A few moments in a lifetime

A Brilliant Ending

katja — Wed, 27 May 2015 09:59:53 GMT

There is something beautiful and curiously nostalgic about laughing and talking with people you’re never going to see again.

On our last night in Zadar, Croatia, my fellow travellers at the hostel decided to throw a little party, to end things brightly.

We were a wonderful variety of travellers from all over the world, with so much to tell – from living with elephants in Thailand to riding across Europe on a motorbike, alone and furiously, splendidly free.

We talked for hours, drinking cheap local wine, giant plastic bottles of beer, and what I was naively informed was called ‘Jungle juice,’ a concoction of fruit thrown into a pot, accompanied by a litre of vodka and left for two days, until all you taste is an extra yumminess to the fruit.

Potent stuff, particularly because it tastes so innocent.

So the night flew by easily, and the chatter only died down at 1a.m., when eyes began flickering closed and hands reached up to cover gaping, crumpled faces. Slowly people started to fade away, murmuring goodbyes, till it was only a small group of us, all of who had been gradually getting to know each other over the last few days.

So, having decided that our early morning flights left only the option of an all-nighter open to us, we went dancing. And it was loads of fun. Clammy; thunderous; vibrant.

I danced, I’m afraid, like a crazy person. But when you’re about to leave a country, why not?

Much later, we ambled home, too poor to pay for a taxi. I had the brilliant idea to go night swimming, which to my surprise was met with groans and blunt no’s from all but one. But what can conclude a trip better than a moonlight swim in the freezing cold ocean? Not much.

Half an hour later, I was jumping off a jutting rock; and the salty, frigid water was coursing over me, swallowing me. When I came up for breath I screamed, so full of life I was bursting with it. We floated in the water, watching the stars.

When the birds started singing softly and the inky sky started to leak in light, I pulled myself out of the water, threw my towel around my shoulders and tiptoed briskly with the others back to the hostel.

I flew home damp, with my luggage hastily stuffed into my backpack 15 minutes before leaving. Hours later, lying in my bed at home, I could still feel salt crystals forming little patterns on my skin.

I love that hostel, with its paper sign. And I love the travellers I met, so happy to grasp and cling to life’s beauty. It made me do the same.

Photos: Corfu, Greece

katja — Wed, 6 May 2015 03:46:00 GMT

My four day trip to the beautiful Island

Loving the art festival

katja — Thu, 31 Jul 2014 16:34:00 GMT

The Grahamstown Art Festival is enchanting. The wind whips up my hair and throws it enthusiastically into my face, coaxing the dust into the air to hug us firmly with a thin coating.

I have worked here for a few days with the merchants - gypseys following their trade, mostly - and know all of their stalls rather well. One man has the most amazing honey-fudge; I had to man his stall while he ran to fetch his ID, dealing with questions about prices and quality I had no idea of the answer to. Another lady made me wait half an hour while she searched her bags and phoned her bank, while still another demanded knowledge I didn't have in an extremely Germanic manner. There is no end to the unusual people to be met at a festival.

I arranged this job for the money, naturally. But to my surprise, I have had an extraordinary time. My bosses are witty, tall and encouraging - being unusually tall myself, height has always endeared itself to me. The women I work with are enthusiastic and vibrant, possessing that black African vibe I colud never hope to achieve. And the merchants themselves are so good and kind. Faith in humanity has been restored.

I have gone to four good performances at the festival - a one man show which got a little crazy, but showed astonishing skill; Three Little Pigs, which I have no words for except see it, if remotely possible; Salt, a play about schitzophrenia with really astonishing acting and beautifully executed choreography; and a comedy which had me snorting with laughter in a very unladylike manner, stomach doubling over... those are the best times, when you can laugh so hard that tears leak from your eyes and crawl down your face.

Travelling while working the odd job is not a glamourous version of the 'living the dream' travel lifestyle we all picture. Instead, we imagine washing dishes in some scummy french kitchen, surrounded by incomprehensible angry people. But in my mind, working while traveling is not only a necessity, it's a blessing. It intergrates you into the local population. It expands your understanding and improves your communication skills. Plus, it earns you some money to keep on travelling; keep on seeing more of the world.

The Orange River

katja — Sun, 15 Jun 2014 19:35:00 GMT

The water flows swiftly, confidently. My twin sister shoves up against me, her excited grin reflecting mine. We have always wanted to swim in the Orange River; to say that we've been in two country's at once; to feel the pull of the current trying its best to tug us along.

I love water. And this river is the perfect specimen. Warm, strong, broad, perfect; and with a really amazing view to look at when you're being swept along, the sun staining your skin, the water lapping up at your face and flirting with your hair.

