So What's Your Destination?

That's it, for now...

2009-05-27T19:33:00.000-07:00

Cuzco to Arequipa was on the fantastically named Cruz del Sur bus. This one checked ID’s, went through bags with a metal detector, took photographs of all passengers, and only stopped once in 10 hours!

Arequipa, Peru’s second city, boasted singular geography – it lay at the feet of three volcanoes: Chachani, El Misti, and Pichu Pichu. The Plaza de Armas had an arresting background of the snow-capped Chachani, and for the most part felt much less touristy than the previous few stops. How refreshing to walk around without anyone trying to sell you something. And plenty of places to grab a daily special of a starter, entrée, and a drink for less than $3.

Many of the buildings were constructed from whitish volcanic rock quarried nearby. The Monastery of Santa Catalina seemed a city within a city, offering a glimpse at the lives walled off for several centuries. We saw “Juanita, the ice princess,” a young girl, among others, sacrificed by the Incas to appease the mountain Gods nearly 500 years ago. Her intact frozen body was discovered in the 90’s, on a peak not far from here, and is displayed in a fascinating museum. Arequipa is also the Alpaca capitol, so there was plenty of fancy clothing on sale. Nice, but not tempting enough.

From Arequipa to Lima required just one more overnight bus. Luckily, we had sprung for the super-deluxe bus, akin to business class air travel with reclining leather chairs, movies, and a steward, because it was 17 hours, including one more roadside breakdown.

Lima turned out to be nothing to write home about. The sun never quite broke through the haze, and aside from a few historic buildings near the Plaza de Armas, we found little of interest. We also got to see all the non-salubrious neighborhoods on the very long walk from the center to the bus terminal where we had left our bags.

The following week and half take us to Boston, New Hampshire, and New York. And so, the international part of this trip has concluded with a whimper. For Steph it’s been nine months away, and for me, over 18 months. Has the wanderlust been tempered? There remain so many experiences ahead, places to see, and foods to try, but maybe they’re better left for another time, another beginning.

Someone once sang -- Every beginning is another beginning’s end…

Ollantaytambo

2009-05-25T17:01:00.000-07:00

Halfway back from Machu Picchu, this was another definite stop in the Sacred Valley, and with good reason. Not only because the train ride in the “backpacker” service was unbearable – way too little room and not enough fresh air to overcome the nasty smell of socks from the woman in front of me…

The moonless night was pitch dark, but the sky was alive with a sea of brilliant lights. We grabbed the first decent room by the river and conked out almost immediately after getting back from dinner at KB Tambo’s (which never tasted so great after Aguas Calientes).

Ollantaytambo seemed authentic, quaint, relaxed, and easily could have deserved a longer stay. Breath taking vistas could be had in all directions and the Inca ruins were literally minutes up the hill (the previous day’s accident having done nothing to improve my fear of heights…). How did they manage to build so high? The water rushed by with a roar, the sun shone warmly, and did I mention that the food was good?

In the afternoon, we hopped into a taxi for the return to Cuzco. The road through this part of the Peruvian Andes took us through beautiful mountain passes, high plains and lakes, and a jaw-droppingly beautiful skyline of glaciers and clouds. The fare was well worth it.

Machu Picchu

2009-05-24T17:55:00.000-07:00

We had come to see this --

There aren’t enough superlatives to describe the view. Machu Picchu was amazing, but the experience wasn’t.

For the 72 km train ride from Cuzco, good fortune smiled upon us as we had been given seats on the “Hiram Bingham” service, a fancy train car reminiscent of the Orient Express, complete with tablecloth breakfast service (fantastic, though I’m unsure why anyone would pay the $500 roundtrip).

To make it up to Machu Picchu early in the morning, we spent the night in Aguas Calientes. Set along the river and below tall lush green mountains, the hilly town itself was an ugly pit of random construction, a lot of it half-finished. Aside from shameless rip-off prices for everything, the food was terrible (running a close second to Sunauli, a Nepali-Indian border town, where at least it was cheap). I had a burger with so little meat the patty was see-through and fell apart into bits, which was then topped off with a 10% service charge…

At 5 AM, already hundreds of people were in queue for the first busses up ($7 each way, after the $40 per person entrance fee). At the gate, another line, where surly attendants randomly decided which packs were “too large” and had to be left in storage. Then, a high-altitude dash to the far side of the ruins to secure limited access to the Wayna Picchu hike. By 7:15, all 400 tickets were distributed.

Wayna Picchu is that steep narrow mountain seen in the background of all Machu Picchu photographs. The narrow path wound around, and in several sections was quite uneven and steep, requiring handrails and a little nerve. I paused at one of the Inca terraces close to the top. The view very far below was making me uneasy, and looking up was nauseating. The last 10 meters were precarious, at nearly 70˚ and up 30cm-wide ancient steps with barely enough room for the feet.

As we stood there, looking out, we heard the sickening sound of someone slipping and tumbling from above for several interminable seconds. There were horrified screams and we thought instantly that he would be down the mountain and dead. On the opposite terrace he lay, bloody with head injury and an obvious lower leg tib-fib fracture, and maybe more. Of course there was no question of a helicopter. We were completely inaccessible, except from below.

The older gentleman was conscious, but grew ash-grey, cold, and clammy. His pulse was thready. I had to get him out of his sweaty clothes and grabbed something dry to cover him up (gratitude to the Samaritan parting with his really nice jacket). A lot of people offered help (and was that a guy doing reiki in the lotus position right above me?), but we really just needed to get him down to a medical facility. It took at least an hour for several guys to climb up with a stretcher.

We fashioned a splint with branches and cloth and then strapped him down. Then the most incredible feat followed. Two men at a time hoisted the stretcher on their shoulders and literally carried it down the same treacherous steps. Two little guys carrying 100 kg for 1½ hours! At the bottom, we administered some initial treatments, and then put him on the waiting train for the three hours to Cuzco. Good fortune had smiled upon him too.

Wanna Strike?

2009-05-20T13:10:00.000-07:00

The previous nine months, we´ve experienced a week-long airport shutdown, car breakdown, bus breakdown, and missed train. Four days in Cuzco (and taking all emotion out of it): railroad strike, bus strike, roads blocked off. All packed and nowhere to go. ¿Perhaps mañana?

Yesterday, we walked up the steep hill behind Cuzco to visit Saqsaywaman (or "sexy woman" for some). 360-degree hilltop views rewarded the pulmonary effort exerted. There, the Inca had built an enormous fort with zig-zagging walls, consisting of stones as heavy as 300 tons. Not a terrible place to spend an idle day...

Pisac

2009-05-19T08:34:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, we boarded the Pisac bound local bus to check out the weekly Sunday market and Inca ruins. The bus careened around a bunch of high altitude bends, stopping frequently to drop off and let on Quechua speaking old ladies carrying colorful bundles on their backs.

Pisac lay at the bottom of an adjacent valley, and the first glimpse of the terraced mountaintops was impressive. The market also proved to be quite the spectacle. Color abounded, from the blue, yellow, red, and mottled corn, the variety of potatoes, the fruit, vegetables, and the traditional outfits that people had on! They were just going about their routines, but what a feast for our eyes. Lots of pictures were taken, and even a few Soles were doled for those unmissable shots. The requisite rows and rows of souvenir stalls weren’t far off, and worth a look.
We wisely chose to take a taxi up the 7.5km to the Inca ruins. What we saw from afar, was incredible in its midst. Several temples and building complexes stood perched on peaks surrounding a semi-circular terraced mountainside, with views all around. We needed several hours, just to hike up and down the paths, and the steep descent to Pisac itself was murder on the knees. With the intense sun, I was glad not to have hiked it up.

The Inca Capitol

2009-05-18T14:04:00.000-07:00

At over 10,000 ft elevation, the capitol of the Inca resembled a brown jumble of settlement sprawling up the mountainsides. The city was originally designed to resemble the shape of a puma, but this was no longer discernible. From the airport to our steep hillside hostel, cost 5 soles (almost $2).

This early, the cobblestoned streets and colonial edifices of the historic center were empty. The morning haze yielded to the intense sun, revealing clear blue skies. Mugs of coca leaf tea awaited us; this to help ward off the effects of altitude. The hotel staff alerted us of a “scheduled” railroad strike, on the very days we had train tickets to Machu Picchu. Plans for sleep would be dashed, as we spent the rest of the morning sorting out alternatives.

Life emerged along the old Inca walls and beautifully antique colonial buildings. This city must have been amazing before the arrival of Pizarro. Women in bowler hats and colorful alpaca wool throws could be discerned, somewhere amidst the souvenir hawkers and restaurant, travel agency, and massage touts. Cuy (roasted guinea pig) was a Peruvian specialty, but apparently massage too… Cuzco is uber-touristy, with nearly every building along the Plaza de Armas converted to a shop, restaurant, or trekking agency. There’s even a gringo alley, for obvious reasons. Along some blocks on Avenida del Sol, moneychangers easily carried more cash than the passersby.

I found the fees for most sights unreasonably high, so the best thing was to simply stroll around and dodge the sellers of this and that. Nonetheless, Cuzco was justifiably popular; a convenient base to explore the rest of the Sacred Valley. By night, the stars made their appearance and the city faded to serene ripples of yellow light.

Zipping Across

2009-05-17T17:15:00.000-07:00

6:30 AM as we walked to the Paris Nord station from our hotel in Montmartre. “Bon jour, bon jour!” someone shouted from the packed car with thumping music (and a “bon” hangover surely awaited her). “Bon Journee!!!” as the car sped off. She was half-right about getting to Peru.

The day before, we made the embarrassing amateur move of getting off at the wrong station in Brussels. It would have been more humorous, had our train not been delayed, leaving little time to catch the next to Paris. We did make it, but only for that clichéd scene of hustling up to the platform as the train slowly moved away. The new ticket for the next train really hurt…

In Paris, it was one more baguette with pate, one more pain au chocolat, and one more evening with friends from the High School days.

From Paris Nord, the terminal stop was Charles de Gaulle Airport. We flew seven hours to a layover in Toronto, where border agents met the plane for passport checks, at the gate. Reminded me of Egypt, except they seemed friendlier there. The customs agent felt that this wasn’t the most direct route to Peru. I agreed with her. The next 7½ hours to Lima felt at least twice as long.

The flight to Cuzco would be at 5:40 in the morning, so upon arrival at 9pm, we were in for a long night at the airport. We took turns napping and watching the cleaning crew at the 24-hour food court.

Three separate flights by three companies crowded the same gate at the same time. Luckily the flight was a mere hour, but spectacular, with day breaking over the soft blanket of white cotton candy, pierced by jagged icy ridges of the Andes. The plane then dropped through the clouds into the Cuzco Valley.

Rotterdam Revisited

2009-05-17T17:13:00.000-07:00

High time to hightail it back to my refuge in Rotterdam. I’m getting road weary. Five weeks since we had last been there, and with the recent blur of Morocco, Spain, Paris, Czech Republic, and Austria, nothing could be better than dropping by my cousin Joanne’s for a few days of not going anywhere.

In the end, it was memorable and all too short again. Cooker’s did a great croquets and frites, but Karin’s cooking was awesome, as were the meals at home (though we missed out on the white asparagus…) Precious time with my brother and some old friends who never fail to impress me with how great they are at being friends. Not to mention the lingering soreness from just a few minutes boxing on the Wii.

Vienna and the Not So Blue Danube

2009-05-11T00:38:00.000-07:00

Our hotel was only minutes from the Westbahnhof. Just around the block was Schitzelwirt, where you could find grannies seated behind a big mug of beer and enough food for a week. They served frighteningly gigantic plates of schnitzel and just one would have been enough to feed both of us, including dinner. Naturally, they downed all the beer, but wrapped half their portions to take home (complimentary wax paper and plastic bags on the wall).

Vienna was another impressive city. The Hapsburgs commissioned their palaces, churches, and monuments on a grand scale. The Opera House, Spanish Riding School, the museums, the cobblestoned streets, the horse carriages, and the classical music – they all lent an air of sophistication to the historic center.

Men dressed in period costumes hawked tickets for nightly concerts, but where were the cocktail sausages from those little cans?

There was enough time for a day trip out to some nearby towns along the Danube. By train we arrived in Melk to see the Benedictine Abbey on top of the hill and it was warm enough to sit outside and have a beer. Then we joined the downstream cruise on the muddy green waters, past some very scenic towns and castles. Not exactly an adventure, but the lush green hillsides and medieval towns were not to be missed. There were Frankfurters, but still no Vienna sausages...

Salzburg

2009-05-11T00:28:00.000-07:00

In the shadow of the Alps, close to the border with Bavarian Germany, the fast-flowing Salzach River bisected the city, with the center wedged between the Kapuziner and Monschbergs. Within maybe a square kilometer, all the historic sights lay crammed together – gardens, churches, cloisters, squares, and cemeteries. Above all this towered the large city castle.

Salzburg was the birthplace of Mozart; so naturally, his likeness graced everything, from chocolates, t-shirts, perfumes, and whatever else could be thought of. “Sound of Music” tours were readily available, but most Austrians have either never heard of it or hate it…

Despite the blight of scaffolding and restorations on the Salzburg Dom facade, the inside was Baroque splendor, especially impressive after the ruination caused by WW II damage. A visit to some of the other churches offered peace and silence, but occasionally the wondrous music of organ pipes or chorals filled the dim halls.

Several of the churchyards served as cemeteries and many of the 17^th-19^th century graves were marked with ornate wrought iron. You could visit the graves of Leopold and Constantia, but Mozart himself was buried unceremoniously somewhere in Vienna.

A hike up and around Monschberg offered killer views. A few fortifications still existed, and made for an especially atmospheric setting to admire the further than expected crisp white mountains. Down below, cafés offered specialty coffees and Sacher Tort at equally lofty prices, but otherwise the affordable food scene was fairly dire. So we stuck to the supermarket deli counter and Turkish Doner Kebabs.

Bohemian Rhapsody

2009-05-06T02:24:00.000-07:00

I watched a woman receive an on-the-spot fine for smoking in the outdoor bus terminal. After admiring all the modern, and some even wi-fi equipped coaches, that same rickety bus from the other day pulled in. This would be the bus to Cesky Krumlov.

Set in a small valley, along several snake-like bends of the Vltava, the Southern Bohemian town was achingly beautiful at first sight. Green hills, blue skies, and fresh air left little else to ask for. Michael, the friendly owner of Penzion Svet, greeted us at the bus station and drove us the short distance up the hill. Within minutes, we were ready to explore the little town.

Cobblestoned lanes led through town, past centuries-old restored buildings, colorful facades, red tile roofs, a tall church steeple, and even a castle tower. The low river, crossed by several footbridges, was lined with tables of beer swilling and pork and kraut eating holidaymakers. Germany at half the price…
One of the shops sold Pinot Noir from a barrel, for 50 Korunas per liter (about $2.50). Grape juice out of a plastic bottle? Okay!

The next day brought a torrent of rain. Glad we hadn’t signed up for that canoe trip, I also lamented the missed opportunity to explore the countryside by horseback or cast a line towards the many trout below. The town was nearly deserted, but by dusk, life emerged under the dry, but cold and moody skies.

One fascinating aspect of this trip has been experiencing places stuck in time, many in transition, and others completely transformed. With morning mist rising from the mountainsides, our shared van whizzed by forested hills, quaint villages, and horses grazing. Like Prague, Asian immigrants now ran most of the little shops and you could find Chinese food almost as easily goulash. We had stayed in an 18th century house, and only after passing a raised boom and deserted post into Austria, did I wonder about this symbolism. I wanted to ask Michael about life in Cesky Krumlov before the Velvet Revolution in 1989 (our junior year in high school), before the borders went down, before Westerners and Easterners filled the town on daytrips.

In Austria, the mountain cabins were twice the size, highways broader, and traffic more congested, but Salzburg awaited.

Mountains of Hot Dogs and Bones

2009-05-02T13:23:00.000-07:00

At breakfast yesterday, a woman piled nearly 10 hot dogs on her plate. Following that incredible spectacle, it was time for other sights. First, we had to metro across town to another hotel room, as May 1^st signaled the abrupt weather shift from low season to “top” season (staying in the very nice room would have cost more than double our initial rate).

The train left the gritty Prague outskirts for idyllic Central Bohemia, a place of soothing green meadows, low rolling hills, and immense fields of bright yellow mustards. Families on mountain bikes cruised by the many farmhouses, while swans and little fishing boats populated the meandering river.

Like many of the small towns along the way, Karlstejn was quiet and charming. The well-preserved castle occupied a hilltop about 2km inland from the train station. Castles are better admired from the outside, so we skipped the compulsory tour. Instead, the money was spent on a dish of smoked pork with sauerkraut and potato pancakes, and a mug of cold beer. A short hike up an adjacent hill led to a beautiful open meadow, a quiet and unobstructed spot to gaze at the fairy tale tower and ramparts. Below there were lots of people on bikes, others walking their dogs, and even two stripping down to their underwear to jump into the river.

Next morning, we visited another nearby town, Kutna Hora. Although the former silver vein itself wasn’t mind blowing, the old center was an uncrowded and the cathedral worthwhile. The most remarkable feature, though, was the ossuary (yes, a place where bones were kept). People from far and wide used to be buried here, and during the Plague, over 40,000 were brought to a place not much larger than a small park. The mountain of bones was eventually transformed into a ghoulish display meant to commemorate the transcendence of the remains.

Most of the trams and trains were new, but occasionally something from a different era snuck in. For the return to Prague, we sat on a rickety bus, perhaps a reminder of the way things were before they got better. The bus station lay in the seedier part of town where mullets and beer breath were still de rigueur. At 7 pm it smelled of stale cigarettes and more budweiser, albeit the genuine article from Budvar. Every saturday afternoon is a party.

Tomorrow -- off to St.Elsewhere...

Czech This Out

2009-05-01T14:24:00.001-07:00

Prague seemed bleak when dark skies closed in, silhouetting the Gothic spires of its iconic castle, and raining down heavy droplets on the cobblestoned pavements. But on a sunny spring day, this former seat of the Holy Roman Empire, and later the Hapsburg Dynasty, absolutely shined. The historic center looked like a Baroque dream, with sprinkles of the Gothic and Renaissance. Amadeus and The Bourne Identity were filmed here. Franz Kafka lived on everywhere, but nary a mention of Ivan Lendl or Martina Navratilova…

We tried to see the great city all in one day, and again when the skies were blue. Despite the kookiness of the Astronomical Clock, the main square offered great people watching. The Charles Bridge was especially atmospheric and a beautiful place from which to take in both banks of the Vltava. When the renovations are done, it should be even better.

From the ramparts of the Prague Castle , the view below was a puzzle of red-tiled rooftops interrupted by the patina of spires and domes. Distantly, rehearsals for the night’s organ recital or aria could be heard. The churches and their organs dripped convoluted history, but many of the narrow streets could be perfect film sets, with stately pink, powder blue, and pastel green facades crammed together.

Despite being over-run with tourists and tour groups, there was enough Pilsner Urquell on tap (and the cheapest beverage at about $1.50 for ½ liter). A lot of pork and sauerkraut was consumed, and I’ve seen more hot dog shacks than in Mid-town Manhattan. Maybe I’ll try the fried cheese sandwich. Otherwise, typical Czech was goulash and bread dumplings, and more beer. A disturbing amount of souvenir shops retailed the “Praha drinking team” t-shirt.

Prague wasn’t the Eastern Europe I had imagined from childhood, and for that I was glad. Enough English was spoken – otherwise we’d have no chance in Czech…

Je voudrais un baguette...

2009-04-28T08:01:00.000-07:00

Sunshine and renewal, flowers in bloom, and newfound allergies in this city of superlatives. The gardens were radiant, the buildings grand, and the monuments glorious. Even the Notre Dame was her outstanding self. It’s springtime in Paris and little else needs to be said. Who would have thought it would be my third time here in 18 months? This time with Steph and my cousins Miki and Michael.

Somewhere in the 13^th arrondissement we found a good room at a price we’ve gotten accustomed to. By metro and lots of walking, we took in all of the Right Bank, from Place d’ Bastille all the way to the Trocadero. A good view of the Eiffel Tower, day or night, never got old.

A stroll along the banks of the River Seine offered the quintessential experience of gushing over the city, and watching its residents and visitors. Another good spot to contemplate it all was from a reclining chair along one of the ponds in the Jardin Tulllieres. The Louvre was amazing, but so vast it felt like an accomplishment just to get through…

Other than the courtyard of the Louvre Museum, the inside of any good patisserie or bakery topped my list of places to visit. Luckily there was one of those around practically every corner. The pain au chocolat here was inimitable, as was the simple pleasure of biting into the crust of a just-baked chewy baguette -- plain, buttered, or filled with goat cheese. Around the block, the lady at the counter actually asked her younger colleague how to say, “eat here?” in English after I did not understand her in French. Yes, it really did happen…

I had a 6 Euro Café Americano (or what we call coffee) at one of those ubiquitous outside tables, but it was along the Champs Elysees and afforded a few hours of hanging out with Raj, my old friend from the Stanford days. 3-4 Euros (about $4-5) for a soda was fairly normal in most restaurants, so we dined in a brasserie only once. The rest of the time we stuck to other affordable Parisian classics such as Vietnamese Pho, Doner Kebab, and take-out Chinese. McDonald’s almost happened.

