PONDERINGS
The average number of flights I would take: 37. That is three flights a month on average (not including layover flight patterns).
My lifestyle was intertwined with flight deals, travel planning, scoping stories internationally, making itineraries to visit new contacts for documentaries, and daydreaming of being dropped in a new environment for me to explore…
“As a guest I want to offer you a chai, but my wife is the one who makes it...”
Again he paused, gaining his breath. With his eyes still connected directly to mine in mutual understanding. He stated, “I am sorry I cannot give you anything.”
Suddenly, I felt the resentment from the previous night recoil. I had a choice, I could choose to further harm myself by letting what happened shut me out from all of the positive experiences in this area, or I could view what happened as a learning lesson and move towards the good.
in Kolkata (formerly known as Calcutta), India there stands the historical and cultural landmark for many students and intellectuals – Indian Coffee House. With its close proximity to Presidency University, the café is a popular spot for university students both past and present. Founded in 1876 in Kolkata, the café was created as a place for artists, writers, poets, political figures, and creatives to congregate and connect.
It took very little convincing for me to check out the coffee house while staying in Kolkata. The cafe itself holds a significant place in history as a space for creatives and intellectuals to meet, so it was the perfect spot to meet renowned Italian Poet, Franca Mancinelli. It also seemed fitting since Franca and I originally met organically at a cafe in the center of Kolkata days earlier.
We sat down amidst the converging conversations occurring in the two story coffee house, and discussed Franca’s poetry residency that she was completing at the time.
Why did you choose Kolkata?
Kolkota beckoned to me. I’m here for “Chair Poet in Residence,” a one-month writing residency organized this year for the first time.
How would you describe your poetry?
I’m mostly a translator of images that have lived inside me for long time. I almost always write about metamorphosis between human beings and natural elements. Love is metamorphosis, the main transformation through which our life passes. While writing, I come back to a kind of original unity. It’s something which belongs to us, yet which lies beyond our individual identity, our “human contours.” We can experience it every time we let the stream of life flow through us.
Who or what influences you?
I could say, simply, life. I started writing when I was eleven, in small notebooks and on any piece of scrap paper that I found. For me, writing was a way of trying to make what was happening to me, what I could see from my bedroom window, come to a halt and be saved. I filled some boxes in my closet with these writings. Then, when I was around seventeen, I stopped. Life was more interesting to me than the feeble traces left on those sheets of paper. During my first years at the university, a traumatic experience forced me to travel inside myself, back to my childhood. I came back to writing and found, unexpectedly, that what I had experienced was engraved in words, shining and mysterious. Now I was free to say anything, even what I had locked up inside my teenage diaries. I had, at last, a language that protected me. I could bare myself while remaining clothed.
Franca Mancinelli at the Indian Coffee House in Kolkata, India.
As a solo female traveler, have you experienced any challenges in your travels that a male might not experience while traveling alone? I think my friends and family worry more about me when I am traveling alone. I mean, it can be scary, and sometimes you worry. Before coming to India, I read some travel guides that warn women not to travel alone, but I have found that here in India there is an ancient sense of hospitality. I have been reminded from people welcoming me here in Kolkata that “a stranger is a gift from God.” I have often found people here happy to help you, give you directions, or offer a sign of hospitality with a smile or cup of chai. Actually, in some situations, I have wished I were not a woman, were not being seen as a woman, but those moments are redeemed by others in which I felt extraordinarily welcome as a human being, moments that were like celebrations of being alive in the same place and time.
Do you think Kolkata lives up to its nickname: “The City of Joy”?
Yes, a city of joy, a city founded on joy, on a kind of daily miracle. Maybe it’s because so many people have moved to this city without possessing anything, looking for a possibility to live. And the city is nourished by this basic strength, this vital energy. When you walk in its streets, you sense that everything is possible, that you can find the power to face everything. The people who live in the streets are your teachers. The city is built on them, as on indestructible foundations. I remember a woman sitting alone on the sidewalk. She was performing a kind of solitary ritual at the feet of the passing crowd, next to the endless, poisonous traffic. With her hands open like two bowls, she was lightly touching the ground and then holding them up to the air, as if collecting the invisible sacred dust of life and bringing it from the earth to the sky, from the sky to the earth. While walking in the streets of Kolkata, one can experience a mysterious, unexpected balance. In some moments, life in this city is so hard that you start wondering how it is possible to live here, and as soon as you reach this point, beyond your limits, all the hope and energy that you have lost will be returned to you in a unpredictable way—and even more than that: as a kind of gift, a grace.
What a beautiful way to describe the city. I love the idea of balance.
This balance between destruction and creative sources is very important to me. During this period of my life, I have been trying to recognize myself in a body and in a place. I have been trying to stand firmly on the earth, with both feet, yet I always find an earth that is collapsing, fault lines that are opening, destroying everything in which I have trusted and thought that I had built. My recent book, translated into English by John Taylor as The Little Book of Passage, is all about this long struggle. When I arrived in Kolkata, one of the first images of India that appeared to me, in the trip from the airport, was a little plastic colored statue of Ganesha, on the dashboard of the taxi. This god has one foot on the earth and the other in the sky; he can keep his balance despite all his weight, with the lightness of a motionless dance, with those sweet female eyes in an elephant face—he expresses both power and fragility.
I’ve been fascinated by the imagery surrounding the Hindu gods. Have you been influenced by Hinduism in your writing at all since being in India?
This is my first time in India, and the first place for me is Kolkata, the city of Kali. The apartment where I’m living is in Kalighat, just one and a half kilometers from Kali Temple. Kali is often depicted with a bloodstained mouth and a skull necklace. She is a strong goddess, angry and violent, able to destroy and kill. I think that I’m here, in Kolkata, because I have to learn from Kali to direct my destructive strength, not inside me, against myself, but rather outside, to remove evil that approaches my life and thus to protect myself. Indeed, there are matters that need to be destroyed, so that life can be born and be freed. In contrast, in Christianity, we have the Madonna, the Mother of Jesus. The Virgin Mary is a sweet and loving mother. A mother who welcomes the mystery of life, a mother who knows sorrow, a mother with tears, who can always love and forgive. A kind of complementary—reverse— image of Kali. In Greek and Latin mythology, there were some strong feminine figures who were warriors. But with the Christianity, they had to disappear. The Madonna became the feminine model of a way of being. If we compare Mary and Kali, we can have an idea of two different cultural and anthropological ways of being. Mary cannot express any anger or violence. The only image of that kind of power is when Mary crushes the snake (evil) with her foot. (But she does this with a rather peaceful expression, almost without realizing what she has done.) Losing that kind of aggressive strength, which is in Kali, means losing a vital feminine part of us. This is probably what society has asked us to do. Not only a society with Christian roots, but also a Hindu society, I guess. I have the feeling that here in Kolkata one can pray to Kali, but easily forget that Kali is still living in every woman. But if I think again of Mary, her strength also comes to mind. It’s just a different kind of strength, founded on resistance and compassion. Actually, the two most famous images of Kali and Mary are similar: Mary holding her dead son on her knees (the Pieta) and Kali standing on her dying husband Shiva.
