>>> Our interview with Christopher H. Warren is here. 

***

One summer I exhibited a room of my home. For ten days in August a few artisans and many merchants set up their wares along a route that passes through the old town. Incongruously, most of the objects came from or seemed to be inspired by far-flung places like Central America, Thailand, and India. On occasional evenings musicians invited by the organizers sang pop songs in English.

At the time, I was completing decorative touches on what is now the living room. Using hand-colored lime, I painted the walls a light pastel yellow, and the fifteenth-century wooden ceiling a light blue. Two thin dark lines mark the change from yellow to blue at the top of the walls, with a broad dark border at the base. Around the perimeter of the room I mounted photographs showing the ruins of homes from the side of town that was condemned and abandoned in the 1950s. Although dilapidated, the interiors showed how houses were traditionally decorated, and the photographs revealed the inspiration for my painted room.

In the early summer, as I was applying one of the ten coats of lime to walls and ceiling, townspeople would stop in to ask why I was not exposing the wooden ceiling and simply whitewashing the walls—a contemporary trend popularized by city “sophisticates” who had been buying up available habitations to use as weekend retreats. It became apparent that the townspeople, some of whom could well remember their old homes, equated the colorful, decorated interiors with what many of them viewed as their provincial and primitive past.

During the exhibition, I continued to paint the room and was eager to learn people’s impressions of the photographs and the room. I set up a table with glasses and a five-liter bottle of the wine I make in my cantina according to traditional methods. The surprisingly good “American” wine proved to be a successful draw, and the range of thoughts was both amusing and gratifying. One offended sophisticate from Bologna claimed that my painted ceiling was a travesty and, despite my photographic evidence, insisted that I remove the paint and expose the wood. A haughty professoressa from Florence congratulated me on my “post-modern” interior design. I was more interested in what the townspeople thought, and most were very complimentary about the room. This was surprising to me, as these new sentiments were in such contrast to almost everyone’s initial reservations about the work of period restoration I had proposed. Two elderly men testily asked me why I had gone to all the trouble, but after a glass of wine and a brief discussion, I overheard one remark to the other that being in the room made him feel young again.

The previous owner of my apartment, Ernesto Capelli, quickly recognized the only person pictured in the exhibition. Some time before, I was wandering the empty rubble-strewn streets and noticed that a top floor in one of the abandoned buildings had partially collapsed, revealing a room with what appeared to be a small picture frame and clothes hanging on a peg. I got a painting ladder from my home and balanced it on four blocks of tufo to get up to the bare beams of the second floor, where the boards and tiles had fallen through and been removed. Even more precariously, I then carried up other blocks of tufo, placed them on a beam, and put the ladder on top so that I could pull myself up into the room. As I did so, the ladder slipped and clattered all the way down to the ground floor.

The room seemed perfectly preserved from another time, and I immediately decided to reproduce the pale cyan color of the walls in my own home. There was a single bed, a wooden table and chairs, a small corner closet with some personal items, and a few dresses and shawls on hooks. The brass picture frame contained a photo of an elderly woman. I photographed the room, stepping gingerly as the floor was decidedly unsound and a large crack in the wall indicated that the building was soon to follow others that had fallen into the river valley. I then had to figure out a way to get myself back down. No one would have heard my voice if I were to call for help, so I fashioned a hook out of a hanger, tied the old owner’s dresses and shawls together and was able to pull the ladder up, after many tries, from forty feet below. I told the story at one of the bars later in the day, including the detail that I had been tempted to take the lovely frame and picture but had decided to leave it out of respect—and some remorse for having ruined the elderly lady’s garments. One week later I walked by the building again and noticed that the frame was gone. Nevertheless, I had the photo, and it was one of the pictures I included in the exhibition. Ernesto said that the woman was his Aunt Teresa Capelli—sister to his father. I learned later in the town hall that Teresa was born on the March 14, 1888, and died on January 21, 1944. Teresa was a spinster and had no children. Ernesto confirmed that I likely was the first person to go into her room since her death forty-five years before.

As I had hoped, several elderly people were moved to stop by during the exhibition and recall how their lives had changed since they had left the old town. Others were able to identify homes and owners from the photographs of the abandoned shells. I have spent a considerable amount of time wandering the streets of the far side of town and could only imagine the vibrant life that would have animated those streets only fifty years ago. On another occasion, I was surprised when a short old woman with white hair and in her black widow’s dress appeared at my side. To get to where we were, she must have climbed over a fence and picked her way, somewhat perilously, along a path strewn with broken tiles and blocks of tufo. That had been her home, she explained, pointing up at an open stairway filled with rubble. The black hole in front of us was one of Sorano’s four old bakeries. Every week, she went on, her mother would make the dough, stamp it to identify it as their own, and take it to the oven to have it baked, as did the other families. We chatted a little longer, about the relatively poor quality of the bread made by the one baker in town nowadays, and briefly remarked about the lost skills with which every family supported itself in the past, and we went our separate ways.

As I walked away, marveling at how the woman had briefly brought to life the little corner where we were standing, I happily realized how I could get beyond my superficial understanding of the town in which I live. The quotidian detail about the bakery was already greatly illuminating to me. By relying upon the memories of the old people who had lived in the town, rather than my own romantic imaginings, I could make the town live again, if only in my mind.

I set about interviewing many of the old people I had made contact with in my years in Sorano. I had heard occasional stories and brief histories and legends while I helped Ivana pick her olives, had my morning coffee with Michele, ate lunch with Annetta, or drank wine with Leopoldo in his wine cave, but I now went to them with my tape recorder and asked them to tell me their personal stories and remembrances in detail. Almost everyone obliged me, although some were suspicious of the motivation of the strangely curious American. One would answer volubly, excitedly and tangentially recalling the great history of Sorano, while another would be brief, reluctant to speak about bitter events and the sad “primitive” past. Their collected memories form a broad and eloquent portrait of life in the ancient hilltown. I questioned Luigino, Matilde, and Gino, who had all lived at some time on the short lane where most of my property lies. Peppina and Augusto were born in town, had moved to big cities, but had returned to Sorano and acutely remembered life there before the war.

Maria left Sorano in the 1930s, immigrating to the United States. I found her in an apartment on Webster Avenue in the Bronx. Despite my keen desire to speak again with the old woman in her widow’s dress, whom I had encountered alone on the abandoned far side of town, I was never able to find her. None of my old friends knew who she was. I think of her now as my guiding apparition.

*

Read more about Sorano on Christopher’s website or find the book on Amazon:.