Inevitably, the sun gave way to the cloud cover, brisk temperatures, and rain that characterize Paris the other half the time. We spent a few great days hanging out with our friends Phillippa and Francois, being Americans and finding out about life here.

Paris is amazing, if just for the baguettes. And 15% of the time, they might even reply in English, if you try in French first. At least at the bakeries…

Madrid and the Rest

2009-04-24T14:34:00.000-07:00

Madrid marked the start of the more costly segment of our itinerary. The budget requirements were now stratospheric, compared to how low we were able to pare down daily expenses in Asia and Africa.

The sights and pursuits here were of the cosmopolitan variety, rambling through plazas, sitting for coffee, and literally chewing on several kinds of jamon, Serrano or Iberico… Then there was my staple, the calamari sandwich, washed down with a small glass of beer.

If you’re into Picasso, Dali, Miro, Goya or El Greco, then this was heaven. In a dizzying 24-hour span we visited the Prado, the Thyssen-Bornemisza, and the Reina Sofia Museums. The first was amazing, the second surprisingly good, and the latter maybe overkill, and a bit too abstract. But at least I walked away understanding Picasso’s Guernica.

Nearby Toledo was that picturesque medieval city on top of the hill. The entire walled portion could be an open-air museum, but the gothic Cathedral dominated the sights. The shops all displayed swords, knives, chainmail, and other sorts of Crusader paraphernalia. We skipped the museum of ancient torture devices.

Another overnight bus then took us to Barcelona, a former site of the Olympics. My cousin Miki hooked us up with rooms at the very posh Hilton – very nice! The iconic Sagrada Familia, under construction since 1909, provoked only one reaction: Wow! Simply imposing and quite the sight, though very, very, very different. Such was the case with most of Gaudi’s other organic architectural designs throughout the city. Las Ramblas held the largest collection of crazy costumed street performers on any promenade. The Palau de la Musica Catalana had a stunning ceiling, but the opera and flamenco fusion show was a bit odd. Otherwise, much of Barcelona’s charm lay in its space and convenience, its modernism, and its thorough “modern-ness.” We stayed away from the museums.

The Other Alhambra...

2009-04-18T13:16:00.000-07:00

Following two great days in Seville, we ventured further across the green Andaluz plains. Cordoba was 2 ½ hours away and we had come to see La Mezquita, the grandest and most beautiful mosque constructed by the Moors in Spain. The backpacks were stuffed into lockers at the bus station, and a short walk through the touristy Jewish Quarter deposited us into the outside courtyard.

The belfry tower didn’t look particularly distinctive, but the first glimpse inside the cathedral was immensely exciting. Over a thousand columns supported the ceiling, with tiers of beautiful red and white painted arches lacing the dimly lit former mosque. It was exactly the image from those Spanish coffee table books. Individually, the Arabic prayer niches and Christian altar could be jewels, but the wonder really lay with gazing up at the painted arches.

Having deciding that nothing in Cordoba would surpass La Mezquita, we proceeded further East, another 2 ½ hours on the bus. We hadn’t any idea what Granada might look like, but the Alhambra in LA County was the only one I’ve been to thus far, so we were compelled to see the other Alhambra. The weather was cool and grey, a little rainy, and the snowy Sierra Nevada loomed just behind the Granada hills. Dinner was Chinese tapas, small plates of quite tasty wings and noodles, free with the purchase of any beverage.

As the main attraction, tickets to the hilltop fortress weren’t easy to score. The early morning walk up left us breathless, but with ample time to cool our heels in the hour-long ticket queue. Only about 8000 tickets were sold daily (most snapped up in advance by tour operators), and I think we were in the last hundred, with a visit slot for later in the afternoon. There was the opportunity to wander around the Sacramonte and Albayzin barrios, the Gitano and old Moorish Quarters, respectively. And enough time to find another hotel and sit down for lunch, sometimes not a simple decision when faced with too many choices…

A few women made the rounds, offering sprigs of rosemary to passersby – either an interesting form of hospitality or maybe a variation of smilingly passing a flower and then demanding money?

The Alhambra complex, with a rich history of Moorish conquest and Spanish reconquest, was huge. Several palaces and sculpted gardens, along with a lot of tour groups, filled its high walls. The Alcazaba was the impenetrable fortress you'd picture, but the Palacios Nazaries was beyond imagination. The courtyard and harem were fantastic, their walls, niches, and arches so sensually and painstakingly adorned with intricately carved patterns. The place in LA county was nothing like this. I regretted not having an adequate camera, as the Canon dSLR and both lenses bit the dust sometime around February in Egypt…

Sevilla

2009-04-14T15:55:00.000-07:00

The flamenco at the intimate Casa de la Memoria earlier this evening left me with a stiff jaw and dry mouth. So raw, so visceral was the performance that I could not wait to get back and write about it. The stunning rhythm, the flamboyance of the limbs and the force of the stomps, followed by Rioja at Cervezeria Giralda – what a night.

Leaving Fes had been yet another adventure. The 2^nd class train compartments for were packed, so we stood between rail cars for 2 hours until some seats opened up. Tangier is legendary for hustlers, so we made for the port immediately upon arrival, but of course, not before the obligatory bargaining session with cabbies. The masochist in me regrets not experiencing the sultry chaos on top of the hill. The ferry crossing to Algeciras was so chaotic and delayed, it nearly approximated the awful Egypt to Jordan ferry. We finally got there past midnight. With neither guidebook nor clue, the blue neon “Hotel” sign several hundred meters outside of the port felt like the warmest welcome on Spanish soil. Another bus ride would await us in the morning.

Sevilla was the setting of Don Juan, Carmen, and Figaro. It’s Andalucia – sunshine, bullfights, and flamenco. What a beautiful, evocative city…

We checked into the first “reasonably” priced pension in the old Jewish Quarter, and after a few twists and turns, La Catedral de Sevilla stood before us. I’m envious of those living there, with windows facing the gothic marvel, day and night.

Breakfast was a plate of piping hot churros, dipped into a mug of thick, syrupy hot chocolate, too rich upon reaching the bottom.

Inside, the Cathedral was so opulent, so ostentatious, that I much preferred the smaller churches and chapels. The Giralda Tower, with its Moorish design, was beautiful, but very crowded. The Alcazar was huge. The white, yellow, and red of the circular Plaza de Toros radiated perfectly in the warm sun.

The sun didn't go down until after nine, and many of the eateries didn't even fill up until after ten. Nowhere at home would ordinary people be strolling around the city center after midnight.

There was a lot to take in, especially the varied and tasty tapas. The heavily marbled Iberian ham was thinly sliced, right on the counter and right off the hock. Stuffed pimientos, glazed duck breast, olive oil and tuna in tomato gazpacho.

"No Mo' Rockin"

2009-04-13T15:33:00.000-07:00

We’ve been often asked whether all the traveling is tiring. It's part of the deal, but on the 11-hour bus and train combo out of Essaouira it felt like a raw deal. Nothing as romantic as luxury train travel, our 2^nd class compartment consisted of 2 rows of 4 narrowly squeezed people facing each other, lots of silence, and nary enough legroom, for 7 ½ hours…

This Easter weekend (like all others, I’m sure) all of Spain had crossed the Gibraltar Strait and descended upon Fes. Immediately upon arrival, we knew it was going to be one of those nights. The guidebook had listed a whopping 3 places for less than $25, and they considered any price less than $70 “budget.” We criss-crossed the Ville Nouvelle, literally looking for hotel signs. Everything was either full or above our budget. And, for the occasion, prices were higher than the tariffs listed on the walls!

Hotel Central had a room for $25, but the sheets must not have been changed for some time. Clean sheets? They didn’t have any… So, it was back to walking around, until 2 students pointed out a small hotel we must have missed. Clean sheets as much as the late hour convinced us that this was a winner. The lack of hot water would be a minor detail.

All the old cities had a walled center, but the Fes medina was the largest jumbled mess we had ventured into so far. Guides did a brisk trade, leading around the trepid. Many of the goods sold here were principally the same as in Marrakesh, but this medina boasted its own tannery area, where countless men earned a living immersing animal hides in putrid pits to attain just that wonderful color. I hadn’t seen camel meat for sale before, until Steph spotted the camel head on a counter. Makes me wonder what really was in my “couscous with meat.” Why so mysterious?

Content just to feast the eyes, we had not made any purchases. Beheld one to many times, even the most brilliant lamps lost their luster. Fragrant rose water and jasmine lay for sale, carts of pastel-colored nougat, as well as trays of soft, chewy almond cookies – those, we fortunately did try…

By the second night, we had chewed on Fes from several different angles. With the desert and kasbahs far away, the medinas now less fascinating, Morocco began to feel a little laborious. Forget Meknes, forget Chefchaoun - Hello Tangier.

Funky Cold Medina

2009-04-11T11:15:00.000-07:00

Leaving Agadir was much more fun than getting there. We slept through much of the early morning ride up the Atlantic coast. As the bus approached the colorful, but faded buildings near the old city wall, the first glimpse of Essaouira was promising. It was an old city and still looked that way, with its narrow alleys and rusty fishing fleet. The central streets inside the medina, despite the density of shops and restaurants, retained a relaxed atmosphere. The little side streets were absolutely still, except for the blustering winds

We tried our luck at an old riad, with nice tile work and tons of atmosphere. The price was 450 Dirham ($55) with breakfast. That was too expensive. “What is your budget?” she asked. 200 Dirham, I replied. “Okay, I have a room for 200.” I’ll take it.

With a reputation for being "the windy city," it was hardly a surprise to see many of the palm trees leaning leeward. Flocks of gulls remained suspended in the sky without effort. The wind howled across any area not walled off. The top of the seaside rampart only amplified the force of the wind, as rough whitecaps transformed into heavy rollers that periodically smashed into the rocky shore, dissipating salty spray over its walls. At times it took effort not to be blown back. And it was impossible to sit at the beach.

There was a funky vibe with the many artists in residence. The mounds of colorful spices were only mock-ups for tourists, it was revealed. The real stuff was kept in jars inside; otherwise they would have been blown all over the place…

Much of the food was relatively expensive, catering mostly to French tourists and daytrippers from Marrakesh. With the large fishing fleet, I thought the seafood might be better. We tried it twice – one decent and the other plain bad.

There wasn't much else to do but stroll around, relax, and read, so that's what we did.

Ocean sunsets can have that nostalgic beauty, the ethereal yellow orange glow so often depicted in technicolor on vintage t-shirts, but this one was real, and windy.

Agadir

2009-04-08T14:39:00.000-07:00

After visiting the kasbah used as a backdrop in Star Wars, we boarded a bus to Agadir, a large resort city along the Atlantic Coast. Getting there was painful. The ride was long and the bus broke down halfway. It wouldn’t restart, so the driver got out to fiddle in different compartments. Everyone disembarked to wait roadside. Aided by telephone instructions, he proceeded to the rear battery compartment. Sparks flew -- this was not promising. Two too cool Westerners, attired in Touareg head coverings, sauntered off and tried to hitchhike. They must have been Americans, as Canadians plaster their “Roots” gear with maple leafs and flag patches, just so there is no mistake. I wished they had succeeded, but the driver worked a miracle as we eventually got going.

The delayed arrival was in total darkness and we had difficulty orienting ourselves without streets signs or a proper map. There were no taxis and speaking neither Arabic nor French didn’t help matters. Parts of the center appeared slightly seedy, but it was after 10pm. Eventually, we were pointed in the right direction, but the distances were improbably large. After legging about an hour, we staggered up to our budget hotel, tired and hungry. We understood the “budget” part, but the multiple big holes in the walls were disturbing, so we went down the street for double the price ($25).

As it turned out, Agadir wasn’t worth the effort. Visions of majestic waves dissipated in the windy beach and the piddly surf, so I had little interest in braving the 17˚ Celsius water. After a large earthquake in the 60’s, most of the city was rebuilt, and retained nothing of its previous architecture. I couldn’t quite understand the raison d’etre for all the gleaming resort hotels. But at least, the sun was out and we were in shorts and flip-flops.

Desert Dreams

2009-04-07T13:49:00.000-07:00

I’m reading Paul Theroux’s The Great Railway Bazaar. He mused about travel being flight and pursuit in equal parts, and I think I know what he meant. More concretely, our cave was already booked away and we would be in pursuit of the next destination, yet to be decided. Over breakfast, the desert sounded better and better, so we’d make it happen.

First off, was the half hour walk to the bus station, for the hotel guy was vague and we had no clue what time the bus departed for Ouarzazate. 11:30 AM! We had 45 minutes to gather our packs and make it back. Without dallying, we hopped into a cab, which was only 7 Dirham, plus a few for tip. Rushing through the Djemaa el-Fna, we stole last glimpses of signature Marrakesh and ponied up some coins for pictures of the snakes and charmers.

Getting back to the bus terminal was typical of my experience with taxis. The first guy seemed agreeable, but naturally was averse to using the meter and wanted 20 Dirham. While he muttered something about 2 people and 2 luggages, we disagreed and got out. The second guy was cast out of the same sad mold, but wanted 10 Dirham – fair enough, because it would be sans tip. As I later handed him a twenty, he tried for the stale “it is 20 Dirham, 10 for each person” trick. I’ve heard them all, and I knew the real price, so I took back the money and handed him 10. No thanks…

The bus was late and full, but at least we had seats. Evidenced by the green plains, the recent winter must have brought good rains. The distant High Atlas Mountains were improbably snow-covered and hovered above the layer of haze. The next 5 hours, we would traverse those same heights, swerving around the edge of dozens of sheer switchbacks, with slightly discomforting views of the green valleys far, far below. A few people got sick, but I’m sure their discomfort dissipated as the bus descended smoothly to rocky desert and crumbling brick settlements. Scattered flocks of sheep grazed the terrain. Palms reappeared, as did visions of deserts and Kasbahs.

Soon after checking into the budget Hotel Royal, we made arrangements for a desert trip. The two days and one night would surely inflict damage on our budget, but pursuits have a cost, and this would be a 480km 4x4 roundtrip journey close to the Algerian border.

Early next morning, we sped south, through an incredible mountain-flanked road, towards Agdz. A quick off-road detour led to Les Cascades de Tizgui, a tiny, almost perpetual waterfall permanently palm-fringed. Past Agdz, the route followed the Draa River in the similarly named Valley. For about 100km, the Valley overflowed with lush palms and green crops, a testament to the wonder of water. It could easily have been a mirage – flowing water, palms as far as the eyes could see, set below Grand Canyon-esque walls.

The ancient “Route of a thousand caravans” originated as far as Sudan and crossed through Saharan Africa to Marrakesh. All along lay small villages, with crumbling watchtowers and walls. Even the centuries-old Kasbahs, also built of compacted mud, straw, and stone, were not immune to erosion. There was an equal mix of Berbers and dark-skinned people in mostly traditional garb, some hawking dates, others riding donkeys, and a few just standing around. This was the Morocco of my imagination, or as presented by the film Babel… (Incidentally shot in this very same area).

Lunch break was in Zagora, the last sizable town and location of a several luxurious Kasbah-styled riads. Lodging there might be for another time, but we did enjoy a humongous plate of couscous (though rapidly losing enthusiasm for it). From there, the terrain started to resemble the frontier it was, arid, monotonous, and underdeveloped. The weekly market day featured commerce and communion amongst villagers and vendors from far and wide. A bounty was up for offer, but some were selling dry legumes and spices from a tiny bag – it might have been more worthwhile to keep it at home for personal consumption.

Like the Gobi in China and the Namib in Namibia, the Erg Lihoudi Dunes amazed. The seemingly lifeless environment was ever changing, shifting sands in the intense mid-day heat, the tranquility of the setting sun, with renewal in the coolness of the morning. The camel ride was hard on the seated anatomy, so a couple of hours felt more than enough. We slept under the stars in a Berber camp, where bedding was understandably sandy, but the blankets were ample and warm. The next evening we were back in Ouarzazate, grateful for a hot shower.

Lookin' to Rock the Kasbah

2009-04-05T13:55:00.000-07:00

From the window of the Transavia plane, Marrakesh resembled a bunch of pale ochre blocks surrounded by a mat of cultivated greens and hilly browns. On this rare occasion, we had actually phoned ahead that morning from Rotterdam to book a room and pick-up. Inside the medina, the tall, slender, and pink Koutoubia Mosque announced the center like a beacon. Hotel Belleville was just off the Djemaa el-Fna, but I doubt we would have easily found it without being led there. The surrounding area was a dense maze of derbs (alleys) and souqs (market streets) spilling out sensory assaults – the smells of grilled meats and spices, together with the dizzying array of carpets, lamps, metal ware, clothing, and all else, up for offer by too many voices vying for your attention and wallet.

The approaching twilight featured fantastic hues of violet amidst wisps of orange, as the ancient Djemaa el-Fna square buzzed with activity. Mostly locals were out in droves to admire the spectacle of tumblers, carnival games, drummers, and string musicians, while I gravitated towards the snake charmers directing hypnotic drones at the vipers and king cobras. Chained monkeys were sadly pimped out for pictures and children were hawking cookies.

There were too many side streets to peruse. As the sun faded, the square remained aglow with dozens of dried fruit stalls, which lay adjacent to dozens of citrus juice stalls, which in turn, lay adjacent to several dozens of street food stalls. It was lights, smoke, and murmurs all over the place. Roasted goat heads and escargot begged for a taste, but prudence was in favor of chicken and lamb shawarmas, followed a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. The first few hours in Marrakesh were good, and we called it a night.

The little riad (couryard house) only had 9 rooms. Ours resembled a cave, barely large enough to squeeze in a bed. Strong coffee, fresh juice, and warm pancakes greeted us after too short a night of sleep. But the skies were blue and the warm day beckoned.

We didn’t rock the Kasbah, but we certainly ambled through a lot of it. In one long day, we covered many of the sights, the more noteworthy being the fantastic Ali Ben Youssef Madrassa, Dair El Said, and the Bahia Palace. Vividly colored geometric tiles, scalloped entranceways, and ornately carved wooden doors stood below the rich coffered ceilings. The fountains were merely faucets, albeit historic ones, but the souqs were more numerous and interesting than in either Istanbul or Cairo; the hassles no more than anywhere else. We paused for piping hot citron chicken and kabab tajines (a kind of clay pot stew), before continuing on.

Not much was left of the Badi Palace except for the ramparts, which offered a stork eye’s view over the old city. Somehow, I had not imagined sightlines filled with improbably large stork nests and distracting satellite dishes. We got a bit lost looking for the Saadian tombs and nearly called it quits when, amazingly, a sign for a carpet shop pointed the way, past piles of carpets and other trinkets, of course. Even more amazing, the shopkeeper flicked on the lights, pointed the direction, and said nothing else! We made it in, 15 minutes before closing. The surrounding area was un-touristy and less frenetic.

I thought we could check out the modern palace, but the high walls obscured all but the Moroccan flag. On the return, recycled tires lay transformed into picture frames, water vessels, and toys. Pails filled with slimy snails awaited the hot butter on someone’s plate. A large helping of fluffy couscous with vegetables and lamb sounded better.

Holland

2009-03-29T08:45:00.000-07:00

Pictures

We rushed away from Cappadocia’s hail and snow only to plunge into the Dutch weather. Well, plunge isn’t so much the correct term, as we spent most of our week or so in Rotterdam indoors and unmotivated. Maybe it was the accumulated fatigue of nearly 7 months on the road, of the “hard” traveling, or just maybe the perpetual greyness. Nearly every foray outside was greeted with some combination of face-biting wind, cold wetness, hail, or the entire trifecta. I’ve never wanted to not leave the house so much.

The whole point was wind down a little. So, thanks to my cousin Joanne, we were well-fed and well-slept. The bouts of hibernation were otherwise interrupted by exotic activities like internet surfing sessions and old-fashioned blocks of time in front of the television. My parents were in town and I even got to see my brother a few times.

A daytrip to Antwerp delivered the other trifecta – frites with mayo, real Belgian waffles, and croquettes, just the right amount of starch, sugar, and fat to insulate against the weather (yes, I’m still on the weather…)

We weren’t off to anywhere and the backpacks were off our backs. Ample time was passed at my childhood friend Paul’s house, in attempts to decimate his wine collection. We even squeezed in a card game and an evening of basketball.

Every place so far, we’ve stuck with local foods, but Rotterdam does have a few very good Chinese restaurants. We had been looking forward to a few good meals with friends and family, but not even I had thought it possible, between Tai Wu and De Lange Muur, to go there six times in a week…

And of course there was the sticker shock. The metro ride cost 4 euros – ‘nuff said.

We’re in search of warmer climes. With the recent airline fares, I was sorely tempted to hop on a flight back to Bali. Marrakesh sounds good too.

