First, a little history. Cape May, New Jersey, the nation’s oldest seashore resort, has been catering to vacationers since pre-Revolutionary days, although there were probably a lot fewer T-shirt shops at the time. There’s evidence that even earlier tourists in the form of local Kechemeche Indians came there in summer “to hunt and fish.” Later, the shady tree-lined streets and colorful homes of Cape May became the playground of presidents. Ulysses S. Grant, Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan, Chester Arthur and Benjamin Harrison all sought refuge there from the humidity of D.C. summers. Those are not bad references!

Although this delightful town grew beyond its colonial trappings, it instead became stuck in the late-19th century Victorian Era, when it was rebuilt after being demolished by fire for the third time. Thankfully it has remained there. With over 600 structures, most of which have been refurbished, Cape May has been designated a National Landmark City. The whole city. The only city in the U.S. to be wholly designated as a national historic district. Hard to compete with that.

Street after street — house after house — enchants, charms and captivates visitors intrigued by the intricate detail that distinguishes one from the other. Despite the similarity in architectural style, there is infinite variety in their beautiful presentations.

Most of the homes, ablaze in multiple shades of browns, greens and mauves, sport some strange appendage on the roof alternately identified as a turret, cupola, gazebo, or belvedere. This is where the looking-up advice comes in handy: so many of the interesting adornments — the extra little touches — are near the roof. They also are everywhere else.

Wraparound porches adorned with decorative balustrades and whimsically designed gingerbreading give each structure its personal charm and distinction. Bay windows are surrounded by individualized brackets and barge boards that vary in size, detail and decor.

The diversity of the slits, slices, slats and slots, which contributes to the intricacy of design defining each structure, is bound to fascinate even those who have never before given a single thought to architectural motif. As one guide summed up the Victorian philosophy: “If a little is good, more is better, and too much is still not enough.”

The Washington Street Mall, a pedestrian walkway in the center of town, is reminiscent of what a beach town boardwalk might have been like in the 1890s. The many outdoor benches, cafes and quaint shops decked out in their Victorian finery reflect an earlier easier era. Once again, just the presence of individualized shops is such a welcome antidote to the sameness of suburban malls – at least those that are still left…..

Though the ubiquitous Ben and Jerry’s ice cream parlor somehow found a home here, even its exterior hints at a turn-of-the-century facade. A sign on the Great White Shark T-shirt Store proclaiming it “A Cape May Tradition since 1988” ironically lends authenticity to the otherwise historic ambiance.

To further personalize the transformation in time, make time to take a walk on Hughes Street after dark. Walking down the quaint, quiet street, its only illumination provided by gas lamps — and occasionally, the moon — picture yourself returning to your turn-of-the-century summer home. To a time when life was simpler — the pace was slower — the streets safer — and all was well with the world — even if just for the moment.

Welded to history, Cape May recently found some new old history to celebrate. The Harriet Tubman Museum opened in 2021 in a neighborhood that was not only the center of the African-American community but played an outsize role in the abolitionist movement in the mid-19th century – spearheaded by Harriet Tubman herself. After attaining freedom herself, Harriet worked as a Cape May hotel maid to earn the funds to finance her journeys further south to help free more slaves.

The museum site itself, built around 1799, was the center of an active anti-slavery movement at the time. The Underground Railroad ran through this Cape May neighborhood with Harriet Tubman and her allies as the conductors. I couldn’t help but wonder why it took them so long to honor this remarkable heritage!

And in addition to this new history, there’s other older history. Sightseers have several options: tour the Emlen Physick Estate, an 18-room Victorian house and museum; climb the 199 steps to the top of the Cape May Lighthouse (circa 1859) for sweeping views of Cape Island and the Delaware Bay. Check out the vestiges of a sunken 250-foot-long concrete war ship of WW1 vintage. In 1926, attempts to turn it into a Lewes-Cape May ferry failed, 36 years before it actually became a reality. A necessary reality. That’s how you get to Cape May from Lewes, Delaware.

Once back in the real world, there’s more to do in Cape May than just gawk at lovely old homes. Fairs, festivals, special interest tours and other activities attract and delight visitors throughout the year.

For bird-watching addicts, nearly 400 species of birds during peak migration periods are just waiting to be added to “sightings” lists. With Cape May listed as one of the top ten birding “hot spots” in North America, there’s ample diversity in terms of habitats and feathered creatures.

But Cape May singularity doesn’t stop there. Many people have heard of the “Sanibel Stoop,” the term attributed to seashell seekers along Florida’s coastal Island. But do you know of the “Diamond Droop”? That’s what you get when hunting for Cape May Diamonds along the Delaware Bay at Sunset Beach. Despite its local popularity, the sport is little known outside the area. And it’s one the whole family can play.

Here’s the scoop on the droop! Cape May diamonds are semi-precious quartz stones that resemble cubic zirconia diamonds. They are found in abundance along the water’s edge and are fairly easy to recognize. Dull and cloudy when dry, they become bright and translucent when wet. Jewelry made from the stone has been featured on the QVC Television Shopping Network, but you don’t have to tune in to get some. Take your diamond discoveries to the Sunset Beach Gift Shop and they’ll tell you how you can have a brooch or pair of earrings made to order.

And oh yes, lest you forget why many come — there’s always the beach! Several miles of it — with rolling waves and white sand – very white sand. And everything else you’d find in nearby, better-known beach towns — except perhaps the crowds. Hey, life is full of trade-offs. And as an added plus, there’s Tommy’s Hot dog stand – another revered Cape May tradition.

