ktravula – a travelogue!

Browsing the archives for the Travelling category.

At the Korean DMZ

Visiting the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ, as it’s commonly called) was, I think, one of the most exhilarating parts of my trip. Nowhere else in the world, perhaps, is as illustrative of tension and hostility between two countries as the DMZ is. It is the world’s only remaining demilitarized zone laid bare in a 250-km long border barrier between what is now known as North Korea and South Korea.

Parts of the DMZ are open to guests, though subject to last-minute cancellations in many instances. On the day of our visit, the Olympic delegation from the North had just passed through the Civilian Control Line, on the way to Seoul on a historic visit. Had we arrived there just a few minutes earlier, we may have been delayed to make way for them.

The parts of the South where visitors can visit have a number of interesting landmarks, including an observatory post from where one can peep into North Korea and see its Propaganda Village and a flag, erected to be taller than anything else near it, placed strategically near the border. There, there is a small museum showing how the Korean conflict started, the many skirmishes between both of them over the years, and other relevant information. Over the years, the North Koreans had plotted to take over the South using many sly tactics. One of them is the use of a tunnel, four of which have been discovered before they did too much damage. Guests to the DMZ can take a look at some of them, and even take a walk in them, since they’ve been preserved for touristic purposes.

A place I thought I was going to visit, but learnt isn’t much open to the public, is Panmunjom with the famous blue house split across two national boundaries, and where most high-level diplomatic meetings between the countries usually take place. From Paju, where the observatory was, Panmunjom was a few miles out of view even of the mounted telescopes.

One thing that was exciting to discover is that, due to the state of war between the two Koreas and the untouched nature of the wilderness in the DMZ, it has grown over the years to become something of a nature park. Exotic birds and animals of diverse natures now live in the four-kilometre-wide minefield that separates the two Koreas. It has been proposed that in the case of future unification, the two countries agree to keep the DMZ as a heritage site of protected flora and fauna.

I can get behind that, as well as the idea of returning to the country after a state of peace has finally returned. Hope is frail but it’s hard to kill, as the saying goes. From the conversations with ordinary Koreans throughout the trip, it appears that I’m not the only one with at least a desire for a better future in that part of the world. May it be soon, and may the cost not be too high for the world to bear.

Onward Aké – A Travelogue

by Torinmo Salau

I got to Oshodi few minutes past 7am, my plan was to take off from Lagos before 6:30 Am. Rather I found myself panting under the weight of the Khaki travel bag strapped to my back, frantic to get on the next vehicle en route Kuto, Abẹ́òkuta which finally set out few minutes to 8am.

The grey Sienna car was badly dented and its rear windscreen had a slight crack which ran diagonally across its full length. The vehicle moved swiftly, faster than I even envisaged and within 30 minutes, we were approaching the tollgate. With Ma Lo by Twa Savage and Wizkid playing quietly in the car, I tried to go through the Aké Festival program schedule on my Samsung tablet.

“Are you going to Aké too?” the husky voice who sat beside me asked, jolting me out of the thoughts which clouded my mind.

“Yes”. I wondered why he was smiling sheepishly and from the way the words rolled off his tongue, you could guess his name would either be Emeka or Ifeanyi. But I did not guess right, his name was Chike.

After conversing for some minutes, I discover that Chike is a lawyer but he daylights as a freelance writer and editor.

“Shit I forgot my drugs,” he said midway through the conversation, mumbling words I barely understood.

“I forgot my antidepressants, he continued, sounding more distressed with anxiety ripping slowly through his face. His anxiety was palpable as he shifted from left to right in his seat, visibly shaken from the reality which just dawned on him.

“Are you depressed?”

Then I realized that was a dumb question to ask, if he is not suffering from depression, then why is he is shaking like a crinkled leaf which has lost its moist to the parched harmattan wind.

“Yes, I am depressed. But I will be fine without the drugs, he said shrugging his shoulder limply. Then he turned his back towards me, looking out of the window and staring at lush green vegetation which lined the road.