Pictures

Fairy Chimneys

2009-03-19T06:24:00.000-07:00

Another 10-hour overnight bus ride nearly behind us, the approach into Goreme from nearby Uchisar revealed a surreal pre-dawn landscape. There was snow on the ground and bizarre shapes rose out of the Earth, giving new meaning to “winter wonderland.” The thin “fairy chimneys” were a dream. A rock castle was carved into the tall cone, and below, little openings of cave dwellings dotted the face. You’d half expect hobbits or smurfs to emerge from them.

It was 5 AM and at least -2 Celsius when we dismebarked at the small bus station in the center of town. The hobbits were still sleeping, but a guy at the adjacent tour agency offered to have us sit inside, where it was warm, until life emerged. He fixed up a nice cup of tea and we just waited. The emerging sun bathed the snow covered hils in a gentle glow. Cave houses and hotels were carved into much of the rock, and behind them, the air balloons rose up. At about 8, we found a warm hotel to lay our heads down for a couple of hours.

Then it was time to explore the neighboring valleys, which all bore evidence of the amazing effects of erosion onto soft volcanic tuft. And many of them used to be inhabited, first by early Christians, and later, the Seljuk Turks. You could scramble up rough steps into the multi-level chambers, with some even having served as simple churches. Every bend or hill gave way to visual feast. At the Goreme Open Air Museum, a cluster of 1000-year old cave Churches provided insight into the life of those same early Christians. A few beautiful frescoes remained, but much of the insides appeared very rudimentary.

Suffice to mention that it was absolutely freezing as soon as daylight dwindled. I’d never used an electric blanket before, but it was oh-so-warm. At least I could keep my Diet Coke chilled, simply by leaving it out on the outside window ledge.

For the next day, we joined a tour to check out the distant Ihlara Valley, where the river had cut a deep canyon into the soft Earth. The poplars were barren and the skies grey. A few flakes of snow accompanied our short hike, as it was bone-chilling cold, cold, cold. Over a hundred underground cities lay scattered throughout the region. Early Christians occupied these fully functional colonies and, supposedly, secret tunnels connected them all. We visited the vast Derinkuyu – an amazing 14 levels below the ground, where it was just as cold.

That was more or less the story for the remaining day. Hail ,snow, and ample cups of Turkish tea. Hope we don't get snowed in. I'm actually looking forward to the bus ride to Istanbul tonight.

Onwards to the Turkish Riviera

2009-03-15T13:51:00.000-07:00

Turkey's been quite a friendly so far. Of course some folks in the busy tourist centers have a jaded perception of relating to visitors, but we’ve experienced many random acts of kindness. People have gladly shown us directions, offered snacks on the bus, helped out with stowing the backpacks, and exchanged friendly hellos, all without a sense of quid pro quo, or the uncomfortable feeling you get some places.

March clearly wasn’t the right time to visit parts of Turkey’s Mediterranean coast. Normally a haven for sun-worshipping Europeans, many of the towns were in hibernation. Sheets of rain accompanied our windy bus ride to Kas, but luckily there was a break in the weather, as we rolled into the gently sloped town, backed by steep mountains and facing the blue waters. I missed the warm sun, but not the crowds – since when did I become such an agoraphobe?

All the boats were in dry-dock and the customary water activities were on ice, so we “did” the town in a few hours. There was a Friday market where the reddest vine-ripened tomatoes were on offer. We picked up some fruit and a few savory cilantro, onion, and feta cheese gozleme (Turkish pancakes). The locals were enjoying the quiet before the arrival of the warm weather and the tourists.

The weather is like a bellydancer we were told. “One day like this and the next day sun!” And so it was the next day– clear skies and shimmering blue waters.

We day-tripped east to Demre. At first, and every subsequent glance, you’d think there was nothing but orange trees and tomato plants (and seemingly nobody picked the ripe fruit). But there was a small church that used to be presided over by St.Nicholas, now called Noel Baba (or Santa Claus). Located along the ancient Lycian Way, the hillside held a cluster of fantastically carved tombs. Of course, there was the requisite amphitheater… Other notable items: more oranges, more tomatoes, and Santa’s image on many garbage receptacles (probably not any kind of social commentary though). Freshly squeezed orange juice was 1 Iira (about $0.55), but given how many oranges were lying about, I thought it wasn’t that much of a bargain…

Another 3 ½ hours east lay Antalya, part of the “Turkish Riviera.” Fairly large and affluent, the real estate stretched a wide arc on top of the Mediterranean. You could easily see one end from the other, but the juxtaposition of snow-white mountains and impossibly blue waters was sublime. Most of the atmospheric pensions and tourist stores were concentrated in the old quarter, behind the remaining Hadrian’s Gate. It was back to restaurant touts and "want to see my store?" Many of the prices were quoted in Euros, so no deals could be expected. Near the old castle and Roman harbor, it was bustling, even for a Sunday.

The Aegean and the Mediterranean

2009-03-14T13:01:00.000-07:00

Having never really partaken in the “joys” of long distance bus travel before, we’ve been making up for a lifetime. The last few days were no exception. From Istanbul to Selcuk, it was a 10-hour overnight trip. The bus was one of those big Mercedes coaches -- really nice and clean, with leather seats, and even cake and hot beverage service! It was even mildly thrilling to have the big bus drive right onto the ferry, in order to cross the Sea of Marmara. 36 hours later, we traded a smaller local bus for the 4-hour ride to Pamukkale, and we just completed another butt-numbing 4-hour late night transfer to Fethiye. Tomorrow, we’ll be heading to Kas, another 3 hours – the price you have to pay to get places…

We had decided to give Troy (apparently of Brad Pitt infamy) a miss, but were keen on seeing Ephesus, billed as one of Turkey’s more dramatic remains of the vast former Roman empire stretching all the way to Egypt. For such a small place, the adjacent town of Selcuk laid claim to tremendous historical significance. One of the 7 World Wonders of antiquity, the Temple of Artemis was located there, though nothing remained but one standing pillar, crowned by a giant stork nest. Selcuk was also visited by St.John and Mary. In fact, this is where he resided, and was later buried. Then there was Ephesus, with the oft toured remains of the usual amphitheater, paved roads, and dwellings, but distinguished mostly by the marvelous façade fronting the Library of Celsus.

I had now visited enough amphitheatres for a while, so the town of Selcuk provided welcome diversion. Despite surviving from tourism, it seemed a regular place. Men gathered around the central square to hang out and discuss politics, and most of the businesses appeared to cater to locals. Without throngs of tourists, it was a quiet place to stroll. The cruise boats would arrive in the next month, but for now the storks were here. 2 Charming brothers ran Urzmek Hotel and made sure guests felt completely at home. Many of the eateries were fairly low-key and offered good, cheap food. The corner stand serving grilled kofte meatballs with roasted onions, peppers, bread, and fresh salad was spot on.

On postcards, the glistening travertines of Pamukkale looked picture-perfect with bathing tourists. Pamukkale means “cotton castle,” the appearance of the terraced pools formed by the high calcium content of gently dripping spring water. Alas, the shimmering waters were no more. You couldn’t climb up, or even take a dip, for the terraces were completely dry. Without water, the hill looked more like a snow mountain. The site was ugli-fied with wooden ramps and some of the water was diverted to fill a shallow man-made lake at the bottom. The pool at the top was filled with same 36-degree Celsius water, but ridiculous at 18 Lira (about $10). There were more Roman ruins, a vast necropolis, and surprisingly, another amphitheater, all set amongst distant snow-capped mountains. Below lay the town and the vast green valley. In truth, the place was worth a visit, but they should stop selling those postcards…

We were the only guests at the nicely appointed and comfortable Melrose Allgau Hotel. For $25, it was our “blow-out” stay (since when was that a splurge?). Well, it came with a warm heater, plentiful hot water, good towels, and (for Steph) even a hair dryer. The evening meal was extra, but the breakfast was over the top. I’m not especially into homemade preserves, but I am curious how she made peach and orange jam so damn good.

Arrival in Fethiye was late in the evening. After walking a mile or two, we found a decent hotel, its one star proudly displayed on the front door. For the same price, it was miles better than the ones close to the bus station. Day broke with nothing but grey skies and rain, so we got on the next bus to Kas (but not before the kind lady at the hotel sent us off with the bus schedule and a hug for Steph).

At Continental Crossroads

2009-03-10T17:00:00.000-07:00

The name was enough to draw my interest. Istanbul, the former Constantinople and heart of Byzantine and Ottoman Empires, was a place I’ve always wanted to lay eyes on.

After a smooth Royal Jordanian flight, we hopped onto the efficient light rail into Sultanahmet, the most visited heart of the city. First impression was how modern it was. Coming from Africa and the Middle East, we had now crossed the threshold into Europe. In fact, sprawling Istanbul straddled 2 continents, with the Bosphorus Strait dividing Europe and Asia.

As expected, the weather ranged from cold and wet to dreary. Fortunately that also indicated the “low season,” relatively devoid of the tourist crush. Though I cannot imagine it being anymore crowded than at the obligatory Topkapi Palace, packed with tour hordes admiring all the uninteresting opulence (you can guess it wasn’t my favorite place). Just nearby, lay the 1500-year old Hagia Sophia, Emperor Justinian’s effort to restore the greatness of Rome. Huge scaffolds obstructed any sort of grandness that may have existed, but with so much peeling and flaking, the interior looked badly in need of restoration.

With so many significant Mosques and Roman ruins, the city oozed history. The Blue Mosque looked utterly amazing, so much so that we returned for a second time to admire the stunning domed interior. Favorites were the Keriye Muzesi with beautiful Biblical mosaics and frescoes and the highly interesting Istanbul Archaeological Museum. The Alexander Sarcophagus was jaw-droppingly gorgeous, as were many others. I hadn’t previously been exposed to Hittite, Sumerian, and other Near Eastern artifacts. The place was so big we needed a nap break on the comfortable chairs.

We spent some time dwelling through the warren of alleys inside the 500-year old covered Grand Bazaar. Much of it was geared mainly towards tourists, but there were some interesting lamps on offer, assuming you had enough patience to deal. With the profusion of rug shops, the idle salespeople bombarded any passerby with attempts to lure them in “because looking is free.” We regretted not picking up a rug in India, so we looked at a few places elsewhere, and walked out with one that was most certainly not close to free.

The Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara lay North and South, respectively. So we boarded a public ferry up the Bosphorus Strait to appreciate the voluptuous Istanbul skyline, punctuated by the characteristic minaret and domed silhouettes. The sun broke through the clouds and the city looked marvelous.

Between all the sightseeing, we did manage to have some meals – mostly the ubiquitous, but cheap and tasty doner sandwiches (chicken or lamb sliced off the rotating spit). Other times, we dropped in some local restaurants for kebaps and bread, garnished with simple salads. The tomatoes were properly ripe and the cucumbers distinctly flavorful. Then there were more doner sandwiches, which I suspect we’ll be having more of, since the purchase of the rug.

Amman and Jerash

2009-03-06T11:27:00.000-08:00

Aside from the freezing temperatures in Petra, the whiffs of horse and donkey manure throughout all the ruins rated as forgettable experiences. After the early morning bus filled up, we were on the way to Amman for two days while waiting for our next flight to Turkey.

The capitol was compactly settled over several hills. The contrasts with Egypt were immediate. Jordan was less populated and more developed, while Egypt seemed more conservative and religious. In Amman, few women had their faces covered and no men had a callused bump on the forehead from prayers. Things were orderly with much less shouting, little hassle, and no baksheesh to pay, but Egypt had that certain edge, and the amazing Pharaonic remnants. Many people spoke English, but the higher prices were the biggest reminder that we were no longer in Cairo.

Aside from the study in contrasts, there wasn’t much in the way of sights. We spent some time with Dave, Sylvia, and Steve (whom we met along the way) soaking up the warmer sun around the Citadel ruins and the Roman amphitheatre. The little museum held some Dead Sea Scrolls and a fair amount of pre-historic artifacts. The best Roman ruins were in Jerash, which we visited the next day. The gates and walls, hippodrome, marketplace, colonnaded thoroughfare, and temples were such that a vivid impression remained of a flourishing Roman outpost. 1600-year old Chariot tracks were still grooved into the paved road.

The Jordanians were friendly and a giving mood. Hellos greeted us everywhere. On the way out from the Roman ruins, Dave walked into a bakery and came out with a flat of pita bread, the guy wanted to no money. Then we stepped into an adjacent bakery where I picked up 4 sesame cookies. The cashier just waved me off. Back at the market Sylvia was handed a free cucumber. Then at the Ajlun castle, we joined a group of US armed forces personnel on the shuttle up, avoiding the steep walk. When they said free, they apparently meant it.

I also had a lot of falafel and I mean it – breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Petra - So cool, you have no idea...

2009-03-04T07:14:00.000-08:00

There are only two kinds of visitors to Jordan – those who have been to Petra and those going there. Concealed behind a long narrow 1.2 km canyon, the first glimpse of the glorious Al-Khazneh (Treasury) was uplifting. Hewn from towering rock walls, the imposing facades of the ancient Nabataean temples and tombs were the stuff of imagination. The setting was stunning in its own right, with sheer cliffs, bizarre rock formations, and beautifully colored rock, in variegated maroon, pink, grey, and yellow swirls. It’s one of those places you just have to endeavor to see, and it required nearly an Indiana Jones adventure to get there…
We waited at the Dahab terminal at 9:30 AM. Predictably, the Nuweiba bound bus was late, but we arrived at the ferry terminal at noon. $80/person to cross was exorbitant. I had read some harrowing accounts of the ferry experience into Aqaba, Jordan, so we were expecting the worst.

The departure hall was filled with men, and the number of women could be counted on one hand. It was neither comfortable nor clean, but certainly not as disgusting as described (well, maybe the toilets came close). Every half hour or so, a crowd would noisily collect at the exit door on a rumor of imminent boarding, but wound up getting shouted back by the police.

The advertised 3 pm departure was pure fiction, as nothing happened for some time, when the doors opened to more commotion. After some more shouting, the police picked out the foreigners and let us through, before the scrum resumed. Then followed the bag drop-off, ferry boarding, and passport handling, all while the rest of the people were held back. We felt uncomfortable regarding the preferential treatment, but were glad not to have to jostle our way through. When was the last time, a foreigner was allowed to proceed to the front of the line back home?

The two-hour crossing wasn’t bad and it was dark upon disembarkation in Jordan. Not wanting to waste a night in Aqaba, we joined with two others to hire a taxi to take us to Petra straightaway. Only 2 more hours and we would be there.
I knew the weather had been inclement over the weekend, but a biting cold began as we gained altitude. Despite the thick fog and badly reduced visibility, the 6-inch layer of roadside white powder was unmistakable. Who made winter in the warm desert? The driver wasn’t feeling very comfortable anymore (neither did we), so he stopped at the hillside police station. “The road to Petra is closed.”

We could not turn back, so the police insisted we stay at the station until the morning. They had a spare room, heated and with a few beds. Outside it was freezing and wet, and we would be their guests. Sounded fine, but the commander later decided we had to move on to Ma’an, since we did have a car.

Ma’an was dark and shut. There was one rest house, but the driver didn’t think it was very good. He was a Bedouin, and we would stay at his parents’ home for the night. Okay…. Another 45 km later, we met a few of the brothers, all policemen. They poured tea and made us a few beds in the sitting room. It was a house, not a tent.

After a breakfast of tea, pita bread, cheese, and sesame, we drove to Petra. The blanketed hillsides were a veritable winter wonderland. It was a harrowing trip, but we had made it. Petra was beautiful, but I could not ever recall a few days so cold. Nights were freezing – we could see the vapor from our breath, inside the room. You guessed we weren’t staying at the Marriot or Crowne-Plaza, because they probably turned on the heater and the hot water…

That's Nuts

2009-02-28T12:53:00.000-08:00

A cursory check of the weather forecast the night before our intended departure predicted wind, rain, hail, and even snow for parts of Jordan, exactly the parts where we were headed. In that, there was a lesson with 2 possible outcomes. Either don’t check the weather and enjoy winter in Petra or check it and wonder how you’ll fill the next three days in Dahab. So, hell no, we didn’t go – and that’s how a couple of days of snorkeling and relaxing by the Red Sea morphed into a week-long pit stop.

From the promenade, we watched the tides rise and fall and the waves gyrate to the whims of the erratically gusting winds. Amidst all that, the sun shone bright and deliciously warm. We ate at nearly every place in town and connected to as many free wireless networks. Just close by, the litter of 9 just-born puppies grew by the day. We discovered Facebook (quite possibly the last remaining holdouts) and alternated between staring at the Red Sea and the computer screen. All of the actual surfing was done on the latter. The horses, camels, quad bikes, and Jeeps did not succeed in sucking the Egyptian Pounds from our wallets, but exercise and yoga did both stage a comeback. At night, the yellow glimmers of the Saudi shore and the twinkling of Orion’s Belt assumed their now familiar positions.

I was at the store and had been eyeing the salted cashews in the bin for a couple of days. They were 8 Egyptian per 100 grams, so I judiciously filled a small bag (either the cost or the calories?) and took it to the counter. The guy directed me to the back to have it weighed, but not before he opened the bag, grabbed a few, and popped them into his mouth. So I did and came back. He opened the bag again, and nonchalantly grabbed another few. What the F…? He’s got a whole bucket and has to grab mine? This is normal, we’re in Egypt. Cheers

The Long Road to Dahab

2009-02-25T06:11:00.000-08:00

The trip here was an event by itself. After the previous day’s 600km return from Abu Simbel, we went on to traverse nearly the full length of Egypt, from Aswan to Cairo, over 14 hours by rail. It was fairly uneventful, much of it along the green banks of the serene Nile, desert, and scruffy towns, under the watchful eye of an “undercover” weapon-toting agent. Cairo was cold and dark, but incredibly lively. After finding the bus terminal, we waited until past midnight to finally board. The vehicle wasn’t bad, but after a half dozen hours, things started feeling a little confined, especially with all the seats reclined. Police checkpoints came up every other hour, with passports/ID’s scrutinized every time. They didn’t kid around here. At the last check before Dahab, all the Egyptians onboard were questioned and 5 guys were pulled off (that sucks…but we learned later there was a bomb explosion in one of the Cairo tourist markets). So after 27 hours, we stood on the Sinai Peninsula, looking at the rugged Saudi hills across the narrow Gulf of Aqaba.

Dahab was the laid-back upcoast neighbor to Sharm El Sheikh, a ritzy Red Sea resort destination. A small Bedouin village, hippies used to come here to do what they normally do. The best activity was not to do much, exactly the prescription after the effort to get here. The deep blue seawater contrasted sharply with the rugged mountains and the inhospitable desert landscape we had just crossed. The first morning was surprisingly chilly, so we had little intention of getting in the water. It was off-season and the place definitely had that air about it, with mostly empty restaurants and decks. The fringes of town were filled with abandoned construction projects, prompting one to wonder if it ever did fill up.

There were still annoying taxis honking for fares and, like the rest of Egypt, drivers didn’t know the purpose of headlights (at night, when it’s dark…), except to high beam you and flick them off again.

A nice room right on the promenade went for about $13 and, after breakfast, we lounged on the cushioned restaurant terraces for hours. Where else in the world and at this price? (forgetting fairly recent history in town). The Red Sea is a diving Mecca, so when the water flattened to a glistening pool, we “braved” the 22-Celsius waters to enjoy the thriving underwater world, just in front of our room. Having snorkeled in Hawaii, Indonesia, Thailand, Florida, and Zanzibar, I thought the massive fields of coral here were some of the finest. The high visibility allowed clear views of the vertical walls of coral and the kaleidoscope of fish, for the hour at a time tolerable without wetsuit.

One night we went up the mountains for dinner at a Bedouin camp -- a nice experience, with delicious food, a warm fire, and eye-watering smoke. The stillness of the mountains was only interrupted by the rhythmic drumming and folksongs, but the dancing was a bit much. They tried to teach some belly dancing, and you can imagine how that went! Of course it turned out to be the only cloudy evening, so we were left to appreciate the absolute darkness of a covered sky.

The rest of the time we vacillated between the nice and cozy cushions of the seaside restaurants and the slightly grubby inland places for less than half the price. Depends on the mood, I suppose.

South to Abu Simbel

2009-02-22T12:17:00.000-08:00

At Aswan, the Nile flowed more placidly and became hemmed in by the desert. This is where the river looked its most beautiful – you could spend hours on the Corniche just staring at the water, the Nubian villages, and the feluccas (sail boats) go by, until you’ve had enough of the boatmen harassing you for a sail. “You want to know how much?” – no, but I’m sure you’ll tell me… At the souq (market street), there was nothing but kitschy souvenirs peddled by unimaginative vendors. The food was relatively expensive and far from good. It’s the dis/embarkation point for cruise ships, but otherwise the main reason to venture here was the Temple of Isis on an island in Lake Nasser. Many of the reliefs had been defaced by waves of later religions and Europeans, but remained fantastic.

