Wake Me Up Before You Go

Boy #1 and Boy #2 enjoyed a relaxing in-town vacation last week during spring break. This Monday morning, they seemed happy enough to be back in their routine, but on Tuesday, they both needed to be at school early. At bedtime on Monday night, I reminded them, "Guys, everyone needs to be at school at 8:00 tomorrow morning, so you need to get up and get at it."

Although Boy #2 has an intense dislike for anything that contains the word camp, he has a sense of comfort around anything that involves the word school. "You'd better set my alarm so I won't be late, and turn it up so it will alarm me," he told me. And so I did.

Boy #2's alarm clock is set to beep at him a number of times, but also has the option to wake to the radio or to a CD. Similarly, my alarm clock also beeps at me three times, takes a break, then beeps at me three more times until I turn it off or hit the snooze.

I have awakened in many a town, city, country, tent, guest house, hotel, stranger's house, friend's house, hostel, and lodge. Many times, my location determined the wake-up method.

My first morning in Indonesia, on the island of Timor, the wake-up call came early and often, beginning at 4:30 a.m. First came the earsplitting rooster that I was certain was under my bed. On the heels of the rooster came the call to prayer, long about 5 a.m., over the loudspeaker in the center of town. The wailing continued until getting back to sleep was no longer an option, and I realized that in this predominantly Muslim country, I would be hearing the calls to prayer every day, numerous times a day, beginning in the wee hours of the morning.

When I left for a semester abroad in England, my parents gave me a tiny travel alarm clock, the size of a credit card. It sat on my makeshift bedside table, a box hidden beneath a scarf, and woke me every day for class. After a month or so, I was invited on a weekend trip with two other study abroad friends, both men. We took the train to the town of Norwich, and roamed around until we found a cozy B&B. When we inquired about the availability of a room for the night, the woman working behind the front desk was flummoxed. She clearly had issues with me, a female, spending the night in the same room with these two men, under her watch. We held our ground, and told her a tall tale, "Well, we had a bad experience up north, and....," implying that I was afraid to stay alone. Begrudgingly, she granted us the one room, but let her displeasure be known every time we passed the front desk.

Norwich Cathedral - Photo by Jean Brooks

After a lovely weekend touring Norwich and its historic cathedral, we returned to Essex. Monday morning I overslept, and realized that my alarm clock was missing. I checked with the guys, and of course, the clock was gone, no doubt forgotten in our scandalous room at the B&B. I had to call that disapproving woman and politely ask her to mail me the alarm clock. Miraculously, she did. That alarm clock traveled with me for the next five years, until it fell apart.

I spent a month in and around Queenstown, New Zealand, utilizing the facilities of a backpacker's hostel, while sleeping in a tent out back every night in order to reduce my nightly rate. Every morning, I woke up with the sun to a view of stunning Lake Wakatipu.

Lake Wakatipu - Photo courtesy of www.dangerous-business.com

In Victoria, Australia, I was up before dawn every day to beat the heat while working on a grape farm. But it wasn't the early morning wake-ups that were memorable. While there was grape picking going on at the farm, there was also a fair amount of work that involved drying fruit, in this case sultanas, which are small, sweet and golden colored raisins. The grapes were dried on racks, shaken from the racks, raked out on tarps on the ground, and further dried in the sun. At the first hint of a raindrop, those sultanas needed to be covered to protect them from further moisture. Behold the middle of the night wake up, the farm's owner pounding on my bedroom door, "Rain! Rain! Cover the grapes! Cover the grapes!" We all rushed outside, shook the grapes into the center of their tarps, folded the edges over, and tucked those sultanas into their own snug beds. If I was lucky, there was still time for me to tuck myself back into my bed before heading out to work again at dawn.

Today, my alarm clock glows blue on my bedside table, replacing the red digital numbers that stared at me during my younger years. Most days, I don't need an alarm clock anymore, Boy #1 and Boy #2 make sure of that.

Travel (and lack thereof)

I did most of my adventure travel in my 20s. During that time, I studied in England for a semester, saw a bit of Europe and the USSR during my spring break, and parlayed the end of my semester into a month in Paris in my friend's free-of-charge closet-sized apartment in the 7th arrondissement. Never mind that two of us invited ourselves to come stay, and that it was way too small for one, let alone three of us, but we made it work, albeit with little room to maneuver. I worked in Japan for a year, backpacked and worked my way through Southeast Asia and the South Pacific, took separate trips to Vietnam and Malaysian Borneo, and a trip to Europe for good measure. (note to self for future blog post re: cheap cheap cheap travel to Europe and Vietnam summer 1996 - you too can do this, people!).

