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Links & Photos - Writing Contest - 2005-2006 winners
First Place
Title: "A Tiny Woman with a Big Backpack or Dai Bakkupakku Yama"
Student: Lowell Silverman
Program: Summer 2005 Kobe, Japan

Without a doubt, hikers are the friendliest people in Japan. As a general rule, they and they alone will greet you with an unsolicited and spirited "Konnichiwa!" when you pass on the trail. At a basic level, it seems that merely identifying you as a fellow practitioner of the hobby transcends the usual reserved way that most Japanese people treat strangers. There's a sense that you're not just encountering other people going about mundane affairs on the bustling city streets. Rather, you're among a select group who chose to venture into the woods, take in the sights, and brave dangers such as wild boars (often warned about on a multitude of cartoon-like signs, but seldom seen).

At the beginning of July, a fellow international student, Samhitha Sreenivasan, and I traveled to the ancient capital of Kyoto. She was eager to visit some temples we'd missed during the university program visit to the city several weeks before. We also decided to climb the mountain that towered above them, Daimonji-yama (literally Big Character Mountain). The name fit like a glove. On several mountains around the city, large-scale representations of kanji (Chinese characters) are burned onto the mountainsides during an annual August festival. This one sported "Dai", meaning big or great.

The trailhead lay close to the gorgeous Ginkaku-ji (Silver Pavilion Temple). There was no large parking lot or visitor center, just a path running alongside a creek. The air was damp following a short rain shower about half an hour before. Looking up the slope, a lone hiker wearing a blue t-shirt caught my eye. Though she couldn't have been taller than 5'4"-and she had a thin build, even for a Japanese woman-she was hauling an enormous backpack that was half as tall as she was. If the backpack was as full as it looked, it would have weighed at least a good fifty pounds.

Most of the hikers we'd encountered up to that point were middle-aged, even elderly, but this one was young, about twenty years old. It was a treat to meet a Japanese counterpart, so to speak. Well, maybe "meet" is the wrong word, at least at first. When we passed her, she was shedding a pair of bright red rain pants worn over her hiking trousers. I don't care what country you're from, you're probably going to come off as a creep if you strike up a conversation with a stranger while she's changing! Shortly thereafter, however, she caught up to us when we started to ascend a winding set of steps. Samhitha was as curious as I was about this rare hiker our own age, and invited her to join us on the ascent.

Her name was Chirasumi Yuki (Yuki being her given name, to use the proper Asian order) and she was indeed a college student, attending the nearby Kyoto Seika University. That small frame belied a great strength and a cheerful spirit. Since Samhitha's command of the Japanese language vastly exceeded my own, I wasn't able to contribute much to the conversation. In order to avoid looking like a complete doofus, I would hop in when I actually did understand what they were saying.

The trail entered a series of switchbacks as we climbed through the forest. The fog glowed an ethereal white through the trees, making the hike feel like walking in a dream. Well, like a TV simulation of a dream anyway-you know, one of those ones they make with dry ice-only without the tackiness. It was real. Vivid. I for one have never had a dream that matched the surreal beauty of Daimonji-yama that day.

As often is the case, our first steps in cultural exchange produced humorous results. We encountered a series of ski lift like structures that are used to transport the timber burned to form the character on the "Dai" mountainside. Although I had identified it from a note in my English-language hiking book, I wasn't sure how to explain it to Yuki. I seem to recall finally translating it into Japanese as "tree carrying thing". A similar situation occurred when we encountered a walking stick insect. Through a series of phrases and gestures, Samhitha explained that in English, the insect's common name was based on its resemblance to object that hikers use for support. In both cases, awkwardness gave way to delight when we finally managed to understand each other.

The switchbacks gave way to a long, steep staircase. It was quite taxing to climb it. Weighed down by her backpack, Yuki lagged behind a little. To encourage her, I chimed in with "Ganbatte kudasai" (roughly- "Keep going!" in this context), to which she smiled and commented about how energetic I was. Of course, I could afford to be. My backpack-which I am routinely told is huge-was about half the size of hers!