We were way past Mowe-Ibafo and its environs, I knew this because there was no sight of human habitations along the road again, just signposts after signboards and signages which had rusted and were barely legible to read.

“Sorry to hear, you are suffering from depression.”

I said the word ‘Depression’ almost inaudibly, carefully curating every word I spoke like somebody walking on eggshells, eggshells which can crack just by the slightest omission of a letter.

“Please don’t be, Chike said looking away from the window, smiling, I guess he was trying to hide his disappointment.

“I get a little cranky when I miss my medication but I will be fine, it’s just for two days”.

This was the second time he was saying, “I will be fine” within the space of five minutes.

While he sounded fairly reassuring, I still felt worried. Worried by the fall in his countenance and the dark shadow cast over the bubbly persona he exuded at the onset of the journey. Wondering what the resultant effect of missing a pill or two could be, wondering why he had to repeat himself if he would really be fine?

Then the journalist in me kicked in.

“How long have you been feeling depressed?” I asked with my curiosity etched up, hungry to dig down the layers of this story, hoping it is not what I think it is.

“Two years thereabout”.

“Besides antidepressants medication, why didn’t you explore other means of managing this condition?”

“I did. I tried therapy first but it was quite expensive. Then I switched to a psychiatrist, the doctor placed me on drugs which have been more effective than therapy”.

“But contrary to what I am aware of, therapy works best, better than tying your daily existence to a bottle of pills?”

“Yes it does, for some people. But the antidepressants help to balance my moods, keeps me from bouncing from one end to the other.

“Are there any side effects to antidepressants?”

“Yes of course, especially the withdrawal symptoms which varies among individuals, ranging from anxiety, insomnia, nausea, fatigue amongst others. It can either be mild or severe.

Chike turned his back to me again, but this time, he wasn’t looking out of the window. Rather, just staring at the brown threadbare carpet on the floor of the car, which was caked with red sand. By then the song playing in the car was ‘Joromi’ by Simi, with light chatter from fellow passengers, some talking about the Spanish La Liga while others were lamenting the epileptic power supply across the country. But for few seconds, there was a transient suppression of verbal expression. The gulf of space between us was taken up by silence and it stood there for what seemed like an eternity.

Though I pretended to read a book, Chike’s words kept throbbing my mind. His mental health struggles mirrored exactly what I was going through but what I was also denying and the more I looked in, the more I saw a reflection of myself.

On some days, I am just floating through space, watching my life from a distance as my dreams and ambitions vapourize into thin air, without any drive to rescue them. Though I feel sparks of euphoria and drift to a different time space with my heart clustered with sugary fantasies tickling my taste buds, it is not for too long. Reality always lingers and thoughts of pulling the trigger moonwalk across my mind often. I want to run away, yet I am too scared to die.

I was excited as the car approached the ‘Welcome to Ogun state’ signboard. I could feel its momentum rising to 120KM/H, as the driver drove past the Governor’s Office which was painted in the colours of the national flag, heading into town.

***

While this was my second visit to Abẹ́òkuta, the city of rocky hills within the space of a decade, it was my first time at the Ake Book and Arts Festival, the fifth edition of AKEFEST. An annual literary, art and cultural event which pools authors, creatives, writers, artists, musicians, activists to share their work and ideas. It is no doubt a booklover’s dream as it offers the opportunity to interact with some of the major voices in the contemporary African literary scene.

I found the theme for the 2017 edition of Ake Festival, ‘This F-Word’ really intriguing, this was undeniably a profound time to have this conversation and stanchly confront the issues revolving around it. But the big cherry on the cake was the headliner for the event, Ama Ata Aidoo. Renowned poet, novelist and feminist. My favourite amongst her books is Anowa, a Ghanaian play about a young girl who rejects suitors proposed by her parents and marries a stranger, Kofi Ako. Kofi is angered by Anowa’s attitude of being a modern women and asks her to leave when she could not conceive a child. But Anowa discovers later that her husband had lost his ability to bear children, so the fault was his not hers. This discovery of the truth forces Kofi to shoot himself while Anowa drowns herself.

