by Lindsay Shapka in Adventure, Destinations, Travel, Travel Tips
There is A LOT of down time when you are traveling long distances — waiting for your flight, driving to your next destination, or relaxing on a train.
You could sit with your nose in a book or scroll through Instagram to pass the hours, but why not take the opportunity to ask your travel buddy (or the random person sitting across from you if they look interesting) some fun questions and get to know each other better instead?
Read Moreby Lindsay Shapka in Travel, Travel Adventures, Destinations
You can't walk down a beach in Thailand without seeing a sign advertising yoga classes—sunset on the beach, early morning in the jungle, hot in the middle of the day. There are formal yoga schools in the cities, spiritual practices, exercise practices, fusion practices, and everything in between. In other words, if you want to practice yoga while on holiday in Thailand, you will have no problem finding somewhere to do it.
Read MoreSouth Korea is a country with a calendar year jam packed with small festivals, celebrations and special days. Teacher’s Day, Children’s Day, Valentines Day, White Day, Love Day, Peppero Day — the list goes on and on (and on and on — seriously, there are an aggressive amount of festivals).
I lived in the country teaching English for 13 months, and after awhile it was easy to tell when a major holiday was coming by the ten-kilogram cartons of grapes, packages of pears and massive jars of kimchi that took over sections of grocery stores and entire corner markets. Gift packs of ramen, crackers, Soju, lotions and shampoos filled the aisles in preparation for the coming celebrations.
Constantly surrounded by these foreign holidays, my roommate Michelle and I, feeling nostalgic for our own traditions, decided to bring a bit of home to South Korea and take on the challenge of hosting Thanksgiving dinner for our foreign colleagues.
A feat even with a fully stocked North American kitchen and grocery store at your disposal, being in South Korea brought a unique set of challenges to this holiday.
Cooking a turkey was out of the question because none of us had an oven in our apartment (this is a thing in South Korea — most people don't use ovens), so we had to settle on some precooked chickens from the grocery store as our main dish.
It was easy enough to find the vegetables that we would need, and after spending a few painstaking hours combing the foreign markets in Seoul, we managed to track down an ancient looking package of gravy mix and some boxed stove-top stuffing.
It wasn’t until we stumbled upon a lone can of pumpkin pie filling — hidden in a dark, cramped corner of the underground Hanam foreign market in Itaewon (a neighbourhood in Seoul) — that the thought of cooking dessert had even crossed our minds. The sheer luck of finding that can led us to believe that it was our destiny to make pumpkin pie (even though, as you will recall, we didn’t have access to an oven), be heroes to our friends, and host the BEST Thanksgiving dinner made in a foreign country EVER.
You might ask why we didn’t just buy a pie.
The short answer: South Koreans do not eat pie.
The long answer: while there were bakeries in the country, when I lived there, they didn’t make conventional items that would be found in bakeries in the western world. They were full of sickly sweet breads, hard flat pastries, fluffy pink cakes and mystery buns with red or black bean paste concealed inside them (I bit into what I thought was a chocolate croissant one morning to find that I was terribly, terribly wrong). I had never seen anything even resembling a donut, a cupcake or a gooey chocolate chip cookie, let alone something as radical as a pumpkin pie in a bakery. This lack of interest in North American-style baked goods — and the lack of ovens in standard apartment kitchens — also meant there was no baking aisle well stocked with flour, spices, sugar and other ingredients that would be found in the standard grocery store at home.
This man is pounding rice (called dak) that is used in South Korean pastries, This is nothing like a pumpkin pie — trust me.
Acknowledging all that was against us, we did the only logical thing that we could think of — called my mom. Since it was the middle of the night for her, it took me a few minutes to get her to understand that I wasn’t waking her up because of an emergency — I just needed some help making piecrust.
After she stopped laughing, she managed to find and read me a recipe which I scribbled down on the back of a receipt I found in my wallet, and handed off to Michelle who plunged down the small aisles of the foreign market desperately hoping that we would be able to find everything on the list. Luck was on our side, because after a thorough search we managed to find everything but condensed milk, which we discovered was easy enough to supplement by throwing regular milk, sugar, butter and water into a pan (thank you Google).
As we rode the subway home, trying to balance our ingredients haphazardly on our laps, we realized we had to face the elephant in the room and try to figure out how we were going to bake the pie.
After throwing out ridiculous ideas like making an oven out of a box (clearly a fire hazard) or cooking it on a small BBQ (just a bad idea thrown out in desperation), we decided to try and put ourselves in the hands of one of our local bakeries and their industrial sized ovens.
