Four Short Flights and a Whole New World Later [Philippines #1]

My blog has the ambiguous subtitle: thoughts of a traveling mind.
My mind often wanders off into strange thoughts and dreams or just ideas about the world. Some of these ideas you can read on this blog.
But sometimes I actually get to travel, and there is so much new input that I can’t make sense of it just yet. So I write. And sometimes, on some days, I allow others to read along.
Today is one of those days.


Four flights, twenty hours on nine different buses and two boat rides in fourteen days.
A sensual overload in smell, taste and emotions.
A lot of pictures and the inability to put into words what I have seen – these were the Philippines.

After three days, I sit down with my notebook and a pen.
I have to, I just have to write. I need to process all of this somehow.

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These shoes have gone through mud and rain.
They have taken me to foreign terrain and new experiences.
They invite you to come along.
So tie your laces and let’s begin, shall we?


Episode 1. Cebu.

Busy.
I guess that’s the word you’d most likely use to describe Cebu City.
We land around four in the afternoon and get a cab into the city. The streets are crowded with many vans and Jeepneys – remnants of US colonial history now used as taxis, which can take about 15 passengers. They stop whenever you tell them to, so traffic is a constant stop and go. In between there are hundreds of motorbikes, the preferred method of transport for the Filipinos. Technically, there are lanes, but everyone just goes back and forth wherever traffic seems to be moving along. The outside temperature is around 35°C with 70% humidity and I’m glad our cab has got air conditioning.

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The colorful and honking Jeepneys are omnipresent in Filipino cities

After we have reached our hotel in uptown, we explore the streets to find some dinner and end up at a really nice restaurant with a garden terrace. To the background music of soft pop ballads we order green mango juice and seafood – the perfect start to an extraordinary vacation. With seven hours of time difference, jetlag hits us quickly and we drift off into sleep very soon.

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first meal: mussles and green mango juice

The next day we walk downtown to explore historical Cebu. The Philippines have been a Spanish, then an American colony and you can see traces of both if you take the time to find them. This proves to be more difficult than expected and a casual stroll through the city center resembles more a fight against masses of people on the streets, crazy traffic and a thick cloud of smog.

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Electricity in the Philippines – overground and very (ahem) orderly…

The constant honking and the yells of people, combined with an excruciating heat, are nearly unbearable. I can feel sweat running from every pore of my body and my nose picks up the smell of burning trash and urine. We walk by men sitting in front of their shops, gawking at us who don’t fit in here at all. Past naked children playing in the dirt with toys made from trash. I had heard of the country’s poverty – now I see it and it breaks my heart.

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Provisional huts made of iron sheets, the rivers become dumpsters, the streets living rooms for the poor
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Due to the bad, or rather non-existant, sewage system, you’re not allowed to throw anything down the toilet.

In the midst of traffic and crowds of people we find the Cathedral St. Nino and head inside. The Filipinos are mostly Catholic and you can find golden ornaments and figurines of saints everywhere. Since they have fans, we sit down and watch the service taking place at the moment.

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People kneel or stand.
They kiss the Jesus figurine.
They seem very devoted.
God is all around the globe, in all his different facets.

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When we move on, we cross the Plaza Independencia and reach Fort de San Pedro, a former military base right at the waterfront. Its old stonewalls tell the stories of Portuguese conquest, Filipino tribal chiefs, friendship and war, strength and defeat. As we walk along one of the balconies, I feel a raindrop on my cheek.
This drop quickly turns into a midday downpour. This is quite typical in tropical countries during rain season and it’s a welcome relief for us sweaty and exhausted travelers. We sit down on a bench and watch the skies open, pouring down heavy, warm rain drops.

For about an hour, the noise of the city is drowned in the sounds of nature.
We pause, we slow down, we reflect.

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At night we stop at a supermarket to buy bottled water and some soap. From the loudspeakers they play an entire One Direction album. Soft pop really seems to be THE choice of music here. When I ask a Filipino later why that is he tells me, “We are just emotional and sentimental people.” Maybe we shouldn’t tell them then that the band doesn’t exist anymore…


This is part 1 of the series. Click here or here for more stories!

Oxford

When I visited the UK in May I also took a one day trip to Oxford.
Whenever people at university talked about Oxford, they would have a certain tone of awe and admiration in their voice.
Such an old town with so much history.
One of the oldest universities in the world.
So many great minds who have come from there.
Oxford is quite something. Continue reading “Oxford”

A Little Treat for Yourself

In July I was in London for the second time. Even though I was there for a conference it felt very much like a short vacation. Often it doesn’t take much to feel relaxed if we know how to grant our souls some rest.  Continue reading “A Little Treat for Yourself”

A Room to Escape

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I found this beauty in an old mansion house in the English countryside.
Whenever I visit old castles or houses I always enjoy the library most. Until now, I’ve only lived in small student apartments where space was rare. But these people, they had an entire room just for books and reading! Continue reading “A Room to Escape”

Our Father

I wrote this piece two weeks ago, not knowing how much more important its message would be just a few days later…

Last weekend I was in London. I spent Sunday afternoon walking along the South Bank and watching people as they enjoyed the unusually hot summer weather.
So many people from all kinds of backgrounds.
So many faces I’ve never seen before. I cannot help but wonder what their stories are.
Do they live in London or are they visiting? What has their week been like? What has brought them here today?
And how can this world be so diverse? Continue reading “Our Father”

The ‘Treasures’ of Traveling

When I travel I dive into the smell and taste of new food. I take in the breathtaking beauty of vast landscapes. I enjoy meeting people and listening to their stories.
When I travel I take a few pictures and collect souvenirs.
Not the objects you’d expect.
I collect stories.
In the midst of people, in a public square, on a bench at the coast – I sit down and write down all these treasures that beg to be told.

