I once flew to Barcelona. Alone (well, not alone that is, in a plane with lots of other people), it was for a writing job and very spur of the moment. The plan was to land at Barcelona Airport then drive in a hire car from the airport the 35 miles to the place I needed to be and the hotel that was next to it.
I knew it wasn't going to go well when I saw this
I’d never really travelled alone at that point, and had never driven on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. So picture the scene. It was dark when I landed and I had to navigate my way out of Barcelona to the hotel. With a printed Google Map in my hand, I struggled and struggled.
After three hours of not knowing where to go or what to do, I came across a couple of security guards. Neither spoke English, but they looked into the eyes of an exhausted Brit who wanted to lay down and forget the whole experience. I handed one the paper with a bemused look on my face and he could see the fear. Instead of pointing and me struggling with my two word Spanish (I know French more – honest!) he got in the car with me, and showed me the way, then caught a quick taxi back.
A lovely place, so I understand
I’ll never forget him for saving me that night, and don’t even know his name.
Heart warming story, isn’t it? Reinforces your faith in humanity?
Well to celebrate nice things on holiday, we’re running a competition during the month of Sept/Oct where you get a chance to share your awesome heart-warming tales of travel.
The above is an example, all we want is something that makes you go “Aaah!”, “Wow!”, “Cool!” or laugh out loud.
All you need to do to enter is one of the following:
- Add your story as a comment underneath this post;
- Use our contact form;
- Send a blog link or “trackback” from your own blog post or
- Tweet us your story or link @fiveamtraveller – click here to send your tweet
… and you will be in a chance to win this fantastic Flip Camera, because then next time something cool happens on your travels you can record the evidence!
Aren't they lovely?
We won’t judge the winner, you will.
Entries will be added to a shortlist and you, our dear reader, will get the final say in who should win this fabulous gadget.
So, get writing because entries close on 14th October.
{ 10 trackbacks }
{ 29 comments }
Hello All, I enjoyed this post and I like the idea of this competition. I would like to share my story with you guys… I spent some time in Colombia and Nicaragua over the summer, I have a blog post about one little beach hideaway we found in Nicaragua. It was the most amazing place I have ever been, we had a house to ourselves and it was 2min from a private beach. here is the post, enjoy.
http://scoopthedirt.com/GabeLee/?p=177
-Gabe Lee
10 years ago I spent a year studying in America, and met some great people, and had some great times – but the one that has to stand out happened at Seattle airport.
The night before flying back to the UK for Christmas I’d gone for a few beers with some friends, had a few more, and then stumbled home with a chili pepper-covered pizza at about 3am, only to oversleep and awake at 10am with a couple of hours before my flight.
A good friend drove me to the airport, and I just made it to the check-in desk – at which point a friend from the UK said hello and introduced me to a girl he’d been chatting to.
We met again when everyone lined up to board the plane, but I assumed that was it.
It turns out British Airways had allocated me a seat next to her, at the back of the plane, so it was just the two of us – we ended up chatting for pretty much the entire 8 hours, and exchanging addresses when we landed.
When I went back to the U.S we met up for drinks, and started dating, then she moved to the UK when I returned. We’ve now been together 10 years this year, and have a wonderful young son.
And all thanks to a massive hangover…
What a cool idea! My favorite travel story was when I was traveling alone through Central America. I was taking a bus from Nicaragua to Guatemala, but had to stop in Honduras for a night along the way. I was a little nervous about staying the night in the capitol of Honduras (Tegucigalpa), because I’d heard a number of horror stories from fellow travelers. While on the bus, I met an older couple who lived in Tegucigalpa. We started chatting and they told me all about their son who lived in Florida and their daughter, who was my age. By the time the bus got into Tegucigalpa, it was late and I didn’t have a hotel secured for the night yet. The couple invited me to stay the night at their house, rather than catching a cab by myself and trying to find a hotel late at night. I was a little hesitant, but had a good gut feeling about it, so I accepted their offer. Well, I ended up staying 5 days with them and they showed me all the little-known parts of the city and fed me loads of delicious food. Even though they were far from wealthy, and lived very modestly, they were some of the most generous people I have ever met. Not only did I get to see a side of Honduras that I never would have experienced otherwise, but I made some wonderful friends who I keep in touch with to this day.
Ha,
What a cool idea… I will have to go back through some of my travel blogs…
Favorite tales of the kindness of strangers must include the Uzbekistani mechanics who fixed my car whilst pouring vodka down my throat or the Georgian Garage owner who sent me on my way to the Azerbaijani border with two gallons of beer.
This is an inspiration to get all my blogs onto my main site…
Will keep you posted and try and get a great story to you.. after all I want a flip!
My husband is a teacher and cross country and track coach at a local high school. The school is mostly comprised of predominately Hispanic lower income students, many with less than desirable home lives. Every year my husband tries to take the kids to compete in running meets across the country. A few years back, he took them to the Nike Indoor Nationals in Washington, D.C. and most recently took a group of 17 kids to a running camp in the mountains of North Carolina. This kids would never be able to afford such a trip so they work hard all year with fundraisers, such as car washes, and are fortunate enough to receive grants from a local running store. For most of these kids, this is the closest to a vacation they have ever seen. The love and respect they show for my husband is awe-inspiring and it really reminds me everyday of why I love him. On their most recent trip to North Carolina, my husband took photos and videos on his cell phone. When he came home he proudly showed me all the fun pictures and videos, but only a couple of weeks after that (before we transferred them to our computer) all of the photos and videos were erased from the phone by an employee at the cell phone store. It was of course a mistake, but I was heartbroken that the memories were gone. I would love for my husband to have this camera so that he could take pictures and videos of his adventures with his team and be able to easily transfer and save them to our computer.
I worked for Volkswagen group many years ago, and part of my role was to host corporate hospitality trips for our biggest fleet customers. These consisted of flying them over to Wolfsburg for a tour of the spectacular factory there with a night in Braunschwieg followed by a couple of days and nights in Berlin, taking in some German culture.