For more information, log onto capemaymac.org or call 609-884-5404.

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The American Symphony stateroom – a ship’s term – doesn’t accurately describe accommodations more befitting a mid-sized hotel room with more closet and dresser space than in my apartment. Flat-screen TV. Check. Vases of fresh flowers. Check. Private balcony. Check. Sumptuous robe. Check. It was so comfortable we almost hated leaving it. But ah, both food and excursions beckoned.

The gourmet meals were fortunately accessible by the half-portion, because some form of edibles is available round-the-clock. There are more snacks accessible in multiple lounges than in your neighborhood 7-11. Return from an excursion – big basket of candy welcomes you back. Enter your room only to find a delicious pastry on your dresser. Warm cookies show up every day at 10 and 3. And a menu separate from the dining room is available from 6:30 a.m. to 5 in the Sky Lounge. Of course, there is a daily cocktail hour with hors d’oeuvres preceding dinner. Heaven forbid you should go to dinner actually hungry, not that that seemed to hinder anyone… Not exactly a spa vacation. Yes, there is a fitness room but as one crew member said, “It’s the cleanest room on board!”

I’m accustomed to complimentary wine and beer available at meals but here all manner of alcohol is available all day. Being a Fireball drinker, that’s a real boon. And Madison guarded my bottle with loving care, transporting it from lounge to lounge as necessary. And you gotta love a cruise that offers Baileys with your morning coffee! If you’re a teetotaler, this may not be the cruise for you. The “it’s 5 o’clock somewhere rule” does not even begin to apply. Bloody Mary’s abound in the morning and the 3 o’clock lecture features a rum punch.

And with all of this, tipping is discouraged. Several times my husband and I said to each other: “Why in the world would every crew member be so accommodating and gracious when they’re not even getting tipped?” A very unexpected cruise benefit. Plus there’s free laundry…. Oh, and did I mention, airfare is included?

At the introductory meeting, cruise director Christian, describing all the on-board activities and shore excursions available, used the word “enrichment” about five times during the half-hour presentation.

Multiple excursions are offered daily from walking tours of the different cities to visits to a myriad of museums, historic homes, national parks, gardens, multiple plantations, cultural outings, brew and view tours, local river explorations and outdoor adventures. Onboard there are daily lectures, interactive games galore, guest speakers, music and multiple places to just get away from it all in which to drink, read, isolate, socialize or just ponder life.

Every night there is entertainment from ’50s and ’60s sing-alongs (alas, that may indicate the age of the majority of clientele…), blues band, C&W combos, comedians, and more.

Sample game? Two Truths and a Lie. Guests fill out a form listing two truths about themselves and a falsehood. The rest of the guests vote on which is the lie. Some of the interesting offerings: Former Rose Bowl Queen; Exotic Dancer in College; Met Buzz Aldrin and Alan Shepherd; Married 2 ½ times; Had a starring role in 16 adult films; Lives in Brooklyn (okay, not ALL the answers evoked interest….). And of course, much of the fun lay in discovering just what was true and what was not. Not always predicable!

You can be as social or anti- as you like. There’s the option at every meal to dine alone or with others but everyone was friendly and welcoming, interesting and well-traveled. And, of course, you can do as much or as little as you like. The al fresco upper deck is a delightful place to read or just watch the river world pass by. And if you’re anything of a Civil War buff, this trip resembles heaven – every town involves a Civil War Museum of some type, Civil War history, military encampments, Civil War forts – and once back on the boat? An assortment of lectures on Civil War history. But other options prevail with more wide appeal.

For me, this was the most appealing: The Great River Outdoor Adventure. Driving the ATV around the Double C Ranch seemed innocuous enough at first (a far cry from the Antebellum homes and Civil War museums in which I’d spent most of my time). We initially saw a herd of cows and calves cavorting the countryside, forming a very close welcoming committee – literally as we were able pet them from the vehicle. I tried to imagine what kind of treat you’d give to a 1000-pound bull to get him to French Kiss an ATV driver.

Next stop: an archery range. After a quick lesson, we got to test our skill. I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment as I killed that bear – three hits out of three. We also stopped to pet Fred, a very imposing 1700-pound Brahma bull. He’s friendly, we were told, although the woman who got a tad more than nudged in the crotch was none too happy. Then onto fly fishing and tomahawk throwing. Not my forte. I wanted to go back to the archery range.

Initial summary of the ATV adventure: I couldn’t read the notes I took. Then I couldn’t even take any. Then Mackenzie instructed us all to put the ATV into 4WD – and we started flying over treacherous terrain, through deep mud puddles, up and down steep ravines. At this point just surviving the ride was the goal – but what an exhilarating experience! Now maybe tomahawks, bows and arrows and ATVs were products of the Civil War, but I doubt it!

Another non-Civil War getaway? The Cajun Swamp Pride Tour. Instructions ahead of time? If your hat or phone falls into water, don’t retrieve it. No one needed to be reminded twice as the waters were strewn with alligators. And why not? The captain feeds them marshmallows from the boat. Why marshmallows? Don’t ask.

We also stopped to view a herd of wild pigs on the shore – as well as an array of adorable raccoons, rewarded for showing up when called with some corn meal. Alligators obligingly ate their marshmallows alongside. It was almost more zoo-like than wild life encounters until the captain opened a gate leading to a perch attached to the boat – and from there fed the alligators chicken for which he encouraged them to jump up out of the water to retrieve, which they willingly did…. Also menacingly. I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else on board knew how to steer the boat….

