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 |   ON THE WRITE PATH: travel journal for Around-the-World in 2015, 16, 18. |
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For there are many paths.  A tlog. A travel blog. A keeping-track of my trials, er.. travels. February 26, 2015 until ... June 18,2015. January 12, 2016 until February 15, 2016. November 13 to 30 2018 ... 2019, 2020: Taiwain. I went nowhere in 2021. 2022: Portugal, Thailand. Will include: Hawai'i, Japan, Australia, South Africa, Untied Arab Emirates, Portugal, Norway, Ireland and... (2015) ... Norway and Estonia (2016), México (2018), Taiwan, Balkans, Baltics, Turkey, Costa Rica, Nicaragua. Vi får se.  "Where I have traveled, stayed and visited. Over 181 places."     |
| A year playing dead 2019 was the year that travel died. 2020 is a gift that just keeps giving. Bad enough to have a pandemic, it gave an opportunity for the wealthy to win the war on the poor and the righteous the right to enforce their rights over others. Me? From 2009 till 2019 I traveled to over 40 countries. In January 2020 I went to Taiwan, barely getting back before borders closed. I canceled my trip to Spain. I have gone nowhere for 14 months. I acknowledge that I'm a bit bitter. Yet my pain is unrecognized or of little concern to the Walmart Warrior or the Church of Spittle and Spit. So, Let it be Writ: O Shopper... whatever is to be found in Aisle 6 has your name on it. Heaven-help that you do without or that you'll have to make do like you're Depression Era forefathers did. You need a new set of plastic bowls, a new plastic doll, a new set of plasticized brain cells (try Aisle 72). O Religious Conservatives... how you formed a cesspool of disease by your version of god... who looks and thinks like you! Globalists and multiculturalism be damned. Science be banned! Blame the Chinese and kill off those brown skin people who are nibbling on your piece of pie! O Xenophobia... we like your food but not you. We are never racist. No, no, no; yet, we are the pure, elected to judge and find wanting. Whether it's restrictions of Muslims or deportation of Africans, we are the eternal fatalists, incapable of change and we are never wrong. Only the strong survive, so say our musical gods. This Pandemic? A fortuitous excuse. O Reagan... your War on the Poor has finally defeated LBJ's War on Poverty. You designated HIV as a gay man's disease and as long as gay men were dying you were fine with not funding research. It culled the unwanted, a bit like smallpox in blankets or the testing on Black men for syphilis. Remember Tuskegee? You obviously did. And your disgust and anti-science attitude was handed down and amplified when along came Covid. People couldn't blame you. You were already dead. O Wealthy... with your fancy phones and fancy apps and fancy cars and IT jobs you could do by sitting at home... what did you care? Order Uber eats? Amazon? As for the poor... they should have gotten a job that wasn't essential, like working in Walmart or cleaning hospitals or caring for the sick. *Ick* You didn't get your fancy degree to serve others. O Ageism... get out of the way, or we'll shove you over the cliff. The empathy of the young was just pity. Our collective lack of empathy oozed as grandma gasped for breath. And "I won't get whatever you've got and if I do, I won't die" was the Mantra of the Millennial. O Travel Restrictions ... no one welcomed from Black Africa where infections were low while Texans and Iowans went wherever planes could go. O Business Class... these restrictions never applied to you. It is hard to not be bitter as friends whined about how their holy routines were upended. I shared toilets and showers, limiting showers to twice per week, limiting trips to the toilet by peeing in a container. Wore a mask in the hallway inside. Without a car stayed home. In the cold stayed home. Nothing warm was open. The library and cafes, were all closed. I had no access to a printer. Did I forget to mention I don't have a phone? I look forward to traveling again. If movement = life... then I've spent a year playing dead. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.62] (30.april.2021) ~ 620 words. Placed in
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| I am traveled enough to pick up what I perceive to be cultural mistakes... I'm not always right; but, it's a common mistake in literature when writing about something or someone you know nothing about. E.g. unless you have eaten durian you probably shouldn't write about it. For the non-traveler... how many times have you stopped when reading and exclaimed, "s/he wouldn't say that!" because you know the culture, language, history or have the common-sense to know that a Jane Austen character didn't call her best-beloved sister on a cell-phone. So... In response to Lee Buchanan's haiku rainy-day baking Chinese New Year cake appetite of an ox posted at facebook: Too 'heavy' imho. 'Rainy-day baking' is unnecessary and not exactly 'true'. As far as I can find out the new year's cake "nian gao" is steamed not baked (except by Westerners). This doesn't feel authentic, kinda like a tourist view-point, not someone who actually eats a nian gao in Taiwan or Hong Kong where referring to it as 'Chinese' seems redundant. Do you eat American hamburgers? Or just hamburgers? It may be 'Buffalo style chicken wings' elsewhere but in Buffalo you order 'wings' (I'm from there). So... "nian gao (or new year's cake) steaming —appetite of an ox" would be lighter and more-authentic. The 'appetite of an ox' is really good. Kudos with that. 😃 In 3 lines ... if you must: new year's cake steaming — appetite of an ox |
