Adventure of the month

Serengeti: The Grand Finale

2012-01-18T19:22:00.001-05:00

Our last day in the Serengeti began exactly the way a last day in the Serengeti should, with a pair of giraffes calmly eating leaves right outside our tents. They were the perfect animal to wake up to. Any of the smaller creatures would not have been nearly as exciting and none of the more carnivorous ones would have been quite as welcome.

And speaking of flesh eaters, I mentioned to Olly, our tour leader, that once again I had not heard any lions during the night. I had, however, heard baboons left and right with their deep, guttural grunts sounding as if they were coming from pretty close by. Olly let me do my best baboon grunt impersonation a couple of times before explaining to me that baboons make no such noise. Those were, in fact, lions. I, the viewer of many MGM films, disputed this assertion and even threw in some inspired roaring noises by way of persuasive argument. Well, it turns out that those impressive roars are only one note in the lion repertoire, used mainly to express agression. The grunting I'd been hearing for two nights is the noise they make to communicate with each other. Judging by their proximity, I think they may have been talking about us.

After packing up our still muddy tents, we set off on one final game drive. It was a gorgeous day and all of us opted to stand on the seats, watching the plains roll by from the top of the jeep. I think we were all trying to absorb every moment of both the scenery and the experience. With a rather slow start, wildlife-wise, we were content to just take in the beauty of the park itself. On a number of occasions, we asked Frederick to stop to allow us to take pictures of the vistas, acts which left confused passer-bys scanning the horizon in vain.

We could have ended the day just like that and still rated it a success, but as we neared the exit of the park, Richard, one of our two Brits and part-time Prince William impersonator, made the spot of the century. He was hesitant about it at first. He stared into the distance and mumbled "lion?" but followed that up with pointing and "Lion. Lion! LION!!!!"

Sure enough, we turned down a side road and laying there, mere feet from our jeep was a resplendent lioness. She had her back-turned to us, as we leaned out of the car trying to get the perfect photo, but the moment I gracefully clanged my lens cap on the jeep railing, she was staring right at us (and I was left wondering what the best course of action would be when faced with a lioness jumping into your open-top vehicle).

She was laying alongside a thick bramble of underbrush which we could not really see through but we could hear the unmistakeable purring and mewling of a couple of lion cubs. It was the most spectacular sound I think I have ever heard.

We drove around the brush until we found an opening and were immediately overcome by an intense attack of cuteness.

This is probably my favorite photo of the entire safari.

Suddenly, possibly as a result of our imploring "Come out, baby lion. Please come out", one of the cubs ventured into clear view. I lose count if that was the second or third time that I teared up at the thrill of witnessing these spectacular creatures.

And when I say we were close, we were really close...

I simply could not stop taking photos of the cub. This uncontrollable impulse has since resulted in my being wholly unable to decide which picture I like best. I present to you yet another three:

Eventually, the cub tired of us and returned to her hiding spot. We reluctantly continued to make our way to the exit of the park but the Serengeti (and Frederick) had one final parting gift for us. It was a regal male lion lounging alongside a buffalo kill.

I've expressed in an earlier post how difficult it it to put into words the majesty of the Serengeti and I am still at a loss. All that I can say is that I now have a response to the oft asked question, 'what is your favorite place?' and hope with all my heart that I am able to return someday.

Following our safari, we spent a couple of nights in nearby Mto Wa Bu (which translates, I kid you not, to River of Mosquitoes) and did yet another walking tour-slash- school visit before driving back to where my journey had begun, the frenetic city of Nairobi.

After spending two weeks together and the inevitable bonding that comes along with sharing an experience as special as the Crater and the Serengeti, the parting was a bit bittersweet. Looking back on the whole of the experience, I think it would have been possible, although not without hassle, to have done most of the tour on my own, particularly if I had rented a car. The problem is I would have missed out on meeting a really great group of people and for that reason, I am supremely grateful that I finally booked a Dragoman adventure, as opposed to my usual cribbing of their itinerary. They will forever be linked to the memories of time spent in my favorite place.

Serengeti: Day 2. Still Amazing.

2011-12-27T22:47:00.000-05:00

You know you are camping in an unusual campsite when the morning discussion goes something like this- Everyone else: "Did you hear the lions last night?" Me: "No! I missed lions?! All I heard were frogs and hyenas. Oh, and baboons. I heard a lot of baboons." The others: "Yes. There were definitely lions. And the group over there thinks they saw a cheetah in the campsite." Me: "Balls!"

We were camping inside of the Serengeti National Park and unlike other predator-inhabited game parks I'd been to, there is no fence separating us and the more ardently carnivorous mammals. How this works is still a bit of mystery to me. We were told not to worry, that we're not appealing to them since we generally don't yield a lot of meat, particularly when compared to a buffalo or wildebeest, which is true. But I'm pretty sure I have a good 20-30 pounds on an impala and they're called the 'McDonald's of Africa' by virtue of the fact that everybody eats them.
The campsite has a rudimentary bathroom, way on the edge, right by where the heavy vegetation began. One of the funnier stories I heard was about a guide who, upon returning from a game drive one night, all sweaty and dusty, wanted to shower but did not want to wait the line for this one and only facility. His solution was to heat up some water and go behind the shower block, out of sight of the others who were drinking and catching up around the campfire. His plan was working well, he was lathered up and feeling fresh when he heard a low guttural noise. He pointed his flashlight into the trees and glowing back at him was a set of eyes. They belonged to a leopard and she was crouched and ready to pounce. In a justifiable panic, he screamed and took off running in the direction of the campfire, much to the equally justifiable surprise of the campers who had not expected to see a soapy naked African sprinting through their revelry. Feeling safety in numbers, the group grabbed their flashlights and went to explore the site of the impromptu shower, only to find that it was not a leopard that had been ready to feast on the guide. It was three leopards.

I bring this story up (1) because I think it is hilarious and (2) because it directly contradicts the other bit of comforting advice that we were given. We were told that if we had to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, we should unzip the tent (always good advise there) and scan the surrounding area with a flashlight. If we see one set of eyes staring back, it is probably a predator and we should re-zip the tent and do our best to hold it (for how long, they never said). If it is a lot of eyes, it is probably some kind of antelope and you are good to go. My theory is that the predators of the Serengeti have caught on to this bit of flawed logic and are bringing along friends, as evidenced by the leopard trio.

As I mentioned, that first night, I heard nothing more than hyenas, baboons and loads of frogs. Interestingly, a guy that I had nicknamed the Gropey Game Guy, approached me when I was by the showers trying to spot wildlife and felt compelled to explain to me, over and over, that what I was hearing was frogs. Dude, I live near mangroves, I have frogs in my yard. It is the other two that you might have wanted to focus on.

Come morning time, more than half our group set off before sunrise to partake in a hot air balloon ride, something I would have done were it not $500 a pop. Instead, the rest of us went for an early morning game drive. If there was any question that our mad success at game spotting had been a fluke, it was put to rest that morning.

The day was perfect. It was clear and crisp and this apparently had the park's residents feeling frisky. The first example of this was a pair of battling impala males. Impala social structure tends to be either bachelor herds or harems, with the latter featuring a dominant male and up to 200 females. In between tending to the needs of his 200 women, the male also has to fight off interlopers. In the example we witnessed, the perceived challenger didn't really want to fight and kept backing away but it wasn't until there was a sizable distance between them and the ladies, that the alpha male finally let it go.

The Maribou Stork: a face even a mother would struggle with.

Next up, we had squabbling hippos. I would say that Squabbling Hippos would make for a good band name, but that could cause some confusion with the other defining feature of this particular group (and equally good band name), the Farting Hippos.

It is easy to assume, based on all the bubbles that these hippos were in a jacuzzi. I assure you, that was not the case.

"I bite-a your face!" " No! I bite-a your face!"

One of the hardest things to see, when it comes to hippopotami, is one of those of fatties out of the water. They are very susceptible to sunburn and usually only come out at night to feed. But this was the Serengeti and we were Team Leopard, so of course, they were strolling around, just begging to be photographed.

As the day got warmer, the fighting stopped but the wildlife sighting kept on coming.

"Really, humans? A hyena can't enjoy a quiet dip in a puddle without a carload of you stopping to watch. Unbelievable."

From the start of our tour, I had been asking about our chances of seeing the annual wildebeest migration. We were about a month early, but occasionally there are early migrations, where a sizable group decides to get a head start. Seeing a seemingly endless line of wildebeest, I was certain we had come across such an event. Unfortunately, Olly our tour leader and temporary member of Team Leopard, felt compelled to point out that if this was, in fact, an early migration, someone'd better tell them they were heading in the wrong direction.

The fake mini-migration was promptly followed by the All-Star Hour of Cats. The opening act was a pride of lions, who were leisurely hanging out and enjoying a buffalo kill.

Notice the hyena throwing down some attitude in the background.

Photo-bombing lion. Love it!

Once again, Frederick amazed us with a momentous spot, this time of a species we had not yet seen. It was a cheetah, laying in a distant patch of grass and barely visible to the naked eye. We were sort of, kind of able to make it out and after a while, gave Frederick our now customary “Sawa, Sawa”, Swahili for “good, good” and our indication that we were ready to move on. Frederick got as far as “Do you mind if we wai...” before we cut him off with a “NO, NO! Whatever you say, Frederick!”. Of course, moments later, the cheetah sat up, stretched and sauntered over to join yet another cheetah.

While similar in appearance to the leopard, the cheetah is smaller and sleeker and has

black ‘teardrop’ markings running from its eyes.

The headline act was someone we were already familiar with, the mama leopard from the evening before. With the lions gone, she was relaxed and enjoying some time with her two frolicking cubs.

Trust me, there is a leopard by that tree trunk.

See. At this point, we had yet to see the cubs.

And then they showed up and we all "aww'ed" uncontrollably.

A sure sign that you are witnessing something special is when the guide takes out his camera and starts shooting away. Olly, a veteran safari goer, was clearly stunned. He could not believe that, in the span of sixty-minutes, we had managed to see three different cat species.

We capped off the morning with a herd of elephants doing their utmost to mess up a tree. Apparently, it is pretty easy to track elephants based on the level of destruction that they leave behind.

During the hottest hours of the day, unless nothingness soothes you, there is no point in going for a game drive. Animals, like Spaniards and sensible people everywhere, prefer to find a shady spot and indulge in a mid-afternoon nap. We followed suit and returned to the campsite for a snooze.

Later in the day, with the hot air ballooners back from their sunrise adventure, we all set off to see what we could find.

Impalas aka McDonald's

After a couple of hours, the air suddenly turned cooler and it was clear that another manic rainstorm was heading our way. I think I could have spent a month in the Serengeti and still not become accustomed to the schizophrenic weather patterns. It goes from cloudless and perfect to the world is ending in a matter of moment. In anticipation of this, we had already weighted down our tents with massive rocks so as to not have to search for them a second night in a row.

Due to the crazy weather, our game drive was cut short, but my favorite sighting of the interrupted outing and most likely the reason the park has a strict no-stealing-the-animals rule, was a 3-4 day old baby monkey.

If your heart does not melt at the sight of this little baby, go directly to the heart store and buy yourself a new one.

When the massive storm did hit, it was the little monkey that I thought of, having recently left the comfort of the womb only to be caught up in the monsoon of the apocalypse. Poor little guy.

When we returned to camp, we saw no point in getting out of the nice, dry vehicle. Neither did the passengers of the other jeep, that is, until one of them realized they were out of toilet paper, a definite emergency in the present surroundings. They let us know that they were going to a store and, having nothing better to do and assuming they were going to the souvenir shop/ market, we followed. Instead we ended up in a small dark building with a long counter, a bunch of guys sitting around and a respectable selection of booze displayed. It was a bar! In the middle of the Serengeti!!

There was an alleged generator but it was not scheduled to kick on until 7pm and it was quickly becoming pitch black, giving the already dive-y bar an even more thrilling and exotic feel. We had no choice but to order drinks and stay to watch what looked like a CGI-generated lightning storm play out in front of us.

You know when your day does not suck? It is when you manage to sleep to the sounds of the African plains, see an amazing variety of wildlife and top it all off having cold beers with new friends. In a bar! In the middle of the Serengeti!!

The indescribable Serengeti.

2011-12-26T01:07:00.000-05:00

I have just typed and deleted at least a half dozen paragraphs, all of them trying to express how spectacular our time in the Serengeti was. It is not working. Everything I have written sounds cliche and trite and blah, which I guess would be fine if the Serengeti was any of those things. But it's not, it is so very, very....AAARGHHH (must keep finger away from the delete key, must control impulse, MacBook not so aerodynamic)

You know what? I took photos. Lots and lots of photos. They have a currency of approximately one thousand words each. How's about I just share some of those and let them speak for themselves. M'kay?
But first, a little context- the last post, the one about the Ngorongoro Crater- was all about what we saw during our first game drive in Tanzania. After leaving the crater, we travelled along a rough gravel road for a couple of hours to reach the entrance of the Serengeti National Park. From what I could tell, this is the only road that connects one point to another, meaning that this is the great equalizer. There are lodges and campsites within the park offering all levels of luxury. It was easy to see the groups that were in impeccably white clothing and had flowing, untangled hair and gather that they probably were not camping. Odds are they were staying in a five star lodge being attended to hand and foot. Yet, they too, now knew what was meant by the term "African massage". It is the beating that one endures while bounding along 60 mph in a 4x4, all the while trying not to swallow too much dust.

We arrived at the park with enough time for an evening drive before we had to set up camp. I should stress here that this was still the same day as our Crater drive, every picture that appears here is from the same 10 or so hour period as the ones in the earlier post. That is how freaking lucky and how indescribably amazing this first day was.

Frederick, our guide and driver, whose surname had now become "You're the man!" as in the oft-repeated and awe-filled "Frederick, You're the Man!" was quick to spot a pride of lions sunning themselves on some boulder-like rocks. From this point forward, all of Team Leopard learned to become very attentive whenever we encountered similar rocks.

Note Big Daddy laying in the grass between the two boulders.

Frederick YTM was also the one, who, while driving (!) at a relatively high speed, managed to spot the highlight in a day full of highlights. It was Big Game Animal #4- the leopard! It was my first time seeing one in the wild and judging from the moniker we had chosen for our group, a big deal for all involved. This is why it was a little troubling to me how difficult it was to see this cat. She was nestled in a tree, as leopards are wont to be, but was so well-hidden that every time we moved the jeep backwards or forwards, we all engaged in a fresh round of "Wait. I lost him. Does anyone else see the leopard? Can I borrow your binoculars?" This is basically what we were looking at:

If you look in the lower right-hand quadrant of this photo, you can see a paw and a dangling tail. Now imagine this sight without the benefit of a 20x zoom lens. That is what Frederick spotted while also driving!

Other safari vehicles, stopped, stared into the tree for awhile and continued on their way. We had been watching the tree with the dangling tail for twenty minutes or so, it was getting dark and one of our group had to go sign in for the next day's balloon ride, so we were resigned to doing the same. Frederick YTM, who all day long, had allowed us to dictate when, where and how long our stops should be, spoke up for the first time, asking if we minded waiting a little longer. This guy knew something and we knew he knew. A unanimous "No, No. Take your time Frederick, no worries!" erupted from the group.

Not five minutes later, the leopard rose up to stretch. It was no longer just a dangling extremity, it was a very distinct, clearly visible leopard. My eyes watered from the emotion of the moment. This is one of the most difficult animals to see in the wild and here we were, witnessing as she readied herself for the evening hunt.

Once again, we thought this was a good as we were going to get (and it was pretty damned good, no question about it) but Frederick hesitated and we all exchanged exited looks. What could he be waiting for?

And then, it happened. She came down from the tree!!

That was it. This was officially the best day ever. If we saw nothing else for the next two days, I'd be ok with it. But, NO-

We drove a little ways towards camp and saw, sitting by the side of the motherfucking road, another Leopard!!!

There was something along the road that was holding her attention and, while she strolled back and forth, seeming somewhat agitated, she refused to leave. And so did we. It is illegal to drive in the park after dark, one guy still had to make it to the balloon office, we had tents to set up- yet no one was moving an inch. When you have something like this in front of you, everything else can wait.

When we did eventually move, we saw what was causing the leopard's distress. Right across the road was a pride of lions, lions that would have no qualms with killing and eating the newborn leopard cubs that we later learned mama had wisely hidden under a hollowed out tree trunk.

We got to the ballooning office right at sunset to find two things: the other half of the group, who were peeved at having had to wait, thus rendering us incapable of gloating about our sightings and a very quickly approaching thunderstorm.

All of these sunset pictures are exactly as I took them, without any kind of digital enhancement. The light was really that rich and golden.

We raced in the dark to get to camp beset by a deluge that had come out of nowhere. We were careening blindly as I alternated between worrying that some creature was going to jump out in front of us to enjoying what felt as unreal as a carnival ride. In the surreal chaos that we found ourselves in, we still managed to spot some longish silhouettes in the middle of the road. Guesses of Rhino! Lion! and Buffalo! were blurted out, but the shapes were somehow off. As we got closer, it slowly began to dawn on us that we were looking at tents that had been picked up by the wind and hurled into the mud. Some poor suckers were going to be sleeping in some wet, nasty tents. What's that Frederick YTM? This is our campsite? But then that would mean...

Oh! Those were our tents alright. Our cooks had done us the favor of setting up the tents and now they were scattered to the four corners of the campsite. And yet none of us cared. We laughed as we trudged through the mud, trying to secure and towel off our evening's accommodations. Think about it, when you have just spent a day in a place as (fill-in every possible synonym for amazing here) as the Crater and the Serengeti, there is no way something like a soggy tent is going to bring you down. It is only going to add yet another hard to describe element to what was the most perfect of perfect days.

