I just finished a 3 day stint in Mykonos, Greece. Greece, as the source of much of the foundation for Western civilization, seemed like a culturally important stop in my world tour and a metaphorical fountain from which I could soak up artistic, philosophical and political enlightenment. Specifically, I decided to focus my time on the island of Mykonos, which, purely coincidentally, happens to be one of the world's most popular party destinations. I, of course, was focused only on cultural edification and was completely uninterested in petty things like white sanded beaches overflowing with tasty alcoholic beverages, excellent Mediteranean food and beautiful, half-naked people dancing to Shakira from dusk til dawn... Wait, uh, where was I... Oh yeah, those decadent indulgences, uh, certainly had no influence whatsoever on my decision to go to Mykonos...
Although President Bush may not share the same appreciation for Mykonos' unbridled hedonism, I believe Dionysos (the Greek god of wine and Madonna remixes) would be a better judge of a good party hotspot than George W. and would be quite proud of this island, a place where the party actually begins even BEFORE arrival. Maybe I have been flying on the wrong airlines in the past, but I have never flown on an airplane in which most passengers were already decked out in their party clothes, including designer sunglasses worn throughout the flight (a NIGHT flight at that) while participating in a dance party at 30,000 feet. I have to admit that I was tempted to give the gratuitous sunglasses-in-the-airplane-thing a try (when else would such a golden opportunity present itself?) but, severely out-styled by ubiqutious pairs of D&G and Prada, my $5 Ho Chi Min City imitation Ray Ban's instead quietly retreated into the depths of my backpack.
And the party did not stop at the airport tarmac. Oh no. Arriving on a Tuesday night well after midnight, I initially suspected that I would have to wait for the next night to really check out the party scene. My expectations were quickly corrected, though, when I began seeing a deluge of half-naked people (interestingly, wearing similar attire as I noted in my previous blog for Italian bachelor-pad lounging, except with Speedos replacing Jockeys) on mopeds swarming back from the beaches and toward the city center's bars and clubs. With most clubs opening at 2, 3 or even 4am, I still had plenty of time to primp and prepare (i.e. shave and put on deodorant), before attempting to mix with what appeared to be a raucous reunion of europe's most beautiful people.
It didn't take long to piece together the roster for daytime activities either, which basically consisted of 1) riding moped to beach, 2) sunbathing on beach, 3) eating when hungry, 4) drinking when thirsty, 5) riding moped back to town to begin nighttime activities. Upon waking, repeat steps 1 through 5. The biggest decisions were quite manageable and involved deciding which beaches and clubs to go to and whether to go with an espresso or latte (answer: latte, frozen, medium sweet). But even these questions were made easy or didn't really matter. For example, beach options included "Paradise" and "Super Paradise", which basically meant you can't go wrong no matter what you choose (although no awards for name creativity. "Super Paradise"? Are you kidding?)
As a long-term lover of Greek food, I used to drag my friends to all of the Greek restaurants in tokyo (all two of them, that is) on an all-too-frequent basis, hoping to satisfy intense cravings for a good gyro and Greek salad. So, imagine my happiness when I arrived in Mykonos to find gyros and Greek salads sold on every street corner and in every restaurant. But here is the real kicker and perhaps the most under-appreciated Greek contribution to Western civilization... Sure, the Greeks invented the concept of democracy, but why hasn't anyone outside of Greece noticed an equally important innovation? Obviously, I'm referring to the inclusion of french fries INSIDE the gyro. Yes, you read that correctly, INSIDE! I can only think of two words that adequately describe this magnificent feat: sheer brilliance. Upon discovery of this heretofore, apparently well-kept secret, all sorts of questions naturally filled my head. Who was responsible for this culinary achievement? Did Plato have a hand in this? Aristotle perhaps? When did this accomplishment occur? Were the French somehow involved? And why the cover-up? An international conspiracy, perhaps? But why?
Aside from being distracted with these important questions, I enjoyed Mykonos immensely and felt like lady luck was smiling on me. First, initially at risk of not finding a place to stay during peak tourist season, I eventually found a room at a local family's house and within minutes, we were sharing all sorts of stories and laughs. The mother, a 60+ year old and rather heavy-set woman who didn't speak much english was a sweetheart, offering coffees, fruits, etc and, via translation from her daughter, she could, apparently, even tell my "good natured character" simply by looking at my face (but she was 10 years short when simply guessing my age). The son, a heavy-set 40 year old and self proclaimed shaman was not shy about sharing all sorts of lurid details of his adventures in south america (censored for this family-friendly blog site). When I became worried that I parked my rented moped in a tow-away zone, he generously assured me he was protecting it with an energy field. Friendly, open and effective in preventing parking violations as they were, though, unfortunately, none of them had any answers regarding the french fries in the gyro conspiracy (clearly, more evidence of a successful cover up).
In addition to meeting these warm, friendly people (and having a roof over my head and the opportunity to relive memories of a hot shower), my luck seemed abundant in other ways as well. For example, my Nikon camera suddenly and miraculously returned from the dead, perhaps inspired by the presence of so much bare skin all around or re-energized by Shakira's alluring voice (how can anyone rest when she gets going?), which was met by much rejoicing from me and Pocket Wookie.
Next stop for me is Istanbul, where I will meet up with good friend Jake Molland. After two and a half months of traveling alone, I am looking forward to having a traveling compansion who isn't a miniature stuffed animal from a Burger King kids meal... Go figure.
