Alpine Elegy - Reflections on an Alpine Sojourn by Philip Sheldon

In the Amazon, the Greatest Gift is a Smile
(Batteries and Crayons not Included) by Brad Little

Dance of the Boras—An Amazon Travel Journal by Brad Little

Alpine Elegy

Reflections on an Alpine Sojourn, by Philip Sheldon

There are some destinations we visit because of their history, beauty or even notoriety…. the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall, the Statue of Liberty, the Tower of London, the Taj Mahal …

There are other destinations we visit not to see any one specific famous thing, but rather to experience them in a very personal way. The Alps are a superb example of such a destination. Surrounded by the ultimate urban landscape, Innsbruck is a refreshing place to host your transition from a world governed by clocks and schedules to one governed only by the rising and setting of the sun.

When visiting small Alpine villages, you won’t see famous sights. However, when you open your window and step out on your balcony in the morning, you will be surrounded by a new world. As you breathe in the crisp air, you’ll also be exhilarated by the sun’s reflections moving slowly down the mountains, bringing daylight to the darkest wooded valleys.

After a hearty breakfast, you can hike as much or as little as you choose - partly to feel the invigoration that comes from achievement, and partly to find your own personal niche in the majesty that surrounds you in these few silent moments.

Following several days in the mountains and a train ride, your arrival in Venice may seem like quite a jolt, but what a marvelous place to begin re-entry into the world you temporarily left behind.

(Batteries and Crayons not Included)

In the Amazon, the Greatest Gift is a Smile by Brad Little

“Do you still want to go ashore, Mr. Hanns?” asks the local naturalist guide. We’ve anchored alongside a tiny village, where a family of five stand expressionless, staring at us as the morning rain runs down their faces and onto their soaked clothing.

“Well, of course!” exclaims the elder. “Whatever do you mean? Why wouldn’t we go ashore?”

Without hesitation, the crew lay down the gang plank, and Hanns Ebensten is the first to cross to the muddy bank, steadied by his Egyptian walking stick and the hands of our boat’s two hardy uniformed policemen. A tour group of twenty gay men, donning ponchos and umbrellas, follow the elder through the gentle rain.

“People on a typical tour would have no interest in coming ashore in such a place,” says Hanns, as we walk into the village, his walking stick slurping in and out of the mud and his rain hood dripping water in front of his spectacles.

I can certainly understand why the place would not hold any particular appeal to tourists. After all, there are no natives in costume waiting to dance for us here, nor are there any exotic Amazonian handicrafts to be bought. The villagers, dressed in ordinary, soaking-wet T-shirts and shorts, stare at us as if we were aliens from space. Understandably, this is not a typical stop for a boatload of foreign travelers. Why, then, would Hanns consider our tour group to be any different—so atypical, in fact, that we would enjoy visiting such an ordinary place?

My doubts begin to fade quickly as we walk up to the home of one family. Strong emotional waves course through me—like the feeling of coming home after a long journey. I lag behind the rest of the group so that I can ask a small boy about his brothers, his sisters, his grandparents. “Do all of them live here, the whole family?” I ask him, struggling with my Spanish but determined to bridge the communication gap. He nods silently, too shy even to tell me his name when I ask, nor will he tell me how old his grandparents are. I’m beaming, smiling ear-to-ear, as I tell him, “I like your village very much.” I ask him if there are other villages close by, and he replies, simply, “No.” I hand him a box of crayons. His face lights up with joy, as does mine. Yet, at the same time, the tears come, and I’m not even sure why.

Another tour member seems to be riding on the same wave of emotion that I am, and I ask him, “What are you feeling right now?”

“It’s so sad!” he says.

“What’s sad for you?” I ask him.

“Did you see that little boy’s face when you handed him those crayons?”

“Sure I did!” I told him, “and it warms my heart to know that there are still people on earth who can get what they need from the earth without spoiling it, and still not go hungry. I think of all the people back home who think that fish comes directly from the supermarket, wrapped in plastic and styrofoam. Then, I look at these people, fishing and tending gardens, and I envy them.”

Consistently, as we walk from dwelling to school to store, I am the last one to leave each place that we pass through. I take it as my role to thank each host (and especially the hostesses) for receiving us in their homes, as I hand them flashlight batteries or fishing line. I leave them, beaming, knowing that one of the greatest gifts on earth is a heart-felt smile.

As we prepare to leave the village to go back to the ship, I turn to Hanns and ask him what I had been wanting to know hours before.

“What do you think makes those on this tour any different? What makes us more interested in visiting an ordinary village like this one?”

“Because we’re not typical tourists!” he exclaims. “We are inquisitive adventurers who truly want to see this place through the eyes of the people who live here!”

Hanns’ comment is but a reminder of the most shining observation that I made while traveling with him on the Amazon—that a group of twenty gay men can walk into a remote village of Latin America and feel totally entertained—not to mention warmly welcomed. The reception by the local people was quite remarkable, if not magical. This tour was not all about monuments and sightseeing, but about experiencing the splendor of nature, the beauty of native people, and the camaraderie of a small group of gay brothers—well, plus one grandfather.

Dance of the Boras

An Amazon Travel Journal by Brad Little

While the external wrappings of the Amazonian natives may have been changed by modern times, the souls within them have not been changed. One particular visit, to a village of Bora natives near the town of Pevas (first Christian Mission on the Amazon—circa 1550) brought an especially powerful reminder that the hearts of these people are open to kindred spirits—including gay men. The following candid account, directly from my journal, speaks for the experience:

I sprang up as soon as I was invited to join the dance, shedding my shoes and socks, unzipping the lower part of my pant legs (leaving shorts), and unbuttoning my shirt. The dance was fast-paced and celebratory, as a rite of passage might be expected to be. The Bora women encouraged us to join hands with them and twist rapidly around the room like a snake, as the Bora men pounded head-high poles on the hard-packed clay floor.

I wouldn’t consider dancing with barefoot natives unless my feet also could connect with the earth. “Here’s my chance,” I felt from deep in my heart. For years, I had danced barefoot on dance floors and at outdoor tea dances—and now, this was the “real thing.” The woman holding my right hand was an elder—I could tell by the lines stretching from the corner of her left eye to her ear. But while her face may have been wrinkled with age around the eyes, the smile on her face created wrinkles around her mouth to match. She held my hand up over my shoulder, stretching her arm full length over her head, which only came up to my shoulders. Over and over again, we shuffled and ran in circles, passing down a narrow corridor between a row of men and a row of women, facing one another. I was soon out of breath and my heart was beating fast, but I could not stop.

This came naturally. I was home! No one had to teach me how to shuffle my feet—they just moved with the right step. Even when aerobically exhausted, I tried to be aware of the faces of the women on either side of me, laughing and shouting high-pitched commands—and the men I passed by over and over, chanting with serious faces as they pounded the ends of their long poles onto the ground.

Hanns told me, as I put my shoes back on with the sweat running down my body, “Brad, the boys are bringing your luggage up from the ship. You will be staying here!”

While I knew he was joking, the idea stimulated me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who felt I belonged here.