Travel Archives - Elie Axelroth

Mongolia: Lost Land of Nomads and Genghis Khan

September 3, 2026 By elieaxelroth 6 Comments

Ger of nomadic family in the Gobi Desert.

I’m not that interested in going to Paris. I was there in my twenties, gazed up at the Mona Lisa, ate chocolate crepes. After touring Versailles, I understood the French Revolution.

I prefer exotic countries, out-of-the-way destinations, cold, spacious environments like Antarctica, where I floated next to massive icebergs in a Zodiac. Last summer, I sailed from Greenland to the Canadian Arctic, visited small Inuit communities, watched juvenile thick-billed murres fledge by throwing themselves off the side of a cliff into the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.

Making goat yogurt in the ger

It’s a privilege to see how others survive—and thrive—in their exquisitely beautiful yet harsh environments.

Inside the ger

This summer, I traveled to Mongolia, the land of Genghis Khan, the complicated 13th-century ruler known for his ruthless military genius and the empire he unified.

I’ve been asked any number of times: Why Mongolia?

A number of years ago, I’d seen the indie film The Eagle Huntress (2016), set in western Mongolia. It’s about a 13-year-old Kazakh girl who wants to become an eagle hunter, an honor traditionally reserved for men. The landscape in the film is stunning, and I thought it would be wild to go there.

Life Among Mongolia’s Nomadic Families

About one-third of Mongolia’s population remains nomadic. We visited families who live in a ger—a yurt-like dwelling—in what feels like the middle of nowhere. They herd horses, camels, goats (considered by many to produce some of the finest cashmere), yaks, reindeer.

Young girl with her peregrine falcon

There are few trees in Mongolia and little agriculture, so nomadic families live largely on meat and dairy. We tried all varieties of milk and yogurt, along with hard cheese curds, yak ice cream, fermented mare’s milk, and goat yogurt. The meat-eaters among our group sampled horse, goat, yak, and camel.

I wasn’t sorry to be a vegetarian.

Nomadic family milking their yaks

But how do these nomadic families survive?

It’s a tough life, and my impression is that Mongolian people are enterprising, resourceful, and scrappy—much like the Cubans I encountered who are masters of reusing and recycling.

For better or worse, the traditional nomadic life in Mongolia may soon be a thing of the past. Young people are moving away, often to the capital, Ulaanbaatar, or to small mining towns. And who can blame them?

Climate Change and the Future of Mongolia

Opening the well water for the goat herd

The effects of climate change are outsized in Mongolia—when you largely live in the elements and the grasslands are dry, and the temperature plummets to 30 below in the winter. Over 90% of domestic energy is generated by coal, so winters in Ulaanbaatar are unbearable with some of the worst pollution in the world. Cashmere is a significant cash crop, but the approximately 30 million goats are destroying the fragile steppe ecosystem.

Cashmere factory

I bought a cashmere scarf. Was that helping the country? Or making it worse?

One nomadic woman we met, when asked if she wanted to move to the city when she got older, was clear.

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t stand the noise and the people. I’ll stay here.”

Here was a ger with her husband and a herd of yaks, water she had to carry from a nearby stream, a pit toilet, and a few solar panels providing electricity. Her children, all but one teenaged daughter, had already moved away.

What Is Worth Saving?

Should we rue the loss of the nomadic life in Mongolia? Like a lost language or an endangered species? What’s worth saving?

And who gets to decide?

Second Edition of my novel Cross Body Lead is now available!

How far would you go to right an injustice?

Billie Ochoa teaches Cold War politics. She’s edgy, charismatic and resolute, especially when it comes to advocating for the vulnerable and marginalized. When a student in one of her classes is being stalked, she finds herself stymied by the police and university administration who claim there’s nothing they can do. That’s when she takes matters into her own hands.

Available at Volumes of Pleasure in Los Osos and Amazon. To support independent bookstores, shop Bookshop.Org. It’s free on Kindle Unlimited.

Be Like a Birder: What Binoculars and Merlin Can Teach Us About Generosity

December 29, 2025 By elieaxelroth Leave a Comment

I’ve found birders to be exceptionally helpful, generous, and certainly more knowledgeable than I am.

White-necked jacobin hummingbird

I’m a casual birder. I don’t keep a life list. I don’t drive hours to track down a rare sighting (well, only occasionally). I’m hopeless at identifying birds by their calls. For the life of me, I can’t remember the names of the most common birds. I struggle to spot small, flighty birds in leafy trees. And all those warblers? They utterly confound me.