The Ngorongoro Crater Needs more Cowbell.

2011-12-22T01:24:00.000-05:00

Throughout our tour, there was some debate as to whether we were heading in the right direction. Not that we were lost, it was more that some people, mainly our crew, thought it was preferable to begin the tour in Nairobi and travel southward (as opposed to our more northerly route). Their reasoning was that with the more commonly run itinerary, you begin with a dusty and sweaty safari, followed by a series of early mornings and countless hours on a bouncy truck. By the end, you are nice and tired and are thus more excited at the thought of leisurely sipping cocktails on the beaches of Zanzibar and Dar es Salaam.

I get what they're saying and I thought they were all really nice guys, therefore it pains me to be the one to point out how completely and utterly wrong they are on this one. The safari in the Ngorongoro Crater and Serengeti is, bar none, the highlight of this tour. This is simply a fact. Doing the safari first means your 14 day tour has already peaked by day 5. It is akin to watching the finale of a firework shows and then having to feign enthusiasm for a guy with a sparkler. It is like eating the best desert ever prepared and then having to content yourself with a lackluster salad. It is like bedding down Brad Pitt and then having a go with Timmy, the chubby guy that delivers your office mail and is really nice but smells of slightly of cabbage. Sure, there is nothing wrong with sparklers, salads or Timmy, but they just can not compete.
And nothing, but nothing, can compete with the Ngorongoro Crater and the Serengeti. I have been to Kruger National Park in S. Africa, to Chobe in Botswana, to Akagera in Rwanda- wonderful parks one and at all- and yet I don't think even they can compete with this place.

The Ngorongoro Crater, where we began our safari with a morning game drive, was once a part of the larger Serengeti National Park. It was only subdivided into an independent entity later on in order to give the Maasai land where they could graze their cattle, making it the only conservation area that permits human habitation. The name itself comes from the sound a cowbell makes (at least to Maasai ears, it could just as easily been called the Ding Dong Crater.)

It is easy to forget that the conservation areas are not actually enclosed in any way. We spotted giraffes along the highway near our campsite, a good distance from the park entrance.

In order to navigate the dirt roads and improve our chances of seeing wildlife, we ditched our mega-truck and split into two six person open-top safari vehicles. Our group, the self-dubbed "Team Leopard" and led by the ever-smiling Frederick was lucky right from the get-go. While pulling into main entrance, where our tour leader had to pay the group's entrance fee, we began spotting baboon families right on the side of the road.

There was nothing so unusual about this. The baboons seemed pretty comfortable in this area and I suspect this is a common hang-out for them, meaning everyone entering the park probably has a baboon sighting early on. The question is: how many of them get to start the morning with some male-on-male baboon action?

Yup, this happened right next to our Jeep.

The crater is the result of a volcano that exploded and collapsed in on itself, leaving some species trapped in the caldera, while others (ie. zebra and wildebeests) make seasonal migrations in and out. After sorting out all the entry requirements and almost watching an episode of Man vs. Wild play out in the parking lot, when a member of Team Leopard opened a bag of chips, sparking the immediate interest of a junk-food fancying baboon, it was time for us to begin our descent.

Viewed from above, the crater appears entirely barren, a place for a very pretty and geologically interesting drive but not much else.

Those red and blue specks, in the background, are Maasai herders. They are permitted to bring their cattle into the crater but must leave every evening before dark.

The perception of emptiness would change soon enough. It began to dissipate with the spotting of a herd of wildebeest off in the distance.

And then took an unexpected turn with a lake full of flamingos (seriously, who thinks of flamingos when they picture the African plains)...

and I believe those are hartebeests in the foreground.

...followed by our first big five, must-see animal of the safari- the Buffalo.

Team Leopard- who I will note, at this time, had yet to actually see a leopard but had made it clear to Frederick that this was to be on the agenda- was soon to have another park exclusive. This time, we witnessed, from start to comically quick finish, a love story between two ostriches.

This young lady ostrich was happily minding her own business.

She appeared wholly unaware of this dude, who was throwing down all his best moves.

Undaunted, he decided to abandon the dance floor and be a bit more direct in his approach.

And what happened next was 30 action-packed seconds of ostrich loving.

You would think this would be hard to top, but as we continued, we were surrounded by wildlife at every turn. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. We would see something amazing, drive a kilometer or two only to find something more amazing.

At one point we found a buffalo carcass that our guide estimated had been there for about 2 days. There were vultures picking and tearing at the remains, creating in the process, some of the most disturbing noises of ripping flesh and cracking bones imaginable.

I stood there horrified, but fascinated, trying to will away the stench when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a lioness strolling over towards the mayhem. Big Five animal #2. I was so stunned that all I could manage was a very caveman-like "There! Cat!" No verbs, no adjectives, not even a specific animal name- just "There! Cat!". The vultures were onto her, too, and quickly scattered while she gave the carcass a cursory once over before returning to her spot in the shade.

We continued at this pace, one sighting after another, for all of the morning. At one point, I thought of a question that I often get asked. It is: 'What is your favorite place?' I totally cheat with a standard response of 'The next one'. It occurred to me, as I gaped in sheer awe at the diversity of wildlife present in this small space, that perhaps I now had a better answer ( or at least until the next favorite place came along).

This is known as the Secretary Bird due to its feathers looking like quills, but I prefer the name one of our group members gave it- the Lady Gaga bird.

The zebra on the right- that is not a banana in his pocket.

We stopped for lunch by a lake and caught up with the other half of our group to compare sightings. They'd had a rhino and an elephant sighting that we'd missed but nothing worthy of an airing on adult Animal Planet. When we mentioned this discrepancy to Frederick, a guy who was impressing us more and more at every turn, he assured us that we, too, would be seeing an elephant before we left the crater.

And sure enough, as we were on our way out, there he was- Big Five animal #3, walking amongst the zebras and wildebeest in a scene that appeared straight out of Disney's Lion King. I half expected them all to break out into song.

All in all, we were only in the crater for a period of 3-4 hours, which felt closer to 20-30 minutes, and it had easily topped every single day which had come before it. Our group was breathless with an excitement that we had not shared at any other point so far.

We had all enjoyed the sparklers, the salad and even Timmy but this is what we were all going to talk about for years on end. This was (the beginning of) the grandest of grand finales.

Marangu aka As Close as I will ever come to Mt. Kilimanjaro

2011-12-15T03:39:00.000-05:00

Moving right along on what was really the Road from Zanzibar, we continued on to the small town of Marangu. From best I could gather, there is only one reason people come here. They are either coming from or going on a climbing expedition that ideally results in their reaching the peak of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Seeing as I would prefer smuggling a nest of angry cobras in my underwear to climbing Africa's highest peak, thankfully, this is not why we were camping there.

To be honest, I'm not totally sure why exactly this is one of the stops. I imagine it has something to do with the logistics of getting us closer to the Serengeti but since that does make for a very sellable itinerary, we were also treated to another orphanage stop and village walk.
The orphanage, this time one for street children, was en route to the campsite, thus pretty unavoidable, and from the general attitude of the kids, was a pretty common item on the overlander agenda. Case in point, one of the kids asked where we were headed next but sitting in the midday heat, I blanked on the name. He politely helped me out with "It's probably Marangu. All the white people that come here go to Marangu." Again, I see the value in this type of visit, but I personally have a hard time with the forced awkward interaction that sometimes ensues when the kids are made to "perform" in exchange for donations. That said, watching the kids trounce the more athletic members of our group on the soccer field was pretty entertaining.

I took no pictures at the orphanage but did manage to photograph a plantain truck on the way.

But the highlight of this particular destination, one which we were apparently very lucky to have, was waking up to a crisp clear day at the foot of the mountains. The Marangu Hotel and the area surrounding it is better known for rain, fog, mist...all things that serve to obstruct anything resembling a good view. Yet, our morning was very literally picture perfect.

Fun with shadows...

Of in the very near distance, we could even see the peak, that peak, the one all those people hoped to reach/ had just reached. For me, the view itself was more than enough to check off the "see Mt. Kilimanjaro" box and continue contently on my way.

There was still another scheduled village walk to do, but by the time camp had been torn down and breakfast consumed, the sky had begun to darken to its more usual menacing hue. The prospect of walking up a muddy hill for who knows how long to see yet another batch of schoolchildren was becoming increasingly real, as was my inclination to bail on the whole boondoggle that awaited. An additional circumstance that is not exactly weather related but that also factored heavily into my decision making: I was almost out of pants. Of the four pair I had brought, two had unceremoniously ripped in the crotch and had since been discarded, one was a pair of jeans that were basically unwearable in the daytime heat and the last (and sole functioning) pair were not up for another two weeks worth of wear.

With all of that in mind, I left Neema, the group and the local guide to explore Kilimanjaro and its villages while I joined our tour leader and cook on a shopping expedition to Arusha, the nearest big city.

Getting there was one of those adventures that was interesting due mainly to its novelty. Realistically speaking, if I had to rely on dala-dalas, perennially overcrowded buses driven by horn-happy, speed-crazed madmen, on a regular basis, I suspect the charm would wear off quickly. But these were the only ones I took in Tanzania, so I was enthused even when the forced closeness caused a young guy to fall asleep with his head resting directly on my shoulder. By the time, three hours and two dala-dalas later, that we had arrived in Arusha and hopped on a trio of motorcycles to get us to the 'mall', I was positively giddy. I was sure the group was having a nice time, but I was within striking distance of new pants and that trumped all.

We were dropped off at would pass for a nice suburban strip mall anywhere in the world. It was gated and clearly aimed at tourists and well-to-do Tanzanians but I was feeling particularly local following my mastery of the dala-dalas (which to be honest consisted mainly of me following Patrick, our Kenyan cook, around) and opted to go to the more chaotic local market across the street.

It did not take long for me to begin re-thinking the wisdom of this plan. Located essentially in a big soggy field, walking in the market more than made up for the muddy village trek I was avoiding in Kilimanjaro. Then I made the rookie mistake of mentioning to one person that I was looking for pants, somehow immediately sending this information out to anyone within a 5 mile radius. Suddenly, people were coming out of the woodworks offering me pants, all of them filthy and used. Here I was dreaming of a new pair of clean khakis and I was beset by Levi's that had apparently been rolled around in the dirt, possibly with the previous owner still in them. In the midst of all this, a middle aged man, perhaps trying to ascertain what types of fabrics I preferred, blatantly and without remorse, grabbed my ass.

It was time to return to the strip mall. Just then, a frightening and unforeseen thing happened. The corn truck arrived. Every single man, woman and child in that market lost their ever-loving mind at the sight of the corn truck. It was a stalk-inspired frenzy the likes of which I have never seen and I was precariously situated between the mob and the maize. I shrieked and set land records in my return to the strip mall.

This picture, taken 20 minutes later, from the relative quiet of the strip mall, does not begin to capture the madness of the corn-hungry mayhem.

Once there, it was like a different world. I was able to calmly check email, enjoy cool refreshing gelatto, buy gifts undisturbed and yes, get two perfect pair of Ali Baba hippie pants. I generally prefer doing the local thing (ie. seeing the mountain-side village) and as a rule, loathe shopping but on this particular day and this particular time, this was exactly what I needed.

Eventually Neema and her cargo arrived to join me, all of the group admirably no worse for wear. All together again, we were given time to dash through the supermarket, grabbing beer and snacks for our next campsite, the only one that would not have a bar on property- the reason being it was in the motherf'ing Serengeti!!!

Just one of the cars that was parked in the strip mall.

Rolling into Lushoto

2011-12-14T23:00:00.000-05:00

Finally, we were on our magic bus, er, I mean truck and pointed north in the direction of the Usambara Mountains. By tearing down camp early enough to be on the road by 5am, we had successfully avoided the truly frightening fate that is Dar traffic and were now speeding past small villages and vast empty stretches of land.

Cruising along, enjoying this scenery with plenty of room to stretch out, not feeling like I have to keep an eagle eye on my belongings (as I did on the chicken bus) or worry about getting left behind on any stops- these are the some of the things I did not think I could pull off, traveling solo in Africa and were amongst the top reasons I signed up for a group tour. Now that our first real Overland day was finally happening, I was loving it.

As I mentioned earlier, our truck had a unique capability to attract children from all corners. This was doubly so if we were standing still for any period of time, for example at weigh stations or at speed traps or due to minor collisions...all of which we happened to experience on this first day.

This was taken during post fender-bender negotiations, which proved to be lengthy, giving the entire village a chance to come out and gawk at the muzungos.

Add to that, stops for breakfast and lunch (both requiring a full campsite set-up and tear down), and it made for a long day yet no one stressed over the delays since the closer to the mountains we got, the lusher the scenery became. Some members of the group opted to ride on rooftop seats during this portion of the journey but I already had a black eye (as a result of getting kicked in the face during the dive trip), did not have as much faith in my tree ducking ability and had my sister's wedding coming up in a few weeks, so in the interest of familiar harmony and not wanting to task some poor make-up artist with covering up two black eyes, I stayed safely below.

By the time we arrived in the town of Lushoto and the quaint Lawns Hotel, we only had time to set up camp and prepare for dinner. As with most of our campsites, it was on the grounds of an actual hotel, giving us all access to the same amenities as the guests with sturdier, more wall-based accommodations. In most cases, this included a lounge of some kind and this was one of the better ones we encountered. With our chef, Patrick, doing double duty as dj and the Cypriot owner being a gregarious host, we drunkenly danced into the night, all under the guise of celebrating our first day aboard Neema.

This should not have been a problem, we had easy day in Lushoto planned. Here is what the Intrepid trip notes had to say about the day's itinerary: As beautiful as the place is, its real jewels are the local peoples and villages. The area has a reputation for gentle hospitality and we will visit some of the small communities. From our base we will organise a short day's walking trip out to the beautiful Irente viewpoint. On our way back we'll visit a local village.

And here is what I wrote in my journal the following evening: I want to meet the fine person responsible for writing Intrepid's trip descriptions and discuss in utmost detail what a "short day's walking trip" means to him or her. Granted the inclines were gradual enough that it could conceivably be categorized as an easy walk, but short?! That shit was 18 kilometers. We set off at 8am and returned at 3:30pm. What the fuck is short about that? I want to punch that writer in the face But it will be a short punch.

I would also have accepted as a descriptor, a 'lovely' walk, because it certainly was that. Invigorating, informative, hell even, slow-paced would have been accurate. But, c'mon now, 18 kilometers is 11 miles! Normally if someone is going to walk that much, they are going to choose a charity, collect signatures and make an event out of it.

I don't want my rant to imply that I didn't enjoy it, because I truly did. I just might have a called it a night earlier if I had known what lay ahead. (Note to anyone that knows me: Yes, I know I probably would have stayed out just as late, but play along with me here.)

The Irente viewpoint alone was worth the trek. No photo will ever capture how expansive the view is from this point. You feel like you can see clear across Tanzania.

Photo credit: Kristin Black, who rightfully pointed out that I would regret it if I did not get a photo here.

Along the way, our local guide proved expert at spotting chameleons in trees, no small feat considering that these things specialize in camouflaging themselves. I had never thought of chameleons as cute, but I think that is because I had never seen one and its world-weary facial expressions up close. Now I find them puppy-level adorable.

Towards the end of the day, we were asked a question that, at least in my experience, does not come up often. "Would you like to see orphans or blind children?" In that bizarre match-up, the orphans took it in a landslide. I, myself, am not very comfortable with tragedy tourism (ie visiting slums, orphanages, shelters, et al) yet I completely see the value in it for both sides.

This particular visit was, for me, the optimal possible experience. We got to meet the lady who runs the orphanage; a woman whose kindness and compassion crossed all lines of age, race and language. Just listening to her speak about her work and her devotion to the children, all under the age of 5, was as touching an experience as one could hope for. The children, mostly infants and toddlers, were napping, meaning all we did was briefly view them through a window, leaving them unburdened of any forced interaction with yet another tour group. At the end, we made our donations, our tour leader presented them with a Dragoman specified group amount and everyone was the better for it.

While it is entirely possible that one could hire a guide and do the same not-short walk that we did, I think it is highly unlikely that absent either an overland tour or a private vehicle, a traveler would find themselves in the remote town of Lushoto, to begin with. And it was this unexpected benefit that finally lay to rest any lingering concerns I had as to whether I had made the right choice by joining a group, even if it was a group that employed some lying-ass writers...

Zipping through Zanzibar

2011-12-10T11:53:00.001-05:00

It was day 2 of our Overland Truck adventure and we were already ditching the truck and come to think of it, the land, as well. We were taking the ferry to a place whose very name conjures up mystery and exoticism, we were heading to Zanzibar.

Our destined archipelago has been a part Tanzania since 1964, only before that time, there was no Tanzania. The mainland nation was called Tanganyika and only changed its name as a result of its merger with Zanzibar. In other words, Tanganyika + Zanzibar= Tanzania. I imagine this is something that Tanzanian schoolchildren learn pretty early on. Therefore, I am baffled as to why we had to undergo the full customs and immigration process both on entering and exiting Zanzibar City. It's still the same country! You would think that a nation that borders seven different countries would have sufficient real border crossings without having to implement an unnecessary fake one.

Thankfully, all the nonsensical bureaucracy is quickly forgotten once you 'cross over ' into the bustling port city of Stonetown. Colonial and Arabic architectural styles blend to create a unique landscape that invites rambling exploration, something I wanted immediately to do.

But Daniel, our local guide, had other plans. Zanzibar is nicknamed the Spice Islands and Daniel was going to show us why. He took us on a tour, one which seems to be heavily promoted throughout the island, of a spice plantation. He proved to be very enthusiastic and knowledgable about every root, leaf and flower in our path. And were it not my first day in Stonetown, or had I more of an interest in botany, or had I believed that there was even a remote change that I would be able to remember what, say a clove plant looked like or what the complex life cycle of a ginger tree entailed, I might have had more patience for this particular tour.