The Paris apartment

I was married at 30, and my late 20s/early to mid-30s were all about a honeymoon in Costa Rica and traveling to other people's weddings. Thanks to becoming DINKs (double income no kids), this time period included multiple trips across the country to weddings in places like Virginia, Cape Cod, Carmel, upstate New York, Washington DC, Texas, Atlanta and San Francisco. Thankfully, it also included a small dose of international travel to a wedding in the Middle East, in Jordan, that involved a lot of swords.

Photo by Mariea Rummel Photography

While this may all sound quite glamorous, here is the truth. In England, I was a student, and there is nothing glamorous about having no money. The month in Paris was much the same, and meals of lettuce, baguettes and cheese were the norm. And jumping the Metro gates. And accessing the refrigerator while seated on the toilet. That big trip, to Southeast Asia and the South Pacific? Much of that time I was living out of a tent, scrimping and saving in order to continue traveling as long as possible. And working jobs like grape picking to make extra money. Costa Rica? Honeymooning in a nature preserve for part of our stay, we shacked up in a cabin outfitted with bunk beds and window screens - and 100 degree heat. We each lay prone on our bunks and insisted that it was too hot to go near each other. And then there was the punishing diarrhea in Jordan. I'll spare you the gory details, but it started at the High Place of Sacrifice and ended with an ambulance ride out of Petra (note to self for future blog post).

My life as an international traveler came to a screeching halt upon the arrival of Boy #1 in 2002. And Boy #1 arrived very sick, which made it hard to even think about leaving my home town, let alone the country. And then came Boy #2 in 2005. Romantic 10th anniversary trip to Paris in 2009? Fat chance. Trip to Europe in 2011 to visit many friends now living overseas with THEIR kids? Nada.

Oh, I know it can be done. But the logistics? And the cost? We've had a handful of adventurous trips together right here in the USA, but overseas? It's just not in the budget right now.

The locals certainly made it look easy. The women of Southeast Asia were practiced at attaching babies to their bodies with sarongs and going about their business, carrying baskets of water on their heads or working in the fields. I saw children riding effortlessly on varying modes of transportation, including the tuk-tuk, scooter, bejak, train, ferry, minibus, and tour bus. The children that I encountered were sweet, polite and curious. 

Photo by Dewan Irawan

Boy #1 and Boy #2 are now old enough to help take care of themselves, and when we finally muster up the courage (and money) to take them abroad, it will surely be easier than I imagine. I haven't given up hope. Our day will come. Will the first overseas family adventure be a new adventure for all of us? Or will I take them to one of my old haunts and show them a place that is undoubtedly not how I remember it at all?

They're not mine! Really.

Death and John Denver

Death and John Denver were my childhood obsessions, and they are inextricably linked as the late-night, mind-spinning ideas that stole my sleep as a youth. Thoughts of death invoked visions of not being here someday and massive stomach-aches, until my hero John Denver came to rescue me. In my dark bedroom, I used to imagine John Denver as the prize in a contest that I always won (of course), and that prize was to spend the day with John Denver. He would come to school with me, meet my friends, and have dinner with my family.

Death and John Denver collided yesterday when I attended the funeral of a dear family friend. A beautiful remembrance of her life took place at the synagogue, and to close the ceremony, her son led the mourners in John Denver's "Country Roads."

En route to the cemetery, I paid attention to my surroundings. It was a gorgeous day, new magnolia and forsythia blossoms covered the trees, birds were chirping and a warm breeze was blowing. It was a day fitting for our dear departed friend, who cherished the outdoors. A memory came to me, there in the car. During my time in Japan teaching English, I received a phone call on a Saturday afternoon from one of my adult students. He explained as best he could, in broken English, that his son had just passed away. At the time, I didn't know much about his personal life, I didn't even know how many children he had or if his child had been sick or had succumbed to some terrible accident. He was calling to invite me to the funeral, he explained, he wanted me to experience the traditions surrounding a Japanese funeral. In his time of profound sorrow, he was thinking of an opportunity. Sadly, I wasn't able to attend.

There is undoubtedly a lot to learn about death (and life) by studying or observing rituals from around the world. We likely have some preconceived notions about who does what and how, or what we might like for ourselves. For me, I wonder if learning more might quell my own fears with the notion that one day you're here and one day you're gone. But I can seek comfort in the words of my beloved John Denver, "Country Roads, take me home, to the place, I belong....."

A Moment of Silence

During an innocent stroll through Maumere, Indonesia with 1 man and 3 other women, our group collected men (and boys), who followed us to the beach with wide-eyed fascination. 

As evidenced by the photo, the beach wasn't really a beach, but a hodgepodge of concrete slabs strewn over what used to be the beach. You wouldn't have known from the friendly demeanor of the locals, but 7 months before our arrival, Maumere suffered a massive earthquake and tsunami, the largest and deadliest earthquake that year. Thousands of people lost their lives, and most of Maumere was destroyed. Did the world sit up and pay attention?