For: "Journalistic Intentions"  On the BeachON THE BEACH Waves crash at high tide — I toss and turn beside you I was raised between lakes of cold and colder water. I don't like cold water or muddy green water or ... most wild water. I like a hot bath! But when I first saw the ocean in Manuel Antonio... warm waters, real sand, I was overwhelmed. I wept on the beach that night, mesmerized by the siren song of the sea, the Southern Cross overhead inviting me to drown my sorrows. waves crash on a clear night — the Southern Cross seems closer than China Montezuma is a hippie enclave of rocky beaches and real Italian gelato. After a heavy rain the river washes fingerlings down to the sea where the bigger fish gather to feed. Locals fish when the pelicans show up for lunch. The vultures clean up any left over mess. Hotel Lucy sits above the beach by the river and at high tide it feels like the ocean will wash it away. high tide washes thoughts away — I toss and turn beside you Missoula has a wide river wending its way through it. In a summer when there is little rain it gets lazy and one can walk across it. Folks stack balanced stones, in the manner of Buddhists, that will be washed away come the next flood. The shallows offer a home to fish fry, polliwogs, and water gliders as mallards worry the eddies. Narrow strands of sand beg to be sat upon. wide shallows — towers of stone placed on stone placed on stone Ales Stenar is an old site of 59 megalithic boulders placed on end arranged in the shape of a ship. It's a peaceful meadow overlooking the Baltic east of Ystad. I ventured there with a couple of Israeli musicians. The sheep sang their own melodic language. Yes, there's a sandy beach, but the stones above speak of ancient voyages. sheep wander among stones — a ship stranded far above the beach Friends of mine exchanged vows on the shores of a Great Lake one mid-September. Fortunately the water was still warm and it was a bright beautiful day for everyone who gathered. Bahá’í vows are simply, "We will all, verily, abide by the Will of God". I was blessed to be a witness. They have had four daughters, one with special needs that has clarified how to count their blessings. water cools bare feet — September beach wedding © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [177.368] (15.mars.2021) |
For: "Journalistic Intentions"  Battle of AngelsBATTLE OF ANGELS the outside world fades — old men bow to the Source of All Being Mother Teresa ascends in the southeast transept of the blazing white Albanian Catholic cathedral. In Prishtina, she stands stiff along the mall that bears her name. An outline in the plaza marks where she was raised in Skopje. Three nations embrace her, call her their own. Born in comfort, Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu chose to be poor. She enriched all she touched. wrinkles frame tired eyes — some only see needs of the poor Mosaic designs soar above us, grow wings as if our prayers have wings. This is the House of Peace. All are welcome who humbly enter here. An old man speaks to me as I leave the mosque in Gjakova, wants me to know what the old man at the mosque in Sarajevo wanted me to know. We survived the guns, the bombs, the stabled horses and fires. Peace douses the flames of war. the outside world fades — old men bow to the Source of All Being Glass sags under the weight of centuries as the wooden roof soars from staves of trees older still. For 8 centuries this shelter has greeted the pious praying for a healthy child, has heard the cry of when they were born and the weeping when they were buried. Surrounded by old stones covering the bones like roofs to keep out the rain and snow, this place of adoration gazes upon them though aged panes that waver in the sun. glass wavers — sunlight enters to grace both saint and sinner Incense chokes the air as thousands gather to greet the new year hoping it will be as good as or better than the one they just survived. Each nook and cranny is dedicated to a different guardian some consider to be a god. All smoke rises to a higher place they assure us. Above we are One. In the Longshan Temple no one cares what you call Him. chants soar while paper burns — people bow with lips of hope and prayer © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [177.367] (14.mars.2021) |
For: "Journalistic Intentions"  Battlefield EarthINVISIBLE LINES spinning top — a bauble on a string descends from heaven Tourists in Capetown speak in various voices that ascend to the flat mountain top by way of a rotating cable car, walk around looking down, gazing at the town below them, the spance of sea, the hyrax sunning on a rock. They descend to the streets of seething calm having learned nothing from this alien world aloft of what awaits below. spinning top — a bauble on a string descends from heaven Bo-Kaap, Green Point, District 6, the city waits with its veneer of civility the hostility unspoken between the greeting and leavings of the day. The tour guides instruct about the troublesome past the rage that razed the zones where tribes once met in peace and mingled. They warn about the townships but do not offer solutions. And so it remains unsolved, this city in a movie film setting, holding its breath. market bustle — neglected streets empty before night In Kosovo they rant in irrational voices begrudging grievances from war and oppression, the once oppressed seeking revenge. Those praying for peace are careful what they say amidst the ruins. There is no peace, only a cessation of bombs and gunfire. And no jobs for the children spawned to replace those lost to war. idle children raised to fight — old warriors dream of revenge Sweden ruled the Baltic, fought the Danes, the Russians, even thought they owned the Norwegians. The Norsk disagreed. 