Category Archives: People

Been a while…

09 Sunday Jun 2019

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James recently started writing again and has been pushing me to get back to it. After all, I have a lot of “spare time” on my hands. My last post was in September 2015 apparently. It is titled, “Rebirth of a Clipper“, you should check it out. We were only back in Canada a year and that was a HUGE project. I started back up with Nursing school again shortly after that post and well…I was pretty busy. So the blogging went on the back burner. I did finish Nursing school in May of 2017 and was able to work for about a year afterward before James started looking for another opportunity to move.

IMG_0677.jpegSo here we are, we’re in Utah now. I can never guess where we’ll end up next. I might as well be throwing darts at a map of the world because that would be about as accurate as any guess I might make. I recall vividly thinking I wouldn’t want to end up in Utah. “Mormon” hub and all. It seemed intimidating. After having the opportunity to visit 2 consecutive summers, the thought of moving here seemed much more exciting. Its been almost a year now in the State, though only 7 months in our first American home. I love the area we are in. It’s still developing but everything seems to be designed to encourage interaction between neighbours. Most houses have some sort of paseo that connects the front yards as well as communal firepits and parks in every corner. Then there are the people. They are friendly and talkative. This combination is the perfect recipe for fast friendships.

James has felt all these moves have been in most part a benefit for the kids and I can’t disagree. The move to the Middle East from Canada got our family back on track and helped us to focus on what is important to each of us. Moving back to Canada was an opportunity for the kids to see the family they hadn’t seen in 2 years and for Kirsten to really blossom in her art, something she just wasn’t getting overseas. Utah has been about Lilli. She has met “her people” here in the school theatre department. It has been awesome to see the success she has accomplished in this move. Jaron is trying to figure out his niche in Junior Highschool. He has some time yet before his dad gets the “itch” to find something new and then we’ll be off somewhere…wherever Jaron needs to be.

Refugee or Pioneer

24 Tuesday Jul 2018

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Today is Pioneer day and a holiday here in Utah. It marks the entry of the saints into the Salt Lake Valley and coincidentally the day I arrived home from my two year mission. It is an auspicious day, indeed. I’ve learned that some Utahns are near sick of the pioneer stories and one can hardly blame them. We tend to drag out the same stories year after year. It turns out there are many stories we’ve neglected as a result. If you are interested in Mormon history in the slightest I highly recommend the Pioneers in Every Land series on the Church history website.

That said, this is one of those traditional pioneer stories with wagons, persecutions, and walking… so much walking. I won’t apologize for it. This is a story of my direct ancestors. Separated as we may be by several generations their choices still reverberate through my life. Their stories are still very much mine.

Seviah Cunningham Egber

Five generations ago my parents were refugees. They’d been refugees before and they would be again. They were driven by mobs in Missouri twice. Homes were burned, crops destroyed or stolen, and they, their friends, and families harassed and forced at the point of bayonet into Illinois and onto the banks of the muddy Mississippi. It must have been a desperate sight, this beleaguered group of settlers spread out in hovels and makeshift tents, sick with cholera and malaria. One might be tempted to call them a broken people.

Their prophet leader was imprisoned on false charges in a jail poorly named, Liberty. In a cell too low to stand up straight, covered by thin blankets at night, and weighed down by the knowledge of his people being scattered and smitten by the hand of a wicked and unforgiving people he, Joseph, pled:

Oh God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place? How long shall thy hand be stayed and thine eye, yea thy pure eye, behold from the eternal heavens the wrongs of thy people and thy servants, and thine ear be penetrated with their cries? D&C 121:1-2.

God would buoy him up and he would emerge from that prayer and those six months imprisonment to lift his people from despair. The saints, as they were called, drained the mire and built a beautiful city, Nauvoo. My parents were there toiling to build Zion, a city of peace and prosperity where even the bells of the horses, they imagined, would ring with holiness to the Lord. In spite of the well known opposition many flocked to the city of the saints for a chance to live among them and worship the Lord.

In the midst of that town the saints would erect a temple. It was an ambitious enterprise for a people so poor. Yet, they were determined to build a House of the Lord. They were not content to wait till death to live with God, rather, they would invite Him into their city and into their lives. To the saints God was not an abstract idea or an impersonal being beyond the comprehension of humanity. Their God was a personal being, an approachable Father. Like Moses at mount Sinai or Peter on the water they felt called, and so they gathered. A swamp is no place for deity, only a temple would do.

Robert Cowden Egbert Sr.

This is where we meet my many-great grandfather, Robert Egbert, working on the construction of the temple. He was 24 years old. It is here, too, at the unfinished temple that he would meet 17 year old Seviah Cunningham. We know nothing of those meetings but we can imagine; Robert labouring under the humidity of the mighty Mississippi and Seviah in a full length dress and bonnet aghast at her perspiration. Did she carry water to the men building there? Or was it not such a Hollywood scene. Was her back bent with the swinging of a hammer, her hands blistered with the friction of a horse hair rope? Certainly, that relationship began with stolen glances and smiles. Perhaps they talked during breaks and meals about their ambitions and dreams. Undoubtedly, they spoke of this temple they built and of the lives they hoped to build with it. Good lives.

They were married in early April 1846. They’d finish that temple under guard and when it was done they’d walk away from it to become, once again, refugees.

You’ll need just a bit more context to really understand this story. The saints had been driven from one place to the next for over a decade and they had repeatedly sought redress and assistance from state and federal governments. Joseph Smith himself travelled to Washington to lay the problem before President Van Buren and Congress. It all proved futile. The federal government refused to intervene citing states’ rights and in this case the state was the abuser. There would be no assistance.

Joseph the prophet and his brother Hyrum the patriarch were soon gunned down by a wicked mob. So it was that the saints, broken and poor, streamed out of their beautiful city under the leadership of Brigham Young. They were heading west into Mexico and points yet to be determined. Such a venture would require money, of which, they had precious little. They were leaving behind farms and houses, shops and schools and a granite temple to be used to shelter farm animals. Though, the saints were not wholly friendless. Assistance came in a peculiar way.