I have a bunch of good picture that I still want to upload from both Rome and Mykonos, but this computer apparently can't handle them, so I will need to delay a day or so...
Friday, August 24, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Caprese, Lattes, and Jockey Underwear
I am still in Rome, but am about to depart for the islands of Greece later tonight. My stay here in Rome has been longer than expected, but has been great. Shortly after arriving here, my travel agent (and soon thereafter friend) Stefano and his roommate Allesandro invited me to stay at their apartment, where i have been staying ever since and have become an honorary roommate, if not semi-permanent fixture. A true bachelor pad complete with near-empty refrigerator, semi-functioning toilet, cold-water shower and unpacked moving boxes, their apartment has a frighteningly familiar feel to it. That said, it took a few days to get used to the standard dress decorum of flip flops and jockey underwear. My attempts to mimic my hosts' Italian-bachelor skills were only marginally successful, with my clumsy red Crocs and baggy boxers shorts clearly showing my rookie status (despite my recent and slight improvement in skin tone from "pasty white" to "lobster red"). I have to say, though, it is nice to find a place where strutting around the apartment in underwear and flip flops is not only accepted, but evidence of cultural appreciation.
I suspect that my accomodations are unlike those of most tourists arriving in Rome and not readily available on the likes of Expedia and, with the exception of a 20 second cold-water bathing experience each morning, i have felt very lucky to have met these guys. (That is, assuming that Stefano and Allesandro's claim that my father is actually paying a hefty ransom for my safety and eventual return is indeed just a joke... Pop, please confirm).
Perhaps not surprisingly given the nature of my hosts, Rome has been a nice break for me, with more of a focus on simply chilling out than say, trekking after endangered animals or up imposing mountains. I dare say that some of the laid-back, relaxed attitude here has even rubbed off on me a bit, with me finding myself just going along with the flow, and not just because I wouldn't know how to change it otherwise. My laid-back days recently have been primarily filled with sipping lattes and eating caprese in my favorite piazza (Campo de Fiori) while writing profound thoughts in my journal (why haven't i been doing this all my life?) and snapping pictures of Pocket Wookie.
A couple of days ago, Stefano and Allesandro and I went to the beach again and there met two nice, sunbathing Italian women, Fabiana and Barbara. Now, the fact that most Italian women are topless at beaches is not a big deal for Italians, but i have to admit that i had never considered how this would affect basic conversation protocol. I quickly found myself either looking practically straight up into the sky, straight down into the sand, straight into their eyes OR drawing pictures, charts, maps, etc in the sand, basically doing ANTHING but let my eyes wander... Fabiana and Barbara, unphased by my color-coordinated red Crocs and skin, and upon hearing where Stefano and Allesandro had already taken me (i.e. The American Steakhouse and McDonald's), insisted on cooking a proper home-cooked Italian meal for us. And for anyone wondering about Italian eating protocol, the meal, an exceptional rigatoni pasta with bacon and cheese sauce, was eaten fully clothed, although Allesandro's post-dinner underwear-lounging was legandary (photo withheld).
I suspect that my accomodations are unlike those of most tourists arriving in Rome and not readily available on the likes of Expedia and, with the exception of a 20 second cold-water bathing experience each morning, i have felt very lucky to have met these guys. (That is, assuming that Stefano and Allesandro's claim that my father is actually paying a hefty ransom for my safety and eventual return is indeed just a joke... Pop, please confirm).
Perhaps not surprisingly given the nature of my hosts, Rome has been a nice break for me, with more of a focus on simply chilling out than say, trekking after endangered animals or up imposing mountains. I dare say that some of the laid-back, relaxed attitude here has even rubbed off on me a bit, with me finding myself just going along with the flow, and not just because I wouldn't know how to change it otherwise. My laid-back days recently have been primarily filled with sipping lattes and eating caprese in my favorite piazza (Campo de Fiori) while writing profound thoughts in my journal (why haven't i been doing this all my life?) and snapping pictures of Pocket Wookie.
A couple of days ago, Stefano and Allesandro and I went to the beach again and there met two nice, sunbathing Italian women, Fabiana and Barbara. Now, the fact that most Italian women are topless at beaches is not a big deal for Italians, but i have to admit that i had never considered how this would affect basic conversation protocol. I quickly found myself either looking practically straight up into the sky, straight down into the sand, straight into their eyes OR drawing pictures, charts, maps, etc in the sand, basically doing ANTHING but let my eyes wander... Fabiana and Barbara, unphased by my color-coordinated red Crocs and skin, and upon hearing where Stefano and Allesandro had already taken me (i.e. The American Steakhouse and McDonald's), insisted on cooking a proper home-cooked Italian meal for us. And for anyone wondering about Italian eating protocol, the meal, an exceptional rigatoni pasta with bacon and cheese sauce, was eaten fully clothed, although Allesandro's post-dinner underwear-lounging was legandary (photo withheld).
Thursday, August 16, 2007
When in Rome... Avoid the Grappa
I'm now in Rome, which, with its cobble stone roads, ancient buildings and piazzas a-plenty, is perhaps the most beautiful city i have ever seen. My travel efficiency is also at its peak, as i pretty much covered the classic sites of Rome (e.g. the Collesseum, the Pantheon, St. Peters Church and Guido's Fun-Time Pizzeria and Gelato Stand) by mid-afternoon of my first day here.
