Category Archives: Adventures

Still learning to fly

Adventures, Ideas, Travel, ,

Last week I bought a ticket to Uganda. I’ve never been much of an adventurer, a risk-taker. At least, I never used to be. My instinct is to lean towards control and order and stability. I worry a lot. I find the admin associated with big change and travel overwhelming.

Yet, I’ve moved house annually (at least) since I was 21 and I’ve had 9 jobs in 10 years. Stability and security are as attractive to me as they are to many others, but a combination of circumstances and a restless desire to be doing something real have led me a merry dance in a completely different direction. Stability and security are nice ideas but probably not for me.

I’m still learning how to live this life, how to be a nomadic soul, how to fly, and frankly I’m not always that good at it, but it is the life I’ve chosen. And if I’m going to be constantly moving and changing, I’d like to make the most of it.

So last week, I bought a ticket to Uganda. The plan is to travel with a friend and a couple of other people to Northern Uganda and the DRC for a few weeks in December. A lot of people seem to think it’s a strange way to spend a holiday. Some people to whom I’ve mentioned it think I’m stark raving mad. I’m excited about the trip. From what I hear it’s an absolutely beautiful part of the world.

And sometimes doing seemingly-crazy things turns out to be well worth it – this time two years ago I was running off mountains and learning to fly.

Arkansas Art Centre

Adventures, Arts, Little Rock, USA, Why, ,

I am torn. I am torn because I’m not sure what to do with the idea that here there is enough money here to build and maintain and pay for a spacious, elegant, modern art centre design specifically to display a great collection so that people can come, for free, and look at art. I’m torn because it seems to be normal here. Part of me wants to feel that it is frivolous and that there are better ways to spend the money. And then I spend a hour there and I feel the emotional response – the tug, the richness, the soul-nourishing rejuvenation – and I can’t want it to stop. All the intellectual self-righteousness is still valid. It shouldn’t be possible. Part of me feels guilty for enjoying it so much. But is such a pleasure.

The Arkansas Art Centre is just a few blocks away from my hotel. It is all of those things – large and spacious and elegant and modern and the collection is wonderfully varied. Some abstract, some modern, some realism. I didn’t have much time, but I took a break between proposal-writing that afternoon to go and see it. I needed a break and this was likely to be the only chance I would get.

It’s difficult to describe an art exhibition in words. The experience is emotional, rather than cerebral, at least for someone as untrained as I am. I  love walking around art galleries, though. As a colleague put it, spending time with the art. This art centre provides plenty of space and time to do that. There were other people in the galleries, on and off, but most of the time I was alone. It was peaceful and quiet. The ideal environment.

The collection is not small. So many distinctly different pieces. So many faces, too; some obvious, some hidden, some without emotion, some with so much emotion. Even many pieces that at first seemed to be of something else, after a while resolved into faces. I couldn’t live with all those faces, but they’re fascinating to visit.  I was particularly drawn to a piece not related to faces in any way – a pencil drawing called Male Back by an American artist. Another piece, called Quit, also caught my eye me. Several of the pieces held my attention for ages. The colours, the lights, the distance, the dimensions, the feelings.

As I walked back to the hotel, I tried to get my head around it all. I’ve not visited many galleries in South Africa. Those that are not selling art tend to charge high prices and are sometimes difficult to find. What does it mean? How is it different to live in a place where art is some sort of public good, just there for the looking at?

Day of exploring

Adventures, Little Rock,

Last Sunday dawned somewhat overcast but nice and hot. I was definitely still adjusting to the time zones. Which had the advantage that I was up early. Unfortunately, many attractions would only be open in the afternoon according to the guide book in my hotel room. Guide books are my kryptonite – the chances of me getting anything like work done once I’ve got my hands on a guidebook of the area are slim to zero. And things being closed didn’t scare me – travels with people like Richard have taught me that there is generally plenty to see outside, especially in a foreign country.

I had breakfast and headed off, armed with a map from the hotel and the standard sense of adventure. I was a little concerned about getting lost. In retrospect, it would have been quite difficult to get so lost I couldn’t find my way back but the first day out is always a little terrifying, especially alone. My colleagues had expressed interested in exploring but where nowhere to be found at the time.

I headed to the River Market. The market is a farmers market that operates only on Tuesdays and Saturdays but it’s a good landmark and from what I could gather, the river market area had lots to see. It didn’t disappoint.

Little Rock sits on the banks of the Arkansas River. The river is big. Huge to me. The relative size of rivers is something I struggle to articulate. I struggle to explain to others how massively huge a river like this is, based on my frame of reference. SO MUCH WATER! In reality, at least so I gather from comments and reactions of local people, it isn’t all that big. It certainly looked big to me – big and intimidating and navigable.

