“A journey is not so much a place, but a new way of seeing.” — Pico Iyer
Travel has always been my passion. From childhood, the love for exploring new places was instilled in me by my parents. They believed travel was not just recreation, but education.
Every school vacation, my father would plan a month-long trip, taking us across cities, temples, forests, and historic landmarks.
By the time I stepped into adulthood, the entire stretch of Gujarat and Saurashtra was familiar terrain — Dwarka, Porbandar, Jamnagar, Ahmedabad, Baroda, Surat, Rajkot.
We traveled across the country too, exploring Calcutta in the east and venturing north to Kashmir, Amritsar, Agra, Delhi and Jaipur, Jodhpur and Jaisalmer in the Northwestern part.
Along the way, each place offered its own unforgettable charm — the serenity of the Golden Temple, the fragrant rose gardens of Jodhpur, the majestic palaces of Jaipur, the golden deserts of Jaisalmer, and the shimmering beauty of Dal Lake in Srinagar.
Each journey painted my childhood with stories, sights, and memories that would stay with me forever.
Perhaps that is why, when I was finally given the opportunity to travel abroad on a business trip to Singapore, my excitement was indescribable.
But beneath that excitement was a quiet nervousness — it was my first international trip, a solo journey, and I had to navigate visas, documentation, and the unfamiliarity of foreign travel.
I still remember the night before my flight — the quiet hum of anticipation, the open suitcase neatly arranged with formal wear and presentation notes, and the flutter in my heart that felt both brave and uncertain. This wasn’t just another professional assignment — it felt like a rite of passage.
Singapore was my first glimpse of a world beyond India — an island nation I had only encountered in business magazines and travel columns.
As the aircraft lifted off the runway, I felt something shift inside me. Beneath the official purpose of the trip lay something more personal: the realization that I was crossing a threshold that would reshape the way I saw work, people, and myself.
The first few days were busy with meetings and deliverables, yet my Singapore-based colleagues made sure I didn’t miss the beauty of their city.
Over weekends, they took me to Gardens by the Bay, Sentosa Island, Universal Studios, Little India, and shopping districts filled with light and energy. Their warmth made the newness less intimidating.
I experienced my first metro journey abroad — taking the MRT from Ang Mo Kio to Raffles Place — and was amazed at the punctuality, efficiency, and discipline that seemed to pulse through the city’s transport system.
Gardens by the Bay left me mesmerized; Sentosa offered calm and peace, while Universal Studios was a burst of color, joy, and laughter.
Singapore’s friendliness, cleanliness, and multicultural harmony made a deep impression on me.
It was a place where professionalism coexisted effortlessly with warmth, where discipline didn’t suppress diversity but strengthened it.
When I returned home, friends and colleagues asked about the presentations, the meetings, and the outcomes.
But what stayed with me long after the trip was not just the work accomplished — it was the inner shift.
Singapore taught me that stepping outside our comfort zone widens our world in ways we never expect.
That first flight did more than carry me across countries — it carried me into a broader way of thinking, observing, and belonging.
It showed me that growth often begins at the edge of comfort, and that the world is much larger and more welcoming than our fears allow us to believe.
“Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” — Miriam Beard
What Singapore Taught Me
Every first step into the unknown teaches us something essential about ourselves.
Singapore showed me that courage doesn’t always roar; often, it’s the quiet decision to board a plane alone and trust that you will find your way.
In every MRT ride, every unfamiliar street, and every new conversation, I discovered the subtle power of openness — the willingness to learn, adapt, and embrace difference.
When we travel with curiosity instead of fear, the world responds with generosity.
And sometimes, one journey becomes the beginning of a much larger unfolding — a reminder that confidence grows one step, one city, and one experience at a time.
Reflection: The First Flight Within
We often believe that courage lies in grand actions — but sometimes, it lies in handing your passport to an immigration officer with shaky hands.
My first flight taught me that courage is a journey too.
That every time we step out into the unknown, we return home a little braver.
A little wiser.
A little more ourselves.
About the Book:
When the Road Becomes the Teacher: A Reflective Memoir of Wisdom Gained Around the World is a memoir about how travel can transform the way we see the world and ourselves. Drawing on four decades of journeys across India and beyond, Shubha Apte reflects on the experiences, encounters, cultures, and unexpected moments that shaped her understanding of resilience, confidence, leadership, cultural intelligence, and personal growth. From her first international business trip to Singapore to later journeys across Japan, Norway, Malaysia, Europe, and the United States, each destination became more than a place to visit—it became an opportunity to learn. Part travel memoir and part reflection on personal transformation, the book invites readers to look beyond destinations and discover the lessons that every journey can offer.
About the Author:
Shubha Apte is an author, executive coach, and leadership consultant with over 35 years of corporate experience. She is the author of multiple books including the Amazon Bestseller, When the Road Becomes the Teacher. Her writing blends real-life insight with storytelling, exploring themes of resilience, purpose and human connections.
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Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble
“Oh no! The sail is torn!”