This might be cotton.

I'm pretty sure these are used in making perfumes.

Thought this might be a coffee tree, but just googled it. Nope.

The highlight of the tour was undoubtedly watching a certifiably crazy man strap a rope-like contraption to his feet and climb to the top of a coconut tree that must have been at least 50 feet tall, all the while singing the catchiest song ever written in any language. Ever. It was the first time I'd heard this cheery ditty and listening to it sung under such incongruous circumstances only added to its charm. However that would soon change. From this point on, Jambo Bwana, a Kenyan welcome song, would be played with such alarming frequency everywhere we went, that it was physically impossible to have a moment without it being stuck it in your head. Just by searching for the video just now, I know I have condemned myself to at least a couple of days of Jambo Bwana. Click the link at your own peril.

After tasting some local fruits and disappointing the plantation staff by not buying any spices to go (seriously though, we still had 2 weeks left on the tour, who wants to lug around a backpack that reeks of cloves for that long?), we went back into town to continue our tour.

Next up was the site where the largest slave market in Zanzibar once stood. The dungeons, where the slaves were held for up to 3 days before being sold remain, but an Anglican church has since been erected where the actual market was held with the alter marking the spot where the whipping post stood.

The wood for this cross comes from a tree growing on the spot where David Livingstone's heart was buried.

One of the two remaining holding cells.

Continuing on was the Old Fort, built by the Omani Arabs as part of their seemingly never-ending struggles with the Portuguese. It is now more shopping mall than defensive fortification, making this a very brief stop, and also the end of our tour.

I felt as if we had checked off most of the boxes on the 'things-to-do' in Stonetown list, but still had not had the opportunity to do what I most wanted, leisurely explore on my own. For this, I envied the British duo who were able to bypass the meeting in Dar and thus spend more time in Zanzibar. If my hindsight glasses had been properly calibrated, I would have definitely done this instead.

View from the Africa House bar, where I missed the actual sunset by just a few minutes.

We did get a short amount of time to explore the following morning and once again before returning to Dar, but it wasn't nearly enough for my taste. I was concerned that this was going to become an issue as the tour went on, me longing to do things my own way, but I can honestly say that this turned out to be the only part when I really wished I'd been on my own.

Most random trivia I learned: this is the house where Queen's Freddy Mercury grew up.

The next two days took us to the western side of the island to Nungwi Village Beach. Where we had been short of time in Stonetown, we were basking in leisure here, with nothing to do but enjoy the perfect weather.

On the second day, a group of us signed up for a dive trip to Mnemba Atoll. We had no way of knowing that we had also signed up for the Gilligan's Island special. I noticed during the boat ride out to the dive site that the captain kept pulling the engine (singular, since the second engine was out for repairs) out of the water, trying to figure out why the boat was going so sluggishly. Once we had rounded the north part of the island, he got his answer. Oscar, the sexy Spanish dive instructor, had lifted one the boat's flooring panels to reveal a good two feet of water threatening to become three.

We were well into the process of sinking, not the most comforting of thoughts in a part of the world not exactly known for safety regulations. Therefore, I have to give kudos to the outstanding Spanish Dancer Divers. They did every single thing right. They steered the boat close enough to shore to allow us to walk onto a pristine beach, even sending a case of water with us for the wait, while they continued to bail water at a furious pace. We watched for well over an hour as they kept the ocean from claiming the dangerously listing boat. Finally, a rescue boat arrived, which I assumed would return us to safety, but these guys were not done impressing us with the bad-assery. (Yes, that is a word- now.) They had transferred all the dive gear and we now continued on to the atoll for two spectacular reef dives.

We later learned that our boat had managed to make it back safely to the Nungwi Inn and had been pulled ashore by 20 or so Africans, singing Swahili songs (probably Jambo Bwana, but I can not confirm that) as they heaved her ashore.

Our vessel: post-incident.

We ended the night, our last one on Zanzibar, at a neighboring bar, where Oscar the Sexy Spaniard™ was holding court. In between shots and booming music (mainly the traditional African sounds of Pitbull...dale!), I pointed out to OtSS my observation, derived from our conversation that night, that he was clearly an adrenaline junkie. His response perfectly summed up both the day and the philosophy of all us that were happily camping our way through Africa, He said (in eloquent Spanish that I am now butchering in translation) "the safest place for a boat is in the harbor, but that's not what it's made for." Can't argue with that.

Country #90: Bouncing into Tanzania

2011-12-01T12:13:00.001-05:00

Although it may not seem like it, there was actually a method to my madness. There was a reason that I voluntarily boarded a local bus for the 13 hour bone-jarring ride from Mombasa to Dar Es Salaam. It is not for naught that I spent more time sitting across from a woman whose carry-on was a cranky and vociferous rooster than I did on my flight from Miami to Amsterdam. It is not without cause that I put myself in a situation where, as the only non-African passport holder, I took the longest being processed at the Kenya/ Tanzania border and subsequently had to run like a crazy woman lest the bus continue on without me. Like the proverbial chicken (but not the one on the lady's lap), I simply had to get to the other side.

This is where I would begin my first Intrepid/ Dragoman overland trip. I confess that in the past, when planning my own travels, I have cribbed many an itinerary from these companies. In many countries, this is actually pretty easy to do, relying on public transportation in lieu of their signature overland trucks, at a fraction of the cost. However, East Africa is different. My experience on the chicken bus had only emphasized my suspicion that this was in no way a practical alternative in this part of the world. So, instead, I had signed up for a 14 day excursion, dubbed the Road to Zanzibar, that would eventually bring me back to Nairobi.
I began my time in Dar Es Salaam by spending a couple of days diving and relaxing north of the city on Jangwani Beach. As the start date of the tour neared, I became eager to meet the group and headed south a day early to Kigamboni, the designated meeting point. Had this place sucked, I probably would have been concerned for what lay ahead, but the Kipepeo Beach Camp, was ideally located on a sandy stretch of Indian Ocean beachfront with a nice veggie-friendly restaurant and some of the coldest beer I had found to date.

I checked into a beach banda and spent the afternoon enjoying not doing much of anything....

...except for diligently trying to avoid the Masaai trinket salesmen. They are like ninjas, these guys. You think there is no one around and all of a sudden you find all sorts of beaded necklaces and knick knacks dangling in your face. Notice how this photo is taken from a distance- that is because they are not permitted onto the Hotel property, as a matter of fact there are plenty of signs advising guests not to buy from them since that only encourages them, so I quickly learned that if I stayed on the 'correct' side of this invisible force field, I was relatively safe.

Later in the day, I decided on a kayaking trip through the Mangroves. Thanks to the extremely low tide, what I actually did was more a 'get out and pull the kayak' kind of outing but it was scenic and my guide was an affable guy who kept the trip entertaining. About mid-trip, he mentioned that he was ready to get married and it took me a moment to realize that what I thought was a casual conversation was actually a marriage proposal. I politely declined and undaunted, he then asked if I had any friends in the US that he could marry. None came to mind but if anyone reading this would like to marry a nice Tanzanian man, who (I think) owns his own kayak, please feel free to leave your info in the comments section.

Slowly, I began meeting the people that would be my traveling companions for the next couple of weeks. First it was Patrick, our jovial Kenyan camp chef with a wonderfully contagious Woody Woodpecker-like laugh and next Olly, our witty, easy-going British tour leader. Through them, I met the group that had just finished the tour I was about to embark on and heard nothing but rave reviews all around.

Day 2 at Kipepeo, which incidentally means "butterfly" in Swahili (and Kipe Fart in Spanish), I got the first taste of setting up my tent and some pretty prime real estate.

But more importantly, I finally got to meet the rest of the group. It was a dream team blend of ages, backgrounds and interests. We had three sweet-natured women from Oregon, who collectively came to be known as "the ladies"; a couple from Washington State who had just climbed Kilimanjaro and who I immediately feared would be fitness freaks (they weren't); two Australian ladies whose long friendship led them into some hilariously vicious bickering and the only other solo traveler, another Aussie, whose impressive camera and quick timing saddled him with the label of 'official photographer'. At our next stop, Zanzibar, we rounded out the team with a pair of fun-loving British friends, who both possessed the preternatural ability to always look clean and pressed, even as the rest of came closer and closer to resembling train-yard hobos and finally Arthur, our soft-spoken Kenyan driver and dancer extraordinaire.

And of course, we were also introduced to Neema, our truck (not bus- not sure why, but this apparently is an issue and I saw t-shirts testily proclaiming that it was NOT A BUS). She was a roomy and surprisingly comfortable conveyance whose carnival-like appearance would draw waving Tanzanian children to the roadside everywhere we went.

It was now time to begin a new phase of this adventure, one that would take us to the beaches of Zanzibar, to the foot of Mt. Kilimanjaro and eventually to a dive bar in the middle of the Serengeti.

Mellow in Mombasa

2011-11-27T14:27:00.001-05:00

On my 3rd day in East Africa, I witnessed one of the odder race demarkations I would see in the course of my stay. I arrived at the Nairobi railway station, surprised to see a line of people standing to one side of the entrance, animatedly screaming at the passing commuters. A closer glance revealed they were selling train tickets! No counter, no computerization, just a bunch of people waving ticket stubs and yelling. Concerned, I turned to the cab driver and asked him if I had to go get my ticket from them. He smiled and said "No, the white people go to the office inside on the right". I did as he said and entered the office that was officially designated for long distance travel. Sure enough, there was an unmistakeable consistency in skin tonality. We were all lily white and were all there to board the Jambo Kenya Deluxe overnight train to Mombasa.

After receiving our cabin assignments, we were sent to a roped off part of the platform that had about 50 white plastic chairs. There was still plenty of time before the train departed so I wandered off in search of a drink but turned back to see concerned glances from the guy in charge of the white chair zone. Apparently, his role is that of a muzungo wrangler. It is his job to keep the white people out of trouble. One British couple told me he had approached them when they opted to sit on a bench with the locals and said "No. You sit there." while pointing to his fiefdom.

The train itself was quite comfortable, although the years have rendered the deluxe label a bit of a stretch. For the price of a first class ticket ($50), I did get my own cabin with a bed and individual sink plus dinner and breakfast served in the dining car. The 12 hours or so passed easily and waking to the screams of kids running from their small villages to wave at the Whitey Express was a cool and unusual experience (albeit one that, were it to take place everyday, would eventually transform me into an expert rock thrower).

My first impression of Mombasa was that it was wet, very very wet. This was also my second and third impression, as well, but I guess this is what is to be expected when you visit a place during what they euphemistically refer to as their "mini- rainy season".

Luckily, I had booked myself at Backpacker's Nirvana, the homiest and most laid-back hostel in all of Kenya. No sooner had I walked in the door than two guests, doctors from the US, invited me to join them on a visit to Old Town. After several days of not having anyone to talk to, I jumped at the chance for company.

We began with a visit to Fort Jesus, a fort built by the Portuguese, taken over by Omani Arabs, reclaimed by the Portuguese and then possibly again by the Omanis- I lost tract by this point- but eventually coming to rest in the hands of the Brits.

The Fort is the anchor tenant, if you will, of the small and lively Old Town. Middle Eastern in nature, the area is a jumble of narrow lanes, postage stamp-sized stores and charming colonial-era architecture. It is immensely walkable and once you get away from the touristic draw of the fort, possesses a relatively low hassle factor. It was, however, at this time also very wet.

Note the work of French street artist Space Invader on the upper part of the wall.

Fort Jesus Lizard (not its scientific name).

Upon leaving the Old Town, we went in search of the iconic Mombasa tusks that were erected in 1952 to commemorate Queen Elizabeth's visit. Twenty-five minutes of walking through downtown Mombasa were soon followed by 30 seconds of "Yep. Those sure are some big (thankfully fake) tusks. Now what?"

The response came courtesy of Backpacker's Nirvana and its welcoming and fun-loving staff. For the next few days, they kept us busy with good conversation, outings to nearby Nyali Beach, bar crawls and in-house movie nights. Even the resident vervet monkeys filled in and did their share, keeping us entertained while we lounged in the garden or on rooftop deck.

On my final day in town, Lesley (the owner) took both myself and a Finnish guest to the nearby town of Kilifi, where we all met up with some of her friends and hung out at a very Key West-ish creek-side bar. Turns out Kilifi is where the sun had been hiding all along..

All in all, it was a very laid-back and enjoyable stay in Mombasa, which was exactly what I needed. I had to carry that serenity with me because although I may have arrived on the Jambo Deluxe, I was soon leaving town on the Ghetto Greyhound.

Kissing giraffes in Kenya: Country # 89

2011-10-14T09:50:00.000-05:00

People often ask me if I get nervous traveling on my own. My answer is usually not. I try to do research beforehand so that I don't find myself staying at the intersection of Murderer's Alley and Pickpocket Place. I try to exercise 'city sense'. I try not to look like I'm packing a ton of cash (this one comes really easy, somehow). And I always try to look like I know where I am going (this is one: not so easy.) Yet none of these made me feel 100% confident heading into a city, affectionately known by friend and foe alike as "Nairobbery". Tales of general lawlessness abounded and seeing as I was set to start a safari in two weeks, one that required a large cash payment, I felt like a veritable walking ATM.

To allay these concerns, I initially based myself in the 'burbs. I went straight from Kenyatta Airport to the Bush House and Camp, a lovely guesthouse located in the Karen district. This area, named after Karen Blixen, the author of Out of Africa, is where affluent Kenyans and ex-pats live in massive gated mansions with ever-present armed guards keeping watch. It is not the most exciting part of town but it is the safest.

Fortunately, there were a couple of choice spots in the area to keep me entertained. First on the agenda was The David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust. I saw that TripAdvisor ranked this as the #1 attraction in all of Nairobi but the description itself did not do much to sell it. For one hour each day, visitors can watch as caretakers feed and interact with orphaned elephants. Um, ok. Doesn't sound bad but this is a city that has a wildlife park within its city limits, a museum that houses some of the most important archeological finds regarding early man in the entire world and a center where you can kiss a giraffe. I would expect you'd have to do more to hit the #1 spot than simply parading around some cute elephants. And then I went to the orphanage. It is not just the elephants that are remarkable but the people responsible for their well-being. They take on the role of mother and care giver to over 40 baby elephants, who have been injured or orphaned, usually as a result to poaching. These calves, who are fully dependent on mother's milk for the first two years of their lives, would have 0% chance of survival in the wild. At the orphanage, they are fed and nurtured 24 hours a day. This includes having a care giver sleep in a hammock in the elephant's stall in order to give him or her with the sense of security that the mother would normally provide. The humans rotate from stall to stall so that the elephants don't form a bond with a specific caretaker as that would cause the animal to suffer and probably refuse to eat if that person ever had a day off. By the time the orphans reach the age of three, the process of reintroducing them into the wild begins. They are relocated to Tsavo National Park, where another set of care givers watches over them until they are fully integrated into a wild family, a process that can take up to ten years.

During the hour-long visit, guests are arranged into a circle while the volunteers bring out the first group of the orphans, those 2 years of age and under. Listening to the volunteers explain the circumstances the led to each individuals' arrival is heart-breaking and makes the sight of these obviously happy and playful youngsters enough to bring a tear to the most stoic eye. (Note: I'm not all that stoic, I was on the verge of open sobbing for the duration of the hour).

Next up was the 2-3 years old. By this age, they are beginning to develop tusks and if this particular afternoon was representative of the norm, they tend to be a bit rowdier, kicking over milk bottles, spraying dirt at anyone and everyone, and rough-housing with both the caretakers and each other.

On the way out of the center, there is a desk where it is possible to foster an orphan for $50 a yr. After witnessing the work done at this center, guests were lined up to donate all the way to the far gate. It was now clear why so many TripAdvisor reviewers had voted this place #1. Watching the love and respect that is lavished on these vulnerable creatures is beautiful beyond words.

As for #2 on that list, the Kazuri Beads Factory, no. Just no. What is wrong with you people? It is a frigging bead factory and jewelry shop! It is the mandatory stop on an organized tour that you grin and bear, not the #2 attraction in Nairobi.

Also probably not worthy of that title, yet way better, was my next stop, the Giraffe Center, a giraffe conservation and breeding center on same grounds as the famous (and stupid expensive) Giraffe Manor hotel, the one where curious giraffes poke their heads into guest rooms.

My reason for coming here was simple. I wanted to kiss a giraffe. Thanks to a platform that puts you eye to eye with the resident Rothschild giraffes, I felt this was as good a place as any to check this particular item off the bucket list. Upon reaching the platform, visitors are given a handful of giraffe chow and warned about their propensity for head butting. I watched as people hand fed Daisy, a notorious head-butter, and her younger (and shorter) friend but no one was going tongue to excessively long black tongue with the giraffes.

I was not sure about the etiquette involved so I approached a volunteer and asked (1) how does one get to first base with a giraffe and (2) would he be willing to take over my camera and record this magic moment. The answer to the first question was obvious. You stick a food pellet between your lips and wait. It was the second part of my inquiry that proved more troublesome. Daisy was too quick to snatch the pellets out of my mouth causing the poor volunteer to repeatedly miss 'the' shot. I would place the pellet just so, get a face full of slobber and look over to find the photographer shaking his head and suggesting I try it again. This must have happened, no exaggeration, at least a half dozen times before he got both myself and Daisy in the frame. In the meantime, the coarse hair around her mouth was beginning to give me an itchy rash.

This alone should have been reason to be happy with my one good photo and simply walk away. But, for reasons that I can not explain, I decided I wanted a shot from the other angle. Another 5-6 tongue baths later, I got my photo and a case of whisker burn that stayed with me for the next couple of days. Imagine having to explain that to a dermatologist...