For more information, visit Lower Mississippi Cruise.

The post Mississippi River Cruise: Where the Ship Experience Rivals the Itinerary appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Curated by Ed Boitano

Richard Carroll — T-Boy writer:

The Grand Canyon

I very much have the yearning to hike the Grand Canyon again to enjoy the rocky switch-back trail that leads to the bottom of this incredible national park where the Colorado River is cutting an ageless path leaving in its wake a lasting mark. The fast-moving river was a convenient but treacherous highway for American trappers, mountain men, explorers, Native Americans, and later fun-loving rafting aficionados. The problematic river with tales to share includes the heart-break and disillusionment of the unknown when explorers with overloaded boats had no idea of the advancing challenges.

Throughout my visit I would spend time to fully appreciate the million years of geological history embedded in the towering walls, to understand that the Pueblo people and other Native America tribes have existed in the Canyon when the United States was just a jagged blob on European maps, and that some Native America’s to this day believe the Grand Canyon is a holy site. I would encompass a few leisurely days in the park with notebook and pin in order to fully appreciate the lingering sunsets, the merging colors, and irregular shadows that quickly transpose the massive landscape from a deep red to pastels. I recall the flickering and fading light touching on fantastic shapes, setting the mind’s eye to run wild. The Grand Canyon is both a scenic and historic jewel and on my next encounter I hope to be firmly enlightened.

Ed Boitano — T-Boy editor:

Twin Cities: Minneapolis and Saint Paul

A quick study revealed that the distinct urban cultures of Minnesota’s Twin Cities: Saint Paul and Minneapolis, sit apart by a mere seven-mile-long football pass – that is if the pass was thrown by Minnesota Vikings’ quarterback Fran Tarkenton. Built around the confluence of the Mississippi  and Minnesota rivers, St. Paul is considered the last city of the East, Minneapolis the first city of the West. Saint Paul is renowned for quaint neighborhoods of well-preserved late-Victorian architecture, while the more populated Minneapolis is considered a modern city with a relatively young downtown and trendy uptown. Saint Paul is also the state capital and the birthplace of writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. His family home, described as a simple brownstone row house, is where he wrote his first published novel, This Side of Paradise, to prove that he would able to support the wealthy Alabama southern belle Zelda Sayre who would eventually become his bride.

Despite the blistering months of cold and snow, a car journey to Duluth would be in order to see the birth home of Robert Zimmerman (Bob Dylan, 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature). This would be followed by trip north and longer stay at Hibbing, where Dylan (Zimmy to friends), lived during his informative years from ages six to eighteen. Hibbing is famous for its Dylan heritage sites, which includes his family’s modest home, and also the site of the world’s largest iron ore mine. Why winter? For an ice fishing experience. After all, isn’t this the state of 1,000 lakes (actually 14,444 lakes). Imagine fishing in an ice hole in the comfort of a warm fishing shack, compete with a little stove, chairs, food and drink, and with Dylan songs on my phone and Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise in my hand. I guess a fishing pole would be in my other.

Ringo Boitano — T-Boy writer:

Oklahoma City

Often times in the past I would join press trips to places I’d never been or would probably never visit when it was on my own dime. This was true with my experience in Tulsa, Oklahoma and the Cherokee Nation. I had an ignorant west coast conception that the entire state was one big dust bowl, based on Steinbeck’s novel, The Grapes of Wrath and John Ford’s film adaptation. I was proven wrong; the Tulsa area was fresh, green and vibrant, and I learned much at the very progressive Cherokee nation. On my flight to Seattle, I thought of an old NPR broadcast at the time of the Oklahoma City terrorist bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building on April 19, 1995. Carried out by Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols, the bombing killed 168 innocent people and injured more than 680 others. The broadcaster spoke of the emotional texture of its people; it went something like this: Very little happens in Oklahoma City that evokes national coverage from the press. The people are used to this lack of attention, but at time of the bombing its citizens displayed resilience, strength and empathy to one another.

Phil Marley — Poet:

Road Trip: Philadelphia to Pittsburgh

James Carville famously described Pennsylvania politically as Philadelphia in the East, Pittsburgh in the West, and Alabama in the middle. But why Alabama? Apparently, it’s due to this part of Pennsylvania’s mountainous central area is known as the Appalachian region where its local people and culture are politically more of the conservative kind than the urbanized East and West. The Appalachian region will be part of the landscape I plan on passing as I depart Philadelphia in my rental to Pittsburgh, the ancestral home of my friend, David. No doubt a stop in Pennsylvania Dutch Country (from German Deutsch), famous for its productive green farmlands, thanks to the Amish and the Mennonites, will be in order. I’ll have only half a day for Gettysburg National Military Park; for Steel Town is my goal of and I had planned on seeing as much of it as I could in two-days.  David has gushed about his city of 446 bridges, more than Venice, Italy, and its three rivers: the Allegheny River and Monongahela River united at Point State Park to form the Ohio River.

I’ve read that Pittsburgh’s ethnic enclaves are slowly disappearing since David’s departure, but still exist with the Germans of Millvale, Italians of New Castle, Slovaks of Munhall, Hungarians of Hazelwood and Ukrainians of the South Side. Plus, there’s hills galore to climb with magnificent views of the city to see.

During a much earlier trip to what would be become Pittsburg’s Point State Park, Lieutenant George Washington of the Virginia militia,  negotiated with the French during the French and Indian War of 1753.  He wrote about Point State Park in his journal.