91 years passed before King Oscar consented to let them go. Now, borders remains invisible but restless. The slightest breeze refreshens memories. How the Swedes turned their head to German aggression; how they let the plague run rampant, now and 700 years ago. Make sure those damn swedes haven't rotted — boil and mix with potatoes There is no line save sea and shore seen from the sky. A plane passing over the Red Sea notes the arm stretching towards the Jordan River and a saltier sea. Here lies a place where humans make lines in the sand to divide nations, where only time will erase hubris, where humility will reign among the sifting grains, long after they are gone. Aloft the steward speaks five languages — below harsh words divide © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [177.366] (14.mars.2021) |
| For: "Journalistic Intentions" The Shape of Water SHAPE OF WATER sparkle in the bay — on a plate, fish with mushy peas The porpoise Fungie teased the visitors to An Daingean (Dingle) from 1983 to 2020. I wasn't blessed to see him when I visited in 2015 but I was amazed by the number of small boats hugging the harbor. And I loved the fish served with mushy peas at the diner on Sráid na Trá. This small brightly painted village lives on water. From MacCarthy's bar to the craftwoman fashioning jewelry from sea glass to the baptismal fountain at St.Mary's. the bay sparkles — fish with mushy peas on a plate For one thousand years the sea goddess Matsu has protected the myriad sailing ships of Lugang plying waters for crab and shrimp. Her temple lies near the harbor where oyster cakes, soft-shelled crabs, and deep fried mud shrimp are sold across from her courtyard. There is calm the day I visit, but threats from across warm waters remind everyone that storms brew on the horizon. incense wafts through crowds — in a paper bag fried cuttlefish Tabacco once grew here in the protected arm of the fjord far away from the chilly sea. Now apples blossom on the way to the old stave church of Urnes, but first, a ferry crossing from Solvorn, ripples on a sea of glass, one grey streak breaking the surface, sliding back into the stillness. dolphins and seals — grey mountains soar as steadfast as trolls Henry the Navigator set up shop at Cabo Sagres, lands end west of Lagos, to teach the sailors how to navigate beyond where the sun blackened skin. His brother, the king, is now forgotten, but Prince Henry launched the Age of Discovery that followed the coast of Africa until an Italian student ventured west across open waters. coves hide beaches and clear turquoise waters — is that a pirate? © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [177.365] (14.mars.2021) |
| For: "Journalistic Intentions" The Invention of Love AND BOBO MAKES THREE sand sifting through clasped fingers — sunset then dawn We travelers travel. Some know what they are looking for. Others just wander gazing at everything, inhaling a different fragrance on the breeze, tasting a different... It need not be food. Travelers have needs too! But a smile or a hug doesn't always translate well across cultures. Fortunately, those who cannot trip across love at home sometimes fall into quicksand on the side of an alien road. Sometimes all it takes is a sunset and a bit of sand. sand sifting through clasped fingers — sunset then dawn I sat on the beach above the tide watching the lovebirds. They came from different cultures. She from mine, he from an ancient land across the Taiwan Straights. It was hard for him to be 25 and almost too old to marry. She was free. He was not. He felt the family pressure even when on vacation. family far away — the nosy moon shines too close tonight. Bobo was a Tico, a perezoso, a bit slow. In Jiufen he decided that he wanted to visit China. So he hitched a ride with Dawid and Mei to Beijing. He hangs out with them in Poland now. Bobo makes three! He spoke Spanish when I last saw him. Has he learned Mandarin and Polish? Does he like pierogi and shumai? Do they feed him his favorite greens? a tropical toy — snow lingers on strange pines stranger tongues Anna Maria, enough like me to be my own granddaughter. Far from home, like me. She wants a companion, perhaps I do too. We look at the choices surrounding us, nod our heads and agree that they'll more than 'do', but go home alone. There's little hope for me. I'm old. But she is young and vivacious. Perhaps she'll find what she is looking for next time she travels, perhaps at home on her Baltic island. No matter how far you roam — the flame within goes with you. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga[177.364] (15.mars.2021) |
