Tranquility ~ the state of being free from commotion or disturbance; the absence of agitation

The mere anticipation of being in my favorite hotel room overlooking Haystack Rock (which grows out of the Pacific in Cannon Beach, Oregon) triggers an impending sense of tranquility somewhere deep inside of me. Once there, the peacefulness in my soul is palpable.

We’ve been going to Cannon Beach for over thirty years – to veg out, to watch the water and the sun and the storms and to just simply marvel at the beauty of the place.  It never grows old.  It always seems both familiar and new.

This December, it was a three day storm watcher.  The sand ran down the beach and the rain blew sideways in sheets.  The water roiled and thick mist floated from the wavetops.  Groups of seagulls played in the wind – swooping, floating, hanging in the air like kites on a March afternoon. It looked like they were having a blast out there. A handful of hardy souls walked on the beach leaning back into the wind, hoods up and heads down.

We watched from inside with a fire crackling, hot coffee, and books at hand.  I had trouble keeping my nose in the book, choosing instead to just sit by the window and watch.  Somewhere in my head is a childhood memory of a line that my mom used to say (variously attributed to Satchel Paige, Winnie the Pooh, and Pogo)…”Sometimes I sits and thinks, but sometimes I just sits”.  And that’s what I did for the better part of three days – just sat and watched, savoring the beauty of the beach and relishing the time to just sit.

On the third morning, the rain and wind stopped for a while and folks magically appeared on the beach.  Most of them had dogs with them.  Dogs of all sizes and shapes – joyously running on the beach.  Chasing balls and sticks, romping in the water, rolling in the sand, teasing new playmates.  I love to see dogs at play and I am especially fond of watching them romp unrestrained on the beach.  I know that they are experiencing their own  version of dog tranquility – the absence of the agitation induced by a leash. Their rowdy exuberance is infectious.  There is no better anti-depressant for me than a wet waggy greeting from a happy dog on the beach.

The respite on the beach was brief. The wind and rain returned as quickly as they’d stopped, and we were back inside with the fire and the coffee.  And soon it was time to leave. I brought the tranquility home with me, though, and it will linger until the next time my spirit needs nourishing.  When it does, I’ll go back to the beach and just sit.

Lynn Hancock is a retired teacher and elementary school principal.  She is not a blogger, but is a regular reader of Nerd’s Eye View and Road Notes, written by her son, Ben. Her husband is still working, but they travel whenever they can.

Photo: Cannon

“Oh, well, I’m a freelance writer,” I started to explain. “Before the book, I wrote for magazines, mostly science and a lot travel stuff…”

“Wait—you’re a travel writer?!” he interrupted. The man almost popped out of his seat with excitement, mustering more enthusiasm for the t-word than any of our previous exchanges about sex, love and brains (the subject matter of my new book). He couldn’t wait to hear all about my “exciting” career and peppered me with questions for the rest of the flight.

Okay, I get it. Travel writing sounds awesome, the kind of career that most 9-to-5ers only dream about. Admittedly, for the most part, it is awesome. I own that. My travel writing career has allowed both my son and myself to explore some incredible places and, more importantly, meet even more incredible people. But, as hard as I’ve worked to earn my chops over the past decade, I find that I’m not interested in being defined solely as a “travel writer” anymore.

Why, might you ask? It’s simple. As I get older—and the more I get to traipse around this big, bad world of ours—I realize there is more to write about, and more to life, than just traveling. A lot more. There’s as much exploration to be had in science, in policy, in health and in family, provided you care to look. But, beyond that, I have started to worry a bit about what being a “travel writer” represents to others. And, what’s more, if that persona may actually result in discouraging others from travel, which is the exact opposite of my intended goal.

Let me explain.

Ask your average person to describe a “travel writer.” Chances are, you’ll hear something about a fearless adventurer, a rebel, a bit of a Gonzo-esque personality with a well-used neck pillow and a zillion frequent flier miles. As I spoke with my new airplane friend, I could see his image of me changing from a sort-of-interesting author to this larger-than-life persona. And that’s a daunting thing to have to put on—and an even bigger one to live up to.

