A blog about my travels around the world, in search of wild parrots, great paddling opportunities and incredibly eclectic travel experiences, I try to make a difference by connecting people with nature, people with other cultures, and people with themselves by sharing my stories.
Feasting: a part of any good New Year celebration.
So we have now entered the Year of the Monkey, with the Chinese or Lunar New Year having taken place last weekend.
It's at a different time of the year from the standard North American New Year, which is set on January 1 of the Gregorian Calendar, and the traditions are also very different.
There are similarities, of course. Music, food - LOTS of food! - and dance seem to play large roles in most new year celebrations. However, while in Canada, New Year's Eve tends to involve partying and and New Year's Day a family dinner (often planned around football bowl games on TV!) Chinese New Year's celebration even in Vancouver is very much more a family event. Traditional Chinese foods and family gatherings are still a big part of the day in many Chinese families in Vancouver. Of course, there's also the big New Year's Day parade in the city's Chinatown district. I've attended that, and it's always very colourful and plenty of fun.
I'm usually at home that time of the year, so we usually mark the occasion by cooking an Asian meal of some sort, and watching a movie with some kind of Chinese/Asian theme, sometimes even a show that has the theme of whatever animal that year is (monkey, tiger, dragon, etc.)
However, I have also been fortunate enough to celebrate New Year in Thailand. There, it's called Songkran, and it takes place in the first half of April. Again, it involves feasting, music, dance, and general celebration.
One of the interesting "traditions" that has evolved there the last several years is the use of super-soaker squirt guns to soak revellers...or even those not partying.
It all started with the Buddhist practice of sprinkling a blessing of water on someone's head when they enter a home or other area that's engaged in Songkran celebration. Somewhere, one year, someone got the idea squirting people with super soaker water guns was quicker. Now during the days leading up to the celebration, you risk getting soaked by strangers wherever you venture. (If you're a traveller with expensive camera gear, you might want to leave it in your hotel room if you want to avoid getting it wet.) Harmless, but sometimes annoying.
When not eating at Songkran, I was busy watching traditional Thai dance.
While I was there, I spent some time wandering around Wat Pho, one of Bangkok's premier temples. In addition to it being famous for its reclining Buddha, this temple is also the go-to place to learn the techniques of Thai massage, and earn certification in the practice.
Within the temple grounds, there was a market with food stalls. I also spent some time in an outdoor area along the Bangkok waterfront, where there were more food stalls (well, I did say there was always plenty of food eaten at new year's celebrations), dance and other artistic and cultural displays.
That's right - more food! Thai fish balls at the temple.
That's the only time I've been out of Canada for a new year's celebration, so my experience is limited to three cultures: Canadian, Chinese (as practised in Canada), and Thai.
I have eaten some East Indian food at a Sikh temple while researching a magazine piece for food on Vaishaki or Baishaki Day, which is the East Indian New Year's Day which takes place in April. But the research was done in November for a spring publication, so that's the closest I've come to "celebrating" Vaishaki (which is also a harvest festival.)
There are many other Asian cultures in Vancouver aside from Chinese, Thai, and East Indian, including Vietnamese. The Vietnamese New Year or Tet Nguyen Dan (Tet for short) is very similar to the Chinese New Year, in that it is also a "lunar" new year.
While the food may be different, the aspect of celebrating by feasting with family is a strong thread in that country's culture - as is the case with Mongolian, Tibetan, Japanese, Korean new year's celebrations. All those cultures use the same basic lunar calendar.
Whatever culture you're in, however and whenever you like to celebrate a new year, I hope the Year of the Monkey is a good one for you.
Dad fixes the tent, our first ever camping trip in Ontario. He passed away while we were both on camping weekends.
A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about odd travel traditions. Many of us have them, and we look foward to practising them every time we leave for a trip.
However, there is one rather odd and somewhat sobering travel tradition that seems to pop up in my life with some disturbing frequency.
It seems people in my immediate family often choose to die when I am away on a trip of some kind.
That's not to say every time I travel, somebody close to me passes away. If that really was the case, I might stop travelling. Or at least give it some strong consideration.
I guess it could be seen as just one of those weird quirks that happens because I'm a travel writer, and I'm probably away travelling more than the average person.
However, this disturbing trend developed before I started travel writing seriously.
In 1992, my father passed away while I was on a weekend camping trip, at Bear Mountain, near Dawson Creek, B.C (yes, there is a real place by that name - not "Dawson's Creek' - and it's been around for a long time). It happened on a Saturday night, the night before Father's Day. We didn't have cellphones then, so no one could get in touch with me until I returned home Sunday afternoon.