I have dedicated to Mary, and to her connection with my grandmother and a place near my hometown, a prose text translated by John Taylor. It is titled, "Maria, Towards Cartoceto". To complete this polyptych of feminine identity, I will now do the same with Kali and Kolkata.
To read Franca’s insightful poetry, check out here The Little Book of Passage (available in English and Italian).
Interview made in Coffee House, Kolkata, January 2018, and revised by the author in Santa Teresa di Gallura (Sardinia), August 2018.
Want to visit Indian Coffee House? Use the map below to take a closer look!
“Mzungu Mzungu!”
My running stride shortened as I pivoted on the dusty road. Since I was the only foreigner in a 30-kilometer radius, I knew that the little voices calling out, in unison were directed at me. I had become accustomed to being referred to as a “Mzungu” during my time in Tanzania. This term is usually not derogatory or accompanied with a negative connotation, but is simply a Swahili word referring to a white person or foreigner.
In this instance, the said foreigner was a six-foot, blonde, female running on the perimeter of the western corridor of the Serengeti National Park in bright pink sneakers. As I turned around, I was greeted by five barefoot figures, no older than seven or eight, engulfed in a cloud of dust waving, smiling, and shouting out after me.
“Mambo?!” I asked as I stopped to greet them all.
The areas outside of the Serengeti and wildlife game reserves are very remote, mostly tight knit communities. I was staying alongside the small communities near the city of Lamadi while working on a short documentary to better understand the relationship between poaching and the young motorcycle drivers paid to transport the meat and ivory. Over the course of three weeks I had been learning Swahili, but my communication was still very limited. However, the older boys were eager to practice the handful of English phrases they had learned in school, and after I answered all of the basics there was only one question left.
“What music do you listen to?” The tallest boy asked while motioning to my headphones dangling from my neck.
During my time in Tanzania I had acquired a love of “Bongo Flava” music. This genre of music is an East African hip-hop style of music with notable influence from reggae, afrobeat, R&B, and traditional dansi. It is the type of music that omits a feel-good energy that makes you want to dance. Moments before this encounter, I was running to the beat of my favorite Tanzanian artist, Alikiba. Since I am always up for a dance party, I unplugged the headphones, and blasted one of his biggest hits.
We kicked up dust as our feet graced around in rhythm to the music. The older boys showed off in grandeur movements. The afternoon sun illuminated the smiles across our faces, and highlighted the beads of sweat forming on my own forehead. I swung around with the smallest girl, still holding onto my neck as I dipped and danced in joyous movements.
Photo taken by Tanzanian conservationists, David, while talking with Mama Akin and her nephew.
Moments before this mid-run interruption, I had been admiring the afternoon sun inundating my view into shades of tan. The dusty road, the dry bushes lining the perimeter of the National Park, the mud-built houses; all shades of tan. Typically, on my afternoon runs outside the Serengeti, I look out for the congress of Baboons that like to congregate near the road in search of food left out by the village. I have already been chased by these Baboons twice on my runs, and it is not a predicament you want to find yourself in (however comical it all may seem). In fact, it was not until today that I found myself in a “pack chasing predicament” that I actually enjoyed.
Suddenly, the song faded, and their faces looked earnestly up at me. The giggles faded, and I realized I had two options. It was then that I knew in my heart what needed to be done.
I slipped off my shoes, tied my pair of laces together, and slung my bright pink Nikes around my neck.
Crouching down in a starting position, the kids all followed suit, and I called out, “Moja…Mbili…Tatu!”
On “three”, we all took off running. My bare feet hitting the sandy dirt, engulfed in that same cloud of dust that was chasing me earlier. Arms pumping, knees lifting, and smiles spreading; we laughed together as the older ones ran with me for a few minutes longer, until they too grew tired.
Then off I went, barefoot and sprinting through the shades of tan.
“Coffee?” I asked while lighting the propane canister. The seven wilderness guides sitting next to me all nodded in exhaustion. After eight hours of hiking and leading groups through the deep rainforest of the Osa Peninsula in Costa Rica, they looked like they could use a coffee.
It had been exactly four months since I started working with a wildlife research team outside of Corcovado National Park. I was a 22-year-old aspiring National Geographic photographer living a wildlife enthusiast’s dream; leading primate surveys at dawn, meeting volunteers and research students from around the world, running on the remote beach, bonding with new friends on our campsite, and photographing one of the most biodiverse landscapes in the world. Yet there was a consistent pull from an untethered source that kept telling me to move on.
As we sat sipping our coffees and discussing the juvenile tapir that had walked across the campsite earlier, one of the guides asked me a question. “Why does your coffee taste special?”
“Because it’s not coffee,” I replied, “it’s a little cup of connection.”
I am almost positive he was referring to the fact that I had added coconut powder to the coffee, but the answer had surprised even myself. We laughed at the comical response, and the group conversation moved on to a subject that surpassed my level of Spanish at the time.
That response, that moment, was the start of the largest undertaking of my career so far. It was the conversation that culminated my years of drinking coffee, my love of coffee shops, my instinct to offer someone tea upon first meeting; it was the moment that helped me to develop the thesis for my feature-length documentary, The Connected Cup.
“Because it’s not coffee...it’s a little cup of connection.”
A documentary that encompasses the heart of coffee and tea as universal human connectors. The story led me around the world to film and to follow this unifying narrative. From the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro to the Sahara desert, in Italian cafes and the wild coffee forest of Ethiopia, the Costa Rican cloud forests to Japan’s serene tea farms, sharing coffee from a VW van in Colorado to a pot of chai on the streets of India, and culminating these connections amidst a matriarchal village in Kenya. Eventually revealing the true “connected cup” as clean-water.
As the director and creator of the documentary, this is more than a story to me, it is a tangible piece of my soul. The people, communities, and cultures represented in the documentary encompass every aspect of the true heart behind coffee and tea. These are the stories that remind me of why I started in journalism and documentary filmmaking in the first place. And these stories are the reason I continue to create.
To watch The Connected Cup feature documentary, choose your platform below!
After a rain-soaked section of the Appalachian Trail, I could think of nothing more inviting than a hot shower, a warm bed, and dry clothes. Before starting the approach trail of the A.T at Amicalola Falls State Park in Georgia, I had gleefully browsed through AirBnB for a unique place to sleep in the mountains after my short section hike.
What I found was a 15-foot converted shipping container nestled in the trees at Barefoot Hills Hotel. To say that I was excited to try out “tiny home living” would be an understatement. Living a minimalist lifestyle in an eco-friendly home has appealed to me in many ways, but I still have my reservations about feeling too confined in a space (especially since I work from home 80% of the time). Booking a place that is different from my own space, but that still has an element of “home” within it’s walls is important to me when traveling. The minute I walked into the recycled shipping container at Barefoot Hills, I knew I had found the perfect spot.
Take a 60 second look inside of this Eco Shipping Container converted into a tiny home in the mountains of Dahlonega, Georgia!
