Mahale

Early the next morning we boarded a tiny single prop plane for Mahale. This was a highlight of Tanzania for Val as it is one of the few places where you can go on a chimpanzee trek to see chimps in the wild. Val was slightly nervous about the flight but James our pilot assured us everyone would be in good hands. He then told us not to be alarmed when we hear a voice from the flight deck say "Warning! Warning! Nose up! Land mass ahead!" It´s only a test warning because it´s a new aircraft, he assured calmly, not to worry at all. Indeed the aircraft still had that new plane smell so we settled into our seats for the 3.5 hour flight. As we were making our descent, that unsettling mechanical voice did indeed herald its warning and quite loudly too. It was good that James did warn us in advance.

The airstrip in Mahale was just a grass field right on the edge of Lake Tanganika, the longest freshwater lake and the second deepest lake in the world. On a clear day, one can see the mountains of the Congo on the other side. We were all curious if they ever got any refugees coming across the lake into Tanzania but were told that the border patrol in the middle of the lake is quite effective. We were also told that occasionally, they saw fireworks of artillery shells going off across the lake. Yikes. Surreal how there can be a deadly conflict going on just on the other side of this otherwise peaceful body of water.

We were met at the airstrip by some staff from the Greystoke Camp. We boarded the boat where lunch awaited us and sailed about an hour to get to camp. There were five of us heading to camp and only 5 of us for the entire 4 days. It´s a good thing we all got along. There was Pip and George honeymooning from New Zealand, Ariana - a Kenyan born safari tour operator out there on "research", and Los Dos Chamorros.
Beautiful beautiful beautiful. Mahale is paradise. Very very remote paradise.
When we neared Greystoke, there were about 15 staff members on the beach waving hello, waiting to greet us. Among them were Magdalena who runs the camp with Doug her husband, and Patience, the new chef. Magdalena and Patience showed us to our bungalow and made sure we knew every nook and cranny of our new home and how to use everything. For instance, the footbath at the stairs to the bungalow is where you can wash the sand off your feet before entering but don´t be surprised if you find a warthog or a leopard drinking from it late in the night. Ok, we´ll keep that in mind. The lake is great for swimming and is very very safe and clean, Magdalena said, but try not to swim after dark as there can be hippos and crocs in there. Otherwise, her three year old daughter swims there every day, it´s perfectly safe. OK, we´ll keep that in mind too. And aside from a couple of rules like meeting every evening at 7 at the bar for cocktails and 8 for dinner in "mess" (what they call the dining hall), we were asked to enjoy ourselves. From what we could see, there wasn´t going to be enough time to do all of the things that we wanted to, it was better that we got cracking immediately. After we finished shrieking about how insanely cool our bungalow was and taking a million photos like we´ve never seen anything cool before, we met at mess to be briefed about our next 4 days. It was exciting to find out that Magdalena worked for many years in Gombe National Park (not far north of Mahale) with Dr. Jane Goodall, a pioneer of chimpanzee research.
Very disappointed to find out that we only had a one hour maximum viewing time with the chimps each day. We assumed that we could watch them for as long as we wanted, pretending to be primate researchers. There are several reasons why: the most obvious one is that although this group of chimps is more used to seeing people, they are still wild and we do not want to take advantage of the time we have with them. This is not a zoo. As it is, there is a group of Japanese researchers that follows and watches them every day. The other very important reason is that chimpanzees share 98% of our DNA. They are the closest relatives to man, meaning they can also contract our diseases and this can be quite dangerous for them. So not only do we have a time limit, we also have to maintain a 10 meter distance from them and wear a face mask in their presence. Since it was rather late already, we did not have a chance to view the chimps that day but went on a hike anyway, then met for cocktails at the bar, then had a delicious dinner altogether, the 6 of us guests, Magdalena, Doug and Patience. It was like we were at a dinner party at their house. We all got to know one another and ended the evening with wine and port and other nightcaps around the campfire.

Unfortunately our next few days in Mahale were quite rainy. This meant that the chimps were not only harder to find, but if we did find them, wé were all going to be quite soggy as well. This is how the trek happens: every morning at 6, the Greystoke trackers radio the Japanese researchers to ask where they last saw the chimps the evening before. As chimps tend to sleep in (til about 9), the trackers have a 3 hour head start on them. They hike into the mountains and radio back to camp when they have located them. We start our hike at around 9 or 10 and keep in contact with the trackers until we have found them.

That first day we were introduced to our head guide, Mr. Muhamedi. He looked to be about 70 but was probably 110 and still in amazing shape. He is from one of the original tribes that inhabited these mountains before it became a national park. Mr. Muhamedi is also a medicine man, with an extensive knowledge of every leaf, fruit and seed in the forest and their medicinal properties. Our group of 5 and another guide, Tolluh, followed Mr. Muhamedi in single file into the forest with an occasional hack from Mr. Muhamedi´s macheti at low lying branches and out of place tree roots. We hiked for at least 2 to 3 hours before we started hearing the sounds of the chimps hooting and calling. Very very exciting. But because the chimps happened to be in a very densely forested area, we had to wait at least another hour to see if they would move into the open. They seemed to be heading towards the river, and the trackers were afraid that if they crossed the river, we would not be able to follow them as there are no trails on the other side and who knows when they will return. So we waited anxiously and finally decided to make the trek into the dense forest to see them anyway. There was much more machete hacking and branch cracking and by now it had started to pour. We finally reached a small clearing where when we arrived, a male chimp was displaying some aggresive behavior, we weren´t sure if it was meant for us or if we happened to show up when he was already in mid-display. He appeared to be charging towards us, screaming at the top of his lungs. Our guide Tolluh extended his arm in front of the group like a protective father shielding his children. But the chimp stopped short. Whew. We saw a female chimp up in a tree, a twig in her hand using it to draw ants out of a hole so she could eat them.



We moved farther along and saw a mother and her young baby, (all of these chimps have names but I've forgotten what they are) but because of the rain, they continued to move deeper into the forest. We followed them through increasingly dense brush, a lot more hacking and breaking and by now we were completely soaked in spite of our raincoats. After about an hour or more of insanely dense brush and what seemed like walking in a huge futile circle, we started our descent to camp. All in all we had about 20 minutes with the chimps and as it turned out, the last time we would see them again.
The next couple of days we were rained out and the chimps could not be located and the trackers believed that they had crossed the river. We hiked up each day in spite of that information, investing hours of hiking there and back hoping for that small chance that we might find them. No luck. Oh well. They are, after all, wild.



Aside from chimp treking, we also did some fishing one day where we caught a special fish that was served as sashimi that evening. DELICIOUS. We also went snorkling for mussles (you find them sticking out of the sand and just pull them up) which we had that evening baked in cheese and white wine in their shells.
Before we knew it, our time on Mahale was up and we were back on the boat that took us an hour back to the airstrip. Our time in Africa was also almost up. In a couple of days, we would fly to South America to explore an entirely different continent.

For photos of Mahale, please go to:
http://flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594448276098/

The Serengeti

The Serengeti comes from the Masaai word "Sirenget" which means "endless plains." There couldn't be a better description for this amazing place. Saving the best for last, the Serengeti held promises of magical things: Wild Kingdom, Born Free and Donald Sutherland voiceovers about lionesses taking down an unsuspecting wildebeest. By far the biggest park we've been to on our safari, we would be here two and a half days and we were hoping our luck would really kick in here and that we would see a kill in action.



When we entered the park, Philemon let Mike drive the Landrover. Mike took over as guide and driver, leading us past thousands and thousands of wildebeest apparently migrating OUT of the park. The grass here is much longer, and several heavy rainstorms visible in the distance threaten our next few days there. Philemon said the wildebeest were heading to the Ngorongoro Crater, where the grass is short and they can keep an eye on the newborns that they will have once they get there. Well, as luck would have it, it rained quite a lot making the trails extremely muddy and most of the rivers uncrossable. Some trucks were getting stuck in the mud and we'd heard of people being stuck out in the park all night. We spent two whole game days traversing the same few trails and seeing very little.



