Finding Treasure; The unexpected pleasures of travel

Treasure means different things to different people. One person’s treasure could be gold and another’s maybe their family scrapbook. Some people collect stamps or coins and that’s their treasure. Still others collect friendships as theirs. Traveling I find there are many treasures to be found. Treasures of material things that I bring home as souvenirs. I collect stones and crystals when I find them. I pick up shells or bits of wave polished glass at the sea. I love old maps, especially really ancient ones that may not be all that accurate, but are important because they were made by a hand of a fellow soul so long ago. They have an artistic magic themselves telling more about the culture of the one who drew them than the mere physical landmarks they were supposed to be representing. I love books and when on travels I find it hard to embrace the new digital versions, even if they would save valuable packing space. However the most valuable of the treasures I collect are the friendships I make and the memories of good times spent with new friends around the world. A smile from a stranger on the bus or cup of tea offered by the merchant whose hoping you’ll buy his wares are far more priceless then the mass produced trinkets in airport shops. Maybe they aren’t as tangible, but they will stick with you longer.

I recently spent almost two weeks in the Holy Land with a small group of friends.

We stayed in a hotel on the Mount of Olives to be closer to the famous old city of Jerusalem and all it’s sites. We were walking distance to the Garden of Gethsemane as well as the Temple Mount. These places are all of treasure to many. Yet it’s the experiences I had there and the people I met that were the treasures I found.

When I learned we would be staying in the Palestinian part of the city I had two emotions at once, excitement and nervousness. Excitement because I’ve always wanted to learn more about these people whom usually are only portrayed in a negative light by the western press. I somehow knew that I would find there instead, good loving people not a lot different than friends here at home. Excitement also in being so near places I had only read about books. There too was nervousness of the unknown. Too many people warned me of dangers of this part of the city. Crime was high I was told. Don’t trust the Arabs another person warned. Visions of bombed out shells of busses flooded my brain from too many CNN clips. But my desire to meet the people their outweighed those doubts and I’m so glad now that we ended up staying where we did, the Mount of Olives and at The Mount of Olives Hotel. I lost the nervousness here and found a place with people who could make you smile. I found a place that felt like a home. It was here that I collected treasures that I wont easily forget. The first was the sound of the call to prayer that boomed into my room every morning at four a.m.. I somehow slept through the first morning. I don’t know how other than jet lag had gotten the better of me. The second morning had me sitting bolt upright in bed as the Arabic voice burst through my window. You may be wondering why I call this a treasure, to be woken up before dawn like this? But by the third day I found myself oddly looking foreword to that melodic sound coming from the minaret not more than thirty yards from my hotel room’s window. I couldn’t make out much as I know only two or three words in Arabic. I heard Allah often and I think Mohammed’s name, but can’t be sure. The call didn’t start all at once I learned. It seemed that perhaps mosques closer to the center of the city or maybe from the Haram Ash-Shari itself (the top of the Temple Mount, where both the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque are found) started first. But when I was expecting it, I woke up before the call began, laying there in bed waiting for the sound. I strained my earls to hear the first hint of a strange voice. Then it would begin. I could hear it echoing out across the city, first from one mosque then to others until all those in the city were calling to their people. The last then was the Mosque of the Ascension. This was the mosque that stood next door to the Mount of Olives Hotel. The loud speakers high on its stout minaret were close enough I could make out the faint crackle they made rather than the clear sound of a set of good speakers. I know some in our group complained about the noise and even told someone at the hotel to get them to at least put up better speakers. I do admit that the sound wasn’t perfect. The voice of the man who had done the recording wouldn’t be winning him any Grammy awards, but it was what made it more memorable to me. Maybe its charm is in that neither the speakers or the voice were perfect just as we humans are not perfect, yet the message both deliver can raise us all to a hope of perfection. I think we in the west may find loud speakers calling worshipers to prayer five times a day (yes, this call goes out throughout the day at five different times) a bit odd at best. I live in a country where church and state are so separate; the thought of anyone making a call to prayer would be unheard of. However, there in that land of faithful, I found it soothing to be reminded to take a moment out of my day, or my morning, to say a little prayer. Hearing that voice was like hearing someone say, “relax, trust in God and all will be well.” It was peaceful. At least it was for me anyway. I recorded the call one morning on my smart phone’s recorder. At the time it was to play for family and friends who told me in emails that they would love to hear what it sounded like. However, I played it back a few days ago just to remind myself of it and was startled to feel a pang of homesickness for that crackly speaker with its operators nasally voice. I realized I missed it. I missed that call waking me up so early. That sound, that reverent call to remind us to think of God now and then was one of my treasures I can hold onto.

