tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7806541531616162132024-03-13T10:06:51.445-07:00Mike's Global AdventureThe plan is to spend the next five years traveling the world solo on my motorcycle. My goal is to reach the top and the bottom of our major land masses as I make my around the world west to east, experiencing culture and people in a way I never thought possible. The route I take between these “end points” will be dictated by the advice I get on the road, and the weather.Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-89764066262155659082012-09-19T07:45:00.001-07:002012-09-20T06:47:14.595-07:00Ten Reasons Why Ethiopia Was My Favorite African Country<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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THE PEOPLE</div>
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Ethiopia simply has the most beautiful people. </div>
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The children are adorable, gracious and always curious. While traveling they run to the edge of the road, sometimes onto the road (not so good), to make sure you do not miss their wave and smile - both of which are hard to miss. Though they have a reputation of throwing rocks at passing vehicles, that was not my experience. Walking in the streets or through the markets you will soon have a few little friends wanting to follow and hold your hand - wanting nothing more than some companionship and to practice their English. </div>
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Whether in the capital of Addis Ababa or out in the rural villages, the women were the most attractive of the trip. They exhibit an exquisite balance of classic beauty and mild exotic features. </div>
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Approachable and always in good spirits despite being some of the poorest on the continent, I enjoyed the people of Ethiopia very much. </div>
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THE LANDSCAPE<br />
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I was blown away by the landscape of the country, something that had taken me by surprise. The deep river gorges and high mountains made the riding spectacular. I was there in March, still the dry season, but could only imagine how spectacular the place would be after things turned green after the rains. If Ethiopia had a coast, if would be a hard place to leave. </div>
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THE ROADS<br />
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What better way to see the landscape than a network of good quality roads? After replacing the shocks on the bike, I did not venture too far off the beaten path and primarily stayed on the paved roads and graded dirt roads. Always in good repair without potholes, the driving was some of the best in Africa. </div>
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The "road theater" was some of the best as well. Driving was often slow due to the constant activity on the road's shoulders. On market days, there would be a procession of people and domestic animals going to market. It never failed to be colorful and entertaining, but also nerve-racking as you had to be on high alert at all times. </div>
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ST. GEORGE LAGER<br />
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The cool refreshing taste of a St. George can really slay a guy's thirst.<br />
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THE COFFEE<br />
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To love a country with inferior coffee is an empty short lasting relationship. Ethiopia, the birthplace of coffee, owes a lot to the sacred bean and the worshipping is going well. It is a tradition to invite one into your house for the traditional coffee ceremony. I was lucky enough to have been welcomed into locals home to experience the process on a couple different occasions. </div>
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The green coffee bean is roasted over hot coals while incense burns atop the small coffee platform surrounded by fresh palm frowns. Next, the newly roasted beans are then crushed into a large wooden motar and smashed usually with a heavy steel pestle. The grounds are then placed into a ceramic vessel along with water and sat back on the hot coals. The coffee later comes to boil, removed from the heat and allowed to cool some. When the time is right the lovely coffee maiden raises the vessel high and demonstrates a long pour of thick black coffee. Served in a small ceramic cup with a generous amount of sugar and often times fresh popcorn. </div>
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The ceremony can take up to two hours but is a social cornerstone to entertaining in Ethiopia. It is a very pleasant experience and a great way to see into the lives of the locals. Though nobody ever asked for any money, I always tried and leave something behind. </div>
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THE HISTORY<br />
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Ethiopia is one of the first areas to officially adopt Christianity as it's religion, in the 4th century. The majority of the population is Orthodox Christian and 1/3 muslim. Remnants of this history is on display throughout the country, with monasteries along Lake Tana to monolithic churches of Lalibela.</div>
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Lalibela had an amazing display of churches carved out of the earth's rock - the entire thing, exterior and interior carved out of one piece of rock. (Of course, I could not get a number of how many slaves died so that others could worship, but impressive nonetheless.)</div>
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THE FUN<br />
It was never hard to find something to do. </div>
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THE FOOD<br />
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Well, not exactly a reason to love the country. I enjoy Ethiopian food and it is a fun way to eat, but the novelty wears off fast. The orthodox followers were seemingly always fasting (we were there around Easter), the local menu was often limited to "injera" the soft sourdough flatbread and a spicy chile paste. The soft soggy texture can get monotonous eating it twice a day. </div>
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When the menu is in fully force a platter of injera is placed in the middle of the table ladened with spicy bits of beef, lamb, greens and vegetables and sometimes even pasta. One pitches off some injera - always with the right - and uses it to scoop of the different offerings. It is communal way of eating, and yes, hand washing is always a part of the ritual. </div>
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CALENDAR</div>
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If Ethiopia seems to be living in the past - it is! If protocols and practices seems inefficient and dated (Retrieving my shocks from the post office was a near nightmare.), they are. In Ethiopia, it is only 2004. The Ethiopian calendar adds a leap day every four year and begins its new year in August. Once you get that down, the clocks are set six hours behind yours, so good luck trying to make plans to meet someone for coffee - you, or they, maybe hours late, or a few years(?)</div>
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TRIBAL LIFE</div>
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I have not experienced many regrets on this trip, but one thing that may classify is this - I should have spent more time in Ethiopia. I should have explored other areas. Because I had to truck the bike to capital city of Addis Ababa in the center of the county, I missed the colorful tribes of the Omo River Valley in the southwest corner of the country. Described as going back to primitive times the people of the Omo Valley live as basic as you can imagine and practice several beautification and scarification techniques. At the time, I was reluctant to travel the 500-miles back down to the area, only to travel the same road back up - for a third time. Plus, I was enjoying traveling with Sheldon, the Aussie that crossed the Marsabit road with me. My visa for Sudan gave me two months to cross the border, so I had some extra time, but not unlimited. </div>
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Later, when I was on the ferry to Turkey I ran into a Polish photographer who had just circumnavigated the continent of Africa taking portraits of the the tribal people. Here are some of his photos of the people of the Omo River Valley:</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
http://www.podniesinski.pl/ultra/<a href="http://www.podniesinski.pl/ultra/">http://www.podniesinski.pl/ultra/</a></div>
Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-31711041544419416992012-05-28T07:06:00.000-07:002012-05-28T07:06:36.611-07:00The Marsabit-Moyale Road<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There are two inescapable obstacles that you must get past
while traveling the eastern route of Africa. Of course you can make all the
obstacles you want, but there is no getting around these two spots on the map -
the northern road out of Kenya and entering Egypt from Sudan via
the Wadi Halfa ferry. </div>
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Back from western Kenya with my passport and visas sorted, I
was ready to tackle the first challenge, the Marsabit-Moyale road to the border
of Ethiopia…well almost. </div>
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During my two weeks at <a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=jungle+junction+nairobi&hl=en&client=safari&rls=en&prmd=imvnsfd&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=33HDT_byJcHStAbJy4X0Cg&ved=0CGAQsAQ&biw=1280&bih=640">Jungle Junction</a> (JJ’s) I saw many southbound
trucks and motorcycles roll in or being towed in, most is various states of disrepair. The road was taking on mythical proportions.
It is not that the road is that technical, but it is because it is a drawn out 300-mile two-day
journey consisting of large rocks, corrugations, deep wheel ruts, through
an incredibly hot and barren landscape. One BMW bike was trucked into JJ’s with
its transfer case cracked, leaving the bike almost broken in two. Others in the
yard were busy replacing shocks and/or wheel bearings among other things. Another biker reported
how he had several flat tires during his trip. I knew my tired weeping Ohlin shocks were not going
to fair very well. If they did make to Moyale, there would not be anything left
of them and I would need replacements to get through the rest of Africa. Once I
left Nairobi, there would not be any more support available. </div>
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My money was running low and I could not afford to have a
new pair of shocks shipped to me. I talked to Chris, the owner and head mechanic
at JJ’s about a solution. Not many options were available to me outside of
shipping the shocks back to South Africa for another rebuild. Plan B: I
contacted Ohlins USA. In the past, every time I have had an issue with the
bike’s suspension, I have always conferred with the guys in the States, so they
were fully aware of my history and problems with the shocks. I asked if they
could “partially sponsor” me by sending me a used or rebuilt pair to me in
Ethiopia. I got a curt reply, “we don’t do sponsorships”, with no other
solutions or ideas offered. I then contacted Kimmo at Touratech USA in Seattle
and discussed the problem with him. He immediately wanted to help but did not
have the shocks in stock to send me. He offered me a discount from the German
supplier, but with shipping it would still be a hell of a lot of money. Kimmo
then came back with another option. He had made some calls and found someone
who would sell him a pair of stock BMW shocks, slightly used, and he could send
them to me in Addis Ababa - all at his cost! Kimmo and <a href="http://www.touratech-usa.com/">Touratech USA</a> have done
me a lot of favors during this trip and they have always been supporters of Write
Around the World, but this time they really “did me a solid”. </div>
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Knowing that I would have some shocks waiting for me on the
another side of Moyale was not only a relief to my wallet, but it also enabled me to
keep traveling. I would never have done the road to Lodwar if I had to "pamper" my existing shocks. It gave me confidence to keep moving.</div>
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(I should mention, that there is
another route you can take to Ethiopia which is actually much more scenic and
passes through some very interesting tribal lands. The route up the eastern
side of Lake Turkana is even more remote and covers a lot of sandy terrain. It is
a more viable option for the Land Cruisers and Land Rovers, but less so for
bikes. There is one stretch of over 800-kilometers without a petrol stop and my
range is closer to 400-kilometers. Having a truck to travel with who can carry
your luggage, extra fuel and water is the only real way to enjoy this route on
a bike, but with my bike already “limping” it would not be a very good place to
get stuck.)</div>
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Finally, an international group of four set off to take on
the road, an Aussie, a Frenchman, a Japanese guy and myself. (<a href="https://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203695261510725050303.0004c1180de200af3bfbc&msa=0&ll=0.922812,40.539551&spn=5.929201,9.876709&iwloc=0004c118115c7e2831a57">Here is map of the route</a>.)</div>
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The paved road from Nairobi to our first night’s destination, Archer’s Post was beautiful and took us by the equator and Mount Kenya. The sky was clear and the temperature very comfortable.</div>
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Over a meal of beef stew and rice with a Fanta after the tents were set up, we all agreed on taking on the road to Marsabit slowly with breaks for our shocks to cool down every 40-minutes. We had heard that the first day was more difficult than the second so we were glad to be getting that out of the way first, while still relatively fresh.</div>
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That night, it was hard to find a spot in the night sky not occupied with stars. Julien impressed us all with his Star Map app on his iPhone and could name the planets and constellations by simply holding his phone up to the sky. (I have been carrying a paper star chart since Bolivia and still don’t know how to use it.) <span> </span>The next morning we climbed out of our tents at dawn and packed up the bikes. </div>
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The first 100-kilometers were surprisingly some of the best riding I have had in Africa. This portion had been recently paved and was a twisty road pass large rock outcroppings, green scrub brush and lots of Acacia trees. Still early in the morning, we passed many families of ostriches - momma bird accompanied by much larger papa bird with his intensely black plumage and brilliant white tail feathers, both were followed by 4-6 wiry little chicks. Many were feeding near the shoulder of the road and often ran out in front of us, so we slowed for the “traffic”. At one point, with Julien riding just ahead of me, a papa bird got confused about whether to go left or to go right, and ended up running straight down the left lane of the road right next to Julien. They stayed together for about 200-yards at a steady pace of 45-mph! It was amazing and we all sort of held our breath and kept our speed steady waiting to see how far he would go. When he finally cut off to the left we all yelled and pumped our arms into the air. What a great start to the day!</div>
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Alas, the pavement finally ended. The road was not difficult to manage but very bumpy with a washboard-like surface. Right from the start
it was difficult to keep the speeds down. We could have easily gone faster, but
the stress on the bikes would have been too much. Regardless, everyone was in good spirits. It was
getting warm, but was still comfortable. We later stopped later for an impromptu lunch
of white bread, margarine, peach jam and a can of bake beans – all washed down
with warm water. </div>
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During one of our “cool down” stops a group of Samburu women approached from the other side of the road. After we snapped a few photos, they quickly came towards us and demanded money. They were not very pleasant, and in this instance none of us decided to comply. One old lady grabbed at Sheldon’s arm and I heard later that another had thrown a rather large rock at me while I was driving off.</div>
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Later in the day, as I was trailing the rest of the group, I
stopped as a mother and child were walking on the opposite side of the road. I
stopped well before them and let them walk up to me. I don’t know where they
had come from or where they were going, but it was now over 100-degrees out and not a village in sight. I
offered them a half bottle of water and asked if I could take a photo. They
complied and were happy to see their image on the camera screen. They then noticed my
sandals made of old car tires under the wire mesh. The woman signaled that she
would like to have them, and then the boy pointed to his mom’s same type sandals,
but with broken straps. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Sandals
made of old tires are popular amongst poor country folk in many countries. I
first saw them in Bolivia. It is an inventive way to recycle an exhausted
material, give work to some local craftsmen, and provide a much needed, and usually an indestructible footwear option for the locals. I bought my pair in Lodwar for
$2.50 because I was tired of blowing out cheap flip-flops.) Not willing
to part with my “5,000-mile sandals”, I joked that the size was not right. We
laughed and I left. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To comment on
how hard life must be out here would be a massive understatement.</div>
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Eventually, we made it to Marsabit and went straight to the gas
station to fill up for the morning. It had been a long eight-hour day. We got rooms at the unexciting Jay Jay’s, and
went to bed early. In the morning, we packed each bike with four liters of
water and some chipati for a snack later. Today would be a longer ride but
easier. The mild metallic “chirp” coming from my rear shock was now a loud grinding “squawk”. The sun had just come up and the air still a bit cool, or at least
comfortable. The day progressed as we passed large lorries and the occasional overlander in a truck, but mostly, we were on our own. Hours into the ride, we commented
to each other how today was much more difficult than they day before – contrary to
what we had been told. The wheel ruts were deeper, the rocks larger and there were more pockets of the talcum powder-like “bull dust”. The riding
required constant attention. During breaks I would splash water on my rear
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Everybody was getting tired. The heat and the tediousness of
going so slow (an average speed of about 20-mph was wearing on everyone. Standing up on the bike was
better for control, but was more tiring. We were getting close, but so
incredibly slow! Suddenly, on a stretch of boring gravel road my bike came to a sudden
stop – dead in it’s tracks and I was sitting much lower on the bike.
“NOOOOOOOOO!” The rear fender was now resting on top of the rear tire. The rear
shock had finally snapped 40-miles from Moyale. The
bike was now a 650-pound immoveable object baking in the sun. Shin and Sheldon
went ahead to try and find a truck at the next village while Julien stayed with
me. We tried to spread a tarp over the thorn bushes to create some shade but
that turned out to be a fruitless and comical venture. Eventually we just sat
on the edge of the road holding the tarp over our heads. It was now about 110-degrees.</div>
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A couple trucks passed going in the other direction and then a
few smaller fully loaded trucks going north. After only about 40-minutes of
waiting, a larger lorry came by and I waved him down. He had room and after
brief negotiations, we settled on $100 to take me to Moyale. They used the
removable tailgate as a ramp and with four guys we were able to load the bike
into the back of the truck. Sheldon and Shin returned with a small military
truck and a couple of disappointed soldiers who just realized they had missed
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My plan was to sit in the back of the truck with the bike
and the boxes of cheap Chinese teakettles, but I was advised by the crew that that
would not be too smart, “the dust will be very bad”. Seated in the cab, I was glad
to be off the road, but as soon as the driver launched the truck into motion, I
knew it was not going to be a relaxing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ride. I could hold myself down into the seat by
bracing with my arms, but my legs continued to bounce up and down off the floor
of the cab. The truck clearly did not belong to the driver because he was
beating the shit of it. I also knew that my bike was in trouble as it was impossible to
tie it down very securely. Nothing I could do about it now. Two hours later we
made it to Moyale. The bike had shifted and one of the panniers had slid
underneath it causing some damage. I also made the mistake of leaving my helmet
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The rest of the guys rolled in soon after I arrived. It had been a fatiguing 10-hour day and they were mentally and physically exhausted. We checked into the only hotel in town, which was
Muslim owned. There were no beers on site, but we each quickly downed about four sodas
each. The next day I walked across the border and arranged a truck to take me
all the way to Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia and where my replacement
shocks would hopefully be waiting. The 375-mile trip truck-hire would cost me $500, cleaning out the remaining US money that I had stashed under the bike's seat. </div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dk7pdvjZXSc">Here is a video of the ride.</a></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-6666098609411528822012-05-13T11:17:00.000-07:002012-05-13T12:57:05.682-07:00Becoming the Path<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There is an old Buddhist saying, “you cannot travel the path before you have become the path”. I am not entirely sure what that means, but sitting here on an Egyptian beach reflecting on the past few months, I think I became the path somewhere in Kenya.</div>
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Up until that time I had been enjoying Africa, but I really
was not getting the life-changing experience that so many people have commented
on when talking about their time here. Perhaps, my acceptance of Africa, or her
acceptance of me was simply because I had spent so much time here, or perhaps it
was due to a series of events…</div>
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Once in Nairobi in early February, I pitched my tent in the oversized yard of
Jungle Junction, a Mecca for overlanders. There, I met many other travelers either
heading north or going south all on their own Cape Town to Cairo journey. It
was a good place to exchange information on routes, places to stay and on
different visa requirements. At the time, the main topic was how to get through or around Syria as the borders were starting to close down due to the escalating conflict
there. With Syria closed it would be impossible to continuously drive from
Africa into Europe. Jungle Junction was also where I would finally get the seals replaced in the
bike’s final drive. </div>
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Kenya is where you need to deal with visas before continuing north. It is as
if there is big “Do Not Pass Go” sign over the northern border of the country - Ethiopia required
that all tourist visas had to now originate from your home country. Therefore,
I had to send my passport back to the States using a passport service, which
took two-weeks and over $300 in DHL charges and embassy fees. Next was Sudan, and
after several trips to the Sudanese embassy, I was denied a visa. While citizens
from all other countries who filled out the application, paid their $50 and could
produce a letter of introduction from their home country’s embassy (a letter
guaranteeing that they were in fact a citizen of where their passport was
issued) got their visa on the same day. But because the American embassy refuses
to write such letter, I was denied. After more research I learned from another
American traveler, that I could go through a travel agent inside Sudan and
they would arrange the visa for a service fee of $80. I organized this over the
internet with Ahmed at <a href="mailto:raidantravel@gmail.com">Raidan Travel</a>. Eventually, I got word that my visa would
be waiting for me at the embassy in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia. The
cost for the visa for Americans was $200, not the standard $50. This discrepancy is widely regarded as
the “George Clooney Tax”, as whenever he pulls one of his publicity stunts, the
Sudan government turns the screw on American tourists. I tend to think that it
has more to do with the American led international sanctions, but maybe it
is George’s fault? With a lighter wallet, I was finally able to proceed north. </div>
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During the time my passport was in transit, I had two-weeks
to spend within the borders of Kenya. Earlier in my trip I was given the
contact details of a couple from western Kenya and had been exchanging emails
with them since Zambia. This was a good opportunity to go and visit. I spent a
total of almost two-weeks with them and the trip has not only turned out
to be integral part of my experience in Africa, but my life as a whole. </div>
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Alex is a bishop in the area and runs several churches. I am
not much of a religious person, but during my time in the area I witnessed all
the work his church was doing in this incredibly poor area. Most of my time was
spent with their small school on the grounds of their main church. The
preschoolers to second graders do not receive many white visitors, so it took
awhile for them to warm up to me. Soon enough, I was chasing them about the
yard outside and helping with some English lessons inside. There was no budget
for the school, but Alex and Florence were doing the best they could. I helped a
little by buying materials for two more blackboards and some spoons, cups and
bowls when I saw that there was not enough to go around at lunchtime. I had
fallen in love with each and every child there and wanted to do more to help.
(During my time visiting the area three local children had died of
malnutrition, so I realized how important it was for these children to have a
place to go everyday – to be looked after.) I soon was talking to the other board
members of Write Around the World to see if we could possibly help this school.
I am proud to say we are now trying. </div>
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Here is a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=db5OMKd7_cs">video introduction</a> to the school and the children.