I looked outside and the tall black sail, known as the reacher, was billowing above with a one-meter gash. The boat bumped along in the wind and the tide. My hat blew behind me, held by the cord around my neck, and my matted salt-encrusted hair scattered in all directions.
“Can you fix it?”
“Well, I have some sail tape as a temporary solution, but I can’t do the repair while we’re underway. It means we won’t be able to get to our destination tonight. The reacher was giving us a good speed in this wind, and without it we won’t make it all the way to the Horizontal Falls. We can only approach it when the tide is flooding. The only problem is that there are no anchorages listed in the cruising guide between here and the falls. I’ll have to choose an unlisted spot to anchor before it gets dark,” Alex explained.
Horizontal Falls in the Talbot Harbour is a destination often advertised in Australia by cruise ship companies. The advertisements feature glamorous retired couples enjoying luxurious service on deck, often sipping Champagne. I confess to feeling a tad envious looking at those couples with clean and coiffed hair wearing freshly laundered clothes, with constant access to hot water. Fresh water is a luxury on a sailboat, and hot water even more so. But we like travelling on our own terms, creating our own timetable. Plus, Alex likes the adventure. His expression starts to relax once he is at the helm heading out to sea.
Horizontal Falls is so named because it features rapidly moving water that ebbs and floods between narrow cliff faces. Unlike a normal waterfall, which flows vertically, the water flows horizontally. Alex and I were heading there in a very unconventional way. Rather than taking a cruise ship, we were sailing there in our own boat. We witnessed multiple cruise ships on our voyage but no other sail boats. Guests on the cruise ships would see the falls from sea planes or helicopters because the falls were best observed from above. We would be observing it from surface level.
“How long is the afterglow? Can’t we try to make it there this evening?” I persevered.
“It’s not a good idea. Sailing in the dark and fighting a tide in these remote waters is tricky. Let’s try that cove over there.”
The cove looked well sheltered and would hopefully give us a good night’s sleep.
“The main hurdle is that the tide is nine metres, so we have to anchor in at least three metres at low tide. We also have to avoid coral and rocks that might be lurking beneath the surface.”
We circled a few times, trying to conserve what little power remained in the battery. Eventually Alex settled on a spot and lowered the anchor. We had been sailing for two weeks, and our rations were starting to run out. We did have half a packet of blue brie and some crackers, so we contented ourselves with that. The sun slipped beneath the horizon and framed the seascape in burnt orange.
“Hooray!” I said as I did every evening when the sun set. Finally, I could escape from the sun. During the day I actually wore two hats when I was outside, but only one when I was inside and the light was streaming through the windows on all four sides of the saloon. The sun would sear into my eyes and turn my pasty skin a shade of watermelon after even a couple of minutes of exposure.
Meredith CoveAlex adjusting the mainsail
Alex then announced: “I’m going to name this place Meredith Cove when I add a listing to Zulu Waterways.” Zulu Waterways was Alex’s favourite online cruising guide, which he used wherever he sailed, whether Japan, Indonesia or Australia.
Alex prepared Nasi Goreng, having been recently inspired by his delivery voyage through Indonesia. He used up cooked rice and leftover vegetables from the fridge. We were to indulge in our evening pleasure of streaming a British crime show, but the pitch darkness of the seascape sent us into a deep sleep, and we never did rouse to watch the show. There were no other vessels anchored nearby, but the occasional cruise ship passed us in the distance.
Around 2am, the anchor alarm sounded. This was not a listed anchorage, so there was a possibility that something could go wrong. The tide had come in, and it was too deep for the anchor. We needed to avoid drifting into the cliffs. Alex went to the stern.
“Can you hold the tiller? Keep the boat facing towards the compass on the screen.”
This was too much responsibility for me. I couldn’t see the cliffs because it was pitch dark.
“Can’t I raise the anchor instead?”
“No. I don’t want you going up there.”
I was secretly relieved. In this pitch darkness I didn’t trust myself walking to the bow to raise the anchor. What if I fell into these crocodile and shark-infested waters with the massive tide movement? How would Alex save me?
In the end he managed to stabilize the boat without entrusting the tiller to me. He ran to the bow and soon I could hear the chugging and grunting of the anchor chain. I kept my eyes on the screen, willing the boat to continue pointing in the right direction. Thankfully it did, and soon Alex was back at the stern. Soon the tide would fall, and it would get shallower. Alex was confident the anchor would hold.
The next morning was a late start because we had to wait for the Talbot Harbour to flood so that we would be going with the tide and not fighting it. It was a two-hour voyage to reach Horizontal Falls. As we entered the Talbot Harbour, we saw cruise ships. Closer to the falls, seaplanes and helicopters circled overhead. After the isolation of two weeks sailing with nary another vessel in sight, it suddenly felt like we had arrived at a marine Grand Central Station or Clapham Junction. (Or should I say Shibuya Crossing since both of us had spent so many years in Japan?)
Sea plane near the Horizontal Falls
We anchored outside the falls, a few hundred metres from the floating hotel. Tenders were departing from a cruise ship anchored closer to the falls. A power boat was taking guests in from the floating hotel.
“Shall we take the tender to the falls?” Alex asked me.