Featured image: The “far side” of town, which faces south west and was almost entirely abandoned when Chris came to Sorano in 1988 | © Christopher H. Warren

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The post All the Noise of It: Living in a Tuscan Hilltown – excerpt from the book appeared first on 203Challenges.

***

Now, the dust of the city is gone. And the sheep for sale by the side of the road. And the goats tied to rusty pick-up trucks. So too the chimneys’ smoke, the crowded bus stops and the windowless breeze block walls. The cacophony of squealing brakes and lisping voices, of traffic whistles and loud abrasive horns, sounds only now as a memory; a vague recollection, no longer in my ears, but somewhere in the faded distance.

Above the dryness of the empty steppe, the heat of the air swells and grows humid. The light, spattering rain from the gathering clouds promises downpour, and soon enough I am trundling over the earth, away from the road, in search of a place to camp. Fat drops darken the ground and the sandy earth drinks, thirstily. I find a place to camp on a gentle slope. Far across the weeping valley, a cluster of Gers, white against the green, huddles against the rain, so distant that I see the horses gallop, before I hear the sound of hooves.

I wait in my tent for the rain to pass – the same green yellow walls; the spread of books, and clothes, and maps across the floor, the dried-out mud; the dampened smell of everywhere I’ve been all mixed to make the scent I know so well that now I barely notice it; as one’s own childhood home smells of nothing.

Only several hours later does the sun make its presence felt; light, warming rays shine bright through translucent walls. The new light is accompanied by a beautiful, mourning voice, singing outside my tent. Its tones ache gently through the walls, without sudden turns or staccato beats. It is simply an announcement; I am here.

As I open the zip the singing stops. Outside there is a boy my age; his horse waits patiently a few yards away. He wears a long deep yellow robe, tied with a red cloth sash around his waist. He walks slowly towards me and I invite him to sit down.

His name is Mungo, he tells me. He is a malchin, a herdsman. We sit around my phrasebook, pointing. He is married, has two brothers, and he lives with his parents, across the valley. I take out a packet of sweets I bought in Ulaanbaatar, and offer him one. We speak in gestures and smiles, little else, and he plays, fascinated, with various parts of my bike. He points inside the tent, asking for permission to have a look. He moves the zip, tentatively up and down. Has he seen a zip before? His eyes are like mine when I saw the camels. We sit a while longer, outside eating apples, and he leaves saying goodbye, and we both say thank you.

Later, I am making coffee on my stove, the percolator bubbling and hissing out steam, when a sound startles me. I look up to see a horse galloping towards me, full pelt, heading straight for my tent. At the last moment, the horse rears up on its hind legs and shudders to a halt. Another malchin jumps down from the saddle. He is older, fatter, but smiles as he takes my hand and shakes it firmly with apparent friendliness. Again, I share fruit and chocolate; I offer him a cigarette and he takes one, holding it out for me to light. I pour the bitter black coffee into two cups and watch as he winces at its taste.

Again, we flick through the phrasebook. I point at the words as my pronunciation renders meaningless everything I say. He tells me that he lives alone and, pointing to the clouds, still dark in the sky, he invites me to spend the night in his Ger. I am excited, curious to look inside these homes like no other I have seen, and I hurry to say yes.

He asks me for some money to buy airag, fermented mare’s milk, and I root around in my pocket for spare notes. I give him 5000 tögrög, about £1.50, and he smiles and puts his thumbs up. It is agreed.

It is only as he begins to rip tent pegs from the ground that I notice he is drunk. I call for him to stop and collect the pegs that he has thrown across the floor. It is time, perhaps, to be on my guard, but not yet cause for panic. He sits, smoking a cigarette, and watches as I lift my panniers out, set them on the ground, roll the tent into its bag, and begin to load the bike. We are almost ready.

It is now that he changes. He pushes my bike to the ground and kicks my helmet, motioning to hit me. His eyes have grown hard and violent and he grinds his teeth, swinging his fists and I jump out of his way. For a moment I stand, perplexed at this change of behaviour. In an instant he has turned and we stand, staring at each other in silence. Then he smiles, steps over the bike and comes towards me slowly. I am ready to duck. To run. I am not ready to fight. But he hugs me, tightly, drunkenly, and I feel the wetness of his lips upon my cheek. I smile at him, and return to pick up my bike, resolved to leave. Again, he pushes it to the floor, and grinds his teeth.

I duck down to pick up my helmet and put it on. When I look up he has taken out his horse whip, and it comes crashing down over my head, with a snap.

“Bayta,” I say, “Goodbye.” I am pleading, I realise. He grinds his teeth.

It is time to leave. To do anything to leave. I pick up my bike and push it against him as he tries to force it to the ground, and now I stare at him with anger.

“Go home,” I say in English. I spit out the words. I am scared. Again, he swings his fists. He pushes the bike over, but immediately repents, and smiling, with his thumbs up, comes to hug me. This time I back away. It is like watching a man hovering between two worlds, each one of them insane.

Again, I watch him clamber onto his horse. It takes him four drunken attempts, but eventually he manages it, and I watch with great relief as he trots away, towards his Ger, with my 5000 tögrög in his pocket.

He has covered just a few metres when he turns and, again, gallops towards me. He lashes wildly with the whip as I dive out of his path. He no longer seems drunk, but masterful and confident in his skills as a horseman and he spins around, swinging again for my scrambling body. Perhaps half a minute of this pantomime ensues before his former character resurfaces. Smiling again, he motions toward his Ger and indicates through gesture that I am welcome as his guest.

“Bayta” I say. Goodbye.

He stays there, stuck fast on the saddle, staring. I load the panniers onto my bike and cycle away, as fast as I can.

He is not following me. I am almost certain. But for the next 15 miles I check, glancing behind at every sound, at every panicked thought. I am surging with adrenaline, my heart beats, pounding into my chest and I feel it in my throat. When I eventually find somewhere to sleep, far from the road, I am intoxicated with fear. I bury myself in the grass and look down again at the road, in search of my pursuer, but the road is empty, and I try to imagine him, safely in his Ger, at the bottom of a bottle of airag.

I wake to find my legs stinging and red. In the rush to get away, or in the violent struggle over the bike, camping fuel spilt over my sleeping bag. Now my legs are covered in chemical burns; they will fester, and erupt in blisters the size of my fingers before I make it back to Ulaanbaatar.

***

Remember, the sport is very useful for your body and veins.

***

Sam’s book is available on Amazon:

Feature image: courtesy of Sam Gambier

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The post Cycling in the steppe of Mongolia – a book excerpt appeared first on 203Challenges.