We (my five-man family) run back up the sandy hill to our huts to get changed. The sand jumps between my barefoot feet, lifting up behind me. This is the first stop on the way to Windhoek and Swakopmund, and only the start-off adventure of our summer holiday. We've stopped just before the border, on the South African side. It was a rocky road getting here, but that's rather common in this area and our excitement sustained us.

We throw on our costumes and grab our towels, racing each other. After a few minutes, our little group is amassed next to the river. No-one else is here, which is shocking. The day is perfect; the summer sun beaming at us from its vantage point. We certainly don't mind - we get the whole Orange river to ourselves.

We swim for what feels like hours, diving under and finding beautiful river rocks. My sisters shove at each other and dunk me under the water. I release my toes' unsteady grip on the river floor, and float downstream, allowing it to take me where it will, befor I flip around, submerge myself, and swim back to my family.

The water pulls us along, and all is better than I had imagined. We eat sandwiches on the sand when our skin has grown wrinkled and prunish in the water. There's nothing like a traveler's makeshift burger in a new place. It just fits.

The Orange River is something that should be visited at least once in a lifetime. It exists in such a harsh place, surrounded by sun-blackened mountains and sparse, twisted brush. And it flourishes.

Adding to my bucket list

katja — Wed, 4 Jun 2014 17:18:00 GMT

The trees stretch up around me to paw at the sky. We're driving along the road, music blasting - not my style - while I try to sleep, my eye twitching very unwillingly to the beat. I had to wake up at 6 o'clock in the pre-dawn dark to be here, and I'm wondering if such a sacrifice was worth it.

After approximately two hours of driving, we get to the dirt road that leads to the Homtini Tactical shooting range, right in the centre of the Knysna forest. We drag on, Stiaan driving as slowly as possible so as not to damage a car that's not his. The owner has stated multiple times how much he loves this car. The slow pace allows us to look out the window, watching the forest pass and listening to the birds. Ulrich rattles off some facts about the forest; something about miniature forest elephants... It just makes me think of Narnia.

We reach the shooting range, throwing open the doors to allow some space; three adults in the back of a car for three hours isn't the easiest thing I've been through! A gentleman meets us here, and eventually, after some manly talk about guns, we head to the shooting range. The guy is rather surprised to hear that it's my sister and I shooting today; not the boys. Ulrich has brought us here for a belated birthday present. I can't say I am not nervous, but the men's excitement can't be put down. Nothing funnier than a girl trying to shoot, I suppose.

I'm a little sorry to disappoint them, but as we rattle off the rounds, fully focused, it is discovered that we're actually quite good. After being instructed in minute detail by Ulrich on what to do, we blast those plates with a not-so-feminine enthusiasm. The range is so beautiful, the birds unperturbed by the blasts of the guns, and the sun shining for a change. How could I shoot skew in such conditions?

I must here really suggest that one should add 'shoot stuff' to one's bucket list! It was never on mine, but now I feel the urge to do so, and repeat the experience. The thrill of aiming, arms shaking a little from the exertion, and tugging softly at the trigger, to hear your bullet hit home with a metalic 'thunk', is amazing. Enthralling. The shot's throaty roar sounds, the gun pushes back into your shoulder, and the barrel coughs out a little smoke.

The drive back is far better. We pop in at Knysna and Sedgefield, listen to far better music, and cruise home in the sunset. But to be honest, even if the drive was full of screaming people and weirdness, I can't think I would mind much. I can hear the roar of the guns, feel the sunlight on my eyelids, and the twitch of my trigger finger, ready to pull.

Chiang Mai night market

katja — Thu, 22 May 2014 05:53:00 GMT

In Chiang Mai, the Northern city of Thailand, they have a night market spanning two streets in the shape of an X. The vibe there is amazing; a combination of rural culture and modern bustle. Unlike in Bangkok, it is a market where the buyers are mostly Thai themselves, and this makes it wonderfully unique.

Walking along in the throng of people, you hear the thrumming sound of thousands speaking a language you don't know a word of. Vibrant colors everywhere, flowing over the stalls, the people and the products. Damp bodies on a 40 degree day shoving past you or heaved up against you by the crowd. And they're all a head shorter than you too. Cooked meals in plastic packets and cheap silk. 5 Baht sushi which really doesn't taste great but looks incredible, like a fish-filled candy shop. Cheap Thai knockoffs and unique handmade crafts. That was this market. I loved every minute of it, even when shoved against short clammy people.

And they're so friendly! After an hour or two of walking and tasting - with far too much to choose from - my entire family was in serious need of a loo. We asked one of the street vendors where we could find one, and she promptly lead us through her own house... For a small fee, of course. But where else in the world will someone let you as a stranger into their home for approximately 1$?

After such an adventure we came back to our rooms, having lost each other multiple times; and lined our spoils along the floor of our way under-priced room. My parents smiled and shook their heads, while the smiles on the faces of my sisters and I attempted bravely to exhibit all 36 teeth, like a choir.