I had a call from a colleague, Charles, prior to one trip – he was responsible for looking after a region of customers in the UK. He told me that one of his favourite clients (and one of the biggest buyers of our cars) was coming on the trip and he told me that she was young, single and attractive. Now with the greatest respect to the genre, car fleet buyers are seldom ladies, and rarely attractive – I hope none will be offended by me stereotyping them as middle aged fellas who enjoy a pint or two! Charles finished his phone call to me with the words “Look after her please Mike.”
I was standing at the meeting point in the terminal at Heathrow, holding my VW folder aloft when I first spotted her. I saw her eyes scan the logo and then lock onto mine. She introduced herself and I was immediately smitten. She had sapphire blue eyes, curly dark hair that tumbled around her face, and legs that belonged on a cat walk.
I tried my best to do a good hosting job on that trip, but the truth is I spent most of it either looking for her, or talking with her. As host, I was able to manipulate every event so that I “happened” to be sitting either near or next to her, and as each day passed I came to admire her wit and grace more and more.
As we prepared to leave Berlin, a hasty telephone call to British Airways arranged for me to sit next to her on the return flight, and I remember the feeling of dread that the trip was coming to an end. Having collected our luggage, we jumped on to the long term car park bus, and I wondered if she felt any of the things I was feeling. I walked her to her car and we exchanged business cards – at least I had her telephone number!
I kept my promise to Charles. In fact I keep that promise every day. We’ve been married nine years now, and she still has sapphire blue eyes, dark hair tumbling around her face and legs that belong on the cat walk.
Its been a long journey for me, my husband and my 6 months old daughter. 23 hrs from UK to Philippines, its my first return since I left 3 yrs ago and I couldnt believe my eyes what a big change for that short length of time. Buildings here and there but still I feel home. The first step I made when we land is unexplainable, happy and sad at the same time for the changes.
My familys waiting outside at the airport, tears are pouring when we finally get out of the airport. I couldnt believer how I miss them so much. I never thought how light I am after that, I feel like theres a big heavy bricks fell off inside me.
As I went home to my parents house see all the memories that I left behind it made me smile, the thought before that you dont even care and now Ive got a family of my own to look after.
The beach is still the same, the big rock and the clip that I used to jump on when I was a kid are all still there nothing change on that part. Loads of memories on this particular place as almost everyday we go swimming together with my cousins and nephews. Its breathtaking, WOW I feel like Im a kid again…
Teenage Monkeys gone Wild!
After the pretty grotty 6 months after my father died, my mother decided that it would be a good idea for me & my partner to go to Mauritius – (My dad was born there.) This was an oddity for me as I’m certainly more Peckham & Croydon, and my partner is a Welshman. Confusing eh?
So Mauritius felt like a far, far away mystical land..with big spiders. Nevertheless it was the opportunity of a lifetime, Mark Twain knew it then & we certainly know it now.
Heavenly is an understatement. After a couple of weeks of soaking up the sun, an unfomfortable realisation takes
place due to the fact that Mauritius is in fact a developing country and therefore surrounded by poverty. This tends to be hidden from the (mostly French) tourists that visit, however a stark contrast does exist.
We decided to make of it what we could and met some fanatstic people along the way, especially a wonderful rastafari family who would give us everything they could – which in terms of material gain was not much compared to our Western standards, never expecting anything in return. They were the warmest, kindest and most welcoming family we had ever met.
In our quest to embrace the island with it’s beautiful natural surroundings and creatures, we decided to visit the Macau monkeys in their natural habitat. Instead of going with a supervised group we decided to hire a car and go up there ourselves finding that monkeys do indeed love monkey nuts!
We found other tourists there including very young children feeding them nuts too. They just LOVED the monkey nuts, disregarding all other food.
At this point, the teenage monkeys came swaggerring out snatching nuts from the elder and baby monkeys. Not good behaviour. I decided to keep giving the nuts to the more vulnerable group members who were too afraid and shy to come out and see any people.
Teenagers, what can I say? Very different.
As I work with on the whole fairly feisty teenagers who haven’t had a great life to say the least, it was pretty much my instinct to give the nutty goodies to the more vulnerable monkeys, the ones who seemed frail & timid. The confident ones with hutzpah did seem to be (I hate to say this) the young male ones. All was missing was a bottle of white lightening, a ford fiesta with some ‘banging tunes’ and a female macau being sick in the back seat!
Seriously though…
First mistake…never underestimate a wild animal, no
matter how cute they look.
After about 15-25 minutes you could sense the teenage macaus were starting to get a little bit over confident, a lot of posturing and teeth showing as well as the odd snarl here & there as they did not want to share anything with the rest of their families.
Within a split second you could feel the tension in the air, as a teenange monkey chap stared at me with indignant expectation as if to say ”why are you giving all the old monkeys & babies your nuts…just gimme your**^!**nuts!)” Within seconds he gave me the monkey death stare and sunk his razor sharp gnashers into my left hand! I daren’t move, In shock I just let him get on with it petrified he’d jump on my face, causing further injury. Seconds seemed like minutes, during which time we both remained locked in full eye contact. Probably a bad move on my part (any animal psychologists out there?) But instinct / fear took over.
All I can remember was no feeling in my hand and lots of blood jetting out. My partner, bless him, remained calm and did the necessary. However seconds later a Mauritian guide started yelling “these are wild poisoneous monkeys – must go to hospital straight away!”
Got to a hospital and was astounded at how quickly they saw me whilst in casualty, 5 minutes. Seriously!
Apart from having to suffer chuckles from the hospital staff who could NOT beleive I’d been bitten by a monkey,
a full recovery was made and I still have the scar that will always remind me that wild animals are WILD and are not there purely for the purposes of our cooing and petting.
A fantastic holiday was had but with a lesson learned…respect wild animals
and their territory!
Maybe this anectode is not so much of the heart-warming variety, but by crikey those Macaus’ sure did teach me a lesson about frolicking with nature!
Lesson number 2…should have recorded it, d’oh!