Canopy Tower, Panama

Despite all that, for Thanksgiving I traveled to Canopy Tower in Panama to bird. Forty-five minutes from Panama City, it’s an old US military radar station reclaimed as a premier birding site.

It’s hard to uphold my image as a casual birder when I’m traveling more than three thousand miles to see tropical birds—along with sloths and monkeys. I was especially hoping to see a harpy eagle, Panama’s national bird. One of the largest eagles in the world, its talons are powerful enough to lift sloths and monkeys. Unfortunately, that wasn’t meant to be.

What I did see was stunning: Trogons and motmots. A tiger heron. Purple gallinule.

Unexpected Generosity of Birders

Whooping motmot

I would have been lost without the guides (and their green laser pointers), and the kindness and patience of my fellow birders helping me locate the small camouflaged vireo or shrike or antpitta hopping around in the foliage. I was almost always the last person to see the bird.

“Stand here,” Carole said, pulling me in front of her. “There—above that forked branch.”

Barred antshrike (female)

When I was ready to give up and walk away, my fellow birders were persistent, forcing me to persist, too.

With all the time birders—serious birders—spend patiently waiting for that latest rare bird to appear, you’d excuse them if they’d been just a bit annoyed by my questions. Where is it? Which branch? Shh. Oh—it’s gone. But they weren’t.

Instead, we reveled in each other’s sightings.

Rare Bird. Right There

One recent Saturday, I went looking for a neotropical cormorant reported in a nearby creek. Walking through the mucky creek bed, I spotted birders gathered on a ridge above me with their scopes, cameras, and binos (because that’s what birders call them). I figured we were all searching for the same bird.

As I walked farther downstream, one of them called out, pointing. Rare bird. Right there.

Juvenile little blue heron

It looked like a great white egret to me, but given their insistence, I slowly backed out of the creek and headed up to the ridge.

They could easily have been irritated by my carelessness, but instead they were only too happy to point out what I’d misidentified: a juvenile little blue heron, fishing in the creek bed. (Not to make it easy, the juveniles are white, the adults blue.) A sweet bird I’d nearly scared off with my unartful meandering.

Citizen Birders

In the midst of excessive greed, violence, and hatred, birders tend to be uncommonly generous. I’ve wondered what makes them so. (Pickleball players are also known for their play-as-you-are welcoming spirit.)

Like a communal meditation, birders are on the lookout for barely noticeable movement in a branch, a twittering call, a flash of color. Sure, some birders can be competitive with their life lists and fixation on minutiae like molting patterns and hybridization, but as a rule, generosity is an ethos, an animating principle, a source of pride. They are only too happy to share what they know. Perhaps because they care so deeply for the environment, for bird habitat. Birders are slow walkers, introverts bonding over a shared passion.

With the proliferation of birding apps like Merlin and eBird, a burgeoning community of citizen birders are recording flight patterns, rare bird sightings, hot spots. There are birders spending sleepless nights documenting the dangers of light pollution during migration season. (Two of the most serious dangers to birds are cats and window strikes.) Last year, over 83,000 birders participated in the Christmas bird count.

Wake up America!

What would it take for generosity like that to grow? To become a movement? A cultural ethos? My experience traveling tells me that other countries do a better job of caring for others, so my hope for us is nowhere near impossible.

I have to believe there will come a day when America wakes from its slumber—when what was acceptable yesterday will no longer be acceptable tomorrow.

In the meantime, I’ll be meandering along the coast and local trails, depending on the generosity and kindness of birders.

Explore More

If this piece resonates, you might enjoy:

You can also find my novels Thin Places and Cross Body Lead at Volumes of Pleasure in Los Osos and wherever paperbacks and ebooks are sold.

#BeLikeABirder #BirdingLife #Birdwatching #CasualBirder #HopeAndChange #LessonsFromNature #BirdersOfInstagram #PatienceAndHope #NatureAsTeacher #FindingHope

Imagine the Courage of a Migrating Bird: The Thick-billed Murre

October 14, 2024 By elieaxelroth Leave a Comment

Thick-billed murre. Photo credit Bruce Goodwin

It was a cold, misty day, roughs seas, questionable weather for a Zodiac outing in the High Arctic. From the ship, with fog and low visibility, there was no way to catch sight of the colony of thick-billed murres, perched on a narrow, steep cliff above the icy waters of Cape Hay. I was on an expedition cruise with Road Scholar and Adventure Canada to Greenland and the Canadian Arctic, a long way to go in hopes of seeing them.