Tragically, I just learned last week that two of the children in the video
recently died of malaria.</div>
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I split my time up in western Kenya by taking a 10-hour ride
up to the Lake Turkana region to visit the Turkana people that I had heard so much
about. The road had once been paved, but that must have been when dinosaurs
roamed. Seven of the ten hours were on corrugated roads that rattled me and
made the already leaking rear shock sizzling hot. The road commanded constant
attention, as I was always looking for a four-inch smooth path to ride on – and
never finding it. The road had a steep crest to it and I was forever crossing
over the top of it to find better road. On one pass, the rear wheel slid out from
under me. Before I knew it, I was "here" and the bike was a few feet
over “there”. The right pannier
was stripped from the bike and mangled up pretty badly. I would not be able to
remount it to the bike until it was fixed - ARGH! </div>
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It was close to 120-degrees with no shade in sight. I was
four hours away from Lodwar, the next town and my destination. Twenty minutes
later a truck stopped. Luckily the truck needed to change a shredded tire. Out
of the cab came three men and an armed askari carrying an AK-47. The men helped
me get the bike to the side of the road. They too were going to Lodwar on their
way to Sudan. They offered to haul the wounded pannier into town for me and drop it off
at the local gas station. Meanwhile, a herd of camels passed through and the
two herdsmen stopped to talk with the men from the truck. The younger herdsman
also carried a Kalashnikov and compared ammo clips with the guard of the truck
– I was beginning to feel a bit inadequate with just my Leatherman. </div>
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The truck’s tire was repaired and ready to go. I started to
second guess my decision as I said goodbye to computer, hard drives containing
almost every photo of the trip, all my important papers including my carnet,
and my toothbrush as truck moved on down the road. “Oh God, what have I done?”</div>
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Lodwar was a dirt clod of a town and hot beyond belief. My
hotel room had roaches, mosquitoes and a wobbly ceiling fan that squeaked. The
slats of my bed collapsed more than once sending me to the floor during a deep
sleep, but I sort of warmed-up to the place. The town had an aura of the Wild
West and the absolute shit road required to get there kept it isolated from the
tour buses (to the detriment of local businesses). I found a young Turkana man
who could speak English and we toured some of the nearby villages together always taking
peanut butter and bread to pass around sandwiches to the kids and parents. I
loved it! This is the kind of traveling that I enjoy the most, so much more
memorable than spending time in a popular tourist destination like Zanzibar,
for example. In Lodwar, one may think it was rather miserable, but I enjoyed it
while I was there, and even more so when reflecting upon it. I got to know
many of the locals – being the only gringo in town, I sort of stood out, and
stayed a couple of days longer than I expected to, but the children from Alex’s
school never left my mind and I eventually made the return trip south to spend
more time with them. </div>
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(Oh yeah, the pannier eventually made it to town a little
after midnight, four hours after I did. I have yet to be disappointed by the
generosity and honesty of strangers here (or anywhere else on the trip), but I
must admit to a few tense hours waiting to see if the truck was going to show up. Later,
for $3 the aluminum box was pounded back into a rectangle and the bike was
ready to go again.) </div>
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A week later I was back in Nairobi, now with passport in
hand. I was ready to tackle the dreaded Marsabit to Moyale road, the greatest
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But before that, a small group of us from Jungle Junction
decided to take a tour of Kibera, Nairobi’s largest slum, and Africa’s second
largest. Almost smack-dab in the middle of the capital city is collection of
tin roofed shacks for as far as the eye can see. The story on the streets is
that 1-2 million people live there, but according to the 2009 census, only
170,000 officially live there – nobody really knows.</div>
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The tour, like all of Africa, was all about the children. From out of dark shadows dirty little children would rush out
practicing the only English they know, “OW-AR-YEW!” repeated over and over again, while maintaining a constant
giggle. For the older kids, you could answer, “I am fine, how are you?” “What
is your name? My name is Mike.”</div>
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Many of the children run up to you and steal a quick touch
of a hand or arm, where others grab onto a hand and refuse to let go. A few asked
for food or money, but the vast majority of them just enjoyed that you were
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Walking through the absolute filth you can’t help but wonder why
these kids are seemingly so happy. It is though they take every possible opportunity
they can to laugh. Perhaps they have realized early on that life is not going to give them much of a reason to smile, so it is up to them to
create their own happiness(?)</div>
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To be continued….</div>
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<br /></div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-65294179332028478762012-03-28T01:20:00.012-07:002012-03-29T03:16:15.971-07:00Zanzibar<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ra0aXbpC0fg/T3QsEAy8rfI/AAAAAAAABi8/qoZVYxYaRQk/s1600/IMG_9502.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ra0aXbpC0fg/T3QsEAy8rfI/AAAAAAAABi8/qoZVYxYaRQk/s320/IMG_9502.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725249473739533810" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--0Y4LjyH0zA/T3Qrx_bWagI/AAAAAAAABiw/8E_RCNjnIOQ/s1600/IMG_9411.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--0Y4LjyH0zA/T3Qrx_bWagI/AAAAAAAABiw/8E_RCNjnIOQ/s320/IMG_9411.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725249164134476290" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qk5XF4_nTNg/T3Qq6zhQIOI/AAAAAAAABik/N1VRZVOA5UQ/s1600/IMG_9436.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; 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mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Once back at the guest house in Zambia, I packed up and headed towards the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Tanzanian border for the third time in heavy rain. Americans are forced to buy a multiple entry visa for $100 where most others have the option of buying the $50 single entry visa - at least I was getting my money’s worth. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">By not taking my bike on the Liemba I missed out on traveling up around Lake Victoria and seeing Burundi, Rwanda and Uganda. Now, my route would take me directly to the island of Zanzibar. I was okay with the compromise.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">With night stops in Mbeya and Morogoro I arrived at the ferry terminal in Dar es Salaam an hour before the next passenger ferry was to depart. It was incredibly hot and I was soak in sweat since stopping only minutes before. I did not really want to stay the night in Dar, so I made the decision, which I would later regret, of taking the bike to the island with me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Zanzibar is famous for its white sandy beaches, it’s remarkable history and being the birthplace of Freddy Mercury of Queen. I was interested in it’s history.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back in the day, everyone starting off across eastern African to capture slaves or ivory procured supplies and outfitted their expedition in Zanzibar. Colorful cloth and beads where purchased from Indian businessman in order to trade with the native chiefs in exchange for fresh food and permission to cross their land. Askaris (armed guards) and porters were also arranged in Zanzibar. When Stanley was sent to Africa to search for Dr. Liverstone, his expedition was outfitted in Stone Town, Zanzibar and then loaded onto Dhows and sailed to Bagamoyo, the capital before German colonization.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Stone Town was the focus of my visit to the island. The narrow streets walled by three or four storied apartments above small storefronts created a cavernous effect. Cars were restricted from the core of the historic center, primarily because they would not fit I imagine, but the occasional scooter or bicycle would give a ring on its bell before passing. Streets seldom had names or right angles so it was impossible to get from “A to B” in any kind of direct fashion. I routinely got lost and cared little. Stone Town was small and one can transverse it at its widest point in about 20-minutes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The first thing you notice about the town is how Arabic it is, you really feel like you are in a distant land, even unique from the rest of Tanzania. At the height of the slave trading period, Oman relocated its capital to Stone Town and it is where the Sultan lived and held the seat of the country’s power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Before oil, slaves were the big commodity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Villagers from inland Africa were collected on slave expeditions and brought back to the slave markets on Zanzibar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Many of the Arabic people fled during the independence uprising of Tanzania in the late 1960’s, when Zanzibar became part of the new country.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Islamic practices dominate the island as reflected in the dress of the local men and women. Foreign visitors are asked to respect this and not wear beachwear or short shorts out in public. Children walk to school in their Muslim school uniforms and the call to prayer is piped over scratchy PA systems throughout the city which all lends to the air of being in an exotic land – at least for this westerner.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The only downside is that the island is a major tourist destination and there are always a lot of “touts” following you around wanting to "help you" with something for a small fee. It got old.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Luckily, Geert was also in Zanzibar for a couple days while I was there and we shared a few more meals together, usually Indian in nature. After a week, I felt it was time to go.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The bike was loaded on drive-on ferry ($80) that beached itself on the on the sand next to a busy bar. It was comical theater to watch the loading and unloading process. Cars routinely got stuck no matter how fast they took “a run” at the sand. Of course, nobody thought to dig out a path or bring a proper towrope to the daily event. After the bike was loaded, I had to take a separate passenger ferry that took all night and arrived at the docks in Dar at 6:00 AM, the same time the car ferry arrived. It then took six hours, and about $30, to get my bike out of the port. I don’t like being separated from the bike, but I only used to one day to visit the beaches on the island so the aggravation and expense was definitely not worth it.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I spent two nights in the YMCA in Dar es Salaam before heading to Kenya.</p>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-6805475654057618012012-03-26T01:54:00.011-07:002012-03-29T03:40:03.426-07:00Kigoma, Tanzania<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3IqX6w0GijA/T3LITx0Hy0I/AAAAAAAABhQ/vMcCrETDaZE/s1600/DSCN0780.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3IqX6w0GijA/T3LITx0Hy0I/AAAAAAAABhQ/vMcCrETDaZE/s320/DSCN0780.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724858318456343362" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VP107Q51JpM/T3LISxhzm2I/AAAAAAAABhE/1PYZnPhMR7g/s1600/IMG_9314.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VP107Q51JpM/T3LISxhzm2I/AAAAAAAABhE/1PYZnPhMR7g/s320/IMG_9314.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724858301199653730" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>38</o:Words> <o:characters>222</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>1</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>272</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I had a week to wait in Kigoma before re-boarding the Liemba for the return voyage. The town was sleepy with remnants of past glory. The town was peppered with good, but tired, examples of German colonial architecture with the old train station being the crown jewel. </p> <!--EndFragment--><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QNpRIGFvO4I/T3LHuo47kzI/AAAAAAAABgo/vaTKAGyTg-8/s1600/DSCN0808.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QNpRIGFvO4I/T3LHuo47kzI/AAAAAAAABgo/vaTKAGyTg-8/s320/DSCN0808.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724857680405435186" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V8fPYXVV6ZE/T3LHtjFlXNI/AAAAAAAABgc/UQ9u7JgLPKM/s1600/DSCN0791.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V8fPYXVV6ZE/T3LHtjFlXNI/AAAAAAAABgc/UQ9u7JgLPKM/s320/DSCN0791.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724857661668023506" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QThgmBCOLKk/T3LHtEJhgwI/AAAAAAAABgQ/mmBXh_qBKU4/s1600/DSCN0807.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QThgmBCOLKk/T3LHtEJhgwI/AAAAAAAABgQ/mmBXh_qBKU4/s320/DSCN0807.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724857653363049218" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>172</o:Words> <o:characters>981</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>8</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1204</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Like most of Tanzania, English was seldom spoken and it was necessary to pick up some words in Swahili. Unfortunately, the diet changed little from the boat, with the exception of pineapples being readily available and “chips myai” or a french fry omelet. Walking around one day I came across a restaurant that advertised Indian and Chinese food. I was ecstatic.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Menu please.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No menu.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, what kind of Indian and Chinese food do you have?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Rice chicken, rice beef only” (Ugali, the mashed maize meal was always the alternative to rice. Ugali is the same as the previously mentioned, Nsima.) </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Deflated, I was able to negotiate for rice and beans. So much for truth in advertising.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Later, Geert and I discovered the “fancy” Lake Tanganyika Hotel and enjoyed their more varied menu, though at much higher prices.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Geert remained in Kigoma while researching a story on a nearby refugee camp. We stayed at the same guesthouse in our respective $7 a night rooms, and were soon joined by Dom. Dom was a young Peace Corp volunteer who had just finished his two-year stint and was now making his way to South Africa on his Chinese made 150-cc motorcycle. We became somewhat of a trio. </p> <!--EndFragment--><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q58lFEixUtg/T3LHsVMkmiI/AAAAAAAABgE/117XSmFJpCg/s1600/DSCN0816.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q58lFEixUtg/T3LHsVMkmiI/AAAAAAAABgE/117XSmFJpCg/s320/DSCN0816.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724857640759368226" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>205</o:Words> <o:characters>1169</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>9</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1435</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">The days could be long and activities few, however there were some things to do in the area:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One day, Dom and I split the cost of a water taxi with a couple of Dutch guys and went to Chombe River National Park. This is where Jane Goodall did all her research on Chimpanzees. The park is only accessible by water. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">You are not guaranteed to see the chimps but we lucked out and found a group after an hour-long hike up the side of a mountain. It was hot and incredibly humid. The path soon disappeared and we were walking through thick vine draped jungle – real Tarzan type stuff. This was not all left to chance. Our guide was in radio contact with a spotter that stayed with the chimps. Research continues at the park and extensive notes are kept on all the resident chimps.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We heard “hooting” and the rustling of branches as we approached a group of man’s closest genetic relatives. The chimps could care less that we were there, being quite used to humans <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We stayed for about 30-minutes before looking for another group. It was a unique experience to say the least.</p> <!--EndFragment--><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QPHwnOf5gZs/T3LGTBvd35I/AAAAAAAABf4/qcYJpZk8rXE/s1600/IMG_9272.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QPHwnOf5gZs/T3LGTBvd35I/AAAAAAAABf4/qcYJpZk8rXE/s320/IMG_9272.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724856106528661394" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VWOEqXuN8uE/T3LGSUrcFeI/AAAAAAAABfs/SLnGmqBOeHw/s1600/IMG_9289.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VWOEqXuN8uE/T3LGSUrcFeI/AAAAAAAABfs/SLnGmqBOeHw/s320/IMG_9289.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724856094432171490" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CkgpKNwG31s/T3LGRlhVFsI/AAAAAAAABfg/mZ37_p2HNOs/s1600/IMG_9225.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CkgpKNwG31s/T3LGRlhVFsI/AAAAAAAABfg/mZ37_p2HNOs/s320/IMG_9225.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724856081773303490" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OOIq4KRrMpE/T3LC1_PQeHI/AAAAAAAABfQ/xkLOO_DgKnI/s1600/IMG_9296.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OOIq4KRrMpE/T3LC1_PQeHI/AAAAAAAABfQ/xkLOO_DgKnI/s320/IMG_9296.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724852309105604722" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>202</o:Words> <o:characters>1156</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>9</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1419</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Another day trip was taking a 30-cent shared taxi ride to nearby Ujiji to visit the spot where Henry Stanley caught up with Dr. David Livingstone and uttered the now famous words, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume.” Not much to see, but I had just finished reading Stanley’s diary of his quest to find the AWOL explorer. His journey started in Zanzibar.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Lastly, born out of boredom I decided to launch Tommy Tanzania, my own line of African cruise wear. I spent a day patiently looking for the perfect kanga fabric from Nigeria. I then approached, David, one of the many “tailors” manning a sewing machine alongside the road. I had two shirts made, each one consisting of $6 of fabric and $6 in David’s handy work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Within 24-hours I had a two great fitting Hawaiian-style shirts. I gave David a little something extra for a job well done. I failed to take any photos of the shirts before sending them home (I have no room to carry them), but I promise you this – you will see me coming when I am wearing one. Until further notice, Tommy Tanzania has been put on hold.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back on the Liemba, Dom and I shared my old cabin #1 and we watched as the chaos unfolded yet again. Another baby was born on the upper deck and the rice and beef/chicken was dished out for lunch and dinner. I got a better sense of the camaraderie between the regular passengers and crew and learned to embrace the madness just a little bit more. </p> <!--EndFragment--><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4Vaey9LfxM0/T3LC1FMAiYI/AAAAAAAABfE/lzab-7-BZHw/s1600/DSCN0809.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4Vaey9LfxM0/T3LC1FMAiYI/AAAAAAAABfE/lzab-7-BZHw/s320/DSCN0809.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724852293522721154" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ps3mrzY31BA/T3LC0cI_zDI/AAAAAAAABe4/2knL1mpyOR0/s1600/DSCN0811.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ps3mrzY31BA/T3LC0cI_zDI/AAAAAAAABe4/2knL1mpyOR0/s320/DSCN0811.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724852282504236082" /></a>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-86024734582992109952012-01-16T09:05:00.017-08:002012-03-29T03:31:06.798-07:00Liemba<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--wmY63a7YDI/T22hAQYAknI/AAAAAAAABcU/Qv3BAKlyXfE/s1600/DSCN0730.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--wmY63a7YDI/T22hAQYAknI/AAAAAAAABcU/Qv3BAKlyXfE/s320/DSCN0730.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723407727225508466" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>309</o:Words> <o:characters>1764</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>14</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2166</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">The ferry eventually arrived and I secured a $100 first class passage heading north to Kigoma, on the northern Tanzanian shore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">During my 10-day wait I looked for a place to pass time. After a couple of failed attempts I found myself riding south in heavy rain to Kasama, Zambia and the Thorn Tree Guest House. I had read a favorable review somewhere and was hoping it was true. I rolled in on Christmas Eve soaking wet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hazel and Ewart moved from England to Zambia in the late ‘60s to teach in the public schools and to start a family. What they have accomplished since is quite impressive. They instantly treated me like part of the family and the following day I was welcomed into their home for Christmas dinner and festivities. Four generations came together for the day including plenty of grandkids, making it feel really like Christmas. The following week, I was included in on several other family activities including a trip to their coffee farm. I had lucked out once again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Not as lucky, a day before I was to leave for the ferry I noticed the rear end of the bike was leaking oil. Apparently, some dirt had gotten into the final drive and compromised one of the seals. I scrambled a bit on the internet and finally decided to leave the bike at the guesthouse and order the appropriate parts from the US to be sent while I was on the ferry. I would now be taking a roundtrip voyage on the boat.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The 232-foot, 1,500-ton steel ship was originally named the Graf von Goetzen and had arrived in pieces at the German port town of Kigoma in 1914 – Tanzania being a German colony at the time. It was reassembled and launched in 1915, in time for the First World War. Though a 4-inch gun was mounted it never saw action and was scuttled (sunk) by its crew in 1916. After the Germans were chased out of the area the Belgians raised the ship only to sink it again. In 1924, the new tenants of Tanzania, the British, raised the boat and it has been floating ever since. In the 1970s the steam boilers were replaced with diesel engines and in the 90’s the ship was updated and remodeled. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It has worked as a ferry for locals since.</p> <!--EndFragment--><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9sXkd-ftbB0/T22g_7noShI/AAAAAAAABcI/w51QN6B8YU8/s1600/IMG_9084.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9sXkd-ftbB0/T22g_7noShI/AAAAAAAABcI/w51QN6B8YU8/s320/IMG_9084.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723407721653881362" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v6gzpiijWRo/T22g_ceW0zI/AAAAAAAABcA/xI4RKXzBgBw/s1600/IMG_9129.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v6gzpiijWRo/T22g_ceW0zI/AAAAAAAABcA/xI4RKXzBgBw/s320/IMG_9129.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723407713293488946" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>206</o:Words> <o:characters>1176</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>9</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1444</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">The voyage would include 20 stops along to the shore of Lake Tanganyika picking up cargo and passengers from villages without any road access. The Liemba was their only contact with the outside world and its markets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was to split my cabin with Geert, a Dutch writer living in Washington DC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We would share many Serengeti beers and plates of rice and beef together. (Geert's website)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was the last day of the year when the old ship started chugging up the lake. After all the waiting and anticipation, it was an incredible feeling to finally get going. There was definitely a sense of history to the ship and a great energy between the 22-crew members and the people on board (there were only 14 tourists on board). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>At midnight, two emergency flares were shot into the sky welcoming 2012.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was not long before our first stop in Kasanga, and a crew of young men quickly got started filling the empty cargo hull with 100-pound bags of corn meal. Twenty hours later they would still be loading, having to stop whenever a light rain would start. Later stops would bring more passengers and more cargo. The majority of the cargo was baskets of dried fish that would go to buyers in Burundi, DR Congo and northern Tanzania. The majority of the fish business was owned and operated by the villages older women who also accompanied their cargo, affectionately referred to by me as “Big Mamas” (mama is Swahili for madam, or lady).</p> <!--EndFragment--><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0qvoejo3ig/T22g-1KYlSI/AAAAAAAABb0/N5eCwNd7O3I/s1600/IMG_9167.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0qvoejo3ig/T22g-1KYlSI/AAAAAAAABb0/N5eCwNd7O3I/s320/IMG_9167.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723407702740735266" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LlLDam2SAF0/T22g-eqllTI/AAAAAAAABbo/uusdNxzppV0/s1600/DSCN0759.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LlLDam2SAF0/T22g-eqllTI/AAAAAAAABbo/uusdNxzppV0/s320/DSCN0759.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723407696701789490" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qgobX2kcLow/T22f0uVR5OI/AAAAAAAABbc/E78zExrqdRM/s1600/IMG_9330.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qgobX2kcLow/T22f0uVR5OI/AAAAAAAABbc/E78zExrqdRM/s320/IMG_9330.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723406429597066466" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>315</o:Words> <o:characters>1799</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>14</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2209</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Only Kasanga had a proper dock, the remaining stops consisted of us dropping anchor and watching the circus unfold from the upper decks. Overloaded wooden dhows, large and small, would charge the boat vying to be the first to unload their cargo or to collect the precious few passengers willing to pay a fare for a ride to shore. It was total chaos with yelling and screaming, boats crashing into each other, people climbing up the side of the boat, throwing their baggage up to others, children being handed over to others by an outstretched arm. When captain Titus Benjamin had seen enough, he would toot his horn twice and raise anchor. If some boats were still tied to the ship then so be it - it was off to the next village.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The scenery was beautiful, with green hills turning into mountains. Thatch roofed huts lined palm-lined beaches. We always remained within site of shore and at times were within view of the Congo side of the lake. Sunsets were magical.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The village stops continued throughout the night and each one filled the boat with more people and more cargo. The late night loading process was performed under the ship’s spotlights and cast a surreal aura on an already surreal drama. The 500-person capacity soon swelled to over a 1,000 and one got use to the smell of dried fish baking in the sun and stepping over sleeping bodies. Each stop was just as chaotic and unorganized as the last. It was though nobody had ever done this before, but in fact does it twice a month. This is one trait about Africa that I find very frustrating and hard to digest. Why nobody organizes a more efficient (and safer) way of approaching a problem. I know this is a broad generalization and is largely cultural, but I have seen it time and time again – the lack of solution-oriented thinking. For example, a traffic intersection where people pile into the center until nobody can move and then the honking begins and everybody looks to the other for a solution. Meanwhile, often times there is an oblivious traffic cop standing on the corner talking on his cell phone. Perhaps, I am too structured and rigid, but it really gets under my skin. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4ei8qzcpHew/T22f0I0nrqI/AAAAAAAABbQ/Zt8di3_QnQw/s1600/IMG_9332.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4ei8qzcpHew/T22f0I0nrqI/AAAAAAAABbQ/Zt8di3_QnQw/s320/IMG_9332.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723406419527970466" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YSqDK0t6Opo/T22fzk6-rLI/AAAAAAAABbE/dKLHrLslXoE/s1600/IMG_9049.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YSqDK0t6Opo/T22fzk6-rLI/AAAAAAAABbE/dKLHrLslXoE/s320/IMG_9049.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723406409890966706" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H-F47H93hp4/T22fy3XALPI/AAAAAAAABa4/fv6POPUVRnU/s1600/DSCN0775.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H-F47H93hp4/T22fy3XALPI/AAAAAAAABa4/fv6POPUVRnU/s320/DSCN0775.