When I am looking online for a hotel room or AirBnB, I always jump straight to photos of the bed. The bed is the focal point of energy in a room, and its position in regard to the light, inches off the ground, and aesthetics can completely change the atmosphere. As you can probably guess, I am a light sleeper; which is exactly why I put so much time and thought into booking a room while traveling. In the shipping container, the lifted bed situated beside a sliding glass door with an abundance of natural light (and black out curtains for sleeping) was ideal.
The heating and cooling system in the eco-container was a little difficult for me to find a comfortable sleeping temperature, because the space heats up within thirty minutes of changing the temperature. I’m sure that I would have figured out the best settings for me after another night or two, but I ended up heating the space in the evening to 74 degrees Fahrenheit, and then turning off the system from 9pm to 6am. Usually I would be a little cold when I first woke up, but at certain times throughout the night I would be sweating. However it’s really not that surprising a small space gets hot quickly!
Actually, the most surprising aspect of the converted living space was the bathroom. It was so modern, and the shower had amazing water pressure and heat. I’ve bathed in more water buckets with a cup than most people would care to, so I don’t require luxury all the time. Although I definitely appreciate luxury when I can, and this tiny home was a luxurious experience.
Standing over the campfire with beads of sweat forming across my forehead, I was thankful for the setting sun providing instant relief behind the Acacia trees. Somehow the sun seemed to set faster in the Serengeti than back home. Thieving baboons circled cautiously around the perimeter of my tent and fire; most likely waiting for me to turn my back long enough to steal my precious stash of avocados. A rarity food item that I purchase in bulk when at the market in Lamadi.
I was cooking rice and yams over the campfire stove for dinner; just as I had for the past eight days. At this point, my Tanzanian friend and I were growing tired of starchy food, and craved more protein. Our diet for over a week while filming in the areas surrounding the Serengeti had consisted of yams, bananas, occasional avocados, rice, and ugali (a traditional cornmeal dough staple in Tanzania). As I was taking the rice off of the campfire, my friend came running down the dirt road cradling a live chicken in his arms.
“I bought hen! I bought you hen! I bought us a hen!” He proclaimed rushing towards me. My Swahili was very basic at the time, and while my friend continued to help me learn Swahili, he always made an effort to communicate in English.
Earlier this afternoon, before he left for the market, he promised to buy us meat to cook for tomorrow. I had envisioned him buying cuts of chicken or goat from the butcher for a barbeque. Without thinking, I had assumed the local butcher’s shop would be a separate person than the farmer who cared for the free-range chickens and goats. In this moment I realized that I was wrong. The Tanzanian equivalent of buying meat was not the same as my Western means of purchasing cuts from a butcher.
Running towards me in a cloud of dust, he exclaimed, “Kuku! Kuku! Kuku!” The word for chicken in Swahili, Kuku, was surprisingly enough one of the first words I had learned.
I don’t have the best Poker face, so my shock must have been extremely noticeable as he elaborated, “We will cook the hen tomorrow morning to eat for lunch and dinner.”
I was not delusional to the way meat appears on my plate. I grew up in a farming town, and was vegetarian for years because of it. I understand the natural cycle of life. However, the close personal proximity of killing a live chicken to eat for the next day was new for me. Even though I knew we needed more nutrition than rice to make it through the next 12 days, I couldn’t bear the thought of killing this chicken.
The hen’s wings were flapping in a fit of stress, and my heart hurt knowing her fate. Before my friend could place the chicken on the dusty ground near the shrubs, I rushed over to cradle her. To his amusement, I sat down to eat my rice dinner with the hen on my lap. As we sat by the fire scraping up the last of the rice from the tin pot, I felt the chicken’s heartbeat slow down to a calm state. She wasn’t the only one who felt calmer; sitting with her on my lap had given me a release from the week’s constant anxiety. I looked deep into the chicken’s eyes, and I knew what needed to be done in order for me to make peace with her being my dinner for tomorrow.
“He shook his head laughing as we retreated to our separate tents, he with a book in his hands, and me with a hen in my arms.”
I brushed my teeth and washed my face with the hen tucked under my left arm. She didn’t seem to mind that I had splashed a little bit of water on her feathers from the water spicket by the outhouse. My friend insisted that we leave the chicken in the car to protect her from the Serengeti’s night predators currently on the prowl around us. I had a different plan.
He shook his head laughing as we retreated to our separate tents, he with a book in his hands, and me with a hen in my arms. That night I fell asleep with the chicken at my feet inside my tent. I had woken up a few times to pet her throughout the night; hoping to provide her with the most love I could on her last day.
I knew I was a contradiction, sleeping next to my dinner, but it was important to me that the hen remained stress free. As we awoke the next morning, I begrudgingly handed the peaceful hen over to the village cook who had offered to prepare the chicken for us.
“Please do it quickly,” I said. “I don’t want her to feel pain or be scared.”
At first I assumed the cook found this request to be absurd, but he kindly invited me to take part in a Swahili prayer of gratitude for the life and nourishment of the hen. He assured me that she would feel no pain. After the prayer he cradled her and walked off. I couldn’t be around when she died, so I laced up my running shoes and went out along the outskirts of the National Park. Trying to make peace with this very first-hand experience of killing a feathered friend.
People around the world care for their livestock for years, and then have to kill them for food. As that thought crossed my mind, I realized that I might not have the right skill set to be a cattle, goat, or chicken farmer.
“Five hours later and I was faced with a choice: To eat my friend or not?”
Five hours later and I was faced with a choice: To eat my friend or not?
Subsisting on 1000 calories or less a day for over a week, swayed me to decide on the first choice. It wasn’t an easy decision, but the cycle of life left me with a deeper appreciation for eating local, ethically, and sustainably. A practice that I have brought home with me since my time in the Serengeti. I’m not a vegetarian, but when I eat meat I continue to know my source and research farmers.
However, it is still extremely difficult for me to eat “Kuku” to this day.
My short documentary directorial debut happened this October 2018 at the Wildlife Conservation Film Festival in NYC. The film “Boda Boda” is a look at the effects of wildlife poaching on the communities bordering the Serengeti National Park in Tanzania. Specifically the young “Boda Boda” (motorcycle) drivers who are targeted to transport illegal bushmeat and ivory along the Western Corridor of the Serengeti. I spent over a month with the community only 200 meters from the border of the National Park.
Serengeti National Park
It was a beautiful moment to hear the reactions of the audience members after the short screened. The ability to introduce the audience to the former poachers, park ranger, community leader, and the young boys fighting to end transporting ivory is a special aspect of filmmaking. It is why I fell in love with the art of visual storytelling. The responsibility to share a subject’s story with the world is an undertaking that I don’t take lightly. It is a driving force in my work to make people feel seen, heard, and valued when they are watching their story being told on the screen.
Fortunately for me, I also had friends in the audience, so it was extra special for me to be able to share my work with friends. Ask any artist and they will tell you that the support of friends, family, other artists, and really anyone who cares is the biggest compliment in the world.
Lena has been supporting me from the very early days of video storytelling! She also let me film a “Coffee Conversation” segment with her two years ago in NYC that you can watch here.