The United States had declared war with Mexico and wars require soldiers. It just so happens that soldiers get paid. Thomas L. Kane, a Mormon sympathizer and by all reports an honourable and decent man, worked with John C. Little to convince President Polk that the Mormons would be better in the United States army than fighting against it. Polk would authorize the recruitment of a Mormon Battalion to fight in his Mexican American War. The proposal was made to Brigham Young and he, undoubtedly, saw the hand of God in the offer. About five hundred men were recruited and advances were made on their pay. Brigham promised the men that as long as they remained faithful none of them would be required to fight. They would, however, complete the longest overland march in US military history, from Iowa to San Diego, over 2000 miles.

Robert was among those five hundred recruits. He left his young bride at Council Bluffs in Iowa to await his return. It must have been a heart wrenching departure. So often in her short 17 years had Seviah seen her dreams snatched from her hands. At about five years old her mother died. A year later the family joined the Church in Oxford, Ontario Canada and soon emigrated to Missouri to join the gathering saints. By the time of Robert’s necessary enlistment she’d been a refugee three times and had suffered the loss, one way or another, of all her loved ones. Seviah’s father had tried to persuade her not to follow Brigham Young into the wilderness but her faith had outgrown her familial ties. She had left her family for Robert’s and like Ruth to Naomi had made covenants, “for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” Ruth 1:16.

Yet here at the edge of the frontier Robert had to leave her with only the hope of a distant reunion. We consider the story of Job and marvel at the faith required in the words “the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.” Job 1:21. Seviah, it would prove, had the strength and faith of Job. She would not wait for Robert’s return. She was going to Zion.

With the assistance of Robert’s brother, Joseph, she harnessed her oxen and prepared the wagon. She drove that team herself not as a refugee but a pioneer.

No one is all stoicism and strength. Those people don’t exist. So Seviah found herself somewhere on the prairies driving her oxen onward and losing a battle with a deep sadness. The tears that dropped from her chin and splattered on the reigns fell like silent prayers for relief. As she cried she noticed a man approaching the opposite direction and tried to hide her swollen face as he passed.

He hailed her and asked if she were not the wife of Robert Egbert. Surprised, she replied that she was. He handed her a letter from Robert which she gratefully accepted. She recognized Robert’s handwriting and cherished every word. The letter told her that he was well and would meet her at the Sweet Water River. She carefully placed the letter in her apron and drove on with renewed hope. Later that day Seviah went to read the letter again but it was nowhere to be found. It was a terrible loss but the letter was all she needed in a moment of painful weakness.

Robert and the rest of his Mormon Battalion remained faithful. by the time they reached the coast the war was over. True to Brigham’s prediction they never joined a battle. Their soldier’s pay sustained their families and supported the saint’s exodus. Released from their obligations they turned to Zion. Robert, I’m sure, was anxious to get back to his young wife and at last begin the life they had hoped for. He’d left her in Iowa, it would be a long walk. At some length he arrived at the Sweet Water River. A party of immigrants had also arrived and he thought to greet them before pressing on to Iowa where he was sure Seviah remained. Soon he saw an ox team that looked quite similar to his own. He tentatively approached the wagon and to his great joy found Seviah very pleased to see him.

Robert apologized for not having had an opportunity to write in the nearly two years they’d been apart. This naturally confused Seviah. She had received a letter and it had told her he would meet her here at this very river. Neither could explain it but they were both grateful for such a tender mercy.

Life would not be easy. Carving a livelihood out of a desert beyond all civilization must have been daunting. However, Seviah’s father soon joined them in their new Zion. Perhaps he had been inspired by his daughter’s faith. Their story doesn’t end here. Under the direction of Brigham Young they were sent on, some years later, to settle in California only to find themselves driven from that state too. Seviah and Robert would go on to have 8 children. The sixth of which would be my great-great grandmother Sarah Catherine Egbert.

We look back on these intrepid ancestors and think pioneer not refugee. We think builder not beaten and victorious not victim. Their lives were filled with hardship and deep sorrows but it seems they had higher joys. They drunk from bitter cups without in turn becoming bitter and their children’s children have reaped the benefits of their faith.

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Bibliography

Egbert, Seviah Cunningham. (Circa 1913). Seviah Cunningham Egbert Biographical Sketch. Dictated to Carrie Despain before 1913. (Manuscript). Church History Library, Salt Lake City.

Metcalf, Brandon J. (2018). Four things to know about the journey of the Mormon Battalion: An expedition of faith and sacrifice. Church History Department, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Accessed May 23, 2018 from https://history.lds.org/article/historic-sites/journey-of-the-mormon-battalion?lang=eng

4-generations-mother

We trace our lineage to Robert and Seviah through my mother.

My Father

17 Sunday Jun 2018

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Ronald G. MacDonald

Ron MacDonald Circa 1969

It seems to me that fathers are less easily forgiven than mothers. Carrying, birthing, feeding, and nurturing a child covers a multitude of sins, and rightfully so. My experience tells me there is a natural bond between a father and his biological children but that bond is much looser and requires, possibly, a greater degree of maintenance. Some of the very first memories I have of my father are of him secreted away in the basement of our home fashioning Christmas treasures for his children. I still remember the wooden castles I received from him along with the workable miniature catapult and the buckets of plastic warrior figurines.

I also remember camping trips where my dad would roll out his bedroll in the back of our station wagon while I slept in a tent, sometimes alone, but often with a sister or two. I have a memory of playing something like Trivial Pursuit around a campfire with him and my sisters (Robyn and Alison). He’d ask a question and we’d guess the answer and I wanted so badly to get those answers right. I think he sensed this in me and so for Christmas one year I received the full 15 volume set of thin Charlie Brown’s Cyclopedia. I read them all. Also on that camping trip I recall the battery died in our station wagon. We were stuck, in my child’s mind, in the middle of absolutely nowhere on a lake with no other people along a dirt road very seldom travelled. To me we were doomed. My dad, it seemed, was not much bothered and we just waited to hail, eventually, a passing pickup that could give us a jump.

