I arrived at my mother's home in North Carolina late last night. It took 2 days, 3 planes and a 10 hour train ride that was supposed to be 8 hours to get here with a sleep-over at a friends house in Washington, D.C. As I await brain cells to catch up with my body in order to deal with meatier subjects, I have been reminiscing about all the ways I have traveled in my life. Oftentimes, even when you're only going from Point A to Point B without intending to go on a "trip", the journey can be as adventurous and memorable as the destination. As they say, "Half the adventure is getting there."
My first memories of an unusual mode of transportation was when I was five. We were on a ferry to the Outer Banks in North Carolina (interesting full circle, that in light of where I am now sitting typing this.) I remember bright blue, sunny skies. And there's a tinge of horror/fascination. On this ferry was a sun-grizzled fisherman (and why does my memory want to put a pipe in his mouth a la Popeye?). The tinge of horror, accompanies this memory because he had a very large Horseshoe Crab shell. If you've never seen a Horseshoe Crab, it is like a step back into time. They have existed since the Ordovician Era, over 450 million years ago, and pre-date Dinosaurs. There's definitely something very primeval about them, and such a dramatic visual memory for a five year old.
In those days, my family got around in a Red Volkswagen with a Black rag top convertible roof. There are two memories associated with that Red VW. The first is the can of Van Camp's Pork & Beans with a can opener and spoon that was kept in a glove box. Not sure if it was kept there for fuel or monetary emergencies, but I do remember eating from a can at least one or two times. Because of this, I have a fond attachment and preference for Van Camps Pork & Beans. The second memory was of myself and my sister in the bathtub counting the 1000's of mosquito bites following a trip through Canada. Two little divas in Calamine pink! My mother recalls that there was some trepidation about taking two mosquito-bitten girls through the border when there had been small pox scares in the north of the Province. We had cleared the border and were driving away as my 3-yr. old sister piped up loudly, "Hey man, look at my spots." Despite this moment of anxiety, we were all able to make a clean break into the U.S.
When I was six, I flew by myself from cold, snowy Washington, D.C. to sunny, steamy Mississippi. I got the royalty treatment, and remember being greeted by the whole crew. I still stand by my story that it was the Pilot who came running down the stairs carrying the snow boots I left on the plane.
And then there were the wonderful trips by train from Mississippi to Maryland in the sleepers. There is nothing more fascinating then the travel sized lavatories, and bathroom and the foldaway beds. What a sleeping adventure! So many switches and gadgets to try. And of course, we as the kids got to sleep in the top bunks, wondering all the while if we would awaken folded up in the bed. Piglets in the blankets. Perhaps part of the thrill was not knowing how or if you would wake up in the morning.
In 1966, there was the cross-country trek in a black 1958 Volvo with my Mom. We traveled with our new Dad to Denver where he was put on the airplane. There was major drama going over the Rockies, the radiator of the Volvo spewing and steaming like a steam engine on every up-climb. We whiled away the long trip to Athens, Ohio scratching our names and designs in the white foam ice chest that was our companion in the back seat. I'll never forget my astonishment at the freezing cold and the snow in the high Nevada desert. How could that be a desert?
My Senior year in High School, I worked in a Kindergarten class at a local grade school. Transportation was a 1970 red Honda 65, which I rode wearing a Woodstock (from Peanuts) yellow helmet. The school newspaper ran an article on me as Motorcycle Mama. Oh yeah! Such a hell raiser.
When I was a Sophomore in college, compassion from my grandparents took the form of funding for a metallic green 1970 Duster. It had the shape of a muscle car, if only a 6-cylinder engine. I purchased it from a Speech Professor who hailed from the state of New York. Unable to get the Teacher's Credit Union to take the Lien off the title in the timely manner he desired, this model of gentlemanly conduct stood beside me in the crowded lobby as we were leaving and aimed a parting shot at the personnel, but showered everybody with the proclamation at the top of his lungs that, "You all are a bunch of Ozark Mountain Cock Suckers!" Vocabulary expansion and mortification in one fell swoop from a College Speech Professor.
My time in the Peace Corps was a string of traveling adventures. Our first experience with the vagaries of travel in Africa was experienced before we even reached our country of destination, Lesotho in Southern Africa. We had flown from Johannesburg to Bloemfontein, where we boarded a bus with our allotment of two bags apiece. We were bound for the capitol of Lesotho, Maseru. The bus broke down just short of the border. Our grand entry into that country was a straggling line of Peace Corps volunteers in all combinations of anticipation, excitement, apprehension and disgust. I'm not sure what the armed guards at the manned entrance station into Lesotho, thought looking at the motley parade of mostly white, but definitely NOT South Africans wending their way toward their country.
