Under a westering sun, dozens of fishing boats bob in the waves. I swim towards them. Now a good 100 yards from shore, it is just me and the snacking, napping crews whose vessels dot the horizon.

As I am spotted, a rotund, tattooed fellow stands on deck and waves his arms like a man in desperate need of rescue. All eleven men on the boat are shirtless and bronzed like church bells and rub hairless pot bellies with supreme self satisfaction.

The boat’s hull heaves up and down, crashing with the waves. As it dips low I grab hold of the deck rail and am lifted up and out by the next wave.

I’m dripping sea foam on the aft deck and the crew gawks at me like I just jumped out of cake.

A soggy space is made for me in the tight lunch circle. A tall jolly man who is minus one eye is slap-knee belly-laughing and has been since they saw me in the waves. Rice and fish dribbles out of his mouth and down his chest to collect on his belly.

A yellow two liter fuel container is passed forward and clear fluid is poured into a mug that is polished with a grimy shirt.

The one-eyed laughing man sees the fuel jug and doubles over, turning red. A few ample swallows of rice wine sloshes in the mug.

A fuel jug is apt storage for this evil brew, it burns the gullet like propane.

Grimacing theatrically, pounding my chest and shouting Oh my God! in Vietnamese, I slam the mug down like a satisfied cowboy and they chatter and grin and elbow each other.

A much more ambitious portion of hooch finds its way quickly into my mug and the game is now how much of this nasty juice will the gleefully aquatic American drink. I sniff the mug theatrically and look up in mock worry. They guffaw and rice cascades out of their mouths.

I chant, Mot, Hai, Ba, YO!! (1,2,3,cheers!), and fresh gales of laughter follow. Already feeling the notorious effects of the rice liquor, I pat my belly like Santa Claus and stride to the end of the deck.

Instead of getting too drunk to swim back to shore I want my exit to be as sudden and dramatic as my entrance.

They turn in unison, grinning, bewildered and thrilled at my sudden appearance and exit.

I dive back into the sea as a wave lifts us up and up.

A sour burp stings my nose and my stomach clenches into a fist. Turning back to see the crew all crowding to watch me go I wave and wonder if I should have stayed for one more drink.

Community Connection:

I spent 6 months in Saigon teaching English and so can you.

Have a note from the road you want us to review? Send it to david@matadornetwork.com

Photo: historiesinrust

“I’ve found that sometimes, particularly after a protracted absence, coming home has as much to teach me as going away.”
–Tabatha Smith

“Sometimes people are shocked that I never went “home” during my two years in Lesotho as a Peace Corps volunteer. I think that they can’t really imagine that a small hut in a small village could become my home. Being a bit world-weary and cynical myself, maybe I couldn’t imagine it either. It happened, though.

Photo: m-louis

I can actually pinpoint the exact time when I realized that my village was my new home. My first winter break from school was amazing. We went hiking on South Africa’s Wild Coast, and then I lived it up in Cape Town, treating myself to lattes and bagels and anything else I couldn’t get in my village. A train and several mini-bus rides later and I was back in Lesotho, walking the last 7 K over the pass to my village.

And there it was, my valley, my mountains, my home. Even with all the fantastic things I had done and seen on my vacation, and even though I’d only been in the village for six months, I felt everything you feel when you finally get home: relief, pride, comfort.”
–Stacey C.

“Coming home… feels like surrender.”
–Mike

“There are two lines in front of me: Brazilians and tourists. The three weeks spent in my home country, in the land where I was born and grew up, are a clear indication that I am a foreigner, just like most of my fellow passengers. Yet I seem to fit neither of the options: I am not entering on a tourist visa, but two years in Brazil do not make me Brazilian.

I freeze, and a migrations officer notices my hesitation: “Are you a foreigner? Here is the line for tourists.” I flash the appropriate page on my passport: “I’m not a tourist. I’m a resident.” He smiles and points me towards the line for Brazilians. I breeze through immigration and customs, leaving all other foreigners behind.”
–Ernest Machado

” ‘Coming Home’ hangs like a dusty, renaissance oil painting in the unknown gallery of my soul.”