My dad was brave, and smart, and kind except when he was not. Once I was fighting with a younger sibling and my dad intervened. Those interventions were always loud and scary and painful. I was getting older though, my early teens or preteens, and I left the house in a rage. I was never coming back. I wandered the neighbourhood for a time before I realized the futility of that activity and returned home determined to have it out with my dad. I was becoming a young man that could nearly look my father in the eye and naively believed this made me something of an equal. We stood toe to toe in the living room and exchanged a few heated words. I said to him “what will you do dad, hit me!” He might have but what I recall was far more powerful than that. He escorted me to his bedroom and sat me down on the edge of his bed and then lowered himself to my level. He spoke for a while. I can’t say I recall all the words he said but I do recall these words “Son, I love you.” That was enough for me and we embraced. I think that day was the day I left my childhood behind.

Some future reader may think to judge my father but I caution you. Today we tend not to strike our children and we think that enlightened. Maybe it is. My father came from a different time. He was raised by grandparents that fought in the first world war and by a mother who would not have the support of his father at at time when society was not very accepting of that. He would have the benefit of a step-father from about 6 to 16 before an untimely death. So, my father learned to work hard and to do hard things. He was and is a brave man, indeed, he was endowed with a bravery I think seldom seen today. He saw something good in the two missionaries that came to his door when he was 16 and he pursued that goodness. It took him to Idaho and Utah and away from everything he knew at a time when that separation was severe. Our modern electronics have gratefully robbed us of that type of sacrifice.

The first time I recall seeing the ocean it was in Prince Rupert, British Columbia with my dad. The summer I turned fifteen my dad loaded me into the car for a week and we drove out to Prince Rupert together. We stopped at every creek and lake we could find to do some fly fishing. We took our time there and back and we caught one lousy fish. He’d want me to be sure to say that he was the fisherman that landed it. I’m sure he was. It turns out we are terrible fishermen. I’m okay with that. We only ever saw the ocean from a distance. My father is a brave man but also wise. He hates the ocean, and heights, and anything fast. For all that, I’ve no doubt, he’d dive in, or climb high, or hold on if it were ever necessary.

A few short years later we made a similar trip. This time we drove north to Fort Nelson, British Columbia where we would spend some time visiting my sister Robyn and her growing little family. On our way home we were camped for the night and were chatting at a picnic table. This would be our last trip for some time. I’d received a mission call to Southern California. Our trip was winding down and we could both sense that this would be the end of an era. I would be gone for 2 years and accessible only by letter. I recall with clarity his words to me. “Son, you don’t have to go. You know that you can stay here and that would be okay.” It was a tender moment. There was no way, truly, that I could stay and be happy with myself. He knew that and so did I but what he communicated to me was that he loved me no matter where my choices would take me. I did not need to earn his love.

My father is not perfect but he is the perfect father for me. He taught me by example to give freely and love openly. At odds with the generation that raised him he learned to be vulnerable and has passed that vulnerability on to his children. There is no love without vulnerability. If you asked for my father’s help he would be there, to those that would borrow of him he’d freely give. To me he gave time and his ear. To his children, his grand children and his great grand children he’ll be a patriarch worthy of emulation.

I love you too, dad.

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Dad and Me. Venice Italy, November 2, 2015.

My Mother

14 Monday May 2018

Posted by in I miss..., People

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Charlotte MacDonald – Circa 1969

My mother, at about 4′ 10″, is a small woman. She is also the strongest person I’ve ever met. I don’t use that saying as a rhetorical device or a platitude. At least, in terms of character, I’ve never met a stronger person. As a child it seemed to me that my mother was always dealing with one health problem or another. She managed her diabetes, had her gall bladder removed and battled problems with her thyroid. In addition to all of that she had 9 children. I was the sixth. Of my younger siblings I can only recall the birth of the youngest. In spite of her health issues and her many children I have never considered my mother to be sick or sickly. I do recall her taking naps off and on through the day but without fail when she was needed she was there.

My mother was the one to hold back the hair of a sick child and stay with them throughout the night. My mother would wait up for her children to arrive home late at night. More often than not we arrived home after curfew and we might get a reminder of that but it was always tempered. Those reminders were generally accompanied by a sandwich or some other food at an hour meant for sleeping. Her children were not acting badly they were just hungry or tired. I never once felt unloved by my mother. This includes the time she sucker punched me in the head. As a teenager, I was trying to kill a younger sibling for one reason or another and my mother put herself between the two of us. I’m not a big guy but compared to my little mother I was large enough. I could have easily brushed her aside and she knew it. That fist shocked me into a remembrance of who I am. That fist, believe it or not, was delivered with love. I believed it then as I do now.

If strength is observed in our actions and attitudes then patience is a clear indication of a depth of strength. My mother is masterful in this realm. I am certain that every one of my siblings could share many stories of the patience exhibited by our mother. In fact, I hope that they do. It deserves to be legendary. I’ll provide a single example. My mother came to pick me up once and deliver me to work. She was running a little late and so I was agitated that I would be late for work. I was a new driver but she vacated the driver’s seat for me. I was in a hurry. I was driving too fast and she reminded me to slow down and take it easy. I did not. In my rush I was changing lanes and while shoulder checking did not notice the cars ahead of me come to a stop where they generally would not. I remember my mother shouting my name in warning as I hit the breaks too late. I drove the car into the back end of the one stopped in front of me.

Except in that warning call my mother never raised her voice. We traded insurance information with those involved and I helped the person ahead of me clear their car from the road. They had been pushed into the rear of the person ahead of them. Their car was useless. Ours, however, was still road worthy enough to drive away. As I look back on this it strikes me that I climbed back into the driver’s seat and drove the rest of the way to work. I don’t recall a single word of reproach from my mother. There may have been some but they were delivered in such a way that I don’t recall them. Instead, I remember a mother who trusted me to learn from my mistakes even when those mistakes were fresh. I’d been upset with my mother for being late. Even after the accident and the time it took to deal with that I arrived at work on time for my shift. I’d been callous with her, judgemental and impatient. In the face of all of that she had been the opposite. I’m sure there have been times my mother lost patience but they were and are rare.

My mother is a faithful woman. She is believing and a practitioner of the art of Christianity. If ever there was a disciple of Christ it would be my mother. As a child the things I recall most about my mother is her willingness to help those in need. Even when, as a teenager, I thought our needs were greater than others my mother served. Sometimes I think people have taken advantage of her kindness but I’m not sure she would ever see it that way – or if she did she served them anyway, and that is all the more impressive. When my mother passes away, and I hope that is not yet for a long long time, she will enter heaven having worn out her body in service to others. I know that there have been times in my life where things could have ended in disaster for me had it not been for the prayers of my mother.