Upon arrival though, my first priority was to do laundry, as i arrived from Africa with a backpack full of clothes that were not fit for human contact. I had paid a whopping $18 in Western Uganda for laundry service of boxers, t-shirts and socks and received them still completely wet, accompanied by a rather perplexing explanation, "sorry, but the sun was not very hot today". Consequently, my clean, albeit wet, clothes went through a metamorphis over the subsequent three days (including long hot bus rides and two flights) and transformed into a frightening mass that was beginning to come to life while emitting amonia-like gases capable of powering a medium-sized developing country (let's say, Madagascar). I realized that my strategy of ignoring the situation was not working, so i promptly changed strategy and stopped off at laundry service immediately upon arrival in Rome, resulting in laundry service fees for my boxers and t-shirts double their actual value.
After the first several hours and having already seen the important Roman sites and having already eaten a mango, lemon and banana gelato purchased from someone whose name very well could have been Guido, i logically proceded to a travel agency to look into transportation options to Greece. Unfortunately, the travel agency was out of my prefered mode of transportation (bright yellow Ducati 996). Upon befriending travel agent extraordinaire, Stephano, i decided to stick around Rome for a bit longer and headed to the beach the next day with new friends Stephano, Alesandro, Camella, Divi and Carolina. Our friendships nearly collapsed, though, when we hit an impasse and could not come reach a compromise on the color coordination of our hypothetical group motorcycle tour to Greece. (I could accept the pink sidecars but wouldn't budge an inch from there.) Stephano, whose Volkswagon Cabriolet convertible secretly doubles as an amphibious assualt and super-flying vehicle, demonstrated exceptional driving skills, including a nimble aptitude for driving on the correct side of the road most of the time. His skills don't end there though, as he demonstrated exceptional Italian hospitality, generously purchasing for me "Italian women magnets" such as a giant pink beach towell and a Bacardi breezer. Proudly displaying my new pink towell, my barcardi breezer, my bright red Crocs, my NY Yankees cap and the pastiest white skin ever recorded on any Italian beach, i inexplicably felt a strange yearning to sing the "The Star Spangled Banner" to Italian beach goers. Surprisingly, the women magnets failed to produce their intended results, making me wonder how the national anthem approach would have fared in comparison.
Contrary to previous expectations, Romans have been, for the most part, extremely hospital and friendly, even to an obvious Yankee. For example, I went to a nice Italian restaurant the other night. (Although I don't remember the name or exact location, i can narrow it down by saying the word "ristorante" was in the name, they served pasta, pizza and red wine and it was on a cobble-stone road, surrounded by ancient buildings and near a piazza.) Surrounded by couples left and right (many of whom had no hestitations to display their affections publicly), I was the only solo diner at the restaurant, if not Rome generally. The restaurant owner, either intrigued by my presence or sympathic to a solo traveler, was soon heaping extra portions, free food and, increasingly free drink, in my direction. In response to his frequent question "how do you like?", i didn't have the heart to say anything except "this is the best Italian food i have ever had". (Technically it was, as it was the first real meal i had had in Italy, but the cold ravioli, complete with a thick black hair and the vile, hard-alcohol he served up, "grappa", would have otherwise not received any awards or accolades.) After he invited me to try the grappa, i responded with, "When in Rome...!", a response that, especially after several glasses of Italian wine, I concluded was the wittiest comment humanly conceivable (albeit seemingly unappreciated by the restaurant owner). It was a nice meal, though, that prompted me to want to give a heart-felt "thanks" to the guy (also possibly named Guido) and to promise a return to the seat that he insisted would be reserved for me indefinitely. I think it was the grappa talking, though, when i went too far and think i promised my first born son.
My experience in Rome has been great, but, alas, has not been without casualties. My faithful Nikon camera, loyally at my side for the past 60 days, died on me yesterday, reducing my traveling entourage to just me and Pocket Wookie. My heart goes out to the camera though, as it endured several continents and the jungles of Congo, not to mention the fact that it has snapped over 5000 pictures of gorillas, sharks, lions and Canadians. Moreover, perhaps another example of divine intervention (the miracle mullet in Argentina being the obvious first example), the camera made it through all of the major sites of Rome before taking its last shot of me at the magnificent St. Peters church in the Vatican. With my head solemnly down, I will soon send it to meets its maker for ultimate judgment (i.e. Nikon North America).
Upon arrival though, my first priority was to do laundry, as i arrived from Africa with a backpack full of clothes that were not fit for human contact. I had paid a whopping $18 in Western Uganda for laundry service of boxers, t-shirts and socks and received them still completely wet, accompanied by a rather perplexing explanation, "sorry, but the sun was not very hot today". Consequently, my clean, albeit wet, clothes went through a metamorphis over the subsequent three days (including long hot bus rides and two flights) and transformed into a frightening mass that was beginning to come to life while emitting amonia-like gases capable of powering a medium-sized developing country (let's say, Madagascar). I realized that my strategy of ignoring the situation was not working, so i promptly changed strategy and stopped off at laundry service immediately upon arrival in Rome, resulting in laundry service fees for my boxers and t-shirts double their actual value.