As I got down before the Canoe, I spent some Time in viewing the Rivers, and the Land in the Fork; which I think extremely well situated for a Fort, as it has the absolute Command of both Rivers. The Land at the Point is 20 or 25 Feet above the common Surface of the Water; and a considerable Bottom of flat, well-timbered Land all around it, very convenient for Building: The Rivers are each a Quarter of a Mile, or more, across, and run here very near at right Angles: Aligany bearing N. E. and Monongahela S. E. The former of these two is a very rapid and swift running Water; the other deep and still, without any perceptible fall.”

Four different forts were built at the forks of the Ohio within a period of five years. In 1754, French forces captured an outpost known as Fort Prince George at the Point that had been erected by a force of Virginians. George Washington led British forces to recapture the fort, but suffered his first and only surrender at Fort Necessity, 50 miles to the south.

Deb Roskamp — T-Boy photographer and writer:

I have friends who vacation once a year to Sanibel Island, located along the Gulf of Mexico, just a short drive from Fort Myers, Florida. Their enchanting description of its sunsets, lighthouse and beaches harkens to  emotional thoughts of calm, peace and rejuvenation. They spoke of the island’s most popular activity known as shelling; Sanibel Island has the 3rd richest seashell beaches on earth. Apparently, you barely can walk a step on the beach without indulging in the so-called “Sanibel Stoop” in search of its shells. Research informed me that the most secluded beach on the island is Bowman’s Beach; there are no hotels in sight and the beach has a “pristine and quiet” atmosphere.

James Boitano — T-Boy writer:

Isle Royale

• Hawaii Volcanos
• Lassen Volcanic
• Gates of the Arctic

US Cities: Just picking 4 random larger cities I have not been to. No particular draw specifically: just that I have not been to them.

• Kansas City, MO & KS
• Wichita, KS
• Little Rock, AR
• El Paso, TX

US towns/Villages

• Barrow, AK (most northern)
• Pago Pago, American Samoa (most southern)
• Derby Line, VT (town divided into two by Canadian border)

Sites

• National Civil Rights Museum, Memphis, TN (where Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated)
• Appomattox Courthouse, VA (where Civil War Ended)
• Meteor Crater, AZ

Skip Kaltenheuser — T-Boy writer:

A Bucket List is any trip, anytime, anywhere.

The term “Bucket List” gives me the willies. I’m not ready to strike a bargain, have it fulfilled and shuffle off, none of that “To see Paris and die” stuff, I just want to go on seeing, the list eternal. And I can think of a worse afterlife, the Flying Dutchman finally allowed make any port of call he desires.

But I’ve plenty of domestic locales high up on my wish list for the here and now. Many of them are national or state parks and the environs around them. Some are repeats from when I was young, including places my parents took me that left indelible memories – of places, of them, of my awe. Living in a suburb of Kansas City, we usually headed West in my traveling salesman dad’s Buick of the moment. Car and man joined together as a driving cyborg, or a genie with a bit of flying carpet, gifting an endless flow of national parks and roadside attractions, another day another natural wonder, or two or five.

Many of the roads were pre-Interstate, before fascinating arteries like Route 66 withered, when roadside attractions were still legion. Where water flowed uphill and gravity was iffy. Before the Buick was air-conditioned, summer climate figured in, going across Death Valley at night, though the night sky was still something to gawk at. Kansas could get pretty hot and steamy, so soaking up the cool of the mountains counted. I think we tended to favor the West because we were lucky to have a couple horses we kept in a rented pasture that kept moving outward with the suburban sprawl, and though cowboy was a stretch the image was still internalized, polished up with a Boy Scout’s interest in all things outdoors. Plus, as driving was a parental pleasure, wide-open spaces with sudden, map-inspired detours were magnetic. The serendipity of what looked enticing on a map. No cell phones then, thank God. I still use a map.

Revisiting Jackson Hole with a then-small boy, his first downhill ski, and a dog sled in the Tetons, I realized how many repeaters I’d like to share. That was a lovely continuum stretching from my own childhood visit. Though my kids are now young adults, I’d like to share more of those memories with them, to watch them form their own impressions as they react to the beauty and the menace of places like the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone. To watch them explore the Rockies, where I once camped on a mountain ridge for a summer, working down below in Estes Park. When I was young Colorado alternated with the Ozarks as the family default, the excitement of topographical relief coming into view after the hundred mile-an-hour car ride across the Kansas flat. And I’d like to re-experience some of the skiing in the Rockies, the high ground views whispering “Are you sure?”, before my knees go on strike over bad working conditions. Is 69 really rounding the bend, just shy of April Fools? Other things now compete for my kids’ time, so any window of travel opportunity with them is gold.

My family didn’t exclusively drive West. Other child memories I’d like to refresh and share include the Everglades, and the underwater views of the coral reefs along the Florida Keys. These destinations seemed exotic to a boy from Kansas. Because they were exotic. Driving east one Spring, we took in “the educational” in a DC adorned with blossoms, leaving impressions that might have later helped draw me to the city where my family resides.

Beyond the grand repeaters, framed this time with a whiz-bang camera, locales I wish for include sites that will be new to me. Yosemite waits in my imagination with Ansel Adams. California’s skyscraper redwoods, with my hopes that climate-induced fires won’t imperil them. I’d like Death Valley to be well-bathed in rain so I can see a big Spring flower desert bloom. Hiking and biking through some of the canyons in Utah that look so surreal. I’m not a snob for elevation, I’d like to see how the Kansas Tall Grass Prairie has grown, and visit deserts like the Sonoran.

