Travelogue – Page 7

Eurasia: Rosenheim, Germany

This is the seventh installment of a story chronicling my travels in 1994 as a college student. The six-month journey took me to 20 countries in Europe and Asia.

I stepped onto the deserted platform at the Rosenheim train station at almost midnight, the only soul in sight. Silence greeted me until the train roared back to life and disappeared into the night bound for Austria. The bright lights on the platform cast a long shadow over my silhouette. An unexpected feeling of loneliness hit me even though I had been traveling solo for days and miles. For the first time, I was truly alone.

My friend Brigitte had promised weeks ago to meet me at the train station in Rosenheim, Germany, a small town 60 kilometers outside of Munich, on vague assurances that the midnight train would arrive on time. It passed through town like clockwork, but in spite of Germans’ penchant for precision, I second-guessed whether our timing or communication was messed up. Across the tracks was a small, brightly lit building with nary a soul. Maybe she was waiting there.

I hoisted my duffel bag on my shoulder, now wrought with painful sores, and dragged my luggage along the platform and into the pedestrian tunnel under the tracks. Emerging inside the station, I looked anxiously around for anyone who resembled Brigitte. My heart raced faster as my eyes scanned the open building but saw no sign of her.

A cold breeze blew through the porous building. On a freezing February night, the frosty air nipping at my body warmed by a heavy jacket and the friction created by unwieldy baggage, I dreaded to think what would happen if she didn’t appear. Perhaps I could have found a cheap youth hostel or waited in the train station until the attendants kicked me out. Freezing outside on a cold winter night was out of the question.

I left the station to look for her and noticed two women waiting outside near the main entrance. One looked like an older version of the six-year-old photo of Brigitte in my wallet. Waddling toward them, I asked, “Brigitte?”

She answered with a warm “Ja!” What a relief! After a long trip half way around the world from America to Germany, I was more than ready to rest. We hugged and greeted each other in a mixture of English and German. Brigitte introduced her mother, who ushered me into her small red Renault hatchback. Somehow, my luggage found room inside the tiny trunk. My not-so-svelte frame wiggled its way into the back seat of their car; tight but a sight better than braving the cold in search of cheap lodging.

As her mom drove slowly on icy roads through the quiet city, Brigitte asked me about my trip and initial impressions of Europe. Her wide eyes listened silently in the darkness as I recounted the journey and adventures along the way in Germany. An occasional chuckle escaped her lips. Curiosity nudged me to steal glimpses of Rosenheim. Its orange lights twinkling like little fires offered limited visibility in the darkness. The car’s dim headlights cast black shadows on the road.

We pulled into the driveway of a house not far from the train station. The dim exterior of the split-level home painted in ghostly hues by the porch light was eerily similar to that of an average American home. I trundled out, pulled one suitcase from the car trunk for my overnight stay, and followed Brigitte up the slick driveway to the front door. The interior of her home was rustic with a detached foyer, polished stone floors, and wood-paneled floors reminiscent of a Bavarian hunting lodge.

“This is cool,” I murmured as my eyes wandered around the house. I fought the urge to explore its corridors and look for secret passageways, coats of arms, and cuckoo clocks.

“Hast du Hunger?” Brigitte’s mom ushered me into the dining room and asked as if she had heard my stomach grumble.

“Ja, ich…ich habe Hunger,” I stumbled in German. She smiled with a look that said thanks for trying. Brigitte sat on the opposite side of a stout wooden dining table that looked like it had been hewn from a single pine tree. Her mom reappeared moments later with plates of wheat and rye bread, ham and würst cold cuts, four types of cheese, and mineral water. It was a better meal than any I could have asked for at the midnight hour. After a day of airline meals and stale junk food, it was simply divine.

Clad in a bathrobe, Brigitte’s father walked into the dining room and joined us for a chat. We talked in English about life in America and Germany while my taste buds savored the würst. Hearing their stories of idyllic Bavarian life left me regretting I couldn’t stay longer to enjoy the nearby mountains, forests, lakes, and castles. An album of photos from home added color to my stories about life in America.