When traveling to the Caymans, on assignment, I was also alone. thankfully they speak english there, however you do have to learn to drive on the opposite side of the road here too. The first two days were great going to Hell and Stingray city and fishing, however, due to inclement weather we couldnt go outside the reef. I still got sick on the boat, not pretty. I felt really embarrassed. Later that night I was still feeling bad and had to drive around to find some juice and plain food to keep down. The pain was insufferable by morning so I had to drive myself to the hospital, in a foreign country, alone. Thankfully they were very nice and weren’t busy. I am allergic to a lot of medicine so I had to have numerous shots (not in my arm). I started to feel marginally better the next day, but i missed my second boating/fishing excursion, costing me pix and ultimately costing me the story. ;-( I still wrote it, but the editor didnt think 130 RAW images was enough and I didnt get the Bonefish either. I made it home and would you believe my doctor said to me, “Huh, we dont use these medicines here in the US.” Kind of scary.
Give me that camera or I will rant about your company!
Only Kidding.
Travelling alone can bring it’s own challenges, but like you the language barrier for me has been one of the biggest challenges. I remember going to Spain.
I was 18, and supposed to be going to Benidorm on holiday with 2 mates, one pulled out just after paying the deposit, and the other pulled out two weeks before we were due to fly!
It was either going on holiday abroad on my own for the first time, or cancelling and losing a lot of money. I opted for travelling alone and had a fantastic time.
The problem arose when I took a day trip on a boat in the afternoon to a place called Calpe. I seemed to have been on the boat for a long time, but anyway, I arrived, had a walk around, had lunch in a nice local tapas bar, went to the beach.
Around two hours later I arrived back at the port to see what time the next boat would be, to find a little Spanish lady sat in the sunshine. I asked her what time the next boat was and she said something in Spanish.
I spoke in my sexy Yorkshire accent and asked what time, so she got out a pad of paper and drew a clock, and the hands pointed at 6 o’clock, so I hung around, went for a drink and came back.
To cut a long story short, it materalised that the next boat was at 6 o’clock the next morning, and I had no idea where I was, so I started to panic.
Found a small bar, where thankfully they were a few English people who had come there by hire car. I hitched a ride back to Benidorm.
I had images of sleeping on the beach, had I not known it was only 13 miles away, and a train runs to benidorm every hour, I probably wouldn’t have panicked.
I learn alot from that day. What’s worrying is I am now writing a blog giving travel advice. Whoops.
My aww story comes not from far off lands, but instead takes place in the very nearby international airport, LAX.
I was twiddling my thumbs and nervously awaiting the short flight that would hop me up to the bay area to join the rest of the travel crew mere minutes before our presence was required on yet another, much longer flight to Africa. Basically, I had scheduled my flights embarrassingly close as it was, before taking into consideration the 4 gate changes and 3 separate delays Southwest felt were really essential for my flight that day.
A middle aged woman bursts into the gate, frazzled, and frazzling everyone around her with the sudden rush of energy and confusion. Tears streaming down her face, eyes frantic and fearful, she pleads with the personnel at the check-in desk. They just look mournfully, and slightly terrified from one to other, before the slender blonde in overpressed blue leans into the microphone and shakily asks if anyone in the gate speaks Spanish.
The next few seconds were slightly unreal.
We’re in LA. At an international airport. I look around and the dozens of people around me are just as hopelessly and helplessly glancing around. Really? My extremely limited I-finished-Spanish-2-two-years-ago-with-an-I-guess-you-could-call-that-a-B is the best option we’ve got?
I swallowed every last drop of self doubt. Told myself, ‘If there is anything you’re good at, it’s communication. You might only be able to pick out a word or two, but that may be all you need…I hope.’ And walked up.
‘…uh hem…hablo….español…?”
The rush of relief packed language that tsunami-ed into me tossed me back a few feet and through a couple minutes of listen and repeat, suddenly realized I knew an awful lot more Spanish than my teachers ever led me to believe!
By no means fluent, I knew just enough to hear that woman out, calm her down, reassure her that yes, we could find where her gate had moved to, and then take her there and see her off.
I missed my flight. But the small epic of travel confusion that caused in my own plans, was nothing compared what that woman experienced. I only hope that the next time I’m frantic and confused in an airport far from English speaking, that there will be some former English 2 student who is willing to test the language barrier waters to help me out.
After the superior 15-1 Minnesota Vikings lost to the inferior Atlanta Falcons in January of 1999, I didn’t want to watch the SuperBowl so I took a trip to Napa Valley, California. Since I was going through some personal struggles anyway, I thought it would be good to get away.
I flew into San Francisco, alone, rented a nice little car and proceeded to drive myself north. My intent was to go to the Redwood Forest areas near Leggett, and then head down the coastline back to San Francisco, stopping at wineries along the way. What a lovely idea, hey?
First I got lost in San Francisco. Since I was a woman traveling alone I really didn’t want to stop and ask for directions (I got to feel what it’s like to be a real man there for a moment), so I pulled off the road into a nice park and tried to figure my way out of town. Well, I couldn’t do it, so I prayed. I’m not kidding, the Lord led me out of the weirdest section of San Francisco that day.
Next, I headed up the interior to Leggett, saw the Redwood Forests, was amazed, and proceeded to make my way to the coastline. Before nightfall I still needed to find a place to stay and it had taken me so long to reach my turn around destination, Leggett, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leggett,_California, that I was beginning to get concerned. As I recall, I must have taken Highway 1 from Leggett to the coastline, a winding road that traveled through the strangest forest I have ever seen; the trees appeared at first glance like White Ash or Poplar Trees, but they were neither. Upon closer inspection, these trees looked more like they had been through a fire and were now sort of petrified looking, a feature that was matching my mood as I drove down this long and lonely road.
My ex-husband had given me his cell phone to use in case of an emergency. Even though I originally couldn’t figure out why I would need that and why was he bothering me, anyway – I took a moment to check to see if I could get a signal on the big old clunky phone, which was about 6 times the size of my current model. Cool, it worked, thank God for caring ex-husbands – just don’t tell him I said that. Speaking of God, I’m asking him all the while to get me through this alive. A little dramatic, I know, but I was rather worried.
So I’m driving down this long, lonely road through the petrified forest and out of the corner of my eye I see a speck of blue – woe – that’s gotta be the ocean! Hope springs eternal.
Then, just as I’m going around the final bend – I see it! There is the Pacific Ocean in all its beauty and splendor. I was in awe. I’d seen oceans before, but not like this. It was as if I had been traveling through my 40 years of wilderness and had reached the promised land!
It was like BAM! Brand New Movie! Wow! OMG!