I’d read about the thick-billed murres several years ago and was intrigued. Stocky black and white sea birds, they are in the auk and penguin family. When it’s time to fledge, they plunge off the cliff and glide down to the water. Because they don’t yet have their flight feathers, they swim, accompanied by their male parent, 1000 km down the coast to Labrador, Nova Scotia and New England. Along the way, they will encounter glaucous gulls, ravens and gyrfalcons, predators lying in wait, not to mention tangles of fishing gear, oil spills, sea ice and stormy weather. Imagine the courage it takes to throw yourself off that cliff.

Because they don’t yet have their flight feathers, they swim 1000 km down the coast to Labrador, Nova Scotia and New England.

The champion migrator, the Arctic tern, flies over 48,000 miles from Antarctica to the Arctic Circle and back. Every year. bar-tailed godwits make the longest non-stop journey of 7,000 miles from New Zealand to Alaska. It takes them seven days and they stop once at the Yellow Sea to refuel. The calliope hummingbird is the smallest migrator, traveling 5,000 miles roundtrip from British Colombia to Mexico.

It’s a leap of faith (or perhaps a flight of faith), these winged migrants who year after year make the journey, often over open seas, trusting that where they are heading will provide them with the food and shelter they need to survive, mate and reproduce.

Migration is a difficult proposition fraught with existential challenges. Why take the risk?

Birds migrate because of limited resources. Not everyone can be sustained in the same place. Unfortunately, we’ve made things even more perilous. Destruction of habitat. Light pollution from skyscrapers, highways and homes. Electrocution. Collisions with cars and airplanes. Change in weather patterns due to global warming: drought, hurricanes, fires, tornadoes. Imagine a small songbird weighing less than half an ounce confronted with Hurricane Milton.

It doesn’t take an economist or historian or ornithologist to see that people, like birds, are suffering from climate change. Patterns of migration are shifting because they are desperate. They are not impetuous or short-sighted; they are not taking on a perilous journey out of whimsy or ideology. They leave their homes because what other choice do they have?

I am a seventh generation American, but I am also Jewish, so I grew up hearing stories about twelve-year-old boys in steerage, heading to America, then peddling rags, sending for family members one by one as they were able. The consequences for those Jewish families left behind were devastating. These are the same stories we hear today about Afghanis and Salvadorans, Syrians and Venezuelans. Somalis who drown in flimsy rafts praying for a better future for their families. Haitians and Ecuadorians who risk the dangerous Darien Gap to reach the US.

Despite the rough seas and biting cold, we headed out in our Zodiacs. After a bouncy, wet ride, there they were, hundreds of thick-billed murres clustered on the steep cliffs, others floating or diving in the icy water, all preparing for their long trek. Their courage is an inspiration.

Thick-billed murres at Cape Hay. Photo Credit Bruce Goodwin

Back home, I welcome the birds to my backyard. I fill my feeders with seed and nuts, mealworms and suet. I set out clean, cool water for them to drink and bathe in. I delight in their song, even the scrub jays who are annoying with their squawking and how messy they are with scattering the bird food all over the ground. The goldfinches and chickadees, juncos, Bewick’s wrens and hummingbirds are here. In the spring, there will be robins and cedar waxwings, the sweet Pacific-slope flycatchers.

Even with the inherent risks, people and birds will continue to migrate. Whether they survive—or perhaps even thrive—is up to us.

If you’re interested in volunteering to help refugees being settled in San Luis Obispo County, please check out SLO4Home.

I also invite you to read related blogs: Iceland: How Adversity Might Save the Planet and A Call to Prayer: Morocco.

My novels, Thin Places and Cross Body Lead are available locally at Volumes of Pleasure and wherever books are sold.

Iceland: How Adversity Might Save the Planet

January 20, 2020 By elieaxelroth 7 Comments

You can’t visit Iceland without thinking—now here’s a people who’ve truly made the best of a bad situation.

The landscape is stark and unforgiving: Scalding hot geysers. Craggy lava rock. Steam spewing to the surface heaving gray and yellowish swirls of mud into the air. Glaciers and ice caves. Punishing hurricane-force wind. Inescapable—and unpredictable—bone-chilling cold. At the height of winter, there’s only four hours of opaque sunlight that hovers above the horizon.

Remember Eyjafjallajökull? That’s the unpronounceable volcano that erupted in 2010, shutting down European airspace and creating travel chaos. Yup, quintessential Iceland.