On the last day, we were determined to end on a high note, so we did an early morning game drive and managed to catch lions in a more active mood. We saw lionesses with their cubs, lions mating and even a cheetah under a tree. So in the end, even though we didn't see an actual kill, we were pretty lucky. That afternoon, we flew back to Arusha from the Serengeti in a tiny 10 seater double prop plane. A little nerve racking at times but we made it alive and in a fraction of the time it would have taken us to drive home. We were looking forward to what was next -- Mahale and our chimpanzee trek.

For photos of our safari, please go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423386516/

Field Notes: Ngorongoro Crater

The park is rainforesty at the entrance, similar vegetation to Manyara but the trails are flanked with a steep dirt wall on one side and an equally steep gorge on the other side. Getting up to the lodge involves ascending a series of switchback turns but recent rains have made the roads incredible muddy and hard to drive especially when there happens to be traffic coming in the other direction.
The crater is socked in with fog when we arrive and when we check into the lodge, the usual panoramic view of the crater is a panoramic view of white. The Masaai are allowed to live inside this park because they do not hunt or eat wild game. They raise domesticated animals, mainly sheep, goats and cows from which they survive on their meat, milk and blood.

The Masaai kids who come up to the window of the Landrover to sell us things (jewelry, carvings, spears) speak very good English. You're not supposed to take photos of them but they'll let you if you pay them. Seeing my camera, they offered to let us have a group shot for $20. They went all the way down to $3 when we kept refusing.

    

That evening we enjoyed a panoramic view of the crater over some cocktails from the deck of the lodge.

Like Philemon said, we were very lucky. Sometimes we have the feeling like we're on someone else's vacation.

For photos of our safari, please go to:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423386516/

Field Notes: Lake Manyara National Park

After a leisurely morning we packed and left for Lake Manyara National Park, a couple hours' drive from Tarangire. The Manyara Lodge is perched on a cliff overlooking the lake which occupies 235 sq.km of the 325 sq.km park.



From the lodge we have an insane view of the park. After checking in, we are advised to keep our sliding doors to our rooms locked because the baboons have figured out how to open the doors and will come in and mess up your room. We have a little pool time before lunch, then an afternoon game drive. Every park is incredibly different form the last. LMNP is densely wooded, rich with greens and dark chocolate browns. It looks more like a redwood forest. The trails eventually lead out towards the lake where thousands of flamingoes stake their claim to their own little piece of the lake bed.

Today we saw giraffes, lots of baboons (crossing the street on the way to the park), blue monkeys, zebra, elephants and hippos. We have a running joke in terrible English accents where Mike plays a jaded son complaining about how bored he is to be on yet another safari with mumsy, "ho hum...it pleases mother so that I make this ghastly trip to Africa with her again. I cahn't bear to see another giraffe." Followed by fits of laughter.

It just doesn't get old.


For photos of our safari, please go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423386516/

Field Notes: Tarangire National Park

We drive about 120 km southwest from Arusha Town to Tarangire National Park. The landscape on the way is breathtaking. We are still reeling at how big the skies are here. Because it´s been raining, the plains are grassy, the hills are green and the cattle are well fed. We pass a Masaai cattle auction along the way. Every Thursday, people walk for miles to buy livestock from this auction, among other things. Blankets are spread out on the ground to showcase shoes, hats, bananas, etc. The Masaai who live in town don´t wear the traditional colorful wraps but plenty of them who live in the villages still do, it´s a trip seeing them juxtaposed among modern society in their wraps and their spears and walking sticks.

We arrived at the Tarangire River Camp at around 1:30pm, mowed through a hot lunch and immediately headed out for an afternoon game drive, still annoyed that we´d wasted half the day trying to use an internet cafe back in Arusha town. Just inside the park, we came upon a herd of male elephants. WOW. Truly majestic animals. And they came so close to the Landcruiser you could reach out and touch one if you wanted to. Philemon, an expert driver/guide for 12 years, was always on the ready to start the car back up and slam it into reverse in the event of a charging elephant but there was no need. As close as they got, no one got in anyone´s way.

Philemon had the eyes of an eagle. He could negotiate the truck over muddy potholes, glimpse something out of the corner of his eye, screech to a halt, search through his binoculars and find something far far off in the distance. It´s how we spotted our first kill: two impala dangling from the branch of a tree and a leopard lazing in an adjacent branch keeping an eye on his dinner. Wow! Unfortunately our 300mm lense was still not long enough to get a clear shot so breaking park rules, Philemon looked to see that the coast was clear, took the Landcruiser off the trail, railing in the direction of the tree yelling, "hang on guys!! Be ready be ready with your camera! Be ready! Hurry!" Val snaps into wildlife photographer mode and snaps a few photos of the cat and its two limp friends as we circle the tree.



"Got it?!" Philemon checks before we beeline it back to the trail, adrenaline paumping, giggling and hanging on for dear life to keep our teeth from getting slammed right out of our faces.

Charged from another succesful game drive, we got home in time for a quick shower before dinner and were advised to be escorted to the dining area by a Masaai guide armed with a spear. Aside from a leopard that comes to the camp from time to time, they said it´s usually not a problem but always go with a guide anyway. The Masaai speak surprisingly good English, I guess you would never expect a guy wrapped in blankets and carrying a spear to speak any English, but hey, they do. They are always so cheery. They act like EVERYTHING in the world is just so great and they´re stoked. On our way back to our tent from dinner, we came across a small scorpion on the ground. Our Masaai shined his flashlight on it and pointed to it with his spear and laughed, "oh! You know what this is? It´s dangerous! ha ha ha!"


For photos of our safari, please go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423386516/

Field Notes: Arusha National Park

In the morning, Iris briefed us about our 8 day safari of the northern circuit game parks. Beginning at the nearby Arusha National Park, we drive to Taragire National Park, Lake Mayara National Park, Ngorongoro Crater, and finally the Serengeti where we would fly back to Arusha Town. We were introduced to cheery Philemon, who would be our guide and driver for the next week. We had an extended 7 seater Landcruiser all to ourselves.

Arusha National Park is 27 km from Arusha town. Philemon took us on an afternoon game drive, sharing his vast knowlege of the park and its inhabitants. Within minutes of entering the park, we come across a herd of giraffes. A creature borne from pure whimsical genius, and as curious of us as we are of them. There are just no words to describe the thrill of seeing your first animal in the wild. We were like 3 year olds, our jaws on the ground staring in awe at our first giraffe or elephant. We also saw zebra, buffalo, warthogs, black and white colubus monkeys, black faced monkeys, a bandit mongoose and flamingos. Plants of interes: the African Sausage Tree -- a shade bearing tree with podlike fruit that resemble bratwurst. Also, our favorite, the Baobaob tree with an immensely thick trunk and appearing to be growing root-side up, known to live thousands of years although no one can



actually verify exactly how old any one baobaob tree is....there is no way to tell as it does not have rings in its trunk to count. The trunk has a high water content (in a draught, elephants hack at the trunks for water) and if cut down, the entire tree collapses on itself and dies. Legend has it that God threw one of them down to earth in a fit of anger and it landed root side up and continued to grow that way.

Mt. Kilimanjaro through the clouds

We also managed to catch a glimpse of Mount Kilimanjaro, usually hidden behind a veil of clouds. This is where Philemon began saying that we were lucky and we took that as a good omen.