My next experience with African Mass Transit, was a large, old diesel bus. On market days, it would start at the farthest outlying village, picking up Mom's children swaddled in heavy wool blankets pinned in the front to the backs of their Moms, children, chickens, Dads, inside the bus. The outside was reserved for large parcels, suitcases, and goats which were strapped to the top. By the time it reached the village at which I was staying, the the last one before the destination of Mafeking, the bus was already full to the sidewalls. This was where the young man with the big stick came in. He would walk on the tops of the bus seats all the way to the back (couldn't use the aisles) and working his way forward, would prod and push people from the aisles into the spaces between the seats and the aisles. Then he would use the stick and turn everybody the same direction, so that, miraculously there was room for another entire village. Water being a sought-after commodity, hauled long distances in buckets carried on the tops of the heads, baths were valuable and rare. The air was ripe with the smells of babies, chickens, cow patty smoke and body odor. A multi-sensory experience never to be forgotten. I wondered how the babies snuggled between blanket and body survived the ordeal.
After this, I preferred hitchhiking to the paid transit. The buses weren't so bad in the lowlands, but the mountains were served by VW minivans, packed with people hurtling at high speeds on dangerously narrow single lane winding dirt roads. Terrifying! Mini-vans would go hurtling off curves, launched into the air, to crash ignominiously in ravines with the life crushed within its metallic confines. Alternately, they would crash head-on into vehicles traveling the opposite direction. Give me the uncertainty of travel at slower speeds with the adventure of never knowing what kind of vehicle would transport you to your destination.
In this way, I traveled in the bed of a monster size dump truck. Consider the challenge of clambering up the sides and over the top of the dump bed...in a skirt. Or the time, a friend of mine and I sat in the front cab of the Isuzu Pick-up while our suitcases and duffel bags got intimately acquainted with the sow being transported in the bed of the truck. I don't think we EVER got the pig snorffel off the baggage.
A winter vacation trek with a friend from Swaziland, to the Republic of South Africa, to Botswana and back revealed that Africa had not yet tired in giving us travel variety. The piece de resistan'ce was the ride in the Lotus in the Republic of South Africa. The thrill was slightly diminished as my travel mate and I were crammed into one seat surrounded by our two backpacks.
The strangest vehicular encounter was the traveling salesman driving from Swaziland to Johannesburg. He was absolutely thrilled to be transporting two American girls. He treated us to fresh Guava, and would not deliver us to our Hostel in Johannesburg until he had photographic proof of our existence as his passengers. This proof was provided by a photo booth in the Johannesburg Train Station. I often wondered if he carried this in his wallet, perhaps framed it and kept it on his office desk. Or maybe it was ensconced on the refrigerator among a plethora of photographs of his children, blithely accepted and applauded by his wife.
We hooked up with two Peace Corps volunteers in Gaberone, the capitol of Botswana. They were picking up and transporting a new jeep deep into the Kalahari desert through the Animal Reserves and skirting the Okavango Swamp. Traveling at first daylight was a veritable cornucopia of hunting animals, hyenas, panthers, foxes; and prey, zebras, Springboks, twirly horned Greater Kudu, elephants and the scary Cape Buffalo.
We learned through experience on the train trip from Francistown to Gaberone, that two single white girls will have far fewer marriage proposals if they travelled First instead of Third Class. We missed most of the fun of the night trip, sleeping in the fold-down beds. But found evidence on the floor of the nighttime celebration in the chicken bones and beer cans scattered in among our shoes on the floor the next morning. Breakfast was spent huddled at a guard station at a Bantu stand, drinking tea provided by the guards while we awaited our next ride back to South Africa.
Hitchhiking late into the cold winter night, we were relieved beyond measure to be offered a warm bed in a warmer home, despite the sleeping bags and tent which we carried. Homesickness was either alleviated or triggered by watching the movie the Red Shoes on their television. We basked in the memory of home, swaddled on their couch in afghans, drinking hot tea with milk and sugar accompanied by Eet Sum More Shortbread Cookies (the best cookie/biscuit in the world, just the sweet, fattening basics).
Though I have never hitchhiked through the U.S., that mode of transportation afforded me adventures and stories aplenty in Southern Africa. I got to ride in vehicles I would never have considered passenger vehicles, and luxury cars I could only dream about. Though I am much more mundane, I still enjoy the adventure. I am not shackled to the constraints of time, and thus can enjoy the variety of adventures that traveling on train can afford. Or the discovery of what awaits on the road less traveled.