She is a religious woman but she never once pushed that religion on me. I remember when I turned eight years old and was baptized she told me that her work was done. She jokingly said that I was now responsible for all my choices and she could rest. It was a joke but it has stuck with me and in someways it wasn’t far from the truth. Her children are a stubborn strong willed bunch that have made their fair share of mistakes. To maintain the type of patience she exhibits one would need to adopt an attitude that would allow you to turn things over to the Lord.

I recall with fondness seeing my mother often reading her scriptures faithfully at the kitchen table. She would write out versus on sheets of lined paper and post them to the refrigerator door. She rarely said much about them but in my frequent trips to the fridge I was fed physically and spiritually. She wrestled me out of bed each morning as a teenager and drove me across town to our little chapel where I attended early morning seminary. The car heater never seemed to work in the winter but we went anyway. I never once felt compelled to go but I also never felt it was a burden for my mother to take me. God will not force anyone to heaven and my mother is a godly woman.

As she ages others might complain that she can be a little didactic in her conversations. My daughters don’t much appreciate her encouragement to conform to her understanding of modesty. I think a little of that is borne out of a sense of guilt that she should have spoken up more often with her own children. Mom, your actions have always spoken more clearly than your words and the fruits of your life’s work will continue to blossom and grow for many generations. You are loved and will be hailed by your posterity as a chosen and valiant daughter of God.

I can think of no greater testimony of the virtue of my mother than the lives of her children, especially her daughters. Without fail she has produced eight incredible mothers. My sisters’ children are all well loved and wonderfully raised. They are all good and wonderful people. I see a little of my mother in each of them. In many ways I had nine mothers. The Lord knows I needed them all just to become a remotely worthy man.

Thank you mom, for all of us.

Lanka “Respected Island”

04 Sunday May 2014

Posted by in People, Traveling

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50LKR Sim car from Customs

50LKR Sim car from Customs

I dreamed of traveling to many places while living in the Middle East.  Though WE didn’t get to very many places, we did get to a few.  Most recently we returned from Sri Lanka.

We had a very quick, 7 day trip.  A place like Sri Lanka really deserves more time to see all the heritage and cultural sites, most places do I think.  We flew overnight and landed in Columbo from Sharjah at 4:30 am.  We traveled on the cheapest flight available at the time…not even a ridge on the head of the seat to offer some kind of support while trying to sleep sitting up.  Though the couple next to me had no trouble finding a comfortable position while taking up half of my seat as well #skinnygirlproblems.

Our first stop was the Sigiriya Rock Palace in Central Sri Lanka, a 3 hour drive.

Sigiriya Rock Palace

Sigiriya Rock Palace

Thankfully we didn’t have to drive.  Hubby likes to fly by the seat of his pants, but this was my trip and I wanted to be able to see the sites and relax in between.  By using a tour company we not only had someone to drive us around, we had someone to hire licensed tour guides and explain to us the unspoken expectations of tipping as well as other tricks and advice.  As it turns out our early flight was a blessing putting us in Sigiriya at the base of the Lion Palace for opening time at 7:30am.  A perfectly coolish time to walk through a garden and climb 1200 steps into the blazing sun.

Before heading to our hotel in Polonnuraw, we went on a village tour.  It was an

Sigiriya Village tour

Sigiriya Village tour

interesting, bumpy ride behind a Bullox cart to an oversized pond (or small lake).  We crossed the lake sitting on a box balanced on two canoes (it was much studier than it sounds) to a small village.  In the village we were welcomed by a lady who preceded to make us a traditional breakfast.  She showed us how to thresh and winnow the rice to remove the outer husk, a job that surely keeps her young (it was much harder than it looked).  The rice we milled into flour, and then into flat bread.  She also showed us how to make a coconut samol that I will try to replicate one day because it was so delicious!  Local fruit is typically served as ‘desert’ at every meal, or at least every place where we ate.  From there we took our first and only ride in a Tuk Tuk back to the starting point.

IMG_7646Our first night in a hotel was at The Lake in Polonnuraw.  We had a wonderful nap, followed by a swim in the pool over looking Bendiwewa Lake and a firework like display of lightening.  Another great thing about purchasing a tour is having the meals taken care of. Breakfast and dinners were all included, and at the same time every day (breakfast at 7:30-10:30am and dinner at 7:30-10:30pm).  Drinks and lunches we had to purchase, but most of the hotels had complimentary bottled water in each of the rooms (Slightly Chilled at Sri Pada being the exception).  Wifi was available at most places, even Slightly Chilled, and so we were able to Skype the kids at home almost every night.

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Sacred site. Remove hat and shoes.

The next morning we toured the Ancient City of Polonnuraw.  The ancient city is quite spread out with much to see.  Our travel assistant, Farzan, drove us with our licensed guide by the highlights of the city, hopping out at each point to get a closer look and then quickly back to the comforts of air conditioning.  Many of the ruins are in repair, but still considered sacred and so you are expected to remove your shoes and hats.  Even though I wished everyday to be wearing my flip flops, I was grateful for sock covered feet when it came to walking barefoot on hot sand and brick to get a closer look at the sacred relics.

IMG_7712Our next stop was the Cave Temple in Dambulla.  Another 364 stairs to the top of this shrine.  There were many monkeys here and so once you reach the top and are asked to remove your shoes it is better to pay the man a small fee to guard you shoes (lest the monkeys take them in jest).  This service is offered at many shrines, and sounds like good advice for the price.  Especially if you hope to find your shoes when you return.

We had a very quick stop at the Spice Garden in Matale, which was more like an hour long sales pitch.  Though it was interesting to see so many familiar spices in their naturally occurring form.  The tour ends with a rather vigorous chair massage and a trip to the on site pharmacy to load up on “All-natural” goods.  The massage can be a bit awkward…just warning you.