**The shark meat is cured for four to five months**

If that weren’t enough by way of adversity, I dare you to try hákarl or fermented shark meat. The meat is poisonous when fresh, so it must be cured and then hung to dry for four to five months. Because of the strong ammonia-rich smell, it’s eaten in small chunks with toothpicks and a vodka chaser. Reportedly, the chef Anthony Bourdain said it was “the single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing” he’d ever eaten. I wouldn’t disagree.

How we deal with adversity says a lot about who we are. For the Icelanders, it’s þetta reddast, a favorite expression loosely translated as “everything will turn out all right.” It’s an anthem of both optimism and certainty—that whatever happens, they’ll figure it out.

The Icelanders I met were lovely but reserved—not effusive like the Finns or flowery like the Colombianos. They are a people of few words. Perhaps this is an accommodation to their isolation. Imagine a country the size of New York, but with a population of 339,000 and only 9 people per square mile. It’s a nation of introverts. The closest neighbor, Greenland, is 180 miles away.

As an introvert myself, I find this enticing.

I don’t have the impression that Icelanders feel deprived. They make it a priority to use their limited resources wisely—making them consummate environmentalists. Iceland is a volcanic island and about 85% of their total energy is derived from renewable sources—geothermal energy and hydroelectric power. Many communities in Iceland are clustered around these steamy hot springs. I spent a lovely evening relaxing at the community swimming pool across the street from my hotel in Akureyri where it seems the entire town gathers to swim laps in the Olympic-size pool, splash down the water slides, soak in one of three hotpots—the hottest of which is 43°C or about 109°F.

It’s not surprising they eat lots of fish—cod, haddock, salmon, and monkfish. With what’s left from their dinner plates, they make into beautiful handbags and belts and wallets fashioned out of fish leather; collagen powder for skin products; pet food; calcium and other vitamins; shark cartilage; omega oils. The list goes on.

That same stark, unforgiving landscape that shapes an environment of adversity is also stunningly beautiful. Iceland is a country of thundering waterfalls and double rainbows, mossy emerald green lava fields, geysers and mud pools, glaciers and ice caves. And of course, the Aurora Borealis. No wonder tourists have fallen in love.

It makes me consider my own relationship to adversity. By and large, I live a privileged life, but I can easily get lost in trivial grievances. Robocalls and spam email. The scarcity of avocados. The ever-increasing cost of cable TV. Traffic and the lack of adequate parking in the downtown. These are common complaints, so I know I’m not alone, but they are complaints that mask the true nature of our existential climate crisis. What would it mean if we were able to take in the full reality: that future generations will be faced with unprecedented fires and floods, famine, drought, loss of habitat and more?

Of course, many of us are committed to doing our part to heal the planet. Who among us doesn’t recycle? We’re doing our best to limit consumerism and we send money to our favorite environmental charities. Electric cars are no longer a rarity. Even the presidential candidates are voicing their own concerns about climate change.

With our planet melting day by day, it’s impossible to know how much is enough. We feel hopeless and overwhelmed. And then we lose our way, pushing aside what we know to be true: that our planet won’t survive any more abuse. The reality is that we can’t afford to forget.

**Mýrdalsjökull Glacier at Katla Volcano**

What can one person do? Perhaps a diet that includes fermented shark and a long, icy cold, dark winter would help to keep us on the right path. Remind us how blessed—and endangered—we are.

Like the Icelanders, we can make friends with adversity. Because one way or another, that’s what we’re facing.

I invite you to read related travel blogs including Colombian Courtesy: The Declining Cost of a Tinto and Morocco: A Call to Prayer. And my novel, Thin Places, that is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.

Colombian Courtesy: The Declining Cost of a Tinto

February 18, 2019 By elieaxelroth 12 Comments

A sign at a café in Medellín illustrates the Colombiano passion for courtesy. Un tinto—a small cup of black coffee—costs $2000 Colombian pesos. Or about 65 cents.

Ask for your tinto with a simple “por favor” and the price immediately drops.

Gush with courtesy: “Buenos días, un tinto por favor,” and your coffee is cheaper still.

The country’s sordid history of violence and drug cartels aside, this is a culture that values simple courtesy. In fact, it’s regarded as rude to launch into a conversation without the requisite smile and good morning. How are you? How’s your family? And your second cousin? Did she move back to Bogotá from the States? They want to know where you’re from and what you think of their safer, more tranquil, vibrant Colombia.

It’s an ease of conversation that leaves me tongue-tied.