The trip ended at Kuto, it lasted for about 90 minutes. As luck would have it, the location of the literary festival, Arts, and Cultural centre was situated right beside the bus park, along Ibrahim Babangida Boulevard, Kuto. Chike and I were the last passengers to highlight from the car, I mumbled a short prayer to the heavens, grateful for the miracle of surviving the road.

Though the literary festival was a weeklong event, precisely five days from November 14th – 18th, 2017, I arrived at AkeFest on Day 4, Friday, hoping to still maximize the best of the event within the last two days. Chike and I exchange phone number and parted ways, promising to stay in contact with each other. He wanted to hear Toni Kan speak but I ran off to the current session underway, Book Chat with Alexis Okẹ́owó and Dayọ̀ Ọlọ́pàdé.

Storytelling with Mara Menzies on The illusion of the Truth was an enthralling moment as she told a Kenyan story of how Gikuyu women were not permitted to eat meat. Mara’s undulating body rhythm and the subtle tenor in her voice added more spice to the story. The fork in the road was one woman’s search for the truth and determination to fight the cultural stereotype which beleaguered women in her community. The day ended with a stage play by Yolanda Mercy on Quarter Life Crisis, a monologue which mixes expressions of spoken word and addictive baselines infused with a side dish of comedy. Most individuals go through a quarter-life crisis, but they don’t know it. Just like Alice, the main character in the story, we are swiping from left to right. Young, exuberant yet confused, not knowing what to do with the blank cheque called life, given to us. Though everyone around her thinks they know where they are going in life, the stage play which shows Alice trying to find ways to cheat growing up ends with a hilarious climax. However it doesn’t end without asking the audience with these two questions, ‘What does it mean to be an adult?’ and ‘When do you become one?’

Dusmar Hotel

I retired for the night at Dusmar Hotel, situated next to the Art and Cultural centre which saved me an extra cost of commuting within Abeokuta to the literary event. The hotel’s reception struck me with a major throwback to the mid-90s, refreshing fragments of my memory littered here and there. The furniture and furnishings were quite antique. The windows, still the same old model fitted with louvres reminded me of an incident I did not want to remember and I would rather not talk about it. But I found myself wondering why a hotel bore this type of window fittings even in the year 2017, though mildly nostalgic yet largely traumatizing.

Day 5, Saturday, the event was winding down but more people were still pouring it. As the literary festival teetered towards its climax, everything became fast paced. People frantically buying discounted books and F-Word books from the bookshop. The flashlight of cameras everywhere you turned to, as people tried to seal the memories and friendships formed within the space of five days. There was a book signing spree, authors inking their thoughts on books purchased by readers and their fans which was consummated with the millennials’ trademark autograph, Selfies!

My highlight of the day was the Life and Times session on Ama Ata Aidoo. The renowned author who has been writing for over sixty years spoke liberally about her life, work and feminism. It was an emotionally charged atmosphere for many in the hall as she paid an emotional tribute to Mariama Ba, Flora Nwapa, Buchi Emecheta and other women pioneers of African writing.

“I hope you will extend the love and appreciation, you have shown me to my sister writers – living and past.” But what stuck with is the last line of one of the poems she read, “A girl’s voice doesn’t break, it gets firmer.”

***

I returned to Lagos on Sunday morning with a belly full of feisty aspirations, determined to change my misconceptions about feminism. Also to commit myself to unlearning and relearning, as the words of Mona Elthaway persistently rings in my ears, ‘Fuck the Patriachary’. Part of the main insights gained from the Ake festival is the universality of our experience as women whether black, white, or queer and why it is critical to challenge the elephant in the room, especially peculiar societal norms and beliefs which have repressed us decades.

____________

Torinmo Salau’s work has been published online and offline in literary publications, magazines, and anthologies.