Photo: hjl

–Ant Stone

“I remember when I was only eight, and my aunt and uncle were in the West Bank, using their shiny US passports to get Israeli soldiers to let the Palestinian family they were staying with plow their fields. They put my new email address on the list for their emails home, and so I became a rare American eight-year-old: informed at length about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

One day, I got excited because the subject line was ‘Back in the usa’. Opening it, I realized that ‘Back in the usa’ meant ‘[we] arrived in NYC yesterday, and we are leaving for Belize, Guatemala, and Chiapas, Mexico tomorrow.’ I didn’t see them that homecoming.

For me, the idea of homecoming has always come with the expectation that leaving will not fall far behind.

The travelers in my life went directly from Palestine to Belize. Even when they got back from Kenya and Uganda, their vagabond days over, they began planning: ‘Well, teaching public school takes up lots of time, but if we leave Christmas day, we can still go back to Mexico for a week and a half before school starts. And then there’s always spring break – let’s go scuba dive in Bonaire. And yeah, summer school will get the Masters more quickly, but there’s still time for a fast tour of Europe and a road trip around the West Coast.’

The way I know it, homecoming is another way of saying ‘Here we go again!’ ”

–late_stranger

Community Connection

Liked something you read here? Take a moment to follow the links to the writer’s Matador community page and leave a note.

Other thoughts on coming home? Share them in the comments!

–

Image: Kristian D.

1. “Please hurry up reviewing my submission. I have a family emergency [or health problem or other urgent need to make some cash] and need the money, even though you pay less than other publications.”

This message—excerpted from an actual e-mail we received recently from a writer whose work we’d never published before—was problematic for a few reasons.

First, the writer was imposing his or her own sense of time and urgency upon the editor and the publication’s established process for reviewing submissions. Most publications, print and online, receive dozens, if not hundreds, of submissions every week. We actually read and respond to every one of them.

Doing so, however, takes time. It’s unfair to expect that your article will be fast-tracked for any reason, and it’s unreasonable to pressure an editor to work more quickly. If you’re looking for job stability and a regular paycheck, writing probably isn’t the best profession for you.

Second, the writer was making his problem the editor’s problem. Though it’s occasionally appropriate to disclose your personal circumstances, that’s often only the case when you have already established a close working relationship with an editor. Remember: the relationship between a writer and an editor is one of collegiality. You need to remain professional.

Third, the writer’s message assumed that we would be publishing his article. It was presumptuous.

Finally, the writer gave a passive-aggressive jab about the article pay rate. If you don’t feel comfortable with a particular publication’s rate, then don’t waste your time or the editor’s time by compromising yourself and arguing over dollars and cents. You’ll only regret your decision later.

2. “I’ve submitted this article to three other magazines.”

Not only should you not tell an editor this; you shouldn’t DO it. Multiple submissions may seem to be a time-saving device for you as a writer, but they’re a time-waster for editors.

Reviewing a writer’s submission is a time-intensive process requiring thought and attention; it often involves multiple members of an editorial team. If you’ve submitted your article simultaneously to other publications and one picks it up before the others do, you’re forced to notify the editor that the piece has been accepted elsewhere.

Writer, beware: you’ve likely burned a bridge that won’t easily be rebuilt.

3. “I submitted an article a few weeks ago. Are you going to publish it?”

We encourage writers to check on the status of their article if they haven’t heard from us within 4-6 weeks after submitting. However, including some identifying information—such as the name or topic of the article—is not only helpful; it’s essential.

Community Connection:

What are three other things you should never tell an editor? Read our first article on the subject here.

My flatmate and I had written this off as seasonal declarations of random excitement, or perhaps a sudden arranged marriage or engagement. The women’s voices below rose and fell, their tongues creating a long, trilling, high-pitched sound like the howl of a wolf.

The neighborhood. Photos by the author.

I would lie in my windowbox bed at night and listen as it trilled off into a horsey whinney, somewhere in a neighbouring flat.

However, one night we discovered that the ululating actually had a reason: one of the local boys was being shipped off for his compulsory military service and the whole neighbourhood was getting quite giddy and garroulous about it.

Boys of all sizes started milling in the streetlamp light at the crosshills in front of our flat around midnight, lighting flares and firing capguns into the sky like a Black Sea wedding gone Kurdish.