Another treasure came in the form of a little Palestinian man. He is maybe in his seventies, with large glasses wearing a red and white kaffiyeh and long white robe. He had a big smile and warm handshake. He said his name is Ibrahim Abu El Hawa and that he was a man without a country and a passport, but had traveled to many countries.. He said that he had helped create a group called Peacemakers there in Palestine and he invited us to his home if we ever got the chance. It was hard to imagine this man with a toothy grin as being really who he said he was. All I knew of him was that my friend Richard had seen him one day and knew he was in need of a wheelchair, that’s how the two of them became friends and Richard was “adopted” by the family. But he handed me a business card and gave Richard money for the bus, laughing, “I don’t need any money, I’m taken care of by both Allah and my friends.” However I did know that regardless of whether or not this man’s claims of traveling the world without a passport to foster peace in the Middle East were true, he was a unique figure and I was happy to have met him. He gave us bus fare and in a city where I had only heard terrible stories on our news channels in the U.S. about Palestinians blowing up buses, it was a treasure to find the reality is that there are more good people out there than bad and you may go into life with fear only to end up getting bus fare and a smile instead. I found a treasure in Mr. Abu El Hawa. I may even take him up on his offer to come to his home for tea on my next trip to the Mount of Olives. Oh and if my research is correct, he is as unique a man as me claimed to be.

Blessed Brazilians on the Sea of Galilee

The Sea of Galilee, a place I had only heard about way back when in the infrequent times I had spent in Sunday school. It was the place Jesus did his first miracles and met his first disciples. I had vague memories of Bible stories of him walking on water. I knew there were others, but a young girl isn’t interested in old stories. It wasn’t a place I ever imagined myself being, even in my wildest dreams. I would have laughed if someone had told me I would be there, let alone that I would end up there on a boat full Brazilian holy rollers! But there I did end up not long ago, on a wooden boat with some very happy Brazilians and a handful of my friends out for an evening spiritual cruise on that very lake Jesus made so famous. Life, I have learned, has a way of leading you down some very unexpected paths. I have never really believed in coincidences either, so there had to be a reason I was on that boat. What that was, I still wonder at. I do remember one thing though while in the land of Galilee. I remember when I was a teenager my Grandma Alta telling me that someday, because of my love of travel, I would go to the Holy Land and that I would understand my path in life there. She used talk to me of reading scripture and I used to just nod my head, half out of amusement, and say, “Sure Grandma, whatever you say”. I never believed she would have been right in her predictions. I wonder if she knew back then? How would she have known?

So I went from a place where Biblical stories were faint memories of the past to being in a land where they came to life right in front of your eyes. Even for the non-religious person I believe it would be hard to ignore the history of a place like the Sea of Galilee. I know it has other names given to it by both Israeli Jews as well as Arabs, but to me it is the Galilee. It is a place no longer of storybooks or of Sunday school classes, but a real place with real people, living real lives. Our group arrived in the city of Tiberias with the plan of visiting as many of the holy sites of Jesus and the Bible as possible. One thing we all wanted to do was to take a boat ride on the Sea of Galilee and possibly either take communion on the boat or just be out on the lake and read some from the Bible. However we hadn’t made reservations and it was looking doubtful we could get our group on a boat one late evening. However we had one in our group who was to leave early from the trip so we decided to try to get him on a boat with any group already going that we could talk into letting him tag along. Well one boat came and went, but wouldn’t take us. They didn’t have room. One last boat was coming in and as we saw it’s approaching passengers coming down the pier, we had to smile. They were waving a Brazilian flag, dancing and singing as they made their way towards us. They were not a large group, maybe fifteen at the most. They seemed out for a party with big smiles on their faces and a radiant energy that seemed so contagious it was hard to be near them and not smile. One of our group asked if we could possibly get our friend who was leaving in the morning on their boat. They asked us where were from and when we answered California, they cheered. It turned out they loved California and they would let our friend go with them. So merrily chanting, something similar to “Viva la Brazil”, they boarded the boat and then motioned for the rest of us to come with them. They would also make room for more of us. So I went with Joe, the man we initially wanted to get on the boat. Then they also talked some others into coming. In the end we had my friends Paul, Richard, Sally, and Lonny on board and we were headed out on what I would soon learn was one of the most enjoyable times of my entire trip to the Holy Land.