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723406397660474610" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>182</o:Words> <o:characters>1043</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>8</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1280</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">At lunch one day, a German woman asked me what the difference was between traveling in South American and Africa? At the time, I think I gave a pretty lame answer, but I continued to think about the question days later. I think what I would tell her now is this: </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in"></p><ul><li>Much of South America seems to be living in antiquity, but is slowly making its way towards the modern age, at its own “muy tranquilo” pace.</li><li>Africa seems to exist in a post-apocalyptic world, rising up from the ashes after everything has been wiped out, oblivious to the way things once were and blindly and chaotically getting through the day – not necessarily moving towards modernity.</li></ul><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps a harsh assessment, but it is my perspective nonetheless. That said, it is not that I am not enjoying Africa, but she is a hard and complicated one to warm up to. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The voyage continued and the 42-hour trip turned into 68-hours due to delays. The “rice chicken”, “rice beef” diet got old, but thankfully, they never ran out of beer. It wasn’t exactly relaxing, but the trip up the lake was my favorite and most memorable African experience to date. The boat is supposed to be decommissioned in the next year or two as it is too expensive to operate for these purposes – just not efficient enough.</p> <!--EndFragment--><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div>Map of route up Lake: <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203695261510725050303.0004b6a83dcdcf1cce17d&msa=0&ll=-6.511815,28.168945&spn=14.544342,25.378418">Map</a><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQACmY8WR3s">Video</a> of images from the trip.</div><div><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mimi-Toutous-Big-Adventure-Tanganyika/dp/1400075262/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333016979&sr=1-1">Here</a> is a good read about the battle on Lake Tanganyika, and the history of the Liemba.</div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-46852299200433148712011-12-23T23:13:00.001-08:002011-12-27T08:41:56.957-08:00Road to the Ferry<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iSjJJhKYAes/TvWCB3gHKcI/AAAAAAAABXg/vf8RdV8b6gE/s1600/DSCN0650.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iSjJJhKYAes/TvWCB3gHKcI/AAAAAAAABXg/vf8RdV8b6gE/s320/DSCN0650.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689596672842607042" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nkYnkZfhe4I/TvV_UYhQypI/AAAAAAAABXQ/fb8hJF7BZQo/s1600/DSCN0642.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nkYnkZfhe4I/TvV_UYhQypI/AAAAAAAABXQ/fb8hJF7BZQo/s320/DSCN0642.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689593692408564370" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>306</o:Words> <o:characters>1748</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>14</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2146</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I first heard about the Lake Tanganyika ferry from Michael back in Buenos Aires. Michael was a Brit busy spending his pension checks from Her Majesty’s Navy on beer and petrol while traveling around the world in stages on his GS 1200. A year prior he had been in southern Africa and had taken the ferry.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Lake Tanganyika is the longest and second deepest freshwater lake in the world and is shared by four countries- DR Congo, Tanzania, Zambia and Burundi. I would be catching it at its most southern point in Zambia and then taking it up to the chimpanzee country of northwestern Tanzania and just a hair south of the halfway mark between Cape Town and Cairo. A big attraction to the trip is the vessel itself, the MV Liemba, an old German warship from WWI. I have not seen a photo of the ship yet and do not really know that much about it, but do know that the Germans once deliberately sunk the ship at some point to avoid it getting into enemy hands, and later raised it. The ship makes stops along the Tanzanian coast to small remote mostly inaccessible villages carrying passengers and goods. It is a working ferry for the lake with very few travelers on board. From its final destination in Kigoma, Tanzania I will try and secure passage on a cargo ship going to Burundi at the top of the lake. Otherwise, I would have 150-miles on dirt roads into the interior of Tanzania in order to catch the paved road to Rwanda. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In addition to these more obvious reasons, the idea of traveling through at least part of Africa by boat intrigues me, in the spirit of Joseph Conrad I suppose. It may not be a steamship going down the Congo River or in search of the ivory trading post of the deranged Mr. Kurtz, but I am looking forward to seeing how the experience unfolds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Besides Michael’s personal account of the trip, it has been nearly impossible to find any current or reliable information about the trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My Lonely Planet book has a meager 1”x1” box about it, stating it leaves every Friday. In Malawi, I heard from another traveler interested in making the trip that she heard it left every-other Friday, not weekly. There is no website or phone number to call, and not much mentioned on the online forums for overlanders, just more questions. My plan, or lack thereof, was to roll the dice and show up at the dock early in the week hoping that it was leaving on that particular Friday. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>566</o:Words> <o:characters>3229</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>26</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>6</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>3965</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal">However, first I had to get to the lake. The logical route is to come up on paved roads from the south of Zambia. But because I went to Malawi and was now well north of any junction to the paved roads, I had two options: I could cut across the most northern part of Zambia on a dirt road or to ride into Tanzania cross over and then drop back down into Zambia also on dirt roads. Problem was, nobody could tell me anything about either of these roads and the rains were coming more frequently now. As my friend Adam would say, “good intel is hard to come by there”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Several times I had mentioned to Peter that I did not have a very good feeling about all this and was more anxious about the crossing than usual. For one thing, I did not like that the Zambian road paralleled so closely to the border (with Tanzania). Border areas can be bad news.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As Peter and I reached Karonga in northern Malawi, we stopped to get some more black market gas, using up what Malawian Kwacha we had before leaving the country, as it is has almost no value anywhere else. I stopped a couple of mature looking local businessmen walking by and asked if they knew anything about the road across Zambia. They said “no”, but did say that road west from the town of Chitipa in Malawi to the border was very bad and very dangerous. “You must not take that road. Promise me.” He apparently just had a friend killed by bandits on that road a week prior. I did not see any reason for him to lie, and he was pretty adamant about me not going that way. “Don’t worry, you only have to tell me once!” Peter and I crossed into Tanzania together and checked into the Landmark Hotel in Tukuyu. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After two nights, Peter and I said good-bye and he took the main road to Dar Es Salaam/Zanzibar and I went only about an hour west to the province capital of Mbeya. I checked into the Mt Livingstone Hotel so that I could get a decent map of Tanzania and some better “intel” on the road conditions going west. I still did not have a good feeling about this, and that in it self was bothering me. With all the recent rains my chief concern was getting stranded somewhere, unable to move forward and unable to turn back due to washed-out or impassable roads. I would also be incredibly vulnerable out there if the roads were bad or wet. Lastly, I did not have any real experience with the Tanzanian people, “how helpful would they be?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The “bellboy” at the hotel took me to find a map and to a Bureau of Exchange office to change about $100 worth of Malawi Kwacha that I found hidden in one of my bags (what a bonehead!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The hotel manager later confirmed that the road west to Sumbawanga was in fact well traveled and was currently under construction. The Chinese were building a new paved road all the way and the detour road should be passable if it wasn’t raining. He did not know much about the road south to Zambia. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">(China’s involvement in Africa has been coined as the re-colonization of Africa. China has been improving Africa’s infrastructure in exchange for access to individual countries’ natural resources.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I set out the next morning on the paved road that took me down to Tunduma and the main border crossing with Zambia. I would be staying on the Tanzania side and catching the road west that skirted the border for 40-miles or so. It was the most chaotic border scene that I had seen for quite some time, and was very thankful that I was not crossing there.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The road was soon dirt and turned to shit pretty fast with potholes everywhere. The day was cloudy, but no rain in sight. It was Friday, so I still had a full week to get to the ferry dock at Mpulungu, on the south shore of the lake. I passed many villages along the route. There were sections of mud, but manageable. </p> <!--EndFragment--><p></p> <!--EndFragment--><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RC95xopH00A/TvV_UGMwapI/AAAAAAAABXE/0XLc4OA57tI/s1600/DSCN0643.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RC95xopH00A/TvV_UGMwapI/AAAAAAAABXE/0XLc4OA57tI/s320/DSCN0643.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689593687490718354" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yaSYtZ4sT1w/TvV_TYK-bfI/AAAAAAAABW8/SbIPFGkSHqU/s1600/DSCN0644.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yaSYtZ4sT1w/TvV_TYK-bfI/AAAAAAAABW8/SbIPFGkSHqU/s320/DSCN0644.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689593675135217138" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>375</o:Words> <o:characters>2139</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>17</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>4</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2626</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">For lunch, I bought some mangoes from some kids standing by the road and ate them under a tree with an ominous exclamation mark nailed to it. I should have heeded the warning!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The jaw-chattering 140-mile trip took seven-hours and landed me in Sumbawanga and the less than glorious Mbiza Forest Lodge. Not much of a lodge, and with terrible food, but they did serve me grilled bananas. I had seen people grilling them on the street, dry over hot coals, but had yet to try them. Not exactly sure what variety the banana is, but the grilling takes out some of the sweetness and toughens up the texture. The coarse salt you sprinkle on them makes them a savory little snack, great when accompanied with a cold Safari lager.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Under mosquito netting, I woke to the sound of rain falling on the metal roof at about 3-am, and could not go back to sleep again until it stopped about 90-minutes later. I kept telling myself that I only have 64-miles to get to the border. After breakfast I packed up the bike. I guess I could have waited a day to see if things dried up, but this was not a very interesting place to be and it could just as easily rained more. I desperately wanted this day to be over.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I found my turn off outside of town and saw that this road was also under construction. It was Sunday and nobody was working on it so I took the smooth dirt road for as long as I could, but soon enough was forced to use the detour road that paralleled. There were many patches of mud that forced me to stop, pick a line and plow through in first gear. A few people were out walking or on bicycles, but no other vehicles to speak of were out. The sky was now battleship grey and threatened of rain. The air was cool.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As the morning progressed, the one, and really only bright spot was passing through the various villages as church was letting out. Against a dark sky, and their dark skin, the women looked especially nice wrapped in their bold colorful fabrics. On this "day of rest" they clearly wore their best and brightest with matching cotton fabric for their skirt, top and head wrap. I love seeing the women wrap their hair up into the small tower of fabric. For me it is “classic Africa” and adds a sense of elegance to their outfit. On any other day, these are the same women that carry large loads balanced on their heads; large containers of cooking oil, bundles of firewood six feet long, or almost anything else you can imagine, but today, without the usual burden weighing them down, they seemed to gracefully float above the red dirt.</p> <!--EndFragment--><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VKHyL1uWb88/TvV_TJ9cg4I/AAAAAAAABWs/eXjwWG2Jyy0/s1600/DSCN0650.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /></a></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_Trqy_5XKU/TvV_S8A09eI/AAAAAAAABWg/nVcSqSXraic/s320/DSCN0652.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689593667576460770" /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QUIghuhvLzA/TvV9EPD1yZI/AAAAAAAABWQ/UENJC6Yp61o/s1600/DSCN0654.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QUIghuhvLzA/TvV9EPD1yZI/AAAAAAAABWQ/UENJC6Yp61o/s320/DSCN0654.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689591215968078226" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>121</o:Words> <o:characters>691</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>5</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>848</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Then I got stuck. I tried to pick a line where there was none and the rear wheel was soon buried. I quickly waved down a man walking up the road with a hoe over his shoulder. He came over to help while I tried digging out. Useless. Not five minutes had gone by before a large truck carrying passengers came up the road behind me, the first other vehicle I had seen since starting out 22-miles ago. They too got stuck on their first attempt, but came over to help me first. We tried several things but ultimately, they just lifted the rear of the loaded bike up over the mud and pushed it out. I wanted to kiss them, but thought better of it. I then went over to help them out. After about 15-minutes of standing there I proved to be completely useless and they said I should get back on the road as it was now starting to rain. </p> <!--EndFragment--><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3BX3V8bI9k/TvV9DJA3YJI/AAAAAAAABWI/1Tqa2RFo4Bg/s1600/DSCN0658.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3BX3V8bI9k/TvV9DJA3YJI/AAAAAAAABWI/1Tqa2RFo4Bg/s320/DSCN0658.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689591197165117586" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> </span></span></span>(one long Slip-n-Slide)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I dropped the bike yet again, this time out of fatigue. My already makeshift right mirror broke again and my right pannier was bent out of shape - again. Once more, there was a man walking his bicycle along with his wife that was nearby and came to help. Tanzanians were proving to be very helpful and always at the right place and right time.It rained for the next 15-miles with more and more mud bogs to pass through. Now every pothole was filled with water and at places, water threatened to overtake the road completely. Keeping the bike from sliding sideways or any other direction took concentration and intense focus. It was exhausting. I first dropped the bike after the tires slid out from under me. I was thrown off and laid flat on my back vowing never to leave paved roads again. I wanted to scream and did. A man heard me wailing and came over to help me pick up the bike. At this point, every mile was counted and celebrated: “Half way there!” “Only 25 more miles!” “Now only 23 more miles”, and so on.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally, after an incredibly long four-hours, I got to the small and empty immigration office and found the lone officer on duty. Surprised, he asked how I had made it through the rains. I could only shrugged my shoulders. </p> <!--EndFragment--><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xssu6bvV2_U/TvV9C16F63I/AAAAAAAABV4/ASz4pd6D9rM/s1600/DSCN0660.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xssu6bvV2_U/TvV9C16F63I/AAAAAAAABV4/ASz4pd6D9rM/s320/DSCN0660.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689591192036436850" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>88</o:Words> <o:characters>504</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>4</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>618</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Upon being greeted at the Nkupi Lodge near the shore of Lake Tanganyika I immediately asked, “When does the ferry come next?” “You are in luck, it comes this Friday” “YES!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next day I went to the port office to find out how much my passage would cost and to secure a cabin. Even here at the dock, information was hard to come by and someone had to text the actual captain of the boat. The man showed me the screen of his phone so I could read his reply, “<i>D</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">ue to Christmas, the ferry will not be arriving until December 30<sup>th" </sup></i><sup> </sup>. . . . a ten-day wait!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As the saying goes here, “TIA!” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">This is Africa!</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><br /></i></p> <!--EndFragment--><div>Map of my route travelled: <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203695261510725050303.0004b4d16ad7318c6d486&msa=0&ll=-7.329778,33.771973&spn=5.881596,9.876709">Map</a></div><div>Map of the ferry destination: <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203695261510725050303.0004b4e4e3056b2553727&msa=0&ll=-6.860985,29.707031&spn=11.759869,19.753418">Ferry route</a></div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-66538168277212358482011-12-16T06:19:00.000-08:002011-12-25T00:12:35.550-08:00Malawi<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b0kJ5ejvy-s/TutdYUTOz_I/AAAAAAAABUY/cYLSKTulomI/s1600/IMG_8919.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b0kJ5ejvy-s/TutdYUTOz_I/AAAAAAAABUY/cYLSKTulomI/s320/IMG_8919.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686741626832998386" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KqyK02B0o-Q/TutdXu7bG7I/AAAAAAAABUM/D-a9MSIesIg/s1600/IMG_8977.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KqyK02B0o-Q/TutdXu7bG7I/AAAAAAAABUM/D-a9MSIesIg/s320/IMG_8977.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686741616801029042" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ep81LFUn4_U/TutdXLU3pYI/AAAAAAAABUA/VYZKR37BIQE/s1600/DSCN0574.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; 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mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>16</o:Words> <o:characters>92</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>1</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>112</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">POPULATION: 14-million, 65th most populous country</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">PRICE OF GAS: $14 a gallon on the black market</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">MONEY: $1 = 164 Malawi Kwacha</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">NO VISA REQUIRED (or no charge). CARNET WAS USEFUL, REQUIRED?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">TIME IN COUNTRY: 11/30 – 12/14/2011</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>1408</o:Words> <o:characters>8030</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>66</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>16</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>9861</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The “warm heart of Africa” needs a cardiologist, STAT! The endearing name of the country speaks well of the Malawi people, but the government might be called the “cold hearted greedy bastards of Africa”. Not as eloquent, but to the point.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">When I arrived in Malawi through Chipata, Zambia I knew there was going to be some problems. Immediately upon crossing the border I noticed empty gas stations, one after the other - totally barren. I stopped by one and asked the drowsy attendant sitting on the curb when was the last time his station had any gasoline? “Two weeks ago.” When will you get more? “Today…or any day.” Malawi has not had any real gasoline for about 18-months. What petrol it does have comes in at night on trucks or boats from Zambia and Tanzania and sells for about $14 a gallon – far out of reach for any local. In the larger cities a legitimate tanker truck may occasionally supply a gas station with gas, but rather randomly. Once word gets out, the long lines form. Today, a BP station might get some fuel, two weeks later, it might be a Puma station cross-town. Thankfully, Malawi is not a very big country.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Malawi is <span style="mso-bidi-font-size:13.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica">a poor, landlocked, heavily populated, mineral-poor country that has been ravaged by HIV/AIDS and government corruption. Its economy is largely dependent on agriculture coming from small rural farms. </span>It has long relied on aid from the World Bank, International Monetary Fund and Britain and United States, but much of that was halted in the year 2000 due to many human rights violations and government corruption. (A recent IMF or World Bank (?) report just quantified that government corruption accounts for 5% of the country’s GDP.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The reason for the gas shortage is because Malawi no longer has any foreign currency and nobody wants to be paid in its Kwacha currency. The last bit of foreign cash on hand was used to buy a private presidential jet in 2009. No gasoline translates into higher prices on everything for people living in one of the poorest and least developed countries on the planet. In July of this year the people did protest and the police quickly opened fire on the crowds using live ammo, killing 22 people (the people on the street say over 40 were killed).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Anyway, you get the picture. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">On the upside of things, Malawi is a stunning country. True, it is a landlocked country, but you would never know it with 3/4 ‘s of its eastern border made up of Lake Malawi. The lake was commonly referred to as “the calendar lake”, or at least until that silly metric system was introduced, because of the lake’s 365-mile length and 52-mile width (at its widest point). The shoreline is peppered with comfortable and affordable lodges that make traveling here easy and very enjoyable. The lake has a lot of personality and changes often depending where you are; Kande Beach, for example, was white sandy beach with still warm waters reminiscent of the Gulf of Mexico. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Up north, the rocky shoreline with a mellow surf felt like somewhere in the Caribbean with excellent diving and freshwater tropical fish as brilliant and colorful as any of their saltwater cousins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When the shoreline wasn’t white crystalline sand, it was lined with dense green foliage interrupted only by the Flamboyant trees with their burnt-orange blossoms. Fish Eagles were commonly seen in the tall trees waiting to swoop down on unsuspecting fish. One could spend a lot of time touring the lake never repeating the same scenery twice.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Driving in Malawi was always an enjoyable and tranquil experience – the road never straight or flat for very long. Many people use the roads for foot and bicycle traffic so there is always a bit of “theatre” going on around you (and you have to be very careful). Passing through small villages and rural farmland the waving was incessant. Children would run toward the street and wave so hard that their whole body would wiggle. They really seemed to be getting something out of it and I was always afraid that I would not see a kid waving and pass by with out returning the gesture. On travel days, I must have waved at least 300 times a day. I loved it and it made the day so much fun. “Maybe this is why my shoulder feels better?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The rumors on the online forums of police shaking down foreign travelers for proof of insurance or made-up infractions was unfounded from my perspective. There were many road stops and the cops did shake down the overcrowded minivan taxis, but I was waved on through or simply asked questions about the bike.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">One highlight of my time in the country was my 10-day stay at the Myoka Village resort outside of Nkhata Bay. For $15 a night I had a private thatched roof chalet right on the shore. I swam everyday and practiced my balance in one of the dugout canoes. By the time I left, my shoulder pain was gone and felt strong again. There was an eclectic group of travelers all there at the same time and we often went into town for some curry or *nsima and beef stew at a local restaurant or for a cold Carlsberg at one of the very basic nightspots.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The weather by the lake was hot and humid. The 20-minute walk into town during the middle of day would leave you drenched in sweat. Thankfully, the water of the lake was always refreshing, and not the least bit cold. During the heat of the day, it was best to never venture too far from the water. At night, thunderstorms often rolled in and brought with them a cool breeze that great for sleeping.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Because of these rains and the dense population, Malawi can be quite malarial this time of year and I ramped up my anti-mosquito regiment to include mosquito sprays, burning coils and electrical plug-in deterrents. It was a full-on offensive that will probably knock years off my life for breathing in the noxious chemicals, but it kept the bugs away.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Because I swam in the slow moving waters of the Okavango Delta and in several spots in Lake Malawi, I am at risk of getting biharzia. Biharzia is caused by a parasite from a specific freshwater snail that can enter your body through the skin. It can be awhile before symptoms appear, but can be rather nasty if you wait for them as the “bugs” settle you your bowel and bladder. All of us at Myoka picked up the meds at the local clinic for about $1 and will take them six weeks after our last swim.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Lastly, to round out my time in Nkhata Bay, I visited a local school with a Finnish woman who had been volunteering there teaching English. My plan was to look around and observe for an hour and then get back to the lake, but to my surprise the teacher of the 6<sup>th</sup> grade class handed me some chalk and asked if I would teach English for a couple of hours. “What?” The cement block room with window openings, but no glass or screens was hot and packed with over 70-students. The teacher was gone in a flash to grade report cards or something as it was the last week of school. I was lost. I noticed that all the kids had a returned test in front of them so I looked through the questions. Excellent, they had been studying some basic human anatomy. That got me started. Then we moved on to world geography: the continents and oceans. The kids were polite, but unresponsive and quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I introduced the spelling game Hangman (but modified it so nobody was actually killed, and simply called it “Spelling Man”). Finally, I divided the class into two teams of their choice; it was to be England United vs. Arsenal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I used the anatomy and geography terms that we just went over for Spelling Man. The kids proved to be competitive and came alive and we all howled with laughter. Outside, other students peered into our windows with envy. When the teacher asked if I could come back the next day I said, “Absolutely!” I had a blast with the kids, though they probably didn’t learn a damn thing.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">When it was time to leave I rode off with Peter, from Denmark, who was also traveling on a motorcycle. He had been traveling two-up with his wife Christine, but she had become ill and had to be flown home. Peter needed to get to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania where he would sell his Honda Africa Twin before flying home. After Myoka Village we spent one night at Kande Beach and then another high above the lake at the old Scottish Christian mission of Livingstonia. The black market gasoline was expensive but always easy to find. I ended up exiting Malawi with Peter and we spent a couple nights in Tukuyu, Tanzania before heading our separate ways.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">True to its reputation, the people of Malawi are what make the place so special, that and the lake of course. It is an amazing place with great potential but with the gas problems and the daily power and water outages, I was ready to leave when we did. I hope things turn around for the country soon. The story of corrupt African politicians seems to play on a repeating loop for many of these African countries, and of course a lot of good innocent people suffer for the benefit of the greedy.