As I write this, I realize my parents also had bucket lists, with me lucky to help fulfill parts. After Dad died Mom lived with us in DC until she passed away at 101 1/2. Nothing excited her more than getting in the car for any trip, anytime, anywhere.

During the microbe onslaught, everything got relative fast. Over the last year, when they could cobble time for a break, I took my kids on local road trip explorations, appreciating the poor man’s Rivieras in state parks and coastal areas, the valleys by the Blue Ridge, a scenic winery, etc… Anything for relief from online study rigors and pandemic isolation, to break up the scenery as best one can do in two or three days or even just a day trip. I just took my son to Solomon’s Island, MD, catching roadside attractions along the way like the northernmost cyprus swamp, (who knew?).

One is never stuck for a place to go as long as the wish list is any trip, anytime, anywhere.

Arthur Lim — IT Professional: 

Colorado Springs, Colorado

Following the arrival of railroads beginning in 1871, Colorado Springs’ location at the base of Pikes Peak and the Rocky Mountain made it a popular tourism destination. The Summer of 1975 was when I visited Colorado Springs, but that was a while back and am primed for a revisit.  Aside from the many mountainous streams, two places of interest stood up in my mind: the Glen Eyrie Castle, and the United States Air Force Academy. Glen Eyrie Castle is a Tudor styled castle built by General William Jackson Palmer in 1871. He founded Colorado Springs. The United States Air Force Academy is nearby. It houses a beautiful interdenominational chapel and has an overall futuristic feel.

Roy Endersby — Philosopher:

The Mississippi Delta: Birthplace of the Blues and Vicksburg National Military Park

In a New Orleans rental car I traveled through Louisiana’s Cajun Country for lunch in Houma at Abear’s Café; a Cajun and Creole mom & pop café, famous for their specialty: alligator piquant and potato salad. The café’s founder, owner, chef and Houma native,  Albert “Curly” L. Hebert ( (1933- 2017) politely shuffled around us, expressing concern that the dish might seem rather funny to us Yankees, before proudly proclaiming that the very dish won an award at a county fair. The next two nights it was Lafayette (pronounced ‘Laugh-yet’) for a little Cajun and zydeco flavor, and then Breaux Bridge; the crawfish capital of the world.

My time was limited in Mississippi, so my final destination was a night in Natchez, home to one of the largest  collection of Antebellum (“pre-Civil War”) mansions, with many open for tours. The next morning, I decided to forego the tours and simply bask in the enchanting ambiance of a Natchez park, hanging high on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. I had a long and taxing day ahead of me; driving to New Orleans for a flight back to L.A. would be tiresome. I measured the distance on my map, and noticed I was close to both the Mississippi Delta and Vicksburg National Military Park. With more time allowed, I would have adored a ride further up the Natchez Trace Parkway  to the Vicksburg National Military Park. And then, further out, Highway 61 would take me to the holy grounds of the Mississippi Delta. Once home to Muddy Waters (McKinley Morganfield), and singer-songwriter and guitarist, Robert Johnson, considered since the 1960s as a maestro of Delta blues and an important influence on many rock musicians. Yes, they are gone today, but their spirit and music lives on.

The Mississippi Delta

About an hour south down Highway 61, you’ll find Clarksdale, Mississippi — better known as the Blues Crossroads. Legend has it that’s where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil. Visit the Hopson Plantation and spend the night at the ShackUp Inn. The evenings are filled with blues at Ground Zero, Red’s or the Juke Joint Chapel. An amazing cultural and musical emersion you’ll want to experience again and again. Robert Nighthawk, Sunnyland Slim, James Cotton, Chester Burnett (Howlin’ Wolf) Bukka White, Sonny Boy Williamson II, Big Bill Broonzy, Carey Bell, Tommy Johnson, John Lee Hooker, Charley Patton, Son House… some made their names in Chicago, some made their names in the South, but all were born in Mississippi.

— T.E. Mattox, Traveling Boy’s Blues Aficionado

Birthplace of the Blues

Courtesy Visit the Delta

The Delta blues is one of the earliest styles of blues music. It originated in the Mississippi Delta, a region of the United States that stretches from north to south between Memphis, Tennessee, and Vicksburg, Mississippi, and from east to west between the Yazoo River and the Mississippi River. The Mississippi Delta is historically famous for its fertile soil and the poverty of its farm workers. More famous blues musicians have come from this area than any other region (or state for that matter) combined. Today, you can still feel that authentic vibe of Mississippi Delta blues history.

Vicksburg National Military Park (U.S. National Park Service)

Courtesy Vicksburg National Military Park

Gibraltar of the Confederacy

Confederate President Jefferson Davis remarked, “Vicksburg is the nail-head that holds the South’s two halves together.” At the start of the Civil War, Confederates controlled the Mississippi River south of Cairo, Illinois all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. With its valuable commercial port and railroad hub, the city was of tremendous importance. From points west of the Mississippi River, men, food, salt, and weapons, funneled through Mexico, made their way to Vicksburg and Confederate armies in the West.

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Note: If you have not read Hairy Legs you may want to do that first.  This story is the second part of that trip.