I remember turning to my friend Richard and saying, “so much for a spiritual time on the lake”. I thought we were out with a bunch of rowdy, if not fun, party going Brazilians who were just here to sing a bit loud and have a good time. Had they been drinking? I didn’t smell alcohol, but they looked like something was responsible for them having such a good time. I would learn by the end of the trip, they were certainly high, but high on the Holy Spirit, not alcohol or drugs!

As we made our way away from shore the group suddenly quieted down and got serious. We all took seats on the benches around the edge of the boat and their pastor (was he a pastor or minister, or what do they call them?) started to speak. I don’t know any Portuguese, but the words that are most similar to Spanish I could make out, I had some idea of what he was talking about. He was telling of Jesus’ life here on the Galilee. It was a nice talk, even if I couldn’t understand most of it. It was soothing somehow how hearing him speak out here in a place so holy to many. I then thought, “Wow, I was wrong about these people.” However I still did not know how wrong I was. That came a few moments later. Soon he stopped speaking and a woman came to the front. She wanted us all to pray and asked us in broken English to join them. So we all stood, joined hands and she began to pray. Holding hands was nice, soothing, but the prayer turned quite interesting as the woman’s voice grew with intensity. As she went on, I soon realized the woman so joyfully praying next to me was no longer speaking Portuguese. There was strange language coming from her lips I had never heard, though her eyes were closed and she was happy as could be. This seemed to be happening to others around the boat as well. I looked to my right at my friend Paul and I think if I hadn’t had hold of his hand he would have bolted then and their. If he could have walked on water, he would have ran all the way back to shore I think. He had that proverbial “deer in the headlights” look. I think Brazilians speaking in tongues were a bit more than he was expecting. I know it was way more than I was expecting, but unlike him I was finding it a rather cool experience. The prayer ended with them all hugging one another, including us, and praising God and the love for us all. We started singing Hallelujah and I said a silent, “I’m sorry” to God for thinking that I was not going to have a spiritual moment on the lake. Little had I known I was to witness one of the most spiritual experiences of my life…right there where Jesus did his miracles. I had my own small miracle and it was a very good thing!

We started out on that boat ride with a group of total strangers singing along to Brazilian songs we didn’t know and ended up walking off the boat less than an hour later with a warmth in our hearts for our new found friends. Here was a group of people who renewed my trust in humanity and made me believe that the world isn’t as bad off as we fear sometimes. We had just been embraced by a group of people who live in another part of the world from us, but who really are not that much different from us. A group of people who loved us even though we were Americans and who were completely genuine in the warmth they showed us on the boat. It’s easy to tell when someone hugs you if they really care. There are the ultra polite “air hugs” some give when they are trying to seem friendly. Those are the barely touching you, pat on the back sort and then there are real hugs, bear hugs, that hold you in another’s embrace. Where you really connect with another soul. Those are true hugs, hugs amongst friends. Those were the hugs we all got and gave. Those were the hugs I will always remember. They were the hugs from my blessed Brazilian friends. I will more than likely never see them again, but they will always be in my heart. That I think was the reason I was there. See there really are no coincidences.

Desert; Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

Years ago as an undergraduate student I took a field study class that required me to camp in Death Valley for two weeks one January. I remember thinking how in the world could anyone find enough to occupy two weeks worth of time in the desert? It’s going to be so boring. Yet, I had to get through it, as it was a required class for my degree in Geography.

Well, the two weeks came, and after only two days trekking up and down water carved, marble like, canyons with photo worthy panoramas at every turn, I soon rethought my reticence about camping in the desert. I found a beauty there that I never expected. The monotone palate of the landscape was soothing. The Blue of the sky seemed bluer and the night sky would make you gasp. I used to think nothing was better than to look up at the stars at night in the mountains. Well that was until I spent one clear, cold night in the desert. The blackness of the moonless night created a velvet like drape on which God had scattered billions of diamonds, just for me to enjoy. Even the coyotes howling in the distance seemed oddly peaceful out there.