An avid 203 Challenges reader, Rob Erwin is the author of the best-selling travel adventure book, Lost with Directions: Ambling Around America, available on Amazon and Amazon Kindle. His story, which humorously details a cross-country journey through some of America’s most incredible wild places and eclectic small towns along the way, is a refreshing take on what it means to live and travel adventurously. In other words, Rob’s a 203 Challenges kind of guy!

Read our interview with Rob Erwin here.

The Wildest Place in the Lower 48 Will Scare the Crap Out of You (And You’ll Love It.)

An Excerpt from Lost with Directions: Ambling Around America

Having made my phone call, I left Cook City and reentered the park on the way to my evening’s destination – the famous Lamar Valley of Yellowstone. Such is the abundance and diversity of wildlife in this forty square-miles along the Lamar River that it is often referred to as the Serengeti of North America. Indeed, as I entered the valley, many hundreds of bison could be seen out in lush grasslands lazily grazing and resting. But somewhere out there, currently out of sight, was another more frightening resident of this vast expanse.

Although the last remaining wolf pack was killed in Yellowstone in 1926 under predator extermination policies of the day, wolves were eventually reintroduced into the park in 1995 by biologists who were interested to see if the species had what it took to make a comeback. In an experiment in conservation that garnered worldwide attention, fourteen gray wolves were transported from western Canada down to Yellowstone, where in the middle of January people lined the roads to watch as they passed through the northern gates of the park via horse trailer. Broken off into three small packs and released with tracking collars into the Lamar Valley, biologists everywhere now watched and waited, as they held their breaths to see what would happen next.

On a cold January day in 1995, people lined the roads to watch wolves return to Yellowstone for the first time in almost 70 years. 

As it turns out, the experiment worked better than anyone could have ever imagined. The original packs immediately thrived in their new ecosystem, taking advantage of drastically overpopulated elk herds, who had previously experienced few natural predators. Soon, the wolves started making happy, healthy little wolf pups, and the rest is history. Now, over twenty years later, they have spread throughout the park and around 100 wolves in ten separate packs call Yellowstone home, while many hundreds more populate the surrounding region.

As I pulled my car over to the side of the road, parking at an overlook by the trailhead, it was early evening and still about two hours from dusk when the wolves of Lamar would start to come out and become most active. Already though, in excited anticipation, were dozens of wildlife watchers lined up along the railing of the overlook, their powerful binoculars and scopes trained out to the valley, slowly scanning from side to side searching for any signs of movement.

Getting out of the car to examine my pack, I double-checked that I had all of the essential supplies I would need to spend the night in camp. Satisfied that everything was in order, I wrestled the hulking bag onto my back, slipping my arms through the straps, and was immediately buried by its overbearing weight once again. My quads ached heavily and my back was sore, still feeling the effects of the painful climb out of the canyon earlier that morning. Fortunately, tonight would be a cake-walk in comparison – a short three-and-a-half-mile jaunt over relatively flat terrain to a place along the Cache Creek, which downstream flows into the Lamar River.

Wildlife watching in Lamar Valley, Yellowstone National Park | NPS / Jacob W. Frank

Ready to head out any minute now, I spread my large foldout trail map over the hood of the car and verified the route I was to take on my way out to the campsite. But in the midst of my final preparations, I was startled by a collective gasp from the crowd on the overlook, which caused me to raise my eyes out towards the valley.

Off in the distance, two small blurs raced from left to right, easily several hundred yards away and well out of range of my farsighted eyes. Fumbling about frantically for my binoculars, I finally managed to pull them out of my pack but was now unable to find the speeding blurs in my lenses. Continuing to scan about wildly, at last, they appeared in my sights.

What I saw was amazing – a lone, grayish-white wolf locked in a full-out, maniacal pursuit of a pronghorn antelope that was literally running for its very life. The two of them were absolutely flying.

Not surprisingly, the pronghorn had used its superior quickness (at an incredible 55 mph, they’re the second-fastest mammal on Earth) to open a distance of perhaps fifteen yards in front, but the wolf was relentless… desperate even. Against all odds, he seemed to inexplicably be closing down the gap as the two of them continued to race across the valley at almost unfathomable speeds – I had never seen living things move so fast in my entire life.

From our vantage on the overlook, it felt like a movie playing out before our eyes, but in my mind I tried to imagine what the very real, life-and-death struggle must be like up close – the sound of frantic hooves pounding against the ground, grass thrashing, dust flying, the wolf snarling with determination, saliva flying from his mouth as he raced to close the gap.

Frantically he kept the chase, continuing to inch closer, as the two of them raced over a small ridgeline in the distance and disappeared from sight. And just like that, it was over. The valley was once again perfectly still, as if the whole thing had only been a dream.

While incredible to witness, the chase had proved to be quite unnerving as well. Sure, I had come out to Lamar because I wanted to see the wolves, and deep down I knew they posed no real threat. But it’s easy to be brave when you’re daydreaming from the safety and security of your living room, watching a PBS Nature documentary on the couch while munching on a bag of microwave popcorn. It’s quite another thing to be brave when you’re actually standing on the edge of that immense, lonely valley and know that once you step foot out there, you’re entirely on your own. Now it was very real, and suddenly, it was quite frightening.

My first instinct was to turn around and leave immediately. The Pebble Creek Campground was just a few miles up the road back towards the Northeast Entrance. Surely, there I could find a nice little spot for the night, surrounded by the comfort and security of other fellow travelers. Heck, I could even go back to Cooke City and grab a nice dinner while I was at it.

But I quickly dispelled the thought from my head. If I had wanted comfort and security, I could have just stayed back home in Iowa. The whole point of this solo-phase of the journey was to test my mettle and push my limits. And there was no better way to do it than by facing my fears – wolves or no wolves, I was going out to that valley.

Lamar Valley | NPS photo by Neal Herbert

Allowing several minutes to pass, time which I spent gathering my courage, I took a deep breath as I folded my trail map and began descending down from the overlook. Walking through the crowd, I incurred a variety of confused looks and strange glances as I passed. I attempted to appear confident, trying not to betray the fact that I was shaken by what I’d just witnessed.

I began my journey tentatively, but the further I walked from the road, the more my feelings of uneasiness grew into something more. Soon the people and their vehicles at the overlook became smaller and smaller, until eventually they were just specks in the distance. With each step I took, the more vulnerable I felt. Quickly, I was consumed with fear and began wildly scanning my surroundings, looking for any signs of the wolves I knew to be out here. And while I couldn’t see them, I was suddenly quite sure that somewhere out there, they were most certainly watching me.