If I asked you what was the most memorable trip or the most difficult journey you have taken, what would you say?  Maybe you had a lengthy delay, canceled flights or some other challenging issue.  Sometimes a dream vacation can become a nightmare. We can’t control every factor.  In the dozens of countries I have traveled in I would list my “escape” from Liberia during the civil war as among the most stressful.  The word “escape” may be a bit dramatic but it felt that way at the time.

On my first trip to Africa, I worked in Nigeria and Ghana and it was there that I got my official African name. After a long pastor’s seminar, I was given a traditional African robe and christened “Duweh” which means “mighty elephant.”  Don’t ask what it means because they would not tell me why.  Let’s all pretend that it means I am seen as great and mighty and invincible. Their smiles indicated that it may mean something else but let’s stay with great and mighty and invincible. So, when it came time for a second trip to the dark continent, Duweh was ready.  Duweh is great and mighty and invincible.

Back to Africa

It was quite a difficult trip to get to Liberia. You need to read the previous story, “Hairy Legs,” to understand what happened.  You learned how the great and mighty and invincible one dealt with a large spider (the size of a bush hog).  After a week of teaching by day and hand-to-hand combat at night with creepy crawlers, it was time to leave Liberia.  The Liberian civil war had reached Monrovia.  Bodies were being brought in from the countryside. Stories were making the rounds that the main airport, the one I arrived at, had been bombed. UN peacekeeping forces were inspecting all vehicles leaving Monrovia. With this cheerful news, I made it VERY CLEAR to the seminar coordinator that I needed to get to the airport really early in the morning. I still did not have a return ticket even though, every day, I asked if someone could check on that. I also did not know what our two conference hosts had done with my passport.  One flight per week came in and out of the country and it was beginning to look like this one could be the last flight out for a while if it got out.  The evidence of war was everywhere.  People were nervous.

The Window to Get Out of the Country Was Closing

My hosts thought the weekly flight was around 10 AM.  I had no idea where the domestic airport was and I was concerned about backed-up traffic and roadblocks.  So, I told them I wanted to be underway for the airport no later than 6 AM.  I was packed and on the curb at 4 AM to be safe.  UN vehicles were literally racing around the streets even at that hour. I stood outside on the street and waited. Monrovia, at that time, was a city that had been without electricity for five years, buildings pock-marked with bullet holes and sirens echoing in every corridor.  Back home I would be in a warm bed in a calm city in a land of peace.  Oh, where is that ride to the airport? Am I going to get out of this place?  This is the most dangerous situation I had personally experienced.

6 AM. Nobody.  6:30 AM. Nobody.  7 AM.  Nobody.  7:30 AM Nobody. Pace, pace, pace in front of my spider-infested hotel.  More UN security vehicles racing around the city streets –  emergency lights flashing.  8 AM. Nobody.  Getting really nervous.  REALLY NERVOUS.  No phones, no electricity.  I don’t know anyone.  8:30 AM – finally, a taxi pulls up and two familiar faces get out.  The first taxi broke down they say.  But it is 8:30!  Never mind, let’s get to the airport. VERY, VERY NERVOUS.

But wait, there is a problem.  They tell me they need to make a copy of the report they are sending back to the Christian agency who sponsored this pastor’s seminar.  I told them never mind since I know the folks at that organization and I will make the copy when I get to America.  No, they insisted on making the copy now.  War has come to the city and they are concerned about a report.  I remind them there is no electricity in the city. No problem. One of them has a friend who has a generator and he has another friend who has a copy machine. I have been in third world countries enough to know this was a bad idea. But, we spent an hour going from place to place and by the time we transported the generator and finally got it to the place where the copy machine was, the guy was not there. So, we returned the generator and they decided that the paperwork was not all that important anyway.  Well, at least I am not holding a generator in my lap.

There Was No Way We Would Get to the Airport on Time.

9:30 AM! We still haven’t left the city and the last flight that will ever leave the country is leaving in 30 minutes. I have no ticket, no passport.  I have gone beyond nervous. I am almost sick.  But, my two new Liberian friends are calm as can be.  That is because they are not leaving so they don’t have to be nervous.  Actually, they should have been more nervous than I was because they were staying in Liberia.

We left for the airport.  The driver was happy and in no hurry. Why couldn’t I have the angry driver I had in the Ivory Coast who drove so fast my knuckles didn’t get their color back until the next day. No, I have the world’s most joyful and slowest taxi driver.  Well what do you know, there’s a roadblock. Cars are pulled over and they are taking the seats out and examining everything. It felt like it took forever to reach the roadside inspection station.  It was time to play the “Duweh” card.  “I am a Christian worker named Duweh, the mighty elephant, and I need to get to the airport right now.” They tell me that they are happy to meet Duweh, the mighty elephant, but they still have to take the seats out of our taxi. I don’t think they respected elephants.

Finally, we got underway and when we pulled up at the domestic airport it was complete pandemonium. It was like everyone in Liberia wanted out, can’t imagine why. It must be because of the spiders. The large crowd outside the terminal was agitated, most looked scared.  I was quickly guided by my two calm friends through the crowds and into a room all by myself, and then they sat down next to me and nobody said a word. A glance at my watch didn’t help the tension. 11 AM.  Now, normally, that is not the best time to arrive for a once a week, 10 AM flight, but what do I know? This was Africa.  Then I saw what had to be the most disheartening sight in my life. The three of us watched, in total silence, as the only airplane at the airport slowly taxied out to the end of the runway.  In the calmest, cracking voice I could come up with I asked, “Is that my plane?  “Yes.”  We watched.  The plane went down the runway.  But halfway, it stopped and slowly came back to the terminal. “What is he doing?”  “The pilot wants to make sure it works.”  The plane was an old Russian cargo plane converted to a passenger liner. It would be like flying in a World War II bomber with folding chairs.  I knew this because I had arrived on it. Yep, it worked, so now they would load the plane. Will they do it like in Nigeria when I was there?  They had a plane that seated about 100 and they had issued 500 boarding passes.  Everyone ran onto the tarmac when the two-hour late plane arrived.  It resembled a soccer riot. So, will it be like that again?