Last but not least, we learned a fair number of Swahili words from Philemon and began shamelessly brandishing our new vocabulary whenever we had the chance. That evening we returned to the Arusha Bungalow for a to-die-for home cooked meal by Rosie the cook. Roasted chicken, chard and rice and a bottle of wine to celebrate a successful first day.


For photos of our safari, please go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423386516/

Another long journey

The sky is Enormous in Tanzania. The clouds are puffy and pompous, greedily claiming every inch of blue real estate like they own the place.

Still on the continent of Africa but worlds apart from Morocco, this is the stuff of khaki-clad, pith-helmeted, knee-socked Englishmen and women drinking their tea out of stainless steel mugs outside their tent while giraffes graze in the acacia trees beyond. Ok, not really but it´s what all the films and glossy brochures portray.

Still reeling from another incredibly brutal journey, 45 hours in total, we are lucky to be alive and be witness to the most beautiful skies we´ve ever seen. Instead of flying within Africa, we went from Marrakech to Casablanca by train, then flew to Dubai then back into Africa to Dar Es Salaam, then on a small plane to Kilimanjaro, near the town of Arusha, where we would start our first safari. There was an ecclectic mix of people on our flight to Dubai: African Muslims in both traditional and western wear, dutifully praying wherever they can on car-mat sized prayer rugs they carry with them, Indians from India, retired Japanese ladies, Africans in traditional colorful fabrics, Saudis in their starched white robes and red head scarves held to their heads with leather hoses, and caucasians in their giveaway I´m-going-on-Safari khakis. Everyone seemed to be observing some other kind of airline etiquette than we are used to: either everyone knew everyone else or they just like to party. Within minutes after the seat belt light went off, the aisles became crowded with friends and aquaintances saying hello, visiting for hours, constant chatter throughout the entire flight. A small group of three helped themselves to whole bottle of wine and just sat and laughed around an imaginery fireplace. When we arrived in Dubai, it was 2 in the morning. We were surprised to see the airport still abuzz with activity. All the shops and restaurants were open, it was packed with people, some waiting for their 3am flights to depart, some asleep on the floor, rows and rows of people, a refugee camp of displaced travelers. After trying our hardest, with no luck, to bribe our way into a business class lounge, we ended up in a paying lounge and spent the next 8 hours trying to catch a few winks propped between two chairs pulled together and eating the "free food."

We finally arrived into Kilimajaro International Airport at around 7 in the evening, expecting to see someone with a sign with our names on it waiting for us. Isn´t that what the safari company had said in their itinerary? It was a tiny airport and by the time we got our luggage, the waiting area was almost empty except for a few cab drivers eyeing us like vultures. Within minutes, the entire airport would shut down and we would be stranded, not knowing where we were supposed to be.

We figure out that we are supposed to take the free shuttle into town; there it is outside, completely full, with the driver on the roof of the shuttle securing the last few bags under a tarp. Val borrows someone´s cell phone for US$3 to call Iris, the proprietor of the safari company to confirm that we are taking the shuttle into town. Despite the vulture cab drivers who were telling us that the bus was already full and that it would be better to take a cab, the wonderful angel of a woman who worked for the airline let us know that the shuttle indeed had room left and that we should go with them. So we lifted our packs onto the roof and under the tarp they went. We sat on jump seats (the very last and worst seats in the shuttle that fold down into the aisle so as to use up all available space in the vehicle) in the shuttle expecting only a short ride but it was another hour (a very long time when you don´t know in advance how long your journey is to begin with) before we reached the airline office in Arusha town, where our driver would be waiting for us. When we arrived, it was very dark and no driver. This is where we started to panic just a little. None of the cab drivers knew where our accomodations were and typically, cab drivers don´t use meters, you have to bargain for your ride, an impossibility when we had no idea where we were or where we were going. We are quite thankful for the few random acts of kindness from strangers -- one of the guys operating the shuttle offered to call Iris again and then ran to the back of the building where he found the driver waiting there. How pleased we were to see him! A truly genial man, he introduced himself as James and promptly delivered us to our accomodations which turned out to only be 5 mintues away.



At the Arusha Bungalows, we were warmly received by Jordan. He and Iris, both Tanzanian born but of Indian descent, own Tanzania Serengeti Adventure, the safari company we booked with. Our bungalow is in the same compound as their house which they share with their three young boys and some staff. Exhausted but relieved to have finally arrived somewhere and especially excited to start our safari in the morning.

To see photos from our safari, go to

Thanksgiving in the Sahara

We´ve been using Marrakech as a home base. Upon arriving back in town from Essouaira at around 7 in the evening, we had many errands to run before our early morning start for our 3 day expedition south and east of Marrakech through Ouarzazate (the desert film capital of Morocco where movies like Gladiator were filmed), traversing the Atlas mountains through the Draa Valley and onto Merzouga, ending with a camel trek to our overnight camp in the Sahara Desert.

Our most important errand was to find some warm clothes for the sure to be freezing night in bivuoac tents in the desert. By sheer coincidence we happend to walk past a camping store near the Jmaa El Fnaa about 15 minutes before it was going to close. What luck! Until we realized it wasn´t a camping store, it was a uniform store, with thick wool sweaters for traffic cops, customs officials, border patrol and the like. Mike ended up with a Customs sweater and Val ended up with Den Mother. Apparently, customs guys have really wide shoulders and short arms. And den mothers have really thin necks, super long arms and need a lot of room in the chest. Ridiculously ill-fitting, yes. Perfectly warm, yes. Absolutely desperate, yes. Cheap, yes. We bought them.

There were 17 in our group, 4 lovely Aussies all except one who live in Europe, a handful of Brits, a loopy Scot and an antisocial German. The rest were shy single travelers who barely uttered a word the entire trip: a surly French woman who was buying tons of necklaces from anyone who was selling necklaces, a friendly but quiet Moroccan who´s lived most his life in France, a Belgian kid who never said anything to anyone, and a guy and gal who sat up front with the driver most of the trip whom we started calling Shaggy and Thelma cuz they really did look like them.
For the most part, we stuck to our own microgroups for the entire trip, Los Dos Chamorros with the Aussies, Ruth, Marianne, Jana and Kriss and one Brit, Ian.



Most of the time we drove and had quick stops in places to pee or take photographs or buy things. Not ideal, but we were trying to cover a lot of ground in just a few days. Outside the city, life is a lot simpler. Lots of donkeys and men riding them side saddle, occasionally reminding them to keep moving with the whack of a stick. Women flog their laundry clean in rivers, children play contentedly with rocks and used plastic bottles in between trying to get a few coins off tourists. Desert communities are pretty monochromatic. Buildings rise up from the earth in varying shades of terra cotta, cumin, ovaltine, cosmetic bronzer, graham cracker, and drug store pantyhose. To make up for this, their interiors are where the Moroccans splurge on their color. Between the intricate mosaic tilework and the hypnotic upholstery, they´ve got the entire spectrum covered. The landscape varies greatly as we proceed on our journey. From arid Arizona-like plains to snow capped mountains to fertile river valleys lush with date palms (a surprisingly Biblical touch) and birch trees in full autumn regalia.

The Draa Valley with its immense gorges was beautiful. Ouarzarzate was boring. Somewhere along the way, we bought two rugs from a guy named Mohamed. Don´t quite know how it happened but we were in a kasbah, in this room where everyone was served tea, shown a bunch of really beautiful rugs, given an expert sales pitch and before we knew it, we were doing a credit card transaction on the curb, with two beautiful new rugs snuggled under our arms. It happened so fast but no regrets. They were beautiful and a bargain.

The highlight was our camel ride to our tents in the Sahara. Unfortunatly we arrived close to sunset and by the time everyone was situated on their camels, we´d missed the magic hour. We reached our camp in the dark and spent the rest of the night exploring in the dark, in awe of the multitude of stars in the black sky (the milky way even) and drinking the bottles of wine we had comandeered off two Muslim gentlemen at lunchtime in a hushed transaction.