The hardest part about watching my own work is the need to critique and improve upon my editing or videography skills. This short documentary was edited a year before I began editing for my feature length documentary, so little things like the audio transitions and font/graphics for the captions really bothered me watching it back a year later. However, I was the only one who was criticizing the piece, and I began to look at it as a representation of how far I have come in my career and skills so far.
Answering questions after the screening.
Stale blue paint covers the walls. Even with my back turned to the busy street, I can hear gears change, engines exhaust, and the cars struggle to avoid the mud-covered potholes. It is nearing the end of rainy season here in Ethiopia, but the nights are still predictable thunderstorms.
Wednesdays and Fridays are fasting days in the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, with the exception of the 55 days after Easter. Fasting involves eating one vegan meal in the evening or any time after 2:45 p.m. I fast in solidarity while filming here. Which leads me to this moment in time- 5:15 pm on a Friday, in the far right corner of a local hole-in-the-wall restaurant, tears in my eyes as the shop owner protectively watches me from the kitchen window.
Pictured is the dish called Beyayinetu, meaning a variety of stews on a plate of injera. The middle left orange stew is Shiro.
The shiro and injera taste incredible, but it is not the food that elicits this type of emotional breakdown. This is the overwhelming feeling familiar with experienced, novice, and vagabond travelers alike. A feeling that is common amongst any person who has made a connection with a foreign place, community, or culture. Knowing that the moments are now memories. That no matter how many times one comes back, the place will never truly be the same as it was during the first experience.
Truth be told, the tears started forming as soon as I used my right hand to form the first bite of my shiro covered injera. It was in that moment I felt the end of my first visit to Ethiopia was over. My plane boarded tomorrow morning at 7 a.m and my bags were already packed in anticipation of the early morning wake-up call. I had said my goodbyes to friends in Lalibela, and had a heartfelt goodbye to a wonderful friend of mine this same morning. Muli had accompanied me for the entirety of my travels in Ethiopia thanks to Girma at Tadele Travel. We immediately became friends, and he was irreplaceable as a guide, photographer, and translator.
I laughed as the tears welled up in my eyes. Eating injera wasn’t the same without Muli to roll bites of the Ethiopian staple and casually start “friendship feeding” me. A traditional Ethiopian act of friendship called “Gursha”, when a friend, relative, or partner feeds the other person with their right hand during a meal. “Gursha” was lovingly forced upon me at every meal in the last 12 days by Muli or new friends met along the way. As a Westerner and a typically “personal space” oriented person, the first time Muli offered to feed me I felt extremely uncomfortable. I remember thinking, I just met this guy an hour ago and he wants to feed me? Is he serious?
“I just met this guy an hour ago and he wants to feed me? Is he serious? ”
And he was serious. Feeding a friend or family member is a beautiful act of hospitality in Ethiopian culture. As the meals followed, I became more and more adapt to “Gursha”. I even comically tried to roll a bite of injera to feed to a woman I met at a coffee ceremony in Lalibela. To the entertainment of the whole party sharing in the coffee ceremony, the “gursha” was more of a gesture than a proper bite of food.
As I sat in the two table restaurant, I was flooded with memories of the last three weeks. Flashbacks of dancing with the girls in Lalibela for Ashendiye, the long drive to Bonga listening to Teddy Afro, the selfless blessing placed on me by an elderly man outside the historic Saint George Church. Memories of the amusement on every Ethiopian’s face when I spoke Amharic, the priest in the rock-hewn church who prayed for my protection, the coffee ceremony shared with a famer’s family in the Gela Wild Coffee Forest. Sorrow accompanies these incredible moments by the realization that these memories are shared with people I may never see again.
That is the catch 22 that accompanies every traveler. To immerse ourselves in a culture, community, or even just a moment, and knowing that we take only our memories home. These experiences are laced with an immeasurable amount of knowledge, insight, inspiration, and happiness; it is the sole reason to travel. To acknowledge that the trip will eventually come to an end, but to live as if it never will. What a feeling to know that shared memories can be accessed at any given moment on complete opposite sides of the world by the people who shared in them.
That is one reason I believe our world is so drawn to photography. We are addicted to the concrete visuals that allow for us to relive those memories. Even when it is not our own memory captured on camera, we can, as viewers, imagine a feeling or a memory accompanied by a photograph. Pictures instantly remind us of the smells, weather, faces, and voices encompassing the image.
After a taking a photograph, I regularly write down any conversations or senses experienced in that moment. An attempt to remember that moment as intensely as possible. I realize that I can never truly relive the moment, regardless of how accurate my information may be. However, by attempting to do justice to the past, I am reminded to be present. I travel to be aware of living in the now.
And sometimes “living in the now” means crying into a plate of Shiro.
As a multimedia journalist and documentary filmmaker, I am fortunate enough to combine travel and work in my life. My first trip to Morocco in 2017 was specifically for filming. I stayed in Fez, Tangier, Merzouga, the Sahara Desert, Casablanca, & Marrakech. For any first time or solo travelers planning a visit to Morocco, this will provide the insights I wish someone had told me beforehand.
Around Morocco Trips is run by a Berber friend of mine named Mbarek. He is incredibly knowledgable and proud of his country and Berber culture. I highly recommend traveling with them to Merzouga into the Sahara Desert. You will stay at a camel house in Merzouga, and a nomadic campsite in the desert for a few nights. Take a look here http://www.berbercampmerzouga.com Be sure to ask for Jimmi the Camel to accompany you on your trip, he gives the best hugs!
It’s customary to tip almost everyone, but don’t feel like you have to give big tips. Most locals tip 5 Moroccan dirham at a café, 15-25 to a taxi, and 2-10 Moroccan dirham to any kid who helps you find your way in the medinas.
There are great rock climbing routes in both Todra Gorge and near the Atlas Mountains. I didn’t get to experience it for myself, but I met some Aussies who raved about it!
Having Atay with my friend's family in Merzouga.
Sugar Cane juice: You can find it for 5 dirham (40 cents) or less in every medina. It is addicting and surprisingly really healthy for your skin and liver.
Tangine: The couscous or kafka tangine is the best.
20 countries in two years.
Working as a multimedia journalist throughout those twenty countries has taught me some valuable lessons. It hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows; more often than not, life kicked me in the face with realities and insight, both good and bad. One of the biggest battles I personally learned to overcome, is how to draw the line between documenting a subject and interfering.
As a journalist first and foremost, I live in the honor of telling stories from around the world. I tend to see life as a series of light, angles, quick cuts, and b-roll. Most of the time people will let you know if they are highly against being on camera, and we must always respect that. However, sometimes it is not as clear cut, and that can be a tricky grey area.
To help you navigate that grey area of capturing award winning images and remaining respectful, I have compiled a list of advice from myself and fellow travel photographers.
This may very well be my biggest piece of advice I give any aspiring photographer or videographer. When it comes to guerilla style shooting (the term used for filming or photographing on the street style without permits or a cast), you want to keep the content as natural as possible. Air on the side of caution, but if you see an image, take the shot before it’s gone. However, if (and when)you lock eyes with your subject, make sure you do the “point and nod.” Basically, point to your camera, shrug your shoulders, and nod your head yes till they give you a confirmation. This is the universal sign for gaining consent to shoot your photo or video of the subject.
