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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."     |
| Gather by the pool, eyes glazed, mouths open; bask in the heat! We'll glare, surrounded by wafts of sulphur, the sounds of steam, the mist. Will you care? We've seen a deep blue sea, seen bubbling mud, rested our bruised and swollen feet in cleansing pools of heat. We've even eaten buns steamed or eggs boiled by these ovens. How would you lizards taste? Would we be tasty as well? The spell is broken by a peacock's cry, the urge to see a deep red pool, an eruption of steam at another Hell. If this steamy place weren't overrun by sightseers, we would be tempted to sit by a milk-white pool, become eveloped by warm mist, forget about you hungry crocs, get lost in steamy thoughts. © Kåre Enga 28.march.2015 (edited 19.april.2015.) Images of the Hells of Kannawa near Beppu, Kyushu, Japan. Sent in a postcard to Joyce Chicoine, Montana. Original: They gather by the pool, eyes glazed, mouths open, basking in the heat. We glare, surrounded by the wafts of sulphur, the sound of steam, the mist. They do not care. We've seen the deep blue sea, seen the bubbling mud, rested our bruised or swollen feet in cleansing pools of heat. We've even eaten steamed buns or boiled eggs. How would these lizards taste? How would we taste as well? The spell is broken by a peacocks cry, the urge to see a deep red pool, an eruption of steam at another hell. If it were natural and not an amusement park overrun by sightseers we would be tempted to sit by a milk-white pool, become eveloped by warm mist, forget about the hungry crocs, get lost in steamy dreams. © Kåre Enga 28.march.2015 Sent to Joyce Chicoine, Montana. 162 |
| If love were a train, would it rumble and sway as it sought its way to destinations we seldom reach? This train bumbles past pasture of land-lice oblivious to us as we pick up our Devonshire Tea: hot scones and jam. a dollop of cream. Tummy full it would be easy to snooze, perhaps dream. An announcement jars us awake. It grumbles an apology—ten minutes late. But we're making up time. If love were only a dream would we be allowed to take it with us? In time would it become a landscape tumbling out of soft hills? On a soft day of mist, clouds and sun we're passing Gunning, heading south towards the Pole. If this train were like love—would we reach it? clack of rails black and white— magpies in flight © Kåre Enga 11.april.2015. Edited from a postcard sent to Gary McPike. |
| Through early Autumn I am walking like an old man, yellowing leaves mocking my thinning grey hair, trees festooning themselves with color. Am I like a leaf on the tree of humankind, worn out by the seasons, ready to fall to the ground? A week before my birthday I am walking into crisp shade wondering what's forborne. The brick guttered path leads to forgotten graves of those who were moved from this land. Who remembers? Sunshine mixes with melancholy as two men stride past the birdchirp and the incessant murmur of traffic from afar. Past the statue of Victoria Regina, past King George himself, there's more garden beckoning. I get up to explore. after leaf-fall winter's waiting © Kåre Enga 12.abril.2015. Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. |
| Plum and plum blossoms Snow hushes the thrush sitting in the old plum tree, outlines twigs with small tight buds. Beneath a soft wet blanket, life waits with patience. old bent plum still strong enough to bear the snow Inside, the glow of the pellet stove illumines faces flush with sake. I'm tired, a bit hungry and overwhelmed by a land that tries to make me understand in a language of gestures I barely grasp. The other guests encourage me to eat, act amazed when I pull out my own personal chopsticks. Ask questions after questions in what little English they speak. I am humbled by their efforts, more aware each minute that I cannot return the favor. I enjoy the dark aroma of coffee. Enjoy less the soft tofu that seeks to avoid two sticks jabbing at it. My butt sits firm on a chair; my extended fingers move towards my mouth. I'm rewarded with more questions just as I complete the acrobatic feat. What is my name; where do I work; why am I here in Yamagata; how did I hear of this guesthouse; am I married? Some questions seem a bit personal even though I know no harm is intended. The conversation switches to Japanese. I suspect someone explains that I feel uneasy... after apologies we all continue to chat. I try to connect. I always try to connect. The warm and open-hearted people make this possible beyond differences of culture, age and personality. They are mostly business men: medical supplies, livestock feed. One has visited Iowa. I'm a writer. A poet. I'm visiting the land that Bashō walked through in his famous trek north. Nobuki asks for a poem. Perchance I will write one. He lights up the room like a flame. I've met him before... but not often. The connection seems to be mutual. He is young, merely 27, and beautiful as only youth is beautiful. Yet, no doubt the flame that burns within him will keep him young for decades. I bask in the warmth of the moment. Too tired to think, yet I will not go to bed. Not yet. old plum tree; the waiting buds: may I live to see your blossoms. I show Nobuki pictures of Norway, of Costa Rica, of Portugal, of home. What reflection have I caught in a fjord, what moment in an alighting bird at the feeder, what stories told in blue and white tiles; what is the texture of my home between mountains in white winter and green summer? He is amused by a white poodle dressed in rainbow colors, by two English poodles, cream and blue, gazing out over the valley. He shows me pictures of his four dogs. Poodles as well. I ask who is taking care of them while he travels for work. His mother. The chatter trails off after midnight. I crawl up the stairs to my bed overlooking the old plum in the garden. The conversation below fades as I close the door. I sleep comfortably under feathers. I sleep alone. four dogs in the bed; better than sleeping alone This morning we all look ragged. Nobuki readies for work and the return to Tokyo, home. Tonight he will not sleep alone. 73 |