Slowly the number of milling boys swelled to include bearded and capped old men, covered and uncovered women in raincoats and black cloaks, galloping children, terrified cats, and one decidedly nunlike grandmother draped in black with white lace pulled up around her jawline, wimple-like.

The boys on the hill spent a few hours just running around randomly and jumping over ledges and shouting, until two cars, decidedly 80s model Sahin sedans, drew up below our flat, draped in the Turkish flag, and the crowd swelled immediately. A mighty roar erupted from the mass, and a hundred men and boys linked arms and shouted and roared and bounced up and down, forming a snaking circle around the quiet, lightly bearded soldier boy.

Boasting and praising bellowed chants ensued, with the hordes raising fists to the air and declaring him to be the greatest soldier ever, the protector of Tophane (our neighbourhood), the hero (so brave!). More gunshots, firecrackers and horsey ululations, and a unified fierce stomping mass, up and down, up and down.

The mass broke into two parts, very West Side Story like, with the Jets backed up against the Christchurch Cathedral and the Sharks crouching down in front of the crappy mean corner shop (who overcharged us regularly on milk and bread).

The Jets shouted something in unison, with arms flying over their heads to point accusingly at the Sharks, and the Sharks retaliated, call and response. For half an hour. Shout and point. Point and shout. Roar roar roar. Then they joined together again, shouted some morale building soldier songs, jumped up and down repeatedly, did a little dance, made a little love, got down, and so on.

The Jets did a few rounds of Allahu Akbar from the edge of the church wall, and the Sharks replied with something in Kurdish: both interesting omens for the boy’s entry into the fiercely secular and nationalist Turkish military.

They picked him up and tossed him around a few times over their heads for good measure. I could see his horizontal form flying up toward our windowsill then disappearing down from sight. Then the digital cameras sprang out and flashes filled the lamplight as soldier posed, with weeping little brothers and apple-faced placid grandma and dozens of random neighbour boys and siblings and cousins.

More jumping and shouting, with a juxtapositional Besiktas-football-team chant thrown in when they ran out of soldier chants. Things only dispersed when the boy very sudenly got stuffed into into one of the flag draped cars at 2 am and freed up the 3- hour traffic jam on our very narrow lane.

Photo: Meanest Indian

As a rule, my nights are dreamless. Oh, I know they say you dream every night. I guess I have to take that on faith.

As a boy my dreams were glorious Technicolor affairs, weaving fantasy, absurdity, terror, and profundity into narratives the might give Lewis Carroll a run for his money. Somewhere, all that stopped, until I set foot in Italy in 2002, my first journey overseas.

Then came the dreams. It was like the dreams were all stuck in traffic and arrived at once.

When you travel without rush or any real consequence of time, your mind shifts to a watching, patient thing.

One tested method for more dreaming is keeping a dream journal. Starting a dream journal is easy and makes an awesome addition to your regular travel journal. Here’s how:

1. Get a notebook or journal specifically to record your dreams in and keep it within arm’s reach of your bed. Dreams fade fast and it is important to record as much as possible as soon as possible.

Photo: akshay moon

2. Write in the present tense and write down every possible detail of your dream. Location, sounds, objects, colors, characters, and your emotional state are important elements of your dream to explore.

What is the feeling it leaves you with when you wake up?

It is OK to scribble random feelings and scattered, lingering thoughts from your dream. Don’t constrain your journal with grammar or punctuation worries. Sketch the landscapes or scenes from your dreams. The more you actively remember your dreams the easier it will be to slip into dreams and remember them with clarity.

3. Be consistent. You don’t have to do it every day but journal as often as possible. Enriching the memory and experience of your dreams takes practice. Who knows? Soon you could have a best selling dream journal like Jack Kerouac’s Book of Dreams.

Dream often and dream big!

Photo: Bill and Mavis Feature Photo: Swimparallel

You blew us away with your food stories last week–gross, delicious, bizarre, down-home, and everything in between–and now it’s Monday again, and time for another prompt.

If you’re new to the Traveler’s Notebook, here’s the deal: every other Monday, we throw out a topic or prompt to help you get your pen moving (or your keyboard clicking, if that’s more your style). You send us whatever you come up with–a meditation, a story, a list, a review, a haiku, no limitations on form–and the following Monday, we post our favorite lines, paragraphs, observations, and turns of phrase so you can check out your fellow Matadorians’ work.