I just came back from a vacation. Two weeks in the UK with many great adventures and encounters. So here a few of my ‘treasures’ from London.

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A street in Aldgate at rush hour with one office building next to another.
Facades of steel and glass designed for people with long hours and large paychecks. In between the skyscrapers you can still detect remnants of the people who used to live here: small brick houses with coal stained chimneys next to modern art temples of money and business. Instead of tiny shops you find exclusive bars and high-class take away restaurants for the people who can’t ‘waste’ time on meals.

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Instead of low-class workers you now see men and women in elegant suits hurrying down the streets – coffee in one hand, blackberry in the other. They are no longer walking, they are running as if they can’t get away form this place fast enough. Their expensive costumes are paired with bulky trainers because their feet just can’t take it anymore after a day in high heels.

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This is a place for business, strictly business.
This is London.

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London9A street in West End at night.
Picadilly Circus is pulsating with cars, with tourists, with life. The streets are heavily trafficked by the all too familiar red Double-decker buses and black cabs. They. Are. Real.

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People are invited to get lost in the crowds or spend a lot of money in the many shops within the neo classicist buildings. If you just stop for a moment you can pick up a variety of languages and faces from all over the world. In between the shops you can see the shiny billboards of the many theaters celebrating the arts in countless musicals.

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The stories range from murder mysteries to romance to historical dramas. You dive into a world where everything’s shiny, all conversations are put into song, and in the end it will all work out well. Afterwards you walk out into real life again, carrying the stories with you and wishing that sometimes life would have a score to it.

This is a place for dreams.
This is London.

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The smells of Whitechapel.
You take the Tube to the East End and when you get off the train it feels like you step into a whole different world. Just a few blocks away from the sophisticated business quarters at Aldgate the streets are suddenly crowded with people wearing long beards, turbans, hijabs, or burkas. The mosque is located right next to the Synagogue. Shop signs are in Tamil or Arabic and advertise restaurants which sell pilaw and masala instead of pie.

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The area where workers from the nearby dockyards used to live a century ago is now home to people from all over the world, forming an incredible mixture of languages, religions, and cultures. It’s one of the poorest suburbs, but also the one where world travelers might feel most at home.

This is a place for diversity.
This is London.

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The Mall around Buckingham Palace.
Thousands of people from around the world press their faces against the iron gates to just get a glimpse of the Changing of the Guards. Men in red embroidered coats and large fur hats march up and down to the ‘James Bond’ tune. The ceremony seems like a relict from the past, and yet the monarchy is as present in the British society as ever. The English love their Queen and you can’t help but admire this lady who’s seen and lived through so much and managed to stay true to herself and her values nevertheless. Across St. James’s Park you can see Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. The old buildings have seen great events and heated debates, and they will soon be the place of a historical decision when the British vote on the Brexit. London and its population are crucial to the polls, and Europe is awaiting the results.

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This is a place for glamor and decisions.
This is London.

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The sounds of Covent Garden around noon.
The Piazza that used to be London’s biggest fruit and vegetable market is now filled with many elegant stalls selling everything from imported shawls to handmade jewelry. Instead of groceries you can taste original fish and chips, inhale the rich flavors of tea, or admire the delicate shapes of wooden toys. The surrounding pubs are flocked with business people and groups of friends enjoying a light lunch and a pint. Yes, it’s only noon, but it’s never too early to start drinking Ale.

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Covent Garden is the stage for all the artists who haven’t made it to the West End yet. The streets become their entertainment – jugglers, magicians, comedians, and opera singers. If you allow yourself to pause and sit down for a moment you discover something beautiful: a soft melody in the midst of the street noise. A song that makes you wonder like a child. A small glimpse of the extraordinary in the ordinary.

This is a place for celebration.
This is London.

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Four days in this beautiful, complex, enchanting and intriguing city. I take away sore feet, tanned skin, and a few pictures. There’s still so many places to discover, so many stories to tell. I’ll be back.

[Five Minute Friday] Same

Last week I was in Lisbon.
We walked up the old cobblestone streets and marvelled at the view over this old and colorful city. We enjoyed good food and great company. We explored a bit more of Lisbon’s rich history.