Any doubts about the effort being worth it evaporated when we reached the clearing above. It was an overlook from which one could see ghostly streams of clouds rolling through below pushed by a gentle wind, periodically revealing and then blanketing the city below. Above, the trees gradually disappeared into the mist which covered the mountain. The sights, the feel of the breeze, the songs of the birds in the canopy combined to make a sensation that was mesmerizing. All three of us were transfixed for some time. Suddenly, Yuki took off Super Backpack, almost vanishing in the process. Without her backpack, she was about as big as the radar profile of a Stealth Fighter. I'm exaggerating of course, just not by much.

I took a group picture with my camera set on a timer. Soon after, though, while Samhitha and I looked to climb on to the summit, Yuki said she had to descend. With great sorrow, we watched our new friend put her backpack on and disappear into the trees.

This March, I was talking with Samhitha about what she remembered from that day. I was curious about the parts of the conversation that I couldn't understand and asked her why Yuki was hefting such an enormous backpack. The answer was actually rather straightforward. As a rite of passage in order to join a hiking club, she had to hike for some period carrying a certain weight. I prefer my explanation that she was merely endowed with supernatural strength in order to carry a backpack of infinite weight and density.

Whenever I think about that day, I feel this sort of nostalgia, equal parts joy and sorrow, for the beauty of the mountain and for that brief meeting with a person whom I am not likely to ever see again. Via e-mail I passed along the photos and Yuki asked me to get in touch with her if I ever returned to Kyoto. I haven't managed to reach her since. But when nostalgia leaves me saddened, there is one thing that gives me comfort.

Without exception, you will one day part ways with every person, dear or distant, whom you have ever encountered during your life. But how many of those people will have shared a rich experience, imparted upon you a treasured memory? That the tiny woman with a large backpack had such a presence makes me glad.


Second Place
Title: "Coca-Cola"
Student: Scott Ptak
Program: Winter 2006 Caen, France

It was a chilly night in downtown Hamburg, Germany. A great cold front was on its way from Russia, where the far-below freezing temperatures had already resulted in the deaths of twenty-two. The surfaces of the cobble-stone streets were beginning to frost over, and the windshield wipers of the Audi were turned on to brush off the light snow that had begun to fall. My German friend Jan whom I had met years before in the United States and I had just come from a sociable dinner with a number of his close friends.

"So are you sure that you have gotten everything?", He asked me in his nearly flawless English as we pulled up to the Altona Train Station. "Are you sure you won't be hungry?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's everything, and I'll be fine- your mom packed me this huge bag of food!" I said raising the plastic supermarket bag which was attached to my arm somewhere among the pile of luggage in my lap. "I should be set for a couple days with this!"

We unloaded the car, and found the train that was to take me from Hamburg to Paris. There I would then connect to another train to Caen to meet up again with my host family and the Delaware student body, most of whom had already returned from their long weekend excursions to London, the Netherlands, and the French Riviera. The train ride to Paris was to take about thirteen hours, with the subsequent connection to Caen lasting approximately three. Therefore, in addition to the provisions provided by Jan's mother, I also brought my luggage, which consisted of a backpack, a portable DVD player to provide entertainment, a small brown bag with all my valuables-keys, cell phone, train tickets, glasses, train tickets, wallet and passport- and in addition a six pack of Coca-Cola- a novelty for me because here they were still sold in glass bottles- in order to keep a caffeine-driven vigil over my belongings.

As I stepped onboard Night Train 237, got comfortably settled and bid adieu to Jan, I had no idea that I was in for the ride of my life. An enormous pony-tailed blond man entered into the cabin I had attempted to stake for my own by scattering my belongings and kicking my feet up on the opposite bench. He mumbled something to me in German, of which I could only comprehend the salutatory, "Guten Tag".

