, and risen—treating their souls as well as their bodies.

The medical campaign has become a very important part of my life. Be not deceived. It sounds adventurous, and I suppose it is. But this is no vacation. We are here to work. At every stop along the river, we carry hundreds of pounds of gear up the river banks to set up clinic. Sleep evades. And muscles cry out. It’s a grueling week with all the romance of sleeping on the dirt and chancing Dengue Fever.

But I cannot miss it.

In truth, I need to be there as much as the patients we’ll see.

As a paramedic, I see patients every night. Some sick, some not so much.

I get calls for junkies OD-ing on Fentanyl.

Elderly women with respiratory failure.

Heart attacks.

Strokes.

Suicides especially hurt my heart. My mind’s eye cannot rid itself of the images of men and women hanging from the floor joists in their basement.

But not all “emergencies” are emergencies. We see it all—drunk wackos, running from the cops. The 25-year-old who thinks he’s dying when it turns out he shouldn’t drink 10 Monster Energy Drinks in a night. Or how about getting called in the middle of the night for a kid with a fever? For some reason, a ton of parents don’t even have Tylenol in their home. I get called for (literally) stubbed toes.

Needless to say, I get burned out.

Where is my empathy? Why don’t I always care deeply for each person equally, no matter why they call 911? God Himself cares for me even at my worst—especially (!) at my worst. Christianity is the opposite of this world. The more horrible I am, the more grace God has given me. It seems backward. And I wish I was like that—showing love and grace to people whom I’ve written off.

I need a reset. And my annual trek to Peru does just that. I need to sleep on the dirt and suffer a little. I need to go to the jungle; I need to see patients who need medical care; I need to see lives transformed by Christ. Yes, I know, it all kind of sounds selfish now. But God works in every heart. While we bring the News of Christ to these sick souls, it turns out, the Great Physicians is actually healing me.

So, I am prepping once again for the campaign in Peru. We have an excellent team this year, including a couple of nurses who’ve never been there. I will be checking my tent for holes and filling totes with medical supplies for the next two weeks. The search for jungle gear in this Minnesota January continues.

Would you consider praying for the upcoming medical campaign in Peru from 11 February to 19 February?

 

Pray for:

The health of the team

Safety during the trip

Easy availability of needed supplies (gasoline for the boat, ect)

The deteriorating political climate in Peru

And that many would hear the Gospel and that Christ would save them

 

anthony forrest

Captivated by Rome

November 4, 2022 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 127

Acclaimed travel show host, Laura McKenzie has been taking people around the world in 30-minute segments for the better part of 30 years. Just last month, I came across an episode of her show on Rome. She hit the highlights from the fountains to the Colosseum. In a half-an-hour I had seen Rome with sparky music in the background all from the comfort of my couch. And this is a lovely way to see Rome. But it is not the honest way.

Honesty may be the best policy. But honesty can be chaos.

We hit the ground running when we landed at Leonardo DaVinci Airport. I immediately stopped for a coffee and poured an espresso into my soul; this was going to be a wild trip. Our train took us right to the Roma Termini station, within walking distance of much of the sites.

The TV shows don’t tell you of the oceans of people, crowding the train stations and all public places. We poured forth into the streets, thinking we were going to be gingerly introduced to the Eternal City. But we were accosted by all it had to offer. Rome is a maze of streets lined with tan and salmon-colored Mediterranean buildings. A Catholic church sits on every corner, and each of them is older than the United States. Aged and ancient structure is everywhere and everything.

There’s no better place to experience this than Vatican City. The museum in the tiny city-state houses more ancient things than you can imagine. Hallways full of the ancient treasures of this world lead to even more hallways and rooms of art beyond measure. It culminates in the Sistine Chapel, where Michelangelo painted what could be the most famous work of art ever.

God peers down from the ceiling above; Adam reaches for Him. Frescos of Biblical tales swirl in a kaleidoscope of Christianity. And it all happens while you are shoulder to shoulder with heaps of tourists, trying to sneak a picture without the guards yelling at you in broken English. It’s madness and beauty. Most of the people underneath God and Adam aren’t even Christians. But there’s enough longing in their hearts to know that this mass of Christian art is special. It beckons. They, like Adam, are reaching for God—they just don’t know it yet.

The Sistine Chapel is Rome in miniature.

Rome is just too much, an assault on the senses.

Heavy spiritual Catholicism everywhere.

Tourists pouring from every chink in every wall.

Trash in the street.

The smell of coffee, wine, pizza, and cheap European cigarettes permeates everything.

Sounds of mercilessly old motorcycles and tiny cars molests your eardrums.

Pickpockets wait in not-so-dark alleys.

If you don’t get run over by a Vespa, you might make it to a vespers at one of a million churches.

Suddenly it’s 5 p.m. and every bell rings your mind into a trance.

Ding!

Bell!

Ring!

Dong!

Ding!

Clang!

Bang!

Ring!

Clung!

Ding!

