Afflicted with a severe form of nostalgia, we longingly looked at our pictures from the trip of our lifetimes, and noticed a lot of them which were worthy of publishing but did not have that luck. Here they are, in our third episode of Unpublished, spanning seven months of our life, from New Zealand to the USA to Central America.
Many a traveler has heard of the beauty of Ometepe Island with its two volcanos, lush hills and beautiful beaches. On our way back down to Costa Rica, we made it our last destination in Nicaragua, thinking that we would finish our stay in this country with its jewel. On the morning we set over to the island, the weather was rather friendly and we therefore got a glimpse of the island’s unique beauty from the deck of the ferry. However, the following days showed us what “rainy season” meant in Central America and we often had to take refuge from the downpours. Luckily we found a room in a nice homestay in Moyogalpa, the main town and port of the island, where Doña Chilo prepared tasty asados (grilled meat) and a vitamine bomb called tutti frutti (fruit juice with pieces of many different fruits in it) — so we did not mind to stay and wait for the rain to pass. In fact, we had some of our best meals of the whole country on this island; and, on top of that, the locals were very friendly and relaxed, more so than on the mainland, creating a laid back atmosphere and slow pace that suited well our days of rest.
Rummaging in our travel photos, we decided that it was time for yet another Unpublished episode. Again, just random pictures that are worth publishing but did not fit into our posts… A short travel through time and space, back to Asia — it already seems so far away — and beyond!
Since the last time I was in Goa, three years ago (already!), I only wanted to come back; and deep in the cold of the Himalayan mountains, a few days before entering India again, I thought of Goa to cheer me up. Not of the Taj Mahal, not of the Indian food, not of the bright, colorful, ever-joyous and crazily chaotic Indian culture. I thought of Goa.
Have you ever wondered how a delicious paneer tikka masala or a malai kofta were concocted? Probably not, because you do not even know the names of those dishes — just like me, before I came to India — and could not imagine whatever they might be. Well, over the last few weeks, we tasted as many different Indian dishes as we could. And, eventually, we started to know food-related Hindi words such as chana (chickpeas), jeera (cumin), paneer (Indian cottage cheese) or masala (a mix of Indian spices) and learned to distinguish different types of bread like roti, puri and naan.
Ladina put down her whip, took off her hat and wiped the sweat off her brow. We had just escaped a deadly arrow trap followed by swinging axes when we had stumbled upon a long gallery. Astonished by our discovery, we slowly made our way along the walls, using our torch to bring light to ancient, crumbling bas-reliefs depicting what seemed to be forgotten gods in scenes of daily life: battling demons, wrenching entrails out of an agonizing enemy, or sometimes simply lifting mountains above their heads.
“I think we would better appreciate all of this if we had some historical context, or better still, theological explanations.”
“Let me get the Lonely Planet out”
“Chai! Chai!” an early morning tea-seller yelled as he walked through the coaches of the train, carrying a huge tin pot of hot tea and small plastic glasses. I turned around on my bunk, drew the sheet up to my nose and tried to get some more sleep. So far, I had slept surprisingly well during my first night in an Indian train: the steady rattling of the rails worked like a lullaby for me; the berth, though not very large, was comfortable. Unfortunately, about four more chai vendors kept me from dozing back to sleep, praising their tea in loud voices. With a sigh, I turned around again and tried to glimpse through the train window: the breaking dawn transformed the sky into a symphony of red and violet. Soon the sun would be out — and this meant that we would reach Agra shortly. The train was supposed to arrive at 6 o’clock and, as opposed to buses, it is likely to keep its timetable. I hence waked José, and we started to open the padlocks from our backpacks, put the few things we had needed for the night back into them, and shoulder their usual weight. Not too soon for, shortly after, the train slowed down and, together with all our belongings, dropped us at Agra Fort.
