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Reflections
Traveling Around the World After 9/11
By Deborah Merickel |
The author snorkeling near Australia's Great Barrier Reef.
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My marriage had ended, my children had grown and my travel bug was easily stifled with the standard fare. But, I was now in a position to venture where I wanted and follow my own time schedule. Luckily, I was a teacher in a year-round alternative school, which afforded me flexible vacation time. I labored for months researching over the Internet to plan my “round-the-world” trip. My itinerary was set; I would visit eight countries in nine weeks, seeing as many of the world’s Great Wonders as possible.
In order to help finance my trip, I leased my condo on a short-term basis to off-season vacationers and moved out on September 1, 2001. Ten days later, terrorists attacked the twin towers in New York. Like everyone, I remember distinctly what I was doing, how I reacted with disbelief and the hollow feelings that followed.
The shock was so great and upsetting that at first, I didn’t even think of my pending trip. However an e-mail from an independent travel agent in Cairo whom I had contracted for tours, brought me back to reality.
As a Muslim, he felt it was important to reassure me that most of the world was horrified at the tragedy and that he and his associates felt no ill will toward Americans. I appreciated his candor and realized that I was too indebted at this point to cancel my trip. Worried for my safety, my mother and my daughters questioned my resolve, but there was no stopping me now.
Six weeks later as I buckled my seatbelt in anticipation of the take-off from the Los Angeles airport, a young man of Middle Eastern descent, with a United States flag on his shirt was pulled off the plane by armed marshals. Then the young professional woman seated next to me, from India, was asked to leave with one other dark-skinned individual. The discrimination based on ethnicity was not lost on any of us. The plane was delayed and people were deathly quiet — an anomaly before the terrorist attacks.
My first stop was Cairo, Egypt’s crowded capital. The cab driver who picked me up at the airport informed me that I was only the second American he had seen in a month. Hotels that were previously booked due to the annual performance of Aida were now available. I had free reign of the city as thousands of tourists cancelled their trip.
My first tour, the market at night, consisted of only three people: me, the tour guide and a young man from Mexico. I soon learned that I was expected to walk behind them and hope that my compatriot would ask the questions that I wanted answered.
I maintained a good attitude until I was asked to wait in the van while the two of them went into a male only “club” for dinner. It may have taken ten minutes for the significance of this to sink in before I turned into the “ugly American feminist.” I beseeched the driver who clearly didn’t understand my rantings that he needed to track down the whereabouts of the guide immediately. He jumped out of the car faster than any camel moving toward an oasis.
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In Memphis, the ancient capital of Egypt
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After an “understanding” was reached between the guide and myself, the driver returned me back to my hotel where I enjoyed dinner by myself. Like this experience, it was not clear on many occasions what bothered the locals more, the fact that I was from the United States or that I was a woman traveling alone.
However, nothing could deter my excitement at seeing the Colossus of Ramses II, crawling through ancient tombs at Saqqara, and catching the first glimpse of the Sphinx and the Great Pyramids. During my last night in Egypt, I indulged in both lodging and sumptuous dining under the shadow of Giza’s greatest wonders, but was soon stricken with the worst case of food poisoning I had ever experienced.
I thought eating at an upscale establishment meant I didn’t have to follow the general rules of eating in foreign countries, of avoiding anything that is not cooked and not drinking tap water. I suffered a sleepless night and crawled to the front desk in the morning to request a late checkout. Not only were they gracious in allowing this, but they sent Coca-Cola and crackers to my room.
While Victoria Falls in the southern African country of Zimbabwe was my second World Wonder, I had always dreamed of doing a safari to view the wild majestic animals every bit as extraordinary as the immobile sites I would behold. So that is what I decided to do first.
My air ticket took me as far as Harare, the capital. My first hop in a small aircraft took me to Lake Kariba, where I stayed for a few days at a lodge owned by white Zimbabweans. Their story was frightening, as President Robert Mugabe is currently resettling black peasant farmers on seized white land. The white farmers are forcibly removed if they refuse to give up their property.
Because of its often violent nature, President Mugabe’s radical land reform has drawn international protest. Critics blame dramatic food shortages in Zimbabwe on the disruption of farming caused by the campaign. I should have realized the extent of this crisis when I was asked to wire all payments for my trip in advance to an offshore bank. Again, there were no other Americans around.
A few days later I was on an even smaller plane that deposited me in a desolate field in the northeast corner of Zimbabwe for an adventuresome walk and canoe ride through Mana Pools National Park and down the Zambezi River. This too was politically enlightening. The tales were told by an ex-military Zulu tour guide, who narrated as he dodged the crocs and hippos.
I discovered that paying tourists were treated royally, as if we were the medicine healers. Some Zimbabweans actually believed that if something happened to me, my government would come and “get them.” I realized I was spoiled when all the major amenities were reserved for me; I had dibs on the front seat of the Jeep, the lead canoe, the tent closest to the specially rigged toilet that flushed in the wilderness, and the first visit to the shower, which entailed slowly releasing a heated pail of water with a tug on a rope.
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Under the majestic peak of Everest in Nepal
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Victoria Falls, where the mighty Zambezi tumbles down a mile-wide (1.6 km) chasm was another story — while delightful, it was the most apolitical place I would visit. I encountered my first Americans here and tripped over all the familiar tourist trappings of postcards, disposable cameras and wooden animal figurines.