I parked and got out of the car and literally fell to my knees thanking God for this awesome moment.
The turquoise blue water was crashing against the huge rocks jutting out of the coastline. Down the road you could see high cliffs and time sculpted jagged shoreline rocks – super sized rocks! The colors were exceptionally vivid that day.
It was at that moment that I realized the magnificence, the awesomeness, wonder, reality and true, beautiful goodness of the Living God. Typically, this type of experience is what is known as a mountaintop experience, except I call it my Now I Sea experience!
Well, since that glorious and awesome day, here’s what has happened in my life:
1. I learned to love God personally and deeply.
2. I remarried that caring ex-husband of mine.
3. I became an interfaith minister.
4. My ministry now involves showing people ‘ways’ to become connected to God and to each other.
Why ‘interfaith’? Because God is the God of all, not just those who are able to recite a particular phrase or demonstrate a particular belief. I love Jesus, and if I were to say Jesus showed ‘the way’, I would mean that he demonstrated a lifestyle that causes us to find God. It is the religion of Jesus that we should practice, not necessarily the religion about Jesus.
All of this happened because the Vikings lost their NFC Championship Game, in overtime, back on January 17, 1999. Atlanta Falcons 30, Minnesota Vikings 27 (OT).
Of course anyone who follows football knows that Brett Favre is playing for the Vikings this year. I’m hoping my relationship with God is so solid that a getaway trip in January won’t be necessary, if you know what I mean. But still, even though I know God is in my heart, I’ll go anywhere I need to go to deepen my relationship with God.
I’m not trying to proselytize here, I’m just trying to tell a really cool, true story. This story has several other angles and coincidences that created the necessary conditions for me to be at that particular spot at that particular moment in my life, but we’ll save those for a later story time.
My prayer or wish for anyone who reads this is that you too will ’sea’ God.
It was a dark and stormy night — no seriously! My brother and I were traveling through the mountains of Tennessee to get to a wedding (we foolishly had determined that we could drive straight through from Toronto, Ontario to Charlotte, North Carolina — 1000+ km — with 2 drivers). During one of the few moments without blinding fog or torrential rain, I decided to open it up a little and was traveling about 130 kph (80 mph).
Suddenly, the coloured lights lit up the sky behind me and I was pulled over by a State Trooper. We’d grown up hearing horror stories of being hauled off to jail until you could pay your speeding fine (as far as I know, these things no longer happen) so we were nervous.
The trooper looked in the truck and asked for the paperwork. After checking my driver’s license he shone his light on the dashboard. “Is that in kilometers?” he asked.
“Yes, but it does have miles on there too,” I replied.
“It looks like your speedometer is in kilometers,” he continued. “I’m gonna give you a break on this, but remember the speed limit is 65 mph. Have a great trip.”
Thanks to a great State Trooper! And I did keep the speed down after that.
Ok, Here we go:
In 2005 I drove from London to Mongolia in a beaten up old Citroen 2CV. I went with my brother as far as Istanbul and then drove from Istanbul through Turkey into Georgia and down through Azerbaijan.
The car kept breaking down! In Tbilisi, capital of Georgia my car died. I pulled into a slightly disorganised looking garage where the garage owner took one look at my car, laughed and then took pity on me. He sent the car into his garage to be fixed and decided I looked tired and hungry so decided he had to feed me. Gesturing me into his car we took off on a brisk tour of Tbilisi stopping in a supermarket and what I can only describe as a drive through pub.
Two gallons of beer, yes really they sold it in gallons, we went back to his garage where he promptly poured the first gallon down my throat whilst feeding me. He then gave me back my now working car, opened the other gallon of beer telling me I would need it for Azerbaijan and sent me on my way. Needless to say by the time I got to Azerbaijan I wasn’t in the best of states. Still a snooze at the border was all it took and soon I was bribing my way into the country.
I had a frantic drive through Azerbaijan which at the time had all its roads being dug up in order to meet my new co-driver in Baku to catch a ferry across the Caspian sea.
24 hours later, picture the scene, Baku, capital of Azerbaijan, a city stinking of oil. I had just arrived after a frantic 24 hour solo drive to catch the ferry across the Caspian into Turkmenistan. I had met with my co-driver and I was running out of money.
We went to buy our ticket. Being slightly disorganised and overtired I was getting hugely frustrated by the continuous demands for bribes to get us onto the ferry. Not speaking a word of Azerbaijani and with the officials after as many quick bucks as they could get this was going to be difficult.
The official ferry cost was about $150.00, for non locals. Locals had to pay about $10! Somehow they thought we should pay $350. We argued back and forth and eventually a local driving a very smart top of the range Mercedes Benz G-wagon decided enough was enough. He ended up knocking them down to $268 which was vastly better than we had managed to do… However he then felt so embarrassed by the way the officials of his country had cheated us that he felt honor bound to pay the ferry for us. On top of that he took us off on a mad cap drive around Azerbaijan stopping at various food stores and topped us up with sandwiches, beers, meats and various different cheeses.
I don’t know what it is about me that encourages locals in different parts of the world to give me alcohol but they seem to do so.
There are two more tales of generosity and kindness of strangers which I suppose in my bid to win a flip camera I ought to share:
We had driven most of the way through Turkmenistan when the chassis of our 2CV bucked and half the car was dragging along the floor. As a result we needed some emergency repairs. Unfortunately this necessitated us spending a day extra in Turkmenistan which was a problem for Stephen, my co-driver as it meant his visa would expire. Needless to say by the time we got to the border the chassis was in a bad way again and they wouldn’t let Stephen leave the country. In the end we decided I would go on to Uzbekistan and get the car repaired and I would return to the border to meet Stephen at the border the following day.
I limped to the closest town initially with a very large Uzbek lady who had foisted herself in my car at the border. Regretfully her bulk meant that her side of the car spent the first 5 miles scraping along the floor. Regretfully I had to let her out and get into the taxi that was following us.
Anyway I soon got to the town and asked some slightly fearful looking people as to where I could find a mechanic. They insisted in my following them down some rather mysterious looking lanes to a barn in the middle of nowhere.. I was a little concerned but I need not have been. For when I got there the farmer and his family proceeded to throw a party for me with copious amounts of vodka, blinis,caviar and food. After I had collapsed into an alcoholic heap they got to work on my car by heaving it up on its side resting on some tyres whilst they welded it back together again. The following morning I was good to go.