The “travel writer” requires you to go farther, do more and find new and tougher boundaries to push to try to fit into this jacket. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m not this person, despite some of the incredible destinations under my belt. I’m a Mom, a nerdy professional and a bit of a homebody. While I may relish the opportunity to explore the Galapagos, I also get excited about an all-day Law and Order marathon. Trying to keep up with this “travel writer” persona (as well as play one-up all the time with your travel writing peers) is exhausting—not to mention darn near impossible.

But worse, this “travel writer” can often unintentionally scare the very people we hope to inspire. The “travel writer” may inadvertently tell folks that the best and only way to travel requires peril and a hefty expense account. It demands ambition, fearlessness and a magnetic personality to rival Ryan Seacrest. It says that the destination is more important than the journey—and that transformative experiences are impossible without first boarding a plane or booking a $500/night hotel room. And I hate that because it’s so not true.

As I talked about my time in Europe with my seat mate, he kept saying things like, “I could never do that!” Once he grabbed on to that “travel writer” thing, he lost the ability to understand that, yes, indeed, he could. Anyone can travel. You don’t need to be a “travel writer.” And most “travel writers” are not the gallivanting extroverts he imagines. I wanted to tell him to let go of that “travel writer” thing. That he could get out there and explore, too—the only real requirements are an open mind, a desire to learn and a willingness to explore—whether you are in Antarctica or your own backyard.

As I see it, a writer’s job is simple: to offer escape and the occasional epiphany and to tell wonderful stories about places and people. Travel is not required, though, admittedly, it is a nice-to-have.

So while I’ll continue to wear my “traveler” mantle with pride—“writer,” too—I think it’s time for me to let go of the “travel writer” (even if my random airplane neighbors can’t). And I’m doing it so I can shrug this wannabe Hunter S. Thompson off my back and inspire more people to get up and start exploring.

Kayt Sukel is a passionate science and travel writer. She’s one of the faces of Travel Savvy Mom  as well as the author of the controversial new book, DIRTY MINDS: HOW OUR BRAINS INFLUENCE LOVE, SEX AND RELATIONSHIPS (Free Press, 2012).

When the plane starts to head for the ground, I crane my neck to see what’s ahead. Seated in the co-pilot’s seat of a six-seater bush plane, all I can see is the same thing I’ve been looking at for the entire 45 minute flight, a vast pincushion of endless green forest canopy. We skim the treetops and finally, seconds before hitting the ground, I see the grass landing strip. A couple of bumps, and we have arrived in the tiny village of Quehueri’ono in Ecuador ’s Amazon rainforest.

My husband and I are here to spend five days at Huaorani Ecolodge, a community project organized by the indigenous Huaorani people. The Huaorani, who have lived in this forest for thousands of years, practice a traditional lifestyle where almost everything they need is provided by the land. When missionaries arrived and tried to exert their influence, the Huaorani responded definitively with spears. In recent years, a new threat has emerged with oil and logging companies taking a growing interest in the natural resources present on the Huaorani’s territory. Huaorani Ecolodge is a way of creating awareness for the culture and natural environment of these rainforest people, and also gives the Huaorani an income for basic education and medical services.

On the ground we are met by the local people and yes, some of them are carrying spears. We meet our Huaorani guide, Nenkerey, who supervises loading us and our gear into a dugout canoe that he and a second guide will pole down the shallow Shiripuno River. On sensory overload, we settle into the journey and start to relax to the sound of countless birds and the sight of brightly-coloured butterflies. I cross the blue morpho butterfly off my wish list as we spot its startling wings, each one bigger than my hand.

The lodge is invisible from the river, looking like any other thick swath of jungle except for the motorized dugout canoe out front that is used for emergencies and to transport supplies. We climb into the forest and discover a pathway to five meshed sleeping cabins. We shudder at the creepy crawlie creatures that have already made their way into our cabin and decide we’d better get used to it. After all, this is the jungle.