The conversation crept into politics. With Germany five years removed from reunification in 1994 and heading into one of its first elections as a united country, the family seemed eager to talk about how far they had come since the end of the Cold War. I vowed not to embroil myself in tricky political discussions as a house guest but gave into the urge to debate, a leisure sport popular in Europe.

Exhausted, we retired in the wee hours of the morning. Brigitte’s mom put me in a room with her 18-year-old sister Lisa, who slumbered peacefully. I slept in a different bed but felt awkward spending the night with an unconscious stranger I’d never met. Not wanting to fill the room with the less-than-pleasant odor clinging to my well-traveled body, I took a shower in the adjacent room and savored my first bath in ages. The mirror reminded me of the stubble on my face, but my shaver rendered useless by an incompatible plug, I let it grow until I reached Austria.

My mind wandered as my body sank into bed. Thoughts of places seen and people met — Francisco, Thomas, Koji, Brigitte, and others — drifted through my fading conscious like spirits in the wind. I had finally met a longtime pen pal for the first time. Brigitte was nice but quiet; I wondered if she enjoyed our brief visit or what she thought of me. Perhaps seeing for the first time the boy she only knew through pen, paper, and a single photo was surreal to her too. Our friendship flourished in the days before the Internet made communications instantaneous, when a message’s transmission speed depended on whether it traveled by ship or par avion.

I woke a few hours later feeling refreshed. Searching for my watch, I noticed the time “8:30 a.m.” reflect in my eyes. It was only a few hours before the midmorning train bound for Austria passed through Rosenheim. A soft light peeked through the window curtains. My fingers gently peeled apart the shades for an incredible view of the German Alps just beyond Brigitte’s back yard. The postcard-perfect scene of the jagged, snowy mountains and lush pine forests begged for a castle or ski resort. It would have been an ideal image for a jigsaw puzzle.

I clenched my teeth knowing that I would soon leave this idyllic place and felt the urge to move in with Brigitte’s family. Looking around with a sheepish grin, I noticed that Lisa was already gone. She’d woken up to find an unconscious stranger she’d never met sleeping in her room. How ironic.

Rolling out of bed, I wandered to the dining room where Brigitte’s mom served a scrumptious Bavarian breakfast of toast, cheese and meat, bread with peanut butter and chocolate-hazel nut Nutella spread), and orange juice. What a life, I thought as I sat down next to my friend, who finished eating before leaving for work. Her father had already left with Lisa. As Brigitte stood, she smiled and said, “I wish you could stay with us longer.”

“I do too,” I replied. “Sorry the visit is so short. I hope we will meet again soon.”

We said a fond farewell, and then she was gone. I wished then that I had the foresight to give my friend something to remember the brief time we shared together.

Brigitte’s mom drove me to the train station after breakfast. Well rested, I enjoyed the return trip. Rosenheim looked beautifully Bavarian in the morning sunlight. The majestic, snow-covered Alpine mountains soaring above the town were breathtaking.

She helped me pile my luggage on the curb and bid me a fond farewell. I gave her a hug for good measure I hoped wasn’t too forward and waved enthusiastically as her red Renault drove away. I was the first American to stay with Brigitte’s family. I hoped the visit was a good one for them too.

To be continued.

Previous installments of Eurasia:

1. Leaving America

2. Vancouver to Frankfurt

3. Adventures in Frankfurt (Part One)

4. Adventurers in Frankfurt (Part Two)

5. On to Munich

6. A Respite to Rosenheim

Images courtesy of Microsoft.