After such a friendly and fulfilling first day in Nairobi, I began to think that perhaps the dangers of the city had been exaggerated. That is, until day 2, when the country declared war on its neighbor to the north, Somalia and military tanks paraded through downtown streets (but stayed clear of the Karen district so I only saw them on tv). I took this as a cue to get out of town and hopped on a southbound train to Mombasa.

But instead of talking about Mombasa right now, I want to do like they do in those cool non-linear films where they play fast and loose with the chronology of events, the ones where you are not sure what happened when. I want to jump to one month later, when I have already done an overland trip through Tanzania and (spoiler alert) seen four of the 'big five' animals. I am now back in Nairobi, but am no longer carrying stacks of cash and after a couple of weeks camping in small villages, am craving the conveniences of city life. Despite a State Dept. warning that had been issued due to the ongoing conflict, Nairobi did not seem so scary anymore. I checked into Milimani Backpackers, walking distance from the center of town.

From here, I was able to explore the surprisingly compact downtown area, visit the very impressive Nairobi National Museum (a must see for any budding creationist), watch a spirited performance of tribal dances at Bomas (where I had the 'honor' of being the token muzungo who gets pulled onto the stage and 'asked' to join in) and take a tour Karen Blixen house (small and seeing as she sold off most of her things before leaving Africa, not really worth the cost of admission).

But, undoubtably, the highlight and strongest contender for the #2 spot, was the Nairobi National Park. This wildlife preserve is only 7 kilometers from the city center, meaning that you could, in theory, be watching lions hunt down a herd of buffalo while still taking in the downtown skyline. According to their website, the park is home to '400 species of birds, 80 species of mammals, 40 species of reptiles, and amphibians, and over 500 plant species. ' More amazingly, it is not completely fenced in, so I had a couple of cab drivers tell me of seeing giraffes grazing by the side of the road leading to the nearby domestic airport.

At first I was a bit put off by the price. It is $40 for non-residents to enter the park and most tour agencies charge over $100 to drive you around the park. With some haggling, you can get a cab to take you around for around $70, but sitting in a small sedan is hardly the ideal scenario for spotting wildlife. This is why I was stunned to learn that there is such a better option available that gets no mention in any of the travel sites and boards I visited.

If this blog post does nothing else, I want it to convey this very important information: If you go to the front gate of the park, you can pay $50- total- and this will get you both admission to the park and a seat in an open safari vehicle, driven by the park's own wardens, the people who know it best, for a 2 1/2- 3 hour game drive. The only catch is that they need a minimum of 2 people to run the tour and as I was by myself and this fantastic service is not advertised, not even on the park's own website, there are not many walk-ups. On my last day in Nairobi, I still had not found anyone else willing to join me but I decided to show up and hope for the best. I arrived around 4pm, hoping for a late afternoon drive (note: if you go, try for either for sunrise or sunset since the animals will be hiding from the heat during all the in between hours and you won't see squat.) I planted myself by the front gate and waited for about 10- 15 minutes until a guard took pity on me. She heard my plight and took it upon herself to find another body to stick in that jeep. I saw as she approached everyone who neared the gate until eventually she convinced a family of 4 Kenyans (who pay $5 for adults, $2 for children) that what they wanted more than anything was to do a safari on this day.

Right off the bat, we saw the 5th of the Big Five animals, the only one that had eluded me all month. The "big five" was a designation coined by hunters (aka assholes) for the five animals that were most difficult to hunt on foot: the lion, buffalo, elephant, leopard and rhinoceros. Nowadays, the goal is to try to spot and photograph all five on a safari. And with that in mind, I present, not one but two rhinos:

Note the city skyline in the background. How cool is that?

Shortly after the rhino spotting, the rains rolled in and the animals rolled out. We did see some spectacular landscapes as well as buffalo, hartebeests impala, zebras and giraffes that allowed to get quite close.

We searched in vain for lions and leopards, creatures that are difficult to spot in the best of circumstances, much lest in the midst of a torrential downpour, prompting our guide to issue an unnecessary apology at the end of the drive and lament that the animals "had been naughty".

But the animals had just shown the sense to get out of the rain. And regardless of all the warnings and admonitions I'd heard, no one else in Nairobi had been 'naughty', either. As a matter of fact the only crime I experienced during my time in East Africa was outside the Ngorongoro Crater, when a felonious hawk swooped in and swiped the sandwich I was about to take a bite out of. But now I'm getting ahead of myself...

Monkey Mania

2011-09-30T17:09:00.384-05:00

All animal lovers have one species that they adore above all others. For me, it is cats. I find their elegance and independence inspirational. In a few days, I am setting off to Kenya to try to see, for the first time, a leopard in the wild. But I have not done this yet. So, that brings me to my second favorite animal group, primates. (Note: If anyone takes it upon themselves to read this to my two beloved shih-poo's, or more alarmingly if those deceptive bastards have been hiding the gift of literacy from me and are reading this for themselves, what I really mean is dogs #1, then cats, then primates. 'kay.)

A couple of weeks back I had the chance to visit a place so cool that to call it a zoo would be to do it a disservice. It is a nature park, one that just so happens to have over 30 species of primates. One that was started by a photographer and owner of two tamarins, 40 years ago, who hit upon the revolutionary idea of letting his growing brood of monkeys run free with no cages or restraints to inhibit them from socializing, either with each other or with their human admirers. One that now boasts one of the most successful breeding programs in the world.

This magical place is the Apenheul, from the Dutch words for 'monkey' and 'safe haven', and is located in the otherwise unremarkable town of Apeldoorn. I had heard of it years earlier but was persuaded to finally make the almost 2 hour journey by some billboards scattered throughout Amsterdam announcing the arrival of Europe's only proboscis monkeys, some of the funniest looking creatures imaginable and oddly enough, what appeared to me one of the park's rare missteps, but more on that later.

Shortly after entering the park, and receiving a map and feeding schedule, you come upon the first 'exhibit', an uncountable number of squirrel monkeys and it is immediately clear how ingenious the concept is. A series of rope bridges and platforms allow the monkeys to freely traverse the area high above the heads of the visitors, and many were doing just this.

Others preferred to mix and mingle amongst the delighted humans. They seemed most enamored of small kids and particularly their strollers, I suspect because of the fact that human offspring tend to be hungry little slobs and the chances of finding discarded snacks in pockets and crevices of said conveyances runs high. But it wasn't all scavenging, there was what seemed to be genuine curiosity going on, as well. At one point, I sat on a wall to review some photos I had taken. Minutes later, I had a monkey sitting on my lap, watching me quizzically. I tried to explain to him that I had bought a new photography book and was trying to play with different aperture settings, but all curiosity has its limit and he soon took off. I did not. I lingered there for well over an hour before looking at my map (and watch) and realizing that I could easy spend the entire day there but would end up missing a lot of park- and monkeys.

Before I left the squirrel monkey area, I approached one of many caretakers and asked a question I could not figure out an answer for. Next up was the howler monkey area, but I wanted to know, since there were no cages or fences to speak of, what kept the squirrel monkeys from paying the howler monkeys or eventually the fine citizens of Apeldoorn a visit. She pointed out that we were on an island. It was the water and an eye towards keeping nicely trimmed tree tops that kept the monkeys local. Brilliant! This freedom of movement allows them to form strong social groups and live much as they would in the wild, but with the added bonus of those daily feeding times.

I was curious how they would handle the issue with the larger and potentially more aggressive primates. I soon learned via the bonobo island. Here it was the humans that were moated off, leaving these close cousins of the chimpanzees large islands with plenty of space to roam and play.

The next interactive area, always announced by a preponderance of "Stop eating and put your food away, now!" signs, was the lemur area. I wandered through, read the informative displays and spotted maybe 3-4 lemurs tops. It was cool because, you know, they're lemurs. But it felt I was being short-changed some over-caffeinated little monkeys, there should have been more. And then there were more. Lots more. I have no clue where they came out of but while I had my back turned, a lemur flash mob had overtaken a small grassy area. They hung out for awhile, posed for some pics until someone must have given the signal and they all cut a path through the crowd and disappeared back into the woods.

Of all the shows and feedings offered, I attended only one, the gorilla's. It was entirely in Dutch, so I have no clue what was said but did get to watch a large, gorgeous family of mountain gorillas interact for 45 minutes. Due to their unique approach, the Apenheul has on the world's leading gorilla breeding programs, with five babies born this year alone, and is the first to have the babies reared by their natural mothers. Apparently nursing is a learned behavior in gorillas, so most zoo moms have no clue how to care for their young who are quickly handed over to zookeepers, but since the Apenheul's gorillas live in natural families, the mamas learn from watching the older females.

At one point during the presentation, I couldn't help but notice that the proud and handsome silverback gorilla was very concentratedly taking a shit into his own hand. This was followed by another unmistakeable observation. He was putting hand to mouth and contently munching on the surely still warm turd. He did this again. And again. I have no idea if the zookeeper acknowledged this to his audience of Dutch schoolchildren, but this moment will always stand out as the time when I most wished I understood the language.

Next up, was the newest arrival, the three highly-promoted proboscis monkeys. Whether due to lack of (hopefully pending) habitat, or as I overhead some guests say, high sensitivity to cold, they were enclosed in a pair of cement rooms with a lame tree doing a poor job of simulating a natural environment. The rest of the park is too well-done and their animals too healthy and well-adjusted for me to think that this is an oversight or negligence on their part. I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt and assuming there was a good reason for the crap conditions and some plan in place to remedy the situation.

As if to prove the point, the orangutan exhibit was simply amazing. A grouping of islands, separated from visitors, but connected to each other via intricate rope swings and bridges, it was a oranga-Disney created with their happiness and well-being in mind. The signs explained that to keep them from getting bored, the ropes are changed around often and their food hidden throughout the islands to keep them mentally sharp. Watching them romp and play, there was no question that it was working.

Recreating the rocky, desert-like conditions of Gibraltar was the Barbary monkey exhibit. One interesting tidbit there was the fact that in order to prevent a population explosion, the females are kept on birth control. Every year, a few are taken off the pill, in alternating order but the dominant female is always allowed to procreate. The reason for this: if they don't let her, she will simply pull a Raising Arizona and steal someone else's baby.

Credit must be given to the Dutch people for the success of this zoo. The children tend to actually heed the many signs prohibiting visitors from touching or feeding the monkeys. And if the slow kid in class goes ahead and provokes some poor primate, resulting in a well-deserved bite, there in not a court in the Netherlands that would entertain the lawsuit. I shudder to think what would happen if someone attempted to open a similar park in the US.

After six hours in the park, I still had a good bit to cover and a quickly approaching closing time, so my time with the gibbons, spider monkeys and wooly monkeys was not a bit rushed, which is a shame because all three of those are some darned entertaining monkeys.

Still, it is impossible to complain after having a chance to spend the day cavorting with my second favorite animals. Second. You hear that leopards? I'm heading your way. Don't let me down. (Note to Spike and Zooey: after shih-poo's of course, you secret-keeping furballs!)

Country #88: Hello, Malta...

2011-08-28T06:17:00.000-05:00

I'll be honest. If the itty bitty island nation of Malta had never achieved its independence (something it did in 1964), I probably would have never given it a second glance. My decision to visit recently was primarily born out of my quest for numbers. Much as I hate to admit it, I am quickly becoming a numbers slut. Malta's appeal lay in its potential to become my 88th country. And as I slowly close in on the milestone #100th country, this quest of mine is becoming more and more of a challenge. Many of the remaining lands are either too remote, too expensive or too dangerous.

But not Malta. It sits 60 miles south of Sicily, is priced comparably to the rest of western Europe and offers as its biggest threat the risk of a nasty sunburn- something which, after a soggy Amsterdam summer, didn't sound so bad to me. Later, a closer look revealed that Malta had more to offer than just another notch on my geographic bedpost.
For starters, its wee-ness made it a perfect spot for a weekend getaway. Within two hours of landing at Malta International Airport, I had already made myself comfortable at the immediately welcoming Hostel Malti, had them re-work their menu for the following evening's now more veggie-friendly bar-b-que and found myself hanging out at a sun-soaked cafe in nearby Balluta Bay.

This would be a spot I would return to often over the course of the next three days as it was here that I, in theory, would catch the public buses that would take me from one end of Malta to the other. In reality, the entire nation had within the last week switched to the services of Arriva buslines, a British outfit that had, to put it lingo they would understand, bloody buggered their rollout in the arse. Everything was at a standstill and no one knew which bus went where or when. Locals and tourists alike were outraged. The only agreed upon fact was that they sucked, although the question of just how badly they sucked was still very much open to debate. The bus stops had become de facto war zones and my time was limited, so I hopped onto plan B. And then I hopped off, that is, before hopping back on. In other words, I joined the other Arriva-hating travelers (and probably some fed up locals) on one of the omnipresent hop-on/ hop-off double decker buses.

Included in the price of the 15 euro ticket was a two hour harbor cruise. This was an ideal opportunity to get a maritime perspective of the surroundings, as centuries of invaders had once done before me. I learned that everyone from the Phoenicians to the Greeks, the Romans, the Normans, the Sicilians, the French and yes, the still troublesome Brits had had a go at them at some point, usually from one of the harbour channels I was sailing in and out of. In addition to a quick history lesson, the boat trip proved to be a welcome chance to become reacquainted with that big orange orb floating overhead. I even had a chance to whip out a long-neglected tube of sunscreen.

The captain pointed out the points of interest, most of them defensive fortifications of one kind or another. I guess it is to be expected that if someone has as many unannounced visitors as Malta has had, there will be steps taken to address this. Now, centuries later, it has spawned a booming business in the area of fort restoration, as there were multiple multi-million euro projects underway.

Another welcome surprise was the loveliness of the capital city, Valletta. Built almost entirely of the locally-quarried honey colored limestone, the town takes on a dreamlike stuck-in-time kind of feel. If you were to turn a corner and run into a guy wearing full conquistador garb, it would not seem out of place.

It soon became obvious that if a structure was not a fort, odds are good it was a church. Judging by architecture alone, they are one Jesus-y loving people in Malta. There is a church on every corner and the few buildings that have not been recruited into godly pursuits still feature some holy character lolling around the facade. The effect is only heightened during the almost daily saint's day celebrations taking place throughout the country.

Day two brought no improvement in the Arriva debacle, so I headed south on yet another hop-on/ hop-off tour. (Malta sightseeing offers 3 tours on the main island of Malta: a night tour, which is the one I took on day one after the boat trip; one that covers the north of the country and one that covers the south and another on the island of Gozo. Their rival company, City sightseeing, offers more or less the same, but with much fewer buses and longer delays).

The first spot I opted to hop off at was the Tarxien Temples, a set of ruins dating back to 3000 BC. I was hoping to also visit the nearby Hypogeum ruins, but it turns out that is something that should be reserved ahead of time. Both groupings of ruins are UNESCO world heritage sites, but Tarxien is apparently the smaller of the two.

Next stop was the Marnaxlokk fishing village -slash- souvenir flea market. This is the spot to observe the typical Maltese fishing boats, which painted in bright colors and always feature an Egyptian eye for good luck. It is also the site of a bunch of seaside cafes, specializing in pasta, seafood...

and some quick-ass salads.

My final stop was at the Blue Grotto, a series of caves that capture the sunlight in such a way as to make the water glow a dazzling aquamarine color. To best appreciate this effect, there are 30 minute boat trips that take visitors past the sheer cliffs and in and out of the better caves.

I finished off the night with a spectacular (and very veggie friendly) bar-b-que back at the hostel, discussing plans for my next visit with Chris, my hospitable host. Oh yes, I fully intend to return, only next time, it won't be just to rack up a number, it will be because of Malta's all-around coolness. And maybe, just maybe, the Arriva buses will have figured things out by then...

The incredible vastness of Anchorage

2011-07-19T04:45:00.002-05:00

Man, what a difference a month makes. At this moment, I am settled in and cozy in my summer home of Amsterdam, a place I totally adore. I love that I am never lost for more than 5 minutes, as there is always a recognizable landmark right around the corner. I love the fact that it is a world class destination yet still very much a small city. I love the gezelligheid-ness of it all. If I wanted to look for the polar (no pun intended) opposite, I would have to, say, finally download the photos from my camera and check out some pictures I snapped in early June during a four day stay in Anchorage, Alaska.

Sure, Anchorage proper is a tiny city, certainly smaller than Amsterdam but just try to put together a descriptive sentence about any city in Alaska without resorting to the adjective "vast" and see how well you do. It's just not possible. The spaces are so open, the mountains so present, the sky so...vast.

With only 22 hours of daylight (per day!) at our disposal, it was tough deciding what to do first. We arrived late on the first day, so the answer was self-evident.

We waited around until midnight to watch the sunset. Had tiredness not set in, we could have then waited an additional two hours and also caught the sunrise.

But, the next day was road trip day. Piled into a van/ car caravan, nine of us headed south on the Seward highway, one of the most scenic roads in all of the US (this is not only my opinion, it is also a statement that is in every single piece of Alaskan travel literature that has ever been written). Past experience has taught me that the wildlife in this part of the world, abundant as it may be, will always stay impossibly far outside the range of my camera lens. Seriously, on this visit alone, I walked across town to a salmon run viewing creek and did not find as much as a goldfish, only bored and bewildered fishermen. I have also seen enough stunning nature pics to know that this is a problem that is very specific to me and me only. But, since there is not much I can do about being me, I simply took a different approach. Our first stop was the Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center, a place where we would be guaranteed to see moose, elk, musk oxen and other assorted Northern ungulates, all in an open and natural setting.