Completely exhausted by what, 9pm? we retired into our tents, froze our butts off despite our uniforms and heavy wool blankets, and had to wake up by 6 for our sunrise camel ride back to the oasis. The sunrise was absolutely beautiful. We calculated that around that time, Barbara was sauteeing the turkey dressing, Al was stealing bits of sausage from the pan, Lynn was wrapping up a freshly baked pie and getting together some appetizers and Alan and Kristie were juggling kids and green beans. We were loping the uncomfortable lope on our camels towards the sunrise to say hello to another amazing day. We hope everyone, friends and family alike, ate lots of stuff and put on a bunch of weight like they should.




For photos of the Sahara, go to:
http://flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423422139/

Jemaa El Fna and the Souks

In Marrakesh, we'd spent the first day or two wandering the Jemaa Al Fna square, true sensory overload with snake charmers, henna ladies wanting to adorn your limbs with intricate designs, medicine men usually encased in a tight capsule of curious onlookers and remedy seekers, the ubiquitous fresh orange juice stalls - all exactly the same but numbered differently in lieu of a name, all vying for your patronage, selling THE BEST, SWEETEST orange juice we have ever tasted. Restaurants and cafes line the perimeter of the square offering terrace views of of the activity and a relatively invisible perch from which to snap some photos.

Wandering into the crowds are the souks, with stall after stall of exotic colors, amazingly beautiful things: carpets, scarves, lamps, mirrors, tagines, pottery, rose water and olive oils, bedspreads, jewelry and the traditional babouche slippers that almost every Moroccan owns. Turn the corner and you will find a row of apocatharies offering fragrant mounds of mint tea for digestion, black cumin seeds for snoring, chameleons in cages for...not sure what, frankensence, crystals, amber, vats of soft taffee like olive soap, traditional Berber lipstick , a little clay vessel that releases a red pigment when you put a wet finger to it. It's a carnival of colors and sounds and smells. You half hope to have a magic cave door open before you and a genie inviting you inside to live the rest of your life in shameless luxury. Bargaining is expected but Mike and Val, seasoned bargainers from South East Asia have no problems here. The typical lure of a shop vendor goes something like this:

Hello where you from? Come in just for looking, not for buying.

And you can never get a straight answer on a price. When you ask how much something costs, they will first pull you into their shop, maybe to be out of earshot of the other shop vendors? They will show you everything else they´ve got, then try to tell you everything you need to know about them. If you are truly interesting in buying, then they will begin to talk price. Sometimes a little backward because often our decision to buy something really only hinges on the price.



Around the next bend a completely different experience, one man emerging from the middle of a patchwork skirt of colorful spices, nuts and all manner of dried fruit. Stall after stall of these fruit and nut whirling dervishes frozen in time. By lunch time on the first day, we were lightheaded and almost nauseaus from our morning in the souks and wondered if someone had slipped us a mickey somewhere along the way.


At night, the center of square transforms completely. Smoke rises from the countless food stalls that materialize here at around sundown. Locals and tourists are out and about, eager to partake in anything and everything. As exotic and exciting as Marrakesh is, it takes out of you as much as it stimulates. A couple days were enough and we started to make exit plans.

For photos of Marrakech, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594381039013/
and
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/

Essouaira

On our second day in Marrakech, we met a Dutch/American couple, Katja and Jason, on the roofdeck of our riad. It was Michael's Cambodian T-shirt that sparked a conversation between us. We ended up yapping it up, going to dinner, sharing countless bottles of wine...one thing led to another and bam we're sharing a cab to Essouaira on the coast and an apartment once we get there. We've met many people since arriving in Africa, it's good to have some company, exchange stories, make promises to meet up again some day. We also met an older couple at the riad, Mary and Dig, who operate a treeking company in Jordan. Dig showed us tons of photos on his laptop and perked our interest in Jordan and of course, Petra. We threatened to visit next year (who wants in?).

The little town of Essouaira is charming beyond belief - it was what we'd hoped Marrakesh would be. But after a couple of days, Marrakesh began to feel like a big congested city and Essouaira was exactly what we were looking for. Its signature color is a cobalt blue — every door, window frame, balcony and trim is painted blue. It has the laid back feel of any beach town, a nice change from Marrakech. Our apartment was inside the walls of the medina, far less ancient in feel than the one in Marrakech. We had an amazing roofdeck that overlooked practically half the medina and the tumultuous ocean, a great (but often windy) place to glaze over with a bottle of wine. Still rather in love with the tagines (a conical cookware made of clay used to make the traditional Moroccan stews like Chicken with preserved lemons and olives for example - our favorite) , we ate those nearly every meal until we were quite sick of it by the time we left Morocco. The only time we didn't have a tagine was when we found a charming little curio shop and cafe in the Mellah (the Jewsih Quarter) owned by a jovial, overly tanned Southern French gentlemen who offered us the most delectible morsels.

The highlights of our 2 day visit to Essouaira were for Mike a meticulous and incredibly close shave
and for Katja and Val, a visit to a traditional Hammam, a local bathhouse. Hammams are still a common practice, strictly separated by gender, it's a place where Mohameds and Fatimahs go to bathe, exchange the latest gossip, and make use of the plentiful scalding hot water. Khadijah, an employee of the owner of the apartment we had rented was appointed to show us to the hammam. We didn't understand at first that she wasn't just going to show us, she was also going to bathe us. We followed Khadijah like obedient sheep down the narrow alleyway and through a small unmarked doorway not far from the apartment. We would have never found this place by ourselves, let alone what to do once we go there. We were really glad to have Khadijah there! The inside was rather simple and unattractive, one giant tiled bathroom. One OLD giant tiled bathroom. The next hour and a half was a truly divine experience. Will spare you the details here but will gladly share in person over some vino, but Katja and Val were given the scrubdown of their lives. Katja's tatoo managed to stay on but Val's henna one was completely obliterated. Aside from the sandpaper rubdown, the bath itself was heavenly. It was almost ritualistic, the systematic filling of hot and cold water in precisely seven buckets. We recognized the emollient olive soap we´d seen in the souks that melted into a deliciously fresh lather on the skin. We were like two giggling four year olds sitting on the floor being bathed by their nanny. Highly recommended!

For photos of Essouaira, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/

Marrakech

It took about 30 hours to get from Singapore to Morocco. We flew from Singapore to Istanbul, then over Bulgarian, Serbian and Croatian airspace to Milan, flying westward against the passage of time til we finally reached Casablanca. In Casablanca, we caught two trains to Marrakech, another 4 hours in total. Almost completely shattered and strung to our limits by then, but graced by the more than perfect timetable of planes, trains and automobiles, we ran from plane to ticket booth to train to ticket booth to train with ease, catching trains just as they were arriving into the station.

It´s an entirely different landscape. Different faces. Different smells. We welcome all of it but initially we tread lightly, keeping our voices down, our cameras off and a firm clutch on all of our things. The train to Marrakech was very crowded -- travel wary people pushing out as eager passengers hussle to get on. We´ve seen a few other backpackers but climbed onto a compartment where we are the only foreigners. A man motions to us to say that he has two seats available next to him. Indeed he did but one of them was occupied at the moment by his friend in the middle of a series of deep bows. He was situated at an odd angle in the seat, facing Mecca. We waited paitently until he was finished and took our seats, thankful to have them.

The view out the window is rather drab at first. Much of the land is barren as far as the eye can see, sometimes we´d come across a small town of boxy cinderblock homes that look unfinished and uninhabited. Well, except for the many satelite dishes on top of the houses faithfully pointed towards TV Mecca.

