Travel and Verse

stories of travel, medical missions, and more

Tag: Travel (Page 2 of 7)

Iceland: on the people and culture

July 15, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 105

How can anybody put to paper a place like Iceland?

The Land of Fire and Ice—a mystical place of tradition and beauty, of art and literature.

Iceland’s natural resources are its greatest treasure. And I’m not just talking about the land itself. The tiny island the size of Ohio married the Viking people centuries ago. There’s never been a unification more seamless.

To my knowledge, Iceland is the only country in the world whose people did not displace or conquer another people group in order to live there. The Viking people landed on Iceland’s shores and found it cold and icy in the winter. But summer arrived. And much to their surprise, this icy land grew green and (relatively) lush. Settlement commenced.

And the land was far more than green. Cold, clean water flowed from bubbling springs. Grass fed their livestock. Steaming water from innumerable hot springs gave them heat. Mountains, glaciers, water, ocean, fish, and full summer sun—this land had it all. The only downside is the dark, dark winters (hence all the reading, see below).

Icelandic people strike me as similar to the Japanese. They pursue specific tasks and craft with similar passion, but for different reasons. The Japanese pursue excellence in so much of their lives. Order a coffee or go on a museum tour. The sheer excellence in what they do astounds me. But to them, seeking perfection gives them satisfaction in a job well done. It’s an honorable and accomplishing thing to do something at its highest form.

The Icelandic people also strive for excellence. But they do so for the joy of the thing. They work for the love of old, old traditions. Historic ways must not be lost. A hauntingly beautiful and mystical status quo needs to be upheld. And that’s not a bad thing. Their pursuits lean toward the crafts and arts. Whether metal work or writing, Icelandic art bleeds honest simplicity. You’ve never wanted to own a thick woolen sweater so badly in your life. The hand-dyed yarns come together lovingly. And they’re not just a souvenir—the Icelandic people wear them daily with pride.

They are a people of books and reading books. Reykjavik is a UNESCO City of Literature. I stopped into one of the many bookstores in Reykjavik. More books are published per capita than any other country in the world. According to a 2013 article from the BBC, one in 10 people will publish a book in their lifetime.  And most of them are published during the Christmas season during a time called Jolabokaflod (or, Christmas Book Flood). Booksellers publish huge catalogues. And books are the most popular Christmas present.

Simple traditions, like reading and crafts, persist all over the country. Go for a drive. Look at the buildings, the homes. The first thing you will notice is the lack of variety. Most homes and churches and schools have the same cream-colored walls and red roofs. One of our friends found this odd. So she took it upon herself to find out why this was. She asked grocery store clerks, gas stations attendants, people on the streets; none knew the answer. Until finally one Icelander said that the predominate Christian denomination in the late 1800s was the Lutheran Church of Denmark. The Danish flag being red and white, most houses since then have been built reflect the Church of Denmark.

As always, the written surveys of places and cultures that you find written here, flow fully from my own mind and perspective. And if perspective is anything, it’s subjective—different for everybody. What you see and feel in a foreign place will, in fact, be far different than what I see and feel. And it seems like whenever I write about a place or a people, I find myself never quite capturing the truest nature of the thing. How can but a few words on a page elicit emotions and summon the ghosts of a strange land?

Alas, I try my darndest.

This quick glimpse may give you a basic idea of the Land of Fire and Ice.

But in the end, the best was to know a place is to go there.

 

anthony forrest

 

more on Iceland:

Iceland: on Covid testing and travel in a post-pandemic world

Iceland: on hot springs

Iceland: on hot springs

July 8, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 104

One sensation hit me unexpectedly when I stepped out of the airport in Keflavik, Iceland.

The smell.

And honestly it came as quite the shock that I still had a sense of smell after the nasal destruction that was Covid testing.

But there we stood, waiting for our rental car shuttle. I would say that I remembered my childhood home of Cody, Wyoming, but that’s not quite what I mean. When I caught the aroma of Iceland, I felt the feelings of being in Cody.