The stated philosophy behind this organization is to tend to injured and orphaned wildlife until they can be reintroduced into the wild, however every animal I asked about was set to live out the rest of its life at the facility, usually because it had become too accustomed to humans, so I'm not too sure how to feel about the whole thing. It felt more like a zoo under the guise of a nobler purpose. Next time, I think I'll try my admittedly minimal luck at finding these creatures minus the wire fencing.

Continuing on, we went around the corner to the Portage Glacier info center/ souvenir shop/ boat tour boarding place. They fit a lot into this space is all I'm saying. It was here that we began our one hour tour out to the quickly receding Portage Glacier. The time to reach the glacier was maybe 10 minutes, tops, meaning we had plenty of glacier viewing time. I can now safely say that I have viewed this particular glacier from every possible angle, short of actually walking atop it.

Following the Seward Highway through mountain passes truly worthy of all the hype, we eventually reached the tiny- yet super duper vast- town of Seward (anyone else sense a theme, name-wise, at play here?). It was the perfect combination of natural beauty and little artsy- hippie town. If I had not had to return to Anchorage, I would have loved to have spent a night or two there, by which time, I would no doubt have met all the locals and become conversant in the latest neighborhood gossip.

We spent the next couple of days luxuriating under amazing skies and marveling at spectacular views, all from Anchorage's outdoor cafes. Hard to imagine this was only 30-some days ago as I now pack up my laptop and head out to a charming 20-seat, 16th century canal-side brown cafe, one which could be described in innumerable ways, but never, ever as vast.

Paraguay: Country #87 on #200.

2011-06-27T00:01:00.000-05:00

Last month's visit to Paraguay was special for three diverse but equally important reasons.

1) It was my first time visiting this small land-locked country, thus making it eligible for the list. In the highly competitive game of Counting Countries, Paraguay now ranks as my 87th nation.

2) My friend, who for purposes of protecting the innocent, will only be referred to as Akapero, had recently moved to Asuncion and was, within a short time, firmly entrenched in the expat community. He was a knowledgable and enthusiastic guide whose only payment was the delivery of roughly 100+ pounds of Cuban food and coffee makers. Yes, plural.

3) We happened to be there on May 14, 2011, otherwise known as the date of their bicentennial celebration. While this may be a fact of whose importance I was unaware beforehand, it was certainly unmistakable once we landed in the capital city.

The entire city was decked out to par-tay. From the swathing of every possible surface in red, white and blue to the closure of the entire city center to all forms of vehicular traffic, these people clearly meant business.

And the funny thing was how contagious their enthusiasm was. Within hours of arriving, we were all donning our own red, white and blue accessories and waving Paraguayan flags. Had we known their national anthem, chances are good we would have been belting that out as well. Instead, we settled for appreciating some of the local food and drink.

Particularly, the drink part. Although the locals seemed to fall just this side of teetotalers, our small group did our best to insure the continued success of the local brew.

Between Pilsens, we got the chance to talk to fellow revelers, many of whom were surprised to find tourists in their midsts (one guy, trying to figure out why exactly I was there, asked me if I was with the Peace Corp) but all who were justifiably proud of their country. They were, without exception, kind and welcoming people who were eager to teach us about their history. It was particularly refreshing to find that despite the inevitable colonialism by the Spaniards, the Paraguayans had managed to retain their indigenous language. Although everyone spoke perfect Spanish in conversation with us, I couldn't help but notice that once they were speaking amongst themselves, they would switch to Guarani.

We even got the chance to attend some of the scheduled events, including a naval parade (great if you are into war ships, I guess) and some fireworks displays but primarily we devoted our time to celebrating Akapero's new home town, its 200th year of independence and my 87th country. Ok, that last one may have just been me....

WHALE SHARKS!!

2011-06-26T13:28:00.001-05:00

A couple of years ago, when I was in Djibouti, I was told by a hotel concierge that there was chance I could swim with the world's largest fish, the whale shark. I immediately ran to my bag, threw on a swimsuit and began thinking of names for my new aquatic pal. No sooner had I settled on Spot (for obvious reasons) than I was informed that they were going too deep to be able to swim with them. I'd been ditched by the whale sharks.

Years prior to that, I was in the Galapagos swimming with sea lions when the guide told me a story about a time he was leading a group through the same area when a whale shark unexpectedly decided to join them. The guide was new to the area and not familiar with this particular species, so in an inspired show of bravery and leadership, he high-tailed it out of there, leaving a very freaked out group to fend for themselves. I took this as a cue to constantly keep my eyes peeled, certain that I would have my chance to see one. Armed with the knowledge that big as they are, whale sharks are gentle vegetarian plankton eaters, it mattered not one whit to me if the guide chose to stick around or not. Again, I was left wanting. Until now...

That is because last week, joined by my intrepid pal, Ivon, we headed down to Holbox (pronounced Hol-bosh), a small island off of the Yucatan peninsula. And by headed down, I mean we flew into Cancun, took a 3+ hour bus ride to Chiquila and followed that with a 30 minute ferry to this wonderfully under-developed isle. The reason for this mini-odyssey is because from mid-May to the end of August, the waters surrounding Holbox become home to, you guessed it, loads and loads of whale sharks.

After planning this itinerary , breathlessly entitled- what else- "WHALE SHARKS 2011!!", I found out that it is also possible to see them off of Isla Mujeres, a much closer ride from Cancun. This would mean, however, that you would miss out on what has be the most laid-back island I've ever come across. Seriously, the stress level of the inhabitants has to fall somewhere between zero and help me, I'm slipping into a coma.

The island has hardly any cars. If you want to get around, you'd best have a golf cart, a bicycle or a pair of feet (just the feet, blissfully, shoes anywhere on Holbox are strictly optional). The few roads are unpaved and no building over 3 stories mars the scenery. Even the dogs, of which there are plenty, are so chill, you except them to bust out with a Bob Marley tune at any moment.

It would also mean missing out on the best thought-out hostel I've ever encountered. Built from scratch by a fun-loving Slovenian/ Italian couple, the Tribu hostel is the kind of place that forces you to rework your travel plans in order to stay longer. It's spacious, cheery and happens to have the most happening bar on the island. Most of the locals we'd seen in "town" turned up for the hostel's Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n Roll theme party.

It was the through the hostel that we booked our whale shark tour, at a fraction of the cost I'd seen online. And, they were able to put us on one of the few boats that did not include fishing on its itinerary, since I did not want the magic of sharing time and space with these magnificent creatures tainted by a subsequent fishy massacre.

Come morning time, the few tourists on the island sleepily gathered on the dock to set off in search of Spot and his marine buddies. This was finally happening!! There was a total of six of us on our vessel, Ivon, myself, a couple from Mexico and another from Pittsburgh plus a guide and a captain. The ocean wasn't exactly calm but it wasn't anything too dramatic, either. Or so I thought.

By the time, an hour into our voyage, that we slowed down, having received reports that they were in the area, the two guys on board chose to expedite the detection process by vigorously and repeatedly chumming the waters. It was synchronized puking from bow to stern. Not to make a gender bias statement here, but I should point out that the four of us females on board spent this time cheerily scanning the horizon and itching to get in the water. It did not take long before we spotted our first whale shark. Measuring only about 12 feet, it was a baby, but s/he made an impressive polka-dotted sight. Ivon and I were the first to go in. The instructions were simply enough. Don't touch the whale shark, just wait until he passes you and swim like hell. I excelled at the first part, but was so awestruck watching this beautiful, graceful "thing" pass right by me, that by the time I remembered the swimming part, s/he was long gone. And once they are gone, I don't care if you are Michael Phellps, pre-bong hit, you are simply not catching up to a whale shark. The entire episode lasted about 2 minutes. Back on board, the guys maintained their sickly green pallor, so Ivon went back in with one of the girls to swim with a new bigger whale shark and reported a better sighting the second time around.

Then, it was my turn to go in with the other woman and the new whale shark. This time, I was ready. The Captain gave the signal to jump in and immediately there was this gorgeous, plankton-happy whale shark swimming directly underneath me (not to mention, a large school of sardines seeking protection underneath him/her) . It's tail was swishing by so closely, I was prepared to get thwacked at any moment but luckily, s/he had a much better grasp on depth perception than I. I swam alongside this one for maybe a minute or so, marveling at the sheer size of him or her. I'd expected to feel a tremendous adrenaline rush, swimming with something so massive, but the truth is, at no point was I nervous or scared. The feeling of awe was so over-whelming that all other sensations ceased to register.

The guide tried, in vain, to get the guys to jump in the water and experience this for themselves. No chance. With the weather quickly deteriorating, there was only time for one more swim. This time, 3 of us went in with the guide. The captain had found yet another whale shark for us, there was easily a dozen or so in the area, and positioned us just so. He explained to me that when he gave the signal, I should just jump in and swim- no looking around for the whale shark, just head down and start kicking. I did as I was told and for a few moments, saw nothing but murky darkness. All of a sudden, out of the void, coming head-on was this gargantuan, open-mouthed semi-truck of a fish. It was the biggest one, yet, and here we were, literally face to face. At the very last moment, she dipped down and swam just inches beneath me, giving me ample time to turn and around and swim alongside her, all the while, fascinated by the rhythmic workings of her mega-gills. I stayed with her for a total of probably 3-4 minutes. If the English language has words to accurately describe such an experience, I can honestly say I'm not aware of them. All I am left with is "amazing" and I know I am falling way short.

All told, we put in easily over 10 hours of travel time for what would amount to about 10 minutes of human to whale shark interaction and even if the island had not been as idyllic as it was, it still would have been totally worth it.

But it was idyllic and then some. One tradition we quickly established was the daily trip to a nearby tiki hut/ beach bar with $2 beers, priceless sunsets and the occasional frolicking dolphin.

On our third day, we awoke to the unmistakeable sounds of a downpour. Had this been our first day or had we not already swam with whale sharks, this would have been disastrous. But it wasn't and we had, so it became a perfect day for lazing around, the island's seemingly raison d'etre. We saw plenty of people walking in the warm rain, not an umbrella in sight, and eventually joined them. When the weather began clearing up, I found a guy advertising tours and asked him about visiting some nearby islands. Yes, he had that tour. Yes, we could sign up. That settled, I asked when the tour would depart. His response, delivered in a tone that tip-toed the linguistic line between 'When else would it be?' and 'You're a little slow, aren't you?' was simply "When the sun comes out." Well, it never did. So instead, we hired a driver with a golf cart to navigate the many puddles and drive us around. We covered all the navigable parts of the island. We stopped to look at beaches. We paused to photograph flamingoes. We learned the latest island gossip. All within the span of an hour.

So it was back to the lounging on the beach and we had earned it. After all, following so many failed attempts, we had finally done it. We had hung out with Spots 1, 2 and 3. We had, and I can't stress this enough, swam with WHALE SHARKS!!

In the words of DL Roth: "Panama!!!"

2011-05-29T17:19:00.002-05:00

A good day: Finding out that my job is taking me to Panama, a country I've never really had a chance to explore, and I will now have time to do just that. A great day: Learning that we are going to be accompanied by my buddy, Gabe, a real-life Panamanian who is eager to show us the sights and is unafraid of joining the demolition derby that passes for driving in his lovely city. A "how could this possibly get any better?" day": Enjoying a fine afternoon in said city with the aforementioned Panamanian when a text comes in informing me that my next trip will be...wait for it...to Panama.

Thus I found myself in Panama City twice (for a combined total of roughly 4 days) in the last three weeks. By no conceivable account is that enough time to appreciate everything there is to see but it is certainly a good start. (Note to Francisco, my Panamanian friend who might mistakenly thinks I will stop nagging him now about a Panamanian getaway: the operative word in that previous sentence was "start." I want more!!!)

So anyways, when I do return with Francisco- subtle enough?- there is one area we'll have to go to . It is the colonial heart of Panama City, known as Casco Viejo (which to me translates as Old Helmet, but my Spanish is very Cuban-ified, so I could be mistaken). At one point in time, this historic area fell into some serious disrepair but it's now undergoing strenuous revitalization and is the site of plenty of cool bars, restaurants and hippie hangouts. Pastel painted homes now double as art galleries and in a truly inspired feat of reinvention, a seawall turned dungeon prison has become a fine-dining restaurant/ jazz bar. Gabe took us to Las Bovedas, as it is now called, which has no set menu, only a blackboard listing what I assume are the catches of the day. One word of advice to vegetarians: bring some chalk, because that is the best chance you will have of seeing a veg entree in this fish-crazed land.

To me, the best thing about Old Helmet was just wandering around, taking in the easy vibe and checking out the old homes while getting to peek into people's lives, something which is very easy to do with the large windows and open courtyard-style that is so prevalent in colonial architecture.

No peeking here but I was told that Ruben Blades, the salsa singer turned politico, lives in the yellow building on the left but I have no independent confirmation of this. Perhaps I could call the number on the "for rent" sign and inquire.

Going from old to older, I awoke early the second day to check out the ruins I had noticed on the way into town from the airport. They were in la Ciudad Antigua (the ancient city), a protected area, revealing the site of Panama's first settlement. Some ruins, dating back to 1519, are said to be the remains of the first European city on the Pacific Ocean. The mini-metropolis thrived until 1671 when, in an act of foreshadowing for soccer hooligans worldwide, el pirata Morgan arrived and screwed up the party for everyone else. Morgan and his 1400 men came to loot and pillage (and do other pirate stuff) but the local General one-upped them by setting his own city aflame. The entire town was destroyed and never rebuilt. What remains is now being threatened by a more powerful and insidious foe: pollution. There is a major road (the one leading from the airport) that passes immediately alongside the ruins and is causing great harm to the ancient city. My cab driver told me that there is a proposal afoot to close off the area to all vehicular traffic. Francisco, won't it be interesting to see if this actually happens?

The modern day view from the Ciudad Antiqua.

Of course, it is not possible to come here and not see tourist destination #1, the engineering marvel that is the Panama Canal. In just two short visits, I can honestly say that I have seen this famed waterway from quite a number of angles. First, Gabe took us to watch the sunset at a laid back canal-side bar, gazing upon the Bridge of the Americas and sipping on Panama beers.

This bridge, built in 1962, crosses the Pacific approach to the Canal.

Next, we spent some time at the official visitor's center and scenic overlook watching ships go through the first (or last, depending on which way you are going) of the three locks.The 48 mile canal is the chief conduit for nautical traffic looking to cross from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean (or vice versa). During our time at the Miraflores Locks, we got to witness a small sightseeing ship (pictured below), a cargo ship and a mondo-cruise liner all go through the two step process, which raises (or lowers) the boats a total of 54 feet.

Due to the narrowness of the Canal, large ships are guided via both a set of small train pulleys and several tug boats. This is in addition to a requirement that all ships must have a certified Panamanian pilot on board for the duration of the transit to assist in the navigation (which I imagine goes something along the lines of "See the walls on either side? Please, don't hit them.")

At this time, there is an ongoing expansion of the Canal, with the idea being to make it both wider and deeper. To that end, there are dredgers and assorted other machinery, which I can not identify without a good amount of googling, constantly at work. Add to that the ordinary dredging that is routinely employed to keep nature from reclaiming the canal and you end up with more than a bit of ruckus (not to mention the sporadic explosions of dynamite resonating through the Canal zone).

Yet none of this was enough to put a damper on our viewing of the canal from yet another vantage point. On the second visti, we were guided by the always entertaining Captain Carl and his Jungleland Panama, on a picture-perfect day of cruising around Lake Gatun, an artificial lake created as part of the construction of the Canal.

After passing plenty of that nameless Canal expanding machinery and learning about the history of the region, such as how the entire area was once a pristine rain forest, we quickly got to the good part: monkeys. Despite the regulated chaos of the Canal, they appear to be thriving in the Lake Gatun area and have even developed an affinity towards humans bearing fruit.

"Hey, youse in the boat! That'd better be a banana I see."

"OK, we're cool now."

"You up there, go away! These are my banana humans! Pbbfflliitt, I say!"

Dum De Dum " Don't mind me. I'm just going to grab this tasty peel here and be on my way."

The odd thing about that encounter (other than my lame attempt at anthropomorphizing the poor Capuchin and Howler monkeys) is that Howler monkeys generally eat mostly leaves. This is the first time Capt. Carl had witnessed one coming out to investigate, and eventually eat, a banana peel.

Continuing across the lake, we spotted some baby crocs, but considering we spent a good amount of the day swimming and splashing around, we should probably be grateful we never came across Mama.

There is one island that is mentioned in all the ads for Lake Gatun/ Gamboa region eco-tours. it is called Monkey Island, so it is not difficult to see why the fuss. All a boat has to do is pull in close to shore, and the vessel will immediately be boarded by hungry albeit very well-behaved scavengers.

The little guys on the next island weren't quite as bold but made up for by virtue of sheer adorableness. They were willing, however, to take small chunks of bananas from our fingertips.

Me, personally, I was more inclined to scavenge the mango tree...

But our proximity to Capt. Carl's kickass house boat made that arboreal assault unnecessary. It was here that we had lunch, refilled our now empty beer stash, kayaked around some mangroves and realized that with a couple of floating noodle thingies and an amenable bartender, it was very possible to create one's own floating bar. Had we had more time, it would have even possible to spend the night on the houseboat. This obviously skyrocketed to top of the list of things I want to do next time around. But Francisco, don't worry, I was assured that they could stock the house with extra booze because, tu sabes, I know how you are.