Lucky for me, my traveling buddy Cynthia smoothed the way with her warm smile and congenial manner—making our trip that much more extraordinary. Etched in my memory bank is the bittersweet sadness of a diminutive shopkeeper from Ecuador forced to support his family from afar. The hotel manager who figured out how to get us a hot shower when the system broke down. The kind face of the weaver who sold me a handwoven tablecloth.

Having grown up in New York, I’m more at ease with the kind of streamlined, albeit impersonal transactions that take place every day in grocery stores and newsstands, at the bank, on the street corner when asking for directions. A perfunctory hello is followed by your request.

Having to pause and breathe and spend those few extra minutes getting to know someone can feel like an imposition.

Even in California, we’re in a hurry. When eating out at a restaurant, I’ve lately developed an uncontrollable impulse to hold onto my plate. Otherwise it’s likely to be snatched away before I’ve had a chance to sop up that last savory drizzle of avocado balsamic dressing. And woe to the slow eater who’s shamelessly ignored while everyone orders dessert. All over the world—Italy, Ecuador, Mexico, Spain, and Argentina—you can linger for hours without so much as a side glance from the waiter.

Years ago, traveling on a crowded bus through bush country in Africa—maybe Kenya or Tanzania—the bus would stop with no one in sight. No houses or bicycles, no cows or donkeys, or even people. Then seemingly out of nowhere, a young woman would appear; she’d climb on the bus with her packages and young children in tow. Invariably, another passenger would move aside to create a seat and perch the child on his lap. Then they’d chatter away like old friends.

They must know each other, we thought. But that wasn’t it at all. They were immensely open-hearted and friendly, and thought nothing of showing a common courtesy by picking up another woman’s child.

In the US, we’re suspicious of strangers who tell us too much about themselves. Or who make eye contact on the subway. Or who offer to hold our child’s hand when we’re overloaded with too many packages. I’m savvy enough to know that danger lurks, but I’ve also witnessed the callousness of strangers standing by while a young mother struggles with her stroller and baby and toddler and diaper bag trying to get onto a plane.

We rarely stop to consider the cost of our paucity of words and fear of generosity.

Since coming back from our two short weeks in Colombia, I’ve been practicing generosity in my words. I have to admit that as an introvert, it’s scary stuff. I want to be friendly—but not too friendly—for fear of creating the wrong impression. And then what?

So now I smile and say hello to the barista. I ask how she’s doing. And what else she has planned for the day. Because I’m quite sure there’s nothing to be lost, except a few moments of my time. And so much to be gained.

I invite you to read related travel posts about Morocco and Cuba. And my novel, Thin Places.

A Call To Prayer: Morocco

March 5, 2018 By elieaxelroth 15 Comments

The muezzin lolls me out of a deep sleep with his plaintive call to prayer. It’s 5:30 in the morning, pitch black but for a swath of light through the curtains. Two-wheeled carts are rumbling along the cobblestone walkway below. A moped whizzes by.

Allahu Akbar. Allah is the greatest.

The repetition of verses, the imperative of the muezzin’s plea floats across the city in drawn out phrases. Chanting from the surrounding neighborhood mosques is out of sync, like a reverberating echo. It is mournful, but sweet, comforting, as if I am swaddled in a sheepskin rug.

Ashhadu anna la ila ill Allah. I testify there is no God but Allah.

Five times a day, Moslems are obligated to pray. It is one of the five pillars of Islam: Faith. Prayer. Charity. Fasting during the month of Ramadan. Pilgrimage to Mecca, called Hajj—at least once in your lifetime.

Ashhadu anna Muhammadan rasul Allah. I testify that Mohammed is God’s Prophet.

I’m on a three week tour with Overseas Adventure Travel. Later that morning, we’re weaving our way on bicycles through Marrakesh traffic—mopeds and two-wheeled carts, buses, taxis, an occasional horse-drawn carriage. Our guide, Omar, warns us, “Don’t hesitate. Just keep going or the cars won’t know what you’re doing.” A moped skims by close enough I feel the air compress between us. Temperamentally cautious, I hope I live to hear the afternoon call to prayer. I swear I’ll be a better person …

Hayya alas salah. Come to prayer.

Majorelle Gardens

Omar shepherds us across four lanes of chaos to the Majorelle Garden, a placid oasis just steps from the harrowing traffic and diesel fumes. We pause among the palm trees and succulents, the mosaics and intensely blue walls. He answers our curious, perhaps intrusive questions. Does he pray every day? He’s a young, hip guy so we’re surprised by his answer. “Of course,” he says. He’s proud of a religion that asks this much of him. Then he adds, “There is no reason not to pray five times a day. It is only ten minutes.” He fasts during Ramadan, a month of refraining from food or drink between dawn and dusk. Sometimes Ramadan falls in the summer. Imagine the discipline required.