Once we got back to our apartment, we set our plan in action by calling Wendy — one of the Korean teachers we worked with who had offered us her services as a translator. We were hoping to have her explain our situation — over the phone in Korean — to the people working at our local bakery and then have her ask them if they would be willing to bake the pie for us in one of their ovens.
Like my mom, Wendy laughed for a few minutes and thought we were nuts, but agreed to help us.
Early the next morning, after prepping the pie, we carried it carefully to the closest bakery. Luckily the store’s owner happened to be working and once we had Wendy on the phone, we handed it over to him. After a few tense moments, he laughed and nodded at us, handing back the phone and Wendy confirmed what we had already guessed — he had agreed to help us out! Elated, Michelle and I left our pie in his hands and ran home to start preparing the rest of the meal.
After a long day of non-stop chopping, mixing and cooking, I left to pick up the pie about an hour before our friends arrived.
The minute I walked in the door of the bakery and saw the owner’s nervous face, I knew that something was wrong.
He slowly opened the lid of the white square box that had been sitting on the counter in front of him, and pointed inside at a lumpy mess, shaped sort of like a pie. Not even thinking that it needed to be explained, we hadn’t told him not to take the pie out of the pan when it was done baking. He — of course — had, and as a result the pie had completely fallen apart. Seeing how badly he felt and not wanting to make him feel worse, I gave him my biggest smile, bowed and thanked him warmly a few times before I left with my sad lump of pie.
We recounted our saga, amidst tears and laughter, while serving our sorry looking pie crumble to our surprised friends. When I finally sat down and took a bite of it myself, I was shocked to find that — despite its appearance — it was (and still is to this day) by far the best pumpkin pie that I had ever tasted.
by Lindsay Shapka in Destinations, Travel, Travel Adventures
The sky was streaked with pink and a gentle breeze — causing the tall, golden sugar cane to sway lazily from side to side — had replaced the heavy, relentless heat of the day. I carefully shifted my position, trying to get comfortable without falling out of the bed of the blue, battered truck I was wedged in that was driving at breakneck speed down the potholed filled road.
There were 22 of us crammed into the back of the truck, covered in dust and tired from clearing land and digging the foundation for a community center in the small village of Ojo de Agua, Honduras. There was no electricity in the town to run power tools (not that we had any) so all of our work had to be done the old fashioned way. After a full day of chopping down thick weeds with a machete and swinging a pickaxe at the dry, hard earth, I could barely lift my arms. I was looking forward to crawling under the safety of my mosquito net and passing out.
The Honduran girls, clinging to the edge of the truck beside me, had broken out in song the moment we lost sight of the town, the bad voices and the good, blending together in a free and careless harmony of a well-known melody.
Though it was my first visit to a country where I did not speak the language, I was surprised to find that I wasn’t having too much trouble communicating. Because I didn’t know a word of Spanish, I was forced to really pay attention and silent interactions suddenly conveyed more meaning to me than spoken words ever had. I felt that I understood my new friends more deeply through watching their subtle movements and looking into their eyes than I ever could have through their spoken language.
After a few verses of the song had gone by, Yolani, a vibrant girl about my age, turned from the group, grabbed my hand, looked me square in the eye, slowly sang a few foreign words and motioned for me to repeat after her. Self-conscious, I half talked, half-whispered the unfamiliar words back to her while she patiently nodded along, smiling and squeezing my hand when I managed to pronounce one close to correctly. She started to sing louder and faster, so I followed suit until my voice was just as loud, and blending in with hers. The other girls smiled at me as the words tumbled out of my mouth and were carried away by the wind.
* * *
Three days earlier, stuck in layover limbo in Texas, my friends and I were passing the time by discussing our individual expectations and goals for our volunteer adventure. We called ourselves the ‘youth in action’ and were a group of eight young adults traveling to Honduras to bring supplies to those still affected by Hurricane Mitch, and to help rebuild a community center.
Prior to this trip I had never traveled outside of North America and the only image I had of the developing world was what I had seen in infomercials — sad, destitute children, their bellies swollen or ribs protruding, and eyes full of tears that stared vacantly at the camera while an emotional Sarah McLachlan song played softly in the background. The children always looked lost and alone, waiting for someone to swoop in and save them. These images had motivated me to spend most of my free time fundraising for the trip, and that night in Texas, all I could think of was the flocks of poor, unloved children in Honduras who would finally feel hope when I, a representative of the developed world, showed them that I cared.
When it was my turn to share my expectations of our adventure, thinking only of the infomercial children, I told my friends that if nothing else — my goal was to make at least one child smile.
I was such an idiot.