My Korean Nostalgia

It has been about two weeks since I returned from the Korean Peninsula as a guest of the Ministry of Culture for the PyeongChang Humanities Forum, a culture Olympics of sorts, but my heart has remained in the country. It had dawned on me, long before I got on the plane that took me out of Incheon Airport, that this is a special place. From the first welcome, through all the stops at Seoul, Pyeongchang, Busan, and other places in-between, the country warmed itself (a curious word since it was freezing cold in the subzeroes for the duration of my trip) into my bones. And now, I realize that I will never be able to read any news story about the Korean crises without a personal pull.

There is a story in the Wall Street Journal this morning about a successful concert at the at the Gangneung Arts Center by the North Korean orchestra attended by an audience of South Koreans of all generations in which the prospect of peace and unification again came within reach, even if only sentimentally. While I was in Korea, we had taken a trip to the Demilitarized Zone and learnt through a television in the bus, right before entering the Civilian Control Line, that a delegation from the North had entered the country through the same entrance just a few minutes earlier. They had been sent by Kim Jong Un as an advanced team to prepare grounds for sending the athletes that the North had agreed to have participate in the Ice Hockey event under the same (unification) flag along with the South, and in the same team. It warmed my heart up. (This has happened, by the way).

Almost everywhere we visited in South Korea, but none more pronounced than the DMZ areas, there is a palpable sense of hope for an eventual unification of the two countries under peaceful terms. It sometimes felt too jarring when compared to the rhetoric I’d been familiar with, from outside looking in, about a prospect of war that appeared real almost every day and with every tweet from the POTUS. Almost everywhere at the DMZ had something about ‘unification’ or ‘freedom’. The road we were on was called Freedom Road. There was a house at Paju that had boldly written on it “End of Separation, Beginning of Unification” in English, Chinese, and Korean. It’s unlikely that any North Korean would see it from across the border a few miles from there, but it showed an attitude that permeates everywhere I looked. The people of the South would want nothing more than a chance to reunite with their long lost national siblings.

A question I’ve been asking since I’ve been back is not just the North feels the same way (we have seen many defections to know that some appetite for this exists) but whether the outside forces will let it happen. In this case, we have China on the one hand whose communist hegemony is threatened by a unified Korea under capitalistic/democratic terms, Russia (which, to my surprise at its enormous size, does share a national border with North Korea as well) on another who has formed an inscrutable relationship with Kim Jong Un and would want nothing more than another outpost with which to poke the US, and then the administration of Donald Trump in America who have done nothing more than stoke flames of war in a transparent attempt at shoring up support for their unpopular domestic and conservative agenda. Listening to the media tell us about the possibility of peace, it comes through an inevitable path of war or denuclearization where America wins and Kim Jong surrenders to the will of Mr. Trump. The latter seems improbable, leaving us only the possibility of war. But the situation on the ground didn’t seem to offer only this binary. Watching Koreans live their life as normally as anyone can, with nothing resembling the worrying anticipation with which others around the world look at the peninsula brings up the possibility that some other less inflammatory resolution to the conflict can be found. I don’t know what it is, but maybe we should ask the Koreans rather than saber-rattle from afar as we’re wont to do. By ‘we’, I mean Donald Trump and the US.

In any case, this was supposed to be a recollection of my fond memories of Korea, and not a rant on global politics. When I watch the winter games on television today, I will remember walking through the ski village in Pyeongchang, watching the workers prepare the venues for the athletes, and wondering why anyone will leave their house to come compete in such a cold weather. But I will also retain a hope for the eventual unification of the country on more favourable terms to those who live in it and whose futures are tied to its peace and security, away from the many competing interests of the global powers.

Lunch At Beomosa

The Beomosa Temple is one of the oldest and most renowned temples in Korea, and in Buddhism. It is located on the slopes of the Geumjeongsan Mountain and was built around 678AD. The original temple was burnt down during the Japanese Invasion of Korea in 1592, but others have been built on the same spot to replace it, with renovation efforts done on some of the items that survived the inferno. One of its most famous treasures is a larger-than-life statue of Buddha, located in one of the halls, where tourists and visitors come to pray or meditate.