Then the door opened to our room. It was then that I noticed the letters VIP on the door. I wondered why all the shouting people were outside in the parking lot and in the big lobby, and we were the only ones in this small private room. The man who walked in the door seemed familiar. He walked over to me and politely handed me a boarding pass and my passport and thanked me for coming to his country, and then he went back outside into the pandemonium.  I was dumbfounded. I asked who he was, and my new friends told me that he was one of the 180 pastors who had attended the Christian seminar. I then remembered him.  But what was he doing with my documents and why was he at the airport?  “Oh, sir, he is the airport controller. He is in charge of everything at the airport.”   “So, I guess I am not going to miss my plane.”  “Oh, sir, you are the guest of honor. They would hold the plane for you all day if needed.”

It is pretty much impossible to describe my feelings after that. Humbled to be sure. Who am I to get such treatment. Upset that they didn’t tell me sooner, so I could have enjoyed my morning instead of fretting. Even angrier at my attitude and my lack of faith. Once again, I had been reminded that God is the great controller of life, and he does not always make His plans as clear to us as we would like. Whether it is a flight, or something else out of our control, it is all the same. He is the controller and we need to rest in His will.  It has been many years since that experience but I still need to remember that lesson every day. Remember, elephants have good memories.

Thank you, Lord, for this important lesson. Thank you, Lord, for bringing me through it and for what I learned at that time.  I may not understand it all but you do and I will rest with you. And thank you, Lord, for even that spider.  On second thought please ignore the spider prayer,  I am not that strong yet in my faith.

The post Duweh, the Mighty Elephant: Getting Out of Liberia Was Harder Than Getting In appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Ah, the lure of exotic locations.  We all have that curiosity, don’t we?  Over 20 years ago I took a trip to one of those faraway places. But this trip turned out very differently from anything I could have imagined.

Liberia was in the middle of its second civil war. Over 200,000 people had been slaughtered, most of them civilians. I had been invited to go there to teach a one-week training program for local pastors. I accepted without doing much research. I knew that there was unrest in the country.  But I also knew the reputable organization, that had arranged for me to go to the west coast of Africa, assured me that I would be safe. They provided all the tickets, and even all the boarding passes for my flights within Africa.

It was my first time to travel alone in Africa, but two people would be at the airport to meet me when I arrived in Monrovia.  It was a very long and tiring trip that had many connections. My first African stop was Abidjan, Ivory Coast, where I was to catch my final connecting flight to Monrovia. Everything had gone fairly well, up to then.  I roamed around the French-speaking airport for a long time trying to find my flight, but nobody had any idea where it was. I finally found an English-speaking person who seemed to have some authority, and after looking at my papers and my boarding passes, he gave me the bad news.  There was no such airline, didn’t exist at all.  “Wait, I have boarding passes.”  Nope, no such airline, it was a scam.  He didn’t even seem surprised and then he walked away, leaving me standing there in shock.  I didn’t know a soul, didn’t speak the language, had very little money since all was to be taken care of by the group meeting me, and at this point in my life, I was a fairly inexperienced traveler. You probably guessed that when I said I didn’t have much money with me. I had been to Nigeria once a few years before but the team I was with took care of these kinds of things. But this time, I was really alone and confused. There were no cell phones or internet in those years.

It would take too long to tell what happened in the following 24 hours but it included a poor attempt at French sign language to a cab driver, a white-knuckle express ride to an unknown location in the city where I found something that resembled lodging. Then I returned to the airport the next morning the same way where I found a Russian transport plane leaving on its one-flight-per-week trip to Monrovia.

So, 24 hours after arriving in the Ivory Coast, I was sitting on a converted World War II cargo plane heading for Monrovia.  I had no idea what was in store. I had no return ticket and I hoped those two guys would be there to meet me. I was already a day late. Definitely the start of an interesting trip.

There are times when it would have been nice to stay in five-star hotels, eat familiar foods and work with people that actually spoke my language, but that was not to be my lot. I was usually assigned to the “armpit of the earth” type of places. But as I look back I can honestly agree with the poet that it was the “path less traveled by that made all the difference,” This trip was one I would never forget.

Liberia had been at war for five years when I arrived to lead a 5-day seminar with 180 Liberian Christian leaders. These men knew what sacrifice was. Most had not seen their families during the entire five years that the country had been embroiled in war.  Over 20,000 citizens had died in Monrovia alone. I learned this shortly after getting off the plane (Surprise, the two men were there waiting for me!), and during our taxi ride to our hotel, I asked my guide why all the houses and churches had bullet holes in them. They began to tell me just now bad it was.

We arrived at our hotel.  Stop reading for a moment.  What image came to your mind when I said the word, “Hotel?”  Sorry, you got it wrong.  I use that word very generously. Like all of the rest of the terrorized city, they had not seen running water or electricity for five years.  What would life be like for you if the country you live in had no water or electricity for the past five years? The hotel was a dive, a dump.  The room they took me to was beyond filthy. I am used to dirt and bugs having been a missionary in third world countries but this was really bad. There were no windows in my tiny concrete room and the mid-summer room temperature had to be 120 degrees, and with no electricity, there were no fans. Outside, on the streets, UN security vehicles mounted with large machine guns, raced around.