So this is what it's all about... (Caribbean edition)

2011-05-03T15:13:00.000-05:00

So, what do you think happens to a person who spends a lifetime pooh-poohing all-inclusive package tours and the people who take them? I'll give you one hint: I, along with my friends Ivon and Frans, just got back from 6 days in Punta Cana. This is a part of the Dominican Republic known for nothing but all-inclusive resorts. I'm not exaggerating. For real, try googling hostels and Punta Cana. You know what you get: nada. This area is not meant for the likes of my ilk. It is the capital of All-inclusive-package-Landia

Yet, here I was with an opportunity to fly there for nearly nothing and a slew of days of at my disposal. I decided it would be a test of my ability to sit still and "relax" (urgh!) without a plan, guidebook or agenda at hand. To emphasize this point, I was forced to relinquish control almost immediately when, 18 hours before departure (the time when I realized this was going to happen), I was struggling to find a single reasonably priced resort. I valiantly fought the urge to send us on a nicely structured week-long tour of the Dominican Republic instead and went to hotwire.com to participate in some blind bidding. For anyone not familiar with this, it is sort of like the Priceline bidding process, in that you commit to buy without knowing what property you will be booked into, difference being that you go in agreeing on a price set by Hotwire. With maybe 12 hours to go, I accepted a price of $71 per night (incl. taxes) and learned that we would be staying at the Barcelo Dominican Beach Resort. The relentless planner in me went to Trip Advisor to see what others had to say. The phrase "worst vacation ever" came up with alarming frequency. Then, I checked the weather. Every day featured a picture of a cranky-looking rain cloud. At this point, my inner planner went to sleep.

Upon arrival, I could not help but notice that the property was, contrary to reports proclaiming otherwise, not falling apart. As a matter of fact, it was really nice. It was open, airy, clean and with a restaurant and/or bar always within easy reach. Even the pool had a swim-up bar which, once we vanquished the knowledge that this was only destined to result in a much higher urine to pool water ratio, became a major hangout for us.

A few steps beyond the pool-bar pool (as opposed to the other pool that had no bar and that we had no use for) was a nice stretch of white sand beach. Here, too, there were a couple of bars, stands that served pizza and burgers throughout the day and a dj who really, really liked the El Simbolo songUn, Dos, Tres.

It was clear that this was not going to suck. My friends, who are amongst the funnest and most easy-going travel companions a person could hope for, took to the scene immediately and contentedly sipped on tropical rum drinks. I did, too, but it was taking a lot for me to not circle the tour desk like a ravenous shark coming off of a Jenny Craig bender. Sure, I had gotten my hands on a list of excursions before the desk even opened. And once it did, I had cajoled my friends into listening to the concierge prattle about all the tours he thought we should go on. But I had made it past lunchtime without booking anything.

In another Herculean display of self-restraint, I made it all the way til at least 3-ish before I ventured off the property. It was accidental, but a stroll on the beach led me to a small souvenir market and further down the dirt road, a local bar. Somewhere between the two, I encountered a force greater than my own. I found a guy selling the same excursions the resort sold but at half the price. The trip to Saona Island, that I had considered at $135 in the hotel, was suddenly priced at $65.

And this is why, my normal, non-manic friends found themselves having to wake up at 6:00am on only their second vacation day. First, there was to be a two-hour drive to the Caribbean side of the island with a quick stop in Higuey for photo ops and souvenirs.

The Higuey Basilica is home to the Virgin of Altagracia, DR's patron saint.

This was followed by a stop in the fishing village of Bayahibe, where we would board a catamaran to the island of Saona. Island time being island time, we lingered in the fishing village for awhile waiting on the rest of the group. We passed the time by hanging out in hammocks, drinking Presidentes. It was, dare I say, relaxing...

When the last of the vans had arrived, our guide Jose briefed us on the importance of not getting onto the wrong catamaran. He explained in English that he would always call for "Jose family" and because of the large number of tour groups, this should be the only time we board a boat. He repeated the entire explanation in Spanish. Then he went on in Italian about the importance of keeping his group together. Next he got to the Russians. Here I present to you the entirety of his briefing: "Ruskies. You. Jose family. Okay."

The catamaran took us along the island's eastern end, all of which is part of the aptly-named Eastern National Park and is thus protected. All the while, the predicted clouds stayed far away and the rum drinks kept pouring.

The island we were heading to was "discovered" by Christopher Columbus in 1494 and named after his hometown of Savona (the "v" has since been swallowed up by history). None of this really matters since when we eventually landed, our attention was drawn to the tropical buffet lunch that awaited...and of course, more rum drinks and more dancing.

It was somewhere between this beach party and the visit to a nearby sandbar (spoiler alert: there was rum and dancing there, too), that I started to actually understand what draws people to these kinds of vacations. There is a creeping disconnect that seeps in when no decisions greater than what swimsuit to wear and which resort restaurant to dine in need to be made. I gradually became more comfortable with the idea of waking up without an idea of what we were going to do with our day. Miraculously enough, things always found a way of working themselves out. We rented speedboats, took out the hotel's complimentary cataran a couple of times and my friends went parasailing while I acted as their very wet photographer. I actually had to run to the room to get my camera for that particular adventure. I was so out of my usual travel mode, that I began leaving it untouched in the room safe, resulting in me coming home with only 80 pictures total- I normally average 100 a day when traveling, to have 80 in six days would have been previously unimaginable. I got a tan, learned the 1,2,3 dance and spent more time in the water (both the ocean and pee-filled pool) than I had in ages, this considering I live walking distance from one of the top beaches in the country. Could I do this on every vacation? Hell, no. For starters, I think my liver would quit on me. But, did I have an excellent time with wonderful friends and am I still feeling this odd relaxed vibe that makes me want to go out and enjoy the sunshine? Well, yes, I did and as a matter of fact...yes, I am.

The surprising loveliness of St. Petersburg

2011-04-22T21:05:00.000-05:00

On day 4 of our Arctic expedition, the five of us hopped a night train from Moscow to St. Petersburg, expecting it to be miraculously warmer at the other end. I even formulated some scientifically shaky theory involving the Baltic Sea, rouge breezes and an imaginary warm front coming to envelope us all. It is notions like this, and a myriad of other reasons really, that would make me a crap meteorologist. We had travelled straight north. Of course, it was colder...much, much colder.

But it was also sublimely stunning. The streets were exactly what a winter dream should like. Thanks to frequent snowfall, and believe me, it gave new meaning to the word 'frequent', the snow stayed white and pristine, not having time to turn into the usual snirt (snow dirt) I am accustomed to finding in big cities. The architecture, mainly neoclassical giving way to Art Moderne, rivals anything found in the grandest cities of Europe. The light has this crispness that is hard to put into words and even harder to capture in pictures. From the moment we stepped off the train, I was shivering in awe.
In an algebraic formula I had not known possible, the depth and breadth of beauty beat out the ridiculous level of cold. It would have been easy to just roam the streets, mouths agape, blithely taking it all in, without a clue as to what it was we were looking at. Luckily, we had arrived with a plan. Nikita from Moscow Free Tours had intervened on our behalf, and set us up with their yet to be open St. Petersburg counterpart. Our was officially the first SPB free tour.

Just an hour after we had stepped off the train and checked into our highly recommended Soul Kitchen hostel, the very sweet and enthusiastic Alina was waiting to show us her city. She began by showing us city's main thoroughfare, Nevsky Prospekt. This Avenue, once referred to by Alexander Dumas as "the street of religious tolerance", cuts right through the historical and commercial center of the city. It is here that you find some of the most spectacular buildings, many of the major touristic sites and oftentimes a guy dressed in a bear costume; the latter promoting a restaurant chain named Yolki Palki.

Over the course of the next five days, we got to know this area (and the bear) quite well.

My favorite, the Singer building was once the headquarters of the German sewing machine manufacturers by the same name, but now houses an excellent bookstore.

Beat-boxing on the Prospekt.

Lamp adorning the exterior of a music store.

Gorgeous Art Nouveau door reflecting the neighboring Kazan Cathedral.

On that frosty first day, Alina continued on from Nevsky Prospekt, showing us snowy parks, snowy open squares and ultimately revealing to us SPB's snowy answer to Moscow's ubiquitous St. Basil's.

That would be the Church of Our Savior on Spilled Blood. The mouthful of a name refers to Emperor Alexander II, who was assassinated on that very spot in 1855, with construction on the church beginning two years later. Like St. Basil's, it harkens back to an earlier Russian style, with eye-catching candy-colored domes and an eclectic mix of patterns. Each church is unique and special enough to stand on its own and one could argue that it is completely unfair to compare the two. It is also very much in keeping with human nature to make that very same comparison. I preferred this one. A lot.

Although I must confess to a strong SPB over Moscow bias, one that increased with every passing day, I would be willing to call it a tie, if judging based on the exteriors alone. But, the interiors...sweet sassy molassy, the interiors! Every square inch of the Church of the Savior was covered with some of the most spectacular mosaics I've ever seen. Nowhere did a paintbrush ever land upon these walls. All the magnificent murals were created by artists with more patience than I can possibly imagine using itty-bitty colored fragments.

Alina continued her tour in weather, that against all logic pertaining to the rules of Spring, only continued to get colder. A climb up the bell tower of St. Isaac's Cathedral nearly froze of us all. Shortly thereafter, we made a dash for both food and indoor heating. Our destination:Yolki Palki. A fine choice by Alina (and of course, the bear) and an excellent conclusion to our introduction to a city whose grandeur came as a complete surprise to me.

Once we had become familiar with the lay of the land, it was time to get more in depth. We wisely decided to devote the entirety of our second day to the Hermitage Museum (and even more wisely opted to pre-buy the entrances online, allowing us to avoid a massive line that can only be more horrific in summer). The museum, which was founded by Catherine the Great in 1764, is currently spread out among 6 interconnecting buildings (4 of them open to the public), including the tsar's winter palace. I went in knowing that it ranks up there with the Louvre and the Prado in terms of size and collection. Still, it is hard to put into words the sheer scale of the place. It is just so, so...vast.

In attempting to get a photo showing just how vast the Hermitage is, I managed to fumble my lens cap straight into the Neva River. I don't recommend doing this.

We'd asked about hiring a guide to help us navigate this behemoth institution, but none was available. The only option for a live guide was to join the afternoon's one English language group tour. I imagined trying to appreciate a painting or a sculpture alongside a writhing mass of people, elbowing and jostling for space. So instead, we all chose to rent audio-guides, which came with a small map of the museum's layout. I devised what I felt was a good and logical plan for visiting the numbered rooms in a chronological order and set about trying to follow it. The problem was that no matter how hard I tried, my internal GPS kept finding ways to screw up the agenda. I'd think I was entering room 211, would check the plaque on the door to verify this fact only to realize I was not even in the correct building. Making it more overwhelming was the fact that a lot of these "surprise" rooms were really spectacular, as in the rooms themselves were so dazzling that they were successfully rivaling one of the world's greatest art collections for attention. This made me think that with my now-scattershot approach and no idea of where I was going or what I should see, I was bound to miss some really great stuff. To ease this anxiety, I stopped at one of the gift kiosks and bought an illustrated guide to the museum. Surely, the author would include all the must-see rooms/ artwork. So, now I had an audio-guide, an illustrated book to follow and a... and a... Fuck me! I'd lost my map. As if I was not sufficiently challenged, somewhere between book purchase and bathroom break, I'd lost the stinking map. I looked at my watch. I had four hours left to see one of the largest museums in the world in its entirety and not a clue as to how to do this. All of a sudden, the group tour did not seem like such a bad idea. After all, I'd been riding Russian metros for nearly a week already and felt pretty confident in my own elbow-throwing capabilities. With the assistance of 6 security guards or so, I made it back to the entry foyer five minutes before the tour was supposed to begin... and found no one. No group, no guide, no one. I asked a ticket taker, who confirmed that a tour was indeed about to take place. Good enough. I went outside, jumped the queue, bought a tour voucher and returned to the empty bench to try and figure out what was going on. Minutes later, an elegant Russian woman approached, introduced herself and suggested we commence the tour. Incredibly, I was the tour! In the span of 30 minutes, I had gone from lost and mapless to a personal one-to-one tour with a woman who knew that museum better than I know my own house. It was the kind of dumb luck you just can't plan. For three hours or so, she showed me around, pausing at both the museum's top masterpieces and at some of her personal favorites and opening my over-whelmed eyes to details I would have surely missed on my own. In the end, I can safely say that I still missed at least 35% of the museum (the entire French impressionist movement only got a quick run-by from me on the way out the door) but I left more satisfied than I ever have in a museum this size.

Your average Winter Palace door knob.

The Malachite Room

A library I would kill for. No joke.

Every single one of this woman's wedding photos will have some variation of this pose. Why? Because she is trying to hide the fact that she is super duper knocked-up.

Ever since seeing his work in the Galleria Borghese in Rome, I have been a huge fan of Antonio Canova. At the Hermitage, there is an entire gallery devoted to his work!

I'm not going to lie. Upon stumbling into this gallery, I squealed like a pre-pubescent schoolgirl at all these Canovas.

Sonia, our Moscow guide, had explained to us the tsars' grand architectural plan. They would find a European palace they fancied and then tell their architect "We want that. But make it bigger and with more gold." Also, it is to be expected that if you have a winter palace, you must have a summer one, too.

Day 3 was thus devoted to one of those gilded summer getaways, the one known as Catherine's Palace. Located in Tsarskoye Selo, it is a short day trip outside of St. Petersburg, but getting there is not the complicated part. This palace has an unwieldy ticketing system, which requires the independent traveller to either hire a guide for the simple task of procuring an entrance ticket or wait until closing time to be permitted in.

The palace, which was destroyed by the Germans following WWII, is in the midst of what seems like never-ending restorations. Some of the reception and dining rooms have been returned to their former splendor, including the famous Amber room, where ridiculously photography is not permitted (this coming from a person who cringes anytime anyone uses a flash in a museum!) but the majority of the living quarters remain unadorned and now feature sub-par displays.

I suspect that if we'd been able to appreciate the gardens and pagodas in the summertime, perhaps this palace would have been more impressive, but as it was, it seemed to be lacking.

For livable royal splendor, I much preferred the interiors of St. Petersburg's own, Yusupov Palace. Set along the Moika River, it was once home to wealthy nobles, and is now best known as the scene of Rasputin's murder. It originally housed a truly spectacular art collection (including several Canovas) but as explained in the audio-guide, once the Soviets came into power, the collection was disseminated amongst the country's museum, where much of it remains. What is on display today is a series of tastefully decorated rooms in an eclectic variety of styles. The Palace, as a whole, conveys a sense of refinement and sophistication that would seem almost out of place at Catherine's summer home.

My two favorite rooms were this private theater (who wouldn't want that...)

and this Moorish gem for relaxing and entertaining.

But it was not all palaces and castles in SPB. We chose the coldest and snowiest of all our days in Russia to go traipsing across the Neva River- which is what you do when you have limited time and loads to see- in order to see what can only be described as the polar (no pun intended) opposite of the luxurious life.

We were headed to the Peter and Paul Fortress, which was the site of the original walled city. It was founded for defensive purposes by Peter the Great in 1703 and is now a museum complex with plenty of sites to see.

One such site is the St. Peter and Paul Cathedral, the main church of the city and the resting place of most of the Romanovs.

Peter the Great himself is still there, along with a long line of successive tsars. His tomb is the one on the far right.

Another site, the one that had lured me out in this weather, was a high-security political prison that housed the likes of Peter the Great's own son, Lenin's brother and the writer, Gorky. It is always odd to me when places of such great suffering evolve into tourist attractions, as this one very much has. The audio-guide did an excellent job of conveying the grim conditions faced by those considered enemies of the tsars (and eventually the tsars themselves).

Our final days in St. Petersburg are a blur. There was just so much to see and time was going so quickly. There was a near scavenger hunt to find the griffins that grace all the t-shirts and shot glasses in town, but remained hidden in clear sight (to us at least)....

Then, there was the famous Mariinsky Theater, which was only located when we had the good fortune of asking a member of the theater's orchestra for directions. He eventually gave up on trying to explain and instead walked us 15 minutes out of his way in order to make sure we got to see his workplace.

But, best of all were the things we just stumbled into. Things such as the Tim Burton-esque doll gallery, where each creation was far too gorgeous to be a mere plaything.

Or the writer, Nabokov's small but exquisite home, which is now a museum run by the University.

It was clear that another five more days would have yielded many more treasures (and possibly a case of hypothermia) but for such a brief visit, I was grateful to have seen as much as we did. When I return, and I am certain I will, I intend to do so in the summertime I will take a boat trip along the canals, sip cocktails in outdoor cafes and take pity on the heavily-costumed Yolki Palki bear.

Country #86: The Magnificent Madness of Moscow in March

2011-04-05T17:09:00.000-05:00

Question I have heard a number of times in the last week: Why would you go to Russia- a place created solely for bears and snow monsters- in the still frigid month of March?

Answers I have given : Because I can. Because it is there. It won't be so cold, really- statistical averages put in the high 40's and 50's during this time of year. (Note: Turns out, statistical averages lie like a bitch.) Because I found a fare for $199 RT from NY to Moscow ($411 with taxes). And finally: because I've never been.

To be both obvious and honest, one of these responses carried more weight than the others. I've been watching fares to Russia for ages, and combined with the hassles of acquiring a visa beforehand, have found much to be discouraged about. But now, with this cutthroat rate and enough time on my hands to follow the comedically-dictatorial process necessary to obtain a Russian visa, (ie. sample rule of many: Visa application photos must show the applicant with a neutral expression- no frowning, no smiling) I figured I could just layer-up and ignore the cold. This line of thinking must have had some merit to it- or I have successfully surrounded myself with like-minded travelers- because four friends, Amy, Laura, Diana and Georgiana also signed up for this snowy adventure.
Amy and I arrived first, easily navigating the journey from airport to minibus to metro before hitting the first snag. The directions provided by the hostel used as their chosen landmark, a church bell tower. OK, at first glance that makes sense. A tower would, by definition, stand out and be easily spotted from afar...that is, if there is only A tower. Moscow, as far as I could tell, is a city of churches with a few homes and businesses thrown in for contrast. There are bell towers on every corner. The directions were crap and we were now at the mercy of the Muscovites to get us (and our bags) out of the snow and into our hostel.