Hayya alal falah. Come to security/salvation.

In Morocco, ninety-nine percent of the population are Moslems, almost exclusively Sunni. They are moderate Moslems. Many of them drink, however surreptitiously. And gamble. Both are forbidden in the Koran. They fear extremists. They share a special bond with Jews, given a shared history of both having been expelled from Spain in 1492—at the time of the Inquisition. Live and let live seems to be their attitude. Contrary to what I’ve read and heard in the news about Moslems, I find the people of Morocco to be generous and kind, proud of their values. Not perfect, but an inspiration.

La ilah ill Allah. There is no God but Allah.

When I traveled in Bhutan, a Buddhist country that supports the monks and the mountaintop temples, I was comforted by a culture that values quiet contemplation. It reminds me of the ubiquitous public sculptures in Italy. What’s the effect on a people, on their psyche, seeing Michelangelo’s David or Brunelleschi’s Duomo on their morning commute?

Koutoubia Mosque, Marrakesh

Back home, I wake up at odd times of the night, jet lagged, fighting the inevitable cold that comes from getting on a plane. I fantasize about the muezzin’s chant; I miss the rhythmic, mournful plea. I think, what about appropriating the emergency sirens in our town—erected to warn us in the event of an “incident” at our nuclear power plant? If the plant blows up, the only thing left to do would be to pray.

But mostly what draws me to the call to prayer is that it’s a public prompt to stop what we’re doing, to hit the reset button on all the crap that diverts us from our better selves.

I think of myself as a disciplined person. I eat my greens. I get exercise. I’m a writer. If nothing else, finishing a novel requires that I sit down, confront a blank page, write drivel, delete, and keep going. One word at a time.

There have been times in my life when I meditated every day, without fail, but not now. I don’t mean it as an excuse, not meditating because of the individual effort it would take.

But think about it: A public call to prayer. Five times a day. Endless opportunities to thank God. To be grateful. To plead for mercy and justice. For an end to the violence. For priorities that value life and freedom. And peace.

I invite you to read related travel posts about New Zealand and Cuba. And my novel, Thin Places.

New Zealand: The Long White Cloud

April 8, 2017 By elieaxelroth 17 Comments

I’d no sooner gotten in the cab from the airport to downtown Wellington, New Zealand, when the driver launched into a mini-lecture about the voracious stoat—a short-tailed weasel that has wreaked havoc on native species.

Here in the US, we think New Zealand and Australia are kissing cousins, close enough to share flora and fauna. In reality, New Zealand—or Aotearoa as it is known by the Maori—is geographically quite isolated.

As it turns out, the cab driver’s lament was to be repeated throughout my visit—and for good reason. The only indigenous mammals on the North and South Islands are bats and several dozen marine mammals. Besides the Haast’s eagle, the only birds native to New Zealand are flightless. The Maori brought dogs and Polynesian rats to New Zealand about 1250 CE. European explorers and missionaries, beginning in the late 1700’s, introduced the rest—ferrets, pigs, deer, possums. And stoats.

All of whom make easy prey of a flightless bird like the kiwi.

Our guide, Daniel Scanlon, at Maungatautari Eco Sanctuary

One hazy day, we visited the Maungatautari (Sacred Mountain) Eco Sanctuary. Walking up the hill toward the entrance, the first thing we noticed was the striking demarcation between cleared pasture and the 47-km pest-proof fence. Our guide, Daniel, a young man of mixed Maori and Scottish descent, ushered us into the sanctuary through a double set of entrance gates. Once inside, the light dimmed. The air stilled. In contrast to the cleared pasture outside the fence, the sanctuary is thick with silver ferns, orchids, old growth trees. As if in a meditative state, my breathing changed, my mood lightened.

Sacred Mountain, indeed.

Constant surveillance is required to keep the sanctuary free from unwelcome interlopers. But in that environment, endangered birds are thriving. Fruits pollinate. Seed pods sprout without the competition from non-native rodents.

I’m inspired by these efforts–to reestablish the endangered kiwi. The coot-like takahe. North Island robins. The kea—an alpine parrot. As well as native flora. And yet, it’s something of a mystery to me–how we choose what to preserve and what to cast aside. I wonder, do we demonstrate the same commitment to our human diversity? To all the peoples of the Earth? To our collective languages and culture and spiritual practices?

