Tag Archives: Adventure

At home on her shoulder

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In response to the Daily Post’s photo challenge I say (well, Christian Morgenstern says if we’re being particular), “Home is not where you live but where they understand you.”

Kinkajous naturally live in the heart of rainforests but this little guy is only truly happy when he’s around his human, Megan.

Stanley and MeganI have never seen a kinkajou until I visited the Jaguar Rescue Center in Costa Rica. I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t even know this creature’s name but it scores pretty high on the cute scale.

I’m all for keeping animals in their natural habitat. They belong at home with Mama and Papa Kinkajou and not at a zoo for our viewing pleasure. But Stanley (the little guy in the picture) is an exception. You see, kinkajous are nocturnal animals. They sleep in hollow trees during the day and wake up at night to hunt insects, small birds and find honey (that’s why they’re also called honey bears). Stanley, as you can see in the picture, is out and about during the day because he is blind. Sunlight is meaningless to him which means he could very well go for a walk and swing from one tree branch to another (relying on his sense of smell) in broad daylight making himself easy prey for foxes, jaguars and evil humans. Basically, he cannot fend for himself in the big, scary rainforest. I’m not sure how he found his way to the sanctuary but I believe he’s better off in the care of loving humans like Megan.

That said, kinkajous should not be kept as pets! According to Animal Care, kinkajous are playful and curious. They are generally tame, however, some owners report unpredictable, vicious attacks by their kinkajous even after several years of non-aggression. They have really sharp teeth and claws as well as a powerful tail. Don’t be fooled by those eyes!

Uncle Jim

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Missed the last Mississippi post? Click here to catch up.

 

I got my first taste of Southern hospitality on a puddle-jumper, sitting next to a completely-deaf-in-one-ear, Southern gentleman in his 90′s. “You should just call me Uncle Jim!” he exclaimed – loud enough for everyone around us to hear.

I learned a lot about Uncle Jim on that short flight. He told me about his children, his grandchildren and his GREAT grandchildren. He talked about his arthritis, his bad knee, his medical history (Parkinson’s), his hobbies (fishing and flying remote control airplanes), family holidays and pets. He insisted on buying me coffee and asked me a lot of questions about life in Kuwait and my family. (“You mean they didn’t marry you off at 16?!” he wanted to know.) He was fascinated by everything I said – but mostly by the fact that I spoke English.

When we arrived at Jackson, I helped Uncle Jim down the stairs and pushed his wheelchair to where his daughter was waiting – his daughter was a tired 40-something year old woman in pastels who would not have been thrilled with her father for divulging family secrets to an Arab. She whisked her father away as he called after me, “don’t forget to call me, young lady! I’m gonna take you fishing!”

Oh yes. We had a date.

Uncle Jim and I became buddies on that flight and at some point he invited me over to his place. And “his place” sounded like a secluded shack in the middle of nowhere. He said he would teach me how to fly toy airplanes and take me fishing. Yes, I realize how creepy that sounds now but at 30,000 feet in the air I thought it was a brilliant idea. I jotted down his number and promised to visit. It was not until I related the story to my friends a few days later that my old man sounded a lot more sketchy and less grandfatherly. ”He must be a pervert!” They said, “or a serial killer! Or BOTH.” I argued that he was real sweet, mainly trying to convince myself that the old man was harmless and not in fact a psychopath out to get me.

Maybe it’s a good thing I did not tell my friends he wore a patch over one eye and clutched my hand a little too long when he was talking to me. Maybe it’s a good thing I never got around to paying Uncle Jim a visit…

YOU SPEAK ENGLISH!

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Here’s a link to the last post I wrote about my big adventure in Mississippi. I was saying how I was completely lost in thought as I sat waiting to fly to Jackson.

When it was time to board, I gathered my belongings and made my way to the smallest plane I had ever seen. I later found out that these planes are called ‘puddle jumpers’. To me, it looked like a plaything, like an airplane from a movie set that will somehow be made to look bigger on the screen. I wondered how a plane like that could actually fly, I tried not to engage in all the dark thoughts swirling in my head. I took my book out to read, or to be honest… I took my book out to make the other passengers comfortable.