“What do they advise?” I asked him.
“They say to exercise caution,” he responded. “It’s a flood tide, which will tend to suck us in unless we’re careful.”
I was a bit worried we would be swept into the falls, but they must be worth looking at, given the number of seaplanes and helicopters circling overhead.
“We have come all this way. We had better do it,” I said somewhat fearfully.
We covered as much exposed skin as possible to protect ourselves from the sun and donned our lifejackets. We stepped off the back of the boat onto the tender, and Alex took it towards the falls. The tenders from the cruise ship went to the outskirts of the falls, whereas the power boat from the floating hotel went all the way in. We took our cue from the other tenders and stopped outside the falls. Alex tethered the tender to a tree, and we faced the direction of the falls, hearing its roar, and enjoying the shade of the cliff. From our vantage point, we could only discern a thin ribbon of whitewater.
“Let’s go back, Alex!” I urged, afraid of getting swept into the falls.
He untethered the tender from the tree and we headed back to the boat. We had to wait for the ebbing of the tide before heading back out of the Talbot Harbour to the open sea. Alex donned his swimmers and snorkel and performed an underwater adjustment to the rudder. I stood above him scanning the water for crocodiles and bull sharks. Then he started making bolognaise for dinner, so it would be ready once we had stopped at our next anchorage that evening. As he was performing these chores, I heard a helicopter engine and saw a helicopter make a careful and delicate landing onto the helipad on the cruise ship. This clever manoeuvre made me want to applaud. The guests disembarked, more guests boarded and the helicopter took off again, swirling over the hills in the direction of the falls. Sea planes took it in turns to depart from the floating hotel to take their guests on aerial tours.
The author’s view of Horizontal Falls
The Horizontal Falls had been the purpose of our voyage, but other tourists were part of organised tours and so they had been escorted up close to see the falls. As private tourists we didn’t feel it safe to go into the falls too deeply, in case we got swept away. Although the falls were beautiful, it was somewhat of an anti-climax, viewing them from the same level rather than above. However, it was worth the visit. The sight of the helicopter heading to the cruise ship and making a precise landing on the ship’s helipad was a spectacle indeed. It was all the more impressive because we suddenly went from the extreme isolation of nature to bustling human activity. I felt a deep sense of satisfaction that we had persevered with all of the sailing hardships to witness this spectacle. Sometimes you don’t find what you are looking for, but you find something unexpected that is equally satisfying.
Helicopter landing near the falls
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The author at her stall in the Zine Fest. Photo provided by the author.
As an American writer in Japan, who writes and publishes in English, I tend to meet a lot of fellow expatriate writers. I know a few Japanese writers and poets who write in English, and of course, I am familiar with many Japanese authors through their works which have been translated into English. However, although I had read about the burgeoning Japanese zine scene, I had never actually witnessed it. As a professor of Japanese students who seem to hate reading and writing (at least in English), I could hardly imagine a hall full of self-published writers marketing their wares.
When an ad for a Zine Fest in Kobe popped up in my Instagram feed, I decided to sign up. The invitation was for creators and vendors of all kinds, including handicrafts, books, clothing, and yes, zines. I invited my artistic daughter to join me, thinking that she could sell postcards of some of her illustrations, but she had already made plans for that weekend.
I boarded a bus in Tokushima with a small suitcase full of books taken from the stash in a futon closet in my house. The bus went across Awaji Island, then onto the bridge that led into Kobe. I got off on the bridge and took an elevator down to ground level and found my way to the nearest train station. Although it was hot and humid, navigating my way to the venue, an old-style community center with dark wooden floors, gave me a sense of satisfaction.
I paid the modest participation fee and made my way to my designated spot in a room down the hall, a small table right at the entrance, with just enough space for all of the books that I had brought to display. My boothmate was a student from a college in Kyoto, majoring in political science, who was selling a chapbook about her job-hunting experiences. I bought a copy for my son, who was about to finish his graduate degree in history, and would soon have to start job-hunting himself.
The Zine Fest was happening on three floors of the building. We were on the first floor. I looked around the room and saw a wide range of handmade goods on display – jewelry, postcards, board games, and even food. As far as I could tell, I was the only foreign vendor and the only person selling materials in English. (I would later discover that this was not true.)
My boothmate had decorated her half of the table with small stuffed animals – characters from the Bam and Kero picture book series. She had come up with this idea after her first zine festival experience. It was a good conversation starter. Every now and then, she got up to reposition the figures.
In the first hour, a few foreigners sauntered through. Most pointedly ignored me, but I managed to sell one book to a cheerful young American woman in a dress appliqued with lesser pandas. I had known from the beginning that it would be difficult to sell English-language books at a Japanese event. It was almost impossible for me to convince the English majors at our university to read books in English. Nevertheless, I tried. I chatted up my books in Japanese to a few other people, to no avail: “This one is easy!” “This one has pictures!”