M.G. Edwards is a writer of books and stories in the mystery, thriller and science fiction-fantasy genres. He also writes travel adventures. He is author of Kilimanjaro: One Man’s Quest to Go Over the Hill, a non-fiction account of his attempt to summit Mount Kilimanjaro, Africa’s highest mountain and a collection of short stories called Real Dreams: Thirty Years of Short Stories. His books are available as an e-book and in print on Amazon.com and other booksellers. He lives in Bangkok, Thailand with his wife Jing and son Alex.

For more books or stories by M.G. Edwards, visit his web site at www.mgedwards.com or his blog, World Adventurers. Contact him at me@mgedwards.com, on Facebook, on Google+, or @m_g_edwards on Twitter.

The Amazon Indigenous

This is the final article in a series about the Amazon region of Brazil featured in my illustrated picture book, Alexander the Salamander. This post is about the indigenous peoples and culture of the Amazon. Previous ones highlighted the Amazon River, the Meeting of the Waters, the rainforest, the city of Manaus, Amazon Ecopark, piranhas, and a monkey reserve. Enjoy these travelogues with photos and stories from one of the world’s mightiest rivers.

During our trip to the Amazon in July 2008, we took a day trip to a small indigenous village near the Rio Negro. Built to attract tourists, the village was quite idyllic, and its inhabitants performed dances and sold handicrafts to visitors who wanted to experience local indigenous culture.

Our guide told me that the villagers belonged to the Baniwa indigenous group who had migrated from their original home upriver to this place in order to earn a better livelihood. Other members of the tribal group still living near the Brazil-Colombian border received financial support from them. According to Brazil’s Instituto Socioambiental, an estimated 15,200 Baniwa reside in the tri-border area of Brazil, Colombia, and Venezuela. Many reportedly live in poor conditions and are subjected to human rights abuses such as encroachment on their land by illegal loggers and poachers.

We disembarked from our tour boat and walked among wood and thatched-roof buildings to a large hall. We sat down on benches lining the hall and waited for the Baniwa performance to begin. Ten youths, five women and five men, performed songs and dance in ceremonial dress. The men played upbeat melodies on large wood flutes and pipes and chanted skyward as the women danced with them. Nothing represented the spirit of harmony between the indigenous and the rainforest to me more than their haunting songs that still echo in my mind.

As the dance grew livelier and less somber, the men pulled spectators from the audience and invited them to perform. My wife joined in. She tried to play the flute but was too preoccupied trying to dance! I opted out but took a photo afterwards with some of the performers. The lead performer made my son an honorary Baniwa, adorning him with a headdress and ceremonial stick.

After the performance, we were ushered to the souvenir shop, where my son tested a dart gun and we browsed the handmade art. We made sure that we were allowed to buy and export the souvenirs we bought.

Our son really enjoyed the visit, especially when our guide painted his face with berry juice. I’m glad he had the chance to experience a unique culture he might never have if we hadn’t visited the Amazon.

About Indigenous Peoples

Some international organizations and human rights groups have questioned the humanity of tourist attractions involving the indigenous and suggested that they are exploitative. As someone who has worked with the indigenous and documented indigenous issues, I support efforts to promote indigenous rights and applaud the efforts of governments, human rights organizations, and indigenous groups to improve their living conditions. I also favor allowing indigenous groups to support themselves legally as they wish. If they freely, without exploitation or prejudice by outside influence, determine that it is in their best interest to develop tourist attractions that showcase their cultures, they should be legally permitted to do so. It not only brings in much-needed revenue but promotes greater understanding of and preservation of indigenous cultures.

Click here to read about the Kayan-Lahwi (Karen or “Long-Neck” people) of Thailand and Burma

Click here to read about the Akha of Thailand and Burma

Click here to read about the Guaraní and Exnet of Paraguay

About Alexander the Salamander

A young salamander named Alexander living in the Amazon River Basin joins his friends Airey the Butterfly and Terry the Tarantula for an unforgettable jungle adventure. Come along with Alexander and friends as they meet birds, monkeys, and other creatures, enjoy the beauty of the rainforest, and face danger along the way.