You see, my book, is actually a prop. I have found that holding Jane Eyre or Mansfield Park up and looking like I was totally absorbed in a Victorian tale of arranged marriages puts your average, suspicious American at ease. My headgear becomes less of a threat, because hey! she’s reading ENGLISH. And will you please look at what this Arab woman is reading? It is not a tattered copy of Stories of the Prophets by Hafiz Ibn Kathir – a very questionable choice of literature for a plane ride in the United States. No, I hold Pride and Prejudice up high for all to see. Look, my book says, this young woman obviously has some sort of Western education, be nice to her! And trust me, people are considerably nice-rrrr. I get less hostile looks and fewer people avert their eyes in confusion.   I get smiles, nods and the raised-eyebrow-in-pleasant-surprise.  All thanks to my girlfriends Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen. (Hey, Remember this?)

Anyway!

Just as I was getting comfortable and smiling smugly at the empty seat next to me, an old man hobbled onto the plane. Hobbled, isn’t even the right word: he leaned heavily on a cane and the flight attendant slowly pushed him forward. He had a patch on one eye and seven wispy white hairs that stuck out randomly on his head.

“Where would you like to sit, Sir?” she asked him.

“WHAT?” He stopped. Turned to look at her. “SPEAK UP, I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

The flight attendant laughed. All 30 passengers on the tiny plane were now watching the action unfold. She spoke louder this time, “Where would you like to sit? We have 4 empty seats. You can have these two in the front, all to yourself!”

“I want to sit next to that young lady.” He leaned on his cane and pointed a shaky finger right at me.

I moved my stuff over and flashed the old man a tight-lipped look-I’m-really-social-just-not-today smile. He gushed back and pointed at my book, “SO! YOU SPEAK ENGLISH!”

This became 'our' station

Getting around Istanbul

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By staying in Sultanahmet, I was hoping we would cut down on transportation costs, spend less time in the backseat of a taxi and more time on our feet exploring the city. For the most part, our theory worked. And when we wanted to explore the other side, we would walk over to the nearest tram station, hop on the tram for 2 Turkish liras each and over the Golden Horn on the Galata Bridge to Kabataş (the last station on the line). We then have the option of taking the funicular (a cable car that runs like a metro) to Taksim or the ferry to the islands.

The public transportation system in Istanbul is quite straightforward and most of the touristy sites fall right next to a station. The trams are clean, fairly new and well-maintained. What we didn’t take into account, however, was the Eid Al-Adha holiday crowd. Middle Easterners swamped Istanbul, the European tourists were aplenty, and because of the public holiday, Turks themselves were out and about. The buses and trams were bursting at the seams. The ferries (a very common mean of transportation between the European and Asian side) looked like they were floating by some miracle; people were packed on that boat like sardines. And how I hate sardines…

On the first day of Eid al-Adha (Kurban Bayramı in Turkish), we set out to the famous Istiklal Street. We thought we would spend the day walking around, exploring the area and avoiding the historical and religious sites which I figured would be crowded. We were disappointed to see Istiklal Street practically empty and most of the shops closed.

When it looked like most of the stores weren’t opening, we hailed a taxi and asked him to take us to Forum Mall, Europe’s largest shopping mall. Let me just say that I’ve had several harrowing taxi experiences before, including cabs in New York City, Saudi Arabia and Cairo. The terror I felt that day, as our middle-aged cab driver zoomed around the highways, surpassed all the other experiences. My sister and I held on to dear life as the man put his foot on the accelerator and soared past buildings, between trucks and maneuvered the car on the edge of a mountain. I felt ill and tried to distract myself by taking out the camera to document the ride of my life – if I survived to blog about it, that is. My pictures were mostly blurry.

The ride of death was totally unnecessary, we soon found out, because the mall was closed. The driver neglected to tell us that everything opens at 1:30 pm on the first day of Eid and he insisted on driving us to another mall. He charged us over 100 TL ($56) and dropped off at Istaniye Park Mall, which was also closed until 1:30! We stood in the cold for almost 2 hours until the mall opened. I still haven’t forgiven that taxi driver.

We had one other transportation incident that left me cursing left and right, but other than that we were able to navigate our way around Istanbul safely and without any major problems. The trams and cable cars felt considerably safer than Paris and London, especially for two young women traveling alone.