I saw that a vendor at another table was nodding off. One was crocheting. I thought it would be okay to eat the rice balls my husband had made for me while sitting at the table. After my lunch, I took a break and looked around. I went upstairs to what appeared to be the main room. I bought a graphic novel from a Polish publisher, and a fantasy story featuring a dragon from a Japanese creator, both in English. I was tempted by the quirky travel journals on interesting places, like Yemen, of another. For the time being, I picked up her business card so that I could follow her on social media. In another booth, a guy was selling fresh vegetables. The attendees were eclectic as well: a woman with pink hair and tattoos, men in skirts.
I perused some sample zines that had been set out on a table, then I went back to my booth. My boothmate told me that a few people had stopped by and looked at my books while I was gone. I found this heartening.
One guy picked up my book Waiting, which is a story in poems. He flipped through it, paused on certain pages, and asked a lot of questions. It seemed as if we talked for about five minutes, and I was sure that he would buy a copy. But then he asked, “What does RIP mean?” and after I explained, he said, “Dark!” He put the book down and made his escape. Maybe I wasn’t so good at hyping my books in Japanese.
Even so, I managed to sell a few more copies, and so did my boothmate. We clapped for each other every time one of us sold a book. At the end of the session, I packed up my remaining stock and went to meet my son for dinner. I gave him the chapbook, which he later read and said was depressing. Job-hunting is hard, and my boothmate suffered many setbacks. But spoiler-alert: she eventually found a job, and now I am following her on social media.
At the Zine Fest: Photos provided by the author
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
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Charudutta Panigrahi introduces us to to the eighteenth century literary giant, Upendra Bhanja, who gave up his crown for the love of words. Click here to read.
Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan highlights the contemporariness of Sangam Literature with discussion about a narrative based on trust and power politics. Click hereto read.
Lily West in front of Mount FujiPhotographs provided by Suzanne Kamata
In Lily West’s travel memoir West goes East she recounts venturing from her native England overland toward India in the early 1970s with an impulsive American named Ed, a pro-Palestine fellow hippie whom she meets en route, on a shoestring budget. With the brazenness that comes with youth, they become entwined with all sorts of shady characters, finding themselves the guest of a charming conman in Amman, and being mistakenly deposited in a brothel in Cairo. Among other adventures, they rescue a polar bear from heat stroke in a zoo in Khartoum, are arrested twice in Egypt (and not for climbing to the top of a pyramid, which they do), and find themselves spectators at a public hanging in Iraq.
Many of the places they visited, such as the West Bank, Sudan and Afghanistan, are even less accessible now. West, by the way, is one of the few people who have traveled to every country on earth recognised by the UN. Although she made these travels as a man, she now lives in Japan as a woman. This award-winning book is a wild ride into the treacherous terrain of a bygone era. Lily generously agreed to answer a few questions.
Suzanne Kamata: First of all, congratulations on launching this book into the world! It has had a very positive reception, including an award for NomadMania Best Travel Book 2024. In the introduction you write that you hadn’t intended to write a book about traveling with your friend Ed, and that the idea came to you decades later. Can you tell us about the writing process? Also, how did you manage to recreate the scenes so vividly?
Lily West: I had often been urged to write a book, but never found the time or energy to do so. Then a friend introduced me to a publishing agent from English Agency Japan, who on hearing some of my travel stories, begged me to write a sample chapter which I eventually did. Then he demanded another and another until somehow after a year the book was finished. I guess the scenes in “West goes East” had remained vivid in my memory, because I had had some fifty years to remember them.
SK: Could you tell us a bit about the road to publication?
LW: The road to actual publication was a long one. My agent took six years only to come up with two concrete offers from publishers. Lots of offers that turned out to be pie in the sky though! I rejected both, the one because they wanted to edit the book down to half its size, the other because they wanted the chapter about Israel and all mention of Palestine removed. No! So, the manuscript continued to sit in my computer. Then Harry Mitsidis, the founder of the NomadMania extreme travel group, and arguably the world’s most travelled man, came over to Japan to verify that I really had been to the 193 UN member countries and thus was qualified to join the group. He was amazed that I was so easy to verify. Luckily, I had sent a postcard to my parents from every country I had been to. And my parents had kept them all! So, we became friends; I mentioned to him that I had written a book, and he asked me to send him a couple of chapters. He was so impressed that he said he would write a foreword and get the book published on Amazon. (This was technically beyond my ability!)
But he made it a condition that I include an epilogue about Lily’s much harder and longer journey, the journey to be accepted as the woman I knew I was. To be honest, I wasn’t very keen on this, because nowhere in the travel book do I mention or hint that I am a “transgender” woman. In fact, in 1972, the year the events in the book happened, it was still my Big Secret, something which could never be divulged to anyone, so I can understand its absence. However, as requested, I wrote the epilogue, which I have heard has caused some readers to cry. Naturally, Harry also wanted Lily West to be credited on the cover as the author, which was fair, because Lily had written the book!
SK:What was the first foreign country you ever visited? What activated your wanderlust?