Now pulling out the long machete I hauled in my pack for emergencies, I grasped it tightly in my right hand while simultaneously clutching my bear spray in the left. Nervously proceeding through the valley, I slowly climbed the same ridgeline where the wolf and pronghorn had raced over just twenty minutes before and fully expected to see the wolf eagerly waiting for me on the other side.

Now fully hidden from view of the tourists back at the road, I was completely and utterly alone, and my nerves began to play tricks on me – I’d freeze at the slightest sound of the wind rustling the grass, peer over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being followed, and somehow convince myself that far-off shapes in the distance were predators, though inevitably they were just rocks or fallen trees. Short of breath and with sweaty palms, I was suddenly overcome with a lightheadedness that gave the whole ordeal an almost hallucinatory feel.

Fighting the urge to turn and run back to the safety of civilization, I continued along in this primal, fear-stricken state for well over an hour, until finally arriving at the banks of Cache Creek. It had been the longest, most miserable three and a half miles of my life.

The campsite was set in a small collection of trees in an otherwise empty, soggy meadow, perhaps fifty yards from the gravelly banks of the creek. Because of my frequent stops to investigate imagined threats, and an overly-cautious pace which had served to prolong my agony, the hike in had taken far longer than it should have.

It was at this point that I started to question what the hell I was doing out here. I’d set out on this hike trying to prove how brave I was, but had instead spent most of the time double-fisting a can of bear spray and a machete like some madman escaped from an insane asylum. I was dirty, I stunk, I was lonely, I was scared – and for what?

Fortunately, the ritual of making camp and setting up my tent did much to calm my nerves and put me at ease. What’s more, this was the first backcountry site I’d been at all trip where I was finally permitted to establish a campfire. In many places out West the risk of man-made wildfire is simply too great for campfires to be allowed when staying out in the wilderness. But apparently, here at Cache Creek, the risk was sufficiently tolerable for the park service to allow it.

Gathering the driest small twigs and sticks I could find, I arranged them in a small teepee formation around the handful of newspapers I’d brought along as kindling and watched with excitement as they quickly ignited. Soon, with the addition of larger pieces, my humble pile had unexpectedly morphed into a roaring backwoods bonfire. Celebrating my own private Tom Hanks Castaway moment, I didn’t go quite so far as to tear off my shirt and start dancing around the flames screaming “I’ve made fire!”, but I did experience a brief surge of manly pride, nonetheless. I was still far from being a backwoodsman, but it felt good to at least be making progress.

My reward for all of this was a bag of large, extra puffy marshmallows I’d purchased earlier in the day at the Roosevelt Lodge for just this moment. After my tense and stressful evening on the trail, I was now grateful to have a delicious, sugary treat to make it all go away. Sharpening the end of a long narrow branch, I skewered two of them and patiently hovered them near the glowing orange embers of the fire until they were perfectly crisp and golden brown, careful not to get them too close lest they spontaneously burst into flames. At first, I worried the sweet aroma might attract any nearby bears, but ended up ignoring the risks and rationalized this might actually be a good thing. A few bears might help to keep the wolves away.

Biting into the gooey, molten-sugar center, I felt the weight of my stressful evening fall from my shoulders. Making a second batch, I enjoyed this simple pleasure by the campfire as I watched a long and grueling day turn to dusk. Enjoying the warmth of the fire until it gave out, I poured some water over top of it, hung my bear bag, and eventually shuffled back to the tent where I was immediately overcome with a crushing fatigue. The physical exhaustion from my morning climb out of the canyon, along with the intense emotional drain from my hike in the valley this evening, had finally caught up with me, and my body and mind were demanding a reset.

Quickly drifting off to the low, soothing roar of the creek, I was out cold before the sun had even fully set in the sky.

***

Learn more about Rob and purchase the book, and be sure to look for more of his contributions to 203 Challenges in the near future. Discover more of Rob Erwin’s stories on his website lostwithdirections.com

Featured image: Sunset in Lamar Valley | NPS / Jacob W. Frank 

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The post Wolves in Yellowstone – excerpt from the book ‘Lost with Directions’ appeared first on 203Challenges.

Don’t forget to read our interview with Maskarm Haile here.

*

Cape Town is one of the most picturesque, fascinating cities I’ve ever been to. It has wonderful weather, trendy cafes and restaurants, interesting bookstores, vibrant art galleries, and friendly people. Cape Town is also a great hub for travelers to embark on day trips to famous South African wineries along the Cape Wine Route: Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was held prisoner for twenty-seven years, and Cape Agulhas, where the cold Atlantic Ocean and warm Indian Ocean meet.

Cape Town also has one of my favorite beaches – Boulder Beach, where I braved a swim in the cold Atlantic Ocean just because of the southern penguins. Of course, there is also the famous Table Mountain, which can be ascended either by taking a comfortable cable car or for the more adventurous, by hiking up it. Brian and I took our time to explore and enjoy once again the incredible natural beauty of Cape Town and its surroundings.

Before heading to the border of Namibia, we decided to stop at the Cape of Good Hope, the most southwestern point of the African continent. The stop at the Cape Point marked the official start of my Cape to Cairo journey. It was the last time I would absorb the breathtaking panoramic view of the mountains and ocean from the top of a mountain, and walk around the lighthouse. We took the famous cable train, “Flying Dutchman Funicular,” leisurely taking in the natural beauty.

But even that gorgeous day didn’t pass without a glitch. As we came down, we stopped at the souvenir shop to buy some cookies (my idea) to celebrate the official start of my Cape to

Cairo journey. But the excitement was very short-lived. As the wind was getting strong, Brian, being the gentleman he always is, decided to bring the car closer so I wouldn’t have to walk. I was left alone with the new bag of cookies I had just opened and my windbreaker I was trying to put on. Suddenly, I felt as if someone was looking at me. Unnerved, I slowly turned to look around. As I did so, my eyes locked with those of a fullgrown male baboon. Terrified, I continued to look around and noticed that he was not alone: there were others starting to circle me. I tried to cover the cookies with my windbreaker, but before I knew it, the big baboon had darted toward me, knowing I had something in my hand. Suddenly, the cookies and my windbreaker dropped from my hand, and he was briefly distracted. Instead of coming for me, he ran to the cookies before his friends could get to them. As I stood relieved, trying to catch my breath, I noticed a tourist with a big camera taking my picture. He was obviously more intent on getting a good photo than he was in coming to my assistance. When did taking pictures become more important than saving someone’s life, I wondered?

It was a beautiful, sunny, blue-sky day, and I was ready to leave South Africa. Our travels in South Africa had been enjoyable. For the most part, it was a place we revisited and reminisced about while we created new memories. We had met new people, visited some amazing places, and filled the car with everything we could imagine we might need for our long journey, including stocking our first-aid box.