After the first several hours and having already seen the important Roman sites and having already eaten a mango, lemon and banana gelato purchased from someone whose name very well could have been Guido, i logically proceded to a travel agency to look into transportation options to Greece. Unfortunately, the travel agency was out of my prefered mode of transportation (bright yellow Ducati 996). Upon befriending travel agent extraordinaire, Stephano, i decided to stick around Rome for a bit longer and headed to the beach the next day with new friends Stephano, Alesandro, Camella, Divi and Carolina. Our friendships nearly collapsed, though, when we hit an impasse and could not come reach a compromise on the color coordination of our hypothetical group motorcycle tour to Greece. (I could accept the pink sidecars but wouldn't budge an inch from there.) Stephano, whose Volkswagon Cabriolet convertible secretly doubles as an amphibious assualt and super-flying vehicle, demonstrated exceptional driving skills, including a nimble aptitude for driving on the correct side of the road most of the time. His skills don't end there though, as he demonstrated exceptional Italian hospitality, generously purchasing for me "Italian women magnets" such as a giant pink beach towell and a Bacardi breezer. Proudly displaying my new pink towell, my barcardi breezer, my bright red Crocs, my NY Yankees cap and the pastiest white skin ever recorded on any Italian beach, i inexplicably felt a strange yearning to sing the "The Star Spangled Banner" to Italian beach goers. Surprisingly, the women magnets failed to produce their intended results, making me wonder how the national anthem approach would have fared in comparison.
Contrary to previous expectations, Romans have been, for the most part, extremely hospital and friendly, even to an obvious Yankee. For example, I went to a nice Italian restaurant the other night. (Although I don't remember the name or exact location, i can narrow it down by saying the word "ristorante" was in the name, they served pasta, pizza and red wine and it was on a cobble-stone road, surrounded by ancient buildings and near a piazza.) Surrounded by couples left and right (many of whom had no hestitations to display their affections publicly), I was the only solo diner at the restaurant, if not Rome generally. The restaurant owner, either intrigued by my presence or sympathic to a solo traveler, was soon heaping extra portions, free food and, increasingly free drink, in my direction. In response to his frequent question "how do you like?", i didn't have the heart to say anything except "this is the best Italian food i have ever had". (Technically it was, as it was the first real meal i had had in Italy, but the cold ravioli, complete with a thick black hair and the vile, hard-alcohol he served up, "grappa", would have otherwise not received any awards or accolades.) After he invited me to try the grappa, i responded with, "When in Rome...!", a response that, especially after several glasses of Italian wine, I concluded was the wittiest comment humanly conceivable (albeit seemingly unappreciated by the restaurant owner). It was a nice meal, though, that prompted me to want to give a heart-felt "thanks" to the guy (also possibly named Guido) and to promise a return to the seat that he insisted would be reserved for me indefinitely. I think it was the grappa talking, though, when i went too far and think i promised my first born son.
My experience in Rome has been great, but, alas, has not been without casualties. My faithful Nikon camera, loyally at my side for the past 60 days, died on me yesterday, reducing my traveling entourage to just me and Pocket Wookie. My heart goes out to the camera though, as it endured several continents and the jungles of Congo, not to mention the fact that it has snapped over 5000 pictures of gorillas, sharks, lions and Canadians. Moreover, perhaps another example of divine intervention (the miracle mullet in Argentina being the obvious first example), the camera made it through all of the major sites of Rome before taking its last shot of me at the magnificent St. Peters church in the Vatican. With my head solemnly down, I will soon send it to meets its maker for ultimate judgment (i.e. Nikon North America).
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Bumpy Bus Rides and Guerrillas in the Mist
Well, another full-caliber, action-packed week just went by and I find myself recuperating at an internet cafe in Nairobi, Kenya. Since last time i wrote, i began and completed a tour across Kenya and Uganda, beginning with the Masai Mara National Park in Kenya (part of the Serengeti ecosystem) and ending with Mountain Gorillas in the misty jungles of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC)...
In order to share the experience of recent days fully with you, though, the first topic that i need to address is a topic well-addressed by Barney in his song "Bumpy Bus Roads" off of his debut Platnium album, "Fun School-Time Songs". Excluding endangered wild animals and edgy Congolese men with machine guns, a solid 95% of my last week can be pretty well summarized by the three words "bumpy bus roads". (For example, yesterday, i did a 14 hour, overnight bus ride from Kampala Uganda to Nairobi, which is, perhaps surprisingly, even less comfortable than it sounds.)
A week ago in Nairobi, upon meeting the other members of our tour group (conveniently divided into two groups, "Canadian" and "Non-Canadian"), we climbed aboard a gigantic Safari truck and began our drive west toward southwestern Uganda. Averaging an excruciating 15 miles per hour for 12 hours on our first day, my patience with East African road conditions met its first, but certainly not last, test of patience. Suffice to say that my patience failed; I cursed the Masai tribe (allegedly responsible for so called "road maintenance" near the Masai Mara National Park), not to mention those cheerful Canadians, annoyingly un-phased by the horrid road conditions. I came to the conclusion that, contrary to the romantic and celebrated images of the Masai's rich cultural history (e.g. fighting lions to protect their cattle, sending their adolescent boys into the wilderness for 5 years as they enter manhood and roaming the plains with the traditional combination of spear, shield and cell phone), that the Masai should ditch their traditional ways of life and begin with fixing those damn roads, perhaps with the help of gregarious Canadians who, incidentally, could learn to complain a little more like us well-practiced Americans. I mean, what could be more important than minimizing the annoyance level of impatient tourists being chauffered around to see all sorts of wild and endangered animals? Compelled to document the severe injustice of the situation, i attempted to write a mini-dissertation on the subject, entitled, "The Next Big Evolution of the Great Masai Tradition: Repairing Crappy Roads" (which, unfortunately, due to the bumpy nature of the bus ride, is virtually illegible). However, like many others who have endured the hardships of the rough terrain of East Africa, I survived, thanks in part to large rations of Salt and Vinegar flavored Pringles, Coca Cola and Snickers and even occasional Blackberry access. Although clearly proving myself to be a rough and ready, hardy traveler, I opted NOT to witness a Masai male circumcision ceremony, as tempting as it was.