Hungry and exhausted, and getting impatient to get to our riad already. In the fading light, the landscape is brown brown brown except for some small patches of green who didn´t get the memo. Then in the setting sunlight, brown gives way to lilac, orange and khaki. It´s a strange limbo we´re in, hurtling through unfamiliar landscape with still at least an hour to go, unable to imagine what Marrakech is like except for the vague memory of a few internet photos of our accomodations. We´ve had many insanely long journeys and the feeling is similar: a displaced sensation of not knowing where we are, what day or time it is, being thrust through the windows of a parallel universe.

At the station, we negotiated a fair price for the ride to our riad (which we later found out was more than half what it should have cost). Val´s rusty high school French is really coming in handy since we set foot in Morocco. it´s either French or Arabic. Very little English is spoken here. Our taxi driver took us to the walls of the medina and stopped as the alleyways are too narrow for cars to enter. He got on the phone to someone, then pointed into the medina and said our riad was in there. We were sure we were about to be scammed. We´d just paid $5 for a pretty short cab ride and not even to the door of our riad. How were we supposed to find it inside the medina? There are no maps, or street signs. Just then, an old man in the traditional djellaba (a hooded cape-like garment that almost everyone wears) with a ferocious beard started circling the cab, summing us up through the windows. The cab driver was beginning to unload our things out of the trunk against our protests. The old man asked where we needed to go and we showed him the address of the riad. Silently, he began to lead the way into the centuries old medina, walls on either side so high you can´t see over them; alleys so narrow you can hold out both arms and touch the walls on either side. Some alleys were so dark and quiet we were a little concerned he wasn´t really leading us to our riad. And then, there it was. Riad Numero 10. A solid black wood door promising an exotic oasis within.

Janice, the French woman I´d spoken with to book the room opened the door and her big smile instantly melted away all our hesitations. Janice speaks no English but seems to understand Val´s French, so it´s all good. The inside of this riad is so so so amazing. Warm reds, pinks, oranges and yellows greet us, colors that have been missing from our color palette for the last couple days. We couldn´t wait to put our things down and snuggle into this place.



A sumptious meal had already been prepared for us by the gentle cook Raffida: a delicious pea soup, pastilla (a flaky pastry filled with chicken, ground almonds and showered with powdered sugar), a tomato and onion salad and for dessert, caramelized bananas. A bottle of wine and we felt so pampered, we sat there, catatonic from our journey, but eagerly soaking up the reality that we were finally in Morocco.

The next morning we are awakened at 5 am by the morning prayers. Hm, no one told us the speaker from the mosque was IN our bedroom. (It wasn´t but it sure sounded like it was.) These prayers sounded almost angry, with a terrible singing voice.

For photos of Marrakech, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594381039013/
and
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/

Out of Africa

Hello! Sorry for the long silence! We're alive and well in South America. We had very limited time for internet in Morocco and when we got to Tanzania, internet cafes were plentiful but completely useless. So I´ll do my best to catch up on the last 3 weeks. Please stay tuned!

Goodbye Asia

It's 10pm November 15th, and in a few hours we start our more than 24 hour journey to Marrakech.

From Singapore we fly to Istanbul (12 hrs), then to Milan (3 hrs), then to Casablanca (3 hrs), then, with luck, we'll get ourselves on a train (3hrs) to Marrakesh, just in time for dinner at the riad we found and booked just last night.

Whooo! After a good few weeks of R&R we are back in the game. Michael is 100% and we're ready for a whole new continent, culture, and cuisine.

We spent the last two days being pamperd by Val's family in Singapore, seeing aunts and uncles and granparents and cousins for the last time, running errands and checking in with doctors (Uncle Sal seems to have packed up and gone). It's Christmas is Singapore! Since Singaporeans do not celebrate Thanksgiving, all the Christmas decorations are already up. Orchard Road is swaddled in gold and red decorations and Christmas marketing is in full swing. And it's 80 degrees out. Still, it feels no less festive than if it were snowing.

Los Dos Chamorros have been fattened up by stubborn aunts who refuse to let us pay for anything. The after-meal-fight-for-the-check is a time worn Chinese custom. We are so grateful, as much as we doth protest. Good food, great company, lots of love and attention. We already miss all of them dearly.

Goodbye South East Asia.

A Day in the Life

Eight something a.m. The streets are fairly quiet except for the occasional, "Yes boss, transport? Where you going?" from the many freelance drivers in a holding pattern outside of hotels, and the honks from passing taxis that let you know that they are there in case you might want a ride. The temperature is already somewhere in the eighties. The oppresive humidity is like a heavy wet towel over your head all day long until about five in the evening when any stretch of sand on the beach is a potential soccer field for a sunset match.

Guests at beachfront hotels are having breakfast on white tablecloths. A few early bird touts are out, black vinyl cases clamped under their arms encasing cheap watches rings, or sunglasses. Their languid steps across the wet sand of low tide and their lack of eye contact signal that perhaps it is a little early yet for an agressive sale.

Nearly translucent sand crabs zip across the sand at breakneck speed, darting into holes at our approach. On closer inspection, the surface of the sand is mottled with an intricate and complex schematic of concentric circles of tiny orbs rippling outwards in perfect mathematical precision. Tireless sandcrabs building and rebuilding their sand fortresses between the daily tides.

The beach chair guys are setting up their chairs and umbrellas, ready for sun worshipping foreigners to rent them for about a dollar. More beach vendors show up: the hat man with hats stacked on top of his head as well as a tower of them cradled in his arms, the women covered head to toe to protect them from the sun wanting to sell you a pedicure and if you don't want that, maybe a massage, hair braiding? or how about a scarf? A sarong? A sheer sun moo-moo? A necklace? If you want any of the above, remember to ask for Maria/Sonia/Anni. The kite man with his kites that look like ships, sailing over sunburned tourists and mangy beach dogs, the guy with carved komodo dragons, the guy with the unwieldy bow and arrows. Oh and there is our 'friend' Kethut, he sells carved wooden picture frames and he also carries around a plastic folder of xeroxed henna tattoo designs. When the surf is good, he puts his bag of wares next to the guy selling cold drinks out of a cooler, changes into his trunks and rash guard that are stashed in the underside of the lifeguard's umbrella and runs into the water with his beat up board.

It's particularly difficult to get used to the constant soliciting. Westerners are protective of their personal space and their privacy. A simple and polite "no" sometimes does not suffice and it quickly turns into a more frustrated sounding "no," impolite body language and eventual and blatant ignoring. We have to remind ourselves that everyone is trying their hardest to eek out a living, even if they can get 50 cents from you for some small service, like clipping your toenails, they will do it. In their minds, what's a few dollars to you? You should just buy something to help them out and so they are always willing to give you a "good price."

Mike surfs when he gets a chance, usually every day. At lunchtime, we go in search of something fast, easy and cheap, usually local food from a nearby 'warung' (like cafe's). Our favorite thing is Nasi Campur (Nah-see Cham-pour) which is Rice on a banana leaf with any number of sides that you point to and they heap on top of your rice. Mouth watering curry chicken, fish in coconut, simple but tasty vegetables, satay, sambal chilli sauce.Then, it's back to the pool or ducking out of the heat to check email and what's going on in the world. Earlier this week, we were glued to CNN and the BBC, waiting for the results of the elections.

In the late afternoon, it's another surf check. The sun is low in the sky. Scores of scooters are now at the beach and the locals are cooling their feet off in the water. The evening soccer games are starting up, makeshift goalposts are driven into the sand. Lazy sunbathers are contemplating cocktails and dinner. The popular beach bars are in full swing for magic hour. The hat man, the ship kite man, the necklace/pedicure/massage ladies, still making their rounds. All in a day's work.