Between 1860 and the early 1900’s, the Maori people lost all but perhaps 5% of their land to British settlers. The Native School Act in 1867 forbid speaking the Maori language in schools and playgrounds.

I’m told it takes one generation to lose a language and three to bring it back.

I think about the implications of suddenly losing not only my home, but the very words I use to communicate, to dream, to make meaning of my world.

Takahe at Te Anau Bird Sanctuary

New Zealand’s efforts toward restoring resources and land taken from the Maori people have been among the world’s most sincere and committed. And yet, discrimination continues in housing, healthcare, education, justice. When I asked about the on-going challenge of meaningful reparations, I was told, “How do you give back Auckland?” Yes, it’s a challenge, but the answer implies–disparagingly–that there are those who will never be satisfied.

For many of us concerned about bio-diversity on our planet, we are anxious to protect all creatures. Our oceans. The water we drink. The air we breathe. We should be equally committed to preserving the languages and customs and peoples of our Earth. These, too, represent the richness of our diversity.

It’s not a rhetorical question to ask how much value do we place on preserving the brown kiwi? Or the black rhino? A two thousand year old kauri tree? A language spoken by a few hundred elders in a remote village? A Maori welcoming ceremony? I believe a commitment to valuing the past stands witness to our humanity.

It’s safe to say that whatever we do, it’ll never be enough. But that shouldn’t stop us from trying.

I invite you to read other travel posts about Cuba and Chiloé Island. And my novel, Thin Places.

My Visit to Cuba

February 29, 2016 By elieaxelroth 24 Comments

It’s easy to be taken with Cuba. The vintage American cars. Cuban jazz on every street corner. Art fashioned from repurposed detritus—hubcaps, scrap metal, broken glass. Beautiful colonial, art deco, and baroque architecture graces the cities, along cobblestone streets, tiled floors, walls painted in pastel shades of green and pink and baby blue. Elegant ceiba trees and stately royal palms. Aquamarine water and white sand. Visitors sip coffee at sidewalk cafés. We stayed in lovely renovated hotels. Every meal came with a mojito or Cuba libre “welcome” drink.

Cuba is a country of near one hundred percent literacy. Free health care and education. The ubiquitous image of Che Guevara on t-shirts and hats and murals as if every one of us has a revolution bubbling up inside.

Against all odds—including a fifty year US embargo—Cuba is the little engine that could.

It’s easy to be captivated by the spirit of a people who have suffered extreme poverty, tyranny, fear, the wrenching apart of families. One million Cubans—nearly a tenth of the population—fled the country in the years immediately following the revolution in 1959. Everyone has an anti-Castro relative living in Miami. But every Cuban has a roof over their head. We saw almost no begging on the streets. No homeless men sleeping on park benches. The streets of Havana are clean but for the rubble of renovations and repair.

Cubans are master mechanics, cobbling together a stove or a washing machine from recycled or welded parts. We saw a TV jerry-rigged using a Russian CRT computer monitor; it took five minutes to warm up, but the picture was clear enough to watch Cuba’s national sport—baseball.

While the government sets salaries, those Cubans able to capitalize on the tourist trade are faring much better. A fisherman we met makes more than his daughter who’s a doctor. Engineers drive taxis after hours. Women working in a state-run cooperative weave baskets eight hours a day. At night, they go home and continue their work, weaving for the tourist trade.

Every Cuban is provided with a ration booklet to buy their allotted five eggs a month, four ounces of coffee, sugar, oil, rice. When the food runs out, maybe they have a chicken in the yard or a small garden. And yet, the paladares—privately owned restaurants for the tourists—serve overflowing plates of shrimp and lobster and steak on delicately flowered china, with hand-woven tablecloths and napkins, and crystal stemware. The privilege of being a tourist is striking.

Back in my comfortable home in the US, I’m inspired by the Cubans—a proud people determined to overcome adversity. This is Cuba on the verge of success and I wish them well. But I’m troubled by the inequities and the tyranny of a not-so-distant past. There’s a tendency to overlook the years of torture, a reign of terror presided over by Fidel Castro. The same Castro who promised days after the revolution, “Cuban mothers let me assure you that I will solve all Cuba’s problems without spilling a drop of blood.”

A tyrant is keenly aware of what the people want to hear, and he’ll offer it to them, no matter the truth–something we should take to heart back home.