Gradually, the bus ride across Kenya and Uganda became more enjoyable. I completed my "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance", finding a little bit of extra Zen to keep me happy. I was also amused my the occasional road-side "Hotel and Butcher" shops. The smiles and waves from Uganda children were welcoming and endearing, at least until the smiles and waves were accompanied by the shockingly consistent, but not so effective, calls of "Give me my money!" I also started hanging out with another member of the tour group, an Israeli named Allon. With my 9 years of additional life experience, i imparted to him heaps of immortal words of wisdom (e.g. proper tent-zipper closing technique) in exchange for an occasional cigarette. We gradually befriended other wayward travelers along the way (Shawn from Virginia, Jenny a Tanzanian / Kenyan visiting from Norway), and even started getting along well with the Canadians, who proved capable of tolerating not just crappy Masai roads, but also impatient and Blackberry-carrying Americans.
The big finale, of course, were the guerrillas in Congo. Oh wait, I mean the gorillas in Congo. I had expected our tour group to see the Mountain Gorillas in Uganda or Rwanda, but turns out that our tour agency opted to take us across the border to the uh, somewhat-less-than-stable, DRC which has been mired in civil war for over a decade, with its eastern half infamous for lawlessness, rebel groups and troublemakers. Given the tour agency's general lack of preparedness, clear expectation setting and communication of plans, it was not so surprising to have this "minor" change in agenda nor hardly a word about the implications of this change. The only reference to safety was by a DRC government representative, who, after collecting expensive gorillas trekking permit money, quickly dismissed the Lonely Planet's suggestion to avoid the DRC. Upon crossing the DRC and Ugandas border, we were escorted by a half dozen machine gun touting soldiers. Although no one said exactly who or what they were protecting us from, i think it was safe to assume it was from Congolese and/or Rwanda rebels and militiamen, as, although I'm no expert on gorilla (or guerrilla) deterrence, I don't think that rocket propelled grenade launchers are intended gorilla deterrents. I suppose that the site of such heavy armaments is supposed to engender a sense of safety and security for us tourists, but amazingly it did not. Oh, and the fact that just about everyone in the DRC seems to have a machete didn't make the senses rest any easier.
Although the combination of recent murders of gorillas just weeks before and armed soldiers didn't add a sense of comfort, the biggest source of discomfort was the worst-van-ride-ever drive from the border to the national park. Suddenly, i felt like i was too harsh on the Kenyan Masai, whose roads were miraculously smooth and well-maintained compared to these Congolese roads. Not only that, but we were crammed into a two-wheel drive Toyota mini van that proved to be the most abused vehicle on the planet which had long ago lost any semblence of a suspension system. As we ascended the muddy, bumpy and rocky hills, we attracted a full-scale parade of Congolese kids, chasing the van, pushing the van, adding and removing rocks under the van as it swerved, bounced and lurched reluctantly up the mountain for 3 SOLID HOURS. (Incidentally, this van ride was beneficial in temporarily forgetting other concerns, like 16 year olds with machine guns.)
Once our van ride completed (and we were all deserving of medals of honor), we THEN began our machete-led trek / stomp through the Congo jungle to find us some gorillas. The DRC lived up to its reputation that nothing is easy in the DRC, and we trudged through chest-high vegetation and battled menacing red ants for another 4 hours, searching for some of the last mountain gorillas on the planet. And just as I was beginning to fear that we might not see any gorillas and that we would have to repeat the days events again (please God, no!), we found them... The gorillas, i mean. And yes, it was amazing. We were within 5 feet of a HUGE male silver back gorilla. The female gorillas and baby gorillas played around us, literally within touching distance. I felt a great sense of purpose that i hadn't felt before on my trip, namely because for the first time in 10 weeks and after carrying it through four continents, i finally had a chance to use my camera tripod, which somehow seemed to impress the dudes with the AK-47 machine guns. No seriously, it was amazing to see these beautiful creatures up close and personal in their own home.
It was not until after we returned from the DRC that i learned that the already tenuous relationship between Uganda and Congo was getting hotter by the day around disputed border areas and that a recent firefight along the border left one british oil prospector and several Uganda soldiers killed. Moreover, gorilla trekking in the area was called off by various government agencies immediately after we did so. So, i guess we were pretty lucky to have our troubles limited to bumpy bus rides.
After the gorilla trekking, i left the group and headed back East to Nairobi to catch a flight up to Italy, my next stop. On the way, i stayed in Kampala which turned out to be quite a night after i ran into a couple of local Kampala guys. I ended up sharing their curb with them, hanging out for a long time and attracting an little crowd, interestingly mostly fans of Tupac Shakur and Arnold Schwarzenegger. i got a little flavor of the local favorites and hang outs, escorted by new friends Paul, Paul and Henry.