But Abu Simbel lay about 260 km South, close to the border with Sudan. Much of the travel in Upper Egypt involved scheduled security convoys, so the bus picked us up at 3:15 AM for the three-hour drive. There would be no chance to see it at a quieter time, but the first view of the giant seated statues of Ramses II and Nefertari guarding the entrance of his grand temple was reason enough to make it this far. Inside, despite the conveyor belt of visitors, the reliefs surpassed those of the Luxor temples. This and the pyramids would be it, if you saw nothing else… On the return, we passed on the underwhelming dam and unfinished obelisk.

There was a possibility for fishing on the lake, but it was expensive and there was a high bunk boat ride possibility, so the tiger fish and Nile perch would remain for another day. Aswan was “done” and we’re headed for the Sinai Peninsula. On the way to the train station at 5AM, the souq was its most enjoyable, shops closed and no vendors.

Luxor by the Nile

2009-02-18T11:58:00.000-08:00

The overnight Luxor-bound train departed from the heavily secured Ramses station. Unlike Mumbai, the semi’s and full automatics were present and on full display. We saw no relieving in public, not even any begging or sleeping. $60 for the “nice” tourist train was expensive, so we went with the normal first class, about ¼ the price. The seats were comfortable, though the aircon was set at deep freeze. We disembarked after 11 hours, nearly frozen solid.

Luxor was package tour heaven and all of Egypt’s annoying people must have moved here. If you’ve ever dreamed of seeing horse-drawn carriage gridlock, you would be in luck. The Nile cruise boats docked in queues 6 across and probably outnumbered any crocodiles. A good portion of the morning went to finding a decent hotel at budget rates. We found one with a great view of the Nile and the Theban Hills, if you didn’t mind the huge billboards in front.

Nonetheless, Luxor was justly oft visited. The Karnak and Luxor Temple complexes were a vast jumble carrying the imprint of almost every Pharaonic Dynasty. Some of the 3000-year old pillars and walls still showed off beautifully painted reliefs. How much grander they must have looked in their time.

The tour groups also impressed. At Karnak, we had arrived at 6:45 AM and there were already two buses. When we left at 9 AM, I counted 20.

Across the River, the idyllic palms and emerald green sugar cane fields against the desert backdrop gave a glimpse of what life may have looked like in those times. After dodging the taxis, we hopped onto a little pick-up for the short ride to the ticket office. Then we hoofed it to Deir Al-Medina, the excavated workmen’s village, where the artisans of the royal tombs worked on their own tombs during spare time. Adjacent, lay the Valley of the Queens, the huge necropolis containing nearly a hundred tombs from the 18^th to 20^th Dynasties. Three tombs were open, and they were exquisite.

Many more days could have been spent on the West Bank, but the tombs were numerous and the separate admission fees could amount to a small fortune. For the slow climb to the Valley of Kings, we rented bikes, completely not perfect, clunky and heavy Indian-made. The spectacular Valley hid a jumble of tombs, many closed. The admission ticket allowed access only to three tombs, and the more famous Tutankhamen grave was an extra $20… Anyway, it wasn’t really comfortable inside and 10 minutes each was enough to marvel at the well-preserved 3000-year old colors and reliefs. We swung by a few more sites, but the surprising stunner was the Temple of Hatshepsut, constructed against the backdrop of the sheer Theban cliffs.

As meaningful as it all was, we hadn’t eaten all day, so dinner at Sofra’s was the topper. The tasty mezze plate of grilled cabbage, grape leaves, and cucumbers stuffed with spiced rice definitely hit the spot. Then followed the assortment of dill and coriander spiced kebabs with grilled aubergines over rice – a perfect way to bid farewell to Luxor.

You Want Pyramids?

2009-02-16T09:04:00.000-08:00

A visit to the Coptic quarter brought to life ancient Christianity. The Coptic Museum, just the inside - the ornate walls and wooden ceilings - was worth the price of admission. Many of the textiles and art dated incredibly to the 3^rd and 4^th century. A spring adjacent to the Ben Ezra Synagogue was supposedly the site where Baby Moses was picked up from of the reeds. Joseph and Mary, with their baby Jesus, found refuge in what is now a crypt of the Church of St.Sergius. But the other heavenly place in Cairo, we found out, was the crowded downtown El Abd shop, where the sweets were amazing and irresistible.

We had arranged a daytrip to the Giza Plateau and Dahshur by taxi. It too was ancient, an old Fiat or Lada with some kind of hotwire button ignition and maximum speed around 50km/hr. Trundling into Giza,

the gauntlet of touts and camel jockeys was at its finest. A purposeful stride through the gates brought us face to face with the smaller than expected Sphinx. Behind it, the Khafre Pyramid looked immense. To the right, the Great Pyramid of Khufu occupied the entire visual field, 2 million odd boulders stacked 140 meters high and dwarfing all the tour buses in the foreground. Nothing, not even the persistent souvenir vendors and swindlers, could diminish the awe of the standing before the 4500-year old wonders of Khufu, Chafre, and Menkaure.

After contemplating the Giza Pyramids from just about every angle, we skirted along the garbage dump/open sewer to admire the earlier pyramids of Dahshur. Off the main itinerary, the Bent Pyramid and Red Pyramid seemed especially raw and impressive, if more so because of the lack of visitors. No camels, no touts, only the guy collecting baksheesh at the free entrance into the Red Pyramid.

Descending into the inner chambers proved to be an experience only memorable for its physical discomfort. The claustrophobic 60-meter ramp was barely 1-meter high and wide and accommodated only bent-over posture. The dark, stifling humidity caused one woman to freak out. The stones inside were smooth and so precisely cut, revealing no gaps. The weight of it all seemed to compress the atmosphere and it was quickly time to go, to the cool outside breeze and open desert. At the Great Pyramid of Khufu, the passageway was longer and steeper, with the privilege costing 100 Egyptian Pounds ($20). A Korean tourist we met on the train used the word “terrible” at least 5 times in describing the experience.

The ancient capitol of Memphis possessed nothing of its previous glory, but the museum allowed a look down to the fallen Colossus of Ramses II, the Pharao of the Exodus. Our cab had a flat on the way back, and after a quick change, we scrambled through the City of the Dead (the Northern Cemeteries) for a glimpse of the Qaitbey Mosque, which graced the 1 Pound note.

Cairo Chronicles

2009-02-13T10:52:00.001-08:00

Surreal – in a span of several days, we made it from Windhoek to Jo-Berg, then Nairobi, and finally Cairo. Maybe fatigue had a hand in it, as the Egypt Air had required a 2AM check in. Must be why I counted less than 30 passengers on board…

Cairo was a fresh 13 Celsius in the morning. Bus 356 (written in Arabic) took an hour to reach Downtown. Backpacks strapped on, we hopped out at Nasser station, right into the middle of the city. On the 4^th floor of a dated office building, Pension Roma exuded Old Cairo charm at a good price. Following a quick rest, we sat down for lunch at Gad. The Egyptians love their food. We filled up on a shawerma sandwich, falafel with sesame, some grilled chicken, chips, and salad, but everyone else had much more on their table.

All the Arabic signage wasn’t easy, but after a few wrong turns and backtracking, we found our way around medieval Islamic Cairo, the more traditional and chaotic part of the city. Faded and dust-covered buildings stood next to innumerable Mosques and Madrassas. We climbed from minaret to minaret and, for the privilege, doled out baksheesh after baksheesh. The skyline was a patchwork of unfinished rooftops and crumbling buildings, silhouetted by overlapping tall slender minarets. What a sight!

On the ground, each turn revealed a maze of narrow alleys packed with vendors and shops, selling everything. With most of the women conservatively covered up from head to toe, who was buying all the shocking underwear and lingerie in the etalages? At the bustling Khan Al Khalili market, both traditional and touristy goods were offered with creative sales pitches. The eyes feasted while the body dodged smooth salespeople and hissing cart pushers. At the celebrated El Fishawy, they’ve been serving for 200 years, so it was only proper to sit down for strong coffee and fragrant puffs from the sheesha.

Many of the innumerable historic buildings were now beautifully lit up and the atmosphere lent itself to taking it all in, the ears filling from all directions with prayer calls of the muezzin. Cairo was alive at night, safe to walk around (something definitely not possible in South Africa and Kenya), and many of the people were friendly (and eager to sell you something).

The next morning, a long queue met us at the entrance, 30 minutes prior to opening of the Egyptian Museum. After a camera deposit and two separate security scans, the rush was on to see the more significant collections before the tour groups hogged all the space. We made a beeline to the second floor towards the Tutankhamen exhibit. To see it in person was a special moment – the fabulous golden funerary mask, the sarcophagi, the adornments, and the jewels were exquisite. Imagine how the first excavators felt.

Another special room displayed a set of Royal Mummies, including Ramses II, facial features, teeth, and hair in full glory, only desiccated. For the rest, we paused at pieces familiar from history and art classes, but there was too much. Only here do they have more then they know what to do with.

We then trekked to the impressively simple and elegant Ibn Tulun Mosque. The spiral minaret looked out to the Citadel, built by Saladin to repel the Crusaders from the ancient city. We eventually made it back to the Khan Al Khalili marketplace, but not without getting very lost on the way (we must’ve seen all of Cairo – the horse drawn carts, pita sellers balancing stacks on their heads, dark workshops, and sheesha-lined sidewalks). The feet were screaming for relief, so it was time to call it another long day in Egypt!

Nairobi Flash

2009-02-13T10:51:00.001-08:00

We touched down in Nairobi, after a brief night in Johannesburg. The infamous Nairobi afternoon traffic lived up to my recollection, and worse, because neither the taxi driver nor I could find our destination. Helen and Rodrigo, friends from MSF, arrived later -- their cab had run out of petrol on the way…

There was a lot of catching up to do over dinner and the ensuing day. It was like the Nairobi visits of old – a trip to the mall, a movie, and dinner at Mediterraneo. The stories glided over a few bottles of wine. It was amazing to see them again – and it really was the main reason for the express visit. They were heading back to Homa Bay, many of my other colleagues were no longer there, and it wasn’t that easy to go back independently. I missed Robin and a few others, but hopefully I’ll see her if and when she returns Stateside.

So went 36 hours in Kenya.

Random Musings

2009-02-08T23:26:00.000-08:00

Well, not exactly random, but it just occurred to me that I’ve posted a lot of animal photos and much of our time has been spent looking at them.

I’ve always been impressed at how unbothered lions are at our presence. They’re the apex predator and they know it, from the way they just lay there, look around or nap. On the other hand, despite cutting an awe-inspiring figure, the African rhinos quickly scurry away.

Giraffes always appear elegant and graceful, and not because of their long necks. From their unhurried walk to the languid feeding on prickly acacias, they exude confidence. Even when running, they go in slow motion.

Antelope are expectedly graceful, but they’re twitchy and run at the slightest disturbance. The sight of large kudu stretching a perfect arch over a 5-foot fence is like watching a horse dressage competition, and springbok can trampoline high and straight over obstacles. But we’ve also seen them “mess up.” Twice we saw fleeing springbok run straight into the wooden post of fences, rather than making it over. They’ve also tripped in sprint -- zebra and springbok. Then there was the impala chased by another. Right in front of us, it darted on the road, slipped, slid on its side, and picked up its sprint in recovery.

Toilet Paper

Not the most glamorous subject, but sometimes paper rises high above the trivial. At home, we were spoiled with big rolls, double ply, even “quilted” or scented. On the road, the thin single ply “industrial” paper is ubiquitous. In China, we had the “half-rolls” which didn’t last long. In India, there were the “quarter rolls,” single ply and good for only a few revolutions. Yesterday, in Namibia, we encountered the “barely there” ply, completely transparent and falling apart as it unwound… Suppose that’s better than the Indonesian “no ply” – bring your own or do as the locals do with a scoop of water…

Sossus and Other Vleis

2009-02-08T05:49:00.000-08:00

Swakopmund was good for 5 nights – the batteries needed recharging and the rest camp was cheap. The plan was to see Sossusvlei, but we’d have to stay further out in Solitaire. We’d been advised that it wasn’t really a town. Granted, but could it have been smaller than the dot on the map? Literally two places to stay, one of which incorporated a petrol station, bottle store, and lunch stop. Of the two, Soiltaire Guest Farm had an isolated self-catering cottage, set back 6km from the road in dry grassland and very quiet. The isolation felt a bit strange initially, but refreshingly liberating. Washed clothes dried in an hour and we slept with all the windows open (doors didn’t have any locks).

Vermillion and violet streaked the celestial canvas while pillowy clouds reflected silver, copper, and golden patinas. Daylight was breaking and we would be missing Sossusvlei at sunrise (waking up at 5:30 am wasn’t early enough). I can’t say whether it would have been more magnificent, as the emerging light bathed the dry grass in deep yellow splendor and the skies settled into pastel blue. Past the Sesriem gate, another 45 km led by a parade of awesome soft red and pinkish dunes, tall and sharp edged, yet soft in contour. We skipped Dune 45, the first and most easily accessible.

Most of the dunes were really mountains of sand, several hundred meters tall, variable shades of red due to iron content, and the pink ones indicating further distance. Slip faces were roughly 35 degrees, but I could have sworn they looked like 60 degrees in some places.

At the end of the tarred road, a 4-wheel drive only sandy path continued on. We climbed up the serrated Dead Vlei dune. At least for that day, the sandy spine was untrodden and provided arresting views below of the cracked clay field, pristine and completely free of the same red sand adjacent, heaped up so improbably high. Sprouting out were dead tree trunks, slowly petrifying because of the lack of moisture – yet 6 magnificent oryx could be seen wandering about. Next, we clambered up the eponymous Sossusvlei dune, but the sun radiated too intensely. Solitaire called with cool drinks and reputedly the best apple pie in Africa, the entire continent (I’d have to say it tasted like anything you could get at home…)

A good desert storm (the rain variety) exposed the leaky roof and the dodgy power supply, so it was lights out early. The morning’s return drive back to the capitol signaled the end of the 3250 km trip. Last few waves to passing cars, as was customary on country roads. We splashed for a meal at Joe’s Beer House, a Windhoek institution comparable to Carnivore in Nairobi, but better. You could actually try zebra, springbok, and oryx. One last cruise by Fidel Castro Avenue and Robert Mugabe Ave.

To Swakopmond and the Desert

2009-02-04T05:14:00.000-08:00

By and large, the accommodation has been more costly than our ideal, so we’ve tried not to eat at restaurants. Other than the occasional dinner splurge, we’ve been surviving mostly on breakfast and peanut butter sandwiches, augmented with apples or bananas. Though not especially healthy, the meat pies are cheap and filling.

Tsumeb to Swakopmund was a 750km trip, and it seemed every bit that long. And most of it to the tune of Afrikaans and German pop music – what a treat… The drive was broken up with a brief detour to the Cheetah Conservation Fund, aimed at rescuing orphaned cheetah (their survival is threatened by increasing human-

animal conflict). Thus, we got to see them after all, up close and munching on donkey meat. Farmland and grassland became arid shrub, and eventually desert. At the coast, improbably thick fog marked the point where the Namib Desert met the Atlantic Ocean. Swakopmund was shrouded in cool, dark fog.

An interesting place, Namibia’s resort city looked German. From the turn of the 19^th century German buildings and modern neo-colonial architecture, along with all the Germans, this was Germany. Bratwurst and Eisbein were on all the menus, and all the backereis displayed apfelstrudel, Black Forest cake, and Linzertorte. In fact, I’m not sure what Namibian food is or where it is served. Lots of meat, including game meats, I was informed. We did find some good lodging at the Municipal “Fisherman’s Rest Camp,” where nice self-contained efficiencies cost $20.

Famous for all the “adrenaline” activities, I eased into it with a morning of ocean fishing. Golden dunes lined the shipwreck coast, where rough water and large swells have taken down many vessels, including a half submerged Indian vessel. Shore anglers with their 4x4s could be seen casting way out into the surf. There have been no reported Shark attacks, but that’s because no one goes into the water… After racing up and down the shore, the skipper put us on a school of kabeljou. I stopped counting at 20 fish, plus a shark, and the small boat filled up a large bin in 2 hours.

After securing entry permits, we rattled our way through jarring gravel corrugations of the Namib-Naukluft Desert. The axles were sturdy, but I think the shocks got some wear. The thick coastal fog burned off and the heat radiated in vertical squiggles off the horizon, causing distant mountains to levitate from the Earth. A dry, hot wind blew across our faces and whispered nothing but solitude. Despite the dryness, fog-fed brown, green, and orange lichen covered much of the barren flats. Huge swaths resembled a fantastic lunar landscape, with dunes and crags of all shades brown and grey. Strewn about were the fascinating Welwitshia plants that were up to 1500 years old. And still we spotted springbok and ostrich, in this desert. After all those hours it had to come – Nina’s “99 luftballon,” in Swakopmond and like it was the 80’s!

In the morning, we drove down to Walvisbay and the nearby Dune 7. The perfect place to sandboard, the agenda included more adrenaline. We first paid 50 Namibian ($5) for boards, literally flexible flat wood particleboards, waxed for speed. Then we made the strenuous climb up the 100-meter dune, from which we slid down on our bellies, face-first and out of control to the bottom, at a suicidal 60km/hr. Amidst dust clouds we managed to slide to a halt, sand lodging everywhere. Then, we went up for more, only tempered by the strenuous hike each time up and the thought that this could be dangerous.

Quad biking through Dune 7 ended up surprisingly thrilling. We’d never really had much of an interest, but racing up, around, and sliding down tall dunes was amazing. Perhaps it was the beauty of the area and the view of the ocean, the openness and the possibility. I could easily go out again. Then there was this giant ball, which you could hop in and roll down the dune. Sounded great, but we declined.

Namibia

2009-02-01T06:05:00.000-08:00

A decade ago, a documentary featuring the Sossusvlei Dunes left an indelible impression on Steph. Although not part of our original plans, enough people had raved about their experience that we too decided to swing by. At the airport, the rental car agency upgraded our car to a 4x4 Offroad Nissan – it was the rainy season and the additional clearance would be useful on the gravel roads and over streams.

45 km West lay Windhoek, the pleasant and relaxed capitol. Afrikaans and English were spoken, mixed with Teutonic cultural influence, reflecting past German and South African occupation. It wasn’t difficult to feel at ease. A small city, the center was easily navigated, featuring small café’s, German bakeries, and the obligatory churches.

About the size of Germany, and sparsely populated with 2 million people, the country felt large -- distances were long and there wasn’t much in between. On the 5-hour drive to Etosha, I counted no more than a dozen cars on the lonely B1 and B2 highways. I thought South Africa seemed wide open, but the Namibian horizon looked wider and flatter, and felt immense.

Inside Etosha, the Okakeujo Camp chalet was fairly deluxe, and cheaper (compared to most of the horrifically expensive park lodges elsewhere in Africa) Crisp white linens, firm bed, and nicely appointed sitting room – what else to ask for? The park encircled the Etosha Pan, a deceptively thin strip on the horizon. The salt plain was like a dry sea -- flat, arid, and featureless, thus playing tricks with depth perception, making 100 km look like 100 meters. As it had just rained, the surrounding edge was green, many watering holes appeared, and the animals were less concentrated. We drove at least 3-4 hours each time, covering big distances, and sometimes seeing very little. But we must have spotted every single one of the estimated 28,000 springbok… Zebra, wildebeest, ostrich, giraffe, jackal, impala, and oryx all made appearances.

We were after the big cats and disappointingly had seen none all these hours, until we came across a pride of eight, including several juveniles, lazing under a tree by the roadside. Understandable, as they were probably listless from the stifling hot atmosphere. Gusting winds and black rainclouds brought welcome relief. Hurrying back in the fading afternoon, we nearly drove into the elusive rhino drinking from a right on the road. It gazed ahead to size up the approaching threat, but the 4x4 looked bigger, so it scampered off into the bush. Despite their imposing appearance and size, they are notoriously shy and skittish. Against the odds, within minutes we crossed paths with another, and then another! A good day, but no leopard or cheetah sightings.

Still none the next drive out, but the zebra and giraffe were so thick they almost became road obstacles. Enough of the park, we decided to spend the night in Tsumeb, about 100 to the East. The place was a ghost town. For 6:30pm friday, it felt eery -- everything was closed and there was hardly any life. After a drive about, there were some cars parked outside the Miner Hotel. A bunch of Germans were dining on the terrace, so it must have been a happy place for a stein of draught beer and Wienerschitzel with sauerkraut. And so it was.

Cruising the Cape

2009-01-26T07:03:00.000-08:00

So, was Capetown as great as people always gush about? After a short 3 ½ days, I’ve been won over, as it certainly was a stunningly pretty place. Buoyed by cool breezes, warm sun, and long summer days, we cruised the ‘Cape, from Town to the Point at the end of the peninsula. Having run out of superlatives to describe the many coastal spots, I’d simply refer you to the pictures of Camps Bay, Hout Bay, and Fish Hoek. Miles of ocean wouldn’t be accurate enough… All of Capetown could be found out there, but there were still plenty of places with plenty room.

En route we spotted a leftover Right Whale (the season already through) and witnessed the “oh shit…” scene of a huge baboon jumping into the driver’s seat of a parked car. The windows had been left down and I’m unsure how the man eventually got it out. The beast was huge! “Baboons are dangerous and are attracted to food,” read the signs. At Boulders Beach near Simons Town, we visited the colony of African penguins. Not as big and colorful as the emperor penguins, they nonetheless entertained with their amusing waddle. The seas were blue and calm at the Cape of Good Hope, only hinting at the feared stormy waters braved by yesteryear's intrepid mariners on their way to the East Indies.