This week’s topic is “coming home.”

Photo: Larsz

Feel free to interpret the topic in any way that inspires you: your homecoming or someone (something?) else’s? “Home” as a house, a town, a country, or a state of mind, a river, a person, a bike? A relief at the end of a long journey, or a painful necessity? Run with it!

Paste your writing (up to 250 words) in the body of your email, along with your Matador community page url. Please put “COMING HOME” in the subject line and send to teresa@matadornetwork.com.

We look forward to reading your words!

Community Connection

Check out Matador’s Bounty Board and find new opportunities every week to get paid for your travel writing!

Want to learn the craft of travel writing?

Sign up for Matador’s new Travel Writing School and get the skills you need.

]]> http://thetravelersnotebook.com/photography-q-a/get-your-pen-moving-coming-home/feed/ http://thetravelersnotebook.com/photography-q-a/get-your-pen-moving-coming-home/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MatadorNotebook/~3/kl0rsGERdo8/ http://thetravelersnotebook.com/uncategorized/tips-for-travel-video-the-elements-of-a-story/#comments Mon, 06 Jul 2009 15:02:11 +0000 Josh Johnson http://thetravelersnotebook.com/?p=2242 Whether writing or editing video, good storytellers use the principal elements of character development, story arch & pacing.

Character: When we watch a movie or read a book, we are engaged by the characters and the circumstances they find themselves in.

Think of yourself as a character in a good book.

• What would you like to know about the character?
• What are you doing and why?
• What do you hope to gain from your travel experience?

When you give the audience a look into how you are being affected they can better live vicariously through your trip.

Story Arch: Even simple travel footage benefits from being presented with a beginning, middle and end. Creatively organize your photos and video footage in an order that gives the footage movement

Cut the Fat: Look for moments when you or your subjects are actively engaged into what’s unfolding, and take out the rest. A good rule of thumb is if it doesn’t add to the story, take it out. People like digestible content; three minutes is a good goal for your video. If you have really engaging content, you may be able to grab their attention for five.

Be Consistent: If you have enough footage for several videos, create a style and be consistent. Decide on a title for your series and add some royalty free music. Using the same opening each time will create continuity for each of your videos.

Community Connection

Contemplate yourself as a better travel writer.

Photo:o0karen0o

Popping corn kernels off the cob without benefit of a knife involves more skill than I would’ve guessed—though by now, after a month of trading English classes for cooking classes with Doña Ludy, I should be used to this.

My thumbs hurt—I can’t seem to get the right angle. My 11-year-old niece, Montse, has resorted to pulling off each kernel individually. Meanwhile, Doña Ludy runs her thumb over the cobs and the kernels seem to leap willingly into her cupped palm. I’ve never seen her make a less-than-graceful movement–but then again, I’ve never seen her out of her element.

A corn cob shoots out of my hand and across the table and we all giggle. I’m happy to be the clumsy gringa if it makes Montse laugh—she’s grown so quiet and serious in the past year, but here in Teotitlan she seems more relaxed.

Doña Ludy has a lovely way of using Montse’s name every time she addresses her: How are you, Montse? Would you like some water, Montse? At home she’s always “Negra” or “China” or “¡esa chamaca!” and while I don’t know for certain that it bothers her, I think it has to be a relief to hear her actual name. Just one more reason to be grateful to Doña Ludy.

Photo: r-z

So here we are, I think. For all intents and purposes, each of us is from a different world: Doña Ludy can trace her family back for thirteen generations to this very place. She can speak the language her great-great-grandparents spoke.

Montse is the first generation of her family to be born in the city, and she’s one hundred percent a city girl: cell phone, hair gel, the works.

And me, a patchwork of European heritages from the American suburbs, by some lucky combination of coincidence and choice, making a life here in Oaxaca.

Here we are.

When we’ve finally finished separating all the corn from the cobs, Doña Ludy dumps it into the blender, covers it with water, and hits “puree.” She told me once that her mother-in-law refuses to use a blender, or to allow anyone to use one in her presence: she’s afraid it will explode. She does all her grinding on the metate, and doesn’t speak Spanish. Another world.