The next couple of weeks will be touring around Europe before heading back to the US of A, via Japan. Hopefully blog updates will be more frequent...
In order to share the experience of recent days fully with you, though, the first topic that i need to address is a topic well-addressed by Barney in his song "Bumpy Bus Roads" off of his debut Platnium album, "Fun School-Time Songs". Excluding endangered wild animals and edgy Congolese men with machine guns, a solid 95% of my last week can be pretty well summarized by the three words "bumpy bus roads". (For example, yesterday, i did a 14 hour, overnight bus ride from Kampala Uganda to Nairobi, which is, perhaps surprisingly, even less comfortable than it sounds.)
A week ago in Nairobi, upon meeting the other members of our tour group (conveniently divided into two groups, "Canadian" and "Non-Canadian"), we climbed aboard a gigantic Safari truck and began our drive west toward southwestern Uganda. Averaging an excruciating 15 miles per hour for 12 hours on our first day, my patience with East African road conditions met its first, but certainly not last, test of patience. Suffice to say that my patience failed; I cursed the Masai tribe (allegedly responsible for so called "road maintenance" near the Masai Mara National Park), not to mention those cheerful Canadians, annoyingly un-phased by the horrid road conditions. I came to the conclusion that, contrary to the romantic and celebrated images of the Masai's rich cultural history (e.g. fighting lions to protect their cattle, sending their adolescent boys into the wilderness for 5 years as they enter manhood and roaming the plains with the traditional combination of spear, shield and cell phone), that the Masai should ditch their traditional ways of life and begin with fixing those damn roads, perhaps with the help of gregarious Canadians who, incidentally, could learn to complain a little more like us well-practiced Americans. I mean, what could be more important than minimizing the annoyance level of impatient tourists being chauffered around to see all sorts of wild and endangered animals? Compelled to document the severe injustice of the situation, i attempted to write a mini-dissertation on the subject, entitled, "The Next Big Evolution of the Great Masai Tradition: Repairing Crappy Roads" (which, unfortunately, due to the bumpy nature of the bus ride, is virtually illegible). However, like many others who have endured the hardships of the rough terrain of East Africa, I survived, thanks in part to large rations of Salt and Vinegar flavored Pringles, Coca Cola and Snickers and even occasional Blackberry access. Although clearly proving myself to be a rough and ready, hardy traveler, I opted NOT to witness a Masai male circumcision ceremony, as tempting as it was.
Gradually, the bus ride across Kenya and Uganda became more enjoyable. I completed my "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance", finding a little bit of extra Zen to keep me happy. I was also amused my the occasional road-side "Hotel and Butcher" shops. The smiles and waves from Uganda children were welcoming and endearing, at least until the smiles and waves were accompanied by the shockingly consistent, but not so effective, calls of "Give me my money!" I also started hanging out with another member of the tour group, an Israeli named Allon. With my 9 years of additional life experience, i imparted to him heaps of immortal words of wisdom (e.g. proper tent-zipper closing technique) in exchange for an occasional cigarette. We gradually befriended other wayward travelers along the way (Shawn from Virginia, Jenny a Tanzanian / Kenyan visiting from Norway), and even started getting along well with the Canadians, who proved capable of tolerating not just crappy Masai roads, but also impatient and Blackberry-carrying Americans.
The big finale, of course, were the guerrillas in Congo. Oh wait, I mean the gorillas in Congo. I had expected our tour group to see the Mountain Gorillas in Uganda or Rwanda, but turns out that our tour agency opted to take us across the border to the uh, somewhat-less-than-stable, DRC which has been mired in civil war for over a decade, with its eastern half infamous for lawlessness, rebel groups and troublemakers. Given the tour agency's general lack of preparedness, clear expectation setting and communication of plans, it was not so surprising to have this "minor" change in agenda nor hardly a word about the implications of this change. The only reference to safety was by a DRC government representative, who, after collecting expensive gorillas trekking permit money, quickly dismissed the Lonely Planet's suggestion to avoid the DRC. Upon crossing the DRC and Ugandas border, we were escorted by a half dozen machine gun touting soldiers. Although no one said exactly who or what they were protecting us from, i think it was safe to assume it was from Congolese and/or Rwanda rebels and militiamen, as, although I'm no expert on gorilla (or guerrilla) deterrence, I don't think that rocket propelled grenade launchers are intended gorilla deterrents. I suppose that the site of such heavy armaments is supposed to engender a sense of safety and security for us tourists, but amazingly it did not. Oh, and the fact that just about everyone in the DRC seems to have a machete didn't make the senses rest any easier.
Although the combination of recent murders of gorillas just weeks before and armed soldiers didn't add a sense of comfort, the biggest source of discomfort was the worst-van-ride-ever drive from the border to the national park. Suddenly, i felt like i was too harsh on the Kenyan Masai, whose roads were miraculously smooth and well-maintained compared to these Congolese roads. Not only that, but we were crammed into a two-wheel drive Toyota mini van that proved to be the most abused vehicle on the planet which had long ago lost any semblence of a suspension system. As we ascended the muddy, bumpy and rocky hills, we attracted a full-scale parade of Congolese kids, chasing the van, pushing the van, adding and removing rocks under the van as it swerved, bounced and lurched reluctantly up the mountain for 3 SOLID HOURS. (Incidentally, this van ride was beneficial in temporarily forgetting other concerns, like 16 year olds with machine guns.)