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: small; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: small; ">*Nsima is a new food experience for me and has since been commonly served in northern Zambia, Malawi and Tanzania. It is finely ground corn meal that is served on your plate looking like a large scoop of mashed potatoes. With your right hand you pinch off a small piece and form a ball. With the ball you use it to scoop up or “pinch” your other food, often times a chicken or beef stew and cabbage salad. The nsima does not have a lot of flavor but soaks up whatever you are eating it with and is of course, quite filling. Luckily too, there is always a bottle of peri-peri sauce, or hot chili sauce on table. Because you eat with your hands, restaurants will bring out a dish of warm water for you to rinse your hands or provide soap and water station somewhere in the dining area. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: small; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">A video of images of Malawi</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px; ">: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ls3yBsddi7U&feature=g-upl&context=G29bf5b9AUAAAAAAAAAA">Video</a></span></p><p></p><div>The route of my time in Malawi: <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203695261510725050303.0004b4d7f58f9cee6eec4&msa=0">Map</a></div></div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-40765737027979702472011-12-01T04:54:00.001-08:002011-12-02T20:52:54.624-08:00Botswana<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2DjBW1Bn5Wk/TtizCobFjUI/AAAAAAAABSk/WtCsjainge8/s1600/DSCN0393.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; 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mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>14</o:Words> <o:characters>84</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>1</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>103</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">BOTSWANA</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Languages: English, Setswana<span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Money: Pula, approximately 6 to $1</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Gasoline: On par with South Africa and Namibia</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Population: 1.7 million</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">No visa or carnet needed</span></p> <!--EndFragment--><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It’s all about the animals in Botswana. Not being much of a motorcycle country, you would fare much better traveling by horse, boat, or helicopter. The basic road network will get you close to where the action is, but to get into the middle of it all you will need to get far from any pavement. Problem is, once you are off pavement, you are in deep soft sand. My old nemesis!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Botswana is a landlocked-country, but who needs an ocean when you have a sea of diamonds? So much so that the center of the diamond industry is preparing to relocate from the United Kingdom for its new home in Botswana. Because of this wealth, small population, and better management of its resources than most African governments, Botswana is one of Africa’s most stable countries. All this and a good human rights record! Due to this stability and cash flow the country has been able to protect many of its wilderness areas.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As mentioned in the last post, the Kalahari Desert makes up most of the central and southern part of the country and is largely uninhabited. My focus was to be on the northern areas: the Okavango Delta and the Chobe National Park.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Okavango Delta is the world’s largest inland delta. The waters originate from the Angolan highlands and flood into the Kalahari basin. Due to the heat, much of the water is lost to evaporation and there is a drastic change of water level throughout the seasons. When the water levels are high it attracts some of the greatest concentrations of wildlife anywhere. Currently, the water levels are high and many areas that had been dry for decades are now flooded again. It was just recently discovered how the fluctuating water levels follow a natural 40-year cycle.<br /><br />I was incredibly fortunate, as I would be staying with some locals while in Maun. My good friend and horse lover Steve introduced David and Robyn Foot to me, from Seattle. Through an exchange of emails, David and Robyn invited to stay with them at their house outside Maun on the Thamalakane River. David’s last email with directions to the house closed casually with “we are just outside Maun on a deep sandy road” ARGH!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After a long hot day on flat straight paved roads from Windhoek I arrived at the house in the dark smelling like an unwashed goat. Harry, their 10-year old son peppered me with questions about the trip while David handed me a cold beer. I was feeling at home within 15-minutes. David and Robyn had prepared a tent for me on a small rise in the yard right above the river. It was a proper safari tent with a cot and folding table with a stainless water pitcher and cup. If it is one thing the two know, it is how to make people comfortable in the bush. After building a successful horse safari business in Malawi, the couple relocated the family and business to Botswana (due to the maladjusted government of Malawi). I have since learned how much <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><a href="http://ridebotswana.com/Welcome.html">David Foot Safaris</a></i> is respected in the horse community.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">With their help I scheduled a three-day makoro (dug out canoe) trip into the reeds and water of the delta, but before that I was on hand for the celebrated first rain of the season, November 16th. (Life at the Foot house takes place on the incredibly tranquil patio facing the river. It is furnished with cozy sofas and the dining table where Robyn serves up some very tasty and healthy meals.) The thunder and lightening was spectacular and the rain came down in buckets. I wasn’t as excited as they were, as the beginning of the rains means something different to me, but I appreciated the fresh smell in the air and the cooling effect that it had. I day later I got to speak at Harry and Julie’s primary school <a href="http://watwblog.wordpress.com/">(click here for details)</a>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I ended up as a 5<sup>th</sup>-wheel with two young American couples going into the delta. Everything we needed to set up camp on one of the islands was placed into the narrow makoros. The “polers” were incredibly skillful at navigating the waters and managing the load (I would appreciate this more later when I gave it a try in an empty boat).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We passed hippos and saw many different bird species. Once camp was established our days consisted of a morning wildlife hike and later a sunset cruise. During the heat of the day we would swim or wade around in the water. There was talk of Black Mambas, Spitting Cobras and crocodiles, but thankfully none ever appeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We saw zebra, many more hippos and an elephant skeleton during our outings. All in all it was a nice relaxing trip and a way to get a small taste of what this massive delta is like.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Before leaving Maun, I needed to take care of some “housekeeping” and David pointed me in the direction of a friendly tire shop. I had the Michelin Anakee tires installed that I had been carrying since leaving Jo’burg and changed all the fluids on the bike while also adjusting the valves. In the process of all of this I found a crack in the frame – something I had been expecting. The welder on site said he could do it right away. I mentioned needing to disconnect the battery before he grounded out his welder on the bike. He was adamant that it wouldn’t be necessary, but the one thing I remember from <a href="http://longwayround.com/">Ewan and Charlie’s trip</a> was that a welder fried out the electronics of the ABS system when they didn’t fully disconnect the battery and the bike was left with no brakes. Without Ewan and Charlie’s budget and support crew, I could’ve been stranded and screwed for quite some time. “I owe you a beer Ewan and Charlie”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After a somewhat sad good-bye, I headed off to Kasane at the border of Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe and Namibia – kind of like the “four-corners” area in the Untied States. I saw elephants along the way and some ostriches surprised me by crossing the road in front of me. Once again, I had luck with me and Robyn passed me off to her good friend Cathy who has a large house right on the Chobe River, which conveniently had a vacant spare bedroom available. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Originally from South Africa, Cathy is an established wildlife artist and knows almost everyone in the small “safari based” community. She arranged a day trip into Chobe National Park for me (motorcycles are never allowed in the wildlife parks). Again, I was put into a group of all Americans - this almost never happens. The schedule consisted of a morning boat cruise up the river and then after lunch we would return via land in a modified open-air Land Cruiser. We saw many animals, but no big cats, though they were there somewhere. (Note: There are NO TIGERS IN AFRICA! Embarrassingly this question always seems to come from Americans. Google it before leaving home please).</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Chobe Park has one of the highest concentration of wildlife in Africa and probably the largest elephant population on the continent, at over 50,000. Sadly, this poses a problem outside of the park where elephants are also plentiful, and roam around the town. These giants can be very destructive, tearing down moderate size trees and anything else in their path. Cathy has almost a resident family in her yard, though not while I was there. As tourism has grown in the community outside the park, some of the new safari lodges and municipal projects have started putting up stronger electrified fences to keep the elephants away from the precious riverfront properties. Of course, the elephants were there first and they are the whole reason people are drawn to the area in the first place. Residents often use rubber bullets to drive the elephants from there land, and sometimes - not rubber. Interestingly and timely, just this week I read of a new discovery by a South African researcher about how elephants are afraid of bees, simple honeybees, and by building a "fence" of bee hives this will keep elephants away. The bees can sting the inside the elephants’ trunk and just hearing the buzzing scares them off. <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-15836079">Click here for the article</a>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I enjoyed my time with Cathy and ended up staying a third night. We had a few sundowners together and she introduced me to several of her friends. I could have easily stayed two-more weeks, but needed to move north before the rains get too bad.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">On November 27th I took the 10-minute ferry ride across the Zambezi River to Zambia. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Here is a map of route through Botswana: <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203695261510725050303.0004b315fc3b78684f9ff&msa=0">Map</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-12468172424152961102011-11-15T07:59:00.000-08:002011-12-01T04:54:16.859-08:00Namibia<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7mzp0WD4h_E/TtE21wj-WhI/AAAAAAAABPw/hB8PgWlL6ws/s1600/IMG_8042.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; 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cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tLq7HBMPnFU/TtEHey1n9mI/AAAAAAAABOg/ovFkFkCE_ss/s320/IMG_8304.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679328830715065954" /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-16LowOott2A/TtEDXwyZU1I/AAAAAAAABOQ/7qj2yx_CpH4/s1600/IMG_8314.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-16LowOott2A/TtEDXwyZU1I/AAAAAAAABOQ/7qj2yx_CpH4/s320/IMG_8314.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679324311859057490" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7S87H291DKw/TtEDXHpzGJI/AAAAAAAABOI/UyY-92waqBI/s1600/IMG_8331.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7S87H291DKw/TtEDXHpzGJI/AAAAAAAABOI/UyY-92waqBI/s320/IMG_8331.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679324300817143954" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LPmwNkl-Yxo/TtEDW7PW9rI/AAAAAAAABN4/223ejk6EODQ/s1600/DSCN0323.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LPmwNkl-Yxo/TtEDW7PW9rI/AAAAAAAABN4/223ejk6EODQ/s320/DSCN0323.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679324297485022898" /></a>NAMIBIA<div> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>50</o:Words> <o:characters>290</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>2</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>356</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Languages: English is official. Recognised: German, Rukwangali, Setswana, Damara/Nama, Afrikaans, Herero, Oshiwambo</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Money: the Namibian dollar is approximately 7.50 to $1, and matching the South African Rand, which can also used without any penalty. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Price of gas: $5.15 a gallon, or $1.30 a liter (about same as S. Africa)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">No visa or carnet required</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>1705</o:Words> <o:characters>9723</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>81</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>19</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>11940</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Namibia proved to be just what I needed to get myself back into “the game”. My idea of a quick in-and-out trip to see the dunes turned out to be a three-week tour of the northern half the second least populated country in the world (Mongolia is first).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I had not originally intended to go to Namibia, but after talking to several people in South Africa, I decided to venture away from my northerly course to see for myself if the dunes of the Namib desert were in-fact just that amazing.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">To get to Namibia, I had a 16-hour two-day ride across the Trans-Kalahari Highway in southern Botswana. “Kalahari” is one of those truly African words that invoke a sense of Dark Continent adventure, but in reality, the road was boring as hell. Two straight lines on the map connected with a dogleg turn westward across a scrubby uninteresting desert. The road was good and border crossings straight forward, as SA, Botswana and Namibia share an open trade “agreement”.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The country of Namibia was colonized by the Germans in the 1800’s and thus has a very Germanic cultural influence and continues to draw many German tourists to the area. The country was taken away from Germany as part of the Treaty of Versailles after the First World War, but the influence remains. Independence was later won from South Africa in 1990. Today, it is a young stable country with vast diamond and mineral wealth. Windhoek is the capital city with one main street and few tall buildings, but not much more. There are some restaurants and decent coffee, but the highlight was just walking the busy sidewalks people-watching. Namibians are beautiful people, and friendly. I pitched my tent alongside a pool at a local backpackers (hostel). I caught some live music with some German med-students doing an internship at the local hospital and left the next day.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">My itinerary was loose, but I knew I wanted to see the dunes at sunrise in Sossusvlei. The roads in and out of the country and one road going north - south is paved, the rest is well cared for gravel roads. The turn off from the main highway lead me to some fast dirt roads but also to several small “run offs” or creek beds that crossed the roads. I ended up crossing some of the deepest water on the trip, albeit short distances. I don’t know what I would have done if it had rained recently and the water was any deeper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The junction stop of Solitaire consisted of a gas station, bakery and small hotel/campground. I filled up and got a slice of Moose McGregor’s famous apple pie at the bakery. There was evidence behind the counter that Ewan and Charlie had also crossed through these parts. It was over 100-degrees so I chose a glass of cold water to accompany the pie rather than hot coffee. I had two-hours more before getting to the campground.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Luckily, the national park campground at Sesiem had a bar and cold Windhoek Draught on tap. I sat with a group of retired Brits who were drinking gin at the sunset. The ritual of a “sundowner” cocktail at sunset has new significance for me. Since leaving South Africa, the mid-day temperatures have been up around 110F and shade is hard to find. When the sun goes down, often with a brilliant pink sunset, the evening air cools and becomes quite pleasant, and stays comfortable until about 9:30-AM the next morning, when it starts to heat up again. A few beers helped the cooling down process and it was off to bed early.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">At 5:15 the next morning, I thumbed a ride into the park with a Swiss couple, as motorcycles were not allowed in the park. A German traveling on a bicycle also jumped in and we explored the dunes together until the heat became unbearable. The most remarkable thing about the dunes for me was the abundance of rich colors. The intense rust red of the sand contrasted beautifully with the clear blue sky, and the soft celery color of the ground foliage complimented the blues and reds perfectly– none of which was done justice by my camera.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Back at the campground, I desperately wanted to rest, but my tent was like an oven and there was no refuge from the unforgiving heat. Actually, the best place to be during the intense heat of the day is on the bike, creating your own breeze. More gas and another slice of Moose’s apple pie, and I took the road toward the Atlantic coast. The road was not as good as the day before, with patches of thick sand and long stretches of numbing corrugations (washboards). I arrived in Swakopmund just before sunset and checked in to the “Bauhausian” Schweizerhaus Hotel for a few nights near the beach and a mellow birthday celebration.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Swakopmund has been described as being “more German than Germany” and gives you an odd feeling of not being in Africa anymore. It is a favorite weekend tourist destination for urbanites living in Windhoek and is the main kick-off point for catching sightseeing flights over the Skeleton coast - a graveyard of rusting hulls of old shipwrecks now half submerged in sand 100’s of yards inland due to the changing coastline. The only other way to get there is to spend many hours in a 4x4.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">It was a pleasant little town with streets so clean, they were sterile and a very impressive curb-painting program. The cool ocean breeze, fresh seafood and cold German lagers made for a nice birthday. However, I also saw the local chiropractor everyday I was there for an aggravated neck/shoulder condition - feeling very much my 48-years.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The true Skeleton Coast is further north up the coast, but I stopped by a beached Angolan fishing trawler on my way north to get just a taste of the insatiable coast. Heading east back to the dirt roads towards the mountains, I was now on my way to Damaraland and the ancient rock carvings of Twyfelfontein. I toured the 2-6,000-year old carvings with Günter and Barbara from Germany. The carvings of animals were interesting enough, but what I really enjoyed, was the buzz I was feeling from traveling again. Whatever, I had lost while crossing Brazil, was coming back to me in force. I found myself easing back into a daily rhythm.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">One of the most noticeable things about Namibia, besides the solitude, is the sky. Vast cloudless blue sky during the day and infinite stars at night. I was camping every night in organized campgrounds, and though I was often eating canned food from gas stations, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Gasoline and bottled water were readily available throughout the country, however “Patagonia rules” apply and you never pass a gas station without topping off. More of a problem was forcing yourself to drink 110-degree water, which is about as refreshing as drinking a cup of sand. As a rule, I carried nine liters of water with me and tried to drink four a day. The flies could be tenacious, but as of yet, there had not been many mosquitoes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Over a couple Jamesons and water at Günter’s campsite, he told me of an unmarked Himba orphanage a day’s ride going north –my whole reason for continuing north towards the Angolan border was to see more of the Himba people. The Himba are a striking group of people, the women especially, that have remained true to their cultural past. I had briefly read about them, but it was not until I saw a couple of them selling trinkets in the street of Windhoek that I became fascinated with them.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">There are many attractive features of the Himba women, but it is really how the whole package comes together to create an incredibly exotic visual experience. The fact that the women are topless does not hurt any and I found myself having flashbacks of when I was a 12-year old scanning National Geographics for nudity.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">At the core of the “dress” is the practice of crushing the rust red rock, or ochre, to create a fine powder. The powder is then mixed with butter and bush-herbs and smeared all over their bodies. Not only does this change the color of their skin, but acts as a sunscreen and insect repellent. The same compound encases their braids. Himba women do not shower – ever. They create a mild steam room in their huts and then reapply the ochre mixture. Their dress is made up of a head-dress made of an animal hide, an elaborate system of jewelry around the neck, a belt or waist piece, loin cloth of leather softened by the same butter mixture, anklets made of metal wire beads, multiple bracelets and thin leather soled sandals. Almost everything they wear has symbolic meaning behind it.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I found the village and was met by a young man who would be my guide and translator for N$200, and two young boys in braids and loin clothes agreed to watch my bike. It was incredibly hot in the midday sun. There were 35 children at this orphanage started by a couple that have a farm nearby. Six resident women share the responsibility of raising the orphans and their own children. Only five of the children are enrolled in school due to cost and their desire to preserve the Himba culture.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I ended up meeting several of the women there and found them incredibly genuine, very friendly, and even a bit “sassy”. Three women sitting on the ground, one getting her hair done (a two day long process) and one making jewelry, were quick to pester me about not being married. “But why, you are gorgeous?” They could not understand why I was not married, and quickly ask me to choose one of them. Now, most times when I visit an indigenous village like this, the people are withdrawn, shy and rarely make eye contact. These girls, all in their early 20’s “stood tall” and looked me directly into the eye sometimes rather intensely. I tried to be diplomatic and joked about marrying all three, but they would have none of that and prodded me to basically declare who I thought was the most beautiful.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I have learned since that their beauty is the paramount thing in their lives – it is why they get up in the morning. Not just their beauty but also of the children. Their culture is built on this physical beauty, along with the near worship of the cow.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">(Their daily diet is made up of about 80% of a yogurt type soured milk drink, and when the rains are favorable, they have dried corn to crush into meal, which is eaten as porridge. Wealth and standing is determined by how much livestock you own. Interestingly, women can have children out of wedlock and own their own livestock, making them quite independent. At the age of twelve the middle bottom four teeth are extracted to mimic that of the cow.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Later, I had another marriage proposal (one that I briefly considered) and got teased some more, but enjoyed all the attention. They really “buttered my toast”, which made for a nice belated birthday gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>On the drive back to the campground, I could still smell the earthy butter mixture in my nostrils and had a smile on my face. They may be the vainest people on Earth that do not own a mirror, but I liked them. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; ">(And oh, I gave the two boys watching the bike a loaf of white bread and a fresh jar of peanut butter.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">It is hard to describe, but this day was one of the best travel days that I have had. It doesn’t happen often, but when everything aligns in your favor it feels as if you have ceased moving, while instead, the scenery starts passing you by - like the world is rotating just for you. As I covered rolling hills and sweeping curves the loose gravel moved beneath my tires. I passed a group of the seldom-seen desert elephants, while around another turn eight ostriches sprung up from the grass and rustled their “Vegas showgirl” plumage as if on cue, seemingly, just for me. Later a jackal crossed the road in front of me. After my time in the Himba village, I capped off the day with a medium-rare T-bone and a cold beer in a campground catering to overlanders. It does not happen like this often, but I sure appreciate it when it all comes together.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The remainder of my time in Namibia never dulled and my last stop was in Opuwo, a town deep in Himba country near the Angolan border. There I camped at the luxurious <a href="http://opuwocountryhotel.wheretostay.na/">Opuwo Country Hotel</a>, where I could use their pool and other amenities. I visited another Himba village and then returned to Windhoek on paved roads before heading to Botswana.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Life is good.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <!--EndFragment--><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Here is a map of my route: <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203695261510725050303.0004b2ba77b871547d421&msa=0">Map</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Here is a video of images of my time in Namibia: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5dNP59-Etk">Video</a> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Here is a brief video highlighting my time with the Himba: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfuhWKhwNnw">Video </a></p> <!--EndFragment--></div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-12440697272941403792011-10-28T11:55:00.001-07:002011-11-09T10:41:42.700-08:00South Africa: Part 2<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-20ADXbeHiEE/Trq1nSmVkcI/AAAAAAAABM0/2ehgtd_1AzI/s1600/DSCN0024.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-20ADXbeHiEE/Trq1nSmVkcI/AAAAAAAABM0/2ehgtd_1AzI/s320/DSCN0024.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673046367238721986" /></a>Soweto<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5xK3OraYTY8/Trq0W1gl0LI/AAAAAAAABMk/AkJQ6P4Jnik/s1600/DSCN0002.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5xK3OraYTY8/Trq0W1gl0LI/AAAAAAAABMk/AkJQ6P4Jnik/s320/DSCN0002.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673044985040457906" /></a>Apartheid Museum<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-umJox5P_vKU/Trq0WchQGeI/AAAAAAAABMY/eTPPQhU_qoY/s1600/IMG_7986.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-umJox5P_vKU/Trq0WchQGeI/AAAAAAAABMY/eTPPQhU_qoY/s320/IMG_7986.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673044978332342754" /></a>Sani Pass<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KZHyNsy6Gb8/Trq0VyQN-pI/AAAAAAAABMM/3ZOwfRIce94/s1600/IMG_7880.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KZHyNsy6Gb8/Trq0VyQN-pI/AAAAAAAABMM/3ZOwfRIce94/s320/IMG_7880.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673044966986611346" /></a>Pilanesberg Game Park<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m0h7Q1vEjtk/Trq0VeC-QsI/AAAAAAAABMA/8oV75BP6zzI/s1600/DSCN0138.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m0h7Q1vEjtk/Trq0VeC-QsI/AAAAAAAABMA/8oV75BP6zzI/s320/DSCN0138.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673044961562346178" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>891</o:Words> <o:characters>5083</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>42</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>10</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>6242</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">The port city of Durban lies on the southeastern Indian coast of South Africa. Once there, I explored the town with Emily, a grad student from Santa Barbara. We managed to figure out the confusing and intimidating shared taxi system. The city was abuzz with white Toyota minivans going every which way, none marked with a name or route specified. The locals in the taxis were always surprised to see us get in and offered good advice about their hometown once we broke the ice by asking questions. Later we got some take out at a hole in the wall Indian storefront. My favorite was the stuffed roti, or a pizza size piece of naan rolled around a curry stew of your choice, sort of like a big Indian burrito. The other local favorite was Bunny Chow, a ¼ or ½ loaf of white bread hollowed out and filled with beans or a curry stew. Either one was a filling choice for two people and at just over a buck.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next day I explored some of the city on my own and wandered around downtown until I got lost among the Indian spice markets and other small businesses. The scene was vibrant and the people watching was on hyper drive. “Why do you not come into my store?” I heard from behind me. “Excuse me?” “Why do you not stop in my store?” A small elderly Indian woman was standing in front of a kitchen supply shop. “Well, I don’t cook very much.” “How do you eat?” “I spend too much money in restaurants.” You need a wife, why do you have no wife? You marry me and I cook for you.” “Okay, what time are you off?... alright, I will pick you up at 5:00 and we will go and get married.” Based on the rolling eyes of the man in the background, presumably the owner, he had seen this sales pitch before.