For additional photos of Bali, go to http://flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594365893323/

Goa to Bali

2 months
6 countries
13 guesthouses
4 hotels
3 homes
8 home cooked meals
26++ bug bites
1 haircut
2.5 bottles bug spray
3 times Mike's been sick
1 serious argument

Not a bad start. We're still trying to find the perfect On-The-Move to Time Out ratio. If we are to survive the next 4 months we need to move a little slower.

So the latest news is we are not in India, we are in Bali. A day before we were to leave for India, Michael got sick for the 3rd time. I suppose we consider ourselves lucky that it happened in Singapore and not in India. Similar symptoms but thankfully not as rough as the last time. We cancelled the entire India leg and made appointments to see a specialist since Singapore is our last chance for quality medical attention, the comfort of home and support of family.

2 blood tests, 2 stool samples, 1 EKG, 1 sonagram later, we've ruled out Malaria, Dengue Fever, bacterial infection of the heart valves, and confirmed that Mike's previously diagnosed heart murmur is non-existent. We did find out that it was Salmonella, which can stay in one's system for a while.

Mike says that as far as stool sample kits go, he prefers the Singapore kind to the Thailand kind. More like a prescription bottle than a fast food condiment cup, it makes for a more hassle-free stool harvest.

After 4 days of solid bedrest, healthy food, and TLC, we decided to join the rest of the family who were already in Bali to celebrate Val's grandfather's 89th birthday. Not a bad place to recuperate. The family stayed until last Sunday. We've decided to stay on for longer, until we leave for Casablanca on Nov 15th.

There are around 33,160 islands in Indonesia, 3000 of which are inhabited. Bali alone has about 3.5 million people, most of whom are Hindu. Two bombings here in recent years have taken a serious toll on the tourist industry here, a lifeline of the Balinese. Nearly 90% of the people here are directly or indirectly affected by the tourist trade. US and Australian travel advisories are still in effect and tourism is at about 50% of where it ought to be. Regardless, all the flight here from Singapore were full and it doesn't feel all that deserted here. Security guards are posted at the entrances of major hotels and bars, metals detectors in hotel lobbies, guards checking in trunks and cameras embedded in driveways to check the underbellies of cars.

The people are superstitious here. Sometimes when you pay for something you've bought, they will take your money and brush it against all the other merchandise, blessing the stock with good juju. Everywhere you go, you'll see colorful offerings, square boxes constructed of palm fronds, cradling a rainbow salad of any or all of the following:
flowers and flower petals
cooked rice dyed different colors
leaves
lime zests
fruit
a cracker
small change
candy
Then garnished with a few drops of holy water and a stick of incense.

We're on a sick spot in Seminyak, a nice surf spot where Val can spend all day in a cabana while Mike surfs right out front. He seems lonely, no one else it out in the water. Outside the hotel are streets of lovely shops and restaurants, boutiques, spas and temples. The people here are warm and outgoing, super friendly. Well, not all of them.

The other day we were pulled over by a cap, He just materialized in the middle of the street and waved us over.
Is this your first time to Bali?
Yes.
Do you have an International Driver's License?
No. But our hotel didn't say we needed one.
(Dismissal) I am the law. I will write you a fine, you have to go to court tomorrow, do you have time? If not, you can just pay me now.
Val dislodges a spew of ugly words.
Ok, give us the ticket.
Also, I keep your bike.
I'm calling the hotel.
What hotel you stay?
Val tells him, finger poised over the button with the green phone icon on the cell phone.
OK, this time I give warning, because your first time Bali.

And we got back on our bike and took off. If he had been scarier or better at this extortionist thing, we might have buckled. In any case, having a cell phone and a place to call really did save us.

For photos of Bali, go to http://flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594365893323/

Food and Singaporeans

The Chinese equivalent of "hello" is literally "have you eaten yet?"

This is the nucleus around which the entire culture revolves. Food. It's not uncommon in many other cultures, food is the magnet that brings family and friends together. But for Singaporeans, it's a topic that needs no rest, it fuels itself, it's a monster.

It's like this: you live to eat. While you're eating, you're discussing your next meal, you're comparing these noodles to the same noodles at that other place, they're not as good as that other place, how you can make it better by dipping the chicken in this sauce, how you can make it at home, why don't we try the other noodles next time?, what should we have for dinner?, what time should we meet for breakfast?, have you tried (insert food name here)?, you should, Michael you should try that it's something special, it's something different, it's out of this world, oh we should go to that store on Holland Road for it, it's better there, in fact let's have that for dinner, do you want dessert?, you should try our local desserts, never mind - just try you don't have to like it, oh you like it? take more, finish it, don't be shy, try this other kind, it's even better, take the last piece, c'mon don't waste it.

Our loveable little monster.

For photos from Singapore, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594349223995

Ipoh and Singapore

Dad and Jessie were incredibly hospitable with Los Dos Chamorros. Dad chauffered us around and took us to try all the local food that Ipoh is so proud of. This is where the eating marathon warms up for Singapore. Mike, the Minister of Security, has never been anywhere with such a heavy Muslim presence and got ready his stink eye in case he needed to use it. We got to see dad's orchid farm and lab where he crosses orchid species and replants hundreds and hundreds of plants. Both Val and Mike have orchids officially registered under their names with the Royal Orchid Society: Valerie Ang, aka RA0 (RA-Zero) and Michael Chamorro, or R14, are good money makers. :) Dad intends to cross the two...we shall see what that produces.

One day we visited an aboriginal tribe on the way to Cameron Highlands. Dad buys orchids from them sometimes because they get unusual species from the jungle. They were neither aboriginal nor tribal looking, everyone wore T-shirts. There were a ton of kids in the village when we arrived, all were somewhat suspicious of us. But after dad chatted everyone up and we started showing them the digital photos we were taking, all the kids wanted to do was pose for photos and then mob the camera to have a look at the picture. They were so curious of us, asking us how old we were, where Mike was from, if we spoke their language. Some were able to ask "what's your name?" but not much else in English.

We arrived in Malaysia to a string of Indian and Muslim public holidays, so lots of stuff was either closed or packed with people. It was also impossible to find bus tickets down to Singapore. Dad decided to drive instead.

We spend our entire last day in Ipoh at an internet cafe planning our upcoming trip to India, realizing that we've left too much to the last minute and worrying that the train tickets we want are long sold out. Like cramming for an exam, we tackle our Indian research in tandem on two computers, emailing accomodations, researching distances/hours/trains, calling India, speed reading Lonely Planet India. We didn't want to leave much to chance, it will not be a good place to wing anything. We are anticipating utter chaos, and for our patience and street smarts to be pushed to the limit.

On Wednesday (10.25.06) we woke at 4am to make the 6 hour drive from Ipoh to Singapore. The drive went relatively quickly and comfortably. We had anticipated traffic but there was none. We are staying at my grandfather's house in Singapore. Mom and stepdad are also here, everyone is flying into town for my grandfather's 91 birthday in Bali. We will miss it as we are leaving on Sunday for India.

The Eating Marathon ramps into high gear.


For photos of Malaysia, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594348004516/

Planes, Trains and Automobiles and Tuk Tuks and Ferries

October 21, 2006

7:15am Pick up truck takes us from hotel to ferry.

8:00am Ferry to Ko Phi Phi. Transfer to ferry to Phuket island.

9:30am Ferry transfer in middle of ocean. Our bags are passed over the rails, we are hurried onto the waiting second ferry. Odd, but very efficent.

11:00am Arrive in Phuket, take a pre paid van into town where we were planning on killing some time before our 4pm flight to Malaysia. The van couldn't find where we wanted to go and so they dropped us off on the street (Val cursing and protesting), we walk aimlessly with our heavy packs in 90 degree heat in search on somewhere to have lunch.

11:05am Tuk Tuk driver stalks us, asking where we'd like to go. We blow him off.