The soup heats up on the stove. Soon we’ll eat sopa de elote—corn, squash, and the herbs chepil and chepiche, all grown right here—a dish Doña Ludy’s great-great-grandmothers probably prepared, and their great-great-grandmothers before them.

Eyewitness footage and pictures out of Iran recently demonstrated the necessity of capturing video of conflict and human rights violations.

The Hub is the world’s first participatory media site for human rights. It’s like YouTube but with a soul and on a mission for change.

Individuals and organizations around the world are uploading their human rights stories to mobilize action to protect and promote human rights.

The Hub also showcases instructional videos and empowers users to take action using the technology within their means.

This video addresses

• Assessing if footage is reliable
• How to edit effectively and ethically
• How to distribute your video to have an impact


Editing and Distributing Your Film ~ presented by WITNESS

Community Connection

Everyday people are fighting for a better world. Read 10 Revolutionary Acts Of Courage By Ordinary People for a glimpse at just a few.

]]> http://thetravelersnotebook.com/video/the-hub-changing-the-world-one-human-rights-video-at-a-time/feed/ http://thetravelersnotebook.com/video/the-hub-changing-the-world-one-human-rights-video-at-a-time/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MatadorNotebook/~3/KW-TFaQUXK0/ http://thetravelersnotebook.com/by-the-numbers/lagos-nigeria-by-the-numbers/#comments Thu, 02 Jul 2009 00:33:24 +0000 Lola Akinmade http://thetravelersnotebook.com/?p=2202 Matador Goods editor Lola Akinmade breaks down her recent trip home.


All Photos by Lola Akinmade

People already standing in cabin before plane leaves runway: 3

Times asked for money before leaving baggage claim: 1



Bus Conductor

Average electrical blackouts per day: 2

Number of days of longest electrical blackout: 2

Generators replaced: 3

People hanging off the back (not side) of moving buses: 6

Highest number of riders on a single motorbike: 5

Average number of people packed into a 12-seater bus: 30

Number of police checkpoints between Lagos and Ondo: 33

Average distance in miles between each police checkpoint: 2

Times pulled over by police: 5

Times asked for money by policemen: 3

Giant African snails consumed: 16



Giant African Snails

Snails consumed in one sitting: 10

Chinese restaurants visited: 1

Fast food joints visited: 5

Hours wasted in traffic per day: 4

Number of times passenger side mirror hit by Okadas (motorcycle taxis): 3

Number of times passenger side mirror hit by policeman’s baton: 2

Times intentionally sideswiped by tanker-trailer: 1

Near fatal accident misses over 14 days: 28

Arguments gotten into with policemen ready to seize camcorder: 1

Plates of rice and chicken consumed over 14 days: 15

Average number of mosquito bites: 20



Goats are a delicacy

Interview conducted by fake newspaper journalist: 1

Money in Naira lost to fake newspaper journalist: 500

Goats killed for various celebrations: 5

Number of times “Oyinbo!” (White man) was yelled at fiancé: 4

Low hanging ceiling fan accident: 1

Low hanging ceiling fan accident by tall Swede: 1

Cold water baths taken: 18



Sunset along the lagoon

Mice spotted: 4

Mice killed: 1

Number of snacks bought while sitting in traffic: 4

Number of puppies spotted being sold in traffic: 2

Power outage at airport: 1

Number of beautiful sunsets witnessed: 4

High school mates reunited with: 10

Weeks spent: 2

Months till next trip back: 12

Community Connection

Have a By the Numbers you want us to read? Send to david [at] matadornetwork [dot] com

Ready to submit your trip “by the numbers”? Send to david@matadornetwork.com.

]]> http://thetravelersnotebook.com/by-the-numbers/lagos-nigeria-by-the-numbers/feed/ http://thetravelersnotebook.com/by-the-numbers/lagos-nigeria-by-the-numbers/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MatadorNotebook/~3/nqoPwD-oJ1s/ http://thetravelersnotebook.com/photography-q-a/you-got-your-pens-moving-food-stories-from-the-matador-community/#comments Tue, 30 Jun 2009 23:24:53 +0000 Teresa Ponikvar http://thetravelersnotebook.com/?p=2189

Photo: Alexanderward12

Tarantulas in Cambodia, “Super Burgers” in Colombia. An Australian street morphs into an Indian kitchen, and chili paste produces hallucinogenic dreams. You came up with all this and more for this week’s “get your pen moving” exercise on food and travel.