Onwards with Stephen to Kazakhstan where needless to say our poor car collapsed again. Twice here we were invited into different peoples homes. The first time we had just broken down by the side of the road when a young Kazakh guy of Russian extraction took us back to his house, fed us let us use his incredible sauna and got the car fixed. Later on the way out of Almaty we broke down again.
An old man appeared out of nowhere saying EEnglish, my son Eenglish and promptly took me off to find him. Sure enough his son was fluent in English, although I learnt I was the first English person he had met. He had learnt the language by watching movies and reading books!
Anyway again they insisted in putting us up for the night, kicking the youngest son out of his room so we would have somewhere to sleep. Another great meal, this time without excessive quantities of alcohol and the following morning we were given a tour of some of the sites westerners would not normally see.
Sorry this seems to have gone on a bit.. I guess the moral of the story is that if you want to see quite how kind people can be you need to set off from London in a beaten up old car and just break down a lot!
I’ve been pedaling my bike around the planet since 2006 and have encountered the best of humanity.
Most people thinking cycling around the world–passing through ‘rogues states’ like Sudan and Syria– is a recipe for catastrophe. Many armchair travelers believe they’ll be pick-pocketed, pursued, ripped-off, robbed and maybe even shot at as soon as they cross the border into a developing country. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Desert cycling is never easy. Settlements are few and far between and finding food and water is always a major hurtle. One day we were cycling on a sandy track in Sudan’s Nubian desert and our stomachs were rumbling so loud they were even giving the camels a start. Our meager supplies were running low so we silently rejoiced when we saw a building on the horizon. As we approached, it became clear that this was simply someone’s home in the desert and not a settlement where we might find a small shop or restaurant. A tall man in a tall white turban and flowing white robe greeted us in the traditional way of the Muslims, “Salaam Alaikum,” peace be with you.
Cycling in intense heat is physically demanding and we were starving.
“Is there a village nearby?” we asked. “Restaurant? Food? Eating?” But the man spoke no English and we no Arabic. Finally, we patted our stomachs and then brought our hands to our mouths. He understood, and motioned for us to take a seat under the shade of a date palm. From within the folds of his robe the dark-skinned Sudanese dug out a mobile, pushed a few buttons and then began chattering into the phone. All we could understand were the words fuul, the staple dish in that part of the world, and salad. Moments later another turbaned man appeared balancing an enormous platter of food. He set the feast before us and motioned for us to eat. We tore off pieces of soft flat bread and began scooping up the spicy fava bean dish and salad. After we had finished the last of the fruit and sweets, the old man stuffed our bags full of dates and raised his arm in farewell as we set off back into the desert.
The staff at the hostel in Cape Town didn’t like guests going out for the evening: they went so far as to suggest that if we went out, we would probably be stabbed. “We’re having a 70s night in the bar: you don’t want to miss that, do you? Half price shots.”
But our group leaders had heard about a free jazz festival in town, and we were determined to go.
The other thing the hostel staff warned us about were the minibus taxis: they shuttle around set routes, and are a popular alternative to public transport. The hostel staff said the drivers were lunatics. And that we’d probably be stabbed.
Our group leaders told us they were fine and about a third the price of a taxi. This made them hugely attractive, as we were coming to the end of a ten-week tour round Africa so funds were a bit low.
So the ten of us hailed a minibus from the street outside the hostel, paid our fares to the driver’s mate and bundled in. The driver beetled us all the way to city centre (not driving much like a lunatic) and we hunted down the festival… when my little sister let out a cry of woe. “My purse. I think I dropped it in the minibus.”
“Oh Rosey, was there much in it?”
She hadn’t had much cash on her, but there was a card, which was a bit more worrying. We went into a large hotel and asked to use the phone. The concierge was sympathetic: “Need me to look up the number for you?”
The 24-hour emergency number for the bank led us into automated message hell: “What is the number of the card you are reporting lost?”
“I don’t know, I’ve lost it.”
“I didn’t understand that.”
We resigned ourselves to a damage limitation exercise in the morning.
“It’ll be all right,” I told her. “They haven’t got your PIN, and I’ll buy you supper.”
“I feel so stupid. And I was really looking forward to buying presents for everyone tomorrow. ”
We enjoyed the music as well as we could: but Rosey’s heart really wasn’t in it; and I felt bad for her. She’s normally the careful, sensible one who never loses anything, so she was taking it particularly badly. The group split up because some of us wanted supper while others wanted to stay and listen in the square.
We ended up picking at snacks in a lively bar. Rosey was thinking about going back to the hostel, and I supposed I ought to go with her, when the other half of our group appeared. “Rosey, you’ll never guess what!”
“My purse!”
“The minibus guys heard us talking about the jazz festival. The driver’s mate came and walked around until they found us.”
The money was still there. “He wouldn’t take a reward,” they told us.
And best of all, not one of us got stabbed.
My wife and I took a trip to Scotland for sightseeing, but mostly to attend a Celtic game in Glasgow. We took a taxi to the stadium, enjoyed the game, and then went to leave.
As we left the stadium, we get a bit swept up in the crowd and ended up in a section of Glasgow that, let’s just say, you don’t want to get lost in – Glasgow being one of the more crime-ridden cities in the UK, much less Europe. So we attempted to flag down a taxi, but we were having a lot of trouble finding one (perhaps because of the section of town we were in!).
Finally, we were able to find a cab and we flagged it down, only to discover that he was headed home and not in service. Danny, the cab driver, heard our accents and realized that we had NO clue where we were. So after he stopped to pick up his brothers who were also at the game, we went on something of a free whirlwind tour of Glasgow. Danny showed us many of the sights of the city, including the stadium for the opposing team in Glasgow (Rangers, if you’re familiar with Scottish soccer), and gave us some good recommendations for places to eat.
It was at this point that we realized he hadn’t even turned on the meter – he was doing all of this free of charge because he didn’t want to let the visitors to his city hang out to dry in a rough part of town. So when we got to our hotel, we tipped him HEAVILY, which he was reluctant to accept but we insisted, and he gave us his number for a ride to the train station from our hotel in the morning.