Close to 10 years later, my father-in-law passed away just as we were heading out to enter Lakeland Provincial Park, Alberta, for a four-day canoe trip. If we had been a few hours earlier heading out, we might not have known for four days.
That one was particularly tough. Mom had been ill for quite a while with Myelodysplastic syndrome and had gone into the hospital in Toronto a few weeks before. She never got out.
It was tough for many reasons. An only child, it meant I had no immediate family left - no parents, no siblings - in some ways, I'd never felt more alone, even though I had other family members to help me get through my grief period.
An egret wading in the 10,000 Islands. I shot this image the morning my mother passed away.
What made it more difficult was the fact I was so far away - and I was only halfway through the trip, as I'd made plans to spend a week in the Florida Keys following the paddling trip with Crystal Seas Kayaking. I had interviews lined up with some parrot sanctuaries and tourist facilities, lodging arranged for, and flights booked. And I had to complete the second half of my journey with a heavy heart.
I know many people would have returned home as soon as they found out. However, the life of a freelance travel writer sometimes demands that you make sacrifices, make choices, that people who are just vacationing, do not have to make.
That's one of the things the average person probably does not consider when they imagine what a travel writer does for a living. Once a schedule of accomodations, meals, and other elements of a trip have been set up with tourism boards, a travel writer has an obligation to fulfill those, particularly when the rooms have been set aside, and usually paid for by the boards - and they won't be getting a refund for them.
Also, if a story has been already promised to a publication, the writer needs to try to meet that committment. Leaving a destination, then trying to return later, rarely works out. While most editors and most tourism boards will understand in the event of a death in the family, they may still hesitate to work with you going forward.
I certainly would never judge or criticize anyone in a situation like this, no matter what their choice. It is their life, their decision.
However, that kind of decision is never easy to make. I struggled, and in the end I chose to stay and try to meet my commitments. I know that's what my mother would have wanted me to do, had she been given the choice, and knowing that, the choice was wee bit easier than it might have been.
It certainly does bring a different feel, a different perspective to a trip, though.
This odd trend happened again, just recently.
Margaret and David, on their wedding day.
On the second day of my recent trip to Mexico the first week of May, I received a text message from an aunt in New Westminster, B.C. My uncle had passed away in a hospice, the victim of colon cancer. I hadn't actually had any contact with him much since 1971. My dad's younger brother, he moved out west suddenly back then, and shunned contact from the family.
When I moved to Vancouver in 2003, I did try to connect with him, actually spoke on the phone once, but he made it clear he really didn't want any contact. I repeatedly sent him Christmas cards with notes about meeting for coffee, but never got a response.
Then just after Easter, I got a call from his wife, Margaret, telling me he'd been hospitalized. I had a chance to finally visit with him then, for an hour or so, and I was grateful for it. A few days later, he was placed in a hospice.
Three days before I left for Mexico, a phone call came, telling me he would do well if he made it to his birthday, May 8.
Off I went to Mexico, and then came the news he had passed away two days before his birthday.
Again, that odd travel tradition had reared its head.
As it turns out, the memorial service is scheduled for the day I leave for Ontario for three weeks, so it's like a double whammy. I won't be able to attend that service.
My memories of David go back to when I was a four-year-old spending most of my days at my Grandmother Geary's house, as both my parents worked. Three memories stand out specifically.
David (who was still living at home then) had a pet bird named Joey, a budgie. So I guess my fascination with birds (like parrots) began at a very early age. That was the first pet of any kind I ever encountered. I used to sit there talking to Joey every day.
Not me - but it could easily be. But I'd be marching. (Photo via Webshots.com)
The second memory that springs to mind involves music.
When I was four, I always used to watch the old black-and-white Popeye cartoons; he was the first "super-hero" I cheered on. In many of the old 'toons, whenever Popeye would eat his spinach and get ready to beat the crap out of Bluto or some other deserving bad guy, the John Philip Sousa march, "The Stars and Stripes Forever," would start to play. So I just loved that song.
Turns out David had a copy of it in his collection of marching music. He would play it for me often, and I would march around the room in time to the music, later on adding a toy trumpet to my performance, which became a regular occurrence, at least once or twice a week.
Robin Hood blows his horn. (Image from http://benito-cereno.tumblr.com/)
The third memory includes some physical mementoes.
When David married Margaret (at the age of eight, the first wedding I ever went to, and I remember stuffing myself with sausage rolls at the reception!) and they went on their honeymoon, they brought me back several pennants from their travels in the Williamsburg, Va. area.
