South Core Banks

Birthday's Eve, 2014

The bottom of my feet are blistered and the tops are burnt.
But they've carried me thirty miles on this empty beach.
Tomorrow is my birthday...Twenty-Seven...
For four days. Just me.
And the sand. The sand. Everywhere.
The sand. Crashing Waves. Steady Sun.
I saw a dead dolphin the other day.
Looked like his brain had bloated and exploded out his blow-hole.
The jellyfish on the shore are an unnatural electric blue.
Poor Flipper.
For miles and miles, no sign of human existence.
Except for half-deflated, sad, ragged birthday balloons.
Dozens of them.
I imagine a six year old letting one go...
"Where do they go daddy?" She asks.
"Hmm. To Heaven I guess." The gentle reply.
But I know.
They land here. In the sweltering heat.
Amongst the dunes, grass, jellyfish and dead dolphin.
It's better she doesn't know.
My feet are red, blistered and burnt...
But they've carried me this far.

Bible Hill, Jerusalem, Israel/Palestine

Rosh Hashanah, 2013

So many Holy Places, so much white stone
Crescents, Crosses, Six-Pointed Stars
Layers on Layers,
Mosques on Synagogues on Cathedrals
White stone breathes traditions
Bleeds conflict,shimmers purity
Hellishly hot
With labyrinths and vistas
The weight of the heavens unbearable
Angels stand on my head
Crusaders, Ottomans, IDF Soldiers
Hold me down
But I feel ethereal
That sound in the sky...
Angels? Missiles?
Or just a Boeing?

-CAM

The fall that broke the camel's back

On top of my bookshelf a small menagerie lives. Every time I travel to another country I try and buy a small wooden animal. It started by coincidence; while in the West Bank I found a wooden camel for sale, and as I already had a wooden camel from Sudan it seemed a fitting souvenir. Small, cheap, it was a perfect idea for a broke college student who generally travels with only a duffel bag. I decided to collect an animal from every country I venture to. Later a puffin from Nova Scotia and Giraffe from Kenya were added. Well the original, the black camel from Sudan, took quite a fall and was decapitated on a computer desk. So the short of the story is, as I'm out of super glue, looks I'm going to have to go back to Sudan.

Ramallah, Palestine

June, 2007

Daydreaming I walk toward Ramallah's central square. There life is bustling, loud, dusty, dirty and strangely familiar. In the square large stone lions keep a watchful, eye on the taxis speeding below. They have a commanding air. They preside over the square, ensuring the honesty of the hawkers and merchants. The stone lions guard the square. They own the square. It belongs to them.

A large brown hand plops down on my shoulder. “I have seen you.” I look up at the man. His smile is reassuring. The Kalashnikov hanging from his shoulder is not. Never in my life have I seen this man, a large Palestinian soldier, before. His smile is bright. “I have seen you, you were the one giving the pictures to Hamas.” The soldier insists. Never relaxing the smile, his hand gently gropes my shoulder. I flash a smile of my own. It's big, fake and surely the corners of my mouth twitch belaying my nervousness. Keep smiling I remind myself. “huh, what?” I stutter. Wow, smooth. The soldier repeats himself, “I have seen you with Hamas, you must go with me.” Now for the first time, I notice the second soldier. More compact, menacing an AK-47 is held tight across his chest, and he does not smile. Ahead my tour guide, translator, teacher is in his own world. Again I stutter and incomprehensible reply. The smaller soldier begins to crack a smile, his larger companions smile explodes into a laugh. For the sake of conformity I laugh too. Squeezing between people on the crowded side walk I hurry away, toward the imagined safety of the lion headed statues in the square and my bearded mentor.

Heart still pounding, the soldiers' mocking laughs become fainter as I slip away. Away to the imagined anonymity of crowds, away from the harassment of bored, imaginative soldiers. Towards the dust, the smell of kebabs, the heat, the veils, the keffiyehs, the life of the square. Towards anonymity. Towards the safety of the square, under the the paternal gaze of those stone lions. I smile, then laugh at the absurdity of my thoughts. For me anonymity is impossible in the tan crowd, my pasty skin shines in the sun. The bearded man is a pacifist. And as for the the lions; the lions are made of stone.

Kitale, Kenya

Summer, 2008

DO NOT STONE THE SNAKES!

The sign is quite clear. Barasa, however, is not convinced. Rereading the sign aloud does nothing to deter him. He bends down. Picks up a pebble. My mind wanders. The sign's wording is so odd. Yet here, in Western Kenya, where missionaries spent decades preaching the gospel from King James Bibles, it does not seem out of place. Biblical terms pop up in this part of Africa with surprising frequency. And “stone” is so rarely used as a verb anymore it seems... Barasa bumps my elbow shaking me from my idle thoughts. A sly wink. He is going to stone the snakes.