LW: Well, I was brought up in England, but my mother was German, so we went there most summers. But I think you mean the first country visited by myself. I’ll give you two. I HATED the cruelty of school so much that at 17, I ran away and hitchhiked to Madrid which improved my Spanish enormously. Then that summer the local Education Committee paid for me to spend three months in the Soviet Union studying Russian. My German grandfather collected stamps, interesting enough, but what fascinated me were the names of the countries. Not just looking at the exotic names, I knew I wanted to go and actually see them! So, after I graduated, I said goodbye to England and set off on my second overland trip to India, as described in West goes East, but this time with no intention of returning.
SK:Early on in the book it becomes clear that Ed has the potential to get into trouble. You write that you were unlikely traveling companions, with very different personalities, and yet you stuck together. Was there any point in your travels that you at least considered going your own way?
LW: Yes, in Baghdad over the Donkey Boy incident! I was so angry with him! But we had gone through so much together that it would have been difficult to split up. Of course, I knew we would part in Delhi, and I would be going off on my own, which eventually landed me in Japan. (After I had been there just under a year, Ed arrived with his wife and son.)
SK: What does it mean to you to be a UN master (one who has visited all 193 countries recognised by the United Nations)?
LW: The end of one lifelong journey! This April, I took part in the largest gathering of UN Masters ever. 64 of us in Azerbaijan! Some had taken considerably less time than the 49 years I had taken, but Harry Mitsidis explained that many more people had been in space or climbed Everest than had visited every country in the world, so we had achieved something very special. Now I do appreciate meeting people from every country and know I can chat about their homeland. 2016 was a significant year for me, as that was when I finally visited No.193, Equatorial Guinea. I was very happy that I had managed this, but to put things into context, something more meaningful for me happened two months later when I was invited to join a 500-strong group of foreign women in Japan. Actually, that was more important for me!
SK:You’ve visited every country in the world recognised by the United Nations, but some have changed greatly since you first visited them. Are there any such countries that you would like to return to? And why/why not?
LW: There are some countries I don’t want to return to, because war has changed them almost irreparably. It would be too sad to see Syria, Iraq, Palestine, or Afghanistan. Or for that matter my two visits to Israel sufficed for me to see what this country was like. Whereas others such as Vietnam, Cambodia, Uzbekistan or Peru have become too touristed and I would rather remember them as they were. I visited Africa 30 times, but on my final visit in 2017, I survived a bad car accident in the Comoro Islands, in which my head broke the windscreen. Surely the Gods were telling me that’s enough!
SK:What is Ed up to now? Has he read the book? If so, what was his response?
LW: Sorry to say that Ed passed away suddenly in 2022. Yes, he had read the book at the insistence of my agent. I knew he would not be happy, even though his full name and where he came from are never mentioned. He wanted all reference and memories of his hippie past erased. For instance, he destroyed all the photos he had taken as well as his diaries. He never told his wife about my book; in fact, she only learned of it from me after his death. She bought the book, read it and then paid me the biggest compliment anyone ever has regarding West goes East: “Thank you so much, Lily. You brought Ed back to life!”
SK: You mention in your epilogue that female Japanese students responded to you differently as a woman; “less daunting,” you wrote. Have you noticed any difference in how you are treated when traveling as a woman versus traveling as a man?
LW: Yes and no. Generally, I find people, especially women, are kinder and more friendly to Lily. Of course, it’s always easier to talk to someone of your own gender. Also, I’m more outgoing and confident in myself as a fellow woman in the company of other women.
But like any other woman, I find myself much more on my guard, while not being paranoid about men, just more watchful in their presence. Luckily, Japan is safer for women than let’s say the UK or the US, but as a woman, I can’t take that personal safety for granted as I would if I were a man.
SK:I realise that this is a book about your travels with Ed, but you drop tantalizing hints about other episodes in your travels. For example, in the epilogue, you write that you and your Japanese partner were taken hostage on a trip to the Central African Republic. What???? Could you share a bit about that?
LW: Very long story from 1996. Fifteen of us were on an overland truck going from East Africa to West Africa. We had budgeted 10 days to go through Congo, but the “roads” were that awful, little but bog holes and mud, that it took us 56 days. During which time three passengers died: snakebite, malaria and cut to pieces by our own tyre chains. However, we felt lucky it had not been more!
Within two weeks, there were no more shops and as cook, I had to go into the villages and exchange stuff for food. Luckily, I found they wanted empty bottles in which to store the poison they used for hunting. I was the cook, but I wouldn’t use meat because I am a vegetarian. One evening, the two Australians who did most of the digging came back from a village with some meat, which they barbecued. A couple of days later, we ran into the first Westerner we had seen, a Belgian in the lumber business. He invited us to eat with him. One of the Australians started to tell him about the meat they had had. The Belgian asked where the village was, then he raised his and asked “Did it have fur?” No. “Did it have a hoof?” No. “I think you ate a baby!” One Australian just vomited, but the other said: “Tasted OK!”
And so, in such a dilapidated state, we finally reached the ferry over the Congo River to Bangui in the Central African Republic. By this time, we were down to 9 or 10 functioning members, for this didn’t really include a French Canadian, our only native French speaker. But he had lost his mind, and would never speak to anyone again during the rest of the trip. So that left me as the only actual French speaker. Anyway, we were at last on the ferry, chattering away about which hotel in Bangui we were going to stay in and really excited about having a shower as opposed to bathing in rivers with crocodiles and snakes.