I was tired from the excruciating 40 plus hours of travel that had elapsed since I left my comfortable bed and familiar surroundings.  I barely noticed the almost one-foot high lump in the middle of the bed. I had slept on manure-filled mattresses before in Romania, so I ignored it. Totally exhausted, I fell deep asleep as soon as I hit the bed.  I also barely noticed the wailing outside the walls from families who had children dying of Cholera. I began to hear it more the following nights. But this night, nothing was going to wake me up.  That is what I thought.

The Night Was Alive

Some of you understand the depth of sleep that comes from jet lag and a long, hard journey. It is very sound. There were cockroaches climbing through my hair but I have had to deal with that for many years of living in the Philippines, no problem. I also ignored the cloud of mosquitoes. But that night, something else woke me up.

Something very large was crawling up my leg.  Can I somehow emphasize the words, VERY LARGE?  I was still groggy when the thought began to sink in.  “Hey, there is something VERY LARGE crawling up my leg.” It was sweltering hot and pitch black. The room was stinky, steamy and still. Sweat was pouring off my body. I was slimy.  But that was not a problem. The problem was something VERY LARGE was crawling up my leg.

I was now awake and swiped at my leg and I hit something.  I felt like I had slapped a cat.  Maybe it was a large rat. I had a rat on my chest once in Manila. It jumped up on my chest with its cold gooey nose pressing against my throat. When I tried to grab it, the thing jumped off me and landed on my wife. But that is another story.  “Yes, maybe it is a rat,” I said to myself as I bounded out of bed and fumbled for the flashlight.  But when the light came on and illuminated the bed I saw the largest spider in my life.

You need to understand something. Missionaries are people, not super humans.  We have phobias like you do.  We get scared of creepy crawly things like you do.  I hate spiders. I am convinced that they were not part of the original creation but are part of the curse. I have trouble imagining God looking at a tarantula and saying it was “Good.”  Well, I have arachnophobia (fear of anything that resembles a spider and is crawling on my leg).  I stood there paralyzed in my room staring at the immense thing. It had just been dragging its massive body along my leg and was planning on eating something. What was it going to eat?  I shuddered over and over, also known as a panic attack. It probably took me five minutes before I got the courage to splat it all over my bed with my tennis shoe.  And after I had killed it, I splatted it again, and then again, splat, splat, splat.  I never slept the rest of the night.  The walls in the room seemed to move. There were insects of all kinds in the room. This was not a happy place.  Not a good night when you have to teach eight hours the next day.

Counting Legs

What kind of spider was it?  Big, that’s what kind. Apparently, Liberia is known to have huge spiders with names like “king baboon tarantula” the size of an adult man’s hand span. OK, go ahead and do it.  Place your hand on your thigh.  I mean right now, put your stretched-out hand on your thigh.  Now imagine a big hairy tarantula that size looking at you and making screeching sounds. Never mind that last part since that would be me making that noise.  Someone said they also have camel spiders even though uncommon.  Both of these spiders make squealing sounds like a young child screaming. I have no idea since my squeals drowned out any sound the spider may have made.  Here is something interesting about Camel spiders. They get their name because they climb onto the bellies of camels and eat their stomachs from the outside, numbing the flesh by secreting a natural anesthetic. The camels don’t even notice until their intestines fall out.  What a delightful thought.

Spiders and Arachnids are different we are told.  Spiders have eight legs and that other big word has six. Who gives a rip? I have no idea what was crawling on my leg that night. It was the size of a small pig and even when I smashed it into the sheets and panted for five minutes trying to catch my breath I still never bothered to count legs.  It may have had ten, each about the size of a good chicken leg.  Spiders are also put into two major categories, trappers, and hunters.  Some sit and wait and other less patient ones go on a vicious hunt and look for legs to crawl on.  Guess which one this was?  The following description exactly describes what that spider was intending for me:

“A spider is a remarkably efficient killing machine. The two fangs mounted below its head are connected internally to venomous glands, enabling it to sedate and paralyze its prey immediately upon capture. Some spiders inject a digestive enzyme (which liquefies body tissues so that they can be easily ingested) directly into a victim’s body cavity, while others first crush their quarry and then cover its carcass with the substance.”  (Mother Earth News)

The next morning when the pastors came to get me the first thing they said was, “How was your sleep?”  I told them about the spider the size of a large dog that was gnawing on my leg and injecting paralyzing toxins into my body cavities.  They casually commented, “Oh, that spider.”  No big deal to them. They have those things crawling on them all the time.  It is like a fly on the table, just shoo it away and keep eating. I am calling it the Big Squealing Liberia Leg Eater. I don’t think that is the official name, however.

People must wonder about me. When I get back from trips like this and folks ask how my trip was I tend to stare a lot.  They have no idea. They go to malls and sleep in clean places and buy bug spray to kill ants.  No idea at all what it is like to be hunted all night by a giant leg eating predator and shaken from side to side like a rag doll in the mouth of an angry pit bull.  Not quite the same as dipping French fries in ketchup at McDonald’s.  Yes, I am sure they wonder about me.  The next time I go to Africa I am not taking bug spray with me, I am taking grenades.

The post Hairy Legs: A Journey to Liberia During the Civil War appeared first on Traveling Archive.