Not just any spot in Cody either; the smell transported me back to riding in a car on Southfork Rd. I would drive down the hill and turn right into Cody. But at the top of that hill, I would smell the same smell as I smelled here in Iceland. Directly below lay a small winding canyon. And in the bottom of that canyon lay the Shoshone River. And out of this river occasionally rose the steam of a hot springs.

I smelled the acidic hint of sulfur. I smelled it there in Cody as a young lad, but it never really phased me. All I knew was that it sometimes smelled like “rotten eggs.” Which, of course, is not entirely true. Sulfur from a hot spring will probably bot make you gag—actual rotten eggs on the other hand…

I smelled it there, and now I smelled it here. I was shocked at how prolific the scent was. It seemed to be everywhere; the gas stations, grocery store, bakery, and even our Airbnb. And juxtapose the cool, 50 degree slightly drizzly weather with the ever-present smell of a nearby hot spring, it made for quite the mystical atmosphere.

As I said, we stayed at an Airbnb. As the pleasant home owner showed us around the property, she made a motion to the sink faucet. In thick Icelandic accent (think Norway/Sweden/Germanic), she told us not to concern ourselves with the smell of the hot water. It smells like sulfur, she said. Of course, I thought everything had the smell of sulfur. But she continued and explained that the hot water comes from the, “mountain.”

“Mountain?” I asked. “Do you mean, like a hot spring?”

“Yes,” she agreed, “the hot water comes in pipes from the mountain.”

“Wait a minute,” tilting my head, “do you have a hot water heater?”

Blank look.

She repeated herself, “no, the hot water comes from the mountain.”

The house, indeed, had no hot water heater. A hot spring feeds a water plant at the foot of the nearby mountains. It is then piped in massive lines to the greater Reykjavik area, where it comes straight out of the tap near boiling. I turned the faucet on and waited for it to get as hot as it could. The steam billowed out of the tap!

One of the most iconic hot spring locations to visit in Iceland is The Blue Lagoon. What most people don’t realize is that The Blue Lagoon is not actually a naturally occurring hot spring lagoon area. Back in the late 70s, a geothermic power plant was founded in an ideal location near Keflavik and Reykjavik. Due to the high concentration of volcanoes in the area, geothermic energy accounts for nearly 90% of all building hot water and heat. The Svartsengi Power Station siphons hot water and steam from the bowels of the earth and produces clean energy for thousands of Icelanders. But the hot water runoff has to go someplace. What better thing to do with that already hot and highly mineralized water, than to create a spa where millions of tourists can bathe and spend their money? It might be your cup of tea, but I was looking for something a bit more, shall we say, natural?

But have no fear, Iceland literally sits on a pile of volcanoes. It takes little scouring to find a natural hot spring, or at least something less touristy. Just 40 minutes outside Reykjavik is the small town of Hveragerdi. The whole village lies in a field and valley of geothermic activity.

We drove our little car through the town and parked in a small dirt lot near a river. A trail would lead us to Reykjadalur hot spring; literally, smoke valley. And it wasn’t difficult to see how this place got its name. Steaming billows puffed from random spots in the fields and hills. A fireless grass fire roared all around us. The sign at the bottom of the hill declared the hike to the hot spring to be a 4 km trudge. But we were ready.

Though the hike was more than we bargained for, the scenery and end reward more than made up for it. Ethereal steam slowly sank upwards into the sky—a kind of slow-motion smoke show. Iceland has very little wildlife. Apart from a few birds, we saw very few creatures. This made our hike kind of haunting. No animals, steam rising all around us, and no other people around us made it feel a bit surreal.

The walking varied from very scenic, to barren like an Afghan desert. But soon, the trail slumped downhill and led us to a little valley where the steam got so thick it was palpable.  A small river flowed through that little valley. Further ahead we saw that two rivers came together to form the one. The first river originated from high on the hill, where the water is so hot you can hardly manage to sit in it. The second river is much cooler.