Peace in your travels.
Kismet
My first memories of an unusual mode of transportation was when I was five. We were on a ferry to the Outer Banks in North Carolina (interesting full circle, that in light of where I am now sitting typing this.) I remember bright blue, sunny skies. And there's a tinge of horror/fascination. On this ferry was a sun-grizzled fisherman (and why does my memory want to put a pipe in his mouth a la Popeye?). The tinge of horror, accompanies this memory because he had a very large Horseshoe Crab shell. If you've never seen a Horseshoe Crab, it is like a step back into time. They have existed since the Ordovician Era, over 450 million years ago, and pre-date Dinosaurs. There's definitely something very primeval about them, and such a dramatic visual memory for a five year old.
In those days, my family got around in a Red Volkswagen with a Black rag top convertible roof. There are two memories associated with that Red VW. The first is the can of Van Camp's Pork & Beans with a can opener and spoon that was kept in a glove box. Not sure if it was kept there for fuel or monetary emergencies, but I do remember eating from a can at least one or two times. Because of this, I have a fond attachment and preference for Van Camps Pork & Beans. The second memory was of myself and my sister in the bathtub counting the 1000's of mosquito bites following a trip through Canada. Two little divas in Calamine pink! My mother recalls that there was some trepidation about taking two mosquito-bitten girls through the border when there had been small pox scares in the north of the Province. We had cleared the border and were driving away as my 3-yr. old sister piped up loudly, "Hey man, look at my spots." Despite this moment of anxiety, we were all able to make a clean break into the U.S.
When I was six, I flew by myself from cold, snowy Washington, D.C. to sunny, steamy Mississippi. I got the royalty treatment, and remember being greeted by the whole crew. I still stand by my story that it was the Pilot who came running down the stairs carrying the snow boots I left on the plane.
And then there were the wonderful trips by train from Mississippi to Maryland in the sleepers. There is nothing more fascinating then the travel sized lavatories, and bathroom and the foldaway beds. What a sleeping adventure! So many switches and gadgets to try. And of course, we as the kids got to sleep in the top bunks, wondering all the while if we would awaken folded up in the bed. Piglets in the blankets. Perhaps part of the thrill was not knowing how or if you would wake up in the morning.
In 1966, there was the cross-country trek in a black 1958 Volvo with my Mom. We traveled with our new Dad to Denver where he was put on the airplane. There was major drama going over the Rockies, the radiator of the Volvo spewing and steaming like a steam engine on every up-climb. We whiled away the long trip to Athens, Ohio scratching our names and designs in the white foam ice chest that was our companion in the back seat. I'll never forget my astonishment at the freezing cold and the snow in the high Nevada desert. How could that be a desert?
My Senior year in High School, I worked in a Kindergarten class at a local grade school. Transportation was a 1970 red Honda 65, which I rode wearing a Woodstock (from Peanuts) yellow helmet. The school newspaper ran an article on me as Motorcycle Mama. Oh yeah! Such a hell raiser.
When I was a Sophomore in college, compassion from my grandparents took the form of funding for a metallic green 1970 Duster. It had the shape of a muscle car, if only a 6-cylinder engine. I purchased it from a Speech Professor who hailed from the state of New York. Unable to get the Teacher's Credit Union to take the Lien off the title in the timely manner he desired, this model of gentlemanly conduct stood beside me in the crowded lobby as we were leaving and aimed a parting shot at the personnel, but showered everybody with the proclamation at the top of his lungs that, "You all are a bunch of Ozark Mountain Cock Suckers!" Vocabulary expansion and mortification in one fell swoop from a College Speech Professor.
My time in the Peace Corps was a string of traveling adventures. Our first experience with the vagaries of travel in Africa was experienced before we even reached our country of destination, Lesotho in Southern Africa. We had flown from Johannesburg to Bloemfontein, where we boarded a bus with our allotment of two bags apiece. We were bound for the capitol of Lesotho, Maseru. The bus broke down just short of the border. Our grand entry into that country was a straggling line of Peace Corps volunteers in all combinations of anticipation, excitement, apprehension and disgust. I'm not sure what the armed guards at the manned entrance station into Lesotho, thought looking at the motley parade of mostly white, but definitely NOT South Africans wending their way toward their country.
