Travel & Nature Writing

Uncharted Territory

Have you ever found yourself thinking, “I wonder what it would it be like to visit North Macedonia…”?

Ok, I hadn’t either. But in case you’re now intrigued, let me paint an initial picture of my own perceptions, both the beautiful and the heartbreaking.

I came here out of the forced necessity of renewing my visa and knowing almost nothing at all of what to expect. I’ve always dreamed of booking a completely last minute trip to an obscure destination, and while doing so amidst a pandemic while waiting for my Norwegian residency to finally be processed wasn’t exactly what I had in mind... such is life, yes? There are only a few European countries that currently allow Americans in, and between weighing options of safety, costly, time-sensitive corona testing requirements and quarantines, and flight availability,
North Macedonia it was!

The circumstances are far from ideal. Trying to travel internationally right now is not only scary health-wise, but a stressful nightmare in regards to daily changes in laws, regulations, and testing requirements. My anxiety this last year has skyrocketed full-force, and the lack of solid ground has affected me more than I could ever have imagined. I ache for the day I can finally stay in one place, one home, one country.
But I digress.

The landscape in North Macedonia is stunning. Snow-capped mountains and winding roads. Driving to my destination village, I feel as if I am back in the Blue Ridge, and it brings such a happiness and comfort to my soul. I find a roadside café with the most delicious, creamy espresso for only 80 cents a cup. Stands of farm-fresh honey await around craggy mountain bends.

Poverty is abundant. Small, rural villages filled with crumbling homes, dilapidated buildings, and closed down restaurants and coffee shops. Trash seems to be littered everywhere. Heaps of it cover open green spaces, tractor trails, along the sides of the road. I imagine proper trash pick up must be costly and, in some places, non-existent, so nature suffers its toll.

Street dogs roam like wild animals. Beautiful fluffy shepherds ambling along the
roads and highways, crossing the streets, digging through trash and nosing around buildings.
I want to take them all home with me.

The people I have met here are amazingly warm and friendly.
I am greatly enjoying being back in a culture where strangers talk to strangers. There is an animation and aliveness that reminds me a bit of Italy. Despite not speaking the language aside from “zdravo” (hello) and “fala” (thank you) and all the writing being in Cyrillic, I am beautifully reminded that words themselves are often unnecessary to understand others. I hear someone glaringly sounding their horn for over a minute outside a home, followed by streams of curses from an old woman, and I laugh in so much delight and respect. I watch as an older man and his dog try to apologize to a woman outside an apartment (his neighbor? his wife?), only to watch her tell him off and throw his loaf of bread onto the ground at his feet.
While I'm sure the man felt otherwise, the dog was delighted!

I was lucky enough to find an amazing deal on an apartment in a tiny village overlooking a breathtakingly beautiful, glassy, turquoise-blue lake. Behind me, a mountain range connected to a national park; across from me, the distant lights and mountains of Albania. It’s still winter here, but compared to Norway it feels like spring. The mountain air smells fresh and is filled with the delightful fragrance of wood smoke and fresh lake water.

I have, of course, made friends with all the resident street dogs I can find, and two joined in with me on my afternoon run along the lake. I have a new kitty friend who comes to visit me between 8 and 10 pm each night to get snacks and her saucer of milk. She hasn’t yet let me pet her or told me her name,
but there is still plenty of time.

Having done almost no research before coming here, every discovery feels like an adventure. My apartment is in a very old “villa”, and I’m taking great pride in discovering how to effectively keep out the drafts and cook Ayurvedic meals with very limited ingredients. There is an immense peace in the solitude and simplicity.

I certainly miss Norway and will be eager to get back, but in the meantime I look forward to the daily surprises, solitude, and healing that this new country will certainly bring.

Talking Trash Around the World

Upon arriving at my AirBNB, I discovered that a national park lay right behind me. I knew it was somewhere in the region, but finding out I could view the mountain from my living room window and that trails were walking distance away left me elated. My “trip” was designed to be an intermission; a stay-cation of sorts fueled by necessity that would serve as a space to feel back into myself, regenerate, and renew. Throwing short daily hikes into the mix would be an amazing addition.

I was heartbroken to find that the lower section of the park within walking distance of the village had become a literal dumping ground. Surrounding me were mounds of trash of all kinds- bagged garbage, food wrappers and disposable containers, micro-plastics, plastic bags, foam packaging, clothing, and even larger items such as chairs and mattresses. This continued for a good quarter mile in. Thankfully the amount of garbage tapered off as I continued further, but traipses of it still lined the trails- bottles here, take-out food containers there, a weather-worn bra strung across shrubbery.

The same litter can be seen lining the lake on which the village is situated. A gorgeous, glassy body of water named a UNESCO heritage site, and, from what little research I've done, the very entity that
most tourists come to this area for.

This overflow of litter isn't a problem unique to North Macedonia- not by a long shot.