Trying to put to use the vocabulary that, in my two day excursion, had doubled since my two year education at the high school level, I asked for his name and struggled to explain that there were plenty of unoccupied cabins and I would gladly take another so that we could each have space. He, of course could make no sense of my garbled English, nor I of his confused attempt at English. But seeing my attempted conversation through the window of the cabin, the recently-exited Jan came to my rescue as a translator. I was soon on my way to a different cabin with no hard feelings between the man and I, but we each had each other's name and a mutual understanding that a man should have his space to stretch out on the lengthy voyage.

After approximately an hour of relative boredom, I decided to go and introduce more myself more fully to my would-have-been cabin mate, Petrov. I grabbed two Cola-Colas and popped in the doorway.

"Would you like one?" I asked him.

"Of course", he responded. "You come and sit down?" he added with the aid of hand motions.

After a few awkward moments of reintroduction and hand shaking, we were able to discover that French served a proper medium for our conversation. Our sentences now flowed with only small breaks for vocabulary checks. He owned a small garden accessory-crafting business on a remote German island off the coast of Denmark. He was going into Paris to exhibit some pieces of garden furniture and visit his brother and business partner, Ivan. I told him that I was a student visiting a friend of mine in Germany and that I was returning to Caen. After some further dialogue on the approaching World Cup and Parisian monuments, he asked me to watch his things while he grabbed a drink from the bar.

When he returned to his belongings, I told him that I thought it was time for me to go back to my cabin for awhile and rest. On the condition that I didn't see him the next morning, I bid him a good stay in France. I returned to my cabin and decided to put my feet up for awhile.

My slightly reclined position became recumbent with the passing of only a half an hour. How the gentle swaying of the train and the repetitive click-clacking of the tracks does make one sleepy! I decided that a few minutes of shut-eye would be good for me- I had stayed up almost the entire night before with my friend Jan, and would certainly need to stay awake in our French professor Christophe's class the next day. Just before I drifted off, I remembered to set my cell phone alarm clock. I pulled it out of my small brown bag of valuables, set it, and placed it on the windowsill where it would be easily available for a push of the snooze in the morning. I double-checked the location of all my bags- they were just above my head. I pulled my coat up to cover my body and drifted off into a sound sleep.

In the morning I was awakened by the first rays of sunlight coming over the horizon. "What time is it?" I remember wondering aloud.

I reached over to the windowsill to glance at the cell phone for verification. I felt around with my eyes closed for awhile, and, thinking that it must have fallen from its perch, decided to open them and have a look. It was nowhere to be found. Not on the windowsill. Not on the floor. Not in between the cushions. Not behind the chair. I began to get worried. I looked up for my bags when the seemingly improbable became a reality. There was also no brown bag. I had been thieved.

I searched frantically, turning over cushions and reexamining every inch of the small room. What was I to do without at least my wallet and my passport, let alone everything else! I remembered Petrov- maybe he had seen something.

Although it was I who woke him up, I asked him anyway. He said that no, he hadn't, but asked if I had gone to the policeman on the train already. I hadn't, and reading the confused panic on my face, he pointed me in the right direction.

After a gendarme-accompanied glance-by-glance search of all of the train's cabins and their occupants, I returned to Petrov's cabin, frustrated and a little frightened. I still had my clothes and school books, my DVD player, two Euro coins and a few odd cents- definitely not enough to survive alone in a city the likes of Paris. I pictured myself selling the possessions I had left even to buy a telephone card to tell my mother to cancel the credit cards.

"You need help?" Petrov asked me in English.

"Yes, but there's nothing to do now", I said in despair.

"Can I help you with something?" he repeated. Then after thinking for a minute he said, "Money- can I help you with money?"

Glad to hear this sympathy, and at first a bit hesitant I muttered a deeply-appreciated, "Yes". Never before in my life had I been offered money by a complete stranger.

"I give you some money then." He pulled out his wallet and presented me with a fifty-Euro note seemingly without hesitation.