These rivers converge and the temperature would make Goldilocks jealous. This is one of those spots I search for when traveling.

A “local” spot.

The fine folks of Hveragerdi keep the area very nice and have, over the years, added a boardwalk along portions of the deepest points of the river.

We wore our bathing suits under our clothes to makes things easy. The 48-degree F weather made the experience perfect. The water hugged us. This natural hot spring river constantly provides fresh water all around you. I wore a beanie cap and thoroughly enjoyed the soke. This was a “must-do” for me. I don’t give many travel tips. But I will say this: if you have a “must-do” during a trip, do not hesitate. Do that “must-do.”

The stream rose around us as I thought about the sulfur. I never really expected this place to smell, and even, somewhat look like parts of Cody, Wyoming. The unexpected occurrences teach me unexpected things. The strong smells of the earth’s breath made me feel connected to this place, as I am connected to Wyoming.

The minerals and sulfur may have smelled strong. But to me, it smelled like my old Home on the Range.

anthony forrest

More on Iceland:

Iceland: on Covid testing and travel in a post-pandemic world

Surfing Salvation

April 1, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 98

I suppose you can tell a lot about somebody by the shoes they wear. At dinner last night, we saw a guy walk by us wearing khaki short and sandals with knee-high tube socks. Without needing a full description, you were probably able to scrape together a picture in your mind of a late middle-aged Midwesterner with sunblock on his nose. I can think of these two friends that work in commercial real estate. They wear nice dress shoes most of the time. They are businessmen and influencers in their community—and their shoes are a dead giveaway.

Personally, I can’t wear anything other than running shoes. My feet don’t want anything else. I’ve been spoiled with cushy running shoes for too long. Work, church, casual; I am wearing running shoes. Why? Because I run.

You can tell a lot about somebody by their shoes.

So, here I am, straddling a surf board in Hawaii, the Big Island. The guy teaching me to surf is on his board next to me. And we are having a great time. He’s funny, intelligent, wildly intuitive with the ocean, and extremely patient with me. I’m learning well and catching small waves.

While surfing, a lot of time is spent sitting on your board, waiting for the right waves. As we sit, we talk. We have nearly nothing in common. But we both love to spend time outside. I run. He surfs. I live in Minnesota. He lives in Hawaii. We get along great.

“Here it comes. Paddle! Paddle! Paddle!”

I’m paddling and can feel the back of the board begin to lift.

“Stand up, stand up!” I hear him yell.

I stand up, shift my weight, bend my knees, and keep my eyes forward. Where I look, that’s where the board goes. I shift my weight a bit more to the front and have a great ride. Eventually, I bail and drag my tired body onto the board. When I paddle back to where I started, I catch my breath.  We go over what went right and what I can improve on.

During a lull, I ask him about his own life. Right out of college, he got a job as an accountant at some high society firm in San Diego. He had been living in the city and surfing whenever he could. But guess what? He hated it. After three brutal years of company servitude, his girlfriend convinced him to move to her home—Hawaii.

“I hated it bro,” he says, smiling through his sunglasses.

“You know what it was? It was the shoes, man. I just hated wearing shoes.”

I laugh and kind of understand what he is saying. He had been fed a common worldview that the American male should go to college, pursue a safe career, slave away his 20s, 30s, and 40s, then die of an early coronary behind his desk before he retired. I embellished about half of that, but you know what I mean. There’s this prevailing idea that a nice safe career, building retirement, and working for the weekend is the only good option in life. It’s a major problem in Western Culture. Few have any sense of passion in what they do. Fewer still are happy.

This once-accountant has taught surfing happily for over a dozen years now. He doesn’t need to wear shoes. And he is contributing positively to his life and community.  Many cry foul, saying that this man is wasting his life. But there’s something to be said for the guy who decides that the proverbial “American Dream,” for him at least, is actually a nightmare. There’s something to be said for the guy who gives it all up to gain something of greater value. He’s brave, not foolish.