Kitale holds one of Kenya's National Museums. It is based on the collection of Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Stoneham, the sort of scientific and academic generalist that British colonialism seemed to breed. A historian, entomologist, botanist, zoologist, and anthropologist; his collection contained eclectic mix of historical and cultural items. Most striking though is a complete menagerie-- pinned through, stuffed and fermented. Gorgeous tropical butterflies crumble around their pins, glass eyed wildebeest glare down from the walls and unidentifiable amphibians soak in cloudy formaldehyde. Outside the walls is a small zoo with animals still alive. Their lethargy however appears to inspire frequent stoning attempts.

Barasa picks up the tiny piece of gravel. He hisses at the black mamba but it doesn't stir. A swift, subtle toss of the stone. It hits. The blow from the pebble causes the most dangerous snake in Africa to barely stir. The snake pit remains as boring as it was. From nowhere a museum askari (guard) appears. The tall man in a black uniform gently takes Barasa's hand and holds it in his own. His look is that of a parent affectionately chastising a child. Calmly, still gingerly holding Barasas hand, he reads the sign aloud. He looks at Barasa “sawa, sawa?” (ok?). Barasa sheepishly nods, and off the askari goes.

As usual my thoughts wander. I imagine an American security guard holding a complete strangers hand while admonishing them. My mouth curls up. Barsasa is confused by my smile. Ignoring his confusion I say “sawa sawa” and we head off to the monkey trail.

Berber, Sudan

New Year’s Morning 2006

The Saharan stars are obscenely bright. They seem to peel open the lids of my eyes, and tear my brain from fitful slumber. Then again perhaps it’s the hard lumps of mattress contorting my spine. Or the creeping and buzzing of the various Nilotic pests sharing my mattress. The tingling, tickle of their wings, legs, proboscises forces a shudder. (Malaria!?) Maybe the chilly breeze floating through the courtyard is to blame for the insomnia and the tremble. No. The coffee is the culprit. Three tiny cups; each of enamel melting strength. In a lapse of judgment I even downed the grainy residue that coated the bottom of the cup. This deliciously bitter film is composed of tiny bits of Arabica that escaped capture by the camel hair tuft in the spout meant to filter them. Really though it’s the excitement. A new year. A new country. Whispering “happy new years” to all the slumbering Sudanis, I close my eyes again.

Minutes later my open again. My kidneys. They want revenge for submitting them to so much caffeine. My bladder won’t wait ‘til morning. Sliding my sandaled feet through the packed dirt of the courtyard, I creep to the metal gate. While opening the door screeches in protest, as hinges seem only to do in the dead of night. I step into the street. A haze of jet lag, caffeine, and drowsiness suddenly clouds my mind. The scorching light of day left the dusty wall lined street bright, inviting. In the darkness the alley has menacingly narrowed. The gray sand blasted brick walls loom and the large metal doors seem strangely foreboding. It’s a Monty Hall nightmare. Behind one of these doors lies the squatty potty I used earlier. Little more than a small, smelly room with a hole in the floor through which strange smells of ammonia and digested fava beans emanate I long to find it again. Pick the wrong door and who knows where I might trespass. Janjaweed militants? Bashir himself? There is only one proper decision. To pee in the streets.

The decision is made, but still fear grips me. There is a flash of spending the last few years of my teens in a Sudanese prison, for public urination. Public urination! Sudanese prison! Shaking, I look about. The streets are silent, dark. A strange sensation of being completely alone, dwarfed by the immensity of the desert and the sky washes over me. The stars are so bright. Obscenely bright. The street is so dark, threateningly dark. The desert swallows all the sound. Even the shadows refuse to dance. I really am alone.

Calmed, I begin to relieve myself. Suddenly fear grips me. In the shadows a woman in hijab quietly stands. Not in the traditional brightly colored tob of the women of Sudan, but a black, shapeless burqa. My mind screams. It is too late to stop midstream. My eyes stay fixed on the wall, yet her shadow looms in my periphery. One deep breath. One long blink. The woman fades. A stack of tires inhabits her space. I really am alone. Anxiety fades. The world calms. The desert swallows the sound of my footsteps. I return to my lumpy bug ridden mattress. I lie on my back. Snores drone from the bed beside me. The mosquitoes buzz returns. This time sound swallows the desert. It’s no longer quiet. I’m no longer alone. Eyes peeled I wait for morning. Staring up at the obscenity of the stars.

Topsail Island, NC

Summer, 2010
It’s not sunny. All the other clichés for a story about the beach are there: crashing waves, sandy beach, pelicans and gulls, salty air, but no sun. I can’t complain though. On the north and south ends of the island thunderheads loom, but above our little section of beach the sky is a much lighter hue. The occasional drizzle isn’t enough to force us from the sand, though far off lightning strikes at the waves. Picking my book* up again, I realize two facts. First for the first time since I was eighteen I have spent an entire year in the country. Secondly the memories of the trips I have taken are becoming jumbled, less clear. Some memories seem to have been romanticized, gilded by nostalgia. Others dulled, stifled by the reality of the present. This is a belated attempt to capture some of the of my favorite travel memories from the past few years. A travelogue, written well after the fact, of my time in Kenya, Palestine, Sudan, Nova Scotia and just around. Hopefully, soon, there will be new travels to record here too.


* Robert Young Pelton’s The Adventurist