For: "Journalistic Intentions"  Immigrant SongIMMIGRANT SONG Your Swedish smile — cigarette tucked behind one ear [tataki 805] Voices harmonize and lilt in the markets of Malmö where foreign foods are sold. A welcome change of fare to some, a threat to others. Some prefer more narrow well-worn paths to their barred and barricaded barracks. Even later-day-vikings who visited the world grow old and weary, choosing to hide in hovels away from the change each hour brings. Old streets — young voices call out selling falafel. Some people smoke. It's true! Even where it's frowned upon someone has to clean up the tossed butts littering the gutters. The old-timers mutter. But it was even dirtier back then. The dark clouds of industry and the closed minds of the factories that built a city under the nose of the Danes. Are they eager to go back to what they lost? Your Swedish smile — cigarette tucked behind one ear Dark faces brighten the streets of old abandoned Oslo nestled by the railroad tracks and Akerselva where they sell fruits and offer the wisdom of Ethiopia and Eritrea on a plate. Even the Norse relish a change from pizza (the new national dish) or fish soaked in lye (lytefisk). They live in the hills to the east or west or in the Barcode District soaring overhead. They dine at street level. The smell of stew brightens streets — injera sops it up. Asean Town in Taichung beckons locals to taste Viet Nam and Indonesia or burn their tongues on Thai cuisine. Taiwan is a smörgåsbord of the Far East, South East Asia, even Europe. There is little the Taiwanese won't eat. The immigrants from Mainland China brought their cuisine and culture to Formosa after the Japanese left in 1945. Now folks flee from Hong Hong. Centuries of providing refuge has made Taiwan a forgiving place. Handmade mochi in Hualien — in Chiayi turkey rice © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [177.363] (14.mars.2021) |
| For: "Journalistic Intentions" The Gluten Lie BREAD OF LIFE So short the night! The last vendor still cries out at dawn [sashimi 260] Humans are fruit and grain eaters according to our teeth and we can eat them without fire. Of course, we can also eat worms and insects and fish without fire or fancy traps. But hunting weapons helped us kill birds and mammals. More protein! And fire made them easier to eat and digest. Ape-like omnivores — voracious bears with less hair. In the Far East bread is bao or pao. The Portuguese, those sailing later-day Phoenicians, brought the concept and the word. People there eat rice, also a grain, and rice cakes, but bread and many pastries are made with flour. Mind you, the best pastel de nata may be found in Lisboa, but you can get one in Tainan or Chiayi as well. Phoenician bread of life — spread with local jam The Germans and Swedes take pride in making hearty breads using rye and oats as well as wheat. Germans favor sour, the Swedes sweet. The Norwegians? Anything to put cloud berries or gjetost on. Flat rye breads and potato lefse work just as well. They harvest fish and berries, too cold to sow wheat. Sweet or sour fluffy or hard — bread fills empty tummies France ... land of great baguettes, best fresh, but they can be used like a wooden shoe after a day or two to beat those who don't behave about the head. The breads and pastries in Paris, other than tourist shops, are always good. One can't fool a Parisien twice. Bad food does not sell. Bad food sells but once — a baker sifts his flour Here in Missoula I eat cheap white bread with anything that can't run away quick enough. Bologna and peanut butter are known to be slow. I save my pennies to eat bread from around the world. Today, there's a rosemary focaccia with my name on it at Le Petit Outre, the corner bakery. rosemary focaccia — a full loaf reduced to crumbs © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [177.362] (14.mars.2021) |
| For "Journalistic Intentions" When We Dead Awaken TAKK FOR ALT names engraved on stone — new-born grass cannot read These stones are the only bones of our memories that last, once flesh has rotted away to rejoin the soil of our ancestors, the substance from whence we came each time we plucked a fruit and ate it. We will not be forgotten until all those who remember us have forgotten. In peace (Fred) will we rest. Takk for alt. Thanks for everything. names engraved on stone — new-born grass cannot read I've visited many cemeteries. From the poppies on the graves of children in Évora Portugal to the stone children in red caps and bibs known as Jizo or the honorific O-Jizo-san in Japan. In Hellesylt, in a forgotten corner of Norway the three Hellesylt sisters lived into their 90s, one stone placed upon their remains. In death as in life? Perhaps. three sisters rest — golden names etched in limestone glint in sunshine In Sweden where my family once lived the graves are maintained until the tax isn't paid. Then the stones go to a graveyard of their own and the plots are reused. My grandmother's family rose from the frozen mud nourished by pine, water and hazelnuts. They returned to the mud over a century ago. Some many Johans, so many Carls. new grass graves — old stones like bones propped up in a corner In Yamadera, Japan silent children line the paths to shrines. In their red caps and bibs, they brave the cold and heat under leaning pines along the road to heaven. Above, the old ginkgo holds tight the yen for their passage between each fold of its bark. Every soul has a guardian, and those who help along the way. o-jizo-san! lend me your young arms and legs — mine grow weary Mausoleums and monuments for the well-known and wealthy, a marker for the poor. For the children a rusty cross, a small patch marked with stones. This is where the poppies grow in Évora. They grace those whose innocence never faded, who for ages have greeted the sun. No Roman Temple ruins stand more majestic nor marble weep as long. watch your step — between these bare grey stones poppies grow © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [177.361] (13.mars.2021) |
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