I am reminded of a quote from a man named Jim Elliot. He and four of his friends were missionaries to an uncontacted people group in Ecuador. They were speared to death soon after they made contact with the tribe. Their goal was to share the best of news with them—that Jesus is the Savior of mankind, that God wants us to be brought from death to life, and that He is the forgiver of sins. There is a bright treasure in the person of Jesus Christ. God has a place for us with Him in heaven.

Jim Elliot wrote in his journal that, “he is no fool who gives what he cannot keep, to gain what he cannot lose.”

Jim Elliot knew that if he was to give up the safe life, there may be risks. But living the safe life of milk toast tastes pretty soggy and bland when you’ve been confronted by a feast of treasure-treats and eternal delights. For Jim and his fellow missionaries, living the safe life meant that the tribal people of Ecuador would never taste those heavenly treats. Though they were killed, they laid the foundation for their wives and other missionaries to return and finish the work.

It’s hard to sit day after day, looking at forms and numbers, when there are gnarly waves and perfect coastlines calling out your name. Staying on the beach and playing it safe means that you won’t get crushed by waves. But you won’t get a fulfilling ride either.

Why stand on the beach, gazing out longingly to the sea?

Why wallow in the ordinary of this world?

Why wear shoes when you can tread barefoot with Son of God?

 

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

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

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

Traces of You

August 10, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Small encouragement from yours truly:

Though travel is currently limited, the lessons we learn along the way still exist. As soon as you can, get out there and seek to learn more about other cultures and people. And if physically going is out of the question, travel through a good book. Read an author or title outside of your comfort zone. Find the things that help you discover the hidden traces of yourself under the rubble of the day-to-day monotony.

Speech over. You may go about your business.

anthony forrest

Turkish Coffee

July 16, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Not the coffee shop in Jerusalum. This was actually taken in Bethlehem. The good 'Ol Stars and Bucks.

Travel Journal, 73

My wife and I walked together in the Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem, several years ago. The stone streets led us through beautiful and ancient pathways, revealing one of the most important and stunning cities we have ever visited. When people ask me where to go if they had only one trip left in their life, I tell them, Jerusalem. You’ll never find a place more eclectic, stunning, historical, rewarding, fun, delicious, and mysterious.

We were on our second day in Israel, after taking a bus from Tel Aviv. I could feel that Grim-Reaper-like presence of jet lag creeping in. It always seems like we’re only one step ahead.

But we stopped at a café in the Jewish Quarter for some falafel (tasty pita wrap made from chic peas), and I found a stand nearby selling coffee.

If you haven’t noticed by now, I love coffee in its varied and delightful forms. And in the United States, finding coffee, and quality coffee at that, proves quite easy. Many people are on the hunt for the perfect cup. But there is one form of coffee which is pretty rare to find. Sure, if you look closely you may discover it on a menu at a middle eastern or Mediterranean restaurant. But even then, it’s not a very popular drink.

I’m talking about Turkish Coffee.

Why is this drink so unpopular and unknown? I have a theory: it is very strong, and far from sweet. In a world of tall, sweet, iced, chocolaty, creamy, blended, caramelized, and rich, Turkish Coffee only vaguely resembles a distant cousin. Turkish Coffee possesses all of the recessive genes: short, hot, highly spiced, only a couple of ounces, very strong, and almost pungent.

But don’t be frightened. Fortune favors the bold.

I took a sip at that café in Jerusalem and almost fell off my stool. The coffee stand worker noticed my mistake and rushed to tell me to wait to drink it. I had taken in mostly fine and bitter grounds.

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.

Though even after the grounds settled to the bottom, the drink still nearly floored me. Turkish Coffee remains one of my favorite coffee drinks in the world. But word to the wise, it will put hair on your chest.

anthony forrest

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2025 Travel and Verse

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