People are often self-conscious in front of the camera, but as a photographer you have the ability to showcase their beauty through your own unique perspective. The highest compliment for me is when I show someone a photo of themselves and they cannot believe it’s them. I had a woman in northern Uttrakhand India who stared at the portrait I took of her for at least 5 minutes. She told me this was the first time she thought she looked beautiful. As you might have guessed, I wanted to cry right then and there.
Children are also the best subjects to show their photo to after you’ve taken it. Be ready to be attacked with curious kids who both want to have their photo taken or take the photos.
I have written about the importance of learning languages in a separate article, but it will always be the most genuine sign of respect when traveling to try and speak the native language. While I would advise travelers to at least know how to say “hello” and “thank you” in the country’s official language, a photographer should always have the phrase, “Can I take your photo?” in their back pocket.
“My advice to photographers is to get out there in the field and take photographs. But also, if they are students, to finish their course, learn as many languages as possible, go to movies, read books, visit museums, broaden your horizon.”
A solid piece of advice from renowned Magnum Photographer, Chris Steele-Perkins in the handbook, Wear Good Shoes. I came across this piece of advice when reading over the compiled advice from experts in the industry. A lot of times when you are working for a company, network, magazine, or site, they will have a preconception of how a story will unfold. They might give you the main focus of the story, and when you get to the place, meet the person, or experience the event, you may find that what you were given is not the true story. Always discuss with your editors first, but also trust your gut when it comes to telling the true story. Visual storytelling is an extremely powerful medium, and should be taken upon with a great deal of responsibility. Also, always remain open to the story as it changes. Never judge a story before you experience the outcome.
While cleaning the dishes at base camp on Mt. Kilimanjaro. Richard was a little shy around the camera at first, but after watching me take photos and videos over the course of the first day on the trail, he became extremely comfortable with me taking his photo. Richard was one of my favorite people to capture while on the mountain.
When you have the convenience of speaking the same language, be sure to explain what you want to capture. If you are conducting an on the spot interview, let your subject know where the video will be published and what your whole story will be. If you are photographing someone or something with a full story in mind, be sure to explain what you are trying to achieve by taking their photo. It also helps to show some of your past work so that they understand what your vision is for the photo. With the rise of the internet and social media, sometimes it is hard to trust where the photo someone takes of you will end up.
After explaining to the grandmother, the head of this nomadic Berber household, that I was working on a story about Berber culture, she welcomed me to stay with them for the afternoon. I was able to take photographs and videos because they understood why I was there, and what my purpose was for capturing those images.
Iceland will always have a special place in my heart. The volcanic island welcomed and nurtured me during my first job right out of university. Allowing for me to learn about myself, about others, about teaching, and about living a life full of childlike wonder.
Currently Iceland is recieving an uptick in tourism, and I could not be happier. It is my strong belief that everyone should experience the Icelandic landscape, culture, and lifestyle at least once in their life. If you are planning a trip to Iceland soon, or you're contemplating where to travel to next, I've created a brief list of my favorite places to visit.
Side note: *I worked in Reykjavik teaching photography workshops and leading excursions around the island for 4 months. However, I didn’t get the chance to fully experience the summer months, so I asked my friends there for advice on a few items listed below! *
• Golden Circle: This is a must, but only takes about 2 hours so I’d recommend touring the circle around 5pm and ending in Pingvellir National Park for dreamy evening views. They have a scuba tour to swim between the tectonic plates at Pingvellir, but honestly all of the beauty is just walking around the Park!
• Jökulsárlón: INSANE. I’d recommend sleeping in your car/tent over near the ocean side (across the road from the glacier lagoon) and in the early morning when no one is around go skinny dipping… You won’t regret it. There is nothing quite like swimming in glacier water (especially in your birthday suit!).
• Dimmuborgir: This is said to be where the elves and trolls live up in the North near Akuryri. It’s not a main stop, but if you are doing a roadtrip up north to Myvatn then you should stop here. We spent the day sliding down the snow and playing like little kids. Once again, there is something in the air that leaves you feeling like a child again.
West Fjords: The West Fjords are on the Northwest side of the island, and are the most picturesque view you'll ever see of Iceland. Usually the roads are too snowcovered to get to the fjords during the winter months, but once summer rolls around it is a green wonderland. If you are extremely lucky then you can catch the northern lights while in the fjords in March or April, but only if you are extremely lucky.
**
Live music is a huge deal in Reyk and there is live music every night at nearly every bar, café, or hole in the wall. If you grab the “GrapeVine” magazine at any hostel or bar, it lists where and when music is going on around the city.
• Vínyl: THE BEST. Go here for an almond milk latte and to put on your favorite record. They have a huge selection of records and the owner is the coolest.
• Café Babalu: The espresso is the best here, but you have to make sure you go upstairs and sit on the couch, it’s a hidden gem right near the main church.
• Reykjavik Roasters: Once again great espresso, but limited seating.
• Hurra: This is a great bar! And it’s one of the few bars that have reggae nights. Icelandic reggae is the craziest thing you’ll ever hear. Take a listen here of one of my favorite bands, AmabAdamA.
• GLO: Raw/vegan/gluten free incredible goodness here. If you’re looking for a health spot this one is my favorite place!
• Skyr. This is a traditional Icelandic yogurt (similar to greek yogurt but thicker and way better). My favorite flavors are vanilla, banana, and cinnamon.
• NO ONE EATS WHALE. PLEASE DON’T ORDER IT OR THINK IT IS A LOCAL DELICACY. Not that you would, but it is a huge scandal with Icelanders over the past 6 years. There is only one or two restaurants that still have it on the menu, but just so you know it’s sort of a “black market” item now.
• Brennivín: Icelandic licorice liquor. Kind of gross but also kind of incredible.
Kex Hostel:This place is the best for booking a room in Reykjavik. It’s close to the water and the main downtown. It also has a café connected and concerts/events most nights.
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Travelling to new cities, countries, and communities is an exciting time; everything is new and teeming with foreign novelty. However, I have learned that creating a small sense of familiarity in these places allows for a further personal connection to develop.
For me, I always feel at home in a café (Although sometimes I am in very remote areas without the option or allure of a neighborhood café). When I get to a new place, I always walk around to explore the area and to scout out an interesting coffee bar. While I am all about trying new things, I am also a creature of habit. By having a coffee at the same place every day I am able to form a relationship with the baristas or café owner, which gives me a sense of comfort.
By the third time you step foot in the coffee shop, corner deli, or market, I assure you you will be greeted like a local. So often we travel to a place and never truly get the essence of what it would be like to live there. I have even found that when you return to a shop more than once, you will be treated better than the first time around. This is mostly because people are pre-dispositioned to interact with familiar faces in a more genuine manner. Of course, this is also a two way street, but if you are reading this then I assume you are a respectful traveler.
Creating a relationship with the baristas and the local regulars at a café also shapes my experience in a place. I have had numerous conversations full of insider tips, advice, and stories that allowed for me to have amazing experiences that I might have otherwise missed. These places of familiarity also allow for me to receive a moment of peace.