11:09am Same tuk tuk driver, still stalking us, says he'll take us where we want to go and the airport afterwards for an agreeable price. We get in.

11:15am Uncle Stalky stops as at some random restaurant. Then tells us we should just take a cab to the airport because 1) he can't wait for us to eat lunch 2) a cab is better 3) the cab has a/c 4) the cab will cost more.

11:16am We feel the last week's bliss bleeding out of our pores.

11:18am We decide to just eat and find a way to the airport.

12:07pm Find out that there is an airport shuttle (for a fraction of the cab price) that leaves in 23 minutes at the Bus Terminal and that we will miss it.

12:15 Find out that all cabs are in cahoots and do not like to bargain.

12:30 Worn down, we take a cab to the airport. Wait for 3.5 hours.

4:15pm Fly to Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia

6:40pm (one hour time change) Arrive in KL, bags take forever to arrive. Meet Val's Dad and Jessie at airport. Happy to see familiar faces.

8:00pm Have great dinner at a hawker stand/rest stop at the side of the highway.

9:00pm Start the 2.5 hour drive to Ipoh where dad lives. Heavy heavy downpour most of the way.

11:30pm Arrive in Ipoh.


And just like that our fragile week of island yum was shattered by a gruelling 15 hour travel day.

Island Recap

What a luxury to have 7 whole days without moving. Our much needed vacation within the vacation. Not having to find accomodations or plan our next steps or having anything on the agenda was what we really needed. If we wanted to stay in and watch the All-Day-Movie-Ticket channel, we could, and we did. By the end of the week, we had our favorite hangouts and we had befriended a few of the townies. It's a good feeling, when you're a nomad, to have a small piece of familiarity even if it is only for a week. Island life is a slippery slope. Los dos Chamorros are a deeper shade of brown and our happy-place equilibrium was re-calibrated.



Highlites
* discovering places on the scooter.
* sleeping in.
* playing cards at the Nice Beach Resort for hours.
* Val's mysterious all day stomach cramps which led to movie marathon day.
* giant spider in bathroom one night (see photo in flickr) that valiant Mike drowned with a relentless water spraying.
* the chill beach platforms along the beach with Thai mats and pillows and shell curtains and vodka pineapples.
* the god aweful party at the Reggae House that was the butt of our jokes all week. It was a like a bad house party where you worry that no one is going to show up. The dj sucks because he's mixing tunes like a Greek plate thrower, the tempo-impaired host thinks he can play the drums. And all the dorky kids from school are the only ones showing up.
* waiting out the 3 hour island-wide black out on the porch with our emergency candle and cold Singhas.
* The Flip Flop Cafe, our favorite dinner spot. A Dive school/restaurant/wireless internet cafe run by a couple of Danish guys. They showed movies every night at 7:30. So we'd watch movies over meatballs and boiled potatoes and chicken breast and salad, a nice change from Thai food, and lots of wine (something we've really been missing.)

Lo-lights
* non-stop construction by the pool area.
* mosquitoes.
* having to leave.

For photos of Ko Lanta, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594348005998/

For photos of Ko Phi Phi, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594346939747/

Jus' Chillin'

Finally, a place to rest our bones. No rain. No pesky vendors trying to sell us stuff we don't want. Loads of time to kill. Here's a sample daily itinerary:

slather on SPF 30
rent scooter
get breakfast and check email
tool around island
pineapple juice
play cards
eat some chicken thing
where does that dirt road go?
pool time?
read book
fall asleep
pee in ocean
oh my it's happy hour
bug spray
dinner time
fall asleep by 9:53pm
repeat

Paradise Lost. Paradise Found.

Sunday, Oct 15, 2006, Ko Lanta.
Eager to see the much acclaimed Thai islands with our own eyes, we left Bangkok for Krabi about 5 days ago. Krabi is a coastal town on the West coast of southern Thailand and a good jumping off point for the many island destinations in the Andaman Sea. When we arrived in Krabi, we took a taxi, then a sawngteaow (like a covered pick up truck with bench seats in the back, then a longtail boat to Railay island (famous for rock climbing). It was pouring. For days, the rainstorms persisted, dampening our spirits and slowly sapping our enthusiasm. On Railay, we spent about an hour walking around with our big packs, looking for a suitable hotel.
We quickly realized that the islands are not as affordable as other parts of Thailand. There was so much constuction on that tiny island it was a little of a buzzkill. (to be fair, this coast was hit pretty hard by the Tsunami.) Fatigued from the constant moving, our overwhelming desire was to find the perfect spot and stay there until we leave for Malaysia. Railay was not it so we took the ferry to Ko Phi Phi (Ko-Pee-Pee)the following morning. This is the island made famous from its cameo in that DeCaprio move, The Beach. We had not given up hope and were excited to see our next destination.
We arrived into a zoo of tour operators touting accomodations on the island. We settled on a place based mainly on price. The room itself was not bad, per se, but it wasn't worth the price. It was also probably the farthest possible spot from the pier, through construction sites, scores of massage shops, internet cafes, restaurants, bars and tour agencies. The island does not have a good drainage system so with the constant rains, muddy ankle deep, sometimes foul smelling rivulets dominate the streets. Water was coming out of pipes that spilled into the street and we weren't sure if it was pure rainwater or rainwater mixed in with a little sewage we were trudging through. Really glad for our Hep shots. Ko Phi Phi was turning out to be more like Ko Poo Poo.
The islands are breathtakingly beautiful but the unfortunate thing is that beauty is being trampled on and eaten alive by the greed and inconsideration of a booming tourist industry. Paradise Lost.

We are now on Ko Lanta. Paradise Found. This is exactly what we were looking for. A fairly large island, entirely undeveloped. There is a law here that forbids any building to be taller than the palm trees. We are staying at a great place and have rented a scooter to explore the island. Speaking of which, the sun is calling and we must go....until next time!


(Sorry, photos coming soon, it takes forever to load them, promise to do so soon.)

And They Drop Like Flies

Jenna was the first. Fever, headache, frequent trips to the bathroom. Then on the morning we were to fly to Bangkok, Michael wakes up with a high fever. We postpone our flight, Capos leave without us. Later that day, Angelo succumbs to same debilitating illness. We are stumped. What did it? The fruit plate at the temples? The supposedly safe bottled water? The 45 cent beers? Perhaps we were cocky, thinking ourselves impervious to a little bacteria in this not-third-world-anymore little oasis. But no, whatever it was beat the living crap out of these three. Val escapes narrowly with merely a bee sting on her cheek and a nasty fire ant bite on her foot. I'd take those any day over what these guys had. The night we spent alone in Cambodia was rough. Michael got better then were reminded that we'd picked the absolute noisiest place to stay, right under a rooftop bar and next to another one. When you're trying to sleep off a fever and relentless "angry ass" as Jenna calls it, the last thing you want it the relentless bass of one track pounding over the screaming melody of another. At least two sources of music barged into our room, mocking our walls and tightly closed windows, defying their existence. A rough night ensued but Mike's fever finally broke at around 4 in the morning. And by 8:30 we were at the airport waiting for our flight out of there to Bangkok.

We limped into Bangkok, Mike barely making the trip. Checked into our guesthouse and another full day of rest for the man, who was much much better but not entirely out of the woods. (Hooray, Cipro!) After a much needed nap, Val leaves him to the BBC and After School Specials while she takes her one and only chance to visit Chatuchak weekend market, the largest market in the world. You can buy ANYTHING you want there. And for cheap. Exhausted, Val makes it there 2 hours before the market closes.