I hiked all day one day to do nothing more than find a tiny plant. The Death Valley Bear Poppy lives only it seemed in one place in the world and that one place was on a rocky slope of an alluvial fan, miles from the closest parking place. A patch of ashen soil left over from an ancient volcanic blast created the perfect microcosm for this little plant with leaves in the shape of a bear’s paw. Along the way one passes the remains of hunting blinds created by Native Americans some hundreds of years ago, if not older than that. There you can also find their primitive art or was it merely graffiti back then? The Petrogliffs that dot the desert there seem to be scratches of pictures on random rocks. You could find pictures of animals, or stick figures, swirly lines that we figured were water, and still others we had no idea of what they were. Again we joked that they really were prehistoric graffiti, but they were oddly beautiful in their simplicity, just like the desert. I did have my ideas though as the most significant ones seemed to be along what was clearly an old trail that eventually led to the very slope where the Bear Poppies grew. Was this the only place they grew hundreds of years ago too? Did the ancient natives find this little patch of poppies as unique as we did?

So that is how I came to view a desert as a place of beauty when once I had thought I would never find anything to keep me interested for two weeks. Now I just came home from a trip to another desert. It was a desert on the other side of the planet. It’s a land of deserts that I’ve wanted to see since I was younger than ten. As a little girl I loved stories of Bedouin and their Arabian horses and camels. Tents with colorful woven rugs standing near the green palms of an oasis with the brownish, scrub mountains in the distance. It’s a harsh world there, with a history of turmoil and yet I have been drawn to somehow being able to travel there for a very long time. I remember back in early 2000 before the last Intifada started in the West Bank, I had been planning on somehow getting to this part of the world. I was determined to get to Israel, Jordan, Syria, and then Egypt. I even looked into trying to do a year abroad of graduate school at a university in Ramallah. However, than that fateful day came when Ariel Sharon had to go and start trouble by taking a group Israeli soldiers to the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. It was not a good day especially after he made that fateful statement, "The Temple Mount is in our hands”. He was only talking to the Israeli people they say in hopes that they would vote for him, but what the Palestinian people saw and heard was something else I’m sure. Everything changed in that one day. Yet, I feel guilty for even thinking of my own loss in that as I only lost out on a possible trip when so m any lost their lives and everything they held dear in the years that were to follow. But I do still wonder what my life would have been like if I had traveled to the Holy Land back then. Would I have felt the same way about the place as I do now? Would the yearning to return be so strong? I will never know.

I only know how I feel about the place now. There is a deep love I did not know would exist. The first glimpse I had of the desert east of Jerusalem was a quick look out the car window as we drove to our hotel on the Mount of Olives the first day we arrived. Even though I was excited to be in Jerusalem, which is a city I must go back to, I couldn’t get that feeling out of my heart I had from that view of the vastness of the dry land East. It was a feeling that shouldn’t have been there, a feeling of homesickness. Strange to feel that in a land I’ve never been to before and yet it was very real. All I saw was beige to chalky brown hills with washes (wadis) cut deep through them and not a hint of green anywhere. Yes, I’m sure is brutally hot there most of the year and could kill you without even trying very hard, but it was beautiful. Why are things that are the most deadly so beautiful? Nature is odd in that. Yet there are people who live out there and I would love to someday learn more about them. How do they do it? What are their lives like? What makes them happy? What is it that keeps them out there? Bedouins are a unique people to my way of thinking and seeing how they make it in one of the harshest places in the world would be an experience I hope to have someday.

The closest I got to any of it was driving with friends through the desert in Jordan, seeing herds of camels wandering not far from the roadside and seeing Bedouin boys riding donkeys herding their goats. I saw rough land carved by wind and mountains that looked like they could be on some other planet. I saw a far off dust storm black out a brilliant jewel blue sky and looked down marble like canyons polished by years of water rushing by creating twisting chasms barely wide enough for two horses to pass side by side. I took a photo of a young man just at home astride his camel as most young men are sitting in their tricked out cars, and he looked just as cool. What was his life like I wondered? What did he do for fun? Did he have an ipod; did he have Facebook, or love football? What’s his family like? I wish I could just go ask him. I wish I had. Next time I may.