Roger, our contact in Honduras, met us at the airport in Tegucigalpa, which was packed with people holding signs and chanting “Hon-DUR-as!!” at the top of their lungs. It turned out that we were on the same flight as the country’s national soccer team returning home from an international tournament.
Despite the chaos and commotion we moved quickly through the airport and after collecting our bags Roger led us outside to a couple of rusted, beat-up Ford trucks. I hopped into the back of the blue Ford with its paint peeling off, fender bent and windows cracked. I was surprised to see a faded “I LOVE TEXAS” sticker stuck to the bumper. Roger explained that many of the vehicles in the country were cast-offs from the United States.
After a sweaty two hours of driving, we turned off the rough dirt road onto an even rougher dirt road that led into Correl Quemado, our home for the week. Small one room shacks with rusted, corrugated roofs lined the road, and half-naked children splashed each other in the brown river that’s water was used to wash, cook, and drink. We pulled up in front of the sturdiest looking building in sight and were told we had an hour to unpack and freshen up.
“The girls, clinging to the edge of the truck beside me, had broken out in song the moment we lost sight of the town, the bad voices and the good, blending together in a free and careless harmony of a well-known melody.”
Too excited to stay inside, after throwing my bag on a bunk, I emerged from the dark stone building and almost ran directly into a small group of curious children that had gathered just outside the door.
I couldn’t believe that the infomercial children I had been picturing for years were finally in front of me!
Except... they didn’t look anything like the infomercial children.
The children in front of me were fully clothed, their stomachs were definitely not bloated from hunger and there were no flies circling overhead. In fact, they all had rosy cheeks and looked happy and healthy, not sad and hopeless. I was suddenly painfully conscious of my own appearance, realizing that after a full day of travel I was probably more disheveled than they were.
Looking into their curious faces, it hit me that I was not a ‘bearer of hope’ to these little people — I was simply a curiosity, a visitor, a potential new friend.
I had foolishly been equating poverty with a lack of self, power, humanity, and hope, and in my ignorance I had believed that my presence would somehow affect their very existence.
Feeling silly and a bit ashamed of the misconceptions I had been led to believe, I found myself unsure of how to interact. The kids and I stared at each other shyly for a few minutes until the smallest of the bunch, a little girl wearing a powder pink tank top, walked over to my side, looked up at me with big brown friendly eyes, slipped her hand into mine and smiled.
* * *
I tilted my head towards the growing darkness to take better advantage of the breeze, that was turning into a wind as our driver continued to gain speed. He must have been able to smell the dinner of grilled plantains and fresh tortillas waiting for us at the bunkhouse.
The wind felt amazing on my sun-scorched face and it sent my hair swirling around my head. But, I didn’t care how I looked and none of my new friends did either — we were too busy singing, laughing, and hanging on.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the story of my first trip outside of North America, and the first time I went somewhere that completely shook up the way I viewed the world, my life, and myself. I went on this adventure in the winter of 2000, and can still feel how life changing it was for me. I hope you enjoyed the piece — thanks for reading!
by Lindsay Shapka in Travel Adventures, Travel, Travel Tips, Adventure
For the entire 20 minutes I was in his cab, my driver used the little English he knew to try and convince me to let him take me to a "very good duck restaurant" or the "Forbidden Palace". I patiently responded "No, Shay Shay" (No, thank you) every time. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to get a higher fare out of me or if he was genuinely concerned to be taking me to a place not often visited by tourists.
I had read that the best way to explore the historical hutong’s (narrow alleys) of Beijing was to wander away from the tourist spots, near the city center, where the narrow alleyways crisscrossed east-west across the city.
The enchanting maze of one-story dilapidated dwellings and courtyards are home to a quarter of the city’s population, but that number is dropping as the government continues to knock these historical areas down, determined to cover the city in modern, high-rise buildings.
Reluctantly, my driver pulled to a stop at the end of a wide, pedestrian road, lined with antique stores. I handed him my fare and climbed out of the tiny car, leaving him shouting, "acrobat show?!" behind me in a desperate attempt to get me back in his cab.
I shook my head and smiled, but didn’t turn around, there was too much to look at in front of me.
I was on one of Beijing’s antique streets lined with shops full of old books, paintings, paper and brushes as well as Cultural Revolution kitsch like copies of Mao’s Little Red Book, pins with his face on them, and statues of the now deceased leader.
Though I was intrigued at first, it didn’t take long for me to get annoyed with the pushy salespeople trying to shove their products in my face. This was clearly not the place to window shop. I wasn’t there for shopping though — I was there to explore the hutong.