It’s this kind of experience that makes you truly appreciate that there are good people no matter where you go.
The opportunity of a lifetime – celebrating my 60th birthday with a trip to Ireland! A latecomer to the harp, my midlife crisis discovery, I was fortunate to attend a workshop with internationally renowned harper Janet Harbison at her Irish Harp School in Castleconnell.
The 5-hour flight from New York to Limerick was perfect timing for a rest, or would have been with a better seat assignment. Scrunched into a tight spot in a rear corner of the plane, I instead discovered the first of many Irish delights – an expat returning to his homeland for a family wedding, whose gift of blarney enlivened the passage. His recommendations for sightseeing (”not where the tourists go!”) proved helpful in the days ahead. I’ll admit, though that his advice for bicycle rental was not heeded (”Brilliant, you know? If you leave your rental bike outside a pub and it’s gone when you come out, just hike to the next pub and take one that’s there!”).
Arriving at Shannon in a sleep-deprived state, I stumbled around the terminal ’til I found the right connection to board a bus to Limerick, where a transfer was needed for the Castleconnell ride. Once there, the driver rattled off directions toward my destination. “Sure, now, it’s just a bit down the road from here,” he assured me.
My new walking shoes proved much more comfortable toward the end of my stay in Ireland; right now, they were wearing blisters in my heels as I pulled my luggage down the road behind me. Must have stopped at least three times to ask directions. ‘A bit down the road’ proved to be about 2 miles – an easy walk for the locals, and within two weeks, for me as well.
Class was already in session when I huffed and puffed into the cottage, but I was warmly welcomed by Janet and the three other students, and assured there was a much closer bus stop (for next time!).
It was truly a memorable visit, and Ireland is indeed as green as all the calendar pictures promise, with enough rainy days to illustrate just why it’s so green. Harps were found everywhere, live in pub sessions and represented on sculptures and gate ornamentation; on Irish coins and Guinness trucks.
Would I go again? In a heartbeat! Would I do things differently next time? Well, at least I’d break in my walking shoes ahead of time.
Some years ago, I flew into LAX and was taken to the rental agency where I was going to pick up a compact car. The sales agent told me: “We’re all out of compacts…but I’ll upgrade you two classes and honor the original rate. You can’t beat that!”
I responded with, “Not with a stick,” to which she said: “Oh, no. It’s automatic.”
My sister always has fun, unusual things happen during her many travels and I love seeing her and hearing all about it.
Once I expected her to visit in the evening and to my surprise she was at my doorstep late afternoon about 3 hours early.
She explained that when she went to catch the bus, the first bus was running late and had not left yet, so she got on that. Her connection also ran late………
However, because both buses were late she was very early
Please send me the flip, and I can video her next visit arrival and interview her about her most fun adventures to share
Ireland. Walking the hills with my best friend. Gushing over men with Irish accents in private and trying to act like chill world travelers in public.
Sweden. Visiting the country my dad fell in love with years before I was born. Walking the streets in Lund, taking pictures, trying to capture every old building. Drinking elderberry saft like there’s no tomorrow.
China. I’ve been studying Mandarin for three years and have arrived here only to discover that I’m not nearly as fluent as I thought I was. Still, it’s enough to get around. I walk the Great Wall, and then diverge onto paths less traveled.
None of these have happened yet. I’m 19, single, a full-time student. Traveling has taken back burner to rent and final exams. But things can still cook on the back burner, and they’ll all be a reality before five years are out.
It’s silly to live in a world and never venture beyond the borders of a country. I lived in Japan as a young child, but the memories are faint. Perhaps they’re even imagined, pieced together out of snapshots of Japanese countryside featuring friends with fingers up in the usual “V” and old ticket stubs and stories from my parents.
This next go-around, I want the photos to be ones I took myself and stories I remember. I have enough memories of the future; before too much time goes by, I’d like them to be experiences of the present and then memories of the past.
I was living in Alberta (Canada) at the time and couldn’t find anyone who could vacation with me. So I took off on my own on a road trip around Saskatchewan. And if you know Saskatchewan, you’ll know that just spending my whole vacation there is worth a prize.
Actually it has some lovely areas and lovely people. I stopped at one very small town, Rocanville, and decided to stay the night. My grandfather had been buried there when my mother was just one year old and I had never been to the grave.
I parked at the motel and was getting my luggage out when a truck pulled up beside me. They were an older couple, curious about a new car and new person in town. I told them I was just visiting my grandfather’s grave and asked if they could direct me to the graveyard. They asked his name and even though he hadn’t been there long, it turns out they remembered the name as the baker in town in around 1930.
I won’t drag this out – they drove out to the graveyard so I could follow, waited for me so I’d find my way back, took me out to the house where the family had lived (which had been moved outside of the town and the people that lived there let me in to look around), then I followed them back to town where they took me to visit someone who had known my grandfather.
Huge hearts in Saskatchewan. My best vacation. Ever.
Last winter I was flying out of Jakarta and my eventual destination was Seoul. It wasn’t cold in Jakarta, but it was February. Definitely cold in Korea that time of the year. I had run out of room in my luggage, so I was carrying my fleece jacket. Took a bus from one terminal to the next. Of course, left my jacket on the bus. I was wandering around for quite a while before I realized. I didn’t hold much hope for getting it back.
I noticed the police desk, and decided to give them a try. WELL!! These police officers were awesome. I had my jacket back within 20 minutes. I was so grateful and happy that I didn’t have to freeze (or buy a new jacket) when I arrived in Korea
I arrived in Italy to help out during a conference. I stepped out of the airport and was hypnotized, stunned, unbalanced by the brilliant Venetian sun. I made my way to the dock and a water taxi that whisked me to my canal-side hotel.
I buried myself in the work. These were not happy days. My marriage was not going well and I did not know what to do about it. At 34, I felt old, unattractive, vague.
And then, staring with annoyance from a window at the conference site, I looked down to see heavily armed soliders watching me. One was gesturing, wildly. Was I in trouble? I looked closer. He was blowing kisses. The other was smiling, broadly. I blushed! I laughed. I blew a kiss back and my audience was happy.