They also brought back a cow horn, hollowed out and complete with a mouthpiece to blow on.
It became a go-to prop for when I played Robin Hood, and later a "powder horn" for playing Daniel Boone/Davey Crockett/Hawkeye.
I still have it, and I still have the pennants.
I'll never forget any of those memories. Just like I'll never forget David.
So, what's the point of all this, in a blog that is supposed to be about travel?
It's this: Make sure the people in your life that you care about - family, friends, partners - KNOW that you care about them. Especially, try not to leave to go on any trip on bad terms with the important people in your life. God forbid, but they may not be there when you get back.
Life is a journey, but it's the people we meet along our path during that journey that help to make it so rich and rewarding. When one of them leaves, that journey seems a bit less rich.
While you're pondering that, remember this: You never know when someone you care about will be taken from you.
It contains elements of humour, science, environmentalism and even a pinch of soap opera.
The book is based on the Vancouver professor's summer-long Odyssey around Canada and the United States to try to see 34 different species - plant and animal - that are endangered, or at the very least, threatened.
Depending on where you look, you may find slightly different meanings (some more convoluted than others) about these two similar but different terms.
To put it simply, according to FactMonster.com, "extinct" means the entire species has died out and can never return; "endangered" animals are those in immediate danger of becoming extinct; "threatened" species are likely to become endangered in the future.
The idea for this journey germinated while he was teaching a freshman course in environmental sciences at Langara College. Students kept asking him if the slides of endangered species he was showing were his photos, and he kept saying "no." That prompted him to plan a trip around the two countries to try to see as many species as possible, given time and distance constraints.
A daunting task, when you consider he planned to make the 114-day journey with his wife, a toddler, an infant, and their dog. In a second-hand van. And poor wifi access for much of the trip.
The tale starts out a little bit slow, a little bit ho-hum, but picks up the farther south he goes down the U.S. west coast. His sense of humour starts to seep out and the story begins to become much more alive and personal when he shares his inner feelings, frustrations and doubts about his family relations (we all have difficult family relations), particularly when they stop in his southern Ontario hometown. I can personally relate to some of the angst he describes, having experienced similar emotions regarding my own relations and situations with my parents.
Those are not the only situations I could relate to, either.
At one point, he describes an issue their van has with respect to keeping bugs out. They bought it second-hand for the trip, but it's not designed to sleep in when you're camping in an area that is insanely muggy and hot - and there are mosquitoes galore. They needed fresh air, but didn't want the bugs. So they rigged up some mesh screen with duct tape across the passenger and drive windows, rolled them down and voila! Instant screen door. Of sorts.
The Divine Ms. K and myself did the exact same thing back in 1996 when we drove across Canada in a second-hand van. Necessity truly is the mother of invention. Often a source of duct tape sales, too.
And I get the feeling he was practically channelling me, in the following passage from the book:
"...we stop at the Ojibway Prairie Complex in Windsor, Ontario, to take a quick peek at this unique habitat. However, the park interpreters are rude and lazy - too busy stuffing their faces with coffee and donuts and being miserable to discuss the ecological importance of the park and its locally endangered species. Completely disappointed, we leave without even walking a trail. I quietly fume about those useless assholes all the way to Florida."
Yep. That would be me. Except I might not me so quiet about it...I'd probably be ranting about it out loud, then posting it on Facebook and Twitter.
I could really empathize with MacDonald regarding his fear of grizzly bears in Yellowstone, a fear made worse by the fact his family was with him.
Although they did not see every species on the original list (he saw 27 of the 34), he did not really expect to; animals like Florida panthers and Arizona jaguars are very difficult to see, and no one really knows if the ivory-billed woodpecker still exists in southern forests, or if it has gone the way of the Carolina parakeet, a now-extinct parrot species.
As a conservation biologist, he has some very interesting views on the whole global-warming issue, views that many probably share, as that issue is not as black-and-white/cut-and-dried as people on both sides of the divisive issue might have us believe.
After completing his journey, he leaves us with a message of hope for the future of our endangered species, a hope he himself feels. His views are quite different from some environmentalists, although they are tempered with reasonable skepticism and a recognition of why things are the way they are in the battle for the environment.
Time will tell if that hope is misplaced. Like the author, I hope it is not - and that his next journey of this nature holds true for him, and for our planet.
Although he did not see any gators while paddling in Florida,
June is always a very difficult month for me. My father's birthday was today, June 4. Father's Day is also in June.
It just so happened, by father passed away on the eve of Father's Day, 1992.