Antarctica

March 8, 2015 By elieaxelroth 19 Comments

Antarctica

The day we spent on the Gerlache Strait,
Wilson’s Storm Petrels teasing the waves.
Fur seals, Chinstraps, Weddells.
Icebergs the size of Belgium, reflecting
Eerie blue light through weather-streaked portholes.
Not a tree in sight, not a patch of grass
But oh, the teeming sea, inviting us
Imploring us, to see a world
Nine-tenths hidden beneath our view.

You, who are clothed in black and white.
Icy glaciers. Snowy-white Wandering Albatross.
Mottled rocks mimic sleek black seals.
The shadowy outline of a volcano in the distance,
Obscured by tufted clouds and frigid windblown spray.
Even your sea is gray with its endless, rippling crests,
Wrestling, jostling, teasing ships as if they were tiny toy boats
Unmoored.

And suddenly, you erupt with
Unexpected pinholes of color:
Pink krill stains, the orange beak of a Gentoo.
Blood spurting from a leopard seal devouring its prey.
Yellow mucous spit out on the beach.
Kelp. Green algae. Lichen on a rock.
The hour we spent in a tiny Zodiac,
Watching light shift on iridescent floes.
Meanwhile, the sun setting in red and pink.
A patch of blue sky.
Tomorrow, the promise of sun and glassy seas.

Chiloe Island: The Price of Progress

February 9, 2015 By elieaxelroth 14 Comments

It’s a short ferry ride from mainland Chile to Chiloe Island. I lean over the railing to watch sea otters lounging in long strands of kelp, dolphin leap-frogging, pelicans skimming along a crest of surf. Snow-capped Osorno Volcano is visible alongside the Andes range in the distance. Wind tugs at the roots of my hair. Yes, the air smells of diesel fumes, but the sky is a pristine azure blue, without the brown haze we’ve become inured to seeing in cities around the world. Surrounded by this gift of exquisite beauty, I can’t help but feel joy.

I’m on a tour of Patagonia with Overseas Adventure Travel (OAT). After disembarking, we walk along a boardwalk, home to hundreds of black-necked swans, oyster-catchers, cormorants, steamer ducks. There are sixteen UNESCO World Heritage-recognized churches on the island, wooden-shingled structures build by local carpenters, blending Spanish Catholic and indigenous influences. The houses, too, have their own distinctly shaped cedar shingles. Some are painted blue or green or orange, some left to the elements. The residents fish and raise sheep and sell woven handicrafts to tourists. Before the afternoon is out, we’ve already identified any number of modest one or two-story homes where my traveling companions and I would be happy to live, perched above the shoreline. It’s the kind of idyllic life easily romanticized.

But progress is coming to Chiloe Island.

In 2013, the Chilean government approved the building of a bridge across the Chacao Canal connecting Chiloe Island to the mainland. It will be the largest suspension bridge of its kind in Latin American. Four lanes, 8500 feet long. The project is an international partnership with Korea, Brazil, France, and Norwegian companies. At a cost of $680 million dollars.

We ask a crew of construction workers erecting new tourist signs what they think about the bridge. At first, we get a mix of shrugs and looks of resignation. But they have strong opinions. Sure, it’ll be good for a lot of them. More accessible medical care. Better schools. More tourists with money to burn. Our local guide wonders what that kind of money–more wisely spent–could do for the island. A woman in the craft market tells me it’ll be the end of their tranquil life. As if I’m allowed to have an opinion, that’s the part I feel sad about. My imagined dream-house, perched on the hillside will soon be surrounded with others just like it, crowding out my view. Obscuring paradise.

Those of us privileged enough to travel widely are racing around the world to see places that pretty soon won’t exist. At least not as we might wish to remember them. East Africa. The Maldives. The Alaskan tundra. The Taj Mahal. Like Chiloe Island, some changes are not due to climate change. Cuba, for example. I’m hoping to go there before progress changes that culture too. But who are we to say, others shouldn’t have what we have?

The next day, we drive to the other side of the island, with a view of the Pacific Ocean. It reminds me of home–before the offshore oil rigs and time-share resorts and multi-million dollar homes teetering on the edge of a cliff. The coastline here remains largely untouched, protected by scrubby plants and a sandy cove. We are taken in motor boats out to a couple of rocky outcrops that are home to Humboldt and Magellanic Penguins. Within fifty feet, cameras in hand, we watch the penguins waddle up and down the rocks. Their gait is clumsy, awkward. You can’t help but applaud their scrappy determination.

I wonder: do they sense what’s coming? Is there anywhere else for them to go?

Fellow travelers and environmentalists. How do you define progress? What’s worth saving, just as it is?

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