I forgot to mention the peddlers.  The majority don’t immediately hock their goods.  It starts with “hello, hi there”, “look at this historic piece I have here with me today”.  Our guides, trying to help them out I suppose, use their goods as examples to explain the heritage of the place we are there to see.  The thing is, once you touch it, make eye contact, speak to them… you’re hooked.  They are relentless, persistent, desperate.  “Special price for early morning costumer, first costumer, just for you” or so the pitch goes.  One man we met in the Ancient City of Polonnuraw followed us around 3 different relics until we finally gave in.

Our second night was spent at Hotel Suise in Kandy.  A beautiful heritage hotel

Hotel Suisse Patio

Hotel Suisse Patio

situated on the largest man made lake in Sri Lanka.  There is a sidewalk around the entire lake that looked like it would make for a wonderful evening stroll.  Running short on cash we thought we would explore to find a bank and walk around the lake.  I don’t think we made it 50m before something came down on us the sounded like a sudden rain storm, but was actually a different sort of literal storm.  I was only struck once by oozing bird dung (if you can call it that), but the cackling and the sound of IT falling above my head was enough to turn us back to the hotel until morning.  I’d rather take that on in the day, than to blindly wander under the trees.

Back at the hotel we treated ourselves to a 2-hour, Ayurveda oil massage.  I had been warned by a friend that they aren’t shy about nudity there, but I might have forgotten to warn James.  Before the massage began I was asked to strip to my panties…while she waited…in the ‘room’ (curtained off area – there were 4 beds and a steam bed in one approx. 15×15′ room).  She started with pouring, what I can only guess, about a cup of oil on the top of my head and scrubbing into my scalp and hair.  Then I was asked to lay on the massage table.

Proof of our narrow escape.

Proof of our narrow escape.

Face up.  No sheet.  Naturally I tried to cover myself, but she needed to massage my arms.  So I closed my eyes and tried to relax.  I managed to do alright, until I turned over onto my belly and the flying ants came in through the open window.  I was so oiled up, slippery and sticky that when the ants landed on me they started biting immediately as they surely were beginning to drown.  Not so relaxing after that.  For the rest of the massage the ants were all I could feel or think about – yuck.  My skin itches just thinking about it now.

Since we didn’t make it to the bank the night before we made another attempt to find one in the light of day.  The sidewalk, and lower leaves of a number of trees along the path we pelted in white.  Not their usually colour I assure you.  We did however make it to the bank and back without any incidents.

Chanting at the Sacred Temple of the Tooth

Chanting at the Sacred Temple of the Tooth

Before leaving Kandy we had the opportunity to see the Sacred Temple of the Tooth.  We had a guide here as well who helped us push through the crowds of people and explained different rituals that we were witnessing.  I came to a profound realization here that kind of saddened me.  First let me explain that I find the legends of Buddha interesting as he plays a big part in the culture and history of the country we were getting to know.  I would like to think that I am respectful of that and what that means to people who believe he is more.  What saddened me was as a tourist, and having no religious purpose in the temples we were walking through, I was taking away from the hundreds of people that were there to worship and pray.  We pressed through thick crowds of people waiting (patiently or impatiently I’m not sure) to give offerings behind rows upon rows of people with their cameras held over their heads, snapping away.  If our places had been reversed I think I may have been frustrated and offended at the spectacle I saw before me.  And that’s my two cents.

Monk in the Botanical Garden

Monk in the Botanical Garden

We also spent several hours walking around the Botanical Garden in Peradeniya.  It was a nice change of pace.  No guides.  No peddlers.  Just us exploring and walking around on our own.  We ended up walking on a side path under these huge trees that were clearly home to hundreds of giant fruit bats.  Though it was mid-day while we were there, we were able to see quite a few flying through the trees, and hear them chattering back and forth to one another (or in their sleep).

From the Botanical Garden we began our long 5 hour trek (by car) up the mountain side, through multiple tea plantations, to Dalhousie, our base at Slightly Chilled Hotel before our long climb (by foot) to Adam’s Peak.  The way is not marked clearly, and we had to stop for directions multiple times.  Another perk to having a travel assistant…he speaks the language 🙂  When we finally reached the hotel we had just enough time to find the starting point, eat dinner and head to bed.

Adam's Peak from Slightly Chilled

Adam’s Peak from Slightly Chilled

Farzan wanted to see us off, and drive us to the starting point (he’s such a nice guy).  2:00am was hard enough for us, and we hadn’t been driving all over the country side the day before.  Despite me texting him to stay in bed, he got up anyway to look for us but we were already gone.  A group started walking from the hotel at 2:15, and it just felt right to leave with them.  For the first hour it was like walking up a market road.  Stores lined both sides of the path, and the incline was gradual with a few steps here and there.  Then things start to get a bit more serious and you begin think you’re in it now.  Steep, ladder like stairs give way to another short stint of gradual incline…for a short time anyhow.  The stores continue to follow the path all the way to the last couple hundred stairs.  5200 we climbed in all, with a time of 2 hours and 25 minutes from our hotel.  We took brief stops to keep

The crowd enjoying the rising sun at the top of Adam's Peak.

The crowd enjoying the rising sun at the top of Adam’s Peak.

momentum, and grab a drink or a snack before carrying on.  I tried not to sit, or the temptation to lay down would surely have over come me.  When we got to the top it was crowded already with people who had clearly woke up hours before us.  We got our bearings, tried to get a look at the footprint (another sacred shrine inundated with tourists), and then settled down to watch the sunrise.  We managed to find a spot on the edge of the building, with nothing to obscure the view.  Once there, the space around us filled in quickly and the last few hikers that tapered in to find a spot to watch were forced to get comfortable on the steps below.  I had read that the sunrise, though breath taking was only half of the view.  We got our fill, and moved away to let others get a better look.  Climbing against the crowd who were beginning to make their descent, we moved to the side opposite of where we had been sitting.  There, cast a top the clouds, was the shadow of Adam’s Peak.

The shadow of Adam's Peak

The shadow of Adam’s Peak

The descent only took a little over an hour and a half at a run, hop kind of pace.  We probably could have come down a lot faster if we weren’t having to jump the railings back and forth to get around some of the older, slower pilgrims.  The nice thing about coming down from the summit in the daylight was seeing the view and the beautiful landscape we had struggled up in the darkness.  The bad thing was not being able to walk properly for the 3 days afterwards.