The first book in the World Adventurers for Kids Series, Alexander the Salamander is an illustrated story inspired by the authors’ visit to the Amazon in 2008. Fun for kids and adults alike, the story teaches children the importance of listening to teachers and other authority figures.

More About Brazil

Click on the icon below for more articles about Brazil

Eurasia: A Respite to Rosenheim

This is the sixth installment of a story chronicling my travels in 1994 as a college student. The six-month journey took me to 20 countries in Europe and Asia.

I woke up from a fitful slumber unsure of my location until I remembered that I was on a train somewhere in Bavaria far from anyone or anyplace I knew. I didn’t even know where I was in Germany! The night kept me from getting a good look at the countryside as the high-speed train sped toward Munich like a bullet on silver tracks that cut through the darkness like a knife. The occasional lamp post flickered by, reminding me of a firefly leaving behind a wobbly trail. The luggage stowed overhead groaned as the train’s wheels bounced on the rails. For the time being, this was my world.

The train arrived in Munich about 9 p.m. My only view of the city was a broad boulevard as wide as a runway that stretched away from the train station. It was lit up like Christmas by cars, street lights, and neon signs, the biggest of which was the oversized BMW medallion adorning the company’s headquarters. This was my sole memory of Munich at the time. I have to come back and check out this place someday, I thought, a promise I fulfilled years later.

I disembarked at Munich’s Hauptbahnhof train station to catch my connection to Rosenheim. Throwing my luggage and myself on the platform, I struggled to locate my departing gate from among the mess of local connections scattered across the byzantine reader board. Rosenheim was just one of several stops on a slower commuter route through Bavaria. My eyes wandered from the board to my ticket to the trains and back until an attendant pointed me in the right direction.

The same drill I learned in Frankfurt played out in Munich as my feet trudged to the gate to wait what seemed like an eternity for the Rosenheim train. The building’s interior reminded me of the German stations depicted in World War II films with its aging architecture that once had a pre-modern elegance but had grown blighted by cracked pavement, sooty fixtures, and smoky air spewing from older trains. Time moved ever slower as I waited to leave, anxious to move on.

I dragged my life onto the train, tossed it overhead, and settled into a wagon with few seats to spare. I sat down next to a young Japanese man named Koji who was headed to Vienna. His affable demeanor gave me a nice respite from the monotony of listening to the sounds of the rail, a common soundtrack in the days before the birth of portable MP3 players. Conversing in English and bits of Japanese, Koji told me of his frustration in exaggerated expressions of traveling by rail in Europe. I laughed at his mimes, flailing hands, and his gruff, smoke-laden chuckles that kept me entertained all the way to Rosenheim.

We were two weary travelers getting by in a strange land, but somehow we managed. Koji spoke little English or German, and my knowledge of the Japanese language was limited to “hello,” “goodbye,” “thank you,” car brands, and sushi dishes. At least I could speak the local language, albeit marginally.

When the train arrived at the Rosenheim Station, I waved goodbye to my new friend and disembarked. I never saw Koji again. I’m not sure how he fared but was certain he finally reached his destination.

To be continued.

Previous installments of Eurasia:

1. Leaving America

2. Vancouver to Frankfurt

3. Adventures in Frankfurt (Part One)

4. Adventurers in Frankfurt (Part Two)

5. On to Munich

Images courtesy of Microsoft.

M.G. Edwards is a writer of books and stories in the mystery, thriller and science fiction-fantasy genres. He also writes travel adventures. He is author of Kilimanjaro: One Man’s Quest to Go Over the Hill, a non-fiction account of his attempt to summit Mount Kilimanjaro, Africa’s highest mountain, a collection of short stories called Real Dreams: Thirty Years of Short Storiesand Alexander the Salamander, a children’s story set in the Amazon. His books are available to purchase as an e-book and in print from Amazon.com and other booksellers. He lives in Bangkok, Thailand with his wife Jing and son Alex.