So many church bells, and none of them synchronized, this ringing of the bells rings on for minutes on end—until every thought must be put on layaway.

It’s a sober high, a fever dream of mystic spirituality. But it’s all mixed with pungent secularism.

And it never ends.

English writer and Christian apologist, GK Chesterton, is quoted as saying that the Roman Catholic Church is, “like a thick steak, a glass of red wine, and a good cigar.”

I don’t know if this is true. I am no Catholic. But it certainly seems true of Rome itself. It’s hearty like a thick steak you can’t finish, mildly intoxicating like wine, and a hidden mystery—somewhat like a smoke-filled room.

I stood on a terrace, looking out, and it seemed Rome went on forever, for all eternity. With all the harassing senses that Rome imparts, I find I love it. The beauty of the old Christianity cannot be ignored. The crucifix depicting our Lord hangs on nearly every wall. Ancient art infuses a sense of God-given grace. Cobble-stoned streets always win me over. Smiling people serve lovely pasta and pizza in corner cafes. And you’d be hard-pressed to find a bad espresso. I would freely admit to being a hostage of Rome and fully loving my captor—like Stockholm Syndrome. I want to be in Rome and I don’t want to be in Rome.

It’s a paradox. Or rather, Rome is like that old Chapel, filled with sinners and saints, some reaching for God and some not.

But the beauty prevails, despite the chaos.

 

anthony forrest

Unexpected Stockholm

October 17, 2022 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 126

Cobbled stone streets flow through all of the various European cities around this great European continent. But none so clean as Stockholm. I think this was probably the most surprising aspect of Stockholm. It may sound silly, but enjoying this capital of Sweden was a mistake. We simply did not intend to love it there. It was, by far, one of the best traveling accidents we’ve ever made.

We hadn’t left the US in months and we wanted a getaway. So we looked at the list of locations on our “to-be-traveled” list and picked one. We knew nothing of Sweden. But off we went. The 8-hour flight passed with surprising ease when our plane cut through the clouds above Stockholm. The airport lies 30 km (16 miles) from the city center. The surrounding trees near the rural airport made us feel like we were at home in an Autumn-blasted Minnesota.

(A point of gratitude: travel restrictions are completely lifted in most of the world. Sweden is no exception. We crossed into the country needing no extra paperwork or testing. Back to normal!)

A 30-minute bus ride landed us in the center of the city. Like most cities, some parts are new and others old. The train and bus depot is located in the newer section of town. But Sweden is an old place. And even the new parts feel old-world—especially since it saw no harms of WWII.

The whole city is walkable, and soon we found our hotel in the old town of Gamla Stan. And here the surprises continued. Who knew that a place like Stockholm would smell like cinnamon? On nearly every corner, sellers of cinnamon buns and coffee tempt the traveler and local alike. Stopping for a quick bite and coffee is an important part of their culture, called Fika—or, coffee break. They take time to relax and have a break two, or three times a day. And these cinnamon buns are at the center of the Fika tradition. In fact, we landed on National Cinnamon Bun Day. A coincidence? I call it fate.

Stockholm is a harbor town on the Baltic Sea. Its lands are islands and peninsulas and mainlands, connected by over 50 bridges. It’s a paradise for all who love museums, cafes, restaurants, shopping, entertainment, parks, water, outdoor space, and old architecture. What’s more, during a chilly October, the Fall colors paint the place with oranges, and reds, and yellows, and all the other Fall-like tones.

Sound perfect?

It is.

Above all, though, Stockholm is clean. It has all the old-world charms of Amsterdam with its history and cobble stones, and the romantic flair of Paris with its iconic sites and cafes. But it does not have the trash or smells of either of those places. Stockholm is clean, safe, and almost completely free of homeless. It’s the best of Europe.

One of our favorite pastimes in any European city is to simply walk the cobblestone streets. And there is no better place to do so than Stockholm.

You could eat off the cobble stones here. They lead to royal palaces, restaurants, and churches. They bring life to this old place, like so many arteries carrying blood.

It mesmerizes the traveler.

I’m pumped deeper into these stones and buildings and waterways and statues until I’m lost, lost, lost, or, at least, don’t want to go home.

But I must.

And though it has only been a few days, I feel that in leaving now, when I don’t want to, I’m gettin’ while we’re gettin’ is good.

If we had stayed longer, would we have regretted it? (I doubt it).

Maybe we would grow to hate it here. (I doubly doubt it).

But maybe it’s best to leave early, when I don’t want to leave. There was no time to wonder, “what next?” We left Stockholm wanting more. And that’s a great way to live. It’s certainly better than leaving, wanting less.

If you ever have the chance to go to Stockholm, go to Stockholm.

That is, of course, unless you despise happy places that smell like cinnamon.

 

anthony forrest

The Loneliness of Travel

February 3, 2022 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 114

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 

Iceland: on Stykkishólmur and the men from God

August 12, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 107

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

Iceland: on hot springs

Iceland: on the people and culture

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