Breakfast was ready and waiting when we returned to the hotel.  A quick, cold

Ready for a swim

Ready for a swim

shower and we were on our way to the southern province of Sri Lanka.  Our 4th hotel was the Hotel Chandrika in Tissamaharama.  This place was quite beautiful.  I probably even like this hotel better than The Lake in Polonnuraw.  Not much to do here but relax, swim and recoup for the upcoming activities.

The next morning was another early one.  We were to meet the safari guide at 5:30am to take us to Yala National Park.  Being as we were leaving before breakfast the hotel packed us a nifty little ‘breakfast’ box to take with us to the park.  We saw Water Buffalo, Peacocks and Peahens, Crocodiles, Storks, Ravens, and a small herd of

Sunrise through the trees.

Sunrise through the trees.

Elephants.  We had heard there was a leopard along one of the maze like roads, but after sitting for 30 min … quietly…in the heat, we gave up on waiting for it to come out of the shade.  Smart cat.  Yala National Park was one of the areas affected by the Tsunami in 2004.  We stopped to have breakfast at the site of a Tsunami memorial and past rest house.

The next hotel was Dickwella Spa and Resort, right on the beach.  Another beautiful place with ocean views over dinner and breakfast.  The only issue with this place was the amount of noseeums or ninja mosquitos that clearly made a smorgasbord of my legs.  That evening we had a late evening out to see the turtles at the nearby Turtle Conservation Beach.  The people here were so very nice, and all volunteers.  They employ local people (through donations) who

Skypeing with the kids

Skypeing with the kids

once poached turtle eggs to feed their family to now defend the turtles and protect the eggs against other poachers.  The sand was very dry and kept collapsing when the Green Turtles would dig their nest, but we did get to see two turtles struggle to get back to the ocean to rest before trying again.

Our last day in Sri Lanka was fairly relaxed.  The only thing scheduled for the day was to catch the train from Matara at 2:00pm.  We relaxed around the pool, and skyped with the kids until checkout.  We arrived in Matara much earlier than anticipated and so we stopped at a beach for lunch and to explore.  Down near the end of the beach we noticed an island with a bridge to it and decided to explore to see what it was.  To us it looked like a resort of some kind.  At the foot of the bridge there was a peddlar selling flowers (flowers I’ve only seen as offerings to Buddha).  This man shoved a small bundle into James’ hands and into mine, then demanded money.  When I tried to give it back he would not take it.  I tried to put it back on his cart and he dropped his price.  So we walked across the bridge with the flowers to discover that it was a shrine.  We walked around, took a look, gave the majority of the flowers to people there intending to worship and then headed back to shore.  I kept one flower for myself and immediately felt selfish and awkward walking across the bridge.  I felt like a thief, or like someone would think I was one.  I needed to get rid of the flower.  I tried to offer it to one little girl, but she wouldn’t take it from me. James had better luck handing it off to her than I did.

We got to the train station just before 2:00pm and had to sit on the walkway to wait. The train is used like a metro for most of the locals to get between the big centres and all the places in between.  Looking at the train car in front of us, loaded to over flowing with people standing, or sitting in the isles and the doorway, the windows open, children piled on laps, I felt a solid lump in my throat and wondered how much we were going to enjoy this ride to Colombo.  For 6 hours.  As the train rolled away our guide walked us to the other end of the platform, where the luxury, air conditioned, wifi car we would be riding in was waiting for us.  The ride was obviously more enjoyable than anticipated and we arrived in Colombo well rested.

We arrived at The Full Moon Hotel just in time for dinner, which was mediocre at best.  Of all the places (even Slightly Chilled, which has an excuse for being in the middle of nowhere) this was my least favourite stay.  The layout of the hotel is quite pretty, and everything is easily accessible.  The dining area is right on the pool deck (pools were usually closed by dinner time) with a cool view of the waterfall that flows into the pool.  We had a nice big room with a full kitchen and living room, even an extra cot.  The a/c however, only seemed to work in our bedroom in which we were not alone.  Upon preparing for bed I tripped down the small step into the bathroom. When I turned to look at the step there was a giant spider.  A penny sized spider would have been huge, this guy was the length of James’ ID card (which he kindly chucked at me to put next to it for a comparison in the photo).  Sitting on the toilet I did not take my eyes of it in case it were to make any sudden movements.  To my chagrin a poor little fly got to close and the spider leapt into action.  Good thing I was already on the toilet.  The spider wasn’t the only one in there with me, as I sat on the toilet I noticed a cockroach running along the bottom of the wall where it meets the floor.  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  Taking a towel with me, I pressed it into the crack below the door in the hopes that it would prevent them venturing to far while I tried to sleep.

Thankfully it was a short stay in this hotel, as our travel assistant must have been glad for as well.  Most of the hotels offer driver’s accommodations.  These accommodations are typically shared, with several men bunking in a room.  At this particular hotel, there was no a/c in the driver’s accommodations and our driver opted to sleep in his car until he was needed to take us to the airport.  [Insert disgusted look]  2:00am drop off at the airport for our short/long journey back to the UAE.  Glad to leave this hotel behind us, sad to leave so soon.

If we ever have the opportunity to go back, James thinks he would like to travel the entire island by train relying on TukTuks and buses to get to hotels and tourist destinations from the train stations.  I suggest if you’re going to go that route that you are a stronger negotiator than my husband or you’ll surely spend a lot more money then you intended.

Northern Musandam: Wadi Khasab

09 Sunday Jun 2013

Posted by in Oman, People, Traveling, wadi

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Days of rest are many here in the UAE.  June 6th is as of now (May 20th of this year) a national holiday here in the UAE called Al Isra’a Wal Miraj in Arabic, الإسراء والمعراج.  It is taught in the Quran to be the day that the Prophet Muhammed traveled to Jerusalem from Mecca in one night and ascended to heaven to speak with God.  So with yet another holiday suddenly upon us we quickly packed our camping gear together and headed for the mountains of Oman for our last possible chance to sleep comfortably under the stars.

Following the coastline.

Following the coastline.

We departed University City around 3:00pm, and arrived at the border crossing by about 4:30pm.  No trouble there and we were on the road.  The road past the border winds closely along the coast with the Arabian Gulf stretching out on one side, and steep mountain cliffs on the other.  With no clear road signs (or signs with familiar names) we missed the turn off to the Sayh Plateau and stopped instead at the Acacia Forest.