My next experience with African Mass Transit, was a large, old diesel bus. On market days, it would start at the farthest outlying village, picking up Mom's children swaddled in heavy wool blankets pinned in the front to the backs of their Moms, children, chickens, Dads, inside the bus. The outside was reserved for large parcels, suitcases, and goats which were strapped to the top. By the time it reached the village at which I was staying, the the last one before the destination of Mafeking, the bus was already full to the sidewalls. This was where the young man with the big stick came in. He would walk on the tops of the bus seats all the way to the back (couldn't use the aisles) and working his way forward, would prod and push people from the aisles into the spaces between the seats and the aisles. Then he would use the stick and turn everybody the same direction, so that, miraculously there was room for another entire village. Water being a sought-after commodity, hauled long distances in buckets carried on the tops of the heads, baths were valuable and rare. The air was ripe with the smells of babies, chickens, cow patty smoke and body odor. A multi-sensory experience never to be forgotten. I wondered how the babies snuggled between blanket and body survived the ordeal.
After this, I preferred hitchhiking to the paid transit. The buses weren't so bad in the lowlands, but the mountains were served by VW minivans, packed with people hurtling at high speeds on dangerously narrow single lane winding dirt roads. Terrifying! Mini-vans would go hurtling off curves, launched into the air, to crash ignominiously in ravines with the life crushed within its metallic confines. Alternately, they would crash head-on into vehicles traveling the opposite direction. Give me the uncertainty of travel at slower speeds with the adventure of never knowing what kind of vehicle would transport you to your destination.
In this way, I traveled in the bed of a monster size dump truck. Consider the challenge of clambering up the sides and over the top of the dump bed...in a skirt. Or the time, a friend of mine and I sat in the front cab of the Isuzu Pick-up while our suitcases and duffel bags got intimately acquainted with the sow being transported in the bed of the truck. I don't think we EVER got the pig snorffel off the baggage.
A winter vacation trek with a friend from Swaziland, to the Republic of South Africa, to Botswana and back revealed that Africa had not yet tired in giving us travel variety. The piece de resistan'ce was the ride in the Lotus in the Republic of South Africa. The thrill was slightly diminished as my travel mate and I were crammed into one seat surrounded by our two backpacks.
The strangest vehicular encounter was the traveling salesman driving from Swaziland to Johannesburg. He was absolutely thrilled to be transporting two American girls. He treated us to fresh Guava, and would not deliver us to our Hostel in Johannesburg until he had photographic proof of our existence as his passengers. This proof was provided by a photo booth in the Johannesburg Train Station. I often wondered if he carried this in his wallet, perhaps framed it and kept it on his office desk. Or maybe it was ensconced on the refrigerator among a plethora of photographs of his children, blithely accepted and applauded by his wife.
We hooked up with two Peace Corps volunteers in Gaberone, the capitol of Botswana. They were picking up and transporting a new jeep deep into the Kalahari desert through the Animal Reserves and skirting the Okavango Swamp. Traveling at first daylight was a veritable cornucopia of hunting animals, hyenas, panthers, foxes; and prey, zebras, Springboks, twirly horned Greater Kudu, elephants and the scary Cape Buffalo.
We learned through experience on the train trip from Francistown to Gaberone, that two single white girls will have far fewer marriage proposals if they travelled First instead of Third Class. We missed most of the fun of the night trip, sleeping in the fold-down beds. But found evidence on the floor of the nighttime celebration in the chicken bones and beer cans scattered in among our shoes on the floor the next morning. Breakfast was spent huddled at a guard station at a Bantu stand, drinking tea provided by the guards while we awaited our next ride back to South Africa.
Hitchhiking late into the cold winter night, we were relieved beyond measure to be offered a warm bed in a warmer home, despite the sleeping bags and tent which we carried. Homesickness was either alleviated or triggered by watching the movie the Red Shoes on their television. We basked in the memory of home, swaddled on their couch in afghans, drinking hot tea with milk and sugar accompanied by Eet Sum More Shortbread Cookies (the best cookie/biscuit in the world, just the sweet, fattening basics).
Though I have never hitchhiked through the U.S., that mode of transportation afforded me adventures and stories aplenty in Southern Africa. I got to ride in vehicles I would never have considered passenger vehicles, and luxury cars I could only dream about. Though I am much more mundane, I still enjoy the adventure. I am not shackled to the constraints of time, and thus can enjoy the variety of adventures that traveling on train can afford. Or the discovery of what awaits on the road less traveled.
Peace in your travels.
Kismet
Great story,Kismet(I remembered);)
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