Once our van ride completed (and we were all deserving of medals of honor), we THEN began our machete-led trek / stomp through the Congo jungle to find us some gorillas. The DRC lived up to its reputation that nothing is easy in the DRC, and we trudged through chest-high vegetation and battled menacing red ants for another 4 hours, searching for some of the last mountain gorillas on the planet. And just as I was beginning to fear that we might not see any gorillas and that we would have to repeat the days events again (please God, no!), we found them... The gorillas, i mean. And yes, it was amazing. We were within 5 feet of a HUGE male silver back gorilla. The female gorillas and baby gorillas played around us, literally within touching distance. I felt a great sense of purpose that i hadn't felt before on my trip, namely because for the first time in 10 weeks and after carrying it through four continents, i finally had a chance to use my camera tripod, which somehow seemed to impress the dudes with the AK-47 machine guns. No seriously, it was amazing to see these beautiful creatures up close and personal in their own home.
It was not until after we returned from the DRC that i learned that the already tenuous relationship between Uganda and Congo was getting hotter by the day around disputed border areas and that a recent firefight along the border left one british oil prospector and several Uganda soldiers killed. Moreover, gorilla trekking in the area was called off by various government agencies immediately after we did so. So, i guess we were pretty lucky to have our troubles limited to bumpy bus rides.
After the gorilla trekking, i left the group and headed back East to Nairobi to catch a flight up to Italy, my next stop. On the way, i stayed in Kampala which turned out to be quite a night after i ran into a couple of local Kampala guys. I ended up sharing their curb with them, hanging out for a long time and attracting an little crowd, interestingly mostly fans of Tupac Shakur and Arnold Schwarzenegger. i got a little flavor of the local favorites and hang outs, escorted by new friends Paul, Paul and Henry.
The next couple of weeks will be touring around Europe before heading back to the US of A, via Japan. Hopefully blog updates will be more frequent...
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Baboon Haikus and Summiting Mt. Kilimanjaro
Wow. Some amazing stuff since the last time I wrote. It's definitely been a bit of a fast paced itinerary, though, making it hard to update frequently...
So, after my visit to Zanzibar, I flew into Arusha, Tanzania and immediately wanted to embark on a safari tour beginning that same afternoon. However, I quickly discovered that safaris in Africa, and Tanzania in particular, are not so cheap. So, i visited a local ATM and withdrew several million Tanzanian shillings, or roughly 6 inches of stacked bills. At first i feared that walking around town with gigantic wads of cash literally ballooning all of my pockets was asking for trouble, but the good folks of Tanzania proved my initial concerns wrong; the only theft i encountered in my entire time in Tanzania was the loss of a Snickers bar on Mt. Kilimanjaro to a clever, raven-like bird, apparently with a similar appreciation for that great peanut, caramel and chocolate combination.
The safaris were great. I saw lots of elephants, giraffes, zebras, hippos, impalas, baboons, impalas, wildebeasts, water buffalo, warthogs and even a few lions and a leopard. The animal activity and concentration is particularly intense in Ngorongoro Crater, which is a natural crater about 15 kilometers in diameter and is literally packed with animals and land-rover-filled tourists. It's almost too easy, as you basically get driven around in your land cruiser to the animals of your choice until you have seen them all. I'm a little concerned too about the psyche of some of the less "cool" animals, as there is such a distinct hierarchy in the popularity of the animals among tourists with the much coveted leopards, lions and rhinos getting all the attention and glory. While a lonely leopard sleeps in a distant tree, barely visible, dozens of land rovers crowd around and wait for HOURS for it simply to move. Meanwhile, the plentiful zebras are practically doing backflips, the gazelles breakdancing and the baboons writing haiku just to get a glance from an occassional yawning tourist. Imagine the emotional scars that those poor, less popular animals must suffer from contant, insensitive tourist remarks such as "I hope we get to see a lion kill a wildebeast" or "This haiku lacks any creativity or substance. What baboon wrote this?"
Although the safaris were great, the real highlight for me in Tanzania was my Mt. Kilimanjaro experience. It is often said that climbing to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro is one of those "big life moments", and indeed it was for me. On the surface, one might think that the combination of extreme cold, God-awful toilet facilities, constant exhaustion and sleep derivation, frequent high-altitude induced headaches and loads of overly-geared up Europeans would be an experience to be avoided, let alone worth 6 inches of cash. Even after all the effort, money and color coordinated branded hiking accessories, a large percentage of climbers don't even make it to the summit, due to altitude sickness.
However, the 6 day climb, going from 1800 meters to a whopping 5895 meters was nothing short of spectacular. The final, 1200-vertical-meter leg of the hike to the summit began at midnight on Day 5 and was a grueling 6+ hour ordeal. However, my guide, and now friend, Julius, not only led me to the summit, but we were the first of the day from our route to reach the top and were there just minutes before a glorious sunrise. And no, the 15 degree below zero temperature at the summit did not stop me from busting out my yellow Carleton t-shirt for a picture on top of the roof of Africa.
In addition to the satisfaction of making it to the top, the experience was enjoyable as i befriended several people, including Julius, my chef, Samwel and another lone American traveler, Alex. In fact, one of the highlights of the trip was immediately after we returned to Arusha after the climb when Julius, Samwel and I were having drinks just chilling out. At one point i noticed how much at peace I was, as I was gently jamming to the music playing in the background. Somehow, never before have Boyz to Men ("Until the End of the Road") sounded, uh, dare i admit, so pleasant.
