Focus on Narrative Travel Writing Winners

The plant called felesles lured me by its radiance and fragrance, like an irresistible sorceress tricking a man into a trap. Its purple flowers were the brightest, its leaves the most vital, and its entire body among the most conspicuous of all bushes that thrive in the central Sahara-a place where rainfall is nonexistent, dew is imperceptible, and the closest water lies 400 meters underground. Only the White Crowned Wheatear, a bird with black and white plumage, matches the felesles' visibility. Now I rolled the leaves of the felesles covered with soft hair between my fingers, and then raised my fingers to my mouth.

"Stop!" cried Mohamed Suleiman, running towards me. "Don't put your fingers in your mouth. If you do, it would be like ingesting a cocktail of heroin, cocaine, and hashish — then you would tear off your clothes and run in the desert like a madman."...

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Only upon landing at the Srinagar airport did I realize just how blindly I had ventured into Indian-controlled Kashmir, knowing so little about the region flanked by Pakistan and China. But I was eager to spend time on a houseboat on fabled Dal Lake, so, stepping onto the tarmac, I focused on the beauty of the surrounding Himalayas even as I felt anxious about the Indian security forces, the barricades and the razor wire. Kashmiri extremists were struggling to wrest the territory from India's control, a fellow passenger told me, and violence was not uncommon...

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After an hour or so of pure hassle on the border we are in a cab speeding away from a small, port town on Yemen's coast. Al-Makha tapers out and we enter the Tihama, a vast, uninhabited stretch of desert. It is dotted with dry shrubs and the occasional wide, flat tree with torn, tattered plastic bags blooming on its branches. There are women walking along the road, covered in black, balancing yellow plastic jugs on their heads. The black looks pure against the dusty landscape; my eyes sink eagerly into its depth, searching for definition but getting nowhere. The women have a strong effect on me. They are there but they are not there, seen but not seen. I am drawn to them, but feel oddly intimidated at the same time...

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...Yemen: Kidnappings, Kalashnikovs, embassy bombings, Al Qaeda. Pirates? Paranoia? Or is it the sensationalism propagated by travelers and bloggers? Yemen is one of many stigmatized nations that appeals to the traveler who takes the time to ask why this is so. Is the world more dangerous now than ever before? Of course it is, the world is a horrible place and they all hate you, so don't ever leave your home again! ...

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In the heart of the “axis of evil,” I linked arms with the women students arranged around me and we all smiled. Seven clicks later, after photographs on all the cameras, my face ached from grinning into the bright sun

We were standing in the middle of the Vakil Bazaar in Shiraz, Iran.

Only a few moments before I had met the eyes of a young couple and we had nodded to each other. That was all it took. Instantly we were in conversation.

 “Kojast?” they asked, “From where?”

 “Amrika, USA” I said, unsure what their reaction would be...

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Traveling anywhere in the world can be risky if you don't do your homework before hand. Government organizations are overly cautious, the media sensationalizes and second-hand travel stories are exaggerated more often than not. The best advice is to read up on where you want to venture, heed the warnings, keep alert, but do not allow anyone to disuade you from following your travel dreams.

After selling all our possessions, we handed in our rental keys to the none-the-wiser woman behind the counter at the Arnhem council office in The Netherlands. At this point, we could hardly envisage what was in store for us as we ambled our way down the bike path and across the German border on our way to distant Pakistan. About one thing we were certain: the much talked about Karakoram Highway would be one of our biggest cycling challenges. That was why when we finally reached it-18 countries and almost one year later-realizing our dream became more than just a dilemma over whether to cross the border or not...

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...At times the road descended down to the fast-flowing river and we had to make a couple of crossings through the most shallow parts. There were a couple of houses scattered through the lower valley where horseback was the only mode of transport for the occupants. Glimpses of people were rare and thoroughly rewarding when they did occur. Imagine the look on their faces upon the sight of a white foreign woman sitting in the back of a taxi smiling, or should I say exhibiting a frozen grimace of terror in the shape of a smile? It is funny how you react to this kind of fear; my response was an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and the monk's answer was to constantly chant his prayer to the heavenly gods...

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Guatemala City, July 1997. It is six months since the Peace Accords ended 36 years of civil war. An uncertain cease fire exists between rival guerilla forces of the URNG (Unidad Revolucionara Nacional Guatemalteca) and the Guatemalan military. Heavily brokered by the UN, peacekeepers enforce the agreement. A spirit of fear pervades Guatemala's capitol: fear of violence, fear of crime, fear of death. I am an idealistic pre-med from Los Angeles, and arrive in Guatemala City for the summer to work at Rodolfo Robles V Hospital. The most I know about hospital work, war, and crime comes from TV shows and movies. I do not know what to expect. How true are the warnings about the dangers of Guatemala City? ...

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I am driving alone, and the speedometer says 60 but it feels more like 90 as a menacing black Mercedes looms like a cyclone in my rear view mirror. As the chilled early morning mist clears I see the vague outline of a haphazardly laden timber truck powering towards me, its illicit cargo lurching violently against decaying, wafer-thin restraining straps.

The road is horrendous, a white-knuckle, energy-sapping ride through cavernous potholes and the pulverized remnants of countless stray dogs.

Welcome to Bosnia, land of jaw dropping countryside, mountains, valleys, mind-boggling history, welcoming people, and without doubt home to the worst drivers on the face of this earth...

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We are proud to launch TAzine as a monthly Webzine which continues the 31-year tradition started by Transitions Abroad magazine. TAzine features many of the same columnists who wrote for the magazine, a growing group of new columnists, while featuring many freelance writers who wish to share their experiences and expertise within the context of our innovative alternative coverage of work, study, travel, and living abroad.

Founded in 1977 by Dr. Clayton Allen Hubbs, Transitions Abroad magazine was the only print publication dedicated to work, study, living, volunteering, and immersion travel abroad. Its purpose — in print and now as a Webzine — is the dissemination of practical information leading to a greater understanding of other cultures through direct participation in the daily life of the host community.