So you can probably understand why June is not really one of my favorite months.
For that matter, the whole April-May-June quarter kind of sucks, from where I sit.
Mother's Day is in May. My mother's birthday was April 3. I put her to rest on April 5, 2007.
Suffice to say, I'm always glad when we roll into July.
So what's this doing in a travel blog, you may ask?
Well, like many people, my first memories of travel involve traveling with my family. As an only child, that meant jumping in the car and driving somewhere with my mom and dad, or sometimes, just with my dad.
Dad and I did a bit of travelling together, just the two of us, as I was growing up. Just us guys, hangin' out. It was pretty cool, actually.
My very first "road trip" took place when I was seven years old: my dad and I drove from Newmarket, Ontario to Niagara Falls. I remember anticipating the trip for weeks before school ended. Then, the second week of July, we were off.
I distinctly remember looking forward to not just seeing the falls, but also looking forward to eating a hot dog by the falls - which I did. I've eaten many, many gourmet meals over the years, but none more memorable than that one. Eating a hot dog (with mustard and relish), standing by the railing looking at the falls with my dad, the memory will never fade.
To quote that old beer commercial, "It doesn't get much better than this."
Our road trip took us across the border into New York state and into Grand Island. Why there? Because my dad was taking me to Fantasy Island.
I'm not talking about the one populated by Mr. Roarke and his sidekick Tatoo, but rather an amusement park with a decidedly western theme, rides, the whole deal.
In the early 1960s, a Saturday morning TV show on the Buffalo NBC affiliate featured hosts and a studio located at Fantasy Island. The hosts were dressed as cowboys, and they always plugged Fantasy Island in between the cartoons they showed.
Three-year-old Cowboy John, ready for action.
Like most six- and seven-year-old boys, I loved the idea of being a cowboy. My dad decided that summer was a good time for a father-son bonding experience (although no one labeled it like that back then) and we made our plans.
I loved it.
I got to spend time with my dad, went for a Mississippi paddle wheeler ride, visited an old "saloon," went for a stage coach ride with real horses (I kept hoping bandits would try to rob us like the brochures said they sometimes did - so I could save the day like Ralphie in A Christmas Story - but they never showed). The day was capped off with a live shootout in the western town streets.
I remember much more about the trip: about teasing my dad when he had more spaghetti spots on his shirt than I did, following dinner in an Italian restaurant...drawing superhero pictures on paper in our motel room...just hanging out with my dad. It was just so cool.
However, we didn't do another multi-day father-son trip for another five years, when my involvement in the Boy Scouts of Canada, coupled with three summers attending Camp Richildaca, motivated me to convince my dad to go camping with me.
He eventually acquiesced, and camping then formed the basis for many of our family holiday travels for years to come, at least until I became a teen-ager and just didn't hang around with adults any more.
Dad adjusts the tent flaps, first camping trip, June 1968.
My most memorable camping trip with him took place the first summer we camped, in the summer of 1968, when we spent a week in Algonquin Provincial Park. I camped, hiked and paddled there many more times throughout the years, but that first trip was special.
During that trip, he taught me how to play poker, at our campsite picnic table, using match sticks as chips.
We hiked, we played catch, we went swimming in the lake, roasted marshmallows over a campfire at night ... if it sounds like pretty idyllic stuff, that's because it was.
What I really remember is my dad being sick the second half of the week, but he wanted to stick it out for me as much as he could, so I'd have a good trip, a good memory.
I think it meant a lot to him, because he never got to spend much time alone, doing things with his dad. He was trying to give me what he had missed growing up. So despite his cold, he sucked it up and slept in a tent for the entire week.
After I went off to college, my parents divorced, my dad eventually remarried. However, they both began to travel internationally much more as I finished university and became more of an independent adult, with my own life and my own travels to plan.
My dad visited places like Florida, Greece, Turkey; my mom journeyed to Florida, Hawaii, the Caribbean, Colombia, Venezuela, Brazil.
So you can see I came by my love of travel, my wanderlust, quite naturally.
Sitting at the top of Victoria Falls, Zambia, Africa, 1993.
I never did get to travel internationally with either parent, which in some ways, is very sad. They were both still alive when I began to travel outside North America. My dad lived to see me take only one international trip, though. A year after I adventured in Belize for two weeks, he passed away.
His legacy for me became part of an amazing trip I took in Africa a year after his passing, as I used most of my inheritance to pay for a six-week odyssey through six African countries.
So even in his passing, even though he was gone, in a sense, he was still travelling with me.