And finally, the shoes that were made for walkin’. Can you guess which one’s mine?

from Istanbul, with love

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Vacations are ephemeral. One minute you’re in a new city, making your way from the airport to your hotel. You’re starry-eyed and energetic with the days stretching ahead of you like they would never end. There’s so much you want to see, the sun is a little brighter, the nights are a little longer. But just when you get the hang of the city, just when you know your way around, when you’re settling into the perfect pattern, it all comes to an end. You’re somehow back in your own bedroom and the magic you felt while on vacation evaporated somewhere along the way – probably as you stood in a long line at the airport or sat for hours in a tiny seat trying to find a comfortable niche to rest your head.

Before you know it, you’re back at work or school. You pick up where you left off. You’re enveloped in the busyness of a life that doesn’t allow for long, luxurious breakfasts. You cannot afford to get lost and laugh about it and you certainly don’t strike a conversation with a stranger or buy a silly trinket or two. And when you do get a chance to look at the many photos you captured, you struggle to remember what that building was or why you felt the need to photograph a street sign. Where was that sign anyway? And what were you doing that day? You try to remember but it’s fading fast.

4

Ghost brides and graveyards

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Chapel of the Cross

Annandale was a huge Maidson County plantation built in the 1840s. The plantation owner’s daughter, Helen Johnstone, fell in love with the dashing Henry Vick, and their wedding was planned for May 21, 1859, at the Chapel of the Cross. But mere days before the nuptials, Henry was killed in a duel. He was buried at midnight in the churchyard behind the chapel, and the devastated Helen wore her wedding gown to the funeral.

Kirkpatrick from Off the Beaten Path, Mississippi.

It was a damp, dreary day in February and we were in the mood for an adventure. S. drove  us to Madison to meet the bride of Annandale. We found the simple brick church and we made our way over to the building to investigate.

If I recall correctly, the doors were bolted shut and we walked around the building and into the yard.

To those who thought I was making S. up, that’s her on the right! (S. saved me, remember?)

Visitors to Chapel of the Cross often report sightings of a sad woman clad all in white, sitting on a bench near Henry Vick’s grave.

Maybe it was Helen’s day off. We couldn’t spot a woman clad in white – but the moment we stepped out of the car we were swathed in a strange stillness that hung over the churchyard and the nearby lake.

So we explored the area, took pictures and jumped back in the car (well before sunset; it’s illegal to “prowl the cemetery after dark”) but I have to admit that we were a little spooked. I can’t report any strange sightings or noises, but the haunting silence definitely got to us. We were practically whispering to each other!

Got a spine-chilling story for us? Do share!

If you want to read more about the adventures of a Kuwaiti women living in Mississippi click here.

Brown University, Rhode Island

Thoughts in transit

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The panic of moving to Mississippi didn’t really set in until I was catching a connecting flight from North Carolina to Jackson, Mississippi. Don’t get me wrong, I was still thrilled about the adventures that lay ahead – but I was also finally realizing the magnitude of my responsibilities as a TA at a university. And after spending a few days at Brown University for my orientation, I became attached to that picturesque campus and was reluctant to fly to the South.

Brown University, Rhode Island

I had just graduated from university myself and was still in the student frame of mind. During my senior year I pretty much mastered the art of procrastination, receiving the Most Likely To Be An Hour Late and Still Think She’s on Time Award. I maintained my grades but I was apt to leave assignments to the last possible minute and spend my time dreaming of an ideal life where I had no lectures to attend or exams to study for. I was swiftly (in less than three months!) thrust to the other end of the spectrum.

I was dreading having to deal with students like myself. Unmotivated seniors who showed up to class with a giant cup of coffee and raccoon eyes – decidedly bored with the traditional classroom setting and restlessly anticipating the moment where they would don a swishing cape and save the world. I was also worried about teaching and my lack of experience. Throughout my time at university I worked as a tutor and writing center consultant, but TA-ing was a whole different ball game. Not to mention that my Fulbright contract said I’d be a TA (teaching assistant) but the host university informed me that I’m the only Arabic teacher on campus. I had to come up with syllabi and strategies with very little preparation. I was to teach and study at the same time, to volunteer and organize cultural events – I was to live with complete strangers for a year.

All those thoughts washed over me in Raleigh-Durham International Airport, where I felt very much alone for the first time since I left Kuwait.