One year ago, the world watched in horror as a wall of water rushed onto the earthquake-devastated landscape of North-Eastern Japan and washed away the lives and livelihoods of nearly 19,000 people.  The world sprang into action, and relief came from around the globe, with help from the likes of Lady Gaga and Cyndi Lauper.

 

A disaster in the right place at the right time can unite the world. The Haiti earthquake. Hurricane Katrina. The Indian ocean earthquake and tsunami of 2004. But what about devastating incidents like the Maumere earthquake, the recent floods in Thailand, or the catastrophic landslides in the Philippines in 2006? Did the world take notice? Should the world take notice? In a time when technology and connectedness broadcast everything everywhere instantaneously, how much is too much? What compels us to act? Do we choose one catastrophe over another? Do we choose not to act? Is it OK not to act?

A moment of silence, then, to remember those affected in Japan one year ago today. And a moment of silence for our global neighbors who fall victim to the countless other tragedies that take place both in the public eye, and far from the public eye, for the human suffering is the same.

AP Photo

Sheep on Board

Unquestionably, hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere leaves you vulnerable. You must be a good, and quick, judge of character. You have a few tiny moments to size up the driver and determine whether or not to climb into the car. The times that I felt the most hesitant resulted in the friendliest drivers, leaving me feeling somewhat guilty.

One beautiful day, hitching from the Coromandel peninsula towards Auckland, New Zealand, a young man, seemingly friendly, in a clean enough car, offered an hour's ride in the right direction. Without hesitation, my travel companion and I accepted the ride. Casual conversation with the flannel-clad man revealed that he was returning from a hunting trip, and his rifle was in the way back of the station wagon. Also back there? His kill. A dead sheep. Covered in plastic sheeting. I peeked over the seat, and came nose to nose with the dead sheep. It didn't smell. It didn't talk. It was a fine traveling companion for an hour. I might not have even noticed it was there without the tip off.

During deer hunting season in Missouri, it is not uncommon to see a dead deer splayed out in the bed of a pickup truck. It is certainly a time to select your hiking trails carefully. It might be considerate for hunters to find a way to advertise their cargo.

I might have selected a different ride.

Information Age

Backpack in tow, I hit the ground running in New Zealand in the fall of 1992. The plane ticket was one-way, the itinerary was rough, practically non-existent. The plan was to travel until the money ran out, and seek opportunities to work along the way to replenish funds. Travel. Work. Repeat.

Provisions were scant: tent, sleeping bag, Therma-rest, hiking boots, Birkenstocks, a week's worth of underwear, 4 pairs of shorts, 4 t-shirts, one long-sleeved shirt, one pair of pants, 4 pairs of socks, one jacket, one swimming suit, hat, toiletries and a towel that quickly became musty. Sony Walkman and some cassette tapes. Journal. Toilet paper. Water. Travelers checks. Credit card for emergencies only. And a few books.

If you can wind your brain back to 1992, you will recall it was a seemingly ancient, pre-internet and cell phone era. My trip was not documented by blog, facebook post or tweet, but in letters and on rolls of film. If I found the right kind of telephone, I called home to check in with my parents every few weeks. I developed rolls of film along the way, wrote details on the back of each photo, and mailed the photos home, a manual blog, if you will. I incessantly wrote letters to family and friends, and kept track of recipient and date mailed so no one felt left out. It was mostly a one-way exchange of information.

And then there was my friend, Poste Restante. Poste Restante is a service where the post office holds your mail until you claim it. A well worn joke? "Who is this guy, Poste Restante, that you keep telling me to send letters to?" 

With a rough itinerary in mind, I included contact information like this in every letter: "I will be in Darwin, Australia in July, so send mail to Emily Follman, c/o Poste Restante, GPO, 48 Cavenagh St, Darwin NT 0800." Every time I arrived in a scheduled, known destination, the first order of business was to run to the GPO and check Poste Restante for mail. More often than not, I left disappointed, my old friend Poste failing me time and again. During a six-week stint working on a grape farm in Robinvale, Australia, the workers at the Robinvale post office just laughed when they saw me coming again to check on my mail. It was few and far between. And it was depressing.


Fast forward to today, when this caught my eye: China reaches 1 billion mobile subscribers. The travel experience is forever changed by the connectedness of this era. Even if you are far from home, you are never far from being in touch. I wonder how this connectedness might have changed my travel experience. But would it have changed it for the better or for the worse? At least some of the communication might have been two-way.  

I know now that while I was on the road having new adventures every day, most of my friends and family were home, living their lives, and let's face it, most of our lives don't include riding in the milk truck, tubing through caves, or climbing active volcanoes. Maybe they didn't write because they felt like they didn't have much to say. Maybe they were busy. Or maybe I just had too much time on my hands. And maybe my poor old friend Poste is nearing extinction.