We encountered some people who clearly wanted to help, often via gesturing and sign language. We found others who refused to give us the time of day. Approaching people, it was hard to tell which group was which since both shared a stubborn refusal to smile. Now, after having spend ten days in Russia, if I were asked to describe the 'typical' Russian persona, I would still be unable to do so. There were moments when I desperately wished I knew some Russian curses, such as the two times I busted my ass on the ice in Moscow (yes-TWICE!) and the crowds just parted and walked around me, with nary a soul to help out. But then, many times I was the recipient of such unexpected kindnesses on the part of strangers that I had to remind myself that random hugging was probably not a good idea. Times such as when I was struggling to get my metro-card to work and a woman, apparently sensing my mounting frustration, tapped me on the shoulder, leaned in and used her's, before waving me through. Or the older woman on her way out of a rock club I was going into that noticed that I did not speak any Russian (not hard to do) and went around to the entire waitstaff asking them to take care of me, in the way one would with a wayward unaccompanied minor on her first flight. Or Sonia and Alina, our walking tour guides (more on them later) and the people of the Soul Kitchen hostel in St. Petersburg, who were so generous with their time...

Anyway, point being, we did eventually find the correct church tower and consequently, the hostel and soon our three Romanian pals....

leaving us all free to find THE church towers, the ones that appear on every coffee cup, postcard, and t-shirt relating to Moscow. I refer to the Cathedral of Intercession of the Virgin on the Moat, better known as St. Basil's Cathedral. Built by Ivan the Terrible in the 16th century to commemorate the capture of Kazan from the Mongols, it is now one of the most recognizable pieces of architecture in the world. Even if that were not the case, it would still have come to feel like a familiar friend. No matter where in Moscow we set out to visit, we would inevitably end up back in Red Square taking yet another round of pictures of St. Basil's. I have photos of that church in every meteorological condition imaginable, with an empty square, with a crowded square, daytime, nighttime...name a scenario and I'll bet I have a photo of it. And I have no doubt that if I were there at this very moment, I would be taking even more pictures. It has that kind of power.

The same can be said for the whole of Red Square. With St. Basil's on one end, the State Historical Museum on the other, the Kremlin walls and a high-end mall in between, this central point of the city, possesses a very high wow-factor. Also wowing within the square, the plasticized body of Lenin. After having missed out on the opportunity to see Mao in Beijing and Ho Chi Minh in Hanoi, this was to be my shot at viewing a frozen Communist leader. Our first full day was to begin with a visit to his tomb. Oddly enough, as we approached a little before the opening hour, there was no line. Perhaps we had the time wrong. I walked up to a guard, pointed at my wrist, pointed at the tomb and asked "What time?" His response: "April".

On the left, the Kremlin and Lenin's tomb. Straight ahead- the State Historical Museum. On the right, the GUM shopping mall. Bottom left, me and my shadow.

Personally, I found the square most beautiful at night...but then again, I am part owl.

The real Lenin was off somewhere being refreshed. The closest I came to a Lenin, with a Stalin thrown in for good luck, were these two guys, who seemed to be simply everywhere. For $3 a piece, you could get your photo taken with them and, for a couple bucks more, even have it signed by the faux leaders. If anyone can think of a more capitalistic use of a slight resemblance to a public figure, please let me know.

Keeping with our affinity for the Red Square and its surroundings, we visited the nearby walled city, which translates literally to the Kremlin. This area has been a religious center and home to both the czars and the now apparently ambulatory Lenin. It currently houses the offices of the President. With so much history in such a compact area, one would think that it would be overwhelming, but with only a portion open to the public (our plans on dropping in on Medvedev for cocktails were kiboshed by the security guards shooing us away anytime we wandered too close) and a pretty simple layout, we were able to hit the highlights without much difficulty. The star of the show, without question, is the Armoury. The medium-sized museum employs a timed-entry system that allows the visitor 1 1/2 hour to view the treasures of the czars. In that time, you can view bejeweled holy books, intricately- detailed Faberge eggs, opulent garments, weapons of all kinds (all of them created with as much an eye for beauty as for war), masterpieces of silversmith, and many other priceless objet d'arts that I probably whizzed by. Thankfully, an audio-guide points out the highlights of the collection and provides some background into this once gilded era. Considering I had taken the name all too literally and expected mainly weaponry to be displayed, I was blown away by the collection and its window into the remarkable talents of the period's top artisans.

The Cathedral Square, within the complex, groups together three cathedrals. The Cathedral of the Annunciation was the home church for the tsars but it is the Cathedral of the Archangel that now houses the remains of quite a number of them (including Ivan the Terrible). All are open to the public.

This, being our first day in Russia, we were unprepared for the schizophrenic nature of Russian spring. As can be noted in the below photos of Cathedral Square, we exited the Armoury to find a brisk but clear, sun-shiny day. Within the hour, I kid you not, we visited St. Basil's Cathedral and stepped out into a blinding blizzard. It continued like this for the duration of our stay. It was almost like some evil wizard had a weather machine and was just spinning the dial willy-nilly from one setting to the next, just to mess with us. There were afternoons when we got rain, sunshine and snow all in the time it took us to get across town.

Crazy weather aside, we had a relatively short time to see the two principal cities of the world's largest country- 3 nights in Moscow and 4 in St. Petersburg, with an additional 2 on trains travelling between the two- therefore it was decided beforehand that sleep was not an option. There were museums to visits, squares to explore and vodka shots to consume. We had to get a taste of Russian nightlife.

Our first night in Moscow, we hit the Old and New Arbat neighborhoods- home to Stalin's "7 Sisters" skyscrapers- for drinks, dinner and souvenirs.

The second night had us attending the Bolshoi Theater annex (the main room is closed for renovation) to watch the opera, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk

The final night: the spectacular Big Stereo Orchestra at the Chinese Pilot Bar.

I don't know if it was the late nights, the wacky maze that is the Moscow metro system or the station closure that was only announced in Russian, but one morning found us hopelessly lost deep underneath the city. At that moment, we had two options: make ourselves crazy trying to figure out how to reach the intended sculpture garden or sit back, enjoy the ride and check out the most elegant metro system any of us had ever seen. I love it when choices are that easy. We hopped on and off trains for the better part of an hour photographing one magnificent station after another; an easy feat to pull off since the trains come every two minutes. The taking pictures part was where the challenge came in since eight million people a day use the Moscow metro to get around and they'll be damned if they are going to stop for a bunch of tourists trying to get the perfect shot. Also, I'm pretty sure taking photos in the Metro stations is prohibited, but either Police apathy or our hit and run method kept us safely out of any Siberian prisons.

I was reminded of a story I heard from a Russian friend, who grew up outside Moscow. The first time he visited NY, he envisioned everything would be epically grand...that is until he used the subway system for the first time. His disappointed reaction: "This is not a metro station, this is a sewer system with a train running through it!" Now, I totally get it....

After two days of confining our sightseeing to the Red Square/ Kremlin area and random subterranean roaming, we did something I whole-heartedly recommend to all Moscow visitors. We partook of the fantastic Moscow Free Tour. Due to our timing during the low season (shockingly not everyone is flocking to Moscow while the average temperature is 15F), it ended up being just us and Sonia, the afore-mentioned super-guide. She quickly ascertained the limited scope of our wanderings and changed her itinerary to show us areas outside of our little sphere.

She led us across the river, through bustling neighborhoods, showing us numerous monuments and even the mammoth, newly rebuild Cathedral of Christ the Savior, all along answering all our three days worth of questions about the city and its people.

The locks on these "trees" are placed by couples prior to marriage to symbolize the strength of their union. I imagine there is someone nearby with a bolt-cutter making a mint.

The original Cathedral of Christ the Savior was demolished to make way for a monument to Socialism. When circumstances prevented this project from coming to fruition, the already dug foundation was turned into a giant swimming pool. The rebuilding of the Church was done in two years time (!!) from 1995-1997. In 2007, Boris Yeltsin lay in state here, prior to his interment.

There really is nothing better than seeing a city in the company of an enthused, well-informed local. Many thanks go out to Sonia for being such a gracious host and to Nikita for helping to put us together.

At the end of this whirlwind journey, Amy and I returned to Moscow for one last day in order to catch our flight home. It was on this last day that we tried to see all those things that we had missed the first time around, only to find that this was totally and utterly impossible. This city requires at least a full week to begin to scratch the surface. And better weather. Better weather would have helped immensely, I find one can be more productive if not pissing away all that time trying to regain feeling in their extremities.

We found the one company that operated an English language bus tour, in order to reach the further sites, while staying relatively warm/ not lost. This gave us enough time to do a quick drive-by of Poklonnaya Hill and its Victory Park....

And a somewhat longer stay (a whopping15 minutes) at the Novodevichy Convent, a nunnery where the czars would send inconvenient first wives when they wanted to switch to a newer model. Consequently, the wives brought with them a lot of money, making for the building of a stunning convent. Russians still come here to pray and thus pay no entrance fee. Our guide informed us of this by way of advising us on how to avoid paying. Her tips: Do not speak. Do not take out your cameras until you pass security. Look Russian. I heeded her advise by staring the guard in the eyes and scowling....and it worked!!

This 18th century bell tower is recognized as a UNESCO world heritage site.

All in all, it was not nearly enough time but it did provide us with a great introduction into Russia's capital city and also provided a compelling argument as to why when climate is involved, statistical averages should never, ever be relied upon.

Info on Country #86 coming soon....

2011-03-31T18:38:00.005-05:00

Here's a hint:

Xmas in Hanoi

2011-02-10T03:14:00.000-05:00

Here it was, the end of my journey through Vietnam. After landing in Ho Chi Minh City 20 days earlier, I'd made my way north through this geographically narrow but culturally vast country until arriving in the capital city, Hanoi. It was the longest solo trip I've done to date, but with so much to see and so many friendly people, it never really felt like I was alone.

My time in Hanoi was pretty limited, one day before Halong Bay and another after. It was enough to hit some highlights, see a water puppet show and celebrate Xmas with drunk ex-pats in Santa suits but not much more than that.
My first day began in the very heart of the Old Quarter, at the Ngoc Son pagoda smack in the middle of Hoan Kiem lake. A quick glance at the postcard racks and the assembled crowds of photographers led me to believe that the temple itself is not nearly as popular as the red bridge leading to it. This is not to say the temple does not get its share of visitors. How could it not, when it has a purportedly real, albeit taxidermied, turtle of Gamera-like proportions, whose ancestor allegedly swiped a sword from a 15th century emperor and returned it to the supreme turtle God. For this reason, the name of the lake translates to "the lake of the returned sword".

Lonely Planet had an old town walking tour, that just happened to originate at the Lake of the Thieving Turtle, so that seemed like a good plan to follow on day 1. As I mentioned, I'd already been in Vietnam for almost three weeks and had become somewhat adept at dodging scooters, pedestrians and cars simultaneously. I thought I was ready for Hanoi. I was not. As I tried to follow the walking tour plan, I found myself stymied by the total disregard for sidewalks. The city planners HAD placed sidewalks, right where sidewalks should be, but apparently no one bothered to explain their purpose to the fine people of Hanoi. Or perhaps they did...and told them 'this is the place you should park your bike/ display your wares/ plonk down your little plastic chair for an afternoon meal/ anything but walking really'. The practical result of this is that if you want to get anywhere, you have to join the swarming, honking mob in the middle of the street, turning a simple stroll into a somewhat stressful adventure activity. And that is not even taking account the pressures of actually crossing a street. A skill that I figured I'd mastered by the age of 5 constantly eluded me. I can't even count how many times I had to wait until there was an elderly person/ small child I could use as a human shield just to get to the other side of the road.

Not surprisingly, it got better as you got off the main roads. One side street, Ma May, is still home to several ancient tube houses, so called because they were narrow but long. The one at #87 has been lovingly restored by UNESCO and is now a combination museum/ arts center.

Most of the walking tour led through small lanes, each with its own form of commerce. There was a welder's street, a shoe street and even a holiday decoration street.

There was some culture thrown in, too, such as the Bach Ma Temple, marking the spot where an ancient emperor prayed for a solution to his perpetually collapsing city walls. One day, a white horse emerged from the pagoda and led him to solid ground where the walls could be safely erected. The horse's architectural skills turned out to be bonafide, the walls stood and the emperor ordered this temple be built in honor of the magical horse.

The horse knew his shit. The walls are still standing.

I finished off the day by meeting up with a friend from Saigon, hitting some outdoor food stalls (not convinced they understood the concept of vegetarianism, she ate and I drank) and in between obsessively checking the weather online, packing for my Halong Bay getaway.

When I returned three days later, it was Xmas eve's eve. We got back late in the day, but with enough time to catch a water puppet show and check out some of the night life with Tony, my kayaking partner from Halong Bay. I had not realized on my first Hanoi go-round what a happening city it was, but the wave of bar fliers that kept appearing on our table seemed promising enough. Exhaustion won out and I pocketed the fliers for the next night.

On Xmas eve, my last full day in Hanoi, I decided that, in order to see all I wanted to see, I'd have to cover too much ground and more specifically, cross too many traffic-clogged streets to try it on foot. In an effort to preserve both mind and body, I had the hotel arrange a pedi-cab for me. Our first stop was to a complex I'd dubbed Ho-land (not Holland, that's different). Better known as the Ba Dinh district, this is where one finds the Ho Chi Minh museum, Ho Chi Minh's office, Ho Chi Minh's car collection, Ho Chi Minh's traditional-style home and finally Ho Chi Minh, himself. The mausoleum where he can be viewed is only open at specific times and on specific days. I was not there on those days. I was, however, able to see the nearby One-Pillar Pagoda, an iconic Buddhist temple...

And the exterior of his imposing constantly-guarded mausoleum.

The entrance ticket into Ho-land also allows you to see, via thick glass, his very spartan office...

and equally simple, but tasteful bedroom.

All throughout the complex, there are vendors on either side of the path, selling anything and everything. It struck me as an odd way to honor the Communist leader, affectionately referred to as Uncle Ho, who had wanted to be buried as simply as he had lived. Instead he got a massive granite mausoleum full of pomp and circumstance surrounded by competing vendors in a massive display of capitalism.

Next stop was Hoa Lo Prison aka the Hanoi Hilton. Once a penitentiary used by the French to jail Vietnamese political prisoners and later by the Vietnamese to house captured US soldiers (including curmudgeon and failed presidential candidate, John McCain), it is now a museum. The exhibits focus primarily on the period when the French were in control. On the first floor, where one can visit the cells, see the guillotine and learn of the horrid conditions the inmates endured, there is a piano-heavy horror movie score that plays in the background. It is strangely effective and had me on edge the entire time I was there. The second floor is dedicated to honoring the Vietnamese revolutionaries who helped the country gain her freedom from France, so the music playing is soaring and more suited to the scene in the movie where the couple that is meant to be together runs into each others' arms. Definitely better to get the creepy music out of the way first and then leave on the uplifting tune.

Our final stop was the Temple of Literature, a Confucian temple and the site of Vietnam's first university. It features a series of courtyard with quiet gardens, ponds, stelae recording the names of past doctoral students, pagodas and finally a temple featuring a statue of Confucius.

On this particular day, there was a beautifully dressed high school class (at least I think it was high school) giddily taking group pictures all around the grounds.

My favorite is the girl in glasses (second row) throwing down the bunny ears.

With my tour of sight-seeing must-do's out of the way, it was time to get into the holiday spirit. Vietnam has a Christian population 2nd only the Philippines in all of Asia, so there was no shortage of Xmas cheer in the air. There were children dressed as mini-Santas (not surprising since I'd been seeing stores selling wee Santa suits for weeks), decorated store fronts and plenty of bars and restaurants offering special holiday meals.

The Australian-owned hostel where I was staying threw a small party for the guests that evening and it was here that I met Mike, Helen and Laura. Joined by Tony from Halong Bay, once the party finished, we all headed to Highway 4, a superb restaurant that makes it own wine. Between wine sampling, we found ourselves serenaded by British ex-pat carolers in slightly larger Santa suits than I'd become accustomed to. In the true spirit of Xmas, they came bearing bottles of liquor and shot glasses.

We continued the party by pulling out the prior evening's fliers and hitting bars with names as great as Hair of the Dog and Half Man, Half Noodle. It was a fun, laughter-filled night and I owe Mike, Helen, Tony and Laura thanks for being such great company on the one night that I thought was going to suck as a solo traveller.

It was also a perfect, joyous way to conclude a wonderful journey through a country that does not get nearly enough credit for the beauty it possesses. If I could, I would recommend that anyone who has a chance get out there and blaze their very own Ho Chi Minh trail and hopefully they too will enjoy it as much as I did.

Happily Hanging in Halong (aka Alliteration is Fun!)

2011-02-08T03:14:00.001-05:00

I landed in Hanoi, hoping to spend one night and then catch a boat to Halong Bay. What I had not hoped for was the nasty, rainy weather that greeted me and threatened to stick around for the duration of my visit. I checked into the hostel and went to weather.com hoping for reassurance- rain for the next five days. Obviously, they were hacks and did not know what they were talking about. So I went to wunderground.com- same answer. I tried a couple other sites, none gave me the answer I wanted. I started talking to people returning from Halong Bay trips. What did they know?

I was not sure what to do. The idea of boating, kayaking, snorkeling and hiking in the rain didn't really hold a lot of appeal. But when was the next time I was going to be this close to an almost natural world wonder? Like an idiot (because, really, there is no other word for it) I toyed with the idea of skipping Halong Bay. But, then again, rainy days amidst the hustle and bustle of Hanoi didn't sound so good either. It was one of those odd conundrums that felt very real at the time but looks pretty ridiculous in retrospect. World famous nature site vs. lively cosmopolitan city? Oh, the horrors. Particularly when there was nothing to prevent me from doing both.