I was at Beomosa, pronounced like [po-mo-saa], recently, visiting with writer and scholar colleagues from different countries who were in Busan for a literature festival/workshop titled New World Literature Beyond Eurocentrism. It was a chance to discuss issues of relevance in the global conversations around the direction of literature. I was on a panel with writers from the Philipines, China, Mexico, and Korea my contribution focused on my work as a writer and linguist in Nigeria and the challenges of African language literature. (The title of this my recent interview with AfricanWriter.com makes the case perhaps more concisely).

The name of the temple – Beomosa – means “Nirvana fish” in Korean, named after a fish reputed to have been found in a river on top of the mountain – a river said to have housed Buddha himself at some point in prehistory. It was my first time in any Buddhist temple, and a rare privilege to have my first visit be at one of Buddhism’s holy places. I learnt a lot about what Buddhism is and what it’s not. It was also interesting to learn that its purpose “to end all suffering” had long been wrongly translated. Our guide said that the better translation would be “to end all unsatisfactoriness”, which made more sense. Most religions of the world profess a kind of longing for the afterlife. Or, at the last, some sort of paradise. In Buddhism, that is an enlightenment that can only come from within. Not by prayers to anyone, not even to Buddha, but a pursuit of an internal state of transcending human disquiet.

Our guide was a young monk, about 27-ish. He was born in Korea but spent much of his childhood and adult life in the Central Illinois area around Champaign, attending the University of Illinois, Urbana. His accent gave him away pretty quickly, though, according to him, this was the first time he would be using the English language since he returned to Korea just three years ago to become a Buddhist monk. The language of the temple (and of the environment) is Korean and Chinese. He provided us an overview of the temple, its ancient and contemporary history, and his role as an apprentice monk. A question I wanted to ask, but didn’t, was how he came to the decision to leave the modern life behind in America to become a monk in this remote part of the world. What I managed to ask was whether there are people who begin this journey to become a monk and then give up half-way. The answer is “yes”, but his passion and conviction left me in no doubt that he wouldn’t be one of them.

The temperature in Busan on the day of the visit felt like Antartica, but it was around -12 degrees. Not much of a difference to the Nigerian who has been familiar with only two seasons: wet or dry, each hovering around 30 degrees Celsius. Korean travel writer and translator Kim Soo Woo had looked at me with motherly concern earlier in the morning as I came out of my hotel wearing about four shirts over the other. “This won’t be enough,” she suggested. “It would be reaaaaaly cold.” Do I have something else to wear on these four shirts before putting on a jacket? I went back into my room and found a sweater I had thankfully brought along from Lagos, so I slid into it. And yet, on this mountain, beaten left and right by the chilly wind that still managed to pierce deep into my bones through the clothes, I wished that I had more clothes to hide under.

The monks had a special outfit which, I suspect, also had inside insulation. They seemed comfortable in their skin and in this environment. The temple would certainly be a more interesting place to visit in the fall or at any other time of the year, but they didn’t seem discomforted in any way. When it was lunch time, we gathered into the dining hall, and into an inside room open only to the elderly monks and their visitors. It was another rare privilege. On the wall of the dining room is the “meal chant”, in Korean, Chinese, and in English, which says:

Where has this food come from?

I am ashamed of eating it.

I will take it as medicine

to get rid of greed in my mind

and to keep my physical being

in order to achieve enlightenment.

It was delicious food, but I don’t know if the spirit of Buddha would have appreciated this concession of mine to the purpose of food as more than just a means to enlightenment.

The Person That Went to Nigeria is not The Same One That Came Back

Guest post by Anne Maabjerg Mikkelsen

Adunni Oloriṣa’s handwriting on the wall in her former gallery where I slept. Written in German: “Nun sind letztendlich die Vögel doch eingeladen”, English translation: “Now, the birds are yet finally invited.”

“Why do you have to travel so far, Anne?” This was the first reaction from my beloved grandmothers as I told them I would be travelling to Nigeria with the University of Potsdam in October.