We were both genuinely excited. The journey was starting to feel real. I said to myself that it would feel even more real when we crossed the first border, which wasn’t too far away at that point. This is it, I thought, there is no going back!

I whispered my gratitude to the universe for everything, including the car, since it was allowing us to see places that would have been difficult to get to by hitchhiking. I was also incredibly grateful that the car afforded me the little alone time I needed after my Ethiopia trip.

The further north we drove, the more the vegetation changed. We entered the warm, dry region, a territory we had never before explored, and we had no idea what to expect.

After driving for about two hours, our car suddenly stopped without warning. Luckily there was no traffic, and Brian managed to park the car at the side of the road. We didn’t think there could be anything seriously wrong with it. We had entered the town of Springbok and thought the car had overheated because of the long drive. We used all the water we had in the car to cool it off and waited for a while, hoping it would start. It didn’t.

Deep inside, I felt a little guilty, wondering if I had somehow jinxed the car and caused it to break down by not initially wanting it. We were in the middle of nowhere; we could see only a few farmhouses in the distance, and nothing else. We tried to call the company who sold the car to us, but there was no answer. It seemed that Friday afternoon wasn’t a good time to have a breakdown at the side of the road. There was nothing much that could be done until Monday.

We managed to “push-drive” the car to one of the farmhouses. Our knock/honk was answered by a bright young Afrikaans boy who seemed shocked to see two strangers standing outside his gate. Not only that, but the strangers were a black-and-white couple, something he probably didn’t see very often.

We introduced ourselves and explained how our car had stopped in the middle of the road. The curious young man, who must have been around fifteen years old, had no idea what we were saying, but he was quick to open the gate and to help push the car inside the compound where he lived. He later told us his name was Adonis. When his old grandfather came out and found us in the compound, he didn’t share the same enthusiasm his young grandson had. He offered us water to drink—we had poured all our bottles of water on the car, hoping it would cool the vehicle and it would start.

The young man brought out his tools and started checking the car, looking very confident and seeming to know what he was doing. In the meantime, we called the AA (Automobile Association of South Africa) and asked them to send a tow truck to make sure we would be able to reach town before the garage closed for the weekend.

Our new friend, Adonis, almost banged his head on the hood of the car as he announced with one word, “Dead!” And then signaled to Brian, showing him that the engine was dead.

Of course, we didn’t believe him, or was it that some part of me felt he was right, but didn’t want to accept it? Language was a barrier, but we showed Adonis a map of Canada where we came from and, using a map of Africa, showed him where we were heading. He was clearly sad for us, confirming and reconfirming there was no way the car was getting us anywhere.

All photos courtesy of Maskarm Haile. 

The post Abyssinian Nomad – an excerpt from the book by Maskarm Haile appeared first on 203Challenges.

***

Who doesn’t dream of selling everything, not owing a cent to anyone and just traveling the world? Packing your suitcase, grabbing your passport and just heading out into the horizon. I couldn’t even count how many times that wanderlust fantasy has gone through my mind, usually while stuck at work. Somewhere deep inside of me I knew that living a life of freedom was possible, even for the average Joe, and if I wanted it badly enough, it would come to pass. I made vision boards, watched ‘The Secret’, read ‘The 4 Hour Work Week’, and did everything else I could to manifest the type of life I was destined for.

To be where I am now, traveling full time with my incredible husband, being debt free and living every day with more purpose…. It just brings tears to my eyes.

Without getting to woo-woo on you, it’s hard to put into words how much better I feel without so much STUFF weighing me down. It’s been incredibly life changing. The kind of life changing that makes me want to sit in a circle in the park, holding hands with strangers and sing songs about it.

I used to feel like I was in a prison cell that was only 4 feet tall, making me crouch all day long, with weighted shackles pulling at my ankles and wrists. Now it feels more like my cell doors have been opened, all the guards have disappeared, and I am free to leave and explore the world as I see fit. There is a curiosity that wasn’t there before; an influx of creative energy and mental stability. Even physically, I FEEL more capable and powerful in day to day life. I’m more alive, more alert, more focused. I get more done with the hours of my day then I used to in months. It’s truly sensational.

I’m not screwing with you.

If you would have told me in the middle of my materialism high that I would feel better without all that stuff in my life I would have told you off. I would have chalked it down as your weakness, convincing myself you were only jealous of all the cool stuff I had and just wanted me to give it all up.

You would have been dismissed by me as a hippy quack.

Mea Culpa

I’m happy to have lived on both ends of the spectrum so I can truly appreciate the freedom of living with less. It gives me a higher level gratitude for the hard work and sacrifice in order to get to this point.

We finally succeeded in taking the plunge into freedom at a level neither of us could have fathomed, and it was all because of minimalism.

Is Minimalism the Answer?

When I first heard about minimalism, I was immediately turned off. I imagined someone who lived in a sterile white room, with a single tiny mid-century modern orange chair, who owned exactly 2 pairs of pants, 1 notepad to scribble deep prose in and zero friends. He lived in an oversized tin can in the woods, had the very definition of a hipster beard and ate positive affirmations for breakfast.

Yeah, it wasn’t for me.

I was much happier buying things I liked, going on shopping sprees, adding yet another pair of shoes to my walk in closet, picking up extra shifts to try and make an embarrassing low dent in my debt… oh dang… no I wasn’t! 

Thankfully, I didn’t have to grow a hipster beard in order to start embracing minimalism. There are no rules. I’d look pretty hot with a beard though. 

Minimalism is another way of life. It’s not ‘one size fits all’ and it can be customized for your own personal goals.

Personally, here are the reasons I wanted to learn to embrace minimalism:

To feel lighter. I started experiencing this immediately! It’s like a new corner of my mind opened up to allow more creative and positive thoughts as more and more physical junk cleared out. Items were weighing me down mentally and emotionally.

To clear off debt. I am not ashamed to admit that I spent a lot of money over the last couple years and racked up some good ol’ consumer debt! But it just SAT there collecting interest, while the things I bought SAT there collecting dust… so something didn’t add up.

To be more location independent. Nothing says ‘stay home and go nowhere’ quite like a huge mortgage payment. I feel strangely at home in hotels. I love living out of a suitcase and have no qualms about long flights to exotic locations. I always say the same thing when any vacation or adventure is coming to an end, which is: “I don’t want to go home!”… .so why do we then? I guess the answer is most of us have a mortgage, bills, a mile long ‘to-do’ list, and things that need our attention, so we must return (or so I thought). For my lifestyle, I found the removal of a permanent home and all the bills that came with it, allowed Trevor and I to travel a lot more without worry, pressure and stress. Because we are the types of people who don’t need the security of one ‘forever’ dwelling, we found it was shackling us to a particular location more than we would have liked. Now with the removal of a mortgage, the interest on that mortgage, property taxes, energy bills, gas bills, water bills, condo fees, cable bill, internet bill, repair bills, upgrade costs and all the other delights that come with home ownership, we can travel more and not feel guilty about it!