The city itself was comfortable, with enough to keep even the jaded traveler occupied. Table Mountain loomed from every vantage point. Long Street was party central. The glorious waterfront was a good place to spend a day and the Strand and roadside were full of cyclers and joggers. At the Aquarium, my thoughts drifted to a fishing charter as we admired the very large yellowtail and seabass. Food was no problem, with all the usual choices any large city offered. I did worry for a second when we saw a sign advertising 1 kg of sushi for 99 Rand (?).

Robben Island is the prison where Nelson Mandela and countless other anti-apartheid activists languished prior to its closure in the early 90’s. The District 6 Museum brought back to life the forced removal of non-Whites as part of the 1960’s race-based agenda. The musea memorialized the oppression of a time not so long ago. I still vividly remember the news stories and the correspondent always reported from Pretoria.

Not everything is quite alright here. Crime and personal safety are a national obsession (rightfully so), but South Africa was amazing and Capetown definitely worth a visit (plus the World Cup will be here in 2010). Tomorrow we’re headed to Namibia.

Klein Karoo

2009-01-25T08:00:00.000-08:00

Eager for a more unique experience, we veered inland into the Little Karoo, separated by tall mountain ranges and reached by a narrow pass. Intense sun, wide horizons, and empty rolling roads took us by scattered farmhouses, quaint villages, churches, vineyards, sheep, and ostriches. In the 1880’s, the region rode the crest of ostrich feather fashion and fortunes went into the many “feather palaces” still on display.

We stayed in Oudtshoorn, the ostrich capitol, but quiet enough for a pleasant stroll along the many storefronts and awnings of yesteryear. The name of the game was ostrich – meat, leather, feathers, eggs, everything. On Hein’s recommendation (the owner of the backpackers), we dined at La Dolce Vita, where the grilled ostrich fillets tasted just like filet mignon. Inclusive of salad and chips, we paid less than 7 USD each. And a big glass of red wine was only 8 Rand (about 80 cents). In fact, there wasn’t a bottle on the menu that exceeded 6 USD…

A drive North wound by more ostriches, cultivated green land, and through the steep Swartberg Pass. From the perspective of the high gravel road, the hilly country below stretched so far you felt inconsequential. The mountains deserved much longer looks, if the eyes needn’t trained on the hairpin turns. We toured through the little town of Prince Albert before heading back through Meierpoort. The 35 Celsius heat made its presence felt, and just in time, we pulled up at a waterfall dropping into 9-meter deep clear pool. How better to cool off then a plunge from a ledge above?

Many of the ostrich farms offered tours, so it was the thing to do. Ostrich eggs are amazing. They weigh about 1 ½ kg, can easily support the weight of an adult, and require either a hammer or drill to crack. That’s one heck of an omelet... Nice, but I'd heard you could actually ride a real life ostrich, so when the moment came, I jumped on it (pun intended...). It felt like riding a big chicken running around in a circle, holding on by the wings, and trying not to fall off. Of course it was wrong, way wrong, but it was there (same reason Edmund Hillary gave for ascending Everest...). I couldn't get the video to upload, but maybe at a later time.

The remainder of Route 62 in the Little Karoo continued with hypnotic 270 degree mountain views and rolling landscape of sage, mustard, and dark maroon arid shrub. Few drives this long managed to command attention. Most of the towns were little more than roadside distractions, but Mo ntagu was exceptional for its restored Edwardian and Victorian buildings, all with fresh coats of white paint and reminiscent of a different century.

Down the road was Robertson, center of a small wine growing region, 45 vinters and open for tastings. This was white wine country, with some cabernet and shiraz around. It was all unpretentious and some of it even good. You'd be pressed to find a bottle for more than 10 USD (most about 2 or 3 USD) and the tastings were free and generous, atmosphere included.

After Robertson, the landscape transitioned to something more upscale around Franschhoek, a historic French Huguenot settlement and SA’s present-day culinary epicenter. Flanked by tall mountain ranges, the vineyards were strikingly laid out about a town that might have rivaled anything in the Napa Valley. The restaurants looked inviting, but we had already filled up on a baguette with Camembert during several winery visits. Neighboring Stellenbosch boasted more wineries even, an embarrassment of riches.

The roads became crowded, and for the first time in over two weeks and 3800km of distance, traffic lights appeared. Multiple lane highways led to cooler breezes of Capetown. The city was cosmopolitan and beautiful, sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and the dominant geographical feature, Table Mountain. With a nice waterfront, vibrant nightlife, and a plethora of dining options, this was a good place to end the drive.

Surf'n the Garden Route

2009-01-22T08:20:00.000-08:00

Continuing on the N2, a yellow crescent apparition lay ahead at the turn-off to Jeffreys Bay, “discovered” in the late 60’s and since then a surfer’s Mecca, famous for “Supertubes” with its nearly perfect right handed break. South African schools were back in session from the summer holiday and the place looked a little lonely, save for the never-out-of-sight “car guards,” who pointed out the many obviously vacant spots and “kept watch” for a donation (they’re everywhere, but I’ve never found anyone else to be watched…). It was the weekend, and all the businesses closed early. Nonetheless, the sun was out, the wind up, the beach perfect, and the waves as good as advertised.

Not far was St.Francis Bay, yet another famous beach break – this one immortalized in the surf film classic Endless Summer. Few poor young surfers hung out here anymore and gone were the old Woodies and Beetles. Although the waves haven’t changed, it blossomed with affluence and “coastal living” architecture was de rigeur. We moved on.

Over 2600km into the journey and we hadn’t experienced any automotive issues besides the suicidal overtaking tendencies of some drivers. The little car was working hard, and sure enough something started smelling funny. No indicator lights on, but the smell persisted. I pulled over to the side – a nice leak ran down the engine and it was burning oil. A quick call to Hertz and, a few hours later, a replacement vehicle was driven 200km to Tsitsikamma. This one still had no AC, and not even power steering...

Tsitsikamma, the large reserve of tall mountains, dense forest, and stunning coastline was exceptional. With a name like Storms River Mouth, how could it disappoint? We spent the night in Storms River Village (where else…), an odd little town with 2 restaurants, a few lodges and outdoor outfitters, and some kind of classic Cadillac showroom. There was one supermarket (named…), a postal office, and a few craft stores. The water felt far too cool for river tubing, so we embarked on a few hikes, one of which was literally 3 km of a balancing act on rocks and boulders to a very nice waterfall. At Nature’s Valley, we found Nirvana for the eyes – on the left, an inviting warm fresh water estuary with a mountainous backdrop and on the right, rough blue ocean waters behind an 80-meter wide pristine stretch of sand. Distantly, a pod of dolphin could be seen surfing the waves and doing flips.

SA is famous for its Garden Route from Tsitsikamma to Mossel Bay. To be fair, the area was that beautiful, though Plettenberg Baai, Knysna, and Wilderness could easily have been named La Jolla, Santa Barbara, and Pismo Beach. The similarity to the California coast detracted a bit from the experience. The oysters in Knysna were relatively cheap and good, but it was too tony and not quite what we had sought.

Along the Route it’s hard not to notice the continued of disparity. Of course integration has occurred, but inland and at the edge of every beautiful place many people still lived in fenced off townships and sometimes in shanties made of wooden planks, metal sheeting, and plastic lining. All the more sobering, given the adjacent affluence. On the other hand, not too long ago, we could not have dined so comfortably or spent the night in places we have patronized, so that deserves a moment of reflection. The winds of change are still blowing and it must be better, but we’ve had conversations with so many who are pessimistic. They worry about losing their place in society, about sliding towards the rest of the continent. They think of leaving and their children definitely are. It’s complicated and the shades of grey aren’t so easy to grasp.

Game Spotting

2009-01-17T13:14:00.000-08:00

Not ones to stay long, we traded the Wild Coast for Frontier Country. After first sniffing around Grahamstown, location of Rhodes University, we settled for our first South African meal, Xhosa Beef stew and a very nice Ostrich steak. In this more arid region, dry shrubs were the dominant vegetation and the ocean a distant idea behind the tall sand dunes. Several private game reserves occupied either side of the highway, simulating the surreal experience of a game drive at 120km/hr, with flashes of ostrich, zebra, warthog, kudu, and other antelope.

A right turn inland past the stark townships of Port Elizabeth led to Addo, the small base for several nearby game reserves. We drove right up to the Homestead B and B and decided to stay the night. A charming older couple ran this beautiful oasis in the midst of empty feeling citrus land. It was time to relax and spend a couple of hours reading. We knew the night sky would be promising, and indeed it turned out spectacular. Distant trees and a farmhouse were silhouetted against the westernmost horizon, which never conceded its faint orange glow, even late into the evening. Against this backdrop rose the Southern Cross. The bejeweled sky was big and all around, appearing low and wide, offering up more constellations than we could name.

Early in the morning we drove to the gates of Addo Elephant Park. The little Opel Elite took us around the reserve the next 5 hours, this time at 30km/hr, as we spotted nearly every animal, including the kudu, antelopes with majestic spiraling horns. The highlights were the pair of lions after a kudu kill and the largest elephant herd we’d ever seen. An unbelievable 70 stood clustered around a muddy watering hole and, immensely social, for hours entertained with all sorts of antics and shenanigans. The rest of the afternoon we spent at the adjacent Schotia, a private reserve with more lions, giraffes, zebra, wildebeest, hippo, and 2 large white rhino. Two European women sharing the Landrover were terrified at being only 2 meters removed from a pair of lions. The dinner buffet was a real treat and, alongside the chicken, they served another first, kudu stew…

Gold Coast to Wild Coast

2009-01-17T12:36:00.000-08:00

Sun’s up at 5AM here and by 10AM we were down the N2, through Piermaritzburg and into Durban, SA’s third largest city. At Hertz we extended for 10 days and returned the GPS. Old-fashioned road maps would take us through the upcoming 1800km of coastline. From Durban we drove through Umkomaas, Scottiesburgh, Rocky Bay, Umzumbe, and Shelly Beach, all seaside hamlets with fishing, swimming, and surfing in cool waters.

We overnighted at a backpacker’s spot called “The Spot” on Umtentweni beach. It wasn’t quite spot on, but the South Africans we met were outgoing and friendly. In fact, most of the people we’ve engaged have been quite nice and eager to chat. Much of the “Gold Coast” was reminiscent of driving the Florida Coast, the beaches chockablock with restaurants, shops, and lodging, and replete with surf shops. A storm system had settled and the waters, described as “warm,” held no particular appeal, so we continued to Margate and Southbroom.

“When will I ever be here again?” is always a persuasive argument, so I broke down and picked up a new bodyboard, fins, and rashguard (In process also convincing the surf shop staff to get out and travel the world…). In grey skies, mist, and outright rain, it was a struggle to paddle out to the Lucien Beach backline, by which time I was dragged 100 meters down current and shivering. An hour and a few rough rides later, it was time to call it a day. The water was only warm if you didn’t mind hypothermia…

Next day was the same story in Southbroom -- dark, rainy, and choppy waters. Fishing the nearby Protea Banks also fizzled out. The highlight was our stay with Neville and Bruce of the classy Southbroom Backpackers, where it genuinely felt like home, hanging out, sharing dinner and candid conversation, and watching TV.

The Wild Coast of the Transkei came next. Small turquoise houses and pink rondavels peaked through the low clouds and dotted the hills and valleys of this wide green stretch. It was land of the Xhosa and other tribes, “Real Africa,” as they say. Life was different here – potholed streets, roaming cattle, and people walking roadside or hitchhiking. After 3 hours, the road descended to Port St.John, a bustling couple of streets where the Umzimvubu meets the Indian Ocean. Sunlight was breaking through and the brown crescents beckoned, so we found a guesthouse steps from the beach. The surf was favorable, the water warmer, and the rides longer and better.

We haven’t tried distinctive South African cuisine yet. Besides burgers and a fried seafood basket, the rest of our meals have been “self-catered,” as the days of ridiculously cheap meals were over.

The following morning turned out once again grey, so we proceeded south in pursuit of more sun. Hurtling through the Tranksei, we stopped at Buccaneers Backpackers in Cintsa, another almost perfect wind-swept stretch of soft sand where the river met the sea (there were countless of them, one after another, ubiquity making them seem less special). The warm estuary contrasted with the cool ocean water, but the setting was wonderful. The surf was rough, but offered plenty rides. The rest of the day included ping-pong and the featured afternoon activity – drinking games and bad, but gratis, white wine for the younger crowd.

South Africa -- Drakensberg

2009-01-11T08:23:00.000-08:00

Earlier in the day, our connecting flight from Cochin was delayed 9 hours – luckily we hadn’t scheduled a tight connection. It was Goodbye India and Hello SA as we boarded the 2 AM flight from Mumbai. With a crisp new Lonely Planet guidebook in tow, it was high time to read up about our next destination and decide where to visit. Either that, or try to catch some zzz’s.

A few possible scenarios lay ahead, but upon landing, the first stop was an ATM en route to a Wi-Fi hotspot to book the cheapest rental car (apparently no AC still exists). After a mere few minutes, we were on the way to Drakensberg. Plenty of asphalt and whimsy would lay ahead.

South African roads and keeping left required a little extra attention, but for the first time in months there was the freedom of being behind the wheel on an open road. Leaving the Johannesburg environs, the route took us through Free State province, still very much Afrikaanse Boers -- huge farmlands broken up by a few conservative dorpjes still integrating to a new world. Other than staid steeples and curious stares, we saw little and moved on. This country is big – green plains with tall grasses and crops, the undulating horizon stretching far beyond your visual range. It felt like driving through East Texas, endless.

Hours passed with the scenery transitioning to the deeper green fields and high escarpments of the Kwazulu-Natal. Flat-topped mountains appeared and grew more dramatic as the giant Drakensberg highlands filled the view ahead. Oohs and aahs were in order and pictures could not do it justice. We grabbed the last room at the amazing Inkosana lodge, located in a tranquil meadow facing the Central ‘Berg. For a “backpacker lodge” this was 5-star. More like an exclusive mountain retreat, the place oozed class, with the view from the wooden pool deck dissipating any inclination to ever want to leave.

For dinner, we went to the nearby Dragon’s Peak Rest. One of the fellow guests described it as “SA of the 80’s,” ubiquitous army plaques and insignia, and the same people still going there. After weeks in India, the buffet of desserts and meat were too much to resist.

Ed Salomon, the lodge owner and mountaineer, recommended the hike from Monk’s Cowl to Blind Man’s Corner at 2100m. On the ascent, each turn rewarded with a better view, the distant plains behind and the mountain face ahead. The day was bloody hot and we had not carried any water – Ed said we could drink from any stream. At Crystal Springs, the water was deliciously cold and refreshing. About halfway, the high meadow eventually led to the foot of several peaks rising another 1000m above – Champagne’s Castle, Monk’s Cowl Peak, flat-topped Cathkin, and the sharp Sterkhorn. From a distance it was impressive , but close up they defied any superlatives. Beyond lay the mountain Kingdom of Lesotho. On the return, we veered off to see Nandi Falls and dip in the pools of the Mpofane River. The rest of the way was an exercise of wills, but we made it back as the weather was closing in. 17km in 7 hours.

Darkness featured a riot of croaking frogs and loud crickets. But the real show appeared later with the gathering clouds. With dramatic suddenness, fierce late night thunderstorms commenced with whipping wind and booming thunder. The charged atmosphere saw erratic lightening jags that lit up the sky, filling the senses like a terrific symphony.

The next day, we drove the 1.5 hrs North to the Royal Natal section of the mountain. We hadn’t planned on another 14km hike, but the Gorge came highly recommended. So we set off. Following a ridge along the Tugela River, the trail countered around until reaching the narrow rocky gorge with swift pools of crisp, cold mineral water. Another 15 minutes uphill revealed the source – The distant wisp dropping down a series of five cascades was Tugela Falls. The semi-circular Amphitheater surrounding the deep gorge rose up straight and vertically, dwarfing existence below. I had not hiked any place this green, this open, and this massive.

Over 2 days and 31km, we shot innumerable pictures, but through a technical issue or stupidity it was all lost. Memories or a coffee table book will have to suffice.

Fort Cochin

2009-01-05T21:09:00.000-08:00

With only a few days remaining, it was time to start heading back north. Stepping off the small ferryboat, the former colonial island appeared a welcoming destination. Charming inns and guesthouses were clustered in the compact Fort area. The many churches and parochial schools punctuated the continued influence of Catholicism. A lunch of chicken salad on toast, pureed vegetable soup, and strong iced coffee in a garden café easily whisked us away to Sunday afternoon in Old Pasadena. The beach far from pristine, hosted locals to soaking their feet in the turbid water and strolling the footpath. At dusk, the few large cantilevered “Chinese fishing nets” were still operated by a handful of fishermen.

Along Bazaar Road stood rows of colorful and still functioning historic warehouses. Inside the Mattancherry Palace, a former Dutch building, one of the rooms was adorned with scenes of the Ramayana (entrance fee 2 rupees). We visited an old Synagogue and window-shopped the surrounding neighborhood teeming with antique and curio shops. Some of it soared above the kitsch, especially the intricately carved historic doors, panels, and columns.

Despite the dubious start, I enjoyed our visit. Sure there were hassles, the buses and trains were often painful, but this is India. Of course, our flight back to Mumbai is delayed 9 hours. We'll have a few more places to see on our next visit.

Kerala Backwaters

2009-01-04T08:32:00.000-08:00

They audaciously call it “God’s own country,” and some rate a Backwaters houseboat cruise among the top ten “life-time experiences.” But getting there proved tricky; the trains were booked out for days and the thought of traversing the 800km by bus was sobering. On a lark, Steph secured 2 train tickets, but at the usual inflated price, plus commission. Beggars can’t be choosers.

We bussed it to Margao, and then waited for the delayed train. Even the toilet attendant attempted to overcharge (2 rupees as opposed to one is nothing, but it’s the principle, especially when the price is posted on the wall…). Triple tiered sleepers served as temporary quarters. Two friendly Indians were keen to discuss HIV, India, and Obama. From Ernakulum, the bus driver, barely allowing the horn a breather, pushed the dual-axled beast as if possessed. 22 hours after departing Panjim, we jumped out in Allepey, still very much India…

The kettavullam (rice barge) lay tied up in a very picturesque waterway, covered in green hyacinth and lined with overhanging palms. The boat wasn’t fancy, but came with a kitchen, bedroom, shower, and a deck with rattan chairs and mattress from which to savour the languorous cruise on the network of quiet canals. Gone were the days of punting. The crew of three – captain, cook, and engine minder – looked after us well. For lunch they stuffed us with roasted papad, fried fish, long beans with coriander, coconut with mustard and curry leaves, sambar, and rice that came in the biggest grains I’ve ever seen.

I steered for a while, but soon was content to be led past the emerald green rice fields and palm fringed banks. People crossed in low narrow dugout canoes and women beat their wash on the rocks. Children jumped in for a swim while others submerged for a wash. Kitchenware, everything went for a dunk. Hours went by, and soon the green and brown hues grew increasingly vivid in the soft light of the setting sun. We tied up for the evening and dined under a candle. The morning glow burned off the thin mist over the water as we broke the fast with rolled pancakes filled with bananas and sweet grated coconut. The cruise ended at the gridlocked jetty. Not quite heaven on earth, but a fantastic experience…

Panjim and Old Goa

2008-12-31T21:29:00.000-08:00

“Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time” (The Alchemist). There wasn’t an alternative, so we again boarded the Paolo’s Travel Bus for the overnight trip to Panjim. If things were bad 60 hours ago, they were worse now. We settled for seats with little legroom, enclosed by metal bars. The door didn’t close properly, so it felt like a birdcage in a roaring wind tunnel. This time, it was 40 rupees extra “security fee” for bags in the storage hold. After one of the toilet stops, many passengers came back with ½ inch-long thorns piercing their flip-flops – a gift from the roadside bush.

The small Goan capitol was still asleep at 6 in the morning, but the warmly lit Christmas stars on all the chapels and old homes were a welcome sight. By 8 AM, we had done a couple of laps around the narrow streets of Sao Tome and Fontainhas, the small neighborhoods replete with white-washed chapels and the yellows, blues, and maroons of the old Portuguese buildings. So close to the New Year, many of the small guesthouses were full, but near the end, we scored with a big bright top floor room with sunny terrace, for a not bad 800 rupees (little over $15).

Many of the locals were named Jose, Luis, or Claudio. It still felt like Christmas, with decorations and Nativity scenes fronting many homes. The streets were great for strolls and free of cattle and their remains. Some cars actually stopped to let you pass. In contrast to most of India, wine and drink shops flourished Kingfisher beer was served at every establishment. A particular specialty was feni, local distillate from coconut juice or cashew nuts -- the latter was better neat. Several casino boats operated from the riverfront, attracting Indian tourists looking for a party. We found a few nice restaurants that left us wanting more Kingfish curry rice and chicken biryani. And I must definitely look up recipes for Chicken Cafriel (mint and coriander marinade) and Chicken Xacuti (spicy Goan coconut curry) and Chanok Recheado (Red masala stuffed Snook).