Acacia Forest near Sall Ala

Acacia Forest near Sall Ala

At 7:30, it was still +43C so we decided to pass up the temptation to set up camp here and head to the mountains where the temperature would likely drop to a more tolerable level.  We drove back along the road to a small village that was located where we had expected the turnoff to be.  Our trusty arab speaking ‘cousin’ made quick work of getting us on the right path after flagging over some local men and asking for directions.

IMG_0884

Sunset approach up Wadi Khasab

The road up the mountain was unpaved, and steep but not nearly as soft and sandy as the mountain road we attempted the last time we were in Oman.  The view was beautiful as we watched the sun disappear behind the mountains…I wish I could better portray in photographs the beauty we witnessed.  It took approximately 25-30 minutes to reach the camping site confirmed to us only by the presence of other tents visible in our headlights.  We searched among the rubble of an old settlement to find relatively flat ground free of rocks for pitching our tents.  James and Jeremy set to building a fire from the dead branch of a near by Acacia tree, while us ladies set out to assemble our shelters.  Dinner was quick and conversations short as we were all off to slumberland by 10:30.

My kids were focused on their devices most of the drive out, missing all the beautiful scenery, and when night fell that did not change.  They quickly ate their dinner and hurried off to watch movies and play games on the iPad in their tent.  Jaron must have been watching an action movie, as the sound of rattling guns and people yelling kept me awake late into the night.

I couldn’t have been happier with our chosen camping spot (unless I had gotten more sleep) when morning came and I had a perfect view of the sun rising up over Jebel as Sayh at 5:30 in the morning.  I quickly dressed and emerged from my tent to go about taking care of the morning business.  A few shots of the campsite in daylight, and then a trek up the trail to take in the view.

View of camp and Jabal as Sayh from the hiking path.

View of camp and Jabal as Sayh from the hiking path.

The temperature was perfect, and the hike was a little treacherous to be climbing in my flip-flops.  I was soon joined by our two little “cousins” Miriam and Megd, and we explored the area for cool rocks while we waited for their Mom to join us.  As we saw tents collapse we headed back down the mountain for a quick breakfast.  We were off by 8:00am, back down the mountainside to find our way to Khawr an Najd.

Mountain path to Khawr an Najd

Mountain path to Khawr an Najd

Khawr an Najd is the only beach bay accessible in the fjords by car.  To get there you must drive up a road cut into the side of the mountain, much like what we drove up Wadi Khasab to the camp site on Jebel as Sayh.  The view was spectacular, and  the beach…less impressive.  The amount of garbage on the beach and floating in the water was enough to convince us to start home and find a suitable beach along the coast.

Just past Khasab we pulled into a large gravel/sand lot next to a bluff named Bassa Beach.  By this time the outside temperature was back to +40, and the water was just cool enough to give relief.  We had pulled up on the beach near a group of young teenage boys who were jumping off the bluff into the ocean.

James and Jeremy jumped off the cliff with some Omani boys.

James and Jeremy jumped off the cliff with some Omani boys.

No surprise then when James and Jeremy disappeared to investigate did we see them a top the bluff with this group of boys.  One by one they flung themselves from the top.  Bridget guessed it was at least 40 feet to the water.  James claimed a ‘lost’ t-shirt he found lying on a rock near the bottom of the bluff, and both received injuries from grazing the sharp rocks on their way back to beach.  The younger kids were quite happy to just look for shells on the ocean floor in the clear blue water.  2 hours here and then we were ready to move on.

Crossing the border on the way back was as quick as one could expect, though the lineup for those traveling into Oman must have been quite a wait.  We made a good decision traveling the day before the holiday instead of on the holiday instead.

Enjoy some more photos from the trip.  I apologize for them seeming out of order.  The photos are from multiple cameras…

Adventures of a different sort

15 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by in Oman, People, Traveling

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Our typical sort

This last Saturday we set out on our latest adventure.  Our friends the Andersons, Palmers and Queros joined us on a dhow cruise along the northeast coast of Oman, Musandam. A dhow is a “A lateen-rigged ship with one or two masts, used in the Indian Ocean” though ours was powered by motor not the wind. We purchased vouchers from a site called yallabanana.com.  Yallabanana is much like Groupon selling deals to various vacation and entertainment fun in the UAE.  Yalla in Arabic means “Let’s Go.”  Now who couldn’t love a name like that.  I’m always a little nervous about sites like this but I’m happy to report that everything went swimmingly.  We paid a total of 550AED (150 CAD) for passage on the dhow for Lisa, Me and the kids.    No buyers remorse here; we had a great time.

Dhows

Our dhow was much like these, two stories with plenty of shade. We took this picture as we pulled out of the dock.

Kirsten overboard

Kirsten leaps overboard to join us in the water.

The day trip included a cruise up the coast line where we anchored off the shore of what looked like a nice beach.  I can’t say for sure because we were having too much fun jumping and diving from the boat and snorkelling to bother with the beach.  The water was beautifully warm at the top 5 feet or so.  If you swam deep enough you entered a crisp and cool layer of water – perfectly refreshing.  We spent several hours in the water before climbing out for a buffet lunch on deck.

I wish Lisa had the camera pointed at Jeremy when I snuck up underwater and tugged on his fins.  He thought a shark had him… his face must have been priceless.  We took a “banana” ride with the kids behind a little speed boat.  It was slow for the adults… and Kirsten but the little guys really enjoyed it.  Jaron was adamant from the time we left the house that he would not be riding on the banana boat.  I’m not sure what he thought it was but he quickly changed his mind when he saw the other kids riding along behind the speed boat.  Jaron really surprised me though when he jumped from the second story of the dhow.  All the kids had a great time leaping to the waters below.

After lunch we were back in the water which was generally beautiful.  Though as I was holding onto the boat I caught a whiff of something putrid and turned my head just in time to see what I assume was toilet waste ejecting from a hole in the side of the boat (It may have been the kitchen wash water – somehow that makes me feel better about it).  After throwing up in my mouth a little I made sure to give that section of the water a wide berth.  Indeed, I was happy to get underway shortly after.