I understand their fears. Nigeria does not have a positive reputation in Denmark because of reports of kidnappings, corruption, diseases, and terror. However, I had to go not just because of my master’s thesis about the Ọ̀ṣun-Òṣogbo Sacred Grove, a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2005, in Ọ̀ṣun State south-western Nigeria, but because something in Nigeria had been calling my soul.

While writing my thesis about the Grove back in Europe, I struggled with the fact that I had not been there on my own. As I realized that the field trip had been organized, it seemed too good to be true. We were a group of ten people including our professor, who had gotten an invitation letter from the University of Ìbàdàn. Most of our program was scheduled on the University’s campus, and it was a relief to leave for Òṣogbo with the group during the second weekend, since I was longing to see the Grove.

Back home, I had already studied Yorùbá culture, and the playful universe of the Òrìṣàs; the deities of a traditional West African religion manifested as energies and natural forces on the earth. The work and worldview of Àdùnní Olóriṣà (1915-2009), the guardian of the Grove, also known as Susanne Wenger, an Austrian modernist artist who was resident in Nigeria and initiated into the Òrìṣà religion, had also caught my attention. I only expected my visit to the Grove to be overwhelmingly magical. And so it was.

Entering the Grove, I could feel my whole body vibrating and getting charged with the intense energy that flourishes around – the powers of Ọ̀ṣun, the Òrìṣà of fertility, beauty and wealth embodied as the Ọ̀ṣun River, who is in everything there, as she nourishes all.

As the group returned to Ìbàdàn the next day, I stayed in the house of Àdùnní Olórìṣà on Ìbòkun Road with her daughter Doyin Ọlọ́ṣun, an Ọ̀ṣun high priestess, for another three days.

Everything felt so natural, and it was more or less like meeting family. We went to the Grove every day and sat by the River listening to the water curving its way through the virgin forest, sharing dreams and beliefs as the sun made its way through the clouds and sent its warm rays to the surface of the river from where they were gently directed to us. We greeted the monkeys in the green trees around us and the fish that made their arrival as we sat down. Everything here is sacred; no fish can be caught, no animal hunted or tree cut down. No wonder that Àdùnní gave her life to protect this place and the Òrìṣà religion.

It was with a heavy heart and tears in my eyes that I had to leave Òṣogbo, Doyin and her family in the house.

Before Nigeria, I was told that, “the person that went to Nigeria is not the same one that came back.” I must agree. Knowing that I have gotten the permission from the closest people, I feel capable to write my thesis not just through my mind but also with my heart. Moreover, I had the feeling that my thesis was more than just a paper, which would allow me to finish my degree.

My trip to Nigeria reaffirmed that it is also a personal path of self-discovery, and I am certain that I will return. There is much more to tell, still so many questions to be asked, and so many people to thank, among others: Professor Hans-Georg Wolf for organizing the trip; Níke Davies-Okundaye for her open heart; Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún for his time; Dr Ọbáfẹ́mi Jẹ́gẹ́dẹ́ and the African Studies of University of Ìbàdàn; Robin Campbell from the Susanne Wenger Trust for helping me organize my stay; site manager of the Grove, Mr Olákúnlé Mákindé; and of course my deepest thanks to Doyin Ọlọ́ṣun and her family on Ìbòkun Road.

I am now back in Berlin. My beloved grandmothers are relieved and therefore, so am I. I will do my best to explain to them how magical my experience of Nigeria has been, and that not all Nigerians are bad but rather extremely welcoming and warm-hearted. Where I come from, we could learn from this place and from what the Grove represents: that spirituality is beyond race, that nature is divine and sacred, and the importance of cherishing the feminine principle.

This is exactly my answer to the question “Why do you have to travel so far, Anne?”

____

Anne Maabjerg Mikkelsen, pictured here with Ọ̀ṣun priestess Doyin, is from Denmark. She lives and studies in Berlin Germany, University of Potsdam. She spent two weeks in Nigeria as part of an academic visit.

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