During our stay here, we do several hikes with Nenkerey who glides silently through the forest, machete in hand. One day he gives us a hunting lesson and attempts to teach us the Huaorani method of tree-climbing. We are astounded at how in tune he is with the natural environment as he points out animal tracks, finds a tiny poison dart frog, and shows us a trampled spot where a jaguar has slept.

The forest walks and natural environment are fascinating, but it is the visits with the local people that will linger in my memory. One of the first people we meet is Moi Enomenga who is the central figure in Joe Kane’s book Savages. As described in the book, Moi has worked tirelessly to help his people preserve their land and culture, especially speaking out against the destructive practises of oil companies. Moi has travelled to the U.S. and London to plead the cause of his people, yet he continues to make this isolated spot his home.

When we arrive at his modest home in a clearing in the rainforest, Moi is carving a blowgun. Cultural barriers and language differences dissolve as Moi’s two-year-old daughter laughs and engages with everyone, visitor and local alike. Soon we are all laughing as we gringos demonstrate our dubious spear-throwing skills and try to light a fire Huaorani-style, without matches. Moi’s wife welcomes us by painting the red dye of a local plant on our faces, a custom we will see repeated on all of our Huaorani visits.

We visit a total of three villages and encounter, quite possibly, the most generous and welcoming people we have ever met. It doesn’t matter that we often need two translators to communicate or that many of the Huaorani perceive Canada simply as “a very cold place that takes more than 60 days to walk to.” We tell them about snow and they tell us about the forest and the pressures impacting their lifestyle. Moi’s mother shakes her head sadly and says she does not like “the Company”, meaning the oil companies. I ask if any of the kids can climb trees and two eight-year-old boys laugh and dart up a couple of tall trees faster than I can grab my camera to photograph them doing it. Some of the women sing for us and ask for a song in return. After some initial panic, we settle on an off-key version of Row Row Row Your Boat. They tell us they will never forget it.

The people at each village lay out a neat row of handicrafts to sell, all made from materials found in the forest. There are string bags, baskets, blowguns and spears, along with jewellery made from colourful seeds suspended on finely woven twine. We select several items for purchase, but it quickly becomes evident that the Huaorani are hunters and warriors rather than merchants, as they either charge us ridiculously low prices or give us whatever we want as gifts.

On our final day in the rainforest, we are in the canoes at 5:00 am. It is surreal to move silently down the river before daybreak as we pass shadowy vegetation and are immersed in the sounds of the jungle, a cacophony of chirps, birdsong and howls. It feels like being in a movie, maybe an escape scene. A piranha jumps right beside the boat, and another time Nenkerey points out a caiman that silently submerges its head as we draw close.

Our final visit is to Nenquipare, which is Nenkerey’s home. Nenkerey’s quiet demeanour changes to animation as he shows us around the village and introduces us to his family. We detect in Nenkerey a deep sense of pride in the Huaorani traditions and skills. He wears the traditional woven headband and consistently begins his explanations of Huaorani life with “We, the Huaorani …”

We finally pull ourselves away from Nenquipare and continue our river journey, soon passing a weather-beaten sign that marks the end of Huaorani territory. We notice a seismic device set up to test for the presence of oil. Two hours later we arrive at a bridge and a road where we board a pickup truck for the rough trip out to the oil-rich town of Coca. We see increased oil activity, noisy processing facilities and huge flares, an unbelievable departure from the pristine environment we’ve enjoyed for the past several days. Startling poverty and unhealthy living conditions provide a chilling reminder of the challenges faced by the Huaorani.

We feel glad that we have supported the Huaorani in a small way through our travels with them, and will not soon forget our kind and generous hosts in the jungle. As we say good-bye, Nenkerey invites us to return. He says, simply “I will always be here, in the forest.” We believe and hope this to be true.

Debbie McKeown is a Canadian travel writer who, before travelling to Ecuador’s Amazon rainforest, considered the only places worth visiting to be cold, high elevation, and devoid of people. Check out her writing at www.djmckeown.com.   