Jaron calls to thank Yallabanana for the great deal.

Jaron calls to thank Yallabanana for the great deal.

Leaving our beach port we headed out to sea to do a little fishing.  No fishing poles just line wrapped around a spool.  Sadly, we were all skunked.  Had I brought a cooler with me I may have stopped at the fish souk back at port before we headed home.  Without a cooler I didn’t want to risk driving an hour in the heat with a fish in the trunk.  The dhow departed around 11am and had us back to port about 4:30pm.  For the price this was an excellent trip – the company expedited the boarder crossing into Oman for us and provided a great trip minus the close encounter of the second kind.  Yallabanana turned out to be a great way to get a deal.

This may be our last adventure with the Andersons as they are leaving the UAE at the end of June.  We won’t soon forget them and their 4 beautiful kids.  As we headed out on the boat we played a great game of balancing on one foot on the deck of the boat.  We followed that up with an excellent game of Simon Says.  This is how I will remember the Andersons, full of laughter and fun.  I’m not sure when or if we’ll ever cross paths again in this life but my life is richer for the time they gave to my family and when all I have left in life is memories I will cherish the thought of them.

The kids work to stand on one foot against the waxing and waning of the deck.

The kids work to stand on one foot against the waxing and waning of the deck.

 

 

 

 

Another sort

With this adventure behind us it was time for another of a different sort.  When we first arrived here I was intrigued by a man I saw each Friday at church, Solomon.  He dresses in the traditional dress of Pakistan, the Shalwar kameez.  This, of course, is not an uncommon thing to see in the UAE but certainly uncommon to see at our church.  His English is extremely limited.  For some reason he seems to have taken a liking to my family.  He greets us each Friday with a smile and a hug.  The hugging and cheek kissing is awkward for us westerners and likely always will be.  Yet, the greetings and farewells continue each Friday.

I’ve learned that his home is in Azad Kashmir, Pakistan.  He has been in the UAE for 4 years and though he claims he is in his early forties I suspect his age is closer to the mid fifties.  It is likely he does not know his own age.  If he is in his forties his life is etched into his visage. He works for less in a month than I make in a day and lives with thousands of others crammed into a labour camp barely more than 20 kilometres from my front door.

On Tuesday night I set out to pick him up from that camp and bring him to my home for dinner.  As I turned off the highway I left behind the BMWs and Maseratis for long convoys of buses packed with tired dirty men heading home from their labours.  The roads were suddenly less well tended and thick with men walking their dusty shoulders. I stopped at a grocery store I believed I was supposed to meet him at.  There were so many men in the store the building clearly did not have room to receive them.  They milled about the entrance a great swarm of sweating humanity.  I reached Solomon on his cell phone and learned or guessed really that I was at the wrong store.  The name above the door did not seem to fit the sound coming through the phone.  I approached a few men and asked if they could direct me to a store by the sound I parroted.  I must have got it right as they directed me further down the road.

Solomon was his usual smiling self when I saw him.  I expected to pick him up and head back to my place but he directed me on to his home.  Entering the small parking garage beneath the apartment building I wondered what may be in store for me.  I followed Solomon to a door that I would come to learn led to the complex manager’s office/home.  Removing shoes we entered a small windowless room with a high ceiling.  Two men sat on couches dressed in white shalwar kameez smoking and talking.  They stood to greet me as an honoured guest and invited me to sit.  I took a quick inventory: old apartment fridge, small television tuned to a cricket game, mismatched couches and between them a coffee table with a single stone ashtray in its centre.  Oddly very little ash and not a single butt littered the tray though the men smoked.  The bed against the wall was neatly made with an assortment of blankets.  The room was small and humble but it was clean.

My hosts offered me some coffee or tea which I for perhaps the first time in my life declined with a sense of sadness.  I worried about being rude.  One of the men had a better command of English for which I was glad.  When he offered water I happily accepted as I wished to be polite.  My happiness dwindled as Solomon reached into his pocket and withdrew five dirhams.  He handed them to a young man who left the room and quickly returned with a bottle of water and a few dirhams change for Solomon.  As I drank this gift I learned that the man with the better command of English was called Ajaz and the other, Araf, was the manager of that housing complex of 700 men.  I have probably butchered the spelling of their names.

I soon learned that Ajaz and Araf would join us for dinner.  Actually, I was not sure whether I was giving them a ride some other place when they first piled into my car or taking them with us.  I simply started driving and when they made no gesture for me to take them anywhere else I took them home with me.  They had never been to University City and I took a little delight in pointing out the various colleges.  They peppered me with questions about the cost of tuition (for which I did not have an answer) and how much money a professor made (a question I strained to answer without answering).  As we approached the gates and security guards I wondered if I might have some strange explaining to do.  Araf asked through Ajaz if we would have problems at the gate and I assured him we would not.  I held my breath as I slowed and waved to the guard then breathed as he waved me through.

When I entered the house I was keenly aware of the shoes sprawled in the hallway, the dog hair in the corners and every smudge on the tile floor.  I worried over the meal.  I doubt I would have felt less awkward had it been the Sultan I was entertaining.  Jeremy Palmer joined us for dinner too, for which I am deeply grateful.  These men had a deeper command of Arabic than they had of English.  Jeremy was able to converse much better with them.  We learned that Ajaz and Araf both had 4 children (two girls and two boys) back in Pakistan.  They return to Pakistan once or twice a year to visit. Araf has been here for 15 years and Ajaz I believe 10. I can hardly imagine what that must be like.

I cajoled Jeremy into coming with me on the return drive.  The return was much like it was at first.  This time I found myself in the small room with Jeremy sitting next to me. Soon there were two bottles of water and cans of orange drink on the table in front of us.  Sitting there next to Jeremy I felt like a missionary all over again.  Jeremy remarked the same though there were no gospel discussions.  We chatted the best we could as we finished our water and then made to leave.  They walked us to the car shaking our hands and wishing us well.  Solomon leaves for Pakistan at the end of the month.  His mother is very ill. It is a strange friendship we’ve struck and I am still working through this experience.  I think I will try and learn a few words in Urdu so when Solomon returns in a month I can greet him in his own language.

Solomon and the family