So, I have officially arrived back in the US of A. Symbolically, I arrived in Washington DC , our nation's capital, the place in which I was born, the place from which I originally departed the US and the place in which our esteemed President Bush spends his non-vacation days, listening to Dick's wacky ideas on world domination and otherwise playing Nintendo ("Delta Force: Operation Iraqi Freedom").
It is fantastic to be back Stateside but before i talk about Washington DC (and soon New York), i'll give a summary of my adventures in Turkey, with friend and travel extraordinaire, Mr. Jacob Molland...
We arrived in Istanbul, the enormous metropolis reknown for its legendary kebaps and doners which have spread across the globe to fill the late-night gastronomical dreams of millions of urbanites. Lesser known to the foreign world but equally scrumptious fruit juices abound in Turkey, providing world travelers Jake and I the enviable opportunity to sample a range of nature's best attempts to tantalize tastebuds for evolutonary purposes and bragging rights. What fruit flavors merit such excessive praise? Well, cherry, apricot and nectarine top the esteemed list but the standard set of orange, apple and pineapple also make appearances. Regularly filling pockets with fruit juices in order to avoid future shortages, i began to embarass Jake, frankly, whose appreciation for cherry fruit juice and cargo shorts may be under-developed, (not to mention a pre-existing, under-developed appreciation for red Crocs). Although our propensity to indulge in fruit juices varied, Jake and I were in strong agreement with respect to the merit, value and down-right tastiness of the kebaps, leading to numerous late-night purchases of kebaps during our 7 day Turkish journey. We also found ourselves consuming large quantities of Turkish coffee, which consists of one part coffee and two parts motor grease from a 1959 Chevy, appropriately is served in a small beaker-like recepticle, and is especially likely to be consumed during late-night hours, despite producing a caffeine high that would make a cocktail of Redbull and crack cocaine seem to produce a "drowsy feeling". Jake and I also noticed how we were subsizing other non-drinking patrons with each of our $20 Rum and Cokes, either because other patrons abstained from alcohol for religious reasons or abstained from alcohol because they had the sense to know that a $20 drink is a freakin' rip off. Such caffeine highs from Turkish coffee and Rum and Cokes are important, though, in order to stay up for the late-night Turkish discos, including 5,000 person foam disco parties with bikini-clad women who are showered from water fountains while dancing to the intoxicating sounds masterminded by famous Dutch DJs at the legendary Halikarnas Disco in Bodrum.
Our Turkey experience wasn't just late-night clubbing though. No, it also included the taxi rides to and from the clubs (which usually included unrequested circuitous silent tours of the entire city) and preparation for the clubs (e.g. lying on the beach, eating, rehydrating, etc). We also allocated 20% of our Turkish experience to "ancient culture and archeaology", which consisted of a tour of the spectacular Greek and Roman ruins at Efes. Rows of columns (and columns of rows?) lined the marble-stoned roads and magnificent marble building facades that prompted deep thoughts in Jake and I (e.g. "Ah, the passing of time. How fleeting the human experience..." and "Boy, it would be awesome to get a bunch of guys together and get a mamouth game of paintball going here".) Although the 2000 year old ruins were impressive, what caught my eye and the sharp gaze of my camera lens, was the sign for the restroom. The picture of the pudgy kid in a strange position making awkward gestures was curious indeed, but the commentary surrounding the signage, "Only 50 cent is worth enough to feel the magic atmosphere", was truly perplexing and thought provoking. "Magic atmosphere? Huh? What exactly is going on in that restroom?"
Mystery number two followed shortly thereafter, when, upon walking back to the motel, a swarm of swallows raced across the sky for a continuous 20 minutes, dive bombing and strafing Jake and I as we ducked, covered and snapped photos. Witty commentary and daring flanking manuevers were captured on Jake's videocamera for time immortal, as was evidence that my hair, uncut for 3 full months, is in desperate need for a visit to the barbar.
Although my hair has shattered previous personal records for "shagginess" and "bigness" (although certainly it is still a lightweight in any respectable "big hair content"), my skin has officially abandoned its "reb lobster" hue and has taken on a certifiable tan. Never before have i been so interested in proper tan development and care. Understandably, and having a speaking and listening travel companion for the first time in months, I began a near constant discussion about my tan for Jake's entertainment and enlightenment, a topic for which Jake displayed surprisingly low levels of interest (despite the fact that this one was a rare mix of sun collected from across 12 countries). His disinterest was likely related to the fact that he himself had the pastiest white skin on anyone on a Mediterrean beach, threatening to take my previous championship title.
i am now back on the US East Coast, for Elisabeth Steele's wedding in Washington DC and for friends in New York, before heading back to the West Coast, officially going home and starting up the next big chapter in San Francisco. Final blog and "best of trip" pictures coming soon...
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Greek Super Paradise, Exceptional Gyros and the Powers of Shakira
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...
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...
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...
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Zany Zanzibar
I'm now in Zanzibar, Tanzania, which is amazing. Formerly a commercial hub for slave trading to the middle east and India, this place is a very interesting intersection between the Arab and African worlds. It also feels like it is in a time warp; the buildings, churches, mosques, doors, gates and the airport immigration system seem like their hundreds of years old. Beautiful tourquise beaches, white washed stone buildings, and small, narrow footpaths, as well as lots of Europeans (virtually no Americans or Japanese) fill the scenary.