I came to my senses and, discouraging weather sites be damned, I booked a three day, two night trip aboard the Majestic Junk. This is a ship, modelled after a Chinese Junk, that is on the higher end of the budget options, making it more likely to have both a younger crowd than the upscale ships yet better food and accommodations than the super-cheapo ones.

Day 1: After driving around Hanoi in a comfortable minibus picking up all 12 passengers, we settled in for a 4 hours ride, in intermittent rain, to Halong City. Our guide, Long, pointed out the obvious, that we might get wet all weekend along...but then again, we might not. Already, he was far more optimistic than everyone else I'd spoken with. He also explained a great deal about Vietnamese history and traditions, making the ride go by quickly.

I'd imagined that this weather was going to keep most people away, as it had in My Son, but one look around the port in Halong proved that I was way off. There were easily 20-30 junks floating in the bay, awaiting passengers and just as many tour groups on land waiting to board the tender boats. Trying to guess which junk was ours, we saw some vessels that were obviously nicer, others that were clearly shittier and most that fell somewhere into an ambiguous middle ground. Ours was one of the latter. We recognized it when we saw the pervy-sounding slogan in big bold letters "Welcome to the Magnificent Junk" emblazoned along the upper deck.

By the time we boarded what turned out to be our surprisingly nice new abode, the rain had stopped and the sun was making a valiant effort to appear. We were welcomed by the crew and assigned cabins and dining room seating arrangements, basically one table for vegetarian, another for non-vegetarians. I'm proud to say us veggies constituted almost half the group. I was, however, the lone solo female in the group, meaning that I lucked into a private room without having to pay the single supplement.

Our tasty welcome-aboard lunch was periodically interrupted by Long announcing the names of seemingly-random karsts, or limestone rock formations. The one pictured below is called the "Fighting Cocks". Why, I have no clue. It looks like anything but fighting cocks, yet the name seems to have stuck so there's no point arguing it.

Our first stop was an amazing and surprisingly large cave with three chamber bursting with colorfully lit-up stalactites and stalagmites. It's name: the Surprising Cave. It's other name (depending, it appears, on which company you book your tour through): the Amazing Cave.

We returned to our boat and continued to an island that, using the same naming-logic as that of the cave, should have been called the Island of a Million Steps. Instead it is named Titop Island, in honor of a Russian astronaut by that name who once visited with Ho Chi Minh. This island is where you find red-faced tourists, going either on their way up or down the bazillion steps that lead to a hill-top lookout. It was here that we got the worst weather of the day, and that was no worse than a mild drizzle. An inordinate number of people, mainly guys, found it hilarious to say something along the lines of "Halfway there!" when we were clearly almost at the top. Perhaps shortness of breath negatively impacts my sense of humor, but each time I heard that I wanted to give them a quick shove into the bay below. Fortunately, the view made it easy to forgive and forget the wanna-be comedians.

We were back on the Majestic Junk in time for sunset. Sitting on the upper deck, drinking a glass of wine and gazing at the scene in front of us felt practically unreal. Halong Bay has the kind of beauty so immense that is hard to completely take in, even when it is staring you in the face. I had to keep reminding myself that I was really here and not on elaborate movie set. Even if the following day brought a typhoon, it was already well worth the effort.

Day 2: When booking a Halong Bay tour, there are three options that are usually offered: 2 days/ 1 night; 3 days/ 1 night on the boat, 1 night on an island and 3 days/ 2 nights on the boat. The accepted wisdom is that there is not much to do on the island plus I love sleeping aboard boats, so I went with option #3, as did Tony, a British computer-programmer who I'd met at the hostel. Everyone else, chose one of the other options, so the morning was a time of transition and good-byes.

Amidst the commotion, Tony and I were transferred to an awaiting kayak. It was a dinky one, with no cockpit for storage. There was nowhere to store a camera where it would be easily accessible and I didn't want to wear it around my neck,for fear of capsizing, so although we were soon kayaking through spectacular scenery, I was unable to photograph any of it. This decision proved sensible when we encountered a group of kayak circling around one spot and learned that they were trying to find a camera that one of their members had dropped in the water. Considerably less sensible was our guide, a local squirrelly guy that our company had outsourced us to, who insisted on spending over an hour trying to retrieve the sunken treasure. Tony and I had initially tried to help out but soon saw the futility in the exercise and hung back, taking in the scenery. We were also taking in what was threatening to become an absolutely beautiful day. Against all meteorological likelihood, we had sunshine starting to peak out, making the clouds look a lot less menacing.

We eventually kayaked over to a small boat, where a cook with nothing but one burner and a couple of pots and pans was preparing an impressive multi-course lunch. I think that the plan was for us to have lunch and then continue kayaking, but in between our lazing on the upper deck and the staff's heated card game below, we were soon running late. In an effort to make up time, we ended up hiring an oarswoman to take us for a ride around the floating village, instead of trying to do it ourselves. What resulted was a quicker visit than I had hoped for, but one with the opportunity to take photos and focus on this bizarre water world that its inhabitants have created.

The local schoolhouse.

As I have lamented before, no tour is complete without a shopping stop. This was already the second day, we were already past due for one and squirrelly guy did not disappoint. He took us to a pearl farm where bored looking employees quickly got to work inseminating oysters and harvesting odd colored pearls. Tony took a perverse delight in the knowledge that, as a man, he was going to be spared the hard sales push but, when it came time for the store visit, I don't know who was more apathetic, me or the saleswoman. The end result was that neither of us could really be bothered with the charade and I was able to wander out of there in relative peace.

By this time, the day had turned positively gorgeous. I still have no idea how this happened. Every site I had looked at had predicted otherwise, but why question it when we could simply enjoy it. By this time, our doofy guide had hopped on another boat and left, leaving us with the non-English speaking crew. After a lot of shrugging and gesturing, it was decided that they would take us back to our boat to await the new arrivals.

We were so relaxed lounging on the deck, watching amazing scenery that could never get old that ten people managed to arrive via tender boat, unload and settle in before we realized that they had arrived.

As with the night before, after dinner, a small group of people attempted to fish for squid off the rear of the boat. The first night, I stayed away, lest someone actually catch a squid and I instinctively find myself compelled to wrest it away and attempt to save it. The second night, I knew better. No one was going to catch a thing. If there is a single squid in the area, he knows to stay the hell away from the bay full of tourist-filled junks.

Day 3: Cue Annie Lenox. The rain had come again and this time, it had an attitude. No matter, though, because all that was planned for this day was our return to Hanoi. We were rejoined with Long, who had been in Cat Ba island with the group from the first day and after comparing stories, we all made our way back to the harbor. We ran in the rain to the waiting minibus and after a leisurely lunch stop, settled in for the four hour ride back. During the drive, it already seemed so foreign to me that I had almost missed out on what turned out to be one of my favorite experiences in Vietnam and all because of some pesky promised precipitation that perchance petered out.

That's just the Hue it is..

2011-02-02T22:57:00.005-05:00

Continuing North through Vietnam, the next designated stop on the Touristic HCM Trail is the ancient capital of the Nguyen dynasty, the history-filled city of Hue (pronounced hu-ay). I was chatting with my seat-mate on a Hue-bound bus when I began boasting about/ lamenting my condition as an over-planner. On the one hand, whenever I arrive into a city, I know exactly where I am going, have a good idea what I am getting (via reviews and travel boards) and sometimes even have arranged pick-ups so I can skip all the tout-related harassment. On the other hand, I know I missing out on some of that spontaneity and 'live in the moment' spirit of travel that non-planners crow about. Given the number of backpackers I have seen late at night, lugging their stuff from place to place, trying to find a bed in any place that will have them, I am generally ok with the trade-off.

But just when you think you have it all under control, the travel gods come along and sneak a whoopie cushion under our ass. Such was the case in Hue. I arrived at the highly recommended Nino hotel, with my printed months-old reservation form, and was warmly greeted into a lovely antique-filled lobby. After two cups of tea and a few furtive phone calls taking place behind the desk, it dawned on me that something was wrong. I soon learned that something was the fact that I had arrived on Dec. 17th but thanks to a drop-down menu glitch had made my reservation for Nov. 17th. The conversation I'd just had came roaring back to me. Here I was, with all my bags and nowhere to stay... precisely in the situation I work so diligently to avoid. I was so busy fuming at my mistake that I did not notice that the well-documented hospitality of the hotel staff had already kicked in. The manager had made some calls and gotten me discounted rates at some nearby hotels and then put his brother to the task of touring me around downtown Hue, showing me all my options, all the while apologizing for what was unquestionably my screw-up. It only took two stops to find a winner, the modern, airy Ideal hotel right in the center of the bar/ restaurant action. The Nino's manager had arranged a spacious $60 room with a balcony and my own private garden for way less. It was somewhere I never would have booked, based on the listed price, but now that I was there, I loved it.

I settled in, quickly decided that the two night I'd allotted for Hue were not enough if I was to have a burbling fountain on my very own balcony and added a third night. This out-of-the-blue spontaneous decision (made after carefully pricing flight tickets onto Hanoi and making the proper hotel arrangements) suddenly freed me up to take a more casual approach to seeing the city. I grabbed a map and strolled across the bridge in the direction of the citadel. My plan was to grab lunch from one of the many street-side cafes, the ones with the plastic tables and little kid's seats and walk around at least the first layer of the city within a city.

The walled city has three distinct sections. The outer ring, still home to a large number of people and full of parks and open spaces. Going a little deeper, after purchasing an entrance ticket, there is another set of gates, leading to the Royal Citadel, where the imperial court worked and resided. And finally, there is the Forbidden City, once home to the Royal family, now sadly a piles of post-war rubble. My walk fell short of reaching even level #1. The reason is a combination of the persistant army of cyclo-taxis circling around and my own uncertainty about just how big this citadel is. How persistent were they? The sidewalk restaurant I ate at was run by a deaf/ mute gentleman. When he saw me chatting with a cyclo guy, he came outside with a cardboard sign detailing his own tour. How big was it? Big.

Following my new surge of spontaneity, I hired a guy I'd met earlier, who seemed affable enough and whose name I never managed to get right (I eventually resorted to mumbling something that I thought came close).

We spent the next hour or so cruising around residential areas I know I would not have made it to on foot, taking photos, visiting temples and getting a lesson in some basic Vietnamese phrases.

Eventually, he dropped me off at the Flag Tower, across from the Ngo Mon gate, the main entrance to the Royal Citadel. This also happens to be the capital of cyclo-land. No sooner had I gotten off of one, than a cyclo-dude approached me offering a tour of the area. Me: "Thanks but I just got off a cyclo. I just did a tour". Him: "Oh, ok. (pause) So, maybe later?" Me: "No, no. I was just on a cyclo. I did a tour. Just now. That's my guy peddling away right there"(now with exaggerated hand gestures thrown in). Him: "Ok, ok, yes, yes. (pause) So, maybe later?" Me: "Yes. Maybe later."

Funnily enough, I was back there later. The next day, to be precise, but this time as part of a city tour. Our first stop was the Citadel, where we were led into the Royal Citadel and given a surprisingly thorough explanation of the Nguyen Dynasty and their importance to the region. We also entered into the Forbidden or Purple City, but saw primarily reconstruction work funded by both the government and UNESCO making efforts to rebuild palaces that were bombed into oblivion during the war.

We continued to a former princess' home, noted primarily for its garden. Apparently princesses and green thumbs went (pun alert) hand-in-hand since there are a number princess owned garden homes in the area. Following our botanical lesson, we headed towards the river's edge to visit the Thien Mu Pagoda. The legend behind the nine story pagoda involves an old wise woman foretelling a Lord building a Buddhist pagoda and a resulting prosperity for the nation. In 1601, Lord Nguyen Hoang complied and build this temple complex, whose name translates to "heaven fairy lady".

The grounds are guarded by fierce looking warriors who belie the calm sense of well-being that permeates the temple itself. I can't really explain it, but I left there feeling a renewed sense of contentment. Perhaps I was just having one of those "Wow. I'm really here" moments that hit me sometimes.

After a quick lunch stop, we left the city and headed into the outskirts of town, much as the Nguyen emperors did once their number came up. This is the area where the elaborate tombs commemorating their lives and achievements can be found, but oddly enough, not their actual bodies..those are hidden where no one can find them. The first one we visited was the very pretty Ming Mang's tomb. The work was begun while the emperor was still alive, but was not completed until after his death. As with all the tombs, a water feature was incorporated in order to create proper feng shui.

The second was my favorite, Khai Dinh's tomb. This emperor was thought to be a puppet for the French, had a crippling gambling and drug addition and was completely out of touch with his people. He was also really short and in the tradition of wee men everywhere, did his utmost to compensate. His tomb is a extravagant blend of Asian and European elements.

In planning the project, he sent his men to China to bring back the most beautiful porcelains they could find, all so his artists could smash them into bits and use them for the mosaic work. There is also enough gold gilting to make Liberace shriek with envy.

One consistent element about all the cheapie tours I did throughout Vietnam was the emphasis on time management. The guides are given very little to no leeway in the schedule, so if one person is late, the whole thing gets thrown off. When they announce a 10 minute stop, you are guaranteed that it will not be 11 minutes. This is why I was so thrilled when our one shopping stop, at a conical hat and incense making store, was listed as an 8 minute stop. We were in, we were out, we smelled nice.

We still had one more tomb to visit, that of Emperor Tu Doc. Whether through better planning, a more reliable contractor or just good genes (unlikely since he was a royal), this tomb was actually completed within the lifetime of its intended honoree. He was even able to use a portion of the grounds as his summer palace.

We concluded our day with a cruise down the Perfume River.

And I concluded my night by going to the DMZ bar to watch the Vietnam v. Malaysian Asian Cup game. Not being much of a sports fan, I went for the ambiance and because I'd been promised a free headband (it doesn't take much, I know). I got both and more. During the game, a waiter had handed out raffle tickets. I had no clue what they were raffling, but like the headband, the ticket was free, so I took it. When the game was over, there were some announcements in Vietnamese and then a number was called in English...my number. Not really knowing what was going on, I did the only thing I could think of. I jumped up and ran to the stage waving my ticket around like a crazy person and hoping dearly that I had not just agreed to pay the entire bar's tab. I soon learned I had won the grand prize, a veritable bounty of gifts. I got a DMZ t-shirt, a $10 gift certificate and a San Miguel beer that I think was intended for me (if not, then that waitresses had no business coming so close to me in the middle of my grabbing frenzy). First, the cool hotel room, now this...Hue was one turning out to be one seriously lucky city for me.

Of course, I was not feeling quite so lucky the following morning when I had to wake up at 5:30am for a tour of the De-militarized Zone, or the real DMZ. This area divided North and South Vietnam and was one of the areas to see the most intense fighting during the war, therefore this was primarily a "battle tour". Not being much a war buff, I'd gone back and forth, deciding if this was something I wanted to do, but a third day at the Citadel seemed like too much, so here I was. I napped for most of the drive to Dong Ha, but whenever I opened my eyes, I was pleasantly surprised by the lushness of my surroundings.

A good indication of what to expect was our first stop. We pulled over on the side of the road, looking at something that had been listed on the tour flier as a "pile of rocks". It was an area that had once been used as a helicopter landing area and lookout point by the US military, but now looked like an ordinary mountainside or, well, a pile of rocks. In my eyes, it made for a nice nature stop, nothing more, nothing less.

Ditto with the second stop, a bridge that marks the beginning of one of the many Ho Chi Minh trails, routes used by the North Vietnamese to get supplies through and communicate with their Southern counterparts.

Our next stop, the Khe Sanh US base, site of some of the fiercest battles and now a small museum, had more obvious war significance, but again, I was more struck by the beauty of the surrounding areas. Nature and life had reclaimed their rightful place among the green rolling hills. It made me wonder whether forty years from now, people from all over the world will be visiting and appreciating the history and the beauty of Iraq and Afghanistan.

For a totally non-war related stop, we were to visit a minority village. I'd already done this a number of times and thought I knew the routine. You meet a family, walk around some homes and play with some kids. Not so, this time. The bus pulled over on the side of the road, leaving the tourists and the villagers to stare at each other across a wide gulf. We did not approach them, nor they us. It was surreal and exploitative, in a safari game park sort of way. The part I expected to enjoy the most about the tour became the part I enjoyed the least.

The final stop of the tour was the Vinh Moc tunnels, an underground city built out of necessity. The people of the area were subjected to near constant bombings, still evident by the myriad of bomb craters dotting the landscape. In order to survive, they built a series of tunnels they could use for shelter. Unlike the Cu Chi tunnels near Saigon, these are large enough for someone my height (5'6") to stand erect in and are much wider, without the need of tourist-friendly expansions, the difference being that the Cu Chi tunnels were built for fighting, while these were built more for living.

To that effect, there were kitchens, meeting areas and even a maternity room where 17 children were born. We met one of those children, who is clearly physically and mentally handicapped, but considering the use of agent orange, the near certain malnutrition, the years he spent below ground, it is amazing that he is still around and cheerfully greeting visitors.

It was a two hour drive back to Hue, all through more of the gorgeous scenery I had slept through earlier. By the time I got back, I was starving, a fortunate fact since I still had a $10 or 20,000 dong gift certificate to use up. It may not sound like much, but it was enough to get me the following: a caprese salad, 2 glasses of the most expensive wine on the menu, a medium sized veggie pizza and two scoops of ice cream...and I still came out with a buck to spare.

Stuffed beyond words, I took one last walk around town and returned to my hotel to enjoy a final night with my hot shower and whimsical balcony. After all, you can't just plan on getting that lucky the next time.