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After many hours, my feet were getting tired. As I looked for a taxi going back to my side of town I was aware that I had not seen many white people. No more than a few at best. On my way home, I jumped out at the new shopping mall along the way to look for a Lonely Planet guidebook on Southern Africa. Upon entering the mall, “Ah, this is where all the white people go.” The place was packed for a weekday during work hours. I would later read “malls” referred to as “white habitats”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The toll road, N3 from Durban to Johannesburg cost me nearly $40 US. Where in many countries motorcycles get a free pass or at least a reduced rate, here they are charged they same as cars. Approaching Jo’burg, or Jozi as they call it, I became more and more anxious - no place has come with so many warnings of violent crime.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I arrived during rush hour traffic and did not find my backpackers until after dark. The place was perfect for shooting a movie about a scary turn of the century mental asylum. It had been converted from an old mansion and the large rooms were now filled with metal beds and nothing else. It was stark and clinical in a third-world early 1900’s kind of way. I feared of a forced lobotomy in the middle of the night and quickly checked out first thing in the morning. My new place was in a converted house with lots of charm and was only a few blocks away from the shops and cafes on 7<sup>th</sup> Street in the Melrose district near the University. Much better. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">During my transition from Cape Town to Jo’burg, Achmat had turned “my care” over to his buddy Rashaad. Rashaad was also making his way up the continent on his own journey and had just returned from a trip to Tanzania, where his KLR 650 is there waiting for the next leg of his journey. Rashaad was immensely helpful and we shared several dinners together. He also took me to buy a new camera when mine failed and to shop for a mosquito net. At the time of this writing, Rashaad had taken advantage of an impromptu family trip to India and is now riding a rented Ensfield around the Himalayas. He also took me to a presentation hosted by <a href="http://toursforafrica.co.za/">Cytech</a>, a local motorcycle touring company. The presentation was about their recent Cape to Cairo trip.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I received a lot of information there and met a lot of like-minded people eager to travel Africa on big dual-purpose bikes. I met a couple there and mentioned that I would soon be relocating from Jo’burg to the capital Pretoria so that I could be near the embassies - I wanted to try and sort out some visa issues, specifically Ethiopia and Sudan. “You should stay with us, we live there” (words that would later come back to haunt them).</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I continued my stay in Jo’burg and had warmed up to the place. I felt plenty safe walking to my favorite coffee shop for morning coffee and free internet (most of South Africa hotels are still charging for internet time.) Every morning I walked by all the houses hidden behind a high cement security walls topped with electric fences and/or razor wire. It was a city of walls. The home security firm ADT roamed the neighborhoods with its own patrol cars manned by agents armed like they were in Afghanistan. I also noticed that not many people walked, jogged, or took their dogs or kids for a stroll. People were pretty much dependent on their cars, like in the States, but maybe more so. Everywhere I went or the places where Rashaad took me, I felt fine and any sense of danger soon vanished. Listening to the news you would hear of bad things happening, but not as much as you would of thought, based on the amount of visible security measures.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After a visit to the Apartheid Museum south of town I decided to take the bike out to the famous township of Soweto (South Western Township). After the gold strike of the 1880’s, Johannesburg suffered a housing crisis. The white Afrikaans in charge decided to segregate the population based on race and developed housing areas where the blacks and coloured people would be forced to live – however not too far away because their cheap labor was still needed to work the mines. As history goes, this kind of segregation continued until it went into full effect in 1948 when the then ruling National Party legislated racism under the name of Apartheid.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Racial classification was the foundation of all apartheid laws. It placed individuals in one of four groups: African, described as ‘Bantu’ in apartheid laws, ‘colured’, ‘Asian’ or ‘white’.</i><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>-from a museum placard</p> <!--EndFragment--><div> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>870</o:Words> <o:characters>4962</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>41</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>9</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>6093</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">South Africa was soon cut off from the rest of the world through sanctions and embargoes, and public demonstrations in the townships reached a boiling point in the 1970’s. The most famous of these uprisings occurred in Soweto in 1976, after a sudden change in government policy called for all schools to begin teaching classes in the Afrikaans language rather than English. Many of the black students had just learned English, or were in the process, and to introduce a new language (not to mention that of their oppressors’) overnight was too much. Many of the teachers did not even know the language. The student uprising became violent and many people were killed. One of the first to be killed by police was 12-year old Hector Pieterson. Now there is an impressive museum in Soweto commemorating the uprisings and casualties named after Hector.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Soweto is a huge sprawl of cement block Monopoly game piece type houses. Mountains of the tailings from the nearby goldmines border the township, and on one edge, the new soccer stadium constructed for the recent World Cup competition. A few blocks from the Hector Pieterson Museum is Nelson Mandela’s first house. Down the street from that is Desmond Tu Tu’s old house. It is the only street in the world that housed two Nobel Peace Prize winners.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Both museums offer a sobering and emotional look into the scarred history of this troubled country and it is hard not to form a “rebound” prejudice against the way things are here, but in reality, there has not been a country yet that I have visited that is innocent of committing crimes against it’s people. The thing about South Africa’s secret was that it was always a public secret. It was out in the open. Not that this makes it any more digestible or any easier to understand mind you. </p><p class="MsoNormal">During my time in the country I have listened to how locals old enough to have lived during that era talk about this period, many times it sounds something like “Because of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">situation </i>here at the time….” or "due to what was going on here ....". I do not want to speculate on what is said behind closed doors from many, racism still exist everywhere, but all the people I met seemed genuine and eager for even better race relations. It is clearly going to take some time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The last thing on my Jo’burg “to do” list was to get my rear shock looked at. Yes, the one that was just rebuilt in Buenos Aires. One day in the Transkei, the shock just went “soft”. I found Rob of RD Racing and he rebuilt the shock again, this time to Ohlins’ official specifications. He was nice enough to not to charge me. From his shop in Jo’burg I left for the capital Pretoria to stay with Claire and Euan, the couple from the presentation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My plan was to take my file of photocopies and collected documents to the embassies in town to try and procure my visas for some of the more difficult countries. Claire dropped me off at the Ethiopian embassy and I quickly learned how fruitless this idea was going to be and soon dropped the whole idea. I will deal with it all later.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Over the weekend, Claire and Euan took me to the nearby game park of Pilanesberg northwest of town. Waking at 4:00-am assured us of some good viewing time while the animals were active in the cool morning air. During the drive I was surprised at how many (platinum) mines we passed to get to the park. This was to be my first real chance to see some African wildlife, and we were fortunate to see plenty; white rhinos, giraffes, elephants, jackals, hippos, and a variety of the local antelope species. From a distance we saw a lioness with her cub and male lion, but it was pretty far away. By about 10:00, the animals started finding shade and soon were no longer visible from the car’s windows (understandably, it is not allowed to get out of your car) and rightfully so because it was getting damn hot, over a 100 for sure.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Claire was raised in South Africa and Euan was Scottish working on the construction of a massive new coal burning power plant nearby. They were married in the UK when Claire was there working. They were gracious hosts and willingly shared their beautiful home with me. As I planned to depart, Euan and I decided to take the bikes up Sani Pass to the kingdom country of Lesotho. It met a trip down back towards Durban, but on roads more interesting than the toll road. Sani Pass is quite famous among overland travelers and it is something to be able to say, "I did it”. The last half-mile of the pass was as technical as anything I had ridden in quite some time. The switchbacks were steep and the rocky ground incredibly loose. When stopping the bike near the top, the front brake could not hold the bike and the bike would slide backwards on the loose dirt. Euan has made up to the top before, but on this trip his clutch burnws out near the top. I made it up, but had a nice surprise when I got back down to the bottom. </p><p class="MsoNormal">(Rather than traveling through Lesotho Euan had to take car (thankfully Claire had followed us up the pass in the Land Rover) down to town and bring back a trailer to get his bike off the mountain. This meant that we were going back to Ken's house for the night, Claire's uncle. I did not mind a bit. We spent the previous night at Ken's and it was an incredible experience for me to stay in one of the typical farmhouses that I had admired from the road. Ken moved his young family to this farmland over 40-years ago. First they lived under an umbrella, and then upgraded into a tent while Ken built the earthen-walled farmhouse from scratch. It has not always been easy, mostly quite hard in fact, but Ken has lived his life according to Ken and I really admire that. Hemingway once wrote of a man knowing "the truth of things", and I thought of this when I met Ken.)</p><p class="MsoNormal">While Euan was making arrangements for his bike. I noticed that my front shock had blown its seal and was now leaking oil. YES, that other shock that was rebuilt in Buenos Aires - $550 completely wasted! YES, I was pissed! This time, Rob was unable to do the job due to some national races going on, so I found a contact from the local BMW dealer. This meant even more time at Claire and Euan’s. I really started to feel bad about being there so long, but I did not know what else to do. It had already been over a week. They were true saviors for me and I owe them an immense amount of thanks. The night before I left Claire put together a nice final supper on the patio with some bubbly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally, the bike was ready with fresh oil and stocked with plenty of water and Biltong -South Africa's version of beef jerky. I would spend 16-hours over the next two-days crossing the hot scrubby Kalahari Desert in southern Botswana on my way to, Namibia.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I enjoyed South Africa very much and feel like I have some new friends there. The cities seemed very much like prosperous areas of the United States and life there is very similar ours. Life in many of the rural areas seem more like life in a developing country but seemingly getting better. Few countries have the beauty and resources that South Africa has and is a wonderful place to visit. Two thumbs up for the modern day South Africa!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--></div><div><br /></div><div>Video of images for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8u6SkLXvSSg">South Africa 2</a></div><div>Video of the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVr52mz_AAI">Sani Pass trip.</a></div>My route through South Africa, <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203695261510725050303.0004b14a9502d8feb28e1&msa=0">Map of route.</a>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-82605679255326991292011-10-28T11:53:00.001-07:002011-11-08T06:23:27.386-08:00South Africa: Part I<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Oag17AbYRvI/TqvhNEFshjI/AAAAAAAABKE/CHmf6VOmnxo/s1600/IMG_9084.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Oag17AbYRvI/TqvhNEFshjI/AAAAAAAABKE/CHmf6VOmnxo/s320/IMG_9084.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668872170528081458" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CatwkkGkZek/Tqvd_r97yWI/AAAAAAAABJ4/1fWp-zS5vUo/s1600/IMG_9141.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FNJXnVQPyUQ/TqvcLGca45I/AAAAAAAABI0/RH-fcOE7v7w/s320/IMG_8993.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668866639242388370" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6eS3zkmZbiA/TqvcLBBf6AI/AAAAAAAABIo/xzXh5cZODEY/s1600/IMG_7831.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6eS3zkmZbiA/TqvcLBBf6AI/AAAAAAAABIo/xzXh5cZODEY/s320/IMG_7831.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668866637787293698" /></a> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>49</o:Words> <o:characters>280</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>2</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>343</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><b>SOUTH AFRICA</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><b>Languages:</b> 11 official languages, but most people speak English. Afrikaans is spoke by many, especially among whites. Xhosa and Zulu are two commonly spoke native languages. <span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><b>Money:</b> the Rand is approximately 7.50 to $1</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><b>Price of gas</b>: $5.15 a gallon, or $1.30 a liter</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><b>Miles traveled in country:</b> 3,000 </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">No visa required</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">After getting the bike out of customs I planned on taking some short trips around the region. I had a great little corner room at The Zebra Crossing backpackers (hostel) that had almost a full view of Cape Town’s famous Table Mountain so it made for a good home base. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I met Achmat through <a href="http://www.horizonsunlimited.com/">Horizons Unlimited’s </a>community program. The website is for overland travelers looking for current information. The “community” program is comprised of volunteers that make themselves available for advice about their hometown (e.g., I was a community member while living in Bolivia.) I had been communicating with Achmat from Buenos Aires and he had been very helpful preparing me for my entry into South Africa. Over dinner one night at the Eastern Bazaar, a collection of Indian and Malaysian food stalls under one roof, he tells me that his ancestors were from Malaysia and that his family has been in the Cape area for several generations. Back during Malaysia’s colonial rule, political troublemakers were sent off to this area of South Africa. The English did the same with non-compliant citizens from India during their rule there, but sent them off to the Durban area of South Africa. Now you have large populations of Malay and Indian people in the country along with their cultural and, thankfully, gastronomic influences.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">(I should mention, during this time I am still having some difficulty having a conversation in English, instead always wanting to answer in Spanish. It is wonderful to hear English everywhere, but when I try to respond I first have to see the word in Spanish and then translate it back into English in my head, creating a lapse in my response, thus making me look like a complete idiot.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Achmat and I decided on a weekend trip to Cape Agulhas, the southern most part of Africa, and my first glimpse of the Indian Ocean.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">During our ride we stopped for coffee in the wine town of Stellenbosch before catching the N2 to Swellendam. It was another cloudless blue-sky day with temperatures in the low 70s. We took beautiful dirt roads south to Arniston - a scenic little fishing village made up of a of simple whitewashed stone houses capped with thatched roofs. The Indian Ocean made for a beautiful backdrop. I sat on my bike as Achmat talked to a local about buying one of the houses for a weekend getaway. As I waited, I sat and watched as an elderly woman slowly made her way to the shore to watched the sunset, occasionally ducking behind a wall to get out of the wind. No luck. Only the locals could buy property due to the fact that they whole village was now a national heritage site.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">That night we stayed at a friend of Achmat’s house. In the morning we packed up and headed off to Cape Agulhus. Being the most southern point of the continent, it is also the point that acts as the dividing line between the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. We then took the coastal route on the way home, a route that seemed like a compressed “greatest hits” version of California’s AIA route. Along the way we stopped for a break at one of the many beaches along the road. Sitting there, Achmat told me how he and his high school buddies once skipped school to come here and surf - and ended up in jail. During apartheid this was declared a “Whites Only” beach, and he and his friends were classified as “coloured” on their national ID cards. The “Coloured” classification sat in between the “black” and “white” classifications. He laughed as he remembered his parents picking him up at the police station. I didn't see the humor. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Back at the Zebra, I splurged on a day of shark cage diving and a few trips to my favorite new haute, Hudson’s Burger Joint on Kloof Street. An honest burger and glass of South African’s signature Pinotage wine is hard to beat.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">All good things must come to an end, so I set out to leave Cape Town on October 5<sup>th</sup>. Achmat was nice enough to head out of town with me as far as Worcester. From there I would make my way along the famed Route 62. The two-lane blacktop reminded me very much of a typical road in the American Southwest. October was ideal time for blooming wild flowers. It was another perfectly clear day. I was told of one landmark to look out for along the route.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">In the middle of nowhere lies Ronnie’s Sex Shop. Legend has it that Ronnie decided to take over a dilapidated cottage many years ago in hopes of selling fresh produce to the infrequent passer-by. Maybe not the most thought out business plan, but oh well. One night, some friends, perhaps under the influence (?), decided to pull a prank on Ronnie and painted the word “sex” on the side of the building. Overnight Ronnie’s Shop became Ronnie’s Sex Shop and business has been great ever since. Selling produce gave way to opening a bar, as beer is more profitable than broccoli, and has since become world famous. The interior is decorated with business cards and hanging panties and bras – I suppose the women were just shedding a layer of clothing to contend with the desert heat. It was all very reminiscent of Mike’s Sky Ranch in Baja.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">From Ronnie’s, I continued on to Oudtshoorn, the ostrich capital of South Africa -where you can ride and eat the birds all in the same afternoon. From there I crossed over the Swartberg Pass to stay the night in the lace and doily rich B&B town of Prince Albert (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbTcbm5-Q6Q">see Video</a>).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Skip ahead a bit, and I am further up the coast in the town of Prince Alfred (named after Prince Albert’s son). With the goal of making it to the port city of Durban I have a few more days of riding along the coast to get there. However, whenever I mentioned this route, the Transkei, I am met with warnings; “don’t ever leave your bike”, “gas up before you get to the larger cities”, “don’t stop at the red lights, just keep going”. I was told that all the rural people come into the larger towns on Fridays to spend the weekend to do their shopping or to sell their wares, and it can be a bit lawless and dangerous.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">As usual, I found the Transkei the complete opposite and I thoroughly enjoyed it. The countryside was big sky over rolling hills carpeted with cropped green grass. Small homesteads were spread out along the horizon. I would come to learn later that the small circular mud bricked houses with conical thatched or metal roofs were known as Rondavel houses and the people that lived in these parts were of the Xhosa ethnic group. Nelson Mandela was in fact the son of a Xhosa chief from the Transkei. School kids in uniforms walked home from school along the two-lane highway and always returned my wave. I finally felt like I was getting into the real Africa. I did go through those lawless towns and found them bustling with life and activity. Tables had been set up on the sidewalks to sell shoes, household soaps, plumbing supplies, or whatever. The streets were busy with people talking and laughing under the shade of simple umbrellas. Perhaps things get out of hand later in the night, but for now, I was envious of all the fun they were having, but then again, I was busy having my own fun. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Along the Transkei, I passed a slower bike with German plates and with only one pannier. I passed him and pulled over well up ahead and waited. Chris had just completed a Germany to Cape Town trip in eight months and was now on his way to Durban to ship his bike to Australia. We were both heading to the beach area of Port St. John for the night and decided to ride together and camp at a backpacker that he knew about. Over many Castle beers Chris told me of his trip down the continent and of his round the world trip back in the 90’s. He also told me of his two recent ankle operations, one in Ethiopia after a taxi van sideswiped his bike, taking a pannier and almost his foot with it, and the other operation in Uganda to correct the surgical mistakes made in Ethiopia. “Ah, the Germans are always so hardcore!” Hung-over, the next morning we crawled out of our respective tents and watched South Africa’s Springboks get eliminated from rugby’s World Cup by Australia. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Video of images to accompany post:<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJ3Btq-ZoU4"> VIDEO</a></span></p> <!--EndFragment--><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-5883859134449685082011-10-02T01:31:00.000-07:002011-10-03T23:18:28.468-07:00Chapter Two: Africa<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HyVzViROb6M/TogkQJK0sMI/AAAAAAAABIQ/NJvRuZ1W18A/s1600/IMG_8903.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HyVzViROb6M/TogkQJK0sMI/AAAAAAAABIQ/NJvRuZ1W18A/s320/IMG_8903.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658812791548850370" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WxB2n1PWOhU/TogkP4t-u1I/AAAAAAAABII/K0s8PwiPFg4/s1600/IMG_8919.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 174px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WxB2n1PWOhU/TogkP4t-u1I/AAAAAAAABII/K0s8PwiPFg4/s320/IMG_8919.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658812787132906322" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VSvqgPx52pY/Togjj7yxN1I/AAAAAAAABIA/paYex1kWxOg/s1600/IMG_8989.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VSvqgPx52pY/Togjj7yxN1I/AAAAAAAABIA/paYex1kWxOg/s320/IMG_8989.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658812032044054354" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MFTElj8mWEk/TogjjpWZaxI/AAAAAAAABH4/4TJxmvJlwEw/s1600/IMG_8976.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MFTElj8mWEk/TogjjpWZaxI/AAAAAAAABH4/4TJxmvJlwEw/s320/IMG_8976.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658812027093216018" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OMQCgTAeS9g/TogjjR4vY7I/AAAAAAAABHw/IpxRKRl_Gso/s1600/IMG_7832.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /><br /><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px; " src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OMQCgTAeS9g/TogjjR4vY7I/AAAAAAAABHw/IpxRKRl_Gso/s320/IMG_7832.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658812020794811314" /></a></div><div> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>598</o:Words> <o:characters>3412</o:Characters> <o:company>self</o:Company> <o:lines>28</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>6</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>4190</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">The September 23rd flight to South Africa was nearly nine hours long and moved the clock five-hours ahead from Buenos Aires time. The temperature in Cape Town was a good 15-degrees warmer (85F), people drove on the wrong side of the road, preferred rugby to soccer and spoke English (to me anyway). It was all very different, very fast.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My bike had arrived the day before on a separate South African Airline flight. I was able to ship all my tools, spare parts and riding suit/helmet with the bike for a total of $1,780. I had to remove the windscreen, mirrors and front wheel to make the bike smaller. The battery had to be disconnected and tires flattened (so they would blow up, which is ridiculous) and gas tank empty. Custom officers asked me about what was in the luggage, but never actually looked at anything. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Cape Town is a stunning city, geographically laid out around its famous Table and Lion’s Head Mountains and the Atlantic shore. Everything you need is here, as South Africa appears to be very much be a first world country – depending on where you look. Politically, lines are still divided by the color of skin and the Ferrari and Bentley car dealerships are only a few miles away from sad and neglected townships. These shantytowns are jam-packed with shacks thrown together with corrugated metal and other found scrap material. This view of Cape Town is very much like a third world country. To say that there is no middle-class here is a huge under statement. The “haves” and the “have-nots” are oceans apart. Talking to locals and you sense a lot has changed since Nelson Mandela was elected president in 1994 and the abolishment of apartheid, but it may take a couple more generations of healing and cooperation before South Africa’s beauty is more than just skin deep.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Regarding my travels, Chapter Two, as we can call it, looks something like this: I will travel from Cape Town to Istanbul, Turkey. If I make it that far, I will reassess my options on what is next. One option is to then travel east on the old trading route of the Silk Road with the goal of reaching Mongolia (Chapter 3). From there, if at all possible, I would venture up into Russia to meet up with the Siberian railway to catch a ride to the Pacific coast (Chapter 4). The final chapter would then be a short plane ride to Alaska and a ride down to Seattle where it all began. Or, another option is I get to Istanbul and decide I have had enough.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">One thing is certain, if I have any chance of carrying through with the aforementioned plan, timing will be crucial. I am now two-months shy of the summer rainy season in Sub-Saharan Africa, where heat and malaria are at their highest. If I want to continue east from Turkey, it would have to be in the warmth of next spring, and I would then have only until to early September to get to Alaska before the weather make the route impassable, or at least very uncomfortable. What all this means is that I have got to pick up the pace!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Nothing is certain, but I feel fairly sure that I do not have another two years on the road left in me. In fact, I came very close to shipping the bike home from Argentina, rather than to Africa.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back when I first arrived in Buenos Aires (July 12th), I felt like I had had enough. The 5,000-mile crossing of Brazil and Uruguay left me feeling flat and I felt like I wasn’t getting much out of the experience any more. Don’t get me wrong, the people of Brazil were some of the friendliest on the trip, and the city of Montevideo was a pleasant surprise, but I wasn’t really feeling the love from the road that I once had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In Buenos Aires, I was convinced I was going home and made preparations in that direction. However, with some time to recharge my batteries, I now feel good about continuing. The bike was gone through by Javier at Dakar Motos with parts shipped down from Seattle, and now is fixed and running great.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just yesterday, I returned from a little two-day shakedown run to Cape Agulhas, the southern most point of the continent. Everything went well and in a couple of days will start my trip north, to Botswana. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">That’s about it for Chapter Two page one.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ms3EAFeAMc">Video of some of South Africa's notorious White Sharks</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p> </p> <!