“Follow that Indian!”

Glen swung a quick U-turn on Rampart Street, the northwest division between the French Quarter and the Tremé—the nation’s oldest African American neighborhood. The car now headed east towards the Faubourg Marigny, another boundary of the Quarter.

We’d been up since 8 a.m. searching for Mardi Gras Indians in New Orleans on an unseasonably warm March 19th—St. Joseph’s Day. A newspaper had published the parade schedule, but it’s not always accurate. To see them, we needed to be persistent and lucky. Our local friend Glen drove through uptown neighborhoods with an architectural gumbo of ante-bellum mansions and wood shacks—some of which still had four-foot water lines and dead trees from Hurricane Katrina’s deluge.

From there, we’d searched through Bayou St. John on our way towards the Creole houses and cottages of Mid-City and the Tremé. The now-fading high water marks here reached eight feet in some places. We scanned for flags, crowds, and feathered suits. All the windows were rolled down to hear chants and music. But the golden Indian in the beetle-green car was the closest we’d gotten in hours.

“Masking Indian” has been a New Orleans tradition for over a hundred years, and served as a method for African Americans to celebrate their own culture. The intricately sewn suit isn’t a disguise, but a way to “show our true selves,” according to Big Chief Monk Boudreaux. “This is in our blood—it’s not just something we do.”

Some say that slaves seeking freedom escaped to the forests to live with Native Americans. Others believe that touring Wild West shows influenced the Mardi Gras Indians. In years past, the groups fought when they encountered each other on the street. But now, tribes welcome each other with dance, songs, and inspection of each other’s “new suits.”

From Creole Wild West to 9^th Ward Hunters, Fi-Yi-Yi to Skull and Bones, Wild Magnolias to Yellow Pocahontas, the tribal costumes take the better part of a year to construct—all by hand. “They usually know how it’ll look before they put it together,” said Sylvester Francis, Executive Director of the Backstreet Cultural Museum. “But they gotta take a break after Mardi Gras before they begin sewing for next year.” Each suit can weigh up to 100 pounds and cost thousands of dollars to assemble.

The day before St. Joseph’s, Francis let me touch some of the outfits he keeps in his museum. The jewel box sparkle of sequins, faux gemstones, metal, and crystal seemed to light the room. But alone, they’d be singing only melody without the harmony of pearls, cowrie shells, and the rainbow of seed beads. My fingers brushed across the sleek, cool decorations and followed the individual lines of color until they merged into a new design. The creations are inspired by traditional Native American scenes, African sculptural elements, abstract patterns, or fantastical creatures.

Not to be outdone by the parade of beads, shells, and sequins, the fabric is equally attention-grabbing: velvet, satin, silk, yarn, ric rac, and cardboard (to make 3D figures “pop”). And finally, the feathers. No suit is complete without them. Francis’ wife Anita almost whispered, “The tribes get them only in white because they don’t trust anyone else to try and match the colors.” The plumes are then dipped in dye individually, to ensure the color is just right. Each Indian makes his own suit, sometimes with the help of family or others within the tribe.

I’d seen the Indians in photos, at Jazz Fest, and at Mardi Gras, but I’d never chased them on St. Joseph’s Day. In New Orleans, the holiday is dedicated to the patron saint of the working man. The Voodoo tradition celebrates the day as a feast for Legba—messenger of the gods and trickster guardian of the crossroads. The day seems perfectly geared to the Mardi Gras Indians, especially since one never knows exactly where to find them.

We followed the saffron-fletched Indian down St. Claude Avenue through the Faubourg Marigny and into the Bywater—a neighborhood in the Upper 9th Ward. Just across the Industrial Canal is the Lower 9th Ward, where homes were still in ruins months after Hurricane Katrina.

“I don’t think there are any Indian events out here,” Glen said. “Brotha’s just going for some lunch.”