Thanks to everyone who participated! Here are some excerpts from their work:

“After a few shivers, I chased the tarantula legs down with tarantula “wine”, which ended up being a pretty wicked shot. With an uncomfortable cough, I remembered the jars of tarantula and snake wines that I had seen earlier in the day—rotting insects sitting at the bottom of the jar. This is what travel insurance is for, right?”
—Olivia, Matador ID poweredbytofu

“Aculturalized. Definition: When the sight of mummified pigs’ legs hanging on the wall not only doesn’t make you do a double take, but makes your mouth water. ”
—Troy Mahumko, Matador ID barmadu

“So far it had been a depressing summer. With his wife in Greece, Russ spent all his time at work in Baltimore. In New York, I’d just moved into a dump of a studio apartment, and my girlfriend flew off to California. We were suddenly the lamest bachelors on the Eastern Seaboard, and we couldn’t even meet up for dinner to complain about it.

But with nothing tying me to Manhattan, I hopped a bus south. I’d never seen Baltimore, but I imagined it the perfect place for two old friends to drink beers in dingy pubs and curse the fates. Bertha’s, the Fells Point dive, was our destination.

The door was still closing behind us when the sky opened up.



Photo: Sylvar

We took a table in the back and our tattooed waitress slapped down some menus. We didn’t need them and asked for bowls of mussels and a couple beers. The mussels were amazing.

The rain was still slashing the windows, so after our bowls were cleared, I asked for a slice of pecan pie and a bourbon. Russ had a glass too. For the moment we were dry inside the warm bar, with tumblers of whiskey, sitting with each other, not thinking about the rest of the summer.”

—Paul Brady, Matador ID Paul Brady

“I can walk the street and watch the cars pass—browns, reds and golds—and return, for that one colour-tranced second, to crumbling Indian lanes, flanked with bins of cumin, chili, and saffron.

Later—and it happens only every so often—the breeze sends a gift. I return, for one aroma-fused second, to the Channa dinners with my adopted Multani family who saved me. It is as real as ever, as real as anything I have ever owned.”
—Zachary Hope, Matador ID hopey

“….In the mornings I bypass the noodles and go for the steamed buns (contents always a lottery- they could be red bean or chopped bitter greens or sweet pork or anything fathomable and unfathomable) or the curry buns oozing spiced yellow oil or the very odd but yummy fried egg that is wrapped up with something like firm white custard (even the Chinese teacher couldn’t tell me what it was).



Photo: Celldigi

I love the vast mysteries of my supermarket. I love huge succulent crunchy wedges of fresh ginger and pungent, fresh heads of garlic, both cheaper than breathing. I love jars of chili paste that create hallucinogenic dreams. Shanghai makes me hungry.”
—MaryAnne Oxendale, Matador ID koangirl

“For a day and a half I stare at plates of Penne all’ Arrabbiata, pizza bianca, bruschetta, even fruit— unable to eat. We sit, my son and I on the Piazza Campo dei’ Fiora, the remnants from the daily market still scattered upon the piazza—in front of us a platter of buffalo mozzarella, Parmigiano-Reggiano, Provolone and fresh ricotta with fresh grilled bread and olive oil—I only look at it. Unable to eat cheese! Incredible! Unthinkable! Cheese, my very own “I wish I could quit you” relationship….”
—Coreen Haydock Johnson, Matador ID corrand

“I got serious about wine around my 21st birthday, or if I’m being honest, a year or two before the date which made me a legal consumer of alcohol in the United States. I loved everything about it. I would have worn Viognier as perfume had it been socially acceptable to rub wine on one’s neck.”
—Marissa Barker, Matador ID MarissaRose84

“For my last dinner in Calarca, a city in Western Colombia, my host, Juan Ramos,
introduced me to the Super Burger.

The burger, from top to bottom consisted of:



Photo: Marshall Astor

• the top half of a sesame seed bun,
• lettuce,
• a smattering of crumbled potato chips,
• ketchup,
• ham,
• pineapple sauce,
• a beef patty,
• discs of tomatoes,
• discs of cucumber,
• tartar sauce,
• a sloppy infusion of a chimerical sauce known as ´pink´ (a combination of mayo and ketchup),
• a second beef patty,
• a second layer of lettuce,
• and the bottom half of a sesame seed bun.