We parked our truck on some waste ground by the river and I went exploring. The town of Bangui seemed eerily quiet as I found my way to the Novotel. Entering the hotel, I knew all was far from well when I saw a cloud of flies buzzing around the dead man at the check-in desk. Back at the truck, I told the others about the hotel and that we had better leave Bangui first thing in the morning. Everyone agreed, but at about 4 o’clock in the morning, soldiers arrived and started to knock down our tents and force us on to our truck. Those who argued or were too slow were jabbed with their rifles.
So off we went with two armed soldiers on the truck to guard us, but where were they taking us? Back to Congo or somewhere to shoot us?
We hastily formed an escape plan. At a given signal, the two hefty Australian diggers knocked the soldiers to the floor and stood on their guns, while the driver drove like mad overtaking the accompanying jeeps. I had found where the US Embassy was and it was there we headed. All other embassies were closed. We had one American in our group, so we figured that was our best chance. At five o’clock in the morning, our English driver smashed into the gates of the US Embassy at full speed. But the gates were so sturdily made that they did not give way!
In the shock, the soldiers recovered their guns and were screaming “Tirez-le!”, (Shoot him!). The driver got out of his cab window, flung himself into the embassy grounds and hid behind a wall. The soldiers opened fire and lights came on the embassy. They forced the co-driver to turn round and we were taken to a large building where we were all herded into an underground cell at gunpoint. To make matters worse, we could hear the screams of someone being tortured.
At noon, our driver arrived accompanied by personnel from the US Embassy and the Central African Republic Army as well as government officials. Slowly I pieced things together.
The soldiers who had captured us had taken part in a failed coup d’etat and now needed us as human shields to get past the checkpoints and out of Bangui. A deal was struck. They would take us 700km to the Cameroon border where they would set us free. Everyone shook hands and we set off. It took several days to drive, for we had to stop along the way many times as the soldiers constantly tried to intimidate us. Once they lined us up firing-squad style, but shot over our heads. Their idea of a joke, I guess.
However, after 500km, we reached the town of Bouar, which was rebel-held territory, so they felt safe and saw no reason to release us. They kept us in the camp, under guard with no indication as to what might be our fate. After ten days or so, I determined to try to find a way to get out of this camp. Most of the others seemed to sunk into despondency or were just too sick to move.
There were 30 soldiers holding us and I tried reaching out to those who seemed a bit more friendly. I persuaded two of them that we were running out of food, so they took me into the market. The next day, I asked them to take me in again, this time with Takako, my partner. Then while they were drinking beer in a bar, she and I ran for it to another bar which I had spotted the day before.
Were there any foreigners in Bouar, I asked. Yes, there were two and someone offered to take us to their house. The two foreigners turned out to be French Jehovah’s Witness missionaries! By this time, I would have joined! And as I hoped, they had a radio. It was hidden under the floorboards and they let me use it to contact the US Embassy. “You still there”, was the surprised response. “We’ll get you out in the morning,” they promised.
Very early in the morning, a helicopter landed and after more bargaining, the rebels finally let us drive to the Cameroon border. We crossed the border and those of us who could still walk were in the very first bar on the Cameroon side celebrating. Suddenly, in walked the rebel soldiers still with their guns! Oh, no, surely not, I almost exclaimed! Then, the two I had befriended came up to me and asked me to translate. “Don’t worry! We’re so glad we didn’t have to shoot you and would like to buy a beer for you all.” I answered: “We’re also very glad you didn’t shoot us!” To general laughter, everyone raised their beer bottles: “Salut!”
Three days later we arrived in Yaounde, the capital of Cameroon. With our driver, I went to the British Embassy to report the three deaths, all Commonwealth citizens. The Ambassador listened as we told our story.
Then he stood up and shook our hands: “Jolly good show, chaps! Let me get you a drink!” The brandy was welcome.
Takako and I were able to contact our families for the first time and reassure them that we were not dead as they feared. We flew to Europe from Cameroon and then on to Japan, arriving three months late. Astonishingly, I was able to keep my job. While I know I went to Africa for adventure, sometimes you can get more adventure than you bargained for!
SK:Wow! What a harrowing experience! Thanks for sharing that! Are there any other travel memoirs or travel writers that you admire and would recommend?
LW:The Roads To Sata by Alan Booth, In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin, An African in Greenland by Tete-Michel Kpomassie.
SK:What’s next? Will there be another book?
LW: I could write another book, yes, but I doubt that I am able to write another book that would be as good as this one. I feel that this is my masterpiece. Every time I look through it, I think, wow, I wrote this! Many travel books nowadays have the author writing about doing many different trips over the years, one chapter per country. I certainly could do one of those too, but I, and others, think that a major strength of West goes East is that it is a story of one continuous journey rather than many short ones. It describes eight months of travelling overland from Syria to India via Afghanistan in 1972, in a world that no sadly longer exists and the people we met along the way, both locals from those countries and other Westerners.
SK:Thank you so much! I, for one, am glad you got this book out into the world.