The Indian’s car stopped outside a corner market, and he disappeared inside. We quickly parked and followed him to the small deli in back.

“When you goin’ out?” the man behind the counter asked the Indian.

“Not ‘till tonight,” he answered. “There aren’t many people home yet. We decided to get together at Congo Square in the evening, but we gonna go out to our old houses before then. Maybe the land’s spirit needs liftin’ too.”

The server handed the Indian a po’ boy—a New Orleans hero sandwich. “You give it all you got,” he said. “Everything needs good luck here.”

We shuffled in line to order. If we weren’t going to see anything until later, we might as well eat.

“Wait. Y’all were following me, weren’t you?”

I turned to see the detail of the Indian’s suit—ruby gems with amber beads and cowrie shells swirled in a sunrise design, all within the surrounding canary-colored feathers. His dark hair hung in two tight braids. I wondered if it was really that long or if he wore a wig.

I replied, “We were just trying to find your tribe. You were the only breadcrumb we had.”

“Haaaaaaaa!” His laughter echoed through the small store. “I never been called a breadcrumb before. That’s pretty good. You hear me say we’ll be at Congo Square tonight? I’ll save you a dance if I see ya.”

He swept out of the market. On the floor lay a lonely yellow feather. I bent, grasped it, and tucked it into my pocket.

As we approached Congo Square that evening, the light from torches bounced off brick building walls. I could hear the underlying intensity in the low rumbling hymn, “Indian Red”:

“We are Indians, Indians.

We are Indians of the nation.

A wild, wild creation.

We won’t bow down.

Down on the ground.

Oh how I love to hear them call my Indian Red.”

Through the park, 30 Mardi Gras Indians were scattered. Some seemed to keep to their tribes, but over time, the chanting and dancing swung their circles wider—until they became one big ring.

Crimson blended with emerald, lilac with copper, and turquoise with sunflower. Like the patchwork of New Orleans culture, nothing here is monochrome. The fire from the torches reflected off the beads and temporarily blinded me.

I turned and saw the golden Indian from earlier. His suit swirled out around him as he performed a fast twirling, foot-stomping dance, punctuated with shouts. The few other members of his tribe stood scowling and nodding. Others ran quickly around him. The drumming got faster. Just watching made me breathless.

With a “whooooooop!” the dance ended. He stood with his legs apart and arms crossed, breathing quickly. He looked over the crowd and his eyes locked on mine.

“Whatcha think of my dance I saved ya?”

“The best I’ve seen all night,” I replied. “Your suit is the prettiest in Congo Square.”

The brightness of his wide smile rivaled the torches and he walked over with his arms open.

“You’re always welcome with the Indians, little sister,” he said. And the strength of his hug was just what I’d expect from a Mardi Gras Indian.

Jill K. Robinson is a traveling writer and photographer who spends every New Orleans Mardi Gras looking for the Indians. Her articles have been published in the San Francisco Chronicle, Journey, World Hum, Lonely Planet, Frommer’s, AOL Travel and more. Even when traveling, she can always be found online at Danger Jill Robinson.

A bell tinkles as I open the door and enter into the quiet, inner alcove but no-one comes to greet me.

“Merhaba”, I call out towards the sounds of television coming from the next room.

A stout, older woman comes bustling out of the back room. Her mu-mu, sensible shoes, and hair curlers are no surprise to me; she is the epitome of what I am expecting in this neighbourhood gathering place.

“Galatasaray Hamami hoş geldiniz. Bugün nasılsın?”

“Uh-Oh”, I think as I understand nothing she says. “How are we going to manage this?”

She takes control before I have a chance to think any further about it, obviously having managed many an inexperienced bather in her days.

With a frank, get-down-to-business attitude that will dominate the whole experience she points to the menu board of services posted behind the desk. I am grateful to see that both the descriptions and prices are listed in Turkish and English.