To take back control. Being bombarded with advertisements and feeling pressured and compelled to take action on them is a shell of an existence. I don’t want to be that zombie consumer, drooling all over myself, on the hunt for discount brains. I used to be addicted to that dopamine RUSH of purchasing and unboxing something new. So crisp and clean. Sigh, it felt like true happiness. That was until the chemical romance subsided 10 minutes later and the only way to get it back was to buy something else. Talk about a loss of control!

To live life on my terms. It’s my life. I want to make the most of it. I don’t want to limit my abilities to see and experience the world because of one too many shopping sprees. If I had known that a storage unit filled with forgotten items was costing me the equivalent of a Mediterranean Cruise each year, I would have emptied that thing out sooner! When I am an old geezer on my death bed, I won’t be thinking about that Pottery Barn coffee table I went into overdraft for, I’ll be mentally flipping through my scrap book of memories, picturing the wonderful adventures I had with people I love.

High Maintenance Minimalism

Learning to embrace elements of minimalism has allowed me to do things I never thought possible, in a rather shallow way as well. Trevor calls me ‘The High Maintenance Minimalist’ and it’s so true! This girl likes the finer things in life!

I will never be a backpacker in khakis checking into some eco-hut with no running water or electricity. Ever! If you want me to be really honest, it’s hard enough getting me into anything less than a 3-star hotel. But just because I might be a little high maintenance, doesn’t mean I can’t apply elements of minimalism to my life.

I have a deep love for cool experiences, like snuggling up in a lay flat first class seat on a long flight, that I would never be able to afford had it not been for minimizing my life in others ways.

Some people think it’s absolutely ludicrous to spend thousands on an airplane ticket or a private guided tour of a city and that’s just peachy with me. I happen to feel the same about surrounding myself with pointless garbage.

Minimalism has given me the hall pass to spend my hard earned money on crazy life events. It also showed me that I don’t have to OWN everything I might find incredible. If I want to take a ride in a sweet speed boat, we can rent one instead of borrowing insane amounts of money to ‘own’ one, just to get sick of it in a few years. If I want to experience what it’s like to wake up in an ocean front villa, we can stay at one for a month without having to mortgage myself to the eyeballs to buy one. I don’t feel compelled to ‘own’ everything I find cool or interesting.

I have style and flair and that is okay. I choose a silk top instead of a hemp flannel shirt and there is nothing wrong with that. I’ve managed to eradicate debt, give up 95% of my stuff, be completely location independent and learn to live with less, so I’m not going to get hung up on what minimalists look like in the dictionary. I am that girl who might live out of two suitcases, but you can bet they are packed with selective high quality things and getting loaded on a plane to an exotic destination.

I’m still going to buy anti-aging face creams, go for overpriced massages, and upgrade my train tickets. I don’t need to choose between being an in debt shopaholic or living in a treehouse with dreadlocks. Nobody does. I’ve found the balance between these two lifestyles and it’s allowing me to be who I really am, and that’s the High Maintenance Minimalist.

*

Discover more in Kashlee’s blog here. Photo courtesy of Kashlee Kucheran.

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‘Sir, Where’s ’Toilet?’… What kind of a title is that for a book?

Let me explain: It is a question that has haunted me for thirty years. It has followed me through Tiananmen Square, Red Square and Times Square; from the Great Wall of China to the Golden Gate Bridge and the Grand Canyon. It is a question which has echoed along marbled, hushed corridors of museums from the Prado, the Louvre, the Uffizi and New York’s Guggenheim. I have come to the conclusion that school children seem to think that their teachers spend years at University exclusively to acquire an encyclopaedic knowledge of the precise location of toilets anywhere on earth; like a London cab driver who has passed ‘The Knowledge’. At least these days, cabbies have got Satnavs, so perhaps one could be invented for teachers in charge of school trips: Satlavs.

After an overnight flight to China, we were greeted at Beijing Airport by our Chinese guide, Drin. We were all fighting the effect of jet-lag, but nevertheless our host gave us an overly long introductory speech. Amazingly, he then began to sing to us in Chinese. We were amazed at what we heard. How can I describe his distinctive voice? The excruciating sound of fingernails scratching down a blackboard could describe Drin’s singing. He shouted in a throaty style. To be fair, he did occasionally come quite close to the notes he was straining for as he changed key more times than the driver changed gear. He couldn’t hold a tune in a wok. No one fell asleep for the rest of the journey. Perhaps it is a traditional Chinese cure for jet-lag.

When Katie Melua sang ‘There are Nine Million Bicycles in Beijing,’ I think she greatly underestimated the number. The dedicated cycle lanes were a flowing river of humanity. Everyone on the coach was fascinated by the ingenuity of the local cyclists and a competition developed to see who could spot the most outrageous riders.

“Sir, look at this one,” pupils would shout, while pointing at the most hilarious modes of transport. A family of four on a bike was quite a common sight. We saw a man with a settee strapped to his bike, with three kids actually sitting on the couch.

My favourite was a painter and decorator riding his bike while carrying on his shoulder a bamboo ladder; his buckets and tins of paint swinging on the handle bars. He was towing a trailer, a converted pram, which held his decorating table, brushes, rollers and rolls of wallpaper. I doubt if he was breaking any Chinese traffic laws, but he certainly defied Isaac Newton’s laws of motion and gravity. It was a Jackson Pollock waiting to happen.

Most incredible of all was a moped which passed in front of us at a junction. The passenger was holding a large gilt-framed mirror, about 3 feet high by 4 feet wide, about the limit of his outstretched arms. It created a disturbing optical illusion which caused us to become disorientated. Even the driver shook his head at that one. On reflection, a dangerous manoeuvre. Add to this scene a multitude of boxes, cages containing a wide range of live animals and birds, all perched precariously on each bike. A menagerie of who-knows-what, probably on the way to a restaurant.

Just when we thought we had seen everything imaginable, the coach began to slow down, and a pupil claimed first prize for spotting the most bizarre sight of the day. In the middle of the road ahead, a policeman, whistle held tightly between his teeth, was animatedly directing vehicles to follow a line of luminous orange traffic cones which filtered us into another lane. This took us past a hole in the road which could have easily swallowed a bamboo ladder, if the occasional decorator happened along on his bike. The hole was completely encircled by further traffic cones, which caused everyone on the coach to laugh uproariously.