Lily West and her Japanese students. Photo provided by Suzanne Kamata.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Call me simple, call me old-fashioned, but I often find myself yearning for the days of on-and-off buttons, the getting out of one’s chair to change the channel, the times before remote controls were scattered throughout my house.
Most evenings, my husband and I convene in the living room to watch TV. Most evenings, it seems, we have the same conversation.
“Where is that (grumble grumble) remote control?” he asks.
I look at the remote control caddy next to the TV. Of course it’s empty.
“Here it is!” I say, pointing to the coffee table.
“That’s not it. That’s the one for the ceiling fan.”
We look under the sofa, on the bookshelves, and beneath the TV. We search between the sofa cushions, and under the pile of newspapers.
Finally, one of us finds it in some unlikely place – on the kitchen counter, or maybe next to the telephone.
My husband presses a button. “It’s not working.”
“I guess it needs new batteries,” I say.
We change the batteries. Finally, ten minutes after our initial search, we are ready to watch TV.
Of course the complications of TV remote controls are not unique to Japan. On a recent visit to a friend’s apartment in the States, we were told, “If you want to watch TV, push this button on this remote control, and then this button on this remote control, but whatever you do, don’t push this one!” Someone, please, invent an easier way for accessing cable TV channels!
It might not be so bad if the TV remote controls were the only ones in our lives, but here in high-tech Japan, every electronic device seems to come with one of those gadgets. I can appreciate having a remote control device to unlock the car when rain is pouring down and I need to dash from my porch to my hatchback, but do I really need one to operate my portable radio? Or my desk top computer?
And where is the sense in using a remote control to turn the lights on and off instead of flicking a switch? The light fixture we recently installed in my son’s room, a small space which can be crossed in three big steps, came with a remote control. This means that when I enter his room at night, to, say, put his clean socks in the drawer, I often find myself stumbling around in the dark, trying to find that darned remocon so I can see what I’m doing.
Perhaps remote controls are part of an interim phase. It’s conceivable that someday all of our appliances will be voice activated or will turn on and off in response to brain waves. In the meantime, I remind myself of something that my family members are apt to forget. There’s a little button in the back of the television. With just a push, the screen comes to life.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Nazrul’slyrics ofMor Ghumogore Elo Monohor (In my Sleep, Came the Enchanting One) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
The Heartless, a Balochi story by AbdulQayum Sarbazi, has been translated by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Dragonfly 2 has been composed and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem, Amra Choli Somukhpane(We Look Forward and March), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Clickhere to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: Pink Dreams is an autobiographical narrative by Priyanka, written and compiled by Deeksha Vats. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Clickhere to read.
Larry S Su, who migrated from a mud cave in Shaanxi province to America, shares his story of the changes he sees during three visits to his home and muses on the gaps he has observed between these two places. Clickhere to read.
Summer, Dune in Zeeland by Piet Mondrain (1872 – 1944)
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.
‘Burnt Norton’, Four Quartets (1941) by TS Eliot
If we look back in time, we have a better life than that of our ancestors. Though conflicts rage and climate change is a reality that we all dread, it can safely be said, we have progressed beyond the imagination of those who lived a hundred years ago. The fact that some books from the past still reverberate with echoes of what the present holds says much for the outliers or authors who could think out of the box. Despite this complex intermingling of ideas and times, perhaps the world will change more now than before. We do not know anything for sure though experts are always predicting a future that for most of us remains unknown. What we can present is our own estimate of what can be and a definite assertion of what is. Truth as such is a matter of perception. That complicates it further. However, one of the changes that is definitely here to stay is climate change and our changing environment. Given that this is the month that homes World Environment Day, we have a smattering of writings that revolve around nature and also the human spirit that defies age.
We have featured a writer who revels in nature and is an ageless voice that bridges multiple cultures, Ruskin Bond. As he turned ninety-two last month, he published multiple new books. We have an excerpt from one of them, Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond, a brilliant collection of snapshots of his interactions with nature over time — be it frogs, snakes or just trees. Some of the vignettes are humorous and some, as all classics are, thought provoking. Bond puts into words how he chose to work in Landour (a small town in Himalayas) and continued to write from there for sixty years. He talks of the spell the mountains cast on him, “I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape.” The other book excerpt is a contrast to Bond’s, a non-fiction called Burnout Highway by Anmol Diddan. It explores the collective suffering of stress at work where achievements distance humans from nature and a fulfilling life and urges readers to be open to changes.
In keeping with the theme of environment, Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Stephen Alter’s The Fragrance of Rain: A Brief History of the Monsoon. He tells us: “The Fragrance of Rain is much more than a history of weather. It is a meditation on nature, culture, memory, and belonging… Like the season it celebrates, the book is refreshing, nourishing, and lingering in its impact…” While Rakhi Dalal expresses her delight with Shyam Manohar’s The Cold War of Sadanand Borse, a novella translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto, Meenakshi Malhotra revels in Giti Chandra’s debut book of poems, Setting Traps for Light.