• Bath Only (You Scrub and Bathe Yourself) 26 Euro
• Kese (Body Scrub) 35 Euros
• Foam Massage 38 Euro
• Kese and Foam 44 Euros
• Pasha (Oil Massage) 57 Euros

I want to ask questions and find out more but our language barrier gets in the way and she seems in no mood to entertain trying. She points repeatedly to the Kese and Foam option while telling me; I’m sure, how wonderful it will be. Kese and Foam I guess it will be then.

Handing me a thin cotton ‘Turkish towel’ and a pair of wooden clogs she points to one of the cubicles lining the long, narrow room…I am to get changed. Once inside I close the door and realize that the door is all glass…there will be no privacy.

I’ve read that it’s appropriate to ‘kit down’ in a hamam, especially in a non-tourist bath so, not wanting to seem all prissy by wearing a swim suit or leaving my undies on, I remove all my clothes and drape myself in the towel. The wooden clogs are another matter and I wonder how I am going to negotiate myself on the seemingly treacherous marble floors while wearing them. Game as ever though I don them and present myself back to the attendant.

She leads me through a door to a small, ‘cool’ room – all marble, lined with marble wash basins with brass fixtures – but we do not stop there. We continue on through the next door to the ‘warm’ room.

This is the room I imagined when reading about visiting a Turkish hamam; a circular room entirely of marble. A large round marble pedestal dominates the middle of room – large enough to hold 10 women, it is heated from within and warms the room to a steamy comfort. Ringing the room, attached to the marble walls, are large marble basins with brass fixtures. I look up to see a domed roof studded with small jewel coloured windows which take in the sunlight and reflect the colors throughout the room. It’s magical.

It appears I will not be alone during my bath. Three young girls are in the room already. Wrapped in towels, they are lounging, rinsing, chatting and giggling away. The attendant points to the platform and motions that I should lie on it. I make a move toward the center of the room.

“Madam, Madam’, she calls to me.

I look over to see her gesturing that I should hand her my towel. I look to the young girls am just thinking, “but the girls still have theirs on” when I feel the towel being hastily removed and there I stand…naked.

Trying to look as comfortable as possible, and trying not to slip on the wet marble floor in my wooden shoes, I make my way to the platform and lay down. The marble is hot…not uncomfortable, but hot. In no time at all I am hot, hot, hot and dripping in sweat.

I lie there for what seems like an eternity…turning over occasionally and even managing once to get up and casually stroll (naked, people!) to one of the basins to rinse off and cool down a bit.

Just when I think they might have forgotten about me, I sense someone standing nearby. I open my eyes and am met with an eyeful of belly and boobs as the attendant readies to scrub, rinse and massage me clad only in her knickers. Nice.

She starts with the loofah mitt; scrubbing away all the dead skin and most of the tan I’ve been working on so diligently. Both sides, up and down, head to toe. Then another death defying trip to the basin for a rinse. I negotiate the wooden clogs on the marble as best I can but fear that grace has left me.

It’s time for the washing part of the bath. Gathering soap in a giant soapy mitt she creates the largest foamy bubble I’ve ever seen and washes me until I must sparkle Piling on more and more suds, she massages me lightly with the softest hands imaginable. Walking to the basin all soaped up would not have been a good idea…so she brings the water to me, bucketful by bucketful.

At this point, thinking we’re done I sit up, hoping a towel will be produced. But no, we’re not finished yet.

“Madam, madam” she calls to get my attention again. I look over to see her sitting on a low stool with a bottle of shampoo in her hand, indicating that I should sit on the marble step between her legs. I really don’t want her to wash my hair but can’t for the life of me figure out how to get out of it. She squeezes shampoo onto my head and works it into lather with great efficiency as I watch shampoo fly everywhere. Another quick rinse and now we’re done…I am smooth and clean and ready to face the (clothed) world again.

I am left to relax some more on the marble platform and then, when I am ready, I poke my head out and finally receive the towel I have been wanting all along.

Since visiting fourteen countries on her RTW trip, Gillian dreams and schemes about how to travel more and more. She writes about travel and stepping out of her comfort zone at One-Giant-Step.com.