We finished within seven minutes. The speedy intake of the burger blurred my vision,
momentarily; too many calories. Did Juan desire a second? His brow furrowed with
surety when I asked; ‘Heeell no,’ he replied.”
—Aaron King, Matador ID Aar1on2

“Local lore [in New Orleans] suggests that since Monday was traditionally laundry day, it was a good day for cooking red beans. The dried beans could simmer unattended during the day with the clothes were being washed. Personally, I think the dish makes great week-end recovery food: creamy, smoky, spicy, satisfying. It’s like a slightly inappropriate hug.”
—Stacy C, Matador ID kefuoe

“The taxi driver was holding something.

He’d claimed to be waiting for a fare, and I’d been about to walk away and try to find another taxi home, when I saw the way an orange-shirted security guard was leaning in the driver’s side window, looking at something.

It was an iguana. A big one, too, no less than a foot long from head to tail. It had beautiful, unblinking yellow eyes and greenish yellow skin with black spots all over like freckles. They are an endangered species in Honduras, but still a common sight in Roatan, one of the Bay Islands off the mainland. The man in the passenger seat was holding him by the neck, while the taxi driver picked bits off debris off a broken, lifeless foot.



Photo: Mauricio Pellengrinetti

‘What happened to him?’ I asked in Spanish.

‘Got hit by a car. The policia gave him to us,’ the driver said, referring to the security guard, who was already walking away.

‘He’s beautiful.’

‘He’s dying,’ his friend in the passenger seat said, demonstrating this fact by moving the iguana’s head, which lolled lifelessly, as if the neck had been broken.

‘What are you going to do with him?’

The taxi driver laughed. ‘We are going to eat him. It is delicious. El otro pollo.’ The other chicken. ‘Some people, they hunt them and kill them, but this one is already dead, see?’

He waved the broken foot.

I nodded.

‘I don’t think my fare is coming. I can take you now.’”

—Amalia Foster, Matador ID afoster

“Eating is for home. Meals are built into my routine life, even acting sometimes as the entertainment and escape of the day. Travel equals no routine. On the road, food stands last in the line of importance.”

—Sabina Lohr, Matador ID travellohr

“If you are driving through Madagascar, you don’t even have to leave the road. While passing through towns, locals will bring hard-boiled eggs, bbq chicken, and even bottles of soda right up to your car window. ”
—Maureen Maloney, Matador ID Maureen Maloney

“In broken English, my teammate asked me if I’d ever tried daktdoritang before. I shook my head, and the conversation (in Korean, of course) perked up to include all 12 Koreans at the table.

Daktdoritang is a spicy chicken stew - a very spicy chicken stew made with lots of red pepper - and each one of them seemed to take pride in how much they could eat without drinking any water. Apparently, the preferred beverage to accompany this dish was soju, a distilled drink that tastes like vodka….

It took almost three days to feel my tongue again, but a bit longer than that to live down the bright red cheeks.”
—Chris Backe, Matador ID chrisinseoul

Community Connection

Liked what you read here? Follow the links to the participants’ Matador community pages—and don’t hesitate to leave comments!

Look for a new prompt at the Traveler’s Notebook next Monday!

]]> http://thetravelersnotebook.com/photography-q-a/you-got-your-pens-moving-food-stories-from-the-matador-community/feed/ http://thetravelersnotebook.com/photography-q-a/you-got-your-pens-moving-food-stories-from-the-matador-community/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MatadorNotebook/~3/VZ-SxTXnvJI/ http://thetravelersnotebook.com/photography-q-a/reporters-center-helps-citizen-journalists-shoot-and-report-the-news/#comments Tue, 30 Jun 2009 15:09:04 +0000 Josh Johnson http://thetravelersnotebook.com/?p=2152 Reporters’ Center is a YouTube channel dedicated to help users understand the power of citizen journalism and offers practical tips from the world’s best journalists.

Ever captured a natural disaster or a crime on your cell-phone camera or filmed a political protest? Then you’re part of the enormous community of citizen reporters on YouTube, and this channel is for you.