Currently, I am sitting in a pleasant state of caffeine induced productivity in the Houston, Texas airport. It's my first time being back in the United States for nearly 5 months. Today is also my first "Ode to Fall" moment as I am riding that caffeine high with a Pumpkin Spice Coconut milk latte.
Throughout my travels, I have stepped foot in my fair share of airports. A few of those airports have made lasting impressions on me, and a majority have been a place to refuel and reboard.
For whatever reason, the Houston airport has been a pleasant layover stop on many of my journeys over the past two years. I've actually come to love this little airport with all of its familiarities. Since I actually enjoy my time here, I thought I'd let you in on a few of my survival hacks when in Houston.
CIBO EXPRESS
Head to Terminal E, and stop in to CIBO for vegan, gluten-free, raw, paleo, or all of the above snacks. I personally love the Exo cricket protein bars or the Noka superfood blend packets. I swear they have some sort of healing power when it comes to helping a jetlagged hungry soul. The only downfall is the price; most snacks are between $2.99-$6.99. There's also have this "flight water" that I looooovvveee. It's called 1Above and it claims to balance electrolytes and ph for long flights, but I can't vouch for that...only the taste.
STARBUCKS ACROSS FROM GATE C21
If you've been living in a country where there is no Starbucks, and you're craving a coconut milk matcha latte for 3 months, this Starbuck I where you want to go. I'm sure every Starbucks store throughout the airport is more than capable of creating your drink of choice, but if Maria is working, you need to get yourself to Gate C21. You'll know it's Maria because her winged eyeliner and red lipstick will give you some serious make-up envy (this is mostly just for the ladies). Thank you for the laughs, and for the Grande upgrade girl!
TERMINAL E IS WHERE IT'S AT
Terminal E and Terminal C are where you're going to want to spend most of your time in the Houston airport. A common law of travel is that International Terminals are the cleanest, have the best food, and you can use the Duty Free fragrances to smell good. I would guess the majority of people who sit next to me on flights think that I am way fancier than I actually am, because that Chanel No.5 is applied liberally at the Duty Free. Actually, airports are the only place I even enjoy the smell of Chanel No.5; otherwise it makes me want to gag. There is no rhyme or reason to this little fun fact, and I openly acknowledge the nonsense.
FREE UNLIMITED WIFI
Oh yes. In a world where some airports (cough MIAMI cough) like to limit free wifi access to 30 minutes, the free unlimited wifi is a dream come true for long layovers. You don't even need to plug in your e-mail address or check-in through Facebook to use the wifi, you just accept and go! For this, you are truly loved dear Houston.
30 MINUTES CLEARING CUSTOMS
Yep, you read that right, 30 minutes. THIRTY! Customs was a breeze, and the security personnel were actually smiling (which is a rarity among customs workers in my experience). Granted, there were no lines and my luggage made it safely, but it was also midday on a Friday. I'm not saying that your customs will be 30 minutes or less like mine, but at least you can log into the wifi while you wait in line, am I right?
BATHROOM STALL SQUATS
This survival tip is not solely for Houston, becuase I do this impromptu workout in every airport. However, the stalls were bigger than most bathroom stalls, so it made it easiar. I'm the type of person who hates sitting around all day, and most flight days mean I have little to no chance of exercising that day. What I've started to do, is incorporate a squat challenge on days when I fly. I'm also not the type of person to do squats in front of people in an airport or public space outide the gym, so that's why I choose the bathroom (but if you are cool with squatting at the Gate, by all means more power to you).
The challenge is simple: How many body squats can you do in a day?
I will usually rep 30 each time I go to the restroom, and it gives me something fun to keep track of throughout the day. My record is 520 squats. What's yours?!
Now you know my Houston Airport (not so) secrets, and feel free to contact me with some survival tips of your own. I am always looking for advice on airports around the world.
Safe travels!
My double strapped, blue and purple, cross patterned Chaco sandals smell.
No really, they smell horrendous.
They smell like four years of mountains, dusty roads, wet dog, and airport security. I noticed that my sandals smelled about 6 months ago, and yet here I am, wearing them right now. I desperately need to buy a new pair of Chacos to be a presentable human being again, but I can’t bring myself to throw away (believe me there is no way someone would want these if I tried to donate…but maybe I will try anyways?) all of the memories associated with these bad boys.
They were the shoes that provoked an Italian man to stop me on the streets of Rome and proceed to pay me 80 euros to quickly kiss my feet. They were the shoes that left horrendously beautiful tan lines on my feet while in South Africa. They were the shoes that I would find misplaced during the night by the neighbor’s dog in Costa Rica. They were the shoes that initiated a conversation that would eventually lead to a brief but beautiful relationship with the perfect guy (for someone else one day). They were the shoes that I ran 3 miles barefoot back down the road to retrieve after a night out in Guatemala. They are the shoes that I run in through the airport so that I can jump into my Mama’s arms when I make it home. They are the shoes that go with every outfit.
Obviously, the sandals themselves do not hold my memories captive; I will forever have the memories. However, I live the type of life where my environment is forever changing. This is the type of life that my soul craves, but a midst the chaos I find comfort in the little facets that remain the same. Yet, as I am writing this piece, I cannot stand the smell of my “memories”.
The question now is, Is it wrong to donate rank sandals?
Learning a new language is never easy. I find that my initial introduction to learning a language is met with excitement and intensity. This beginning stage soon fizzles out once I’ve mastered the basic pleasantries and sentences that I’ve desperately wanted to learn. I then transition into the second stage of learning where I get frustrated by verb conjugations and “contradictions/exceptions to the rule” bits. In fact, the only language that I have been able to navigate through the second stage horror in is Spanish. Which leaves me with eight languages where I can make small talk and order a coffee.
Since languages are at the core of every culture, it seems to be an essential piece of knowledge to acquire in order to form connections with people from different countries. I also find that learning and attempting to speak in the official language of a country that I am visiting is a small sign of respect. I may not be able to have a deep intellectual conversation in Swahili, but I will always introduce myself and initiate small talk in Swahili before having to switch to broken English and sporadic sign language. I also could tell you the time in Dutch, or order you the best coffee you’ve ever tasted in Italian.
However, even with these limited phrases in each language, I have found myself in some multifaceted conversations with people in varying communities. A discussion in Spanish about the effects of the favelas in Brazil, a confession in Italian from a woman who wasn’t ready to settle down with her fiancée, an insight in Mandarin into a Chinese man’s dream of building his own business in the city, etc.
The more I am able to travel, the more I realize that there are fewer barriers than we expect between cultures. Sure, communication between people in a different language can lead to confusion and is not always the most pleasant experience, but it is an experience that allows for us to remain empathetic to travellers when they navigate our home country. The tourists who spend a holiday in New York City, without any knowledge of English, and somehow by divine intervention remain relatively unscathed will always amaze me.
When we learn a new language, we are essentially saying that we appreciate that culture and are interested in understanding the people of that region on a basic human level. No matter where you are traveling to, I think the simplest thing we can do as travellers is to learn how to say “thank you” in that language while exploring in a new country. “Thank you” is such a common phrase that you might be surprised at how many times you use it in a day. Learning this simple phrase in a new language allows for a polite expression of cultural appreciation.