One day we spent at a monastery and its church.
As I was sitting in a bench enjoying the quiet peaceful atmosphere I noticed a girl. She walked through the room quite fast, her view fixed forward.
In her hand she held a phone which she pointed at the statues and the decor around her. The red ‘record’ button shone brightly in the dimly light nave.
She was there, in this beautiful old building, but yet she wasn’t.
She looked at architecture and painted windows, and yet she didn’t.
She rushed by as if everything was the same.
Instead of taking in the details, instead of collecting impressions she collected a quick recording, a mere snapshot on a phone which will never, ever match reality.

As I saw this girl racing by with her phone on record and no time to take in the real beauty in front of her, I had to think.
Don’t we sometimes have the same attitude?
We visit a new city and try to document as much as possible.
Every meal, every moment of happiness must be instagrammed before we might enjoy it.
We meet up with friends for coffee, but often we’re both on a run, so fellowship better happen fast.
We gather for church on Sundays, but the service can’t take more than two hours because everyone wants to get home for lunch on time.
We are here, in this life, and yet we are not. We rush by as if everything was the same. 

Let’s break out of this ‘same’ box.
Let’s step down from the treadmill this life often has us on and actually…live.
Let’s not put an end to a coffee date, just enjoy the time you have. Focus on the details, discover that your friend will never be the same like someone else.
Let’s travel and not be rushed. Cross off a few sights on your list and rather watch a city’s people. Learn a building’s history and take in the beauty which is often hidden in small things. Decide to not take pictures with your camera, but with your heart. 
Let’s enjoy Sundays again and experience what happens when we truly wait for the Lord.
Let’s be here.
Let’s collect moments, not things.

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Linking up with Five Minute Friday today. 

This Little Storybook that Holds My World

My passport expired a few months ago, and since I’m about to go traveling again I needed to get a new one. When the lady at city hall asked for my old passport I was startled. Did she want to take it away?
It left me wondering, Why do I care so much about this little booklet?

Among TCKs there’s a joke that the most valuable book you’ll ever possess is your passport.
This little booklet tells stories.
Stories of travels to foreign countries.
Stories of adventures in unknown cultures.
Memories of people, smells, and food so different from who you are.

Like the story when we were stuck at the airport in Entebbe/Uganda for hours because the officer wouldn’t accept our residence permits. We didn’t want to pay the customary “fee” (we would call it a bribe), so he made us wait in this unknown country. Our work and lives for the next two years would depend on this little piece of paper. When he finally let us go after lots of questions, it felt like a relief and the stamp of entry like a triumph.

Like the story when we traveled to Tanzania, a 10-12 hour bus ride. Crossing the border was a matter of hours again because the border patrol enjoyed talking to the only Mzungus (white people) on the bus in the middle of African bush land. Only when they were sure my dad was Jesus (because of his beard and longish hair), they let us pass, and we had a new stamp in our passports to remember this trip.

These stamps are not just stamps on a piece of paper. 
They serve as a conduit to our memories. 
Images of sun-drazed hills, humble yet elegant and amazingly friendly people, and the most
breath-taking sunsets come to mind when I flip through the pages of this little booklet.

Many pages are filled with visas, but in between there are also a few surprises. Like the entry stamp of Abu Dhabi I had not intended to get.
My flight to Johannesburg, South Africa was delayed, so I had an extra night to spend in this desert metropole. At immigration I was searched by a completely covered-up woman, which felt intimidating since she asked me to take off my clothes. As soon as I left the nicely cooled airport a heat wave hit me and made my clothes stick to my body. The cab passed by simple white houses in the desert, the skyscrapers downtown looming in the background. I was taken to a hotel which could’ve easily been the scene of a Persian fairytale and met some friendly fellow travelers.
The Arab letters in my passport remind me of my first encounter with the Oriental culture, even though it was just a peek.

To get a visa or entry stamp from the US is quite a journey which starts a few months before actual departure, when you go to the embassy, wait a few hours, and endure security protocol. Just to get a five minute interview in which you state that you definitely don’t want to emigrate to the US or have a secret fiancé there. The long line at the airport and a suspiciously looking border patrol officer in Charlotte, NC almost seemed like a piece of cake afterwards.

Passports tell stories.
Our stories.
Just like photo albums they take us back to adventures and memories of the past.
An invaluable treasure you don’t want to give up.

And yet, I guess that many TCKs might agree that their passports can be a burden for them sometimes.
This little booklet doesn’t just tell what you experienced, but also who you are. 
Your place of birth, your family name, your nationality.
You’re a citizen of country x. You belong to the people of y.

But what if I don’t feel like it?
What if my heart doesn’t match what it says on that paper?
What if my soul is lost in the beauty of Africa, the hospitality and openness of people with a different skin color? 
The allegiance of my heart cannot be described by one single country code.
I am German and yet I’m not. I feel African, but so many things drive me crazy about it.
I’m a mix of everything, which sometimes feels like nothing.
My passport reminds me of this cultural conflict I find myself in, this search for a sense of belonging, a sense of myself, a home.

After a bit of paperwork the lady at city hall handed me back my passport.
With “expired” written across the page in bold letters.
Even though my old passport has expired, my stories are not. 
Because I’m still here to treasure and tell them.

A few weeks later I got my new passport – many more pages to fill with new experiences.
New memories.
New stories.