--EndFragment--></div><div></div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-42831682653874735652011-09-22T05:36:00.000-07:002011-10-02T05:15:50.421-07:00Next Chapter<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zYdTw3D3eSE/Tnstmv0dGrI/AAAAAAAABHU/tQan7trKxZ4/s1600/IMG_8890.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zYdTw3D3eSE/Tnstmv0dGrI/AAAAAAAABHU/tQan7trKxZ4/s320/IMG_8890.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655163900788546226" /></a><br />September 22, 2011<div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow I leave Buenos Aires to fly to South Africa, where my bike is waiting. From there, the next leg of the journey will be from Cape Town to Istanbul, Turkey. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4PHxEmkTVg">Here is a collection of images from my two month stay in Buenos Aires.</a></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-67082041896455312082011-07-18T07:11:00.001-07:002011-08-01T15:55:22.485-07:00On a Mission<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DLWffUz0AaQ/TiRELsXuPJI/AAAAAAAABGY/OtpvPPA9CrY/s1600/IMG_7034.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DLWffUz0AaQ/TiRELsXuPJI/AAAAAAAABGY/OtpvPPA9CrY/s320/IMG_7034.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630700401799871634" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Concepcion<div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RLfzzrhNVJY/TiRELJhwp8I/AAAAAAAABGQ/vZU7dzobPL0/s1600/IMG_8108.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RLfzzrhNVJY/TiRELJhwp8I/AAAAAAAABGQ/vZU7dzobPL0/s320/IMG_8108.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630700392446732226" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>San Ignacio<div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I9OTXwpeG4k/TiRDNKX9v_I/AAAAAAAABGE/Ki_-EPAeMrM/s1600/IMG_7073.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I9OTXwpeG4k/TiRDNKX9v_I/AAAAAAAABGE/Ki_-EPAeMrM/s320/IMG_7073.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630699327522193394" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Concepcion</div><div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PCeDDWCU8WM/TiRDM-OWcZI/AAAAAAAABF8/SIu7DT2TbgM/s1600/IMG_8160.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PCeDDWCU8WM/TiRDM-OWcZI/AAAAAAAABF8/SIu7DT2TbgM/s320/IMG_8160.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630699324260643218" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>San Miguel</div><div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3IkLeFxllCc/TiRDM3FDyXI/AAAAAAAABF0/wsn65BvQbpc/s1600/IMG_8060.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3IkLeFxllCc/TiRDM3FDyXI/AAAAAAAABF0/wsn65BvQbpc/s320/IMG_8060.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630699322342623602" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Concepcion</div><div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zBx806jjkpE/TiRA1WZfHiI/AAAAAAAABFo/eJyoSYOnddo/s1600/IMG_8104.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zBx806jjkpE/TiRA1WZfHiI/AAAAAAAABFo/eJyoSYOnddo/s320/IMG_8104.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630696719409684002" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Majadito</div><div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8D0ntjKfiaM/TiRA1bBnmDI/AAAAAAAABFg/Q5aNAtvPXoY/s1600/IMG_8125.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8D0ntjKfiaM/TiRA1bBnmDI/AAAAAAAABFg/Q5aNAtvPXoY/s320/IMG_8125.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630696720651753522" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>San Miguel</div><div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o5uFrp-TIWw/TiRA1JRzi0I/AAAAAAAABFY/z1bzf-U9fxo/s1600/IMG_7071.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o5uFrp-TIWw/TiRA1JRzi0I/AAAAAAAABFY/z1bzf-U9fxo/s320/IMG_7071.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630696715887807298" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Concepcion</div><div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--xj1K2MaGEI/TiQ_US4IFxI/AAAAAAAABFM/61uqk9j__6A/s1600/400px-Jesuit_Missions_of_the_Chiquitos-en.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 194px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--xj1K2MaGEI/TiQ_US4IFxI/AAAAAAAABFM/61uqk9j__6A/s320/400px-Jesuit_Missions_of_the_Chiquitos-en.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630695052017145618" /></a><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Loop of Jesuit Missions</div></div><div><br /></div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I needed to see another old church like I needed another hole in my head. However, since being in Bolivia, I have been intrigued by the Jesuit settlements in the jungles of eastern part of the country. </p> <!--EndFragment--> </div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">The Catholic Church sent a group of Jesuits to some hellacious “off the map” places some 300-years ago to convert the nomadic jungle tribes to Christianity. During the same period, the Portuguese were also in area and had more "laborious" intentions for the indigenous people. The Jesuits were soon forced out, and boundaries were established between Brazil and what would become Bolivia. However, before their forced exodus, the Jesuits built these amazing <a href="http://http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jesuit_Missions_of_the_Chiquitos">missions</a>, or “reductions” as they were then called.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The post and beam construction with thatched roofs utilized materials from the cleared rain forest and the architectural style incorporated a fusion of European design and Indian styles, making them unique to anything else that had been built at that time. The non-supporting walls were made of adobe. Many of the missions on the UNESCO list were restored in the 1970’s.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now in the thick of winter, the dense lowlands are still very hot and humid. I cannot, and do not even want to try to think how miserable it is in the summer months, or how hard it is to get there. Red dirt roads plagued with huge potholes were the only choice. The potholes were impossible to avoid. Imaging what the Jesuits must have gone through to get to these places, to get through the virgin jungle is beyond my capacity.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The missions survived the exodus/slaughter and the local people that survived continued to use the buildings for worship. The Jesuits famously used music as a tool to attract and convert the “savages”, and this has become an important legacy of the missions. Children are still taught how to play music on “western instruments” on site. I was lucky enough to enjoy an impromptu recital by three young girls on violins at the San Miguel mission.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Due to heavy rains, I stayed a second night in the beautiful <a href="http://http://www.granhotelconcepcion.com/">Gran Hotel Concepcion</a> for about $25 a night, which included a breakfast of scrambled eggs, fresh papaya and pineapple and a selection of the local variations of empanadas. At night I would walk across the square to the Buon Gusto outdoor restaurant for their Majadito. Typical to the area, Majadito is a rice dish slow cooked with shredded dehydrated beef and seasoning, topped with a fried egg and plantain. The juices from the meat make the dish filling and tasty. Served with a salad and a cold Huari beer, it was good enough to repeat the next night – not there was much of a choice.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Another day spent on the bombed-out roads, viewing five of the six missions listed on the UNESCO list, and I had seen enough. I found a hotel just opened by a Belgian couple in the town of San Jose de Chiquitos and was in bed soon after checking in. I wanted to get on the paved road to the border as early as possible in the morning. However, waking up to a flat rear tire and leaking drive shaft changed those plans. ARGH!!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">For a good movie on the topic check out the Robert DeNiro, Jeremy Irons 1986 flick, </p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mission_(1986_film)">The Mission</a></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-20466302272671603072011-06-05T06:40:00.002-07:002011-08-01T15:43:39.950-07:00Ruta del Che<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cUPazo-5-G8/TiWLHpAfjxI/AAAAAAAABGs/c6uw8LRe-qA/s1600/IMG_7836.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cUPazo-5-G8/TiWLHpAfjxI/AAAAAAAABGs/c6uw8LRe-qA/s320/IMG_7836.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631059872479940370" /></a>Going away party<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9-vbMI2xfe8/TiWLHXbfxaI/AAAAAAAABGk/ZxLa4BrvUrg/s1600/IMG_7807.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9-vbMI2xfe8/TiWLHXbfxaI/AAAAAAAABGk/ZxLa4BrvUrg/s320/IMG_7807.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631059867761362338" /></a>Cake in a box<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Udr3nfolpts/TeufeAe5P5I/AAAAAAAABE8/M9swI9pRtEY/s1600/IMG_7971.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 179px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Udr3nfolpts/TeufeAe5P5I/AAAAAAAABE8/M9swI9pRtEY/s320/IMG_7971.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614756698321928082" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I left Sucre on Monday June 30th and would have used the slightest excuse to stay another day or another week, but knew that would not make things any easier. On Sunday, the day before leaving, many of the kids from center came by the house to surprise me with a going away party. I had been tipped off a couple days prior but acted surprised when I swung the large wooden door open. Laughing hysterically at what they thought they had just pulled off, the children entered the expansive colonial courtyard. Eleven-year old Edmundo was carrying a cardboard box that when opened revealed a battered store-bought cake. Peering inside I asked if they had dropped the box down a flight of stairs or if it had fallen off the back of a truck. They played embarrassed as they lined up for a slice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was presented with many homemade cards and a plastic Chinese made wall clock as a going away gift. “Ah, just what I needed!” After some photos, they scurried off to their next soccer game. There were other goodbyes during that last week in Sucre, but that is the one I will remember the most, and the one that made me want to stay the most.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The plan was to head east and then cut up north to the financial capital of Bolivia, the city of Santa Cruz. On the way I would take the dirt roads and follow the Ruta del Che and visit the last stand of Che Guevara. After a brief stay in Santa Cruz, head north on even poorer roads to complete a loop of UNESCO World Heritage Site declared Jesuit missions. The end of the loop would put me a day’s ride out from the Brazilian border at Corumba.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As Fidel Castro’s right hand man during the Cuban revolution, Che Guevara had always wanted to export the revolutionary movement to South America. Forming many of his political ideals on his own motorcycle journey throughout the continent while in his early 20s, he wanted to right the many wrongs he had witnessed. Bolivia, which borders five countries, was to be the kick-off point for the new revolution. However, many mistakes where made from the onset, and things went from bad to worse once the CIA got word of their existence.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My first night outside of Sucre I stayed in the small town of Villa Serrano. The head cold that I had been fighting worsened and settled deep into my chest and I was forced to stay a second night. The following day I headed out on smooth dirt roads with several small water crossings to navigate. Always traveling alone, I did not have any photos of me riding in the mountains of Bolivia, so I spent some extra time in the morning shooting some video (see below). The roads were fast and fun, but as I got higher onto the ridge, the road conditions deteriorated. I should have slowed down. I hit several large rocks and potholes that jarred the bike and me. Around one corner, I heard a muffled crashing sound and pulled to edge of the road. It is a terrible necessity, and overall bad feeling to have to turn over your shoulder to look up the road for parts of your bike. There, about 30-yards up the road was my right pannier. The previous welds made in Sucre, ones that I knew would only be a temporary fix, turned out to be very temporary. Luckily, I was able to re-attach the pannier and continue – though much more slowly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Che’s ill-fated and ill-planned Bolivian campaign ended when a local villager informed the CIA trained military patrol of his whereabouts. He was captured and quickly killed while his hands where bound in a small mountaintop schoolhouse in the nothing-of-a-village, La Higuera. From there, his body was strapped to a skid of a helicopter and taken to the small town of Vallegrande. There, his body was put on display atop a laundry sink at the town’s hospital – a trophy on display for the international press.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Fearing that he would be viewed as a martyr and that his body would become a symbol for other revolutionaries, a small group of Bolivian soldiers secretly buried his body under the dirt runway of the local landing strip. For 30-years the location of his body remained a mystery, until a group of Cuban anthropologists found him in 1997, and transported his remains to Cuban where he now rests.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After visiting the now historic schoolhouse, I ventured on towards Vallegrande. The weather could not have been better, and other than tired shoulders and some coughing, it was a great day. The vistas were stunning with hazy blue mountains stacked up for as far as the eye could see. I was sad to be leaving the mountains that had become my home. </p><p class="MsoNormal">The dirt and clay roads were deeply rutted from previous rains and had dried hard and rigid, but manageable. I rolled into Vallegrande at about 3:30 and by 4:30 had checked into a $6 hotel, changed out of my riding suit and dropped off the pannier at a welding/machine shop on the outside of town. For $15 an aluminum plate would be welded to the inside panel of the box reinforcing all the weakened areas caused by previous breaks and welds. They would also machine a new mounting part that I noticed was missing from the opposing pannier. They promised the work done by noon the next day, giving me time to tour the sites of Che.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Since crossing into Mexico, Che’s presence has been a constant. His image is omnipresent. Whether it is on t-shirts, taxi or bus windows, stenciled graffiti, key chains … you name it, he is always there. I have tried to find greatness in him, reading his biography and his Bolivian journal, watching the movies, talking to Bolivians and Cubans, visiting museums and I could never really find what I was looking for. He is an icon, a man of his time and a man that was intensely committed to his ideals. He made the most of his life and I believe his intentions were honest - for this I respect his legacy. Seemingly, for a period of time, his stars aligned and he found himself in the right place at the right time and he changed history -there is no denying that fact. He has become an iconic image for college freshman and the oppressed poor everywhere. He represents change, albeit iron fist change. However, it is often overlooked that his vision of the “ideal man” was one that lived under the strictest of discipline and government control.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Last word: Some now call what is happening politically in South America, as “Che’s Revenge”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Hugo Chavez’s brand of government has spread to almost every South American government, wherever the majority of the population is indigenous and/or poor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Although, I would not call what has happened in Cuba and Venezuela a success story. What Cuba can be proud of, and largely thankful to Che, is a quality education and healthcare system. Cuba now trains young doctors from all over the world for free - even though the country cannot afford it. All Cuba asks is that graduates go back to their country and treat the rural poor. In fact, Santusa and Damian’s oldest son, Daniel, just graduated from the five-year medical program, gratis, room and board included. Now a doctor, he is back in Bolivia practicing in a small mountain village, treating people that otherwise would receive no care. Cuba also sends it’s own <a href="http://http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8059287.stm">doctors abroad</a> to staff clinics and hospitals where there is a shortage of physicians. In fact, the irony is not lost on the fact that Cuban doctors now staff the hospital where Che’s body was once displayed.</p> <!--EndFragment--> <div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Here is a short video of my time on the Ruta del Che<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iuwpNlkzg8Q">Video</a></div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-80040936043032727892011-06-05T06:40:00.001-07:002011-09-09T16:22:22.669-07:00Dos Hombres in the Land of the Lost<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">6:00-8:00 AM The Departure<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We woke at 5:00-AM for a 5:30 departure. We left at 6:00 with enough food to last us two days, thanks to Santusa also waking up with us to prepare some food for the journey. The motorcycle was squeezed through the house gate and loaded up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was a bit confused as to why we were to still going ahead with the trip. The night before Damian commented that he could not get in touch with his friend, our guide, on the phone –his number was not longer in service. I asked him if we would be able to find the tracks without a guide. He said no, he had never been there before himself and did not know the way. The hike was to be three hours in and three hours out. In the chill and darkness of the morning I decided not to question our actions, besides, the damage was done I was now wide awake and nursing a mug of instant coffee.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wearing several layers of clothes, we left Candalaria. The road would be cobblestone until Icla, then dirt to Uyuni, and rocky dirt to our destination. Several creek beds had to be crossed, with and without water, along with pockets of deep sand.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Two hours later I was waiting in the center of the village while Damian looked for his friend’s house. The village consisted of one street about three blocks long sitting at the foot of a wall of red rock. Memories of southern Utah came to me. He found the house, but his friend was not there, only his wife. In the house, a long discussion in Quechua ensued. I did not have a clue what was being said, but it was clear that the woman was not very happy to see us. Before setting off, I tried to park the bike up into their courtyard but could not get the rear wheel up and over the high curb. The crowd of 6-or-7 young boys offered no help.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">8:00-10:00 The Beginning<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The wife led us to a wide expansive mostly dry riverbed. She stopped there and pointed off into the far distance. It was now clear that we were proceeding without a guide. After the woman was out of earshot, I asked what was going on, “where is your friend?” “He lives in Santa Cruz now and has a new wife”, Damian replied. The tone of the conversation back at the house now made sense, but continuing without a guide did not.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The immediate goal was to follow the riverbed to where it snaked between two mountains. We came across a man with a donkey, then a group of kids in school uniforms, and a couple other men walking towards the village. I couldn’t figure out where they were coming from, where they lived. Damian asked each one for directions, but was not getting the information he needed. Finally, a man in his 30’s stopped and spoke to us, his tone seemed nicer than the rest (all conversations were in Quechua) and when it was over Damian reached into his Chuspa and gave the man a large pinched of coca leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“He told me that people do not want tourists coming here, and that is why the other people were not giving me the correct directions”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“GREAT”, I thought, “I just left my bike parked in the middle of a town full of unfriendlies!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, about 9:00 we followed the man’s directions further up the riverbed sidestepping large rocks and boulders while crossing the stream many times. It was already quite hot and I stopped to remove a layer of clothes. (Damian never even took off his corduroy blazer or wool hat.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>An hour later, we came across several dogs barking viciously. We picked up some rocks and sticks in preparation. Damian called out to a woman that was walking towards a primitive looking shelter. It took awhile for her to warm up, but finally she too got a pinch of coca. She had her hands full now, so I reached into my backpack for a small baggie of the leaves that I had picked up as a free sample from some coca growers at a coca fair in Parque Bolivar the day prior. It would be easier for her to carry, plus I thought it might be a beneficial gesture if the coca came from the gringo tourist. She warmed up some more.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">They talked and she led us past her house, past the goat pen to a smaller dry riverbed. There we waited while she came back with a bowl of boiled corn on the cob, or choclo. She also brought with her two fossilized shells and a hunk of solid copper. She sat and shared some of our boiled potatoes and oranges. It was a needed rest under a tree and we said good-bye, after I agreed to her asking price of 30 Bs ($4.20) for all three relics. I thought how I should have brought my GPS unit, not only to potentially save our lives, but also to sell the coordinates to the Chinese for the copper find.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">10:00-12:30 The Ascent<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At 10:00, we left the riverbed and started climbing per the woman’s directions. The new plan was that we were going to take a more direct route up and over the mountain in front of us, and then return by using a system of riverbeds back to town. We started climbing, and continued to climb. There was only a goat path to follow and goats do not use switchbacks to ascend, they get from A to B using the most direct path – in this case straight up. Being that Damian must be part goat, and well acclimated to the intense Bolivian sun; he had little difficulty with the climb. I was a different story. While in the riverbed I was able to wet a bandana in the stream and place it under my hat, but the climb had taken us away from any water. It was obvious that I was not prepared or equipped for a hike like this in the heat of the day and at 11,000-ft. By 12:00 I was experiencing symptoms of heat exhaustion. My head under my black cap was boiling and I was becoming lethargic and nauseous and we still did not know exactly where we were going.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The terrain was sparse and rocky with nothing but cactus, scrub brush and a few small pepper trees baking under the midday sun. The rock and ground looked of ancient lava. We came across another goat herder and asked for directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We were directed to a lone tree further up on the ridge. I told Damian that I did not think I could go on. We agreed to make it to the tree and decide there. Otherwise, the only way down was the way we came, which was steep and of loose rock. The only good thing about the ascent was that when turning around the views were stunning -full of red mountains, lush green foliage along the rivers and a clear blue sky. By the time I made it to the lone tree, well behind Damian, I was completely spent, useless. The high ridge dropped off into a deep crevice with a couple of thatched roofed homes at the bottom with crops of corn.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The wall of the opposing mountain was completely different from what we had seen all day. It was not desolate landscape of lava rock and cactus, but of smooth red rock dotted with tall Palm trees. “Palm Trees?” There was a creek running between the two mountains at the bottom of the “crevice”, the terrain along the water was green and fertile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The quest was over for me, but I had to admit, if we were going to find dinosaur tracks, there could not be a more primitive or bizarre looking setting as this. It was like cresting the ridge and finding the Land of the Lost.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">12:30-1:00 Tracks Discovered<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I followed Damian down to where the houses were and he told me to rest under the tree while he walked up the trail where the locals said the tracks were. I agreed, and collapsed under a tree. A small boy in ragged clothes stood and stared at me, probably never have seen a dying gringo before, or at least not one so pathetic. Damian came back just as I was dozing off. “The tracks are about three minutes away”, he said. “Verdad?” “Seriously?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The tracks were definitely impressive, much more than I had anticipated, and along with the surrounding scenery it was truly like traveling back in time. There was even evidence of an old Incan irrigation system carved into the rock next to the spring that was feeding the stream. This water source had apparently been supporting life for many, many years, and there was evidence of this all around us that told the story. With the palm trees and ample shade, the area was quite tranquil. After a few photos, and it already being 1:00, it was time to leave. After more advice from one of the resident families, we were off to follow a system of dry riverbeds until reuniting with the main river. The estimated time back to the bike was five hours.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">1:00-5:30 The Return<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We followed dry riverbeds for three hours before reuniting with the main river. During this time clouds started rolling in. The relief from the sun was divine, but then the rain started. The nausea would not go away. Once back in the larger riverbed we had to wait out a thunderstorm under a clump of trees at the river’s edge.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">5:30-7:30 The Road Home<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The motorcycle was how I left it, untouched. The woman came out to greet us and seemed to be in a much better mood. Damian and I agreed not to tell her, or anyone else who asked, that we had found the tracks – their secret would be safe with us. (However, it is just a matter of time before the secret gets out and the tour groups show up.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We blazed home and arrived back at the house at 7:30, a 13-hour day. Santusa had a plate of pasta waiting for me and Damian and I shared a beer together. By now, we were scrolling through my camera’s photos and laughing as we told the rest of the family what we had gotten ourselves into. Damian even admitted how tough it was, which boosted my spirits and ego some. I give him full credit for finding the tracks and getting us back safely, even if it was a bit longer than a six-hour hike.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here is a video I made of the trip for Damian, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrwOnn4fjls">Dos Hombres</a></p> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-19923557301578223862011-05-02T13:03:00.001-07:002011-05-13T15:14:18.245-07:00Leaving Bolivia<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rGh3vu_v6Tg/Tb8QKNXTbNI/AAAAAAAABDk/OA6Hvdta4p4/s1600/IMG_3029.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rGh3vu_v6Tg/Tb8QKNXTbNI/AAAAAAAABDk/OA6Hvdta4p4/s320/IMG_3029.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602214229044325586" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tM0sx1ulpNw/Tb8QJ7K71NI/AAAAAAAABDc/60py6jOaXSQ/s1600/IMG_7060.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tM0sx1ulpNw/Tb8QJ7K71NI/AAAAAAAABDc/60py6jOaXSQ/s320/IMG_7060.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602214224160609490" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s4D1cus6d1Q/Tb8QJGsV2HI/AAAAAAAABDU/3sV3SI6DKC8/s1600/IMG_7404.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s4D1cus6d1Q/Tb8QJGsV2HI/AAAAAAAABDU/3sV3SI6DKC8/s320/IMG_7404.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602214210073647218" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ANlO9yvRoPU/Tb8QIlkKyaI/AAAAAAAABDM/s2FMQMmP8hg/s1600/IMG_7296.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 179px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ANlO9yvRoPU/Tb8QIlkKyaI/AAAAAAAABDM/s2FMQMmP8hg/s320/IMG_7296.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602214201180998050" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(top photo courtesy of Steve Nute)</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Once back from The Island, I was fortunate enough to have three separate friends come and visit me - two from the States and one from Argentina. There was a celebration of my 2</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">nd</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> anniversary on the road, and a lot of good meals shared. After the last guest left I had nothing stopping me from packing up and finally moving on.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have long struggled with the idea of leaving and it has been heavy on my mind for many months now. Ongoing conversations with myself continue daily, about continuing my travels versus the urge to stay put and nurture my freshly sprouted roots. The process has been much more difficult than I had imagined – and I am growing concerned about all the voices in my head.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My situation deserves no sympathy, I realize this and I know how lucky I am to be in this conundrum. I arrived here one year ago almost to the day, exhausted and with my wanderlust largely satisfied. I had gone a year without hearing my name called in public or without being touched in any real meaningful way. In many respects, I had rolled into town on an empty tank.