Venice had only begun to work its magic. In the morning, I got up early and made my way to the conference site. Strains of opera drifted from alleyways. Had someone left on the stereo? Was an opera singer up early practicing? No, I was being serenaded by the garbage collector.
And my commute. No nasty road ragers, no crowded underground subway rides. I walked to St. Mark’s Square, where I got on a vaporetto that took me by water to the conference site on the Lido. At night, I returned the same way, the rocking of the boat and the waves of the lagoon washing away every last vestige of workday stress.
By the time I got off the boat, I was ready for the night. For enjoying the friends I was rapidly meeting. For the adventures in food I will never forget. The food, northern Italy’s pure flavors, unsullied by layers of sauce or other attempts to gild the lily. I will never forget this food and crave it to this day.
All too soon, it was time to go. I was profoundly upset. The work had been good, the fellowship heartening. And Venice had revived me. I did not want to go back to my life, to my problems, to a marriage I knew would not survive. I did not have the heart for it.
But I packed up, I had one last blissful breakfast on the small patio on the front of the hotel, settled up and my bags were placed in another boat for the trip back to the airport.
I was dragging again, my heart heavy. I had lost the spark Venice had given me. And then it happened.
A young man who worked at the hotel, who barely spoke English, rushed up to me in the moment before I stepped down into the boat holding steady in the canal at the side of the hotel.
“Senora?” he said. “Yes?” I replied. He said, “You are leaving?” I responded yes. And in that moment, he brought his arm forward and in his hand was a bouquet of small pink roses. And he handed them to me.
I did not know what to say. I could only say one thing, anyway, since I did not speak his language. Time was running late and I had a plane to catch and I didn’t understand why this beautiful young boy was giving me roses.
So I said “grazie. They are beautiful.” Over and over I said this. And I stepped into the boat and I left.
I held onto the roses for dear life. Through the boat ride, onto the airplane. I clutched them as we hurtled through the air to Paris, on another leg of my temporary assignment abroad. I was meeting my husband there, for one thing, and the truth is I was not looking forward to that.
But the roses held me in one piece, somehow. They held me, for years, floating in the sun, water and glorious music of an ancient, sinking city where I took my first full breath in many years. Where I remembered what it felt like to experience unexpected wonder. And to feel truly alive.
Beijing seemed to me like a crowded, unfriendly city: full of smog and skyscrapers, an endless strip mall of grey buildings and criss-crossing highways. My study abroad experience was ending in two months, though — mercifully, I thought. The weeks had acquired their own brittle monotony: during the day, I’d attend classes, at night, I’d huddle in the sterile environs of the foreign students’ dorm, listening to the clanging of construction sites outside. On weekends, I’d wander around the warren of hutongs near Tianamen Square, old-fashioned criss-crossing alleys, trying to strike up conversations with my feeble Mandarin. In the evenings, I’d walk back to the bus stop, a scarf flung over my nose and eyes to keep the winter’s stinging grit and dust from my face.
I liked those weekends, but I felt alone, alien. Roaming the streets looking for the best presents to take home to my family was one way I tried to cope. So I was delighted when I first came upon the kite vendors in Tianamen Square.
There were always groups of men flying kites in the square. It was a serious occupation, no child’s game. They’d stand there wearing dark parkas and taciturn faces, watching the birds and dragons they loosed in the sky with an air of sternness, parents monitoring their wayward charges above.
One day in March, I bought a giant kite from a vendor in the square. About five feet wide, it had a broad face of a Buddha sewn onto it, a bright series of primary colors. After some intensive bargaining, the vendor sold it to me for 50 kuai — $6.25 — no sum of great value, but after days of $0.40 noodle dishes, it felt like a serious investment. I figured I would give it to my family, and took the subway to a nearby, quieter park to test it first, expectant and pleased.
But as I unfolded the wrappings and laid them out on the cloth, I discovered there was a piece missing. Trying uselessly to fit the rods together, I felt a surge of anger creep up inside me, and foolishness, too. The vendor had cheated me — the kite wouldn’t fly.
Feeling helpless, I did the only thing I could think of at the moment: got back on the subway and made my way back to Tianamen Square. I wandered around, dumbly asking groups of Chinese tourists if they’d seen a man selling kites. They looked at me blankly — who was this girl? and shook their heads, with curious eyes.
Finally I made my way to a group of four men who were flying their own hand-made kites, which flew on the wings of old plastic bags they’d refashioned into objects of art. As I descended upon them and emphatically relayed my story, there was a horrible, amused silence. I waited. Did they not understand my Chinese?
At last, one of them — an elderly, tiny man with a narrow beard — spoke up. “This is terrible!” he said. “This poor girl comes to China, she’s just a student, she wants to buy something for her family, and this vendor cheats her! It’s a shame.”
I couldn’t have found a better ally. Surprised, I listened as he told me he had an appointment for that afternoon, but to come back the following day and meet him in the square at 3pm. We would set things right, he said — quite firmly. Faltering with my poor Chinese, I tried to ask questions, but ended up simply thanking him, somewhat bewildered.
The next day I arrived at the square, wrapped in a double layer of sweaters; it was another wintry day, and the square was more deserted than usual. We recognized each other right away, and his eyes, electric in his wizened face, lit into a smile. “Hello!!” he called, one of the few words he knew in English. “Hello,” I returned.
As we talked further, gradually I understood that he intended to take me to buy a new kite — from a wholesaler where he bought his kites, not some foolish tourist vendor. He gestured for me to sit sidelong on the back of his bicycle, and so I scrambled on. Often I’d seen Chinese girls do the same, their heels swinging insouciantly on the backs of friends’ bikes. Now we rode together through the hutongs south of Tianamen, where my new friend lived. As we weaved through the neighborhoods, he slowed seemingly every few feet to greet old gentlemen and young children who called out to him, peering excitedly at his cargo — that is, me — sitting astride.
“She’s the daughter of an old comrade,” he told them all with gallant charm, and we cycled on.
It was a dizzy, happy afternoon in which we picked out a series of new kites from a nearby warehouse, for the half the sum of the original one I’d purchased. There was the orange one shaped like a fish, the white-and-green one that stretched out its wings like a bird. And my favorite: a series of triangles that fluttered on a long string, which my friend called a “long-long kite,” imitating foreigners he’d heard. After we were through, we cycled back through the hutong, waving and calling to his acquaintances.