So in case you are travelling to the following countries below, I’ve listed how to say Thank You in ten different languages.
Arabic: Shukraan
Dutch: dank je
Hausa: na gode
Swahili: Asante
Spanish: Gracais
French: Merci
Italian: Grazie
Icelandic: Takk fyrir or “takk takk”
Mandarin: Xièxiè
Afrikaans: Bai Danke
The endangered Scarlet Macaw.
For the past five weeks, I have been working in one of the most biodiverse areas in the world, the Osa Peninsula in Costa Rica. Living in the remote secondary rainforest has its own set of perks and drawbacks. The wildlife is incredible, and the daily surveys conducted are my favorite way to start the day. Instead of hearing a rooster crow, I am awoken to the sound of Howler Monkeys outside my tent. The endangered Scarlet Macaws fly over head every hour, and forage for fruit in our trees on camp. Sometimes I just stop and marvel at how normal it feels to be making coffee and look out at a troop of white-faced capuchin monkeys swinging from the branches.
During the first few weeks, everything about the jungle and jungle living is a novelty. Creating creative vegetarian dishes for lunch and dinner, showering with a scorpion on the wall, and trekking through the new survey trails are all fresh and exciting. Don’t get me wrong; these facets of living in the rainforest still make me smile. However, I am starting to daydream about clean clothes, almond milk lattes, and a big old grass-fed burger. It’s crazy how easily we take our state of living for granted at times. In NYC, if I’m craving guacamole for dinner I just have to walk down the block to the nearest deli and buy some avocados (or if I’m extremely lazy then the pre made guacamole). In Carate if I want guacamole, I have to send a message to our staff in town, have them purchase avocados, package them, send them on the colectivo, wait by the side of the road, and hope that the colectivo is running that day. As you might have already guessed, I don’t get to eat guacamole or avocados very often.
On base camp, it’s a normal discussion to compare your developing tropical ulcers, blisters, or amount of mosquito bites on your leg. Yesterday, we were told by a local friend of ours that there is a spider during the rainy season that can pee on your skin and form awful blister breakouts…we are not looking forward to that.
It’s also a reoccurring joke between most of us on camp about how sweaty we are at all times of the day. When I first arrived at camp I was self conscious and annoyed at how much I was sweating. It’s not even that hot, it is just extremely humid, so beads of sweat will form regardless of how hot you feel. However, your body does adjust to some degree, and I find that I even start to feel cold (I use that term lightly).
Currently I am sitting under a palm tree, sweating profusely, drinking a coconut, and happy as can be. As our wildlife research continues over the next few months, I’ll have more content to update onto VidBee, but for the moment my days are filled with 3:30am wake up calls, mosquito bites, and survey trails collecting data.
Sometimes our best projects are the ones that require the less glorious of daily tasks.
Try to book the first flight out in the mornings, because those planes usually arrive the evening before. Meaning your flight is less likely to be delayed due to a late incoming plane.
-Another advantage to leaving early is that you usually arrive to your destination before sunset, so you won’t be navigating your way through a foreign area alone in the dark. I learned this lesson first hand when I arrived in Guatemala City at 10pm and was greeted with a gun fight in front of my city hostel (luckily I was in a car with my Guatemalan abuelo I had met on the plane ride, so I didn’t end up staying at that hostel after we saw the gun shots).
-For fresh smelling clothes while backpacking or extensive travelling, pack a fabric softener sheet with your clothes. The sheet absorbs dampness and any odors to keep clothes smelling fresh (even if you’re not). It’s especially beneficial in warm, humid climates or out at sea.
“Ten days into the PCT, I was blessing Brooke for her recommendation of fabric softener sheets in my pack. Seriously helped with the smell (well as much as it could!).”
-Along with the topic of fresh clothes, to make your suitcase or backpack feel more organized and less like a mix of clean and destroyed garments, always pack a large trash bag to keep dirty items separate from your clean items. Usually I’ll bring a plastic bag from the grocery to put my running shoes in, because after a few months of working out in overused socks (or let’s be real, no socks at all), you’ll have some smelly sneakers.
-When I plan to wear expensive or delicate jewelry, I pack the pieces in empty film canisters. Diamond earrings or a special family heirloom are not items of jewelry I can risk getting stolen or lost. The film canisters hide any evidence of valuables, and are looked over by potential thieves if you’re staying in a shady hotel of sorts. Usually I just leave those pieces at home, but this tip is for any of you ladies who are planning a trip to Paris, for example, and want to dress to impress.
-Chewing gum can be a universal gesture of kindness. Offering a piece of gum to the lady next to you on a flight can be an icebreaker. I’ve seen so much joy from giving out pieces of gum or little mints to some of the young children on the streets in less developed parts of the countries I visit. I wish I could carry excess amounts of food and supplies with me to give out to the people that I meet on my journey, but for now a small treat is all I have to offer whenever and wherever I am.
These two cuties loved playing with my camera and taking videos during the time I spent at their home while trekking on the Mayan Trails to Quetzeltenango. They were also big fans of chewing gum!
-Duct tape is a universal tool for travel emergencies and should be a staple item for any long thru backpackers. However, carrying around a bulky roll of duct tape is less than ideal. I’ve found that wrapping around 2 feet of duct tape around a no.2 pencil or ballpoint pen creates a miniature roll that saves a lot of room and weight in the pack.
-Dental floss is like duct tape- an essential travel emergency superstar. I’ve used floss as a clothes line between tents, to replace a lost screw for my sunglasses, as a measurement for my waist to get the right size at a flea market in Italy, and much more. It can also be used for its intended purpose of keeping your teeth clean.
-Carabiners can be an extra hand for you when travelling with a handful of items. I have to bring a lot of equipment with me when I travel and I’ve gotten used to looking like a pack mule, but for small bags or extra items I bought after packing I can easily attach them to my pack with a carabiner till I get the chance to re-organize. I’ve also used a carabiner to hook my backpack strap to a bench once when I was alone and really needed to sleep for a few minutes at the airport. This just adds an extra sense of security for your belongings. I’ve had a friend attach her purse to a chair while dining outside in Paris because she had witnessed a thief run off with another woman’s purse in that same scenario a couple days before.
Carabiners helped me fit this light travel pack on to a RyanAir flight!
-It may seem like a no brainer to make a paper copy of your passport, but a lot of people that I travel with will forget to make a copy and end up bringing their passport out with them everywhere. This is dangerous if you get pickpocketed or lose your purse while out at a nightclub. There are some things you can be relaxed about while travelling, but your identification is not one. Save yourself a headache and be overly prepared with printed copies of your passport and visa information.
-Since I’ve been plagued with a combination of food allergies, I have to be careful about what I eat when I travel abroad. I always look up the words for gluten, wheat, peanuts, and soy when I am in a country speaking a foreign language. As long as you take control of your diet situation, you’ll find that there are always options available for you to still try local cuisine and street food. I used to feel extremely stressed and anxious about eating while traveling, but now I remain vocal and never feel deprived or sick while abroad.