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Things are differently now. I cannot walk across the plaza without hearing my name called, no, shouted at least once. Maybe it’s Angelica selling birdseed in the square or small Ronaldo needing help washing the roof of a truck. And the beauty of it all is that I have the time to stop and help fill bags of birdseed or to wash the roof of that truck. It is my way of taking time to “smell the roses”, and its a daily occurrence. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">From my time volunteering with the working kids and just being around for so long I have acquired a large family of little people that supply me with a ton of laughter and affection. Thursdays I take a group of seven to the school for the deaf where we are all learning sign language so that they can talk to a young cousin that is hearing impaired. The outing is an absolute hoot, and I would hate to leaving with such a limited vocabulary.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have another family in the countryside whose art and way of living fascinates me. I had originally sought out to meet them because of how different they seemed, now their home has become my sanctuary. Recently we have had several conversations about me leaving and my potential return. “Yes, I definitely will be coming back”, I say. On my last visit I was asked when that might be. The only reply I could give, and an honest one at that was, “whenever I feel that my travels are over, maybe one, two, or five years from now”. Speaking in Quechua, but the message perfectly clear, the 82-year old grandmother said that five more years would probably not work for her. The room went silent and it struck me then that it could never be the same again, not as it is now. My little friends would have grown and some of my older friends would be gone.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In addition to my new families, I also have a beautiful, intelligent and loving woman here that wants me to stay. It is has been hard to explain why I am choosing the unknown over her.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">During this process, I have had to reevaluate what it is about traveling that is so important to me. I have always discounted the “what are you looking for” comment, and responded with something more like, “I am not looking for anything, its just what I like to do”, but recently those voices in my head have been asking, “why?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For me, at this point, what I expect from travel is:</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left:.75in;mso-add-space:auto; text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a)</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To experience diverse people and cultures,</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:.75in;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">b) To learn more about myself, and challenge my limits,</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:.75in;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">c)</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To participate in my surroundings, even if in small ways,</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:.75in;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">d)</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To allow an adventure to unfold everyday, and</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:.75in;mso-add-space: auto;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e)</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Ultimately, I set out to see as much of the planet as possible while still physically capable.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Through the practice of writing this all down, I realize that I am fulfilling much of what's on this list by being here, but it is not complete. Regardless, it feels like a waste to leave. But then again, it feels like a waste not to leave - to go out and see more. “Right?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That said, I have been actively trying to convince myself to move on, doing everything short of making flashcards of the following:</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l2 level1 lfo1"></p><ul><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As fascinating as the culture is here, it is a reminder of all the other interesting cultures yet to be experienced.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yes, these children are gorgeous, gracious and deserving, but so are so many more out there that you have not yet met. What about them?</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The seasons are lined up perfectly for leaving, but there is only short window of opportunity. The time to go is now!</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You gave up everything to do this. You owe it to yourself to keep going. It’s too soon to stop, and,</span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You can always come back.</span></li></ul><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, at this exact moment in time, the plan is this:</span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo2"></p><ul><li><span style="font-family:"Courier New";mso-fareast-font-family:"Courier New"; mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I will work to shed the extra baggage that I have picked up during my idle time here, both around my mid-section and around my apartment.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:"Courier New";mso-fareast-font-family:"Courier New"; mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I will read about the travels of others like I did before leaving Seattle, encouraging my mind to leave first - body and bike to follow later.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:"Courier New";mso-fareast-font-family:"Courier New"; mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I will focus my attention and research on Brazil and Africa.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:"Courier New";mso-fareast-font-family:"Courier New"; mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I will spend my remaining time here saying good-bye, with full intention of staying in touch.</span></li><li><span style="font-family:"Courier New";mso-fareast-font-family:"Courier New"; mso-bidi-Courier New"font-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I will anticipate a bout of Post Bolivian Depression, but will get through it. I will have new scenery, a new language and new culture to distract me.</span></li></ul><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Therefore, on May 29</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">th</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I will leave Sucre on my way to Brazil. Within four days of leaving I will be at entrance of the Pantanal, the world’s largest wetlands (aka: swamp) where I will dig out my mosquito spray and expired malaria meds. Will proceed next to the capital city of Brasilia to explore the architecture of Oscar Niemeyer, followed by the beaches and bikinis of Rio de Janeiro. From there, down the Atlantic coast through Uruguay ending in Buenos Aires. Once there I will make the decision to make the leap to South Africa, or commit to starting a life in South America.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I suppose the moral of this conundrum, is be careful what you wish for. You might get it!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Thanks for listening, the voices in my head have quieted.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div></div>Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-53988481095617326082011-05-02T07:45:00.001-07:002011-05-04T19:09:13.465-07:00Secret Agent Man<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uDTlqOv088g/TcAG6qrZS4I/AAAAAAAABDw/RR3mZ-eJDCU/s1600/IMG_6430.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 174px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uDTlqOv088g/TcAG6qrZS4I/AAAAAAAABDw/RR3mZ-eJDCU/s320/IMG_6430.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602485541407378306" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TBfXM55mcSM/Tb7GbmQzYMI/AAAAAAAABDA/Z-VLpWEJnjU/s1600/IMG_6069.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TBfXM55mcSM/Tb7GbmQzYMI/AAAAAAAABDA/Z-VLpWEJnjU/s320/IMG_6069.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602133163925266626" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yj7zX4YyJsc/Tb7GbUfMtHI/AAAAAAAABC4/i_D_1RibuCc/s1600/IMG_5874.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yj7zX4YyJsc/Tb7GbUfMtHI/AAAAAAAABC4/i_D_1RibuCc/s320/IMG_5874.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602133159153808498" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">A lot has happened, and nothing has happened since my last blog entry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am still here in Sucre struggling to make my next move. But first, an update on my activities since the chime of the New Year:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I spent the month of February on an island in the Caribbean. My girlfriend, Silvia, accompanied me for the first two weeks and flew back while I stayed on for an additional two (the bike stayed at my apartment for this trip).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“The Island” had long been on my list of places to visit as all my life I had heard family stories about what had happened there. Back in Guatemala I had bought the appropriate travel guide and started talking to my father about the trip. During our conversations on Skype we would go over Google Earth satellite photos on our respective computers. “Does that look the right place?” “Is that the bridge you remember?” Over a series of calls and sending screen shots of map images back and forth he was finally convinced that he had found the house where his father had died. My grandfather. Dad lived in the house as a 12-years old in 1953, while his father was stationed there with the U.S Army - until the time of this death at the age of 39.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was an excellent opportunity to talk more with my dad about this pivotal point in his life and learn more about my biological grandfather. I ordered a digital recorder from Amazon so that Dad could reminisce at will and send me his thoughts via email. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was never that close to the grandfathers that I had growing up - I don’t think either of them had ever picked up a baseball, as they just were not those kinds of guys. Though they were loving and had their qualities. As a kid I always envisioned that my “other grandfather” would have been the type to teach me how to throw a curve ball while sneaking in a few bawdy jokes every once in awhile. He would have been that kind of guy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was enjoying the conversations with Dad, but at the same time I was in awe of the technology that we were using. Having taken much of it for granted before, I kept thinking about how far things have come in my own lifetime. Not that long ago (okay, quite awhile ago) President Kennedy and his staff were scanning over fuzzy black and white photos from U2 spy planes, contemplating if what they were looking at was a stockpile of nuclear missiles or a truckload of drainage pipes in route to a new road works project. Now, here we were talking clearly, with video, some 8,000-miles away from each other looking at the same maps almost in real time taking a virtual tour of a neighborhood in a foreign country asking, “is that it?” And, it was free!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Once ready, the trip had alluded in Guatemala and once again while in Colombia. I had largely given up on the idea, but then thought my time here in Bolivia would be my last chance before leaving the continent. Finally on the island, and after Silvia had left, I enlisted the help of a local that I had befriended, “my fixer”, and we set out in a 1953 Pontiac taxi to find our key landmark -the long defunct dog track. From there we walked towards the creek along the main double lane boulevard stopping once to ask for directions, showing my Google Map print out, crossed over a small bridge and walked up a typical residential street. There it was, after so many conversations and daydreams about finding it, there it was right in front of me. A house.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Outside of my quest to find the house, I had never really thought about what I was expecting to get out of the experience. Maybe I thought it would bring me closer to something that I had always felt cheated on, or maybe feel closer to my dad, but standing in front of the house I felt nothing more than if I had been standing in the front of the house next door, or if I were to turn around and face that house. I waited, but nothing came. Sure, I envisioned my young father and uncles playing in the creek, or riding the horse that kept in the vacant lot, but no parting of the clouds or bolt of lightning occurred, just a mild sense of accomplishment.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Walking away I noticed a woman sleeping in a rocker on the upstairs porch next door, obviously into her 80’s or more. It was the house were all the kids, my aunt and uncles, were taken when my grandfather collapsed of a heart-attack while loading a moving van - they were in the process of moving to a new house cross-town. Suddenly, there was a glimmer of hope of a personal connection. I had my fixer friend Vivian ask the younger man, assumingly the son, in the driveway how long they had lived there. “Only two years. Why?” Never mind.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was meaningful project and I am thankful that I was able to go through with it, but it was also another example of the journey outshining the destination. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-801324209897600842011-01-06T05:53:00.000-08:002011-01-07T06:18:34.960-08:00Mercado Campesino<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXO6-4UnYI/AAAAAAAABCA/fK99XR-L4UQ/s1600/IMG_5295.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXO6-4UnYI/AAAAAAAABCA/fK99XR-L4UQ/s320/IMG_5295.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559076827765710210" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXO6k4CdzI/AAAAAAAABB4/duugoPQo_5Y/s1600/IMG_5296.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXO6k4CdzI/AAAAAAAABB4/duugoPQo_5Y/s320/IMG_5296.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559076820785198898" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXMayX0ezI/AAAAAAAABBs/osqzqtDPAPA/s1600/IMG_5297.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXMayX0ezI/AAAAAAAABBs/osqzqtDPAPA/s320/IMG_5297.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559074075629091634" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXMaiOJhPI/AAAAAAAABBk/rCEoyB0TOyU/s1600/IMG_5288_2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXMaiOJhPI/AAAAAAAABBk/rCEoyB0TOyU/s320/IMG_5288_2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559074071293560050" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXMaaC9HnI/AAAAAAAABBc/FnZIR9xo6-U/s1600/IMG_5299.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXMaaC9HnI/AAAAAAAABBc/FnZIR9xo6-U/s320/IMG_5299.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559074069099126386" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXMaOG0soI/AAAAAAAABBU/CWwGIAQC1dE/s1600/IMG_5298.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TSXMaOG0soI/AAAAAAAABBU/CWwGIAQC1dE/s320/IMG_5298.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559074065894126210" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Sunday 2, 2011</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Adequately caffeinated, I stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi. “Mercado Campesino, por favor”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">There are two markets in Sucre, the Mercado Central near the center of town, and the much larger Mercado Campesino on the other side of the tracks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The central market is rudimentary and authentic enough, but the market for the “country folk” is infinitely more interesting. It covers numerous more blocks and incorporates interior and exterior shop space.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Today’s safari was to buy some clothes for a family of four kids that have adopted me. They have been practically wearing the same clothes since I arrived.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The taxi fair had dropped from 6 Bolivianos back down to 4 Bs since the president rescinded a recent gas hike an hour before the ball fell for the New Year. I asked the driver to drop me off at the Ropa Americana area. There, vendors sell used clothing from the United States. The clothes that you thought were being donated to the poor is often times shipped in containers to Chile, sold to Bolivian brokers in bulk lots and trucked to Oruo where it broken down into smaller lots and sold to individual vendors. From there, the garage sale leftovers and Goodwill surplus ends up on the sidewalks of Sucre, and other towns. The same happens with toys. It has proven to be a good business opportunity for a lot of single mothers.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I walked a couple of blocks, sizing up the competition. Its not just about finding what you want it here and buying it, it is the tact in which you approach transaction - the art of the kill. I stopped at a bin of children’s t-shirts. I found a couple of shirts with beach themes, a mesh athletic jersey for Edmundo, and two fleece jackets for Maria and Anjelica, plus a couple of others plain shirt with Goodwill tags still attached. “Cuanto?” I asked, separating each one in high in the air so she could count. “110”, was her initial serve. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Game on! I took off my sunglasses so she could fully appreciate my “are you crazy lady” expression. I volley back with “no, no, no…60!”. She fires back a quick “100”. I put down a shirt and ask for a recount. She counters and we continue to volley. Before breaking a sweat we settle on 70 Bs, or $10. We both smile as I give her the exact change, and bid her a good day. Walking away I see an old Czech made Jawa motorcycle on the corner and walk over to take a photo of it. I hear someone shouting behind me and turn around. It’s the “venadora” that I just haggled with. I had accidently had given her an extra 20 and she was returning it to me. I give her a peck on her right cheek. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The tone was set for the rest of the day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Mercado stretches for many blocks in every direction. For the most part it is divided up into sections. I would not use the term “organized”, but the fruit people pretty much hang with other fruit people, the toy people stay with other toy people, and so on. The ceramic Jesus people would never be found close to the bootleg DVD people. There are blocks and blocks of fruit, pastas, rice, household goods, blocks of meat separated by whether it moo’d, oink’d, or bok bok bok’d. All the essentials are here – like an outdoor Wal-Mart, farmer’s market and giant flea market all rolled into one.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After an hour I was completely lost, partially by design. I came across some basic but interesting potato and sugar sacks that my dad could try selling on Ebay, then an intricate embroidered tapestry that might make a good Ebay item as well. My Mexican beach bag that I brought with me was filling up. I stopped at a stall of dried toucan heads and llama fetuses. I paused and tried thinking of a good Ebay description, “Rid your home of unwanted spirits. Completely natural, no chemicals necessary” or “Jerky for your cat.” I thought better of it and moved on.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After finding a “tres por cinco” bin and buying three more shirts for 5 Bs, it was lunchtime. A fried chorizo sandwich with a smear of extra grease across the bun would keep me going a couple more hours. Dessert was a fried Churro (fried donut-like dough) with a warm chocolate sauce injected in the middle upon ordering.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Though I made some worthy purchases, the day was really just about walking around soaking in the smells, sights and overall good vibe. Block after block countless vignettes played out before me; the bewildered kid staring at his dropped ice cream frozen in shock, the toothless old woman wrapped in a blanket laughing on a cell phone, the nursing mother jokingly trying to get me to pay 5 Bs for taking a photo of her chilies, the disembodied pig’s head wearing an eternal smile, a woman selling press-on gold caps for your front teeth.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was a day of cheap entertainment from the other the side of the tracks, often times the more interesting side. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-2827708363106780412010-12-28T04:56:00.000-08:002011-01-03T10:57:43.879-08:00Christmas 2010<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnjbQpQ8ZI/AAAAAAAABBI/LqRIfmxLHD0/s1600/IMG_5214.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnjbQpQ8ZI/AAAAAAAABBI/LqRIfmxLHD0/s320/IMG_5214.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555721672802234770" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnil-9dbfI/AAAAAAAABA8/qkT6hoW_6U8/s1600/IMG_5219.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnil-9dbfI/AAAAAAAABA8/qkT6hoW_6U8/s320/IMG_5219.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555720757522034162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnil-sEGeI/AAAAAAAABA0/VxLWBEoDq94/s1600/IMG_5210.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnil-sEGeI/AAAAAAAABA0/VxLWBEoDq94/s320/IMG_5210.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555720757449071074" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnilozLXEI/AAAAAAAABAs/uD18UEmHnG0/s1600/IMG_5595.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnilozLXEI/AAAAAAAABAs/uD18UEmHnG0/s320/IMG_5595.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555720751573326914" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnilR9p-LI/AAAAAAAABAk/-sOgZm2IKrE/s1600/IMG_5208.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRnilR9p-LI/AAAAAAAABAk/-sOgZm2IKrE/s320/IMG_5208.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555720745443260594" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRniky-4RuI/AAAAAAAABAc/XOVhXcSdCjg/s1600/IMG_5244.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRniky-4RuI/AAAAAAAABAc/XOVhXcSdCjg/s320/IMG_5244.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555720737126893282" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Three days before Christmas the poor started coming to town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> C</span>ampesinos from nearby mountain villages come to Sucre every year in hopes of receiving food and money from charitable hands.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Women, burdened with a blanket-load of supplies and three or four small children in tow, walk the city knocking on doors or following the stream of people to the next church or organized handout location. Once there, do-gooders dole out individual packets of milk, yogurt, bread or cookies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You can always tell where a “gathering” had taken place from the trash strewn about - the charitable groups never think of bringing a trashcan.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Though Sucre experiences this pilgrimage every year, there would be no facilities waiting for these people. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They sleep in the parks or huddled in doorways. To make matters worse, it is now the rainy season and spontaneous downpours are good for washing the urine from the streets, but it does not bode well for those who put it there.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Christmas day I sat in the main plaza and soaked it all in. It was an incredibly sad thing to witness, but at the same time it had a palpable energy to it that was hard to walk away from. Every 20 to 30-minutes a SUV or truck would stop curbside along the plaza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A silent alarm would seemingly go off as children, dirty hungry children, would sprint across the plaza in their Chinese plastic or tire tread sandals to receive what was being handed out. Attempts at forming a line never came to fruition because everybody knew from experience that there would not be enough for everyone – it was first come first serve, survival of the fittest. Within 10-minutes the now empty SUV would close it’s doors and drive off.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I came across a couple young girls that spend time at the center where I volunteer. As we chatted and watched the “well off” kids play with their new Christmas toys around the statue of the city’s namesake, they told me that they were not having a very good Christmas. They did not get any toys, “We never do”, was their very matter-of-fact reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not bitter, they were just stating the facts with a smile on their face and a shrug in their shoulders, reinforcing what I have learned during my time here – Bolivians, especially children, accept their fate with great attitude and absolution, a cruel symptom of an ugly class system. They know they are second-rate citizens and matter little. Mid-sentence, they were off, reacting to yet another plaza stampede.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The day after Christmas the Bolivian government announced a 70% increase in gasoline and an 85% increase in diesel fuel. Everything will soon be more expensive. The poor just got poorer. In response to the announcement, the transportation union and drivers announced that they would go on an indefinite strike starting the following day. No micros (small buses) or trucks would be running for the time being. For now, there is no ride home, and when there is a ride home, it will cost twice as much as it did to get here.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just another day in Bolivia.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">(update to post: an hour before midnight, New Year's eve, the president bowed to recent protests and demonstrations and rescinded his fuel hike.)</p><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-4738044199236344252010-11-14T19:12:00.002-08:002010-12-29T05:09:04.772-08:00Class of 2010<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH_ZEbv-kI/AAAAAAAABAM/GW1TJ-4VH4s/s1600/IMG_5018.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH_ZEbv-kI/AAAAAAAABAM/GW1TJ-4VH4s/s320/IMG_5018.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553500621676476994" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH_Y2vzyZI/AAAAAAAABAE/qUiKkonOCpA/s1600/IMG_5089.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 179px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH_Y2vzyZI/AAAAAAAABAE/qUiKkonOCpA/s320/IMG_5089.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553500618002516370" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH7ueZOKHI/AAAAAAAAA_4/Z4oOV6Q2rCs/s1600/IMG_5039.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH7ueZOKHI/AAAAAAAAA_4/Z4oOV6Q2rCs/s320/IMG_5039.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553496591375935602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH7uPYm-cI/AAAAAAAAA_w/ITJZE6UsW7c/s1600/IMG_5029.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH7uPYm-cI/AAAAAAAAA_w/ITJZE6UsW7c/s320/IMG_5029.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553496587346835906" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH7t_xpQII/AAAAAAAAA_o/Ly--H37rC2c/s1600/IMG_5036.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRH7t_xpQII/AAAAAAAAA_o/Ly--H37rC2c/s320/IMG_5036.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553496583156875394" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRHytnvUekI/AAAAAAAAA_U/Vz5TqT0_1_0/s1600/IMG_5089.jpg"><br /></a></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRHsD6H04PI/AAAAAAAAA_I/yvLl1-Q76ww/s1600/IMG_5023.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRHsD6H04PI/AAAAAAAAA_I/yvLl1-Q76ww/s320/IMG_5023.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553479367410376946" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRHsDUNeMPI/AAAAAAAAA_A/h5hSv-pv0h4/s1600/IMG_5035.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRHsDUNeMPI/AAAAAAAAA_A/h5hSv-pv0h4/s320/IMG_5035.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553479357233508594" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRHsC7Ar7YI/AAAAAAAAA-4/d3bPoOJ0jug/s1600/IMG_5047.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRHsC7Ar7YI/AAAAAAAAA-4/d3bPoOJ0jug/s320/IMG_5047.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553479350468996482" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRHsCszFSCI/AAAAAAAAA-w/deCvI4Fh7JY/s1600/IMG_5085.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 179px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TRHsCszFSCI/AAAAAAAAA-w/deCvI4Fh7JY/s320/IMG_5085.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553479346653841442" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">December 9-12 2010</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My recent trip to the campo occurred during high school graduation. I never plan it, but I always seem to show up during some sort of festival. This is not a reflection of my good luck, but a reflection on how many celebrations are on their calendar.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was also well into summer now and the mid-day temperatures were not as pleasant as I had experienced on previous trips. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Everyday from about 11-3:00 was spent in-doors reading or sleeping, but Saturday’s graduation would all-day event. Make that an all-weekend event.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ten boys and two girls stood atop a make shift stage in the basketball/soccer court under the 100 degree mid-day sun. The boys’ wore new grey suits, and the girls a grey skirt jacket combo. The sun was relentless and the boys’ jackets soon became heat shields during continuous speeches. Outside the school gates were tables of cheap plastic flowers and other worthless Chinese made trinkets that are traditional gifts for the grads – stuff that that nobody should ever want or have.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Later, under the cool cover of darkness, I returned to the basketball court. The festivities had continued through my naptime and into the late afternoon. Now, most of the town folk were sitting around tables with a bucket of chicha acting as a centerpiece. (Chicha is the two-week old fermented corn beer that is popular in the campo.