We were to stay friends for the rest of the time I was in Beijing. On weekends, I often returned to his neighborhood to share a home-cooked meal with him and his wife, and to pore over old photo albums featuring his time in the People’s Liberation Army. A few months later, his hutong was razed in advance of the Olympics, and he and his wife were shipped out to a faraway high-rise in the suburbs — away from the bustling neighborhoods south of Tianaman he’d shared. I continued to visit him, and together we’d fly “long-long kites” out in the empty expanse where buildings had not yet been constructed.
Three years later, I still think of him often. I wish I knew how he was doing. I wish him and his wife the best of everything, and continue to be grateful for the kindness and different glimpse of China that he shared with me, a stray student lost in Beijing.
Kindness of the road is just one of those things that I try to never take advantage of now that I have traveled. One moment where a random act of kindness saved my butt was in Nepal. After landing in Nepal from India I needed to purchase a $100 visa to stay in the country for the several months of my volunteer program. Only problem? The ATM at the airport was broken and I had already just depleted my safety fund of US dollars down to $60. I was a little frantic and searching through my bags for any extra cash stuffed in pockets when another Westerner walked over and asked if he could help since he overheard me lamenting. Without hesitation he lent me the extra $40 in US and kept telling to to stop stressing about paying him back, to just go and get my visa. I did catch him back in Nepali rupee and said my goodbyes and thanks. What a nice man to save me in a panic moment.
I was rube from the country when I first moved to the “big city” of Chicago. Sitting in the front of the bus, I leaned into the driver and asked where I would find a specific address. He told me not to worry he would be sure to alert me to my stop. At that point three people seated around me engaged me in a conversation about my experiences in the city thus far. I shared my enthusiasm for the energy and diversity of a bustling city. Just then the driver let me know this was in fact my stop. The destination address was right around the corner. Apparently some people and homing pigeons have a chemical in their brains that give them an unerring sense of direction. I’m not one of those people. I’m a “wrong way Corrigan type” (http://tinyurl.com/2e7bn ) Stepping off the bus I headed off in the wrong direction. I would have wandered about in frustration had the driver not started honking the horn and the three people that I had just shared small talk with, started leaning out the window shouting, waving and pointing in the right direction. It was a such a small and wonderfully friendly thing for the folks to do. Chicago is the biggest small town in the world.
Hello there this is Sandeep Krishnankutty nedumburatha from Hyderabad, INDIA.
I would like to narrate to you one of my wonderful travel experiences.
Well my home town is in kerela where the beautiful back waters can be seen and I was to travel to my hometown during my summer vacation.
I boarded a train from Hyderabad which was going to Mangalore along the Western Ghats, so I had to get down at one junction called “shornur” from where I would catch a link train to kerela.
Now the fun starts, I fell asleep in the night and I missed the “shornur” junction and when I woke up I was far from the station where I had to get down.
So I decided to go to Mangalore and catch a train from there. Now the train route from this junction to Mangalore is a “ghat” area, meaning mountainous terrain.
So the route consisted of nearly 2000 bridges. The view from the train was simply spectacular. I could see the engine of the train from my compartment along the curves and the view of the train turning along the curves was beautiful.
Since the “ghat” area is a forest area, I could see many beautiful species of birds and animals.
Birds and animals like pigeons, parrots, deer’s, and bats hanging down the branches could be seen often.
There were many streams along the route and the water in it was crystal clear.
There was no pollution and the air was so fresh that it would bring your senses to heaven.
I was thoroughly enjoying my journey. I was very lucky that far from the train, I could see a herd of elephants and I was amazed to see that they were not perturbed. People of all ages were having a wonderful time.
I shared my lunch with my mates in the compartment and again started gazing at the wonderful sites. Since it is a rain forest area, there was greenery every where and it was so pleasing to your eyes.
I took a lot of pictures of the animals and the natural beauty and shared it with my friends.
I reached Mangalore at night and there after waited for return train to kerela.
Now the amazing part is kerela is south of Mangalore, so I had to travel south from Mangalore. I got a train from Mangalore in the early hours next morning and guess what the route was similarly along the same Western Ghats area. Now I could not believe my luck, with in the space of one day I could relish the beauty and the environment surrounding the Western Ghats
Iam a big fan of wildlife conservation and protection of endangered species, so the entire trip back to kerela was amazing and fruitful. I got to see many species of insects, plants and animals that I had never seen in my life. There were frogs, toads, moths, snakes, birds of various colors, animals like elephants, deer, wild boars, wild dogs, buffalos and my only regret was that I could not have a glimpse of the wonderful “tiger”, the national animal of INDIA.
I was so fortunate to have a journey that was not planned. I want to thank everyone who reads this, since I got a chance to share my wonderful travel experience which I will never forget in my life.
AS people say it was “MUSIC TO MY EYES”……
SANDEEP KRISHNANKUTTY NEDUMBURATHA
HYDERABAD
Sandeep.krishnankutty@gmail.com
My story is from my most recent trip. For my 23 birthday I took a week long trip Through the north east US and part of Canada. The original plan was to go to Portland, Maine and couch surf, but my host flaked out. I decided to go to Quebec instead to get a stamp on my crisp new passport. I enjoyed Quebec very much. They were very hospitable to tourists. After a day there, I drove to Montreal. On my way to Montreal I got a speeding ticket from a cop who spoke only French. I do not speak French at all. Once I got to the city I found a hostel, then headed out to get some food. I then encountered the problem that no one wants to speak English to me. I got so frustrated, the only place I could go was Starbucks, because they have their own language that I am fluent in.
That evening, the night before my birthday, I went on a bar crawl with the hostel.I met a nice French Canadian guy and enjoyed myself a bit too much. I remember coming back to the hostel lobby, but not how I got back to my room. The next morning, my birthday, I woke with the worst hangover of my life, to a knock on my door from the French Canadian guy. He had apparently helped me to my room the night before. He saved my day though, by going to the store and buying me a Gatorade (my trusted hangover cure). That Gatorade was the best birthday present I have ever received.
Comments on this entry are closed.