In translations, Professor Fakrul Alam has captured the flavours of Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics, which also echo of the rainy season or monsoons. Isa Kamari brings to us more of his Malay poems in English and Ihlwha Choi shares a rendering of his Korean poem, ‘Dragonfly 2’, into English. One of Tagore’s poems from Balaka (Flight of the Cranes, 1916) has found its way into this issue after being translated. We also have a touching Balochi story around social gaps from the late Abdul Qayum Sarbazi, brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes has continued sharing his short fables, which are absurd but also, comical! A sensitive story about the natural world mingled with Maori concepts by Keiran Martin seems so much in sync with the oceans while Jeena R Papaadi has woven a strange narrative located in a land that only one man could visit. Plamen Vasilev shares a human-interest story set in Europe and Rabiya Rehman takes us to Lahore in quest of a missing destination! Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s narrative takes us back to a village that opted for trees, thus enriching the environmental lore in this issue.
We have a real life heart rending story from a young girl in our Pandies Corner, written and related by Deeksha Vats, based on the story told by a victim of familial violations and violence.
Our non-fiction section homes Larry Su’s essay on how his life took him from a rural mud cave in Shaanxi province to the glamour of Chicago. Reflecting on the changes he has experienced on his rare visits to his original homeland, Su muses on the cultural and socio-economic gaps he has observed between the two places. Charudutta Panigrahi – as if in direct opposition — shares similarities between two diverse geographies.
Suzanne Kamata explores a custom which may not be that eco-friendly in her column from Japan. Jun A. Alindogan brings home the impact of climate disasters while dwelling on blessings with his narrative about a narrow escape from the Typhoon Ondoy (2009). While Meredith Stephen writes of sailing to Timor Sea with photographs by Alan Noble, Farouk Gulsara takes us on a cycling adventure around the mountains of Titiwangsa. In another musing, he also explores the idea of good and evil in a sardonic tone while Sai Abhinay Penna dwells on the grandeur and vastness of the universe over his morning jog. Gowher Bhat writes of a man for whom age seems to be just a number as he publishes his debut book at 93! One wonders at the frequency of such occurrences — we have writings about two authors above ninety in the June issue. In contrast, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in mortal fears while writing of visiting doctors with a soupçon of humour – some of it directed at himself.
Perhaps, laughter is really the best medicine to keep well! Ruskin Bond makes us laugh and writes of nature in a way that touches hearts and makes us forget the contrasting glitzy world, where we suffer stress and burnout. Our environment makes a difference, doesn’t it?
With that we wrap up our June issue. Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. To all our contributors, heartfelt thanks — we are because you are. And gratitude to our readers who make it worth our while to write and publish here.
We will next meet you during the monsoon months of South Asia though, near the equator, it rains almost every day and, in the Southern Hemisphere, it will be peak winter!
Some Japanese customs are pretty much common sense (no shoes in the house, no soap in the bath). Some, I have learned from my Japanese mother-in-law (do not store the broom in the entryway!). And others, I have learned from observation. For example, I’ve figured out that it’s best not to leave my wet umbrella unfurled when I poke it into a public umbrella stand, that I should back into a parking space, and that whenever I hand something over, it should be wrapped or in a bag.
Back in the day, department stores wrapped each purchased item individually and put them in a bag, so that once you got home, it was like a birthday or Christmas. In these ecologically-minded days, shop clerks don’t wrap things in paper, and I am more likely to carry my own cloth shopping bag. Naked gifts, however, are still a no-no.
Most souvenir shops in Japan give out multiple bags, so that if you buy five boxes of sweets for five different neighbors, each one can be presented in its own bag. This is a bit problematic when it comes to gifts purchased abroad. However, I now have a supply of sturdy, attractive paper bags with handles that I can use in a pinch. One of my friends said that she sometimes gets excited when she receives something in a bag from a big city boutique, thinking that they’ve opened a local branch. But typically, the bag’s origins don’t really matter, and the bag doesn’t have to match the gift.
I used to think that only new things were put into bags, but when I loaned a book or a dish or a piece of clothing to a Japanese friend, it was inevitably returned in a bag – like a present! I finally figured out that I should do the same. When I returned that yukata I borrowed for my daughter’s school festival, I tucked it into a paper bag emblazoned with the name of a Parisian shop. When I gave back a plastic container that had held food leftover from a party, I put it in a shiny bag from a popular local bakery. I brought a loaf of carrot cake to my neighbour in a sack from an upscale clothing store.
Yukata, a kimono for summer. From Public domain
Just the other day, I loaned a book to an Australian friend who has lived in Japan for many years. Because we are both foreigners in Japan, this one time I didn’t package up the book, but handed it over without cover, as I might have in the United States. I should have known better. When the book came back to me, it was in a crinkly paper bag decorated with strawberries, and tucked into another bag, from a pastry shop, printed with ribbons – a reminder that presentation counts.
From Public Domain
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
In conversation with Teresa Rehmanwith focus on her non-fiction, Bulletproof: A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict and a brief introduction to her book. Click here to read.
Translations
Robihara(Sunless)by Kazi Nazrul Islam has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from Bengali. Clickhere to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