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A band was playing (“more drum machine please”) and there was some line dancing by the new grads and some adults. I got an eye full and left, but the party was full-tilt until 2:00am.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next morning, during my coffee and bread, Damian approach and said that we had some work to do. I pointed to the cornfields where I had done some work with a hoe the day before, and he said no, and pointed in the opposite direction. Santusa came along and we all walked down the street to a neighbor’s house. Today was to be a party and feast in celebration of graduation. I wasn’t clear on the details but it sounded like we were going to prepare a special meal where the graduates would all stop by and partake.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Damian took me out to the woodpile and asked if I could chop wood. It was 8:00 in the morning and this was the last thing I wanted to do. My experience with their dense wood and dull axes was not my idea early morning fun. Also, wearing flip-flops, I didn’t want to have to travel two hours to the nearest hospital with a chief complaint of only having eight toes. I took a couple of half-hearted swings, and that was enough for Damian - I had failed my audition. He abruptly took me back inside the mud-brick courtyard and into one of the small dwellings. There I crouched onto a small wooden “pedestal” and began peeling potatoes with the old ladies. This was more my speed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I soon poked my head into the adjacent room where Santusa and some of the other women were working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My stomach did a quarter turn when I saw an entire cow dismantled on the concrete floor atop a blue tarp. For a split second, in my brain’s eye, it appeared as though they had spread out of the parts and were trying to reassemble the cow, like you would a car engine or other complex mechanism. Of course the cow was not to be so lucky and within three hours the group had carved up all the “parts” until there wasn’t much left, but a head and a fetus (never figured out this part).</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Soon the party moved outside, slicing and dicing onions, greens, tomatoes, and more potatoes – always more potatoes. Huge pots of soup were bubbling and plastic tubs filled with salad. There was no shortage of toothless grins or laughter, both were in abundance. I wish I could say that I saw someone wash their hands sometime during the day, but I cannot. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger", right? Later, I ventured next door where men from another party house were roasting an entire pig in one of the “pizza ovens”. They were standing around the grill shooting the shit drinking corn beer, while the women were inside doing everything else – hmm, just like any BBQ back home.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eventually the meal was prepared and the receiving room was decorated. The family’s proud graduate appeared in her finest blouse and pleated skirt and it was finally “go time”. I had gotten it all wrong; the graduates did not visit the different houses, the party house hosted a single graduate, usually a family member. The people of the village traveled to each house congratulating the person of honor by pinning money on a “money scarf” hanging around the graduate’s neck. Once the money has been given, you are energetically thanked and presented with a dentist cup of warm herb infused alcohol, some chicha, and a complete meal - whatever they had been preparing during the day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was a bit intimidated when I entered the crowded room, not knowing the exact protocol. People lined the walls drinking with music blaring and everyone having a good time. (Sometimes, being the only outsider, I often think that I should leave them alone to their rituals and celebrations, but I am almost always proven wrong and welcomed wholeheartedly.) I approached the table where the person of honor stood. On the wall behind her was a makeshift alter of plastic flowers mounted on a hanging blanket, and her new diploma authenticated by all its various rubber stamps. Streamers of toilet paper hanging from the ceiling completed the shrine. She stood covered in white confetti waiting for me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Once face to face with her, I suddenly felt like I was at prom, not knowing where or how to pin the money, so I just handed her the 20 Boliviano note ($2.85) and shrugged my shoulders. She motioned for me to come forward and remove my hat, and she “blessed me” with a handful of white confetti over on my head. Her father patted me on the back and thrust a cup of chicha in my hand, as a woman put a plate of food in the other. I found a place along the wall to crouch and soaked it all in. “How cool is this?”, I thought and soon found three more house where my technique improved, but I got to the point of not being able to eat anymore food as good as it all was. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-83652709885217715152010-11-14T19:12:00.001-08:002011-01-20T12:43:08.676-08:00Thanksgiving 2010<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZRT1Y25lI/AAAAAAAAA-k/97YmXa0p80Y/s1600/IMG_4590.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZRT1Y25lI/AAAAAAAAA-k/97YmXa0p80Y/s320/IMG_4590.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545709392344049234" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZQUZc6FgI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/7DuCzYBZk8k/s1600/IMG_4586.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZQUZc6FgI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/7DuCzYBZk8k/s320/IMG_4586.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545708302513083906" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZQSlUm53I/AAAAAAAAA-I/jmOa2GkLIys/s1600/IMG_4554.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZQSlUm53I/AAAAAAAAA-I/jmOa2GkLIys/s320/IMG_4554.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545708271339759474" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZQSVVf10I/AAAAAAAAA-A/gsSEhavWQ40/s1600/IMG_4551.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZQSVVf10I/AAAAAAAAA-A/gsSEhavWQ40/s320/IMG_4551.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545708267048523586" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZQRzn7IhI/AAAAAAAAA94/X86KTu7u47Y/s1600/IMG_4548.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TPZQRzn7IhI/AAAAAAAAA94/X86KTu7u47Y/s320/IMG_4548.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545708257999004178" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Thanksgiving this year was spent in the jungle. Silvia and I had taken a flight to Cochabamba in order to catch a bus for a three-hour trek over the mountains to Chapare. A long way to go just to sit by a pool, but what the hell it was a holiday.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Cochabamba, Bolivia’s third largest city was hot and humid, and noticeably more green than Sucre’s dry landscape. The presence flowers and lush gardens was a welcome change, but nothing else about the city impressed me. It was dirty and industrial. The next day we arrange for three seats in a Toyota minivan. The third seat was my idea of upgrading ourselves to first class. At $3 a seat for the three-hour journey, $9 secured the whole row for us.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The van did not have air conditioning, and the air coming in from the windows was thick and sticky. In the row of seats in front of us were a young mother and her two kids, and a young girl of about 12-years old traveling by herself. Her mother had sent her off with a couple of bags of flowers that were stowed in the back, and she sat with a floral table setting in a plastic bag in her lap. I suspected that someone was getting married.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thirty minutes out of town we started to climb. The higher altitude meant cooler temperatures, and once in the clouds, we were closing all the windows due to the chill. I thought of the movie Scarface, because these were the mountains where Tony’s Bolivian connection lived. I caught myself looking out the window for the mansion compound in the dense mountainside, but reminded myself that the drug lord was a fictional character, besides, “the house would not have been visible from the road you dummy”. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The road was terrible, and it was impossible to relax or sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The constant switchbacks, road construction and our driver’s obsession of passing trucks on blind corners were anything but relaxing. Our driver did redeem himself when he handed a lone construction flagman his bag of coca leaves, which was a very nice gesture. He then opened his glove box and pulled out one of two other plastic bags of the leaves.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I offered to place the young girls flower on our floor space to get it off her lap, and let her read Curious George (in Spanish) on my Kindle. You could tell that she was not used to traveling alone, but I think the extra attention helped.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">What goes up must come down, and what I thought was hot weather before in Cochabamba now seemed like sweater weather. We had dropped down into a completely different ecosystem and it was now 100-degrees with equal humidity. Palm trees, giant ferns, banana and papaya trees, everything tropical and dense. This was also one of the main coca growing areas of Bolivia, or at least the beginning of it. The area is known for its cocaine production, but also as the childhood home of the country’s current president, Evo Morales. He made news about five years ago when he became the first indigenous president of Bolivia. Before his political career began, he was a coca farmer in Chapare.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Part of our two-day stay included a two-hour jungle hike, which took me away from the pool and I could have done without, but what I did find interesting were all the homes that we passed along the way that had coca leaves drying out in front of the house. We also passed many coca plants alongside the road, which were pointed out by the taxi driver, and then came across many small coca fields during our hike in the national park. All of which was on the up-and-up because it was for personal use. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Coca is completely and totally ubiquitous outside the cities in Bolivia, and commonplace enough within the cities. It is used on a daily basis by many people. It is used in almost every religious ceremony, both by chewing it and by using it as an offering. It is used as a medicinal remedy, and to alleviate fatigue and the effects of high altitude. Historically, the Incan elite chewed it, and to chew was to be Incan. It many ways, it was, and still is, the cornerstone of their cultural identity. Recently, a team of international researchers discovered that coca leaves have been <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-11878241">chewed by inhabitants of Peru and Bolivia for over 8,000-years!</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have chewed coca leaves many times, and always have some coca tea on the shelf in my apartment. I like it. The stimulating effect is very mild without the jitters you get with caffeine, and I do think it has helped me at altitude. The only noticeable side effect is that your cheek can go slightly numb after awhile. Many people include a pinch off a calcium rich stone that helps release more of the leaves active chemicals. The leaves contain several alkaloids, but only one is extracted to make cocaine, and that is a very complex and difficult process to complete. The everyday indigenous person has zero interest in cocaine.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The point is that the leaves represent so much more here than just the production of cocaine. It is a major part of people’s daily existence, so when a UN agency on drugs reports that Peru and Bolivia should<a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7280906.stm"> </a><i><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7280906.stm">“abolish or prohibit activities … such as coca leaf chewing and the manufacture of coca tea”</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">,</i> it is absolutely and utterly impractical. The UN list coca leaves as a dangerous controlled substance, along with cocaine and opium. That is like putting poppy seeds on that same list.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now I don’t like the current president here. He is a “Chavez high-fiving, want-to-be dictator”, but he has been able to stand up the US and DEA regarding the eradication of coca leaves. Bolivia refused to follow the US’s demand of spraying herbicide over coca fields. The US cut off funding, and subsequently the DEA and US ambassador were kicked out of the country (there was other finger pointing going on as well). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I was in Colombia, a country that does spray herbicide from low flying planes, I read in the newspaper several times about indigenous people coming out of the jungles with untreatable skin lesions and dying of respiratory disorders. People in loin clothes with sticks through their noses who have been living peacefully on their own for who knows how long, but now are getting dump on with toxic herbicides, not to mention the animals and everything else that lives in the jungle.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of course this is an incredibly complex issue, and there are a lot of problems here associated with the drug trade, and wherever the drugs end up, but you cannot eradicate an entire culture and way of life during your quest for a remedy. There is nothing in the American culture that you can compare it to. We have plenty of vices that would be hard to give up, but nothing that connects us to who we are and where we came from like coca does here. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-latin-america-12222395">(more coca news)</a></p> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-69894599194263534912010-11-14T19:11:00.001-08:002010-11-29T08:45:36.182-08:00Stay in the Campo: Follow-up<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TOpmmxTpVEI/AAAAAAAAA9s/d_MSzz5vMwg/s1600/IMG_4442.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TOpmmxTpVEI/AAAAAAAAA9s/d_MSzz5vMwg/s320/IMG_4442.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542355107689616450" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Since my initial visit to Santusa’s, we have kept in close contact. I have made many drop-in visits on the bike, even taking friends on occasion, and stayed again for a multi-day visit. When they are in town visiting their son, they stop by to say “Hi”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They are open and honest good people that show empathy towards others, and through them, I have experienced everything that is good here, but also what keeps this country down – prejudice and an archaic class system. Santusa and Damian treat me as an equal, and I them. I would do anything for them, as they would for me. Whenever doubts creep into my head about what I am doing, or if I simply get into a funk, just being around Santusa makes it all better. There is such a positive energy about her, always giggling or laughing, in spite of a difficult life. So, during my last visit when they asked me to be Padrino, or Godfather, to their youngest son I was incredibly touched. In their culture, a Godfather is someone to stands up for a child during the major events in their lives, i.e., graduations or weddings. It is a position of great honor just to be asked, and once you accept, you become part of the family. So, I am now considered their brother, and they are my brother and sister. If I am here next December I will stand up with Carlos during his high school graduation. They know that I may not be here, but with the relationships that I have made since "pausing" the trip, it will be incredibly hard to leave.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Follow-up to the follow-up:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo4"></p><ul><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">·<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span>The pottery pieces were dated from between 1200-1800, which could pre-date Incan times, or not.</li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">·<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span>Yale has not returned any of my calls.</li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">·<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span>When I went back to the States in October for a visit I was able to sell a lot of Santusa’s textiles at Write Around the World’s fundraising auction (and I brought her back some decent sewing scissors).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now, some of my most favorite people back home also have a piece of Santusa.</li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">·<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span>Damian has become accustomed to riding on the back of the bike, and I think sits a little taller now when we enter the town’s center square.</li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">·<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span>The black poncho that Santusa made Damian when their oldest son was only two is now one of my most cherished possessions, and keeps me warm on many a chilled mornings while drinking my coffee and answering emails.</li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;"><span style="mso-list:Ignore">·<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span>That feeling of contentment is still with me.</li></ul><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops:174.0pt"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-780654153161616213.post-64706426332990414092010-11-12T08:29:00.000-08:002010-11-29T08:53:00.061-08:00Stay in the Campo: Part 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TOanIRrS8HI/AAAAAAAAA84/fecwbGUDI6E/s1600/11685.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TOanIRrS8HI/AAAAAAAAA84/fecwbGUDI6E/s320/11685.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541300152151765106" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TOUwwxqylFI/AAAAAAAAA8k/t61VHqTnQpw/s1600/11588.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TOUwwxqylFI/AAAAAAAAA8k/t61VHqTnQpw/s320/11588.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540888531073930322" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN2Buwfh5XI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/gwqegfKqjJc/s1600/11579.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN2Buwfh5XI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/gwqegfKqjJc/s320/11579.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538725757026690418" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN2Buu5jc-I/AAAAAAAAA8Q/Ww61Y7BK3qE/s1600/IMG_3806.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN2Buu5jc-I/AAAAAAAAA8Q/Ww61Y7BK3qE/s320/IMG_3806.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538725756598973410" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN1s-wHLdBI/AAAAAAAAA78/UemPZfZf9Bg/s1600/11589.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN1s-wHLdBI/AAAAAAAAA78/UemPZfZf9Bg/s320/11589.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538702942058279954" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN1s-5FAaaI/AAAAAAAAA70/Q1Bw6QfJqCs/s1600/10083.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN1s-5FAaaI/AAAAAAAAA70/Q1Bw6QfJqCs/s320/10083.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538702944465086882" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN1s-sW1UaI/AAAAAAAAA7s/ibS7LSjdtOA/s1600/12447.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_4TX6doq_d1Y/TN1s-sW1UaI/AAAAAAAAA7s/ibS7LSjdtOA/s320/12447.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538702941050196386" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Part II</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day 2 continued</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sunsets are beautiful here, but where are they not? Here, there is burst of activity as all the animals are brought back from pasture. It is the closest thing there is to a rush hour. Besides the playground noise coming from the nearby school, the days are pretty quiet. But twilight is a convivial time of socializing before dinner. However, I noticed that Damian had socialized too much and had apparently continued the San Juan festivities throughout the day and was now red-eyed and staggering. Santusa was annoyed but mostly embarrassed. She has plenty of work to do, but now has to also had to take care of an <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Cambria;">inebriated husband.</span></p><!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">As much fun as I was having on my own, the stay was not turning what I had hope for, and I thought about leaving a day early, on Saturday. I knew that they had to be at the Sunday market early to sell their textiles, so I would skip out the day prior and reduce Santusa’s workload by one less male dependent.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I later mentioned this idea to Santusa, she immediately jumped on it and insisted that I stay, and told me how she wanted me to give Damian a ride to the market Sunday on the motorcycle, on my way home. He was really looking forward to it. I could tell then how much she really loved him. Not because of a ride on a motorcycle but the sincerity in her voice. I will stay I said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My original intention with the trip was to help out more and be part of things, but in reality it just wasn’t practical. I had tried helping the nephew chop wood, but with the dull axe and cracked handle, I ended up with a bloody splinter in my hand, which Santusa freaked about and wanted to care for. “What a pansy-ass thin-skinned weenie of a gringo”, I thought. I went back to my room to lick my wounds – after I broke the handle of their only axe, ARGH!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Around 8:00pm Santusa came into my room with a bowl of hot soup, chicken based, with root vegetables and pastas. This whole time she would enter my room unannounced and just sit and chat. As a second language, her Spanish is slow and clear and I understand her better than most. She is patient with me – a nurturing mother to her core. I have taken to leaving my door open all the time, for the fresh air and view of the mountains, but also with the hope of initiating more of her visits. On this visit, while I ate my soup, she told me more about her life. How her father left them when she was an infant and how her mother raised three girls in extreme poverty. She managed to only get through the third grade, but continued to study Spanish on her own (her mother only speaks native Quechua). She started weaving at eight years old, but had been spinning wool before that. She is my age of 46, and Damian (one year older) is her first and only love. Moving up to present day, she told me about how her eldest son, of 26 years, will soon finish the medical program in Cuba and will return as a doctor, how her middle son is now in University in Sucre studying music, and her high school senior will be going to University next year to study English. I tried to express what a fine job her mother did and how she in turn has also done a great job with her children. I tried to explain how it is every parent’s ambition to give their children a better life than what they had, no matter where they are from. She asked about my life and my family with genuine concern and interest. Tears welled up in her eyes as she told me how difficult it was for women in her culture living in the countryside. She spoke of the prejudice among her own people, and how poorly she is treated when she attempts to go to a restaurant in Sucre, because of her indigenous dress and darker skin. I thought to myself, "here is a woman putting three boys through college, who runs her own successful business, creates amazing art, and lives a decent and honest life". Others here should be so lucky to live up to her standards. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day 3 - Friday</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Still in bed, Santusa entered my room with a bowl of fresh scrambled eggs and bread, and said that she needed my help downstairs when I was finished. The eggs were damn tasty, as I threw them down as fast as I could.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I got down stairs into the salon, she and her mother were setting up a new loom. She was going to start a shawl and I was going to be able to see the process from the very beginning. What a great opportunity.<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZ54yGKu2pQ"> This video explains it best</a>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Later that night Damian and Santusa came in with bowls of sopa de mani, or peanut soup. It doesn’t taste anything like peanuts but is a rich thick soup with a peanut stock and various vegetables, sometimes with chicken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Earlier, I had noticed Grandma crushing peanuts on the grinding stone, but hadn’t thought much of it. I had had this soup before in Sucre, and know that is reserved for special occasions and events, so it was special that they were serving it to me now. The soup was far better than anything I had tasted in the city, everything being fresh and made from scratch it was not surprise. We sat our empty bowls down and laughed over the video footage that I shot earlier that day. Apparently weaving is women’s work and seeing a grown man “flub it up”, was quite comical. We said good night, after Damian agreed to take me on a hike in the morning to look for proper fossils and some Incan ruins. The visit seemed to be turning around into what I had hoped for. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day 4 - Saturday</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We set out after breakfast. Damian carried a small pickaxe and had strips of rawhide wrap around his corduroy blazer. I felt underdressed. We followed the dry riverbed as he pointed out plants and salts clinging to rocks that were used in the production of dyes for the wool. I don’t understand him as well as Santusa, but we get by. Later, we come across an ancient stone bridge, and then remnants of a stone silo used for grain storage, next an aqua duct system originating from the river, all dating back from the Inca times in the 1400’s.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">This area was the southeastern corner of the Incan empire back in the day, and the rulers placed some the empires best warriors along this border. They were fierce and fought off many invasions from other tribal people. Today’s Tarabuquenos are direct decedents of these people and they are very proud of their history. In many respects, not much has changed. Seeing these ruins was amazing, even more so knowing that not many other people have had the opportunity to see them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The sun was intense. I opened up all the vents on my ExOfficio safari shirt, rolled up my sleeves, and put on my floppy sun hat. Damian forged ahead still wearing his wool cap and blazer, and only drinking water after practically forced him to. Before we turned around to start heading back, we stopped to collect firewood. The straps he had been carrying were to bundle dead branches and to haul back over his shoulders. As he ingeniously secured the near 50-pound bundle to his back, with nothing more than a leather strap, I thought how the engineers at REI would capitalize on this and create a specialized wood carrying apparatus available online for $99.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As we walked back, I was started feeling it. The relentless sun and climbing, had <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>taken its toll. I offered several times to carry the wood, but I think he knew, as I did, that doing so would have about killed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We never found any fossils, and never really looked, but had a good time, and I had finally had a chance at some alone time with Damian. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Closer to home, I was trailing behind Damian and his burden by about 40-feet carrying only my Chapstick and empty water bottle. We were walking through some plowed fields, me with my head was down focusing on my dragging feet, when I noticed some chards of terracotta. I began filling my pockets.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Over a lunch of chicken and rice with a fresh green chile sauce, I proudly and excitedly pulled out some of the pottery pieces and laid them out on the table. I had collected only those pieces that had paint showing on them. Naturally, I was planning on calling the anthropology department at Yale to notify them of my monumental discovery once back in Sucre, until Damian and Santusa shrugged their shoulders and gave me a, “oh, those things”, kind of look. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They told me that they are common after the fields have been plowed up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I didn’t care, this was the coolest thing ever – cherry picking ancient pottery off the ground! I virtually begged to go back out there to look for more, almost tugging on Damian’s pant leg. He agreed that after siesta and after we shucked some dried corn that we would go back out. We did, and it was the perfect ending to my “Day of the Inca”. Besides his "hiccup" involving too much San Juan celebrating, Damian proved to be a very kind man, and we eventually connected. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day 5- Sunday, Market Day</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The morning was cold, damn cold, and at 7:00 it was hard to peel back the heavy covers and get started. Eventually, the bike was loaded, which included a bag of old pottery chips, and Damian mounted on the back. At we rolled out, my riding suit was completely zipped up to keep out the cold, while Damian wore a down coat under his long poncho, wool cap, his white wool “shorts” and sandals. Thirty minutes later, we were setting up their spot at the market as the sun finally began throwing down some warmth. I grabbed some street food, said good-bye and headed off on my way home, to Sucre. I had arrived in the campo with curiosity and naive interest, and left with a new set of friends. Friends that would soon become family.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://gallery.me.com/mlewis30/101406">Video montage of my four day stay in the campo.</a></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div><br /></div><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Mikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06199444739207608039noreply@blogger.com0