My next World Wonder was the Taj Mahal in India. I was delighted with my fearless driver who tackled the 120-mile long (200 km) and treacherous road from Delhi to Agra, and stopped to buy me flowers and bananas in order to lessen my agitation due to the constant near-misses from tuk-tuks, camel carts, fast-moving trucks, wandering brahmas and a vast assortment of other honking vehicles.
My tour guide was every bit as enchanting; he shared with me his vast knowledge of the forts, the monuments and an overview of the fascinating and complex Indian culture. When he explained to me that Emperor Shah Jahan built the mausoleum from 1631 to 1648 as a monument of love for late wife, I found the striking Taj even more stunning.
My guide was captivated by former President Clinton, an opinion that was proffered more than once on my trip. That was usually the way my hosts began their dialogue about our current president and his policies. In general, the Indians were very polite and unassuming. They were careful not to invade my space or potentially insult me by discussing the politics of my nation; however, the war on one of their neighbors certainly was definitely a concern.
Most of those I talked to were genuinely apprehensive that the U.S. might not stop with just Afghanistan. And they turned out to be right. Their insight into our policies was certainly ominous. Overall, I was left with the impression that India is a beautiful yet crowded country, and one which is quite proud of its democracy.
The majestic mountains of Nepal awaited me next, and luckily I was on the correct side of the airplane to get a personal panoramic view of one range after another. The Himalayas, yet another Natural Wonder of the World!
Again, I had prearranged a guide for a trek toward Mt. Everest. For eight days, I hiked and camped in tea houses. While they looked like hotels from the outside, they do not have running water, heat or indoor toilets. It was akin to staying in a tent with wood floors with a cot to hold my sleeping bag.
I started my second-to-last day there a few hours ahead of the guide, a little contrary to his sage advice since there was a possible turn-off I might miss. The morning has always been my favorite time of day, so I was not to be deterred. The air was brisk, the sky beautiful. There were few people on the downhill trail and speed was my companion.
An hour into my trek, I stopped for coffee and was joined on the patio by two young Buddhist monks. We greeted each other, and I realized that the older of the two, in his early teens, could speak English. Their trip distance for the day was over twice that of my four hour hike, but I shared that perhaps I might have to walk a greater distance if I got lost.
The monk assured me I was headed in the proper direction and painted a picture of the turnout with his words. With a quick thank you, I wished them luck and headed out before they finished their tea. Feeling better prepared, I kept my rapid pace for the next hour and then I slowed expecting to see a fork in the path around each curve I encountered.
My ears proved to be keener than my eyes. A sound much like tinkling of bells caused me to look up to see the smaller of the two monks, possibly only seven or eight years of age, who had somehow surpassed me and was sitting serenely with his legs crossed on a huge boulder. He simply nodded his head to the right. The road less-traveled perhaps, but the one I was destined to take appeared out of nowhere. I certainly would have missed it.
I spent a few days recovering in Katmandu, Nepal’s capital city with a 2,000 year history. It was known as a hippy hangout in the 1970’s, but is now a large cosmopolitan city with Internet access everywhere.
Outside the bustle, along the Vishnumati River, I watched the burial ceremonies of both Buddhists and Hindus where their families lovingly washed them, paid their last respects and then burned them on the pyres before floating their remains down the river while monkeys splashed and chased the flowers. I listened to the concerns about the Maoists attacking, and to the conspiracy theories regarding the killing of the Nepalese Royal Family.
The next leg of my journey took me to Malaysia’s capital city of Kuala Lumpur, where Ramadan celebrations were underway. I was careful to wear long pants or a skirt with a long-sleeved blouse and a scarf on my head. I was lonely here. No one showed an interest in talking to me. The men were off-limits, as I had learned to never look them directly in the eyes. And the women, while polite, would only answer my questions monosyllabically.
Ironically, the city’s claim to fame is their soaring twin towers, at that time the tallest buildings in the world. Unfortunately, I was unable to connect with anyone on a personal level as I did in the other countries.
The laid-back tolerance and laissez-faire attitude of Cairns, Australia was a welcome relief. The owner of the small hotel that was to be my home for the next four nights picked me up himself at the regional airport. He insisted that I join my new mates for a beer before walking uptown to plunk down some money for a bikini, shorts and T-shirts.
The next morning I managed to find the correct pier and boat, which supplied me with goggles and fins. I spent the next eight fantastic hours exploring one small section of the Great Barrier Reef, the last of this trip’s famous Wonders. The Aussies, who are truly pros at tourism, treated me with genuine kindness. They loved talking politics, but it was always a debate, some agreeing and some disagreeing with United States’ policies.
After one final stop in the South Pacific, in Fiji, my journey concluded. I was happy to be returning home.
I learned many valuable lessons first-hand and hope that I changed some people’s minds about Americans. One of the hotel waitresses of the Tambua Sands Hotel on Fiji’s Coral Coast gave me a hug goodbye and told me that my smile was bigger than I was.
Best of all, travel brought me insight. As a result of this trip, I've become more tolerant of others and I believe strongly that we must all strive for a global understanding. Yes, I may be somewhat naïve, but I think a sincere smile and willingness to listen is my modest contribution to this amazing humanity. |