Now what is so hilarious about a scene which is commonplace all over the world, particularly in Britain. Let me add just one more small detail. Each cone was being worn on the head of a Chinese road mender. They were sitting cross-legged in a row leading to the manhole, like pupils wearing dunce caps in a Dickensian school. A row of human traffic cones, sitting inscrutably, like a line of Buddhas searching for enlightenment, hopefully before it went dark. They looked as if they were meditating, probably wondering why their chosen career path had been diverted. I’ve heard of human trafficking, but that’s ridiculous!

Possibly the most dangerous occupations in the world are bomb disposal, astronaut, deep-sea diver or a lion tamer. I think a human traffic cone in Beijing should be added to that list.

Our first excursion could only be to one place: The Great Wall of China. It is over 1500 miles in length, stretching over mountains and deserts. It was designed to be the width of four horsemen, and it can be surprisingly steep between the fortified watch towers.

Its origins can be traced back as far as the 7th Century BC, when several walls were built as protection from invasion from the north. Over centuries they were joined together, and especially famous is the section built in the 3rd Century BC by the first Emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang. His joining together of the sections of the Great Wall could be described as a metaphor for his joining together of rival states into one great nation. China takes its name from the first Emperor: Qin is pronounced Chin.

We arrived at the Great Wall at a place called Badaling. All of our group, and it seemed every other tourist, bought a lavishly embellished certificate which proudly declared; ‘I walked on the Great Wall of China’.

The local craft market adjacent to the Great Wall dazzled with colour: There were opera masks, paintings, ornaments and sculptures made of jade and onyx, and Chinese cloisonné (metal and enamel work) of vases, brooches, necklaces and bracelets in blues and turquoise. Brightly painted kites were based on fish, dragonflies, birds and butterflies.

We stopped at a stall selling T-shirts, and I chose one with an illustration of the Great Wall covered the whole of the front. It was so big it could probably be seen from outer space. I tried it on for size.

“What do you think?” I asked proudly, extending my arms.

“Well, John,” replied my colleague Roy, with a laugh, “I think they should get the brickies back to this job… The Great Wall is starting to belly!”

And I thought Chinese food was non-fattening.

“John, we certainly don’t get bored on any of your trips,” announced my friend and colleague George, while carrying his suitcase from the coach to Beijing railway station. Our party had to snake its way through a sea of people who were sitting, huddled in groups around their belongings. We literally had to step over people as we negotiated this human obstacle course. At least the huge concourse was less crowded, and we were able to walk in a straight line towards our overnight train to Xian. The station area was so crowded because it was a holiday and all the people were returning to their home towns or villages. The authorities would only allow them into the station concourse nearer to the departure time.

It was lunchtime on a bright sunny day as the sleek silver train pulled out of the station, and everyone started to socialize along the corridor.

“Sir, they’ve got pot noodles in the buffet car,” shouted a couple of pupils, unable to contain their excitement.

“But you’ve been eating Chinese food all week.”

“Yeah, but it’s not been like the Chinese we get in Wigan.”

I must admit that the style of Chinese food we had experienced had differed greatly, depending on which region we had been in.

On the train, most of our pupils seemed to be connoisseurs of the gastronomic delights of pot noodles; how much hot water to add, when to stir and how long to let it stand. Our staff were fascinated, but we chose from the menu.

After all the crowds of Beijing it seemed almost another world as we watched the endless Chinese countryside roll by. Workers in rice fields, ox-drawn carts piled high with produce, children playing; a scene which will have changed very little over centuries. It was as if a silk roll of Chinese landscape painting was being unfolded before our eyes.

Xian, which means City of Everlasting Peace, is famous today as the home of the terracotta warriors, but it is also one of the most important cradles of Chinese civilisation. Our itinerary included The Wild Goose Pagoda and the Banpo Neolithic village museum, dating back 6000 years. Xian marked the start of the famous ‘Silk Road’ which linked China with Central Asia and the Roman Empire. The city is so steeped in history, above and below ground, that there can be no underground railway system, even though Xian has a population of over 7 million.

Contrary to widely held belief, the discovery of the terracotta warriors was a relatively recent event. During a drought in 1974, a local farmer called Mr Yang from Xiyang village, was desperate for water to irrigate his fruit crops and so he started to dig a well. He came across some broken pieces of terracotta, which means baked earth, and at first he thought it might be a hidden temple. He was initially dismayed because it would have had a negative effect on the Fen Shui of the farm land.

Subsequent archaeological excavation revealed the site to be a burial pit of a huge subterranean terracotta army for the afterlife to guard the tomb of Qin Shi Huang. Thousands of bronze arrow heads were found alongside sophisticated bronze mechanisms, which research proved to be triggers for powerful cross bows.

The terracotta army was a wondrous discovery which caused astonishment all over the world. And yet, if the farmer had started digging just a few feet away in a different direction he would have missed the site completely and the terracotta army could possibly still be undisturbed and unknown to us to this day. No-one would have been looking for them because there are no written records, images or myths to tell of their existence. This makes the discovery all the more miraculous. Considering the magnitude of his discovery, I’m surprised that the farmer, Mr Yang isn’t as world famous as, say, Howard Carter, who discovered the tomb of Tutankhamun in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings in 1922, or Hiram Bingham who found Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Incas in the Andes of Peru in 1911.

Subsequently, three burial pits were found and given the very imaginative names of: pit number 1, pit number 2, and yes, you’ve guessed it, pit number 3. I’m not sure what I was expecting to see as we arrived, but, having been to the Forbidden City and the Ming Tombs in Beijing, I thought that there might be a building rich with Chinese Imperial traditions. However, the structure which houses the warriors looks more like a railway station or a sports hall, spanned by a barrel-vaulted roof with a row of skylights. It seems incongruous that such an unimaginative building should be home to one of the most magical creations in human history.

From the viewing platform, I looked down upon the terracotta army, each soldier facing forward, standing to attention, waiting (for over 2,000 years) for the order to march. They are in battle formation in excavated trenches of infantry, cavalry and charioteers flanked by archers. Traces of pigmentation indicate that the soldiers were originally painted to appear lifelike, wearing red armour and green tunics and there is an array of expressions, facial features, facial hair and individual hairstyles. They were not mass-produced clones. The army must have looked terrifying and the warriors still maintain an intimidating presence today. After 22 centuries underground, they are now the familiar monochromatic figures which are famous the world over.