I'm now in Nairobi, Kenya and feeling a little less comfortable than my beloved Tanzania. Not only is Nairobi nick-named "Nai-robbery", but within minutes of arrival here, I took a taxi drive in which we backed into not just one, but two pedestrians (one separate occasssions!). Fortunately, there were no serious injuries, but suffice to say that each episode included an audible "thump". Seemingly trying to secure an untouchable record and confirming my hypothesis that the driver doesn't think it important to look while backing up, the taxi driver was about to back into a third pedestrian, but this time me and fellow passenger were well prepared and called out a successful warning scream.
Tomorrow morning i leave for my next little adventure which first will take me through the Masai Mara National Park, then across the countryside of Uganda and then, the big finale, to see Mountain Gorillas in Uganda...
As uploading photos is a bit slow on this computer, i will have to upload more pictures (e.g. Kilimanjaro) later...
So, after my visit to Zanzibar, I flew into Arusha, Tanzania and immediately wanted to embark on a safari tour beginning that same afternoon. However, I quickly discovered that safaris in Africa, and Tanzania in particular, are not so cheap. So, i visited a local ATM and withdrew several million Tanzanian shillings, or roughly 6 inches of stacked bills. At first i feared that walking around town with gigantic wads of cash literally ballooning all of my pockets was asking for trouble, but the good folks of Tanzania proved my initial concerns wrong; the only theft i encountered in my entire time in Tanzania was the loss of a Snickers bar on Mt. Kilimanjaro to a clever, raven-like bird, apparently with a similar appreciation for that great peanut, caramel and chocolate combination.
The safaris were great. I saw lots of elephants, giraffes, zebras, hippos, impalas, baboons, impalas, wildebeasts, water buffalo, warthogs and even a few lions and a leopard. The animal activity and concentration is particularly intense in Ngorongoro Crater, which is a natural crater about 15 kilometers in diameter and is literally packed with animals and land-rover-filled tourists. It's almost too easy, as you basically get driven around in your land cruiser to the animals of your choice until you have seen them all. I'm a little concerned too about the psyche of some of the less "cool" animals, as there is such a distinct hierarchy in the popularity of the animals among tourists with the much coveted leopards, lions and rhinos getting all the attention and glory. While a lonely leopard sleeps in a distant tree, barely visible, dozens of land rovers crowd around and wait for HOURS for it simply to move. Meanwhile, the plentiful zebras are practically doing backflips, the gazelles breakdancing and the baboons writing haiku just to get a glance from an occassional yawning tourist. Imagine the emotional scars that those poor, less popular animals must suffer from contant, insensitive tourist remarks such as "I hope we get to see a lion kill a wildebeast" or "This haiku lacks any creativity or substance. What baboon wrote this?"
Although the safaris were great, the real highlight for me in Tanzania was my Mt. Kilimanjaro experience. It is often said that climbing to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro is one of those "big life moments", and indeed it was for me. On the surface, one might think that the combination of extreme cold, God-awful toilet facilities, constant exhaustion and sleep derivation, frequent high-altitude induced headaches and loads of overly-geared up Europeans would be an experience to be avoided, let alone worth 6 inches of cash. Even after all the effort, money and color coordinated branded hiking accessories, a large percentage of climbers don't even make it to the summit, due to altitude sickness.
However, the 6 day climb, going from 1800 meters to a whopping 5895 meters was nothing short of spectacular. The final, 1200-vertical-meter leg of the hike to the summit began at midnight on Day 5 and was a grueling 6+ hour ordeal. However, my guide, and now friend, Julius, not only led me to the summit, but we were the first of the day from our route to reach the top and were there just minutes before a glorious sunrise. And no, the 15 degree below zero temperature at the summit did not stop me from busting out my yellow Carleton t-shirt for a picture on top of the roof of Africa.
In addition to the satisfaction of making it to the top, the experience was enjoyable as i befriended several people, including Julius, my chef, Samwel and another lone American traveler, Alex. In fact, one of the highlights of the trip was immediately after we returned to Arusha after the climb when Julius, Samwel and I were having drinks just chilling out. At one point i noticed how much at peace I was, as I was gently jamming to the music playing in the background. Somehow, never before have Boyz to Men ("Until the End of the Road") sounded, uh, dare i admit, so pleasant.
I'm now in Nairobi, Kenya and feeling a little less comfortable than my beloved Tanzania. Not only is Nairobi nick-named "Nai-robbery", but within minutes of arrival here, I took a taxi drive in which we backed into not just one, but two pedestrians (one separate occasssions!). Fortunately, there were no serious injuries, but suffice to say that each episode included an audible "thump". Seemingly trying to secure an untouchable record and confirming my hypothesis that the driver doesn't think it important to look while backing up, the taxi driver was about to back into a third pedestrian, but this time me and fellow passenger were well prepared and called out a successful warning scream.
Tomorrow morning i leave for my next little adventure which first will take me through the Masai Mara National Park, then across the countryside of Uganda and then, the big finale, to see Mountain Gorillas in Uganda...
As uploading photos is a bit slow on this computer, i will have to upload more pictures (e.g. Kilimanjaro) later...
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