Upon our arrival at the Paris train station, he offered to call his brother to help me with the police report and to direct me to a hotel in the city where he was staying, for it was Sunday, and the embassy was closed. Although I didn't know how I was going to afford a hotel room in Paris for fifty euros, I quickly accepted before I dashed to a vendor for a telephone card in order to cancel my credit cards and inform my professor and host family that I would not be back that night.

In perhaps fifteen minutes, the fresh-faced twenty-something year old Ivan arrived. He had a keen ability to speak French, German and English among other languages, and so served as a translator for me to both the police and his brother. He also bought me a subway ticket and directed me to the hotel where they were staying. He hammered out a deal with the hotel owner, giving me a room with no money up front but rather on their credit, and with my promise of full payment. I lived off the food from my bag while studying maps and making telephone calls with my phone card in search of the American Embassy and a money-transfer service.

The following day I awoke early and made my way to the embassy. While walking down the cold streets, I thought of what it would have been like to have survived for the night on the roadside in the frigid temperatures. I suddenly had a tremendous amount of compassion for the homeless men huddled in the alleys and in front of the churches, and realized how truly lucky I was to have met this most generous man on Night Train 237.

Having collected a small sum of money, a temporary passport, and new train tickets to Caen, I met up with Petrov and Ivan in the Jardin des Tuilleries. I thanked them repeatedly for their generosity and gave them my email address and telephone number. Inviting them to visit the United States, I joked that their business could now go global. Just before I headed off for the subway that was to take me to the Paris-Nord Train Station, I handed Petrov a note. Alongside a paper-clipped fifty Euro note was a message.

I left you something with the hotel owner. Thank you so very much!
Euer Amerikaner Freund,
Scott

It was a new six-pack of Coca-Cola- The glass-bottle variety.


Third Place
Title: "Contradictions"
Student: Catherine Singley
Program: Fall 2005 Granada, Spain

Some nights when I can't sleep, I walk the streets of Granada in my mind. It's partially a substitute for counting sheep, a way to distract myself from the struggles and anticipations of daily life. Mostly, it's a game I play to keep one hundred days and nights of Spanish life vibrant and real in my memory.

I picture myself at the intersection of Recogidas and Reyes Católicos. From here, how many blocks away is the pastry shop with the chocolate waffles? Two to the right. If I start out walking from my host mother's apartment toward the river, where is the lottery ticket kiosk? After Alhamar, beside the bus stop. Can I remember the names of the streets I took to walk to school? Manuel de Falla, Campos, Tejeiro, Frailes…I'm still pretty accurate at retracing my steps - I know because I tacked a map of the city to my dorm room wall.

Anyone who studies in another country discovers that the best way to learn about the culture is not only to watch, but to walk. What I observed wandering the streets of Granada is more prevalent in my memory and more true to reality than the history of 20th century Spain taught by even the most learned professor. As I stroll through the labyrinth of streets and allies of Granada in my mind, I most frequently recall contradictions. A church located on Calle Ninos Luchando - literally the street of Children Fighting; middle aged women in makeup and high heels, donned specially to take out the trash; advertisements for American pop concerts posted alongside announcements for the next flamenco spectacular. Daily, I observed the interplay between logic and absurdity, tradition and modernity, old values and new ideas; yet, in no instance was contradiction so complex and intriguing to me as it was manifested in the life of my friend, Driss.

Driss is 28 years old. He left his home in central Morocco at the age of 18 to dedicate himself to the sport of kickboxing. "Kickboxing" was the first English word Driss uttered; amusingly, there is no Spanish translation. Driss explained to me how kickboxing brought him to Spain in this way:

"After he got a letter from my teacher, my father cornered me and asked why I had deceived him for two months by pretending to ride my bike to school, when in fact I wasn't in school at all. 'Have you no sense of what it means to work hard?' he asked me. What he didn't realize is that I was working harder than I ever had, following my friend's older brothers to kickboxing matches, learning the sport, and practicing until my muscles ached."