Thailand was more intense than any imagination can conjure. Cities teem with people, their little tuk-tuks and motorbikes weaving through impossible traffic, (there were times when we found ourselves darting along on the wrong side of the road, risking life on a quickly reached destination.) Meanwhile, in the rural areas their religion pervades everything, Watts (temples) dotting the hills and monks striding across the streets. The beauty was astonishing. I stuffed a month of exercise into one day, climbing a hill (which undermines it's height. It was a big hill.) to reach the Watt at the top. It could not disappoint, with other temples leading up to it - sometimes somewhat creepy - and giant spiders so big, their webs were spun from a tree on one side of the road to the other. Double lane.

It was an experience I would pay for a dozen times over; the moments so much deeper than the money. Where else could I hope to spend so little, while snorkling in perfects seas, riding on the backs of elephants, and going to night markets, indoor markets and flower markets. Thailand is most certainly an exceptional place.

Photos: Nomad 2014

katja — Thu, 15 May 2014 04:08:00 GMT

Grahamstown festival

An encounter in the sun

katja — Thu, 15 May 2014 02:49:00 GMT

My eyes are closed, heavy; weighed down by the sun pressing down and leaking in. It embraces me as I lie on the beach, perfectly happy. It was a long drive here to George, over the mountains from my own dry little town, but it was undoubtedly worth it.

I finger through the damp sand, allowing my head to loll to the side and smile lazily at my twin sister. Her own face reflects mine, making me laugh at how I must look. A perfectly content rock rabbit, thawing in the sunlight. Our friends are surfing, making me wish that I could, without the hours of struggling and practice required to do so. I'll learn one day soon, when the sun isn't quite so delicious.

A few meters away, some children from the nearby township are playing in the sand, clearly as thrilled to be here as we are. My sister rises on her arms, whispering that she wants to take photos of them. Not whispering out of necessity, of course; simply because the sun doesn't allow for raised voices.

Boys from South Africa's townships happen to love being photographed. These are no exception. They soon realize our interest in their games, and come leaping, crawling and rolling over, closer to our position and to the camera. They offer up winning smiles and daring tricks before peering over our shoulders to see what they looked like. Our peaceful position has been flooded by a dozen dark bodies, and I smile at their enthusiasm. Kura and I soon join their games, burying her beneath the sand with the help of our excitable new friends.

Our peaceful afternoon is somewhat ruined, while we receive as an alternative a rather exceptional moment in time. Something that will stay with me till my memory fades and my skin sinks. The beauty of meeting, for just a moment, and then never seeing again. Those children will be young forever.

An Impossible Morning Miracle

katja — Sun, 4 May 2014 22:35:37 GMT

I wake up begrudgingly, entirely unwilling to open my eyes. Heaving myself up, I stuff my feet into shoes before my toes have time to complain about the desert’s morning chill. My sisters sleep obliviously on, faces drooping against their pillows; definitely not the movie-scene image of a sleeping beauty. Ploughing my fingers across closed eyes, I open the door to the dawn.

I step out, my yawning face pausing mid-gape. In your sleep you can forget the beauty of the Spitzkoppe mountains. But not for long. It is the most lonely place; a seemingly impossible rocky outcrop, sanded over and smoothed round, strewn across the middle of the Namib Desert. Not a very easy place to reach, but well worth the three hour drive in an 80’s car that threw itself over the many rocks in our path with what seemed like reckless abandon.

As the sun begins to chew away at the blackness of night, I meet my father on his own 5 A.M. plod to the rather distant outhouse. Here we are both struck, quite suddenly,by an impossible morning miracle. No, there are no desert predators gamboling along our path, keening for attention... Crazier than that. As the clouds that obscured our vision of the stars last night – much bemoaned, I can assure you – slowly disperse, and the sun rises from its rest, a startlingly clear rainbow dominates the mottled sky. Yes, you may be quite used to rainbows, stating, “oh you poor sap... I've seen my fair share of rainbows!” followed by a little guffaw and a smack on the knee. But in the middle of the Namib desert, this is really no ordinary miracle.

My father and I run to our respective rooms, tiredness and pee forgotten. If you have sisters then you know, we are not particularly delicate in our morning summons. And this cannot be waited on! I jump onto my twin’s bed, bellowing my need for their awakening. Thrusting my foot out onto my older sister’s bed, I strike a leg, making sure that my presence and the emergency of the situation is felt.

Seconds later, we sit on the little outcrop near our hut, staring at the blazing sky; blue stained by the rising sun, leaking orange across its expanse. Another, paler rainbow pitched up while we were inside, stitching itself into the sky. I am struck dumb, among possibly the only people to ever see a double rainbow at sunrise in the middle of the Namib desert.