| ...town. The walk was long. The city streets ugly. I followed an older woman in pink, passed her, paused to take a picture as she passed me, caught up to her again... and again... and again. It was the highlight of my day. It began s.l.o.w... I like to talk to fellow travelers. This morning: folks from Germany, Austria and Argentina. I didn't leave till noon. By then it was time to eat. Long yellow noodles in a broth: shrimp, squid, pork, shiitake*, egg, greens. I picked them out with my chopsticks s.l.o.w.l.y... the ramen ankake was hot. So I ate the fried rice, even the small pink flecks that I couldn't identify. I dipped the gyoza* in sauce. Then I slurped the broth as it cooled down, tried to slurp the ramen as well (it is polite to do so). Thank God for the glass of ice water! I realized I had mis-ordered when I paid more than I expected to; but, it was a good lunch. And if I run out of money who needs supper? I did manage to get to a bank later. And bought mochi* and coffee packets! I love sweets; I love coffee. Maybe that was my mistake? I started my day without the fragrance, the warmth, the smell—hell, who am I kidding—the energizing wake me up caffeine! So what did I notice today? The annoying noise of traffic, the pale shade of outstretched limbs, black and white wings headed ewa*, peach and magenta veranera*, a certain ugliness of a street bare of trees but not of rubbish, then... orchids in bloom. I took a picture of a fan palm (as the lady in pink passed me by, plodding, slightly stooped; we didn't speak.); I listened to the coo of the doves; I felt the breeze in my face (and wondered whether it would rain; it didn't). When the pink lady turned into a health clinic I kept on. The Iolani Palace* was open, but only for an hour. I wanted more time. I strode through a park where people were camped out. As I took pictures of the huge trees with dangling roots I wondered. Homeless? Street people? Tourists may think Hawai'i is paradise. I already knew it was not. But so many? I got to Nuuanu Stream where duck and doves were hanging out, drank a cooling chocolate milk, rested for a few minutes on a hard stone wall to watch older men play cards. I didn't know what language they spoke. I didn't recognize the game. I had arrived in China Town but I made no assumptions. I was in front of a Shinto temple* and Honolulu is home to many ethnic groups from the Pacific and elsewhere. I took a photo of a monument in a plaza that reminded me of Lisbon. Sure enough, it was dedicated to Portuguese immigrants. It was a day of doing nothing. Even the botanical gardens where closed by the time I found it. On the way to catch a bus I passed another park, this one lined with tents, dogs and people with that look of the streets.) I heard a young man-of-color mention getting held up in Niagara Falls so we chatted. I grew up close to there. I have been there. I wasn't surprised at his story, although he was! A troop of youth garbed for the Chinese New year passed me as I sat on a bench waiting for the express bus to the university. When I got on I sat by a young blond college student from Texas who has family from my home town... So many reminders that the world is very small. And sometimes pink. © Kåre Enga [travelday3] 28 february 2015 *shiitake mushrooms *gyoza = potstickers *veranera = bougainvillea *mochi = rice cakes *Shinto is a Japanese belief system *Iolani Palace belonged to the Hawai'ian kings and queens before they were disposed by American businessmen. It is the only royal palace on American soil. 20 |
| Kiwi, pear... lychee sorbet... guava. The smoothie quenches my thirst, tingles my mouth. I tell a young student that I could be her great-grandfather. She doesn't believe me. So I tell her I'm over 200 years old (not old for a vampire). She laughs. She's a native of O'ahu, lives ewa*. Laughter is good for this elder... especially as I wish to continue to grow older. I take my plastic cup and search for the garden where she has pointed. Behind an impressive white building of wide eaves, arcades... and tall doorways... there it is. The Japanese Garden: gifted by the government; with a tree planted by the emperor-to-be in 1964. It is serene. It is green. And water runs through it. Diamondhead* there is a dry ridge turning yellow. But by the stream below the park in a ravine all is green. Within the gardens it's greener. I gather my senses: the sight of a stone lantern, the sound of flowing water, the touch of black lava rock, a potpourri of smells, the movement of bamboo in a light breeze, a taste of lychee lingers. I take photos of the koi: black, orange and white. The fingerlings swarm in the shallows among rocks, flee from my presence as tadpoles wiggle. There's a bird I don't know! But like most birds it won't pose for a picture. I follow the stone path, aware of the crunch under my shoes. Around a bend I see smoke; it's the bamboo-cutter taking a break. The air is moist; my high-desert lungs are confused. Is this right? Can I breathe easy? I ascend uneven stones to the tea house. It sits in repose... shuttered. Even the cupped chains of the downspout remain silent. The tea-house is wooden. The wood is weathered. I seek refuge from the sun on a stone step under its wide eaves, my back against the smooth wall, facing makai*. I look out at leaves, a bright yellow-green and listen to the silence of quiet people. Until a young woman passes in front, goes diamondhead around a bend and disappears. I follow later. There's a path to a shrine. I'm on the other side and the reflections are wonderful! The arcade of the white building sits solid, ewa across the water; it waves with the ripples. Fish swim unconcerned. A small black ant visits my orange shirt. Does it think I'm a flower and my sweat of some use? A fly visits the page while I'm writing. It finds nothing of interest and flies off. The smoothie is gone but I go back to check out what it's called: Green Peace. And so it is. Thirst, and a flow of water. One fallen yellow flower. © Kåre Enga [travel.1] 27.february.2015 *ewa: west *diamondhead: east *makai: towards the sea (mauka is towards the mountains). |
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