In nearby Old Goa, much of the former grand colonial port had faded, but the 16^th and 17^th century religious edifices couldn’t be more atmospheric. The dome of St. Cajetan and the façade of the Se Cathedral left me with appreciation of what they achieved 400 years ago. The Basilica of Bom Jesus displayed the remains of St. Francis Xavier, who had traced an incredible lifetime journey to Brazil, around the Cape of Good Hope, East Africa, South India, the Mollucas, Macao, and even Japan.

Boulders, Temples, and Palms

2008-12-28T21:05:00.000-08:00

The overnight “deluxe” sleeper bus from Canacona to Hampi proved to be a first rate slapdash operation. After it arrived an hour late, the busman rushed 6 of us in, shut the door, and drove off. “Next bus!” he shouted to the dozen others still holding tickets. Inside, it was ridiculous – backpacks and luggage clogged up the entire aisle. You had to climb in to find any space – one girl slept in the middle on top of the packs! I felt bad for the few more passengers coming in later. The “air suspension” left us all deflated in the morning, but relieved to finally arrive.

The unique landscape featured hills of giant boulders with tall palms and deserted 15^th Century Hindu-Muslim temples strewn about. Verdant rice paddies and banana fields filled out the “Flintstones” impression. Beside the river, lay the small settlement of Hampi Bazaar.

Our guesthouse on the opposite bank was reached by a little motorboat ferry. Nearly every place featured swinging beds or hammocks and meals were on low tables and obligatory bed-like mattresses. Along with breakfast, the owner offered the off-menu “smokes” (convenient, but no thanks…). After a short nap, we rented clunky bicycles to take in the bucolic surrounding settlements. One of the Indian tourists must have had one smoke too many, as he first ran into me, then later lost control of his bike and face-planted right off the road. A strenuous hike up the stairs to the Hanuman temple rewarded with views of stunning brown and green patches below. In Anegundi village there was little to see and the children were a bit much.

An early morning led to an all day temple odyssey. We covered about 7 miles in the scorching hot sun to see the Royal Enclosure, Queen’s Bath, and Lotus Halwa. At the palatial Elephant stables, Steph was mobbed by a group of schoolgirls on a daytrip. “What’s you name, where from?” They were sweet and sang us a few beautiful songs before rushing off to the bus. Many coconuts and lemon sodas later, the day concluded at the Achyutaraja and Vitalli temples, where the lone frangipani tree stood, its thick twisted trunk reminiscent of an old Oak.

Slow Goa

2008-12-28T20:58:00.000-08:00

The surf flattened down into a nearly ripple-less ocean. Whole days slowed down laying on the beach, swimming in the ocean, and enjoying the great company of Reut and Mor, our new Isreali friends. “Where’s your watch today?” they would ask. In the evening, we lit Hanukkah candles before sipping Kingfisher beer on their porch steps.

The young children that helped look after the huts were around all the time, eager to offer anything. Of course, nothing was ever free. They’re little businessmen and unfortunately shrewd beyond their years. On the other hand, the family operating a little store next to our huts was refreshingly genuine. They served up excellent chai, omelets, and samosas straight to our huts. Dipali also handled the rickshaws, all in a sweet manner.

Where else but Goa would you have two on-duty policemen and the young Indian lodge owner lock themselves in one of the empty huts, only to emerge later from the smoke-filled shack? As long as everybody is happy, no one's kicking over beach chairs!

It all went by so fast and we wished we didn’t have to leave so soon. But better to go before the sunsets don’t seem so amazing. Happy Birthday Reut (and hope to see you in Tel Aviv). To Mor – safe travels!

Christmas in Goa

2008-12-25T09:24:00.000-08:00

Goa retains a rich Portuguese legacy with the dusty crumbling buildings, Mediterranean architecture, and large Catholic cathedrals. Mixed with the South Indian culture and swaying palms, it makes for an interesting setting.

It was almost “no-Goa” because every train was fully booked beyond January 1^st. and vacant lodging was getting scarce. In the morning we scrambled for last-minute plane tickets and a place to stay. It wasn’t quite so simple, as nothing ever is in India.

Arrival in the small beach community of Agonda was a dream. Our home for the next four nights was a rustic shack on the quiet beach, with porch and hammock steps from the water. The sun crept down the horizon in a blood red giant disk amidst flaming orange streaks. The night sky opened to bright Orion and thousands of stars, more than I’ve seen in a while. We slept to the sound of crashing ocean waves.

More than anything, how good it felt to walk around in board shorts and flip-flops again. The broad white sandy strip was lined with palms, huts, and beach front restaurants. There were just enough people around to make it feel habited and not so many where it was crowded. No one bothered you, except the cow that kept intruding on a couple down the beach – they had food with them, and the cow kept following until they left…

The Arabia n sea was every bit as nice as it sounds – warm water with consistent sets of slow rolling waves, close enough to shore, and tall enough to spend nearly the entire day boogie-boarding. I must have caught a hundred good rides on the spongy board rented from the kids. Every evening, the setting sun put on a spectacular display.

Our neighbors were 2 very cool Israeli girls from Tel Aviv. They joined us for a star-lit dinner. The drinks were cold and food spicy -- the atmosphere complete with fresh ocean breezes and the sound of the waves. As this is India, something perplexing happens. At 9:30 a dozen khaki-clothed policemen came up, shouted to the owners, and started kicking over signs, tables, and chairs on the beach, all in front of paying customers. They then proceeded to the next business. We moved inside and life went on.

Every meal here was fantastic. The grilled fish and prawns, the Indian food, naan, and tandoori kebabs were all freshly prepared. There was even a French creperie around. I saw 2 young children enjoying their dessert, until another pesky cow moved in to beg for a bite.

Holiday lights were strung outside our shack. Dinner at Shanti restaurant featured fire jugglers on the beach. The power went out for a while, but the stars shone all that much brighter. We missed home, but Christmas here was an experience – Indian Midnight Mass celebrated beachside at the old Portuguese Saint Anne’s Church. Merry Christmas!!!!

Mumbai

2008-12-24T01:05:00.000-08:00

We decided to forego the 26-hour train trip and fly this time. Traffic in this city of 18 million people was crazy, even at 10pm on a Saturday night. The ride from the airport marked the first time I ever had to tell the taxi driver to hurry it up, as I wanted to get there literally the same day. I should have known when he struck a luggage cart leaving the curb… At least the Punjabi place around the corner from the hotel was open after midnight for great chicken pullao and naan.

The cost of lodging reflected the approaching holidays in a cosmopolitan location, but otherwise this was a fine city. It’s India’s financial heart and home of Bollywood. Every other vehicle was the ubiquitous black and yellow taxi. There is affluence and this reflected in a self-assuredness – of course a sizable number of others live in vast slums.

We walked around the fort area with its many colonial buildings and parks. One could hardly tell the horrible massacre that took place less than a month ago, as the strangely Gothic Victoria Terminus, Asia’s largest train terminal, bustled and radiated. Leopold Café in Colaba was open and packed with foreigners and curious Indians. The beautiful Taj Hotel was still cordoned off, but welcomed the first returning guests. It was Sunday and cricket was in evidence everywhere – every park, field, and patch of dirt, even in the streets, young batsmen protected their wickets from the sharp aim of the opposing bowlers. The air was thick and the sun shone brightly.

Colaba, where many travelers stay, had its share of inviting eateries. The aloo gobi was good and the tandoori chicken put a welcome end to the 5 days of vegetarian diet. The gelato nice, but the internet agonizingly slow.

Varanasi

2008-12-22T08:59:00.000-08:00

For millennia, people have gathered here – many to offer sacrifice and some on their way from this life. Ever since learning about Benares, it has been my resolve to lay eyes on this ancient city on the banks of the holy river Ganges. What we saw was life along the misty river, the spiritual and the not-so, the juxtaposition of holy men and aggressive touts, of ritual cleansing and floating garbage, and of funeral pyres and laundry lines. There was the smell of burning human flesh on logs, ash in the air, and the sight of young children flying kites and taking a swim nearby. Idle boatmen, rather than pilgrims, lined the steps of the ghats and each and every one offered a boat ride. Cows and mangy dogs everywhere, relieving themselves on the steps, and humans doing the same. We sat on the steps of Assi Ghat in the morning darkness and watched devotees cleanse themselves in the cold misty waters. The river was wider than I expected and the sun never broke through the thick fog. It wasn't what I had imagined, but it was worthwhile to see the old city once.

India - So Far, So Bad...

2008-12-19T03:11:00.000-08:00

Getting into Varanasi has taken the cake for unpleasant travel experiences so far. The good times commenced on the bus leaving Chitwan, with the usual characters: amputated limb shoved in front of your face (earlier had the pleasure of another lifting his shirt to show off colostomy bag) and the “blind entertainer” who was too loud and way off key. 4 hours later, the last stop was again short of where we needed to be. We trudged the 3 km rather than pay for a ride with the mercilessly annoying rickshaw drivers. At the border city of Sunauli, we stamped out of Nepal and crossed paths with the surly Indian immigration agent who rudely tossed back the passports after he was done. What an absolute hole this place was! There could not have been one honest person, as even a freakin’ storeowner tried to overcharge for a bag of chips -- 45 rupees (about $1) rapidly came down as I walked out. We escaped the touts and crooks fairly unscathed on the next 3 hour overcrowded bus ride to Gorakhpur.

The Indian train station was the next lovely experience. Without advance tickets, many of the tourists had to queue in front of “current reservations,” where the arrogant and very corruptible ticket guy wasn’t shy about asking “baksheesh” from each person before taking requests or handing over tickets. The train ride itself was fine and on time.

Upon arrival in Varanasi, the aggravation level ratcheted up a notch. We had to argue with the taxi dirtbag to take us where we wanted, rather than the highest commission-paying guesthouse. It turned out he didn’t even know where the place was! We knew we weren’t far, so just left the money and hopped out. He proceeded to follow us, still attempting to steer us to particular places. So we just sat by the ghats along the Ganges, and after a while he left. Naturally, that did not deter other “helpful” boatmen and touts. When we finally entered our hotel of choice, someone outside tried to follow us in to collect “his” commission! All that before 5:30AM! So far, so bad…..

"Shit"wan

2008-12-16T23:32:00.000-08:00

The Chitwan National Park, in the Southern plains, is one of the last remaining sanctuaries of the one-horned Asian rhino. The tourist bus stopped a few km short of town, on a dirt patch nowhere. We were let out into the melee of annoying taxis and hotel touts (good scam, as it was clear that no one would be lodging on that dirt patch…). In Sauraha, every place was a permutation of jungle, safari, lodge, view, etc. All the agencies tried to sell exactly the same program, even with the same boring sounding “canoe trip and jungle trek” drone. They had fixed the prices of everything. The electricity was out and it was dark most areas. There was horse and elephant dung all over the streets…

After a restless night of listening to the rodents’ scratching noises, we switched cottages and visited the Elephant Breeding Centre. The main attraction were the month-old newborn twins, but the 3 km walk took us by bright yellow mustard fields shrouded in morning fog and the rustic dwellings of the native Tharu people.

Back in town, it was elephant bath time by the river. Between 12 and 1 pm, all the elephants marched into the water for their daily scrub down. For a fee you could join in for the dunking.

A small Mahindra “Jeep” took 7 of us, plus driver and guide, through the single track dirt road deep into the Chitwan forest. The vegetation was dense and the grass tall, so I did not expect to see much. First we came upon a peacock, then several marsh mugger crocs sunning on the edge of the lake, but for the rest of an hour, not much. Then, there it was – a big solitary rhino warily grazing in a patch of grass. We spotted a few monkeys and wild pigs, then another rhino in the middle of an exposed watering hole. Impressive.

The elephant-ride safari is quite popular in Chitwan, so the last day we joined a trip. The remarkably tolerant wildlife hardly flinched when we came close – even the deer hung around a little while before rushing off. We saw a few more rhinos, including a mother and juvenile, and the forest was quite pristine. However, the ride was fairly uncomfortable and they managed to cram in way too many people on top of the elephant.

Pictures

Hello - ok bye

2008-12-16T06:39:00.000-08:00

The Nepali children in the areas away from the busy tourist centers are beautifully charming. During a long hike or sweaty bike ride, there’s nothing more refreshing than “hello!” They pop out of nowhere and flash the brightest smiles, followed by “okay bye.”

After visiting the quite worthwhile International Mountaineering Museum, we had stopped for a much needed soda. There was an adult, several older children, and one small one, maybe 5 years old. When we asked how much for one Sprite, everybody looked confused, followed by “Oh, English…” A moment of hesitation reigned until the little one spoke: “Hello! 20 rupees! Thank you!” Of everyone, she was the only one who knew some English!

We rented mountain bikes to see Begnas Tal and Rupa Tal, about 15 km outside of Pokhara. The first part was mostly dodging trucks and weaving around slower vehicles on the busy Privthi Highway. Then all cars stood at a halt for kilometers and people streamed out onto the street. We kept weaving ahead, until the rocks and tree-trunk appeared. The locals had blocked traffic in all directions and a group of people stood obviously arguing. An accident had occurred and no cars would proceed until the reparations were decided. Lucky that we weren’t on a bus… Someone we had talked to before was on a bus when the same thing happened, and his bus turned around after waiting 4 hours!

The rest of the ride was great, with amazing views of the snow-capped peaks and rural countryside. Again, the children were genuine and enthusiastic. Down from the ridge overlooking Rupa Tal, a family invited us down to see their house, but we could not leave our bikes on the dirt road above. We then turned around and raced towards the other lake in 5 minutes (it had taken nearly an hour to climb up). After lunch of Rice and Curry Chicken, it was time to go back – all 15 km at an incline. Funny how we hadn’t noticed that on the way there…

Pokhara and above

2008-12-13T07:16:00.000-08:00

Known as the “second city” in Nepal, Pokhara is simply beautiful. Surrounded by mountains and situated on placid Pehwa Tal (lake), the magnificent Annapurna peaks dominate in the distance. It’s quiet, peaceful, and is the starting point for the famous 18-21 day Annapurna Circuit trek. The lake looks inviting enough for a dip, perhaps when the weather is a little warmer. The nights are cold, but it is still a warm 78F when the sun is out. A string of guesthouses, restaurants, and shops runs along the lake, just conveniently enough. Most of the restaurants amusingly offer identical fare – Indian, Nepali, steaks, Italian, and

Mexican from one menu… We were a bit skeptical of the steak, but the big chunk of tender beef, served with vegetables, fries, and a drink for $4 was a steal. And the pasta with salad and “garlic bread” was ok for a little over $2.

Nearby Sarangkot occupies a prime spot over Pokhara below. Not only can you hike up, but also it’s a great place jump off the mountain and paraglide. So we put the fear of heights aside and signed up for the next morning. What a thrill it was to glide through the air and spiral up the mountainside afternoon thermals, only to be deposited several hundred feet higher in the 7000 ft clouds! The cold wind rushed through and you could even smell and taste the moisture. While soaring with the Griffin vultures, kites, and eagles, we rode the thermals over several mountaintops with views of Phewa Tal and the Annapurnas. Hoping to catch one last ride up, the thermal broke up, so we were headed down. The tandem instructor performed a few acrobatics on the way down to a perfect landing. The hour felt even shorter than the mountain flight a few days before. I’m already calculating whether I can afford another jump.

Flying with Buddha

2008-12-12T06:26:00.000-08:00

Trekking to Everest Base Camp was not in the cards, so the last day in Kathmandu we splurged on a mountain flight for a closer view of the Langtang Himalayan Range. On Buddha Air, nonetheless... The 7 AM flight was delayed three hours due to fog and poor visibility, but shortly after take off the amazing snow-capped peaks appeared high above the clouds. First Shasha Pangma (2690ft), then Dorje Lakpa (22854ft), then a host of others of similarly spectacular peaks, until Everest at 29028ft with Lhotse adjacent. The panorama was at cruising altitude for most planes and still the tall peak loomed above. It was absolutely thrilling to be that close in clear blue skies. As the aircraft circled back and landed in dusty Kathmandu, it felt like the shortest hour in recent memory.

Next day’s bus trip to Pokhara wound out Kathmandu Valley and dramatically down hairpin turns into the canyon carved by the Trishuli River. Only 50 km outside, these villagers clearly lived a different existence. Any arable land was terraced for growing crops, but the bus hugged the steep mountainsides and took us by incredibly scenic villages, river gorges, and mountains. The whole way, I fought off sleepiness to peer out the window.

Bus (Mis)adventure

2008-12-10T07:56:00.000-08:00

We’ve tried using local buses and public transport as much as possible this trip. There's a sense of accomplishment in getting somewhere on our own. It hasn't been bad, and sometimes led to surprising experiences. Best of all, it's cheaper than other means by at least tenfold. Unfortunately, as we found out the other day, it can also be that painful.

The trip from Kathmandu to Bhaktapur, despite the mere 15 km, dragged for one hour. It was a slog of a ride and slower than I’d ever experienced, but we made it fine. We later whimsically decided to continue to Nagarkot, uphill on the rim of Kathmandu Valley (this would have cost at least $60 by car). After quickly identifying the right bus to step in, the wait started. 45 minutes later, and packed to the gills, the vehicle finally lurched forward, only to stop again to allow more in. Yes, we rode one of those buses stuffed with sacks of onions and potato, tons of bodies crammed in, and more riding on top. An hour later, we arrived in time to get a glimpse of the imposingly stretched out Himalayan Range and the distant Mount Everest at dusk. Impressive, but the valley below was hazy and the snow line high and thin.

So we got back on the bus. This time even more bodies inside, on top, and hanging on. I counted at least 75 (for about 20 seats). The creaky metal can could not have rolled down any slower (probably best) and people were squeezing on and off every 100 meters. We returned to Bhaktapur in pitch darkness. One and a half hour for 15 km – downhill… Only to learn that buses to Kathmandu had already stopped running, despite what we had been told earlier. Following a small group of Nepalis, we then rushed another 1 ½ km to the other side of town to wait for a through bus on a random spot along the dark highway.

After a bunch of buses passed, one finally seemed headed for our destination. Completely disoriented now, the bus then made some strange pit stop in a gated compound in the middle of nowhere to load “cargo.” 20 agonizing minutes later, the motor started and we were back on track. After a bit of a drive I recognized the route, and in time, the guy indicated that this was our stop. We disembarked somewhere on the outskirts of Kathmandu, but had no idea where. A cab approached. Aah, screw it. We forked over the $5 to get us to the hotel. 30 km in 3 hours…

Around the Valley

2008-12-10T06:56:00.000-08:00

We made day trips to Patan and Bhaktapur, not far outside the main city. Both were previous sites of Newari Kingdoms in the Valley and carried fine examples of the intricate architecture in the central Durbar Squares. The Patan museum, a former palace displaying countless works of Hindu and Buddhist art, was very well executed. Each place seemed to have more temples than the other, but Patan definitely had more would be guides (but both apparently less hash than Thamel).

The freshly fried samosas and steamed buff momos were ready and cheap. We stumbled on a good place for giant masala dosas. The rice with daal wasn't bad.

I especially liked Bhaktapur for its warm and friendly people and well-retained medieval atmosphere. Artisans were carving beautiful wooden frames, boxes, and furniture. The narrow alleys permitted little motorized traffic and I heard “hello, one chocolate, one pen, one rupee” only once in the more commercial central square. It was a real town with people going about their normal affairs at the market, washing clothes, knitting, and just sitting around. Approaching the periphery, the river was little more than open sewer trickling with garbage and dark gray septic water, but on the opposite bank a shrouded body was being cremated on a funeral pyre.

Kathmandu

2008-12-08T06:43:00.000-08:00

We’ve dreamed of traveling to Nepal and here we are in Kathmandu at long last. Sure, it’s chaotic, polluted, and a bit dirty (actually, very dirty). There seems not one proper road and someone is leaning on the horn all the time, but this place has so much soul. It’s where Tibetan and Indian culture meet, and blend together with the many other tribes. The people are beautiful and smile warmly to your “Namaste.”

Almost every traveler to Nepal comes to Thamel. The neighborhood is packed with shops, guesthouses, eateries, trekking agents, and more shops. And with it come the legions of opportunists and beggars. Within a minute of having dropped off our packs at the hotel, I was offered hash on the street. Um, don’t smoke, except for all the exhaust fumes… A normally dressed woman came up and asked for money, as well as another with infant and “empty” baby bottle. After that, you can get pashmina, cheap trekking gear, pirated media, and yak wool everything until about 10 PM. Noise dies down, as the power is cut an average 7 hours daily, on a rotating schedule.

The first evening was spent at the Thamel House, an incredibly atmospheric restaurant serving Nepali and Newari food in a restored merchant building. The set meal came with wild boar, curry chicken, mutton, daal, and a host of other treats. It all went down very well with Everest Beer. The traditional Nepali dance performances in the dimly lit garden were entertaining -- especially the audience participation, us included. The hosts had been liberally pouring complimentary Raksa (rice spirit) in flat clay saucers. Eight shots was a good stopping point.