Ducking through a small archway, I found myself in a deserted, narrow alleyway. Laundry hung on hangers from the overhead power lines and on ropes strung between doorways. Too small for cars to fit down, the alley had bikes and scooters parked sporadically to it’s side. I was a bit surprised to see that nothing was locked up.
Peeking through a doorway, I found myself looking straight into an outhouse. The blue wooden door sagged open and there was about half a roll of toilet paper hung on a nail just outside it (most hutong’s still don’t have plumbing).
Two men sat on stools in another doorway further down the alley, playing chess. They looked up at me surprised when I walked by, I can’t imagine that they get many foreigners walking alone through their neighborhood. I smiled at them, self-consciously slipping my camera into my pocket, and nodded before continuing on my way.
They were the only people that I saw, and after awhile, as the shadows started to get longer, the deserted alleys started to feel dilapidated and even a little eerie.
Just as I was actually starting to get scared, wondering how I was going to get out of the maze with no phone and not knowing a word of Mandarin or Cantonese, I turned a corner and almost stumbled into a busy street.
Letting out the breath that I hadn’t even realized that I was holding, I threw my arm up in the air, and a cab — after careening across three lanes of chaotic traffic to get to me — screeched to a halt beside me.
I gave him the name of my hostel and sat back listening to him offer to take me to Summer Palace and Temple of Heaven instead as we pulled back onto the busy road, leaving the maze of the hutong behind us.
by Lindsay Shapka in Travel Tips, Travel, Travel Adventures, Adventure
Nothing can ruin a vacation more than huge, itchy welts all over your body.
I learned the hard way that I react differently to mosquito bites outside of North America when I woke up one morning in Thailand and my eye was swollen shut.
A mosquito had spent the night sucking the blood out of my cheek while I was sleeping.
After the initial shock, of not being able to see out of my left eye wore off, I realized that the entire left side of my body was also itchy and looked down to find even more bites that were quickly swelling to epic proportions.
To make the situation even worse, my travel buddy, who had been sleeping next to me all night, was completely bite free.
From that moment on, I decided that mosquito spray was going to have to be my best friend.
I know that they are better for the environment and your health, but in my experience, the all-natural or organic bug sprays do not work on the swarms of mosquitos that come from humid, hot climates.
If you react like I do to foreign mosquitos, stick to sprays that contain DEET. I know, I know, it’s a chemical that can cause side effects if you are exposed to it over the long term, but it’s either that or get eaten alive and potentially contract a fatal disease from one of your swollen bites. In other words, pick your poison.
The strategy I use is to wear a milder spray (like one of the nicely scented, child-friendly ones) during the day, and then switch to a more intense, deep-woods style spray at night. The heat of the day tends to keep most mosquitos in hiding (though they will still find you when you head to the shade), but they come out in full force once the sun goes down.
So, other than itchy bites, what are you trying to avoid by using all this bug spray?
There are a few serious diseases that you can get from mosquitos when traveling in tropical and sub-tropical environments:
Malaria: there is no cure or shot for this guy, but you can take pills to prevent it
Dengue Fever: no cure, no shot, no pills
Japanese Encephalitis: there is a vaccination for this one and if you are going somewhere where it is present, get it. This nasty disease can lead to brain damage and death.
Yellow Fever: vaccine available and some countries won’t even let you in unless you've had it
Zika: no vaccine and the long-term side effects are still being investigated
Other than wearing mosquito spray (I wore it 24 hours a day when in Southeast Asia), I suggest carrying a mosquito net with you. Many hotels will already have them installed in your room, but it’s better not to risk it. Nets are light, don’t take up much room and are easy to set up. Bring some duct tape and a screw in hook as options to hang it up yourself.
If you are planning on sitting out on decks or balconies at night, it’s also worth packing some mosquito coils or small citronella candles to burn to help keep the bugs at bay.
If you do end up getting bitten, an antihistamine will help with the swelling and itching. When I was in Thailand, one of the pharmacists there gave me Tiger Balm to put on the bites which cooled them off and took away some of the irritation as well.
Mosquitos find people using their strong sense of smell, and it has been speculated that eating bananas or taking vitamin B12 will make your blood smell bad and keep them away. There is no scientific evidence to support this, BUT after I started taking B12 daily (this was recommended to me by a Chinese herbalist), any bites that I got didn’t swell or itch.
Lastly, check with your local Traveler’s Health Clinic for updates on risk zones, and know where international clinics are located in the countries that you are headed to so you can find help quickly if you need it.
The CDC has great information about prevention, diseases, and where mosquitos carrying different viruses are located.
