Voyages and Words

Mount Tunguraha spits lava and ash all over Banos, Ecuador. Fire in the sky, clouds that appear to bear rain but bring black dust, and explosions that make me think of bombs before I remember what the nature is capable of.

An old man and his wife are unloading vegetable creates from their truck, in a lakeside town near Konya, Turkey. They appeal to me for some reason, and I ask to take their picture, pointing at my camera. The old man nods, and stands straighter behind a pile of crates. His wife is sitting in the truck, and continues working. I take the picture. The old man picks up a few tomatoes from one of the crates, and brings them towards me. I say no with my hands, and show him my empty pockets. “No Lira.” His wife says something to him; the old man takes out a bottle of water from a plastic bag, places tomatoes in the bag, and gives it to me.

After about fifteen hours on a flight from India to New York, the guy sitting next to me tells me he’s in love with me. (No, we didn’t hook up)

Rows upon rows of graves lie in front of me. I am 19, and realise that majority of the soldiers lying beneath these stones in fields around Brussels, are about the same age as me. Here I am, planning for my future, and their life is already over. It casts a shadow, reminds too sharply of the inevitability of the end we all must meet, and it feels me with awe once more at those who are brave enough to don uniforms of their nations.

My grandmother’s body (my first close experience with death) is covered in rose garlands and petals. It’s both a blessing and a misfortune that she died while I was visiting her in India. I want to go to her cremation, stand by her till the last, for closure. But I am not allowed. I am not allowed to go to the funeral site, and witness her cremation, because I am a woman.

It is September 11, 2001. I am across the river from NYC in New Jersey, and I can see black clouds in the sky, distant but oh-so-close. The news channels continue their report, and I am numb, along with millions of others. It is unfathomable that the twin towers, so proud, so American, have fallen and left the city forever affected.

I am on Nautilus, the U.S. Naval Submarine. It’s a childhood dream come true. My imagination supplies the rest of the story from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

I re-read my travel journals, think about the places explored, people befriended, and think about so many more, still undiscovered through personal voyages.