Personally, I felt that it was quite a poignant scene. They are not dissimilar to the sepia photographs or black and white newsreel images of 1st World War soldiers in the trenches of Passchendaele and The Somme. Both armies waiting for the order to send them over the top. Sadly, it seems that the one constant of human history, anywhere, anytime, any culture, is war. When will they ever learn?

We walked around the perimeter of the hall as the warriors maintained a forward gaze. You know when you look at a portrait in an art gallery and the eyes seem to follow you round the room? (Or Chairman Mao in Tiananmen Square) I kept getting this unnerving feeling that I was being watched. An eerie feeling; I wouldn’t like to get accidentally locked in overnight.

As I emerged from viewing the Terracotta Warriors into the bright sunshine, I was met by an excited group of pupils.

“Sir, we’ve volunteered you to become the Emperor Qin of China,” they laughed. Not something you tend to hear every day of the week. They led me to a fenced-off area in the centre of which was a full-size replica of a terracotta horse. I was greeted by one of the resident photographers who dressed me up in a traditional Chinese outfit. It was a full-length ceremonial robe made of golden Chinese silk, richly embroidered in blue. It was topped off with a mortar board which had a curtain of beaded tassels. So, the only times I have worn a mortar board were when I graduated, and when I was Emperor of China.

The laughter and applause from our pupils attracted other tourists, and I soon found myself being paraded around to pose for photographs being taken by people from all over the world. The biggest laugh came when I had to mount the horse. Of course, I couldn’t resist playing to the gallery as I hammed it up and encouraged the terracotta horse to ‘giddy-up’ by enthusiastically pulling the reins and digging his side with my heels.

“That horse doesn’t look very happy with you on its back,” shouted George.

“That’s because it has just realised that it will be carrying top weight in the next race,” jeered Roy.

Roy and George were gradually morphing into Statler and Waldorf from the Muppet Show.

As with all our tours, it was over far too soon and the following day we reluctantly waved goodbye to China.

During the coach journey from London back home to Wigan, I chatted to the pupils and asked them about their favourite memories. Several of our younger girls were unanimous in voting for the pandas at Beijing Zoo, as they all waved their souvenir cuddly toys.

“So, what was your favourite?” I asked Andrew, a year 8 pupil. He seemed lost in thought with a slightly bemused expression, as if I had asked him to explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. As he was contemplating my question, I prompted him with a few suggestions; “The Great Wall, the Temple of Heaven, the Chinese Circus, or what about the Terracotta Warriors?”

After further careful consideration, he stroked his chin and finally came to a decision.

“Right,” Andrew declared forcefully, “It was definitely the pot noodles on the train.”

***

Sir, Where’s ’Toilet? by John Meadows is available on Amazon:

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Have A Nice Life

[Dubrovnik, Croatia]

Something strange happened to me today. After three hours of sleep and a long layover in Croatia, I decided to get a coffee. It was a small kiosk and there was no one in line, so I started chatting with the friendly barista.

After a bit, I left to catch my flight and bid him goodbye. To which he responded: “You’re welcome. Have a nice life.”

In my experience, when spoken, that phrase generally has a negative connotation. It is associated with “get lost” or an indifferent dismissal, yet this was not the case. This man spoke those words so sincerely, kindly, and genuinely that I didn’t question for a second that he meant it.

He wished me a nice life.

It’s funny how, in the age of social media, it’s so easy to keep in contact. Throughout my travels, I’ve met people for minutes–minutes– and become Facebook friends with them. It is a way not to lose the connections I’ve made, albeit short and fleeting. It helps me feel as I haven’t really lost that person forever, even if I will never see them again. It’s almost like hoarding relationships in a digital attic, where only a selected few will be revisited again.

That’s why I was curiously taken aback when this man bid me goodbye. It was final. It was kind. It was a “pleasure to meet you, and now we part ways.” It strangely made me feel comforted and peaceful knowing that I had a pleasant interaction, and it had run its course.

Not everyone is meant to remain tethered to you. Some connections are best made and left behind. That doesn’t make them less meaningful– the most special will always remain, perhaps gathering dust, but always delicately stored in your memory.

It Doesn’t Have To Be Difficult

[Brasov, Romania]

The other day, I was speaking to my Romanian host about my newfound difficulties leaving a life I was comfortable with to travel on my own and put my fate in the hands of strangers. He said to me: “things are only hard when you believe they were supposed to be another way.”

Consistently, I’ve found that resisting or pushing back on the natural flow of certain events or situations only makes things more complicated. While I am a huge believer in taking action every day to enact positive changes in our lives, I have also begun to understand that sometimes, acceptance may be the best course of action.

Life only feels difficult or unfair when you believe you should have been dealt a different set of cards. Change that belief… and you change your reality.

You are exactly where you need to be because the life you’ve lead up until this moment has taught you everything that you know. Don’t swim against your circumstances–use them to your advantage.

Ironically, change begins when acceptance happens.

Everything That Begins, Must End

[Kathmandu, Nepal]

Nepali artists painting at a thangka school in Bhaktapur. I learned two lovely lessons about thangkas and Buddhist beliefs in general. For those who don’t know, thangka painting is an ancient Tibetan Buddhist tradition dating back thousands of years. The paintings are made on cotton and contain exquisite depictions of Buddhist teachings, with the most popular designs being mandalas, the cycle of life, and the path to enlightenment.

Anyway, the first lesson is that mandalas, one of the most famous designs, depict the three doors to nirvana: mind (what you think), speech (what you say), and body (action). According to Buddhist teachings, you must purify and master all three before attaining enlightenment. Learn to control how you think, because that will impact what you say; what you say shapes the world around you, and it influences you to take actions. What your body does with your speech–e.g. how your actions manifest into this world–ultimately determines what you make of your life.

Second lesson is, some monks spend hours and hours making these beautiful mandalas out of sand rather than paint. After working on them for days on end… they destroy their creation. They scoop up all the sand, put it in some sort of sacred baggie, and pour it into the river. If you saw photos of these intricate masterpieces you wouldn’t believe that these people have the heart to just throw them away.

And in fact, that’s not what they’re doing. The action of taking apart this intricate art symbolizes the transience of life: it’s beautiful, it’s a masterpiece, but eventually it must end. By pouring it into the river, monks believe they are spreading peace and love into the world. Everything in life, after all, must end eventually. That’s why it’s so important for us to remain present for every second of it, and live every day with the acknowledgement that someday, we too could bring a little peace and love into the flow of this spectacular planet.

The book “The Art of Being Human” is available on Amazon.

Featured image: Courtesy of Celinne Da Costa.

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