Those who know me know how dear environmental conservation is to my heart. I have actively engaged in river cleanups in Milwaukee and Asheville, and I have done my own mini beach cleanups throughout travels in Latin America, the US, and Norway. I led environmental clubs at my elementary schools and worked with inner city kids to help bring nature closer to awareness. Small gestures, surely, in the grand scheme of things, but something I am wholly passionate about. All to say that trash, and the amount of trash littering any location, is always at the forefront of my mind.

Yet throughout my travels both in the US and abroad, aside from these community-led cleanups, I hesitate to document it. From deserted beaches in Nicaragua to the Galapagos Islands to harbors in Norway, these pristine spaces I love to take such pretty photographs of are all suffering from massive amounts of toxic, human-created waste. Perhaps it is because I want to focus more on the infinite beauty that surrounds me.
Or perhaps it is a narcissistic pride to display only the more amazing aspects of the
places I have witnessed. Likely it is a bit of both.

I’m not the only one. Whether it’s Facebook, Instagram, a travel blog or magazine, brochures, movies (the list goes on), we are presented with what we consider to be the beautiful aspects. Not many of us want to see the hoards of people at Macchu Pichu or the concrete jungle outside of the Pyramids of Giza, just as we don’t want to see beaches in Galapagos strewn with trash.

But the truth is, whether or not we turn a blind eye, the trash is still there. And the more we ignore it, the more it increases. Poverty certainly plays a role. Resources, legislation, local and national government… all of these help dictate the extent of the problem. Poorer, less-privileged countries show the epidemic more glaringly, but others are arguably even more guilty, given their standing and their ability to enact positive change. While the hiking trails in Oslo are very well maintained, the harbor shorelines are a disaster- this being in one of the wealthiest, most expensive countries in Europe. The US is far worse, whether it be in big cities, small towns, or rural communities.

I do not have an answer to this, especially on a global scale. I know it starts with governmental legislation, with communities, with education, with awareness, with drive. But deeper than that, it comes down to values. Not just of individuals, but of society as a whole, especially those in power. For certainly, a government cannot expect its citizens to make sustainability a priority, or even an option, when they are not given the resources to even support themselves. When will we, as citizens of the earth, wake up to the knowledge that what we are trashing is our own home, what we are polluting is our own water, what we are destroying is our own life-blood, our own sustenance? That no amount of money or power makes us entirely immune to pollution, climate change, and
the destruction of nature?
How do we bridge this divide that has stripped us from our tie to the only planet we have?

And maybe, it starts with acknowledging that while all of the beauty we document in a place is present and real, there is also a darker side we can no longer ignore. Echoing the words of Jung, maybe by allowing the shadows of a space to come to light, we can finally start to ignite change.

Planting Roots

I have been reading the book “Braiding Sweetgrass” by Robin Wall Kimmerer, an ecologist, environmentalist, and member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation. Its gorgeous prose aside, the author provides infinite wisdom on the importance of developing deep and sacred connections with the natural world. Whether it be reverence towards the rocks and trees on a hiking trail, gratitude for the meat on our tables or paper in our journals, or developing reciprocity with nature through giving back with everything we take, she reminds readers that our relationship with nature can be symbiotic. As humans, we truly can work to give back to Mother Earth as much as we receive (and we receive A LOT). It’s something I’ve been striving for for many years now but could drastically improve upon.

Having been living nomadically for almost 19 months months now, I’m curious about the amazing effect this could have on the displacement and lack of groundedness I so often feel lately. Amidst Covid-19, I am likely only one of millions who are feeling this sense of perpetual shifting and unease. If we could begin to truly feel into the roots of every plant and tree, the origins of our meat, fruit, and vegetables, the soul of every insect and animal, the glory of every sunset, the life inside every body of water, wouldn’t this oneness follow us everywhere we go? Instantly, we are unified to all that surrounds us. The whole world becomes our home.

Within the Forest of Solitude

I bathe myself in a forest of solitude. I cleanse, I renew. I shake off the dust of the city, the traffic, the uninvited opinions that linger far after they are spoken, the cacophony of unworthiness that reverberates unwelcome in the mind. I peel off the grime of expectation, laying my skin bare to the sun and icy water. I release the pressure, allowing the steam to rise from my maddening boil.

I gather up my thoughts, pluck them from the disarray one by one, ground myself in the soil, and replant. I allow select cuttings to seed and flourish, while others I send to scatter upon the wind. I leave behind the world of mundane reality and cross the threshold of faerie, beckon to the elf, the fox, the wolf, the troll. For a few brief hours, I am once again animal, restored to my wild, bestial senses,
slipping into the scales, the furs, the feathers.

I absorb myself into the rustle of leaves, the chorus of bird song, the babbling brook, the whispers on wind, the tinkling chimes of magic. Ladders of tree roots and beds of moss alight my path, each footfall bringing me closer to soul. A festival of scents surrounds- here dances the exquisiteness of pine, the softness of the lilac, the dank comfort of earth and mud. I once again hear my prayers, my voice, my intuition, my wisdom. Here I dance to the beat of my soul and the spirit song of my dreams.

In solitude, I come home.