The walk from Thamel to Durbar Square wound through the old part of the city, a wonderfully medieval neighborhood with alleys densely packed full of vendors and chaos. Your eyes wandered to admire every dwelling, whether it be the intricately carved doors and windows or because it seemed ready to crumble and fall over (with the people living inside). Every hundred steps would reveal another small entrance leading to a temple, shrine, or interesting courtyard. Otherwise, much attention was occupied dodging obstacles on the ground or the irritating motorbikes…

Durbar Square was the big draw in this city. The many temples were antique, impressive, and ornate. And even amusing, as there was one with various tantric explicit sexual positions carved into the wood of the roof struts. In the Kumari House lived the Kumari Devi, the prepubescent Living Goddess chosen by the Nepalis. She’s almost 4 years old and, standing in the lower courtyard, we could hear her shrieks from above. As we stood there, she came to the window and looked down for a brief few seconds. She wore traditional black eye make-up and a red dress. It was strangely amazing to see her, and it is considered good fortune.

There were tons of temples and, apparently an equal amount of hash, as I was again offered it several times that afternoon...

PICTURES

Leaving the square, we hiked up the several km to the Swayambunath Temple and Stupa overlooking Kathmandu Valley. The impressive location and iconic stupa with a depiction of the all-seeing eye are pictured in many books.

Yes, we made it out...

2008-12-08T05:34:00.000-08:00

With hopes the airport would open soon, we returned to Bangkok. There wasn’t much else in Thailand we really wanted to see, especially the bus terminal at a disorienting 4:30 AM. Felix graciously let us stay at his flat later that morning, as we were still going nowhere. The news outlets were reporting that the Thai Tourism Agency was crediting stranded travelers a very generous 2000 Baht per person/day towards accommodation and food at participating hotels, so we checked into the 4-star Amari Boulevard, with its nice pool and gym. We stayed three nights in probably the swankiest lodging this trip, proving that every cloud did have a silver lining.

December 5^th was the revered King’s 81^st birthday. I thought there might be a grand parade, but the streets were decorated with strings of lights, people lined up outside with candles, and commemorated the event with songs.

So after been stuck in Thailand for 10 days, we finally left Bangkok this Saturday. We put off Burma.

Mae Sot

2008-12-03T19:26:00.000-08:00

Transport was a rickety minibus scarcely larger than my Jeep Cherokee, 15 people packed inside and luggage strapped on the roof. The windy road on the undulating mountainous terrain seemed almost too much for the old engine, as it would slow down to crawl on the steeper stretches. Good thing the driver kept it in low gear on the way down.

Mae Sot didn’t seem to have much of an obvious draw, but it proved to be an illuminating experience -- life in a border town and the inequities in circumstances. A fascinating mix of Thai, Chinese, Burmese, Indian, Karen, and several other minorities populated the Thai side. Tribal weaves were just as common as longyis (something like a sarong worn by Burmese men), and many of the women applied the yellowish thanakha paste on their faces.

It has the reputation lawlessness, mainly due to the illicit trade of teak and gems from Burma for consumer goods and cash out Thailand. We rode bicycles to the river separating Mae Sot from Myawadi. The decently stocked market was nearly devoid of buyers. We watched ordinary people eking out an existence, on inflated inner tubes hand paddling across the river to offer contraband cigarettes, booze, or cheap labor. The Thai army rangers with their AK’s look the other way, as long as they return by nightfall.

The gem stores in the center of town bustled only for part of the day, with gem traders inspecting stones through focal loops and moneychangers milling about. A fair number of Westerners represented the other main activity – NGOs and charity work. An hour outside of town was Mae La, a refugee camp still housing 6000 Burmese refugees. MSF and the Mae Tao Clinic, run by a Burmese doctor, provide much of the healthcare, as malaria is endemic and TB is highly prevalent in the underserved migrant population.

The town proved pleasant and people friendly. The night food stalls were crowded with way more than the usual fried crickets, caterpillar larvae, and other crunchies. We found excellent tea leaf salad with fried peas, Burmese curry, roti, and samosas.

Jupiter and Venus shone brightly, and together with the sliver of a crescent moon, one evening formed a perfect smiley face on the dark sky. So close to Burma, yet so far away...

Sukhothai

2008-11-30T18:51:00.001-08:00

This previous 13th to 15th century Thai kingdom was the next destination. The Northern bus terminal wasn't explicitly mapped out, so we had some trouble locating it. We asked two young-looking guys for directions, and they said: "ah, far..." Laden with backpacks on a hot day, it must have been a sorry sight, because minutes later, a small pinkish car pulled up, and it was the same guys offering a ride to the terminal. Thank you.

We arrived at night, seven hours later. Moving

away from the touts, we walked to the city center (which ended up being 4 km away). About a fourth of the way, I noticed a quickly moving shadow advancing on us. I turned around - Hello! - and it was this nice German lady traveling solo, just seeking company and security of others in an unknown place. So, together, we went looking for a decent guesthouse to stay. For 250 Baht (around 7 dollars) the TR Guesthouse was very nice.

In the morning, we rented a motorbike and drove the 60 km North to check out some of the further off ruins. The ride was long and freezing cold in the morning, but was well worth it. Hardly anyone there amongst the mostly unrestored temple ruins. That afternoon, we returned to see the closer central Sukhothai temples. Many of the 7 meter tall buddhas were narrowly enclosed in the temples. The setting sun made the park especially atmospheric. We met up with the German girl Stephanie for dinner at one of the street food stalls. The Pad thai was good. All the flying bugs and mosquitos were extra.

Hotel California

2008-11-30T18:08:00.000-08:00

We never made it to Burma. Who would've known that the obstacle would be Thailand? The only way in and out was Bangkok, and the international airport has been occupied and shut down by an anti-government minority for nearly a week now, with no end in sight. Like Hotel California, you can check out, but you can never leave...

Initially, we waited around for a couple days, just idling and adjusting plans. One day, we bussed it over to Kanchanaburi, sight of the infamous Bridge over the River Kwai. Set along the quiet river, it was the focal point of the "Death Railway," Japan's attempt to build a line through Southeast Asia into Burma during WWII. The museum and an Allied war cemetary were moving.

On a lark, I had decided to email Felix, one of my former colleagues with MSF in Homa Bay. I heard he was sent somewhere in Southeast Asia, but he was actually in Bangkok! As we left Kenya, neither of us thought we would see the other again, but here we were, sharing a bottle of Chilean wine and reflecting on this craziness.

Then any hopes for flying out faded by the day. Bangkok became tiresome in a hurry -- once we had made up our minds to leave, staying any longer became loathsome. But we were still bound to the tickets to Yangon, and getting a refund (we haven't actually yet) was an engaging experience.

Pit Stop

2008-11-25T05:16:00.000-08:00

To save some money, we took the overnight bus back to Bangkok. The 12-hour trip was good actually. The seats were roomy, snacks and water were passed out, and late in the evening they turned off the terribly corny Thai pop star doing his best Ricky Martin imitation in concert. What nearly did us in was the two-hours it took the city bus to cover the 12 km into central Bangkok during rush hour and through political protests.

The time here turned out to be quite a necessary pit stop. The zoom on the Canon Dslr went kaput, but luckily the service center came through in under a day (and only $30)! We managed to secure visas to Burma and also roundtrip flights, within 24 hours. And I lost a filling from one of my teeth -- potential nightmare -- but walked into a nice place and had a dental cleaning and fix within 30 minutes, all without having to give up a tooth, arm, or leg.

We dashed over to the Grand Palace and Wat Pho to see the giant golden Reclining Buddha. This was followed by a crowded water taxi ride on the Chao Phraya. Classic Bangkok.

Just walked back from one of the crowded city centers. This city is alive! Impromptu food stalls materialize out of nowhere. It's packed and people are eating and drinking, others are cooking and selling. There are ladyboys everywhere, a free MTV Asia outdoor concert, and it feels like a massive party.

Internet in Burma is dicey, so I'll post whenever possible

Phuket

2008-11-25T05:07:00.000-08:00

The weather was less than ideal, owing to successive tropical cyclones, one of which battered Vietnam prior to passing through. Luckily it was mostly overcast with the threat of rain, rather than an outright downpour. At least we could head to the beach where the sand was a golden silk and the ocean calm as a pool. Any waves making it ashore were barely high enough for bodysurfing.

We stayed away from Patong, which has a reputation for hedonism and development gone wild. Nonetheless, the smaller Kata Beach had its share of girly bars and pounding nocturnal bass. I didn’t know so many Scandinavians visited here. From all the menu appearances, I inferred that this must have been a good place to try Swedish meatballs and other Northern European specialties. And every other shop advertised several suits, shirts, and even throw in a silk kimono, all for the too good to believe price of $199… I thought the price of accommodations and food was expensive, given that it wasn’t all that crowded around. But it was supposedly “high season.”

Nearly met my match with the spicy red curry over snapper. Spicy is good, but this was fiery! I could barely taste the food anymore and my eyes were starting to water.

Working girls and trolling tourists aside, the highlight was the snorkeling trip to the Similan islands. After two hours in a car and little more than one hour on a speedboat, we made it to the beautiful chain of small islands in the Andaman Sea, just off the Western Coast. The green palms atop large granite boulders on perfect crescent beaches reminded me of the Seychelles, or at least what I imagined it from pictures (don’t think we’ll make it there due to the high cost). A ten minute walk through the bush on one of the islands resulted in at least that many mosquito bites for both of us. We saw monitor lizards and a few flying foxes, but the snorkeling was world class. It was mostly hard coral, but the fish species and sheer numbers were a joy to see. I’d never seen so many foot-and-a-half long parrotfish and wrasses feeding on the coral buffet in clear 1-meter deep water. Even to 10 meters down the visibility was amazing.

From HK to BKK

2008-11-20T04:20:00.000-08:00

After leaving China, we spent a couple days at my parents' in HK. It was mostly resting, reading up about the next destinations, and going out for meals. The Holiday lights were on along the buildings lining the waterway in Tsim Tsa Tsui, across from the densely built-up Hong Kong Island. A great stroll with a view of one of the more impressive skylines you'll see.

We arrived relatively late at the international airport outside of Bangkok, but decided to give public transport a try, mostly because of the savings. We hopped onto a bus towards the Victory Monument and arrived just in time to catch the last metro train at midnight, and from there 15 minutes walking to our hotel.

Bangkok was its usual - crowded, congested, and humid. Having been here numerous times, we gave most of the sights a miss. We did make it to the huge Chatuchak sunday market. Nothing quite prepares you, even a previous visit. It's hot and busy, and you have to drink regularly to prevent feeling like you'll collapse in the narrow alleys. Despite browsing almost the entire day, we didn't quite cover all of the stalls, probably over a thousand... Everything is sold -- clothing, shoes, luggage, household goods, souvenirs, artwork, pets, and much more. It's not quite as cheap as I recall, even from two years ago, and the bargaining seems less so. Many stalls have clued into displaying "fixed prices." At least it's not as disillusioning as China where vendors regularly will start with a figure ten times the "real price," and no bargains are to be had. The Chinese stuff was cheaper in Thailand... That said, we didn't really buy anything.

We sat down for a quick dinner at one of the stalls. Didn't quite notice it initially, but at some point we realized that the din and noise had silenced, the eating had stopped, and most people were standing up. It was 6 pm and they were observing the national anthem being played. Oops.

I had some shirts and trousers tailored, in anticipation of someday returning back to work. Otherwise the big thrill was to partake in all the great food Thailand had to offer. The pad thai, of course was very spicy and tasty. The mango with sticky rice was heavenly -- super juicy mangoes without fibers. And who could pass up coconuts and mangoes, fresh or in shakes?
There's so much that looked good that you're paralyzed with indecision. Steph once had "eater's regret," perhaps akin to buyer's remorse -- when, right after you've eaten, you happen upon something that looks even better?

Off to Phuket

Yangshuo

2008-11-14T03:00:00.000-08:00

This had to be one of the most uniquely beautiful places in China. From the moment the bus traversed the road from Guilin, the nearby scenery dazzled the eyes. In the setting sun, the karst formations and pinnacles jut out of the ground into the haze and mist, dreamy and mysterious, as if you are in some strange wonderland. Sometimes the hills seem like jagged waves, other times vaguely like the imaginative names given, like "fish out of the water, tortoise climbing the hill, and 8 immortals crossing the river." I never got "grandpa watching apple..."

Yangshuo is a backpacker's haunt, much smaller and quieter than Guilin, but immensely more charming and relaxing. Though rapidly changing, good rooms here were very cheap during our stay (130 yuan for a riverview and less than 60-80 elsewhere). Lots of good food -- Western and Chinese, including the local specialties Beer Fish, Pork with taro, and Li River shrimp. Don't know about the spicy dog listed in the menu...

The surrounding country side was so quiet, the everyday lives in the small villages seemingly undisturbed. No cars, no motorbikes, no noise. Just farmers plowing their fields using water buffaloes and ladies watering the vegetable crops with large wooden water vats balanced from a plank across their backs. Rice seemed so organic and hard won -- the seeding, transplanting, and harvesting, to the separating, drying, and milling, made you never want to waste another grain.

Rented bikes took us through narrow paths into villages, through fields, and often led nowhere. Another popular activity was the motorized bamboo rafts up the Li River to take in the scenery. From the town of Xinping, this view is what appears on the back of the Chinese 20RMB note.

Back on the main roads, it was the usual congestion and crowding. The local buses packed as many bodies onboard as possible, and then would cram in a few more along the way - no chickens or livestock though. We sat on one bus that actually left only half full, but proceeded to slow troll along the route for the next 20 minutes.

The trip back to Hong Kong went something like this: 2 hour bus ride to Guilin, 30 minute walk with packs to the next bus, 30 minute ride to airport, 1 hour flight to Shenzen, 45 minutes cab trip to the border, shuttle bus, border crossing, shuttle bus, then 30 minutes on the minibus home. Late night dinner of fried rice and wonton soup at 2 AM.

Pictures

Beijing

2008-11-09T07:49:00.000-08:00

We’ve arrived in the big city! This place is vast and fast. It’s one of the world’s great metropolises, and with the recent Olympics, has definitely caught up. So have the prices. We started near Beijing’s center and for the next several hours checked out numerous lodgings. There were tons of places available, but most of it either “too nice” and above our price range or more affordable and very grotty. Miles of walking later, we gladly took the first clean room at the New Dragon Hostel for $25…

In the morning, we walked over to see the former imperial palace, the “not so Forbidden City.” Hordes of tour groups, not unlike the marching armies of yore, cross the moats to invade the hallowed grounds. It can be hard to squeeze through its gates, but compound remains the chief attraction, courtyard after courtyard and tower after tower. Standing from the emperor’s dais, imagine what it felt like to command the Middle Kingdom. A lot of history has occurred here and many emperors have come through…

Pictures

Adjacent to its proud history lies more recent history. Imposing Soviet-era buildings of the Peoples Party, peoples’ this, peoples’ that, and whatnot surround the central Tiananmen Square. Mao’s embalmed remains are on display and a huge portrait looks benevolently down. The place is crawling with police, plain and plain clothed. Security cameras are the eyes in the sky. It’s kind of fun to play “spot the undercover policeman.” One was taking pictures of people walking round. We even got to witness security in action. A group of Chinese tourists was in the act of unfurling some kind of banner, probably harmless. Sirens on and horns tooting, a security car raced over and immediately pounced on the group. No expression of any kind allowed.

On the other hand, the food here has been great! No donkey noodles here (but I’m sure it could be found…). We found a moderately priced restaurant with great Chinese food. Had to try the Beijing/Peking duck, but the spicy eggplant and braised pork were maybe even better. The street food is tremendous and fairly cheap – grilled spicy kebabs, meat or vegetable filled breads, spicy noodles, steamed buns, and whatever else your eyes can feast on. There’s squid on a stick and fried crab, but who the heck eats live, wiggling scorpions on a stick? Why?

To avoid the exorbitant tour fees, we took public transportation to the Great Wall. Bus 980 for 40km to Miyun, which dropped us off at the edge of the city – and then what… No other option than to negotiate with the private taxi drivers, but it worked out well enough. He drove the 75km to Simatai and waited three hours until we were through. The first sight of the wall was jaw dropping. This section was unbelievably steep, high walls snaking high up the surrounding narrow mountainsides, it makes you wonder why there was even a need. The climb up looked extremely strenuous – we took a cable car up halfway and walked to 12 towers. At times the wall was so steep you could not even see portions below. The surrounding mountainous terrain and the relative solitude completed the experience.

Back in Beijing, the Temple of Heaven was heavenly, but Jiangsu Park less so. We were “templed out.” The old Summer Palace was nice, but felt a bit too artificial and well renovated. Many of the old neighborhoods and narrow hutongs now have either too much neon or have been razed to make way for something more modern.

Deserts, Caves, and more Trains...

2008-11-06T06:15:00.000-08:00

China uses only one time zone (Beijing time) for the entire country, so at 9:30 am we stepped out of the train and into to the cold daybreak. A cheap taxi ride took us into Dunhuang city, only after a short detour to pick up the guide for a tour we had no interest in. After finding a good room, we boarded a minibus to the Mogao Caves.

The caves are something to behold. Over two hundred in number, carved over centuries into a desert cliff, they contain some of the most significant and rich Buddhist paintings and clay statues dating back to the days the trade routes held sway. A few have been pillaged by turn of the century Western collectors, but what remains is impressive. While some of the paint has oxidized black, the mineral lapis lazuli remains vivid. The ceilings are painted with a thousand Buddhas and all is adorned with Apsaras and portraits of the Western Kingdom. Nowadays, the caves are cemented closed and locked up. An attendant will let you see only about ten of them and no photography is allowed, though outside you can buy precious reproductions at prices to match.

Pictures

Dunhuang had warm days with clear blue skies, turning leaves, and cold nights. I saw few visitors and not a Westerner in 3 days. Sites were uncrowded and admission rates were half off. The town center felt still and not much was happening at the night market. It was more difficult to order food, as the language barrier seemed that much higher. A bowl of noodles looked appetizing, but I was tempered by guidebook description of noodles with donkey meat being the local specialty.

The next day, we were nearly the only visitors at another set of caves. The work was interesting, but we were only shown 5 caves. In town, we ordered dumplings and got the largest plate I have ever seen. The highlight though, was the nearby Mingsha Shan desert dunes. The towering dunes were simply majestic. We rode camels around and on foot climbed up the steep sharp ridges, the sun-exposed sands hot and the others ice cool. Then we slid down the tall face on wooden toboggans. If they had not been charging, I could have done that all day. We visited the Crescent Moon Spring with the surreal pagoda in the desert and finished up with another climb up the tall mountain dune for some spectacular vistas. The shifting sand and sliding down made the going tough, but the way down was pure bliss.

No flights out of Dodge – so we’re taking the train back to Xi’an. Same route the second time is at least twice less fantastic…

Silk Road by Train

2008-11-02T04:58:00.001-08:00

Xi’an being the easternmost terminus of the ancient Silk Road, it seemed a nice adventure to at least travel part of the way West. The most affordable option was the overnight train K591, a mere 23 hours to cover the 1800km to Dunhuang. We took the “soft sleeper,” despite double the cost – it was either 2 sets of upper and lower bunks in a closed compartment versus 2 triple-stacked without doors…

The accommodations were actually nice, with good blankets and enough space. The window views made you feel small as the vast steppes, desert, and the craggy mountains rushed by. The villages, so isolated in distance and time, make you wonder why anyone would stay, as the train and world still rush by. The engineering was impressive – the thousands of km of track, much over passes, on bridges and sheer mountainsides, and through tunnels. The Chinese have built and are continuing an amazing and probably unrivaled infrastructure. Yet 23 hours was an exercise in patience. Closed doors didn’t necessarily keep out the irritating cigarette smoke nor the nasty expectorating and spitting noises. Some of the passengers operated only on one volume – loud. Luckily we had a good cabin mate. I don’t know how she did it, but she startled up from dead sleep around 4AM and hurriedly disembarked, nearly missing her stop in some dark place. The distant sunrise was amazing, the freezing night giving way to warm orange red glow.

Dynasties and Terracotta Warriors

2008-11-02T04:30:00.000-08:00

This is why people come to Xi’an. In the early 1970’s a local farmer digging for a well, unearthed remnants of the first Qin Emperor’s tomb – he found the Terracotta Army…

Though much cheaper, it’s always a bit of an adventure to get there independently. A short taxi ride took us to the busy railway station. From there, we navigated through the array of buses and misdirections from tour hawkers, until we found bus 306. We were in business, and one hour later we hurried through the gate and into pit 1 before the hordes of tour groups would arrive.

The hall, about the size of a football stadium, covered row after row of the amazing life-size and life-like warriors in ready formation pose. With nearly 6000 distinctive faces, 2200-year history stared back. Complete with horses, chariots, and a vast layout of burial pits, the scope and immensity of the project leaves one dumbfounded. Seven hundred thousand people labored forty years! This must be on par with seeing the Egyptian pyramids.