Right on the water, in front of the River Market is an amphitheatre. Apparently, the Little Rock Symphony Orchestra performs there quite often. Sadly, no performance (that I can find) while I’m here. Must be a gorgeous setting for live music.

From there, walking west, the path goes along beside the river until it reaches the spot where the remaining piece of the original little rock stands. Little Rock was the name given to this area by the first French traders who plied their wares along the Arkansas River. It was named for an outcrop of rock that was easily used as a landmark. Over time, the original rock was destroyed to create the foundation for a railway bridge – the next step in the economic development of the area. A small part of the original rock remains, however, and now stands in a little park area along the river, with boards explaining the history.

Public History. I never understood public history when I studied it at varsity. Well, I understood it but I didn’t get the significance. It is only later, having spent time travelling in countries who invest far more heavily in public history that I am beginning to see the value. I still have difficulties with the idea of boiling down complex, multi-perspective history to a few information boards in a park, but it is definitely helpful if you’re an ignorant foreigner trying to get a sense of the place.

This park area along the river has several different public history displays, constructed, it would seem, at different times. One talks about the history around the naming and founding of the town and the Little Rock itself, one is focused on the civil war and one talks about native Americans. They were informative, if somewhat shallow, as is the tendency in public history. I found the civil war one particularly fascinating. Did you know that Arkansas was all but wiped out by the American Civil War?

Above me was a huge bridge. The kind of bridge (a pedestrian bridge) where you can take a lift up to the walking level. I gather this is partly because the bridge was raised at some point in the past to allow for improved river traffic. Either way, the bridge is significant. I remember all the bridges in Korea. The story of the country for me was, so much, rivers and bridges. This was equivalent in size.

Further along, somewhat hotter and somewhat later in the day, I found myself walking through a public sculpture garden. Another aspect of American life not often replicated at home. I’m not talking public art in the sense of large, ugly statues here. This was art. Proper art. Art designed to challenge and enchant and to explore the medium. There were some beautiful pieces, just standing there, outside, for anyone to go and look at. One piece really captured my attention with its swirling, expansive energy. I could live with that in my house, I thought. Strange, not so many years ago, I knew nothing about art. These days I am far less circumspect and far happier to throw out my less than educated opinion based only on what I think. The Sylvia Plath-style adult and child was also pretty incredible.

A few squirrels later (yes, there are squirrels here – three types, I gather) I had reached the end of the riverside walk, so I turned back and headed towards the street again. I had long since abandoned street names and resorted to the tried and tested means of getting lost – following my instincts.

I crossed a road at the traffic light. I have always objected to the term ‘traffic light’. I guess everyone is somewhat stubbornly attached to the terminology he or she grows up with, and I am no exception. It’s not a ‘traffic light’, it’s a ‘robot’. Full stop. What I haven’t experienced in the past was the talking traffic lights. I understand the reason and I get how they might be helpful to some, but it’s a little panicky when the traffic light is counting down the seconds before the robot changes and you’re going to get run over and…and… and. You get the picture. Especially panicky when you’re in a country that drives on the wrong side of the road so crossing the street is fraught with the ever-present danger that you may be looking in the wrong direction.

On the other side of the street, I spent some time calming down and enjoying the novelty of the sight of the trolley (stree- rail-car-thingy). This apparently runs daily, although I have yet to try it. I was just thinking that this place felt eerily familiar when I turned around and there before me was a Korean ‘Gate’. I’ve written before on this blog about how Korean ‘Gates’ have little to do with getting in and out and everything to do with being elaborate, symbolic, colourful structures representing things of which I have little understanding and also dragons. I spent a lot of time in Korea looking at Korean ‘Gates’. I know one when I see one. This was definitely one. In the middle of Little Rock, Arkansas. Eerily familiar took a turn for the more serious.

It turns out the Gate is indeed a Korean monument. In a bizarre twist of fate, this Gate – the HU Lee Gate – is dedicated to Lee HU, the founder of the American Taikwando Association, who loved Little Rock because its mountains and lakes reminded him of his home in South Korea. When he died, his family and Little Rock’s sister city in Korea, Hanam, built and dedicated this Gate to him.

He was right about the similarities. Beyond the lakes and the mountains, the water and the bridges, the climate is the same. At least, the summer is the same. For days, beginning on that Sunday, I have walked around listening to the cicadas. I grew up with cicadas at home but they were different. The birds and the bugs at home were different to those in Korea. But for a year I lived with the bugs and the birds, the sounds and the texture of the air that is so much my sensory memory of Korea. This place is the same. It feels the same. The hot humid summer, the angle of the sun, the sound of the cicadas just like they are in Daegu. The trees and the temperatures. This place is familiar because it feels just like the place I called home for a year (with less Korean writing and more Mexican food).

I headed off into the rest of the day with a strange weightless familiarity. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve been to a foreign, never-visited-before place and felt like it was somewhere I used to call home.