After a few hours of walking around Stone Town (the old part of Zanzibar), i rented a dirt bike and headed up to a popular beach called Nungwi. The one-hour drive ended up taking close to 3 hours, as my two assumptions that a.) roads would be marked and b.) police interference would be non-existence, both proved incorrect. I ended up going up and down the same roads, zig zagging around various back country roads and was stopped multiple times by police officers interested to see my driving permit (i.e. wanting bribes). Eventually, i broke the classic "male code of honor" and asked for directions from various pedestrians which produced more confusion than anything else. One fellow confidently said "Turn left along this road" as he gestured his hands to the right. Another fellow said, "Just turn right at the police station", omitting the fact that the police station that he was referring to was about 60 kilometers away (and after 3 or 4 other police stations en route). Fortunately, the ride was fantastic, kids along the road weren't phased by the yellow shirted foreigner and waved multiple times as I paraded by them again and again, and the police were friendly, jovial and eventually even accomodating when i showed them my fancy brand new Zanzibar driving permit. Moreover, once i reached Nungwi, the beach was so beautiful that i ended up just staying the night there, despite having a hostel room and my luggage back in Stone Town. Fortunately, with plenty of experience of traveling without luggage (not to mention pants with a working zipper) under my belt, i felt pretty comfortable with that decision.
I had a fun beach BBQ last night during which time i befriended a local Zanzibarian (uh, not sure if that's the right way to describe someone from Zanzibar, but i think it should be) fellow who saved me, the solo American traveler, from unsuccessful mingling with the predominantly European crowd that seemed shockingly opposed to yellow t-shirts. Several beers later, with thanks to my friend "Ozy", i could claim significant improvements in my Swahili language capabilities and could temporarily carry on a full conversation in Swahili (assuming the conversation was limited to: Person 1: "Where you coming from?", Person 2: Nodding and pointing direction towards point of origin).
I also squeezed in a day of diving, which frankly, was not quite as amazing as the phrase "Diving in Zanzibar" may suggest. But what is amazing is "Spice Coffee" next to a plate of Coconut Toast and a Mango Shake. Mmmm. And Pocket Wookie agrees.
I also began re-reading my all-time favorite book "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" which i picked up at the "give and take library" at the hostel that i stayed at in Johannesburg. The alternatives that were available there included the "1985 Listing of South African Airways Routes" and several romance novel in other languages, so i felt pretty happy with my find, which, in a Zen-like way, seems to fit very well with my current life.
Tomorrow i head up to northern Tanzania and will begin either a safari in Ngorongoro or begin hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro. As I think that the internet connection atop the mountain may be spotty and as my Blackberry apparently doesn't speak Swahili, my next blog will likely be severals days away...
Finally, for all of you thinking, "My God, my life is pretty much perfect, but i just wish I could make comments on Jonas' blog site", fear no more. i changed settings on this blog page so that it is easy to make comments (even if you're not a "blogger" user).
After a few hours of walking around Stone Town (the old part of Zanzibar), i rented a dirt bike and headed up to a popular beach called Nungwi. The one-hour drive ended up taking close to 3 hours, as my two assumptions that a.) roads would be marked and b.) police interference would be non-existence, both proved incorrect. I ended up going up and down the same roads, zig zagging around various back country roads and was stopped multiple times by police officers interested to see my driving permit (i.e. wanting bribes). Eventually, i broke the classic "male code of honor" and asked for directions from various pedestrians which produced more confusion than anything else. One fellow confidently said "Turn left along this road" as he gestured his hands to the right. Another fellow said, "Just turn right at the police station", omitting the fact that the police station that he was referring to was about 60 kilometers away (and after 3 or 4 other police stations en route). Fortunately, the ride was fantastic, kids along the road weren't phased by the yellow shirted foreigner and waved multiple times as I paraded by them again and again, and the police were friendly, jovial and eventually even accomodating when i showed them my fancy brand new Zanzibar driving permit. Moreover, once i reached Nungwi, the beach was so beautiful that i ended up just staying the night there, despite having a hostel room and my luggage back in Stone Town. Fortunately, with plenty of experience of traveling without luggage (not to mention pants with a working zipper) under my belt, i felt pretty comfortable with that decision.
I had a fun beach BBQ last night during which time i befriended a local Zanzibarian (uh, not sure if that's the right way to describe someone from Zanzibar, but i think it should be) fellow who saved me, the solo American traveler, from unsuccessful mingling with the predominantly European crowd that seemed shockingly opposed to yellow t-shirts. Several beers later, with thanks to my friend "Ozy", i could claim significant improvements in my Swahili language capabilities and could temporarily carry on a full conversation in Swahili (assuming the conversation was limited to: Person 1: "Where you coming from?", Person 2: Nodding and pointing direction towards point of origin).
I also squeezed in a day of diving, which frankly, was not quite as amazing as the phrase "Diving in Zanzibar" may suggest. But what is amazing is "Spice Coffee" next to a plate of Coconut Toast and a Mango Shake. Mmmm. And Pocket Wookie agrees.
I also began re-reading my all-time favorite book "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" which i picked up at the "give and take library" at the hostel that i stayed at in Johannesburg. The alternatives that were available there included the "1985 Listing of South African Airways Routes" and several romance novel in other languages, so i felt pretty happy with my find, which, in a Zen-like way, seems to fit very well with my current life.
Tomorrow i head up to northern Tanzania and will begin either a safari in Ngorongoro or begin hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro. As I think that the internet connection atop the mountain may be spotty and as my Blackberry apparently doesn't speak Swahili, my next blog will likely be severals days away...
Finally, for all of you thinking, "My God, my life is pretty much perfect, but i just wish I could make comments on Jonas' blog site", fear no more. i changed settings on this blog page so that it is easy to make comments (even if you're not a "blogger" user).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