The next day we ventured 45 km the other way, again by public bus -- this time to see the tomb of Emperor Han Jinling. The site has been barely excavated, but its thousands of figurines of armies, live-stock, and objects of daily life, all in detailed miniature, are no less impressive than the more renowned Terracotta Army. The museum actually sits atop the excavated pits, and takes you into the ground, behind glass panels.

The Shaanxi museum in the city was free, but displayed priceless history of the ancient Chinese. The fantastic glazed pots, bronze tripods, weapons, and art objects amaze more when considering some of them are 5000 years old…

Otherwise, Xi’an is a pleasant city. It’s thoroughly modern with huge edifices all around, fairly convenient, and there isn’t much of the throaty spitting. In the morning, prior to opening, groups of store employees line up in front of the doors and perform calisthenics in unison. The guards also, but their kung fu moves seem half-hearted and sloppy… The taxis are easy to flag down and cost little, about US 0.15 cents per km, though the driving can be nerve-wracking.

Nights were very cold, but the food hearty. Steamed dumplings and Tsingtao beer with my father was good. We walked nearly nightly to the lively Muslim Quarter for the great snacks – freshly roasted chestnuts, black rice-meal donuts, steamed rice cakes on a stick, and a dinner of spicy roast lamb, noodles, and bread pancakes. A sad experience is the beggars walking around with a bowl and chopsticks, willing to eat the leftover food right off your plate. My Dad offered a Coke go with it. At first he declined, but he changed his mind, quickly turning around and gulping it down. Who can resist a Coke?

See the pictures

San Francisco Days

2008-11-02T04:26:00.000-08:00

The three-week interlude in the US was great to charge up the batteries. The MSF Refugee Camp exhibit in SF was both rewarding and enjoyable. Fellow volunteers were fantastic. The turn-out was decent and most people seemed interested, except for some of the easily distracted high school students who had more on their minds. I remain with admiration for schoolteachers, the saints they are.

I had forgotten how pleasant San Francisco can be in October. Most of the days were a warm 70F with crystal clear skies. There was Fleet Week, which meant an incredible aerial show of fighter jets over the city. To gaze from the Marina Green at the Golden Gate Bridge on top of flat bay waters dotted with sailboats is to understand many visitor’s infatuation with the city. Views from the steep Union street and Coit Tower are postcard perfect, even the Bay Bridge looks good. We walked about like tourists, taking in the Cliff House and Ocean Beach, gelati in North Beach, Fisherman’s Wharf, and Ghirardelli Square. Of course, it doesn’t last long, if you know San Francisco. Soon the bone-chilling moist fog and wind came rolling in and all is enveloped in thick billows of grey.

The backpacks packed up -- travel books, camera, and computer stuffed in, it was time to hit the road again. Next destination China, but first another visit to the parents in Hong Kong

MSF Refugee Camp Exhibit

2008-10-14T23:07:00.000-07:00

If you're nearby San Francisco, Los Angeles, or San Diego the next several weeks and have any interest, the MSF Refugee Camp in the Heart of the City exhibit is on the West Coast. I'll be one of the guides leading tours in SF from October 15-19.

And if you have any inclination, Tripadvisor is giving away $1 million to various charities. Until Nov 9th, you have the opportunity to vote MSF, or any other worthy charity.

A Break From the Break

2008-10-14T21:22:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the lack of any updates recently. I'd gotten a little lazy until an unnamed concerned soul inquired whether we were okay and had not become entangled in some kind of situation. We've been back in the US for several weeks, as the plan was to attend Steph's cousin Jennifer's wedding in New York and participate in MSF's "Refugee Camp in the Heart of the City" exhibit. A break from the break, if you will. So, temporarily no budget lodging, dodgy vendors, long bus rides and all the other joys accompanying overseas travel.

I've traveled my share, but the trip back from Indonesia nearly drove us off the deep end. It was Makassar, Jakarta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Vancouver, then finally San Francisco -- 36 hours that felt like 36 years. Cramped seats, jet lag, killing time at the airport, airport security --You're not missing anything.

New York in autumn is nice. The wedding was great and everyone had a wonderful time. I've never seen so much food in one place, except at a Las Vegas buffet. The Hennessy went down better for some than others... If you haven't visited Manhattan, you must. I find it electric and eclectic. SoHo, Times Square, Grand Central terminal, the Met, Broadway, the pizza.

Our appetites for long bus rides apparently not satiated, we boarded the cheap bus for the 4 hour trip from NY to Boston. It was actually quite comfortable and easy for a mere $15. We stayed with my good friend Wei Lee who drove us around to see the spectacular fall foliage in the New Hampshire White Mountains and the idyllic New England coast areas of Kennebunkport, Wells, and Ogunquit. If you know Wei Lee at all, you understand that each meal is an opportunity not to be wasted. We were forced to have great sushi, good wine, fresh lobster rolls, and heavenly fried clams.

Better yet, I got to see my dear cousins Steve, Dave, Sandra, Helouise, and Marie, whom I don't see nearly enough.

The remaining time, we've spent in San Francisco. If New York was nice, San Francisco is great this time of year. The skies are a cloudless blue and the days sunny, warm, and postcard perfect. The views from Coit tower overlooking the bay and bridges couldn't be nicer. Stroll the Marina Green and head to North Beach for gelato and coffee.

We'll be on the road again next week, starting from Hong Kong.

Pictures

Makassar

2008-09-23T18:22:00.001-07:00

We love Makassar. Actually we have barely seen one bit of it. After the weeks of traveling, we decided we would find a nice place and vegetate among comfortable, modern conveniences for a few days. Many hotels are offering a Ramadan promotion, so for 40 bucks we’ve been enjoying TV, the swimming pool, free breakfast and dinner, and all the amenities.

Turnaround in Toraja

2008-09-23T05:32:00.000-07:00

It took a long time to get there. After spending most of the day on a boat, bus, airplane, or airport, we finally landed in Makassar, Sulawesi. We waded through the ubiquitous flurry of disorienting cabbies and other assorted “friendlies,” and ended up at a forlorn bus terminal, somewhere. I had called earlier that afternoon to make a reservation on the 10pm bus, and lo and behold, it would have been full if not for that phone call. Rather than the sticky humid, mosquito riddled darkness, we chugged along the next eight hours in a full coach, air conditioning on freeze and music on full blast. It seemed quiet and dark outside.

At daybreak, we rolled into Tana Toraja, a thin veil of white mist rising over the damp rice fields and the grey of the surrounding mountains. We slept about one and a half hours at the first acceptable place – 120,000 Rupiah (take off all the zeroes for dollars). Here, guides find you quickly, and by 8:15am we were in a car to see what we had come all this way for.

After walking through the once-every-six-day market in Bolu, we visited the impressive buffalo and pig market. The immense creatures go for the equivalent of several thousand dollars, and the special ones for much more. The partially albino “pink-whites” with blue eyes, grey spots, thick necks, large horns, and long tails are highly prized. The animals are used for ritual slaughter during the elaborate funeral ceremonies and neither for domestic duties nor consumption. They’re hand-fed grasses and washed regularly.

People come to see the Torajans and their unbelievable funeral ceremonies and customs. Legacy is everything and they put the equivalent into these elaborate celebrations. When someone dies, the body is embalmed in leaves and kept in the house until the family collects enough for the burial. Relatives, as well as the entire village, convene for the three-day occasion. Temporary lodgings are constructed, rituals are held, and buffaloes are slaughtered, as many as the family can afford. The meat is then distributed among the guests, after which the body is finally placed inside a carved-out cave.

We hiked up through a splendid scene of terraced rice fields and attended one such funeral ceremony. The Torajans are friendly and hospitable, so it was no problem. The person celebrated was over 100 years old and had died 5 months prior. We had brought a gift of cigarettes – not exactly what a pulmonologist should offer, but some consider this one of the best casual gestures of enmity… It felt surreal to watch the slaughtered buffaloes being chopped up in the dirt under the hot sun. Pieces were then tossed over to the recipient, usually the only meat eaten by the average person. The women came out only to serve coffee and later rice and greens with chopped liver. After a conversation with the village chief and the church service, we headed off.

At the next place, we joined a crowd observing a coffin raised up a steep hill, to be placed inside a rock cave. We continued through a few villages with their peculiar tongkanons, houses with an exaggeratedly curved roof, evocative of either buffalo horns or the boats that their ancestors arrived in. At the day’s conclusion, our guide excitedly took us to another pre-funeral activity, cock fighting. To confirm my previous notion, it was macabre and cruel.

Rantepao, the town we had stayed in was fairly rinky-dink and the food was not good (in case you were waiting for the usual cuisine report). We had witnessed a “slice” of Toraja, so 30 hours after arrival, we caught the next bus back. Ten uncomfortable butt numbing hours – scenes of rice terraces, corn fields, mountains, and a hundred packed mosques. Dropped off at some other bus terminal at 10:30pm.

Pictures posted

Island Hopping?

2008-09-19T00:57:00.000-07:00

Gili Trewangan is one of a chain of three tiny reef islands just off West Lombok in Nusa Tenggara. The thing about these islands is that you have to get there and then get off. . During one of the stops, the bus actually took off without us (backpacks still on board), as we had walked off to get some food. When does anything here ever leave on schedule? Sheesh… Luckily the distance was short and we caught up at the harbor. A one-hour diesel-fumed bus ride was followed by an agonizingly slow four-hour boat crossing in rough swells. We arrived at night and had to wade to shore from the small tender boat.

Once there, the island was beautiful. Relatively quiet, again due to Ramadan, the place was also free of any motorized traffic. Transport was on foot, by bicycle, or cidomo, a horse-drawn cart. We walked around the entire island in about two hours. A thin strip of white sand beach and turquoise waters surrounded the land, as did a ring of coral reefs that quickly dropped off to blue water. It was wonderful to simply walk out, put on the snorkeling gear, and marvel at the abundant sea-life, minutes from the room. The amount of fish was stunning – we saw many tortoises, an octopus, and even big schools of mackerel and yellowtail, close up and without scuba gear. Once out of the water, we returned to the bungalow to shower off in salty tap water. Martas Guesthouse provided amazing accommodation, with 2-story bungalows, huge comfortable beds, and comfortable décor. There was a nice porch with a big daybed -- hard to leave if not for the ocean.

It sounded as if we stayed very close to a mosque (in truth practically every spot on the island was close). Day and night you could hear the prayer calls and wailing, most notably from about 9pm well past midnight, and then again at 4:30am. Late to bed, early to rise.

The food tended to cater mostly to the travellers and backpackers, with pastas and even Mexican food on the menu. (Questionable offering, easy to pass up…) That stated, the seafood was hard to pass up. Fresh lobster, prawns, tuna, mahi-mahi, and grouper laid displayed on ice. You just had to pick it; they would grill it up and deliver it to your table on the beach, under the stars and moonlight.

We stayed a few days to snorkel and enjoy the seafood. Once we decided to leave, it became much less easy. All the more costly boats were booked up. Because of stopovers, it would have taken 7 hours on the water to return by the same slow vessel. No wonder the fast boats were full. After all the scrambling, we embarked on a narrow wooden passenger vessel, packed to the gills with 35 people and all the luggage. Direction was westward to Lombok for an hour bus ride to the airport and a 20 minute flight back to Bali – the circuitous route. Spent most of the day here in Denpasar, awaiting the next flight to Sulawesi, the former Celebes. Hopefully we’ll be able to catch the overnight bus on arrival. Free wi-fi – isn’t it wonderful?

North to Ubud

2008-09-17T05:10:00.000-07:00

What a pleasant place! Only one hour north of Kuta Beach, Ubud immediately evokes a more laid back, sophisticated realm. It’s the artistic and cultural heart of Bali. Walking along Monkey Forest Road’s art galleries, craft stores, antique shops, and inviting restaurants, you’re not so much bothered by every idle person asking you if you need transport.

Many of the eateries, guesthouses, and lodges are in traditional Balinese style, heavy on carved wood, greenery, and ambiance. Off the main streets or just around the corner, you can walk right into a bright green terraced rice field and be transported to a simpler time with geese running about and makeshift scarecrows standing watch.

Most of the residences in the town remain according to a traditional Balinese plan. The extended family lives in the same compound and they all have a private Hindu temple built in. Tradition and religion remain strong, despite the evident tourism. Many have simply added rooms for lodging and also run very nice restaurants on site. We stayed at Ketut’s Place – nice room overlooking a swimming pool and alongside a verdant river valley. Breakfast is served on your very own private veranda.

You cannot find any food stalls here, nor any KFC or Dunkin’ Donuts. Inexplicably, donuts and fried chicken are all the rage in the major Indonesian cities. In Ubud there are so many nice-looking venues, your choice of terraces, gardens, and lounges. The food is amazing, at prices, quality, and presentation that would put the average San Francisco restaurateur to shame. Sate’s, fish, rijsttafel, all sorts of rice plates – complete with drinks and dessert for anywhere between 6-15 dollars for two. One of the more satisfying meals is from Warung Ibu Oka where, for lunch, people cram into the several large communal tables to eat the only dish served – Babi Guling, roast suckling pig over a plate of rice for $2,50.

The artwork is beautiful, but not inexpensive. The more interesting objects are the puppets, masks, and carved artwork. You can find classic Indonesian, Buddhist, Hindu, and Timorese woodwork, priced optimistically high… The central palace is graceful, as are the many temples.

We spent the days walking and eating our way through (maybe this ought to be a food blog). Of course, where there is a monkey forest road, there is a monkey forest to be visited. Lonely Planet had a few suggested hikes through scenic terrain. The landmarks were not clear (we thought), so both times the 6 mile walks took almost 4 hours, rather than 2-3, courtesy of a wrong turn here or missed turn there. The extra distance wasn’t so much fun under a hot sun and humid atmosphere. Did not know I could sweat so profusely…

The last day we rented a motorbike to venture further. We took in a few more cool terraced rice fields and then visited the requisite temples of Gunung Kawi and Tirtu Empul in Tampaksiring. It was a time of religious ceremony, so it was particularly beautiful to see the devotees dressed up to pray and leave offerings. With a few hours remaining, we raced up to see Guning Batur, one of the two towering volcanoes. We did not

hike it, but from the road you can appreciate the new cone forming inside the giant crater, rising out of the blue crater lake. Add the bonus view of Gunung Agung, the taller volcano. Guess it was worth the fee you have to shell out to the parking mafia for having to leave your bike anywhere…

That night we attended a Ramayana performance, an enactment of Hindu mythology, which concluded with a trance dance where a man performed a painful-looking bare feet ritual dance over coconut husks that had been lit afire.

Bali - Kuta Beach and Beyond

2008-09-14T00:02:00.000-07:00

As it was after 10:30 pm on our arrival and lacking any inclination to wander around, we took a room for 35 bucks. Not bad, but relatively expensive for what you can get. We eventually found equally decent lodging for half the rate, though a few nights the younger revelers were up late…

Kuta Beach is the main drag for many first arriving in Bali. It reminds me of Patong Beach in Phuket, Thailand, minus the ubiquitous go-go girls and associated activities. Not particularly beautiful, it seems to be a shopper’s paradise, has decent food, provides most of the budget accommodations, and whatever else you want. What you also get is similar priced behavior from both the tourists and locals. Noise and intoxicated Westerners spill out of the many bars, discos, and lounges. Instead of “becak, becak,” you have taxis honking at you for a fare. The tour vendors want to sell you everything and on the beach you will be pestered with mangos, massages, ice cream, towels, chairs, henna tattoos, even bow and arrows. I haven’t seen braids yet… The main draw are the famously wide and long waves breaking into amazing barrels, perfect for surfing and boogie boarding. Needless to state that it was extraordinary. Steph took it all in from the beach – seconds of glory followed by the pummeling from the waves.

Sunset at Kuta is spectacular. The transition to orange and red hues is fantastic. From the beach, you get to enjoy Mother Nature go to rest, along with maybe 5000 others.

I love Indonesian food. The ingredients are so varied and the spices are rich, layered, and fiery. Coconut, curries, chilies, banana leafs, pandan, peanut sauce, and rice. Sure, there have been times I didn’t exactly know what I just bit into, but it’s part of the experience. The food stall is just as tasty as the upscale restaurant, just depends on level of comfort. It takes me back to my childhood in Surinam and I get to have my super-spicy sambal fix twice daily, all downed with a glass or two of fresh watermelon juice. Steph orders soto soup and mango juice. One of the main activities really is to walk around and make the difficult decision of where to eat next. Will it be nasi goreng, gado gado, nasi campur, or any number of sweet rice desserts? Or just a bag of earthy and satisfying banana or cassava chips?

So despite the obvious glut of taxis driving around aimlessly and honking at every passerby, we actually once got refused a ride because it was too short and not enough money. Go figure – he’ll spend the next half hour driving around aimlessly and honking for nothing, probably in the same direction. We all have our principles...

Scooters and motorbikes rent from 3-5 dollars per day. They provide a good means to explore the rest of the Southern Bali coast. The first half hour was slightly stressful, as it takes a while to get comfortable with the haphazard traffic –the dodging, maneuvering, and overtaking of pedestrians, bikes, and cars. Once further up the coast it became more peaceful. The seaside Tanah Lot Hindu temple occupies a special location on top of an eroded rock that is connected to the land at low tide. The view of the crashing waves is fantastic. It can get horribly crowded at sunset, but at noon not many visit. There happened to be a religious ceremony and the festive procession was a privilege to witness. We stopped roadside to have nasi and babi guling, rice with Balinese roast suckling pig. It was good and was accompanied by a few other things that I wasn’t sure about.

All the way south at the Ulu Watu temple, signs advised that cameras, hats, and glasses be put away due to the aggressive macaques. We saw a Balinese woman get accosted and promptly relieved of her bag, mobile phone, and then her sunglasses. Further up the road, was the legendary Ulu Watu. Reached by a narrow road, a set of staircases lead you down to a small cluster of cliff side eating spots, lodges, and surf shops. From there, you

first look down at the beautiful coral revealed by the shallow turquoise water. Then you peer towards the sun and the glistening blue ocean that rolls into impressively large left to right 10-foot waves. It was an amazing sight to watch the surfers ride down the steep faces and carve their way across. I haven’t seen a place like this. It must be their nirvana – secluded, quiet, and perfect.

Next stop was Padang Padang, another spot with good waves and a nice swimming beach. As the afternoon was wearing on, we remained for a swim and the sunset. Had to pass on “Dreamland” and dream about it for another time.

See the pictures

Javanese Royalty and Temples

2008-09-11T06:53:00.000-07:00

In the morning we ventured to see the Yogyakarta Kraton, the palace in which the sultan still resides. Though family rule dates back 9 predecessors, these days he claims title of governor and well-appointed businessman. The compound is impressive and befits royalty, but the more interesting aspect is the village within its walls where over 25,000 people still live and work. It gives you a brief glimpse into what things may have looked like during feudal times. The area has more semblance of structure and organization -- more tranquil and mostly free of pesky touts and vendors, but by no means quiet. We were disappointed not to see a Javanese music and dance performance at the palace, but it’s Ramadan, a month of fasting and austerity.

The adjacent bird and pet market was the antithesis. Streets were narrow and crowded and jam packed with song birds, doves, roosters, “ornamental” species, their cages and feed, including worms, maggots, and crickets. Eye opening if you’ve never seen it, but you can’t but feel sorry for the birds. On the other hand, I earlier had seen a man lovingly bathe his well looked after rooster.

A 3000 Rupiah (30 cents) bus ride took us the 17 km to Prambanan. The more than thousand year-old Hindu temples were rediscovered in the 1700’s and later restored, until earthquakes several years ago wreaked additional damage. The sight of thousands of stone blocks littered like Lego pieces around the remaining temples is a little disheartening. Most of the smaller temples lay in ruins, but the main temple, Candi Shiva Mahadeva, was impressive. The intricate stonework was puzzle-like and the relief carving simply amazing. Further afoot lay Candi Sewu, also surrounded by innumerable fallen blocks from its 248 satellite temples. The site was under restoration and fenced off, but a friendly restorer beckoned us to straddle the fence and come in to have a look about. He led us around the site while offering great explanations of all the structures, and we had the place to ourselves. Of course we understood that nothing is ever free… We then walked a couple miles trying to find our way up a nearby hill to see it all by sunset from a higher perspective, but it turned out to be a wild goose chase.

The sunrises are conspiring against us and not being spectacular. The 4:30 AM wake-up for Borobudur delivered nothing but haze and clouds, but Borobudur definitely delivered. An hour west of Jogja, this 1200 year old Buddhist temple ranks with Angkor Wat in Cambodia and Bagan in Burma as the must-sees in the region. It was built at a time of Buddhist influence, which was later followed by the Hindu temples of Prambanan in now predominantly Muslim Java. It sits on top of a hill and the

multiple terraces require a 5km ritual walk to get to the top (unless you just take the stairs straight up.) The temple with morning haze enveloping the surrounding mountains, complete with nearby volcano emitting a plume of smoke, is a sight to behold. Words don't really do it justice, so the pictures are posted.