I will be back in that desert in the Holy Land someday, sooner than later. I now know why the Death Valley desert so many years ago had such a hold on me. It was somehow a reminder of a place I had been in some other life, a place I would someday go back to. It taught me how to love the desert as I had once in a previous life. It taught me to see the beauty in a world where others might only see beige hillsides. It taught me to seek out other deserts and that love of deserts finally led to a yearning to go to the Middle East. Now I’m planning my way back.

In the land of Dracula

I traveled to Romania not long ago and yet if someone would have asked me even two years ago if I thought I would end up in the home land of Dracula, I would have said, "probably not". Looking back, all I knew about Romania as a young person were two things; that Romania contained the State of Transylvania, where Dracula came from and it's where the Gypsies come from. Neither of which are completely true. Yes, Transylvania is the homeland of Dracula, the make believe character dreamt up by the Irish author, Bram Stoker. It is also a country with a very high population of Roma (gypsies)

Was there ever a real Count Dracula? Well if you go by the man Stoker based his character on, than yes, there was. Prince Vlad Tepes (or Vlad the Impaler) an unusually cruel warlord that terrorized his enemies and at many times his own people. He never really lived in Transylvania though and the famed Dracula's Castle (Bran Castle) was probably never even seen by him... but it is a fairy tale like place and one could make up stories of fantastical beings living there.

The other "fact" I had known about Romania, or so I thought, was that this is where the gypsies come from. It wasn't until I finally started reading about the country I was headed to that I learned that even though there is a large population of Roma there (that isn't what they are called in Romanian by the way) they didn't actually come from this country. They had been brought there as slaves by the Ottoman Empire from Asia, probably India.

All that aside, that was what I knew of the place. Two fictional things and yet these are the things I think most of us outside that country know of it. When I told friends where I was going, all I heard was one question, "Are you going to see Dracula's Castle?" I also can't count how many vampire jokes I heard. Fun stuff, yes, and it is fun to joke about vampires and garlic by the bed. However then I started reading about the country and deciding on what part I wanted to visit after my Rotary journey was over. Oh, yeah, by the way, that was the original mission of the trip in July, Rotary. I traveled with many of my fellow Rotarians to bring wheelchairs to the disabled in Oradea, Romania as well as to help with other projects there. So anyway, once the Rotary portion was over, I planned two weeks of travel. I soon learned that of all places I wanted to see, Transylvania was the top on the list (the land of Dracula). No, the toothy, blood sucker was not the reason. The reason was that the more I read about the country the more I found that this was the place to see. The Transylvania mountains along with quaint medieval walled towns and fortified churches were too hard to resist. They seemed to be the "must see" places.

So that is how I ended up in the land of Dracula. I had almost two fantastic weeks spread amongst three cities; Sighisoara, Brasov, and Sibiu. All are beautiful in their own way. Sighisoara with it's old walled-in, medieval section sitting high atop a hill. Brasov, sprawling at the base of mountains and easily less than an hour away from three amazing castles (Bran, Rasnov, and Peles) and finally my favorite of all three, Sibiu, with it's weird eyelid windows. Yes, the building's have funny little windows that look like sleepy eyes looking down on you. It can be a little unnerving at times. I kept imagining one of them blinking when I wasn't looking. They were built during the time of the Reformation when the newly empowered Protestants wanted their 'flock' to always remember "someone was watching"! Yes, it was creepy. However the city is charming, easy to get around and I had a great place to stay at a small family run hostel. It is one place I will go back to someday.

So I came to the land of Dracula not really knowing what to expect or that I would even find it an enjoyable place. It wasn't a place I had ever thought I would end up and yet I'm so glad I did go there. I'm so glad I was able to look beyond the kitchy Dracula themed tourist traps and see a beautiful land. I'll have to write more about it soon so that others can see there's more to the land of Dracula than fangs.

It's a beginning

A cowgirl on her own in a far away land. That's how I have been thinking of myself lately. I have just returned from the second major trip in the past few months (one to Romania and the last to Israel, the West Bank, and Jordan) and I am wondering what has created this itch to travel. Where did this bug come from? Cowgirls are supposed to be happy down on the farm with their horses, their dogs, their friends, their family, and that's it. Yet, I'm not happy unless I can be plotting and planning my next big adventure. So as the title of this post reads, "It's a beginning", I guess it is. I am going to be writing about all things related to my life as country/horse girl and my travels (both past and those I'm secretly planning) I'm hoping this is going to be a fun, crazy ride and an adventure.

Where will I go next? I can't wait to find out!