Today, Oct 9, we take Michael to the hospital, just to see if he is alright. He claims it was the best hospital experience he's ever had. It was like a hotel when we entered, staff greeting us with their usual Thai hospitality. We were signed in and waiting to see a doctor within 5 minutes. A sign at the nurse's desk read. "If you have been waiting for longer than 15 minutes, please contact a nurse at the counter." Love this hospital. Blood tests were done while we waited and within an hour, we were on our way, with a diagnosis and more medication. Mike is back on his feet, ready to be on our way tomorrow morning to Krabi, our jumping off point to the islands.

Cambodia Rules

Where to begin? Cambodia has been both nostalgic and surprising. Off the bat, we wish we could have had more time here. Michael had few to no expectations of the country, probably figuring it would be pretty third world from Val's account of it, having been here five years ago. That, mixed in with the horrific things we've read about Pol Pot, the Khmer Rouge regime and the genocide that wiped out 2 out of 7 million Cambodians as recently as 1975-78. Everyone here has lost someone to the genocide, an uncle, a parent, an entire family. The country didn't really open up to tourists until probably 10 years ago when there were still traces of Khmer Rouge in outlying areas of Siem Reap, when taxi drivers were still afraid to take people to the more remote temples.

Five years ago, Cambodia was only a shadow of what it has become now. Kudos to them. All the roads are paved now, including what used to be a pothole ridden dirt road that connects Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia, with Siem Reap where Angkor Wat is. New bars and restaurants and nice stores and hotels have popped up all over, making it an accesible and ideal place for a getaway. So ideal that there are a thousand times more tourists now than there were five years ago. Busloads of Japanese tourists can easily ruin a good photo op.

Landmine victims are an atrocious reminder of worse times, they are a common sight here along with the many shoeless street children who wander about begging late into the night, miniscule 5 year olds with their one year old brother or sister clinging to their sides in a ghetto baby bjorn. Instead of giving them money, we've been buying racks of bananas and doling those out one by one.


Phnom Penh
We flew out of Ho Chi Minh City last Monday, eager to explore a whole new country. With Val teetering on the edge of falling ill, we opted for a half hour flight instead of the 8 hour bus ride. The bus would have costed $6, one dollar less than our cab ride from the Phnom Penh airport into the city. Oh well.

We were to meet our much missed travel buddies, Jenna and Angelo, at the Foreign Correspondents' Club that evening for drinks. Set in a colonial building with wide airy verandas overlooking the peaceful Mekong River, the boulevard teeming with waiting tuk tuk drivers, street vendors, and all walks of life out for an evening stroll. Inside the FCC, geckos roamed the faint yellow walls, occasionally ducking behind the many frames documenting decades of photojournalism. We sampled every spot in the house, from the mosaic tiled table tops and wrought iron chairs where we started with a snack, to the bar stools at the balcony where a careless wave of one's hand could send a glass of delicious pinot gris plummeting onto an unsuspecting pedestrian below, to politely stuffed Craftsman leather club chairs and matching dark wood coffee tables in the lounge area where we finally met our friends. How quickly we were seduced by the glamor of it all (Happy Hour specials did not help) and 6 carafs of wine later, we emerged, enebriated from our most excellent first four hours in Cambodia.

Tuol Sleng
Or S 21, was the only sight we had the time and energy for in Phnom Penh. Tuol Sleng was a secondary school used by Pol Pot as an interrogation, torture and detention center during the Cambodian genocide. Hundreds and thousands of men, women and children were held captive here under the strictest and most unreasonable of rules, cruelly tortured, chained to the floors and walls, burned in their beds. Most of them were eventually taken to the Killing Fields and bludgeoned to death. We spent a few hours at Tuol Sleng, wandering down its silent corridors with the unforgettable checkered tile pattern on the floors, observing walls that look like they have not been wiped down since its last occupants. Thousands of black and white photographs of every single person who came here is housed in room after room in one of the buildings, mute epitaphs of the unfortunate souls who passed through here.

Our faithful driver, Mr. Penh whom we'd met the night before at Jenna and Angelo's guesthouse drove us around on his scooter, waiting for us whenever we went inside. After Tuol Sleng, he took us to the Russian Market while we waited out a short drizzle, then we took him to lunch (the poor guy looked like he never eats)and called it a day, deciding against the 30km potholey ride out to the Killing Fields. After lunch, our hangovers got the better of us and we promptly returned to our guesthouse for much needed naps.

In the morning, we boarded a sweet bus to Siem Reap. Big roomy seats, a bathroom on board, cold towels, bottled water, and a box of pastries for our 6 hour journey.

Siem Reap
When we arrived at the bus station, scores of tuk tuk drivers crowded around the bus, some holding up signs with peoples' names on them, some offering dirt cheap rides into town "just to take a look" at where you want to stay. Our names were in the mix (guesthouses in Phnom Penh arrange these pickups so that the drivers can take you to guesthouses of their friends. The tuk tuk drivers don't care where you stay, they just want the chance to talk you into a 3 day commitment for them to be your sole driver to all the temples, a lucrative daily rate for them at $6 a day.) Since we had not arranged any accomodations, we decided to drive around and take a look at what was available. We usually have had no problem since we have never been in a place in high season. But Siem Reap being still quite a small town, and since most people are getting their guesthouse recommendations out of the same Bible (the Lonely Planet, we had trouble finding a place with any room. Getting desperate and tired, we settled on a place in a very central part of town. The rooms were simple but the location was perfect.

This lovely little town is almost unrecognizable from what it was 5 years ago. Everything seems to have gotten a face lift or grown in size. Beautifully designed restaurants, cafes and bars, a real pharmacy, spas and so many new hotels and guesthouses. It's difficult to put it in the "third world" category any longer. We spent our sunset at one of the more popular sunset destinations, on top of Phnom Bakheng temple. It was less than underwhelming, no sun was to be seen through the heavy clouds. It was very crowded and at the end, it started to pour. We hiked back down the dirt path in the dark, happy to find our faithful tuk tuk driver waiting for us. Home Charles! (Actually, Home Mr. Sopthep!)

The next day we rented bikes and rode out to Angkor Wat, the Bayon, and Ta Phrom, all temples in the Angkor compound. Little did we realize, we had ventured quite far out by the time we'd gotten to Ta Phrom and we were not happy campers on the one and a half hour ride back home. Short of suffering from heat stroke, and exhaustion (I guess I only speak for Jenna and I)Jenna and Val suffered from a heat rash, a stinging combo of sun, pollution, bug spray and sunblock. But it was a great day.

The next day Jenna was ill and did not join us on Temple day number 2. Angelo, Michael and Val hired a tuk tuk to take us to Bantei Srey, a remote temple about an hour drive away. It was smaller than we expected, but worth the jouney. On the way back we deliberated on whether to risk impending rain and darkness to visit a temple even farther away (it would have been a 4-6 hour roundtrip) that exists in the middle of the jungle, supposedly a true Indiana Jones adventure. It was already 1:30 in the afternoon and embarking on that trip so late would not have been smart. So after much gnashing of teeth and kicking ourselves for not starting out earlier, we decided to head back towards the Angkor compound and explore some other temples we still hadn't seen. We had a great time and at our last temple, where it was about to rain, the place got kind of eerie (in a cool way). The wind kicked up, blowing dead leaves through the stone corridors of the temple. As the skies darkened and crushed the shadows into a deeper shade of black, the juxtoposition of the green moss against the dark grey stone of the temple walls really enhanced the mystery of the place. Who would have expected that a world consisting of just three colors would be so intoxicating? We happened to be walking though a series of doors, all aligned perfectly, the last one like a window opening into the green trees outside the temple. Looking down that long hallway of doors gave the illusion of facing mirrors, when you are able to see your reflection into infinity.

Another fantastic day. We were sad to have to leave so soon. In the morning we would all fly tp Bangkok where we would finally part ways: Capobiancos to India, Chamorros to the southern Thai islands.