As you travel by yourself and meet other solo travelers, you'll start to form a list of your own travel tips. Take every tip as a guideline, because you are the only one who truly knows what type of traveller you are, and whether or not those pieces of advice are realistic for you. And most importantly, remember to stay active, remain aware, and be confident. BON VOYAGE!
The very first night I arrived in Iceland, and was coaxed to go out for drinks in Reykjavik, it became clear to me that this was a community that embraced the arts. Every little bar, coffee shop, or main stage had live music going on. In fact, every night of the week live music can be found somewhere in the city. Thanks to The Grapevine, a monthly publication that is the holy grail of all things music, nightlife, culture, and the arts in Reykjavik, weekend line-ups and community events are easily accessible. After 3 months living on the island, my appreciation towards all genres of music (and live music in general) grew immensely. The overall admiration and respect geared towards music in Iceland fosters a whole collective of people who believe in the power of the arts. I mean take a look at Iceland Airwaves, Iceland's annual music festival, and the amount of work that is put into providing an international platform for emerging bands and artists to perform. While there are still major names that perform at the festival, the main objective of Airwaves is to cultivate a space for new performers to gain publicity and experience.
While Icelanders truly do love their music, the emphasis on having a creative outlet can be found in flim-making, photography, screen printing, writing, and painting as well. From an early age the arts play an integral role in life and eduction. The connection between quality of life and exposure to music is astounding. This connection spans generations, and positively affects both the youth and the elderly.
The Hitt húsið in Reykjavik is a Youth Center that works with teens and young adults to harness their creativity and generate compelling artistic endeavors. When I learned about the work going on at the Hitt húsið I was highly intrigued, so I sat down with a few of the amazing people behind it all, and got an inside look. You can view the video profile right here on VidBee.
What I found in the environment at the Hitt húsið, and in Iceland as a whole, is a space where young people are encouraged to think visually, communicate musically, and grow as individuals.
A little precursor for this article before my sanity is questioned; hitchhiking in Iceland is nothing like the United States.
Not only is hitchhiking legal, but it’s a preferred means of transportation for many foreign and local travellers. Icelanders are renowned for their kindness and overall friendliness, so picking up hitchhikers is seen as an interesting addition to the original journey for most Icelanders. While hitching a ride around Iceland is common, it’s generally unheard of for people to hitchhike during the winter season.
However, that did not deter two friends and me from embarking on our own adventure around Iceland. Since we had a few days off of work, we decided to catch a ride from Reykjavik to Akureryi (the main hub of the North). We rose hours before sunrise in hopes of catching a car heading north. Eventually we just hopped in a car that was willing to drop us off at the edge of Reykjavik in order to find cars heading north. In fact, it took us three different drivers to get outside of the city limits!
It started out rough, but then our wanderlust prayers were answered by Heð, who was heading an hour north to check out an old farm property. One of my favorite parts of hitchhiking is meeting Icelanders and other travellers who have interesting stories, facts, and tips. The conversations that occur between complete strangers on a long car ride might be the most diverse and wonderful conversations to be a part of. After a short drive around the town where the strongest Viking in history was born, we parted ways at a gas station three hours south of our final destination.
When I say “a gas station”, I mean “the only gas station in a 80 mile radius.” And if you were wondering how many cars passed by us at this point, we counted…3 cars in twenty-five minutes. Luckily once again our wanderlust prayers were answered just as the mist turned to rain outside. This particular savior played a major part in our hitchhiking trip. He said his actual full Icelandic name to us once, but then insisted we just call him Halle, so for all intensive purposes he is Halle. Halle drove us three hours to Akureryi- stopping to let us take photos of the sunset mountains, listening to our exclamations of awe at the ever changing landscape, and providing Icelandic antecdotes. Before he dropped us off at our friends’ place for the night in Akureryi, he invited us to check out the annual thorrobraut he was attending in Miva. Thorrobraut’s are annual festivals for every city/town where the community dines, drinks, and dances together to celebrate the past year. At the feast they eat traditional Icelandic dishes such as fermented shark, sheep’s head, fish, and sheep balls. Obviously we were more than eager to attend the celebration, so we made a plan to visit him in Miva at the festival the following night.
Another component of hitchhiking is the act of saving money in any way possible. For us, that meant packing all of our food for the three days into our backpacks before heading out. Our combination of food was eclectic at best, but we definitely made it work. Rice noodles were our specialty each night, and no trip would be complete without a container of Skyr. When it comes to Skyr, I’m addicted and I have no shame. There was also a jar of pickles that somehow made its way into backpack for the trip.
On our second day of hitchhiking, we met Laura, our actual savior of the whole trip. A solo German traveller making her way around Iceland in a black four wheel drive that doubles as a bed for the night. Laura had been driving around Iceland for the past ten days, and when she saw the three of us standing by the side of the road, she waved us down and we embarked on a crazy road trip together. It was my first excursion to the north of Iceland, and while I am continually in awe by the vast landscape of the island, the north holds my official favorite spot in Iceland. Dimmuborgir is near Lake Miva and is one of the most magical spots I’ve ever seen. It’s believed that the mystical creatures (elves, fairies, and trolls) of the island live in Dimmuborgir. The rock formations themselves are incredible, but the sky is a perpetual purple and orange mix in the area that makes it seem like magic is in the air. The energy was fantastic, and I felt like a child again as we slid down ice hills, threw snow, ate icicles, and found little caves to explore.
The day was spent taking in all of the sights in the North. We got extremely muddy running around the hot pockets, washed our feet in a heated pool inside of an isolated cave, and met Halle at the Thorrobraut in Miva that night. The most notable circumstance of the day occurred that evening when the three of us decided to change our plan and ride with Laura to the East then South back to Vik. What lied ahead of us was an all night drive through the East Fjords, but what we got was a spectacular northern lights show and a cramped 2 hour sleep that I wouldn’t change for anything. Capturing the northern lights is a photographer’s dream, and I personally feel eternally blessed every chance I get to see and to photograph the aurora dancing across the sky. For a detailed look at the best way to photograph the aurora borealis, you can check out my post here.
Eventually a misty dawn led us into the closest town, and we were able to caffeinate appropriately for the day ahead. One of the most frequented attraction in the Southeast is Jökulsárlón , the Glacier Lagoon. The Lagoon is filled with drifting ice blocks broken off from the Glacier, and in time the ice chunks are swept out into the Atlantic Ocean. Since this was my second visit to Jokursalon, I had a nagging urge to do something more than simply observing the natural landscape. Luckily this urge was mutual, and we all made a split second decision to take a dip in the Atlantic Ocean during the dead of winter! I couldn’t feel my feet (or any part of my body for that matter), but I was well aware of the overwhelming smile plastered across my face. Needless to say, we were cold and exhilarated for the rest of the day!
Ultimately we had to part ways with Laura to get back to Reykjavik that night, but we did get to spend an extra couple of days with our travel mate when she came to Reykjavik later on in the week. Our final hitchhiking ride of the trip was from a police officer. Honestly, I can’t think of a better driver to end the trip with.
Well, maybe if it had been a Skyr truck driver with a load of Skyr in the trailer…
Check out the video recap of our adventure here!
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