Driss eventually convinced his family to allow him pursue kickboxing as far as it would take him. He soon found himself on the Moroccan National Kickboxing Team bound for international competitions. He left his home country without so much as a glance behind him and quickly made friends with Arab-speaking citizens in France, the site of an international match. After the competition, Driss decided to remain in France because he found a community of people like himself. Eventually an expert in the sport, Driss lived independently on the unpredictable salary of a kickboxing instructor, until the rumors about a place called Granada, Spain, grew loud enough in his ears to make him restless to move on. Moroccan friends encouraged him to join them in Granada, a city known for its large Arab presence and flow of international visitors. Within a few months, Driss was on his way to Granada. Three months after his arrival, he and a friend from Morocco opened a teteria, an Arab tea shop, one of hundreds that serve tourists as well as Indian and Asian tea connoisseurs. He still teaches kickboxing, until eleven o'clock on some nights, and steeps tea leaves in the teteria until the early morning hours.

I met Driss in his teteria in Granada during my second week in the city. After serving tea to me and my friends, he sat down beside us on the low cushioned benches to chat, as an equal with his customers, and in subsequent visits, as a friend. Driss' history presented to me a multitude of contradictions. Perhaps it was for this reason that I was first asked him the details of his life. After all, I could only speculate about the contradictions on the streets of Granada; with Driss, on the other hand, I was given the chance discover what they meant. First, I noted, Driss had emigrated to Spain not out of economic desperation, like the avalanches of people I had witnessed scaling the fences of Northern Africa to Spain on the nightly news, but in pursuit of his passion, kickboxing. From this fact arose another set of apparent contradictions. Kickboxing itself originated as a form of Japanese marital arts and developed further in America, where it acquired an English name. Driss, a citizen of a North African country, latched on to the kickboxing fever in his small town and used it as a vehicle that ultimately brought him to Spain, in Europe. The third web of contradictions: In Spain, he applied what may be considered a Protestant work ethic and Western spirit of entrepreneurship to open a business modeled after a traditional Moroccan tea shop. Finally, there in a European city, Driss and I had introduced ourselves in our common second language, Spanish.

Many aspects of Driss' journey (which ultimately amounted to only a few hundred miles across a relatively narrow Strait) challenged my perceptions about identity. What I initially perceived to be contradictions along Driss' path, most social science scholars would call the effects of globalization. The juxtaposition of the traditional with the modern and Driss' ability to be a mobile actor stand out in my understanding of his life as a real case of the forces of globalization at work. Driss' identity is not limited to his homeland or his native tongue. The "contradictions" in his life are the result of the overlapping of many environments and cultures of which he is now a member. When I arrived at this realization, I was furthered surprised to discover that Driss hardly appeared aware of how singular his history seemed to me. "This is not very important," he assured me humbly. "Plenty of my friends have followed similar paths." Nevertheless, I continued to view Driss' fascinating identity as unique.

Throughout our time in Granada, my friends and I spent many evenings at the teteria with Driss. He and his friends demonstrated to us the differences between formal and colloquial Arabic writing, and with matched enthusiasm, we introduced them to Anglo-American playing cards with a lively game of "Ir de pesca" - Go Fish. Ironically, we frequently drank one type of tea called Al-Andaluz, the same name given to Southern Spain by the Arabs who ruled the area until the Christian conquest of Granada in 1492. Driss was eager to learn English and amused us with the phrases he had picked up from English-speaking tourists ("sweet dreams" was apparently a popular saying). We compared stories about our younger sisters and laughed when our Spanish skills couldn't stand up to the task.

The night before we returned to the United States, we visited the teteria to savor our last sips of tea and our final conversations with Driss. As I said goodbye to Driss I reflected that his story, while still fascinating, no longer seemed to me so outstanding. I finally understood that with my time spent abroad, I too was forming my own global identity. My friendship with Driss taught me that it is no contradiction to say that in this increasingly globalized world, no one is a true foreigner in any land.