From Bulungula to Coffee Bay – Hiking South Africa’s Wild Coast

07 Sunday Jun 2015

Tags

Beaches, Culture, Hikes, Trekking, Villages

The Wild Coast

It took most of the next day to get to my destination of Bulungula on the Wild Coast. Happily I wasn’t alone either – Jake was planning on spending a few night’s at the same community-ran, 100% solar powered traditional hostel as well.

Our Baz Bus driver that day proved to be an absolutel legend. As we entered the province of the “Transkei” (a formerly independent part of South Africa that white people mostly fled after apartheid ended, populated predominantly by the Xhosa people, and birthplace of Nelson Mandela), he gave us lots of historical background and information on the region. He said that here we would see the real South Africa. A land mainly untouched by commercial development, it’s community based farmland with people living under a tribal system. For instance, village elders make the community decisions for the (hopefully) benefit of all. People live in traditional round-houses, many with equipped with a government subsidized solar panels for power. The land is very green and there are beautiful rolling green hills that give way to a very rugged and stunning coastline.

Nelson Mandela’s home where he lived his final years

On our long drive through the Transkei, Johnny, our driver, created a lovely social atmosphere and insisted that we stop at a local market and get some alcohol to have a little party as we drove. As I got out of the truck, I immediately noticed the absence of any other white face and felt like I was back in the ‘Africa’ that had preceded this country on my trip.

Feeling very merry, we happily took snaps when we arrived at Nelson Mandela’s birthplace and also the compound where he passed away – interestingly, it is an exact replica of the house he lived in after being released from Robben Island when he was imprisoned solely on house arrest.

Arriving at the Baz Bus stop of Mthata, my driver from Bulungula guest lodge was there ready to take Jake and I down the very bumpy, unpaved road for the two hours it would take to our destination. On arrival, I was glad I had Jake with me as the lodge was pretty empty save a lovely family from Finland who we dined with – having an incredible local Xhosa dish of minced beef with maize and vegetables. We were the only two in our dorm which consisted of a traditional rondela and basic furnishings. Though started by a Mizungu from Germany, this lodge has over the years been passed over to the local community to run for profit, and provides jobs to over 26 locals.

Local Xhosa woman carrying her baby

The location was pretty stunning and I told the staff of my plan to walk, by myself to Wild Lubanzi, and then on to Coffee Bay. Despite their protestations that it was “too far” or “very difficult” and “maybe you should take a guide” …I decided that it would be an adventure and I was up for it.
How hard could it be to hike up and down along a coastline till you found the next town?
Well, as it turned out…it was VERY hard! The path ended up not being very clearly marked and I kept having to guess whether I should walk along the beach or rocks (not also really knowing about tides) or whether I needed to go up and walk along the top of the hills before descending to the next valley. Overall, the trial and error approach took a lot of time and was utterly exhausting – even though I was carrying a very pared down version of my luggage (the hostel was kindly transporting the rest of my bags to Coffee Bay to meet me there in 2 days).

Setting off from Bulungula

I was coming to the end of the first day’s trail and the map indicated that Wild Lubanzi, my hostel, should be easily approached via the west side of a lake and easily up on a hill directly in front of it. This turned out to be a lot more complicated than I had anticipated as there was no clear path after the lake. There were some sand dunes that I attempted to climb in 3 separate locations, each time coming to the edge of a forest that was so thick as to be impenetrable via walking.
Growing frustrated and very tired/hungry – I tried to go around the lake to see if there might be any sign of a trail behind it. There was a vague looking one which I started then to climb. I heard the sound of wood being chopped and I was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing another human being who might be able to direct me. Sure enough, the man smiled and gesticulated that I keep going up and up and then turn right when I hit the road.

Wild Lubanzi Hostel – so glad to finally arrive

It was a right at the road, but then also a left, another hill, and then another right. When I finally arrived at the hostel, I didn’t even have the strength to go in the front entrance and made my way in through the kitchen and made my presence known. The staff were welcoming in a way, though they immediately launched into a diatribe about how impossible it is to get lost, and how on earth I could have had difficulty navigating my way from the lake. This really pissed me off, but once I’d had a “rocket shower” (shower powered with liquid paraffin) and had a large beer in my hand, I was much happier.
Even better, I was reunited with Ashley who had driven up from Coffee Bay for the night and she was joined by a nice young Dutch guy who’d hiked in from Coffee Bay that morning. His tales of how arduous the trail was did not exacty fill me with positive feelings for my next day’s sojourn, but I was adamant to give it a go.

Small Xhosa kids in the villages I passed

Unfortunately, my cough had also worsened and I was hacking like a smoking witch. In the morning, I even considered ditching my plan and driving to Coffee Bay, or even heading up to my next destination in the Drakensburg a day early and take some time to recover. But not being one to give up – ever – I decided to push on.

Inquiring about the trail itself, I was warned that low tide wasn’t until 4pm and that it would make the river virtually impassable earlier in the day. I would be forced to walk a ways up river till I find a place shallow enough to cross, and that could add another few miles to my journey that day.

Gulp.

As it turned out – I had quite a funny time crossing that damn river. I got to the water’s edge right by the famous “hole in the wall” rock formation that was really stunning to view. The waves were rolling in and it looked very deep indeed. However, there were some locals working on the beach on the other side of the river crossing who waved to me and pointed at a spot that seemed to indicate was the best place for me to try and cross.

Already tired and really not wanting to add more mileage to my day, I decided that I’d give it a go anyways…it couldn’t hurt getting a little wet, right?

Well. I got a lot wet. As I approached the middle of the 50 meter or so wide river…waves starting hiting me almost at neck level and I felt with dismay, my backpack getting heavier as it took on water together with its contents! My boots strung around my neck were also victim to the deep sea water that at some points lifted me entirely off my feet forcing me to swim. After what seemed like an eternity, I could feel the sand get closer to my feet and I struggled out of the river on the other side. The men were all laughing at me as I sat on the rocks and assessed the damage to my bag’s contents.
Luckily, the camera was fine as I’d stashed it in a plastic ziploc (thank god, I’d already destroyed one camera on this trip with water damage) and about one t-shirt was still slightly dry…everything else had to be wrung out and my boots simply squelched with salt water for the rest of the 16km hike.
I was, however, very fortunate with the weather and the shining sun helped to keep me warm despite my sopping clothes and bag. TWELVE times I counted having to ascend 4-800 vertical feet to navigate around a headland where the beach/coastline was impassable. Each hill I came to, I thought, Coffee Bay has GOT to be around the next corner…and each time my heart sunk.

Coffee Bay

When I finally arrived, hacking away, I was truly bedraggled and exhausted – but elated. I felt such a sense of accomplishment, especially since all the black people I ran into expressed shock that I was walking so far, and all the white people I ran into expressed shock that I was walking so far, and by myself. “You really should be careful, you know?” – they would say…and I would think “well, short of deciding NOT to hike this trail alone – how else do you expect me to be careful?”
I really hadn’t felt in the least bit threatened by any of the locals I came across – most of them smiled and waved or looked at me, aghast at my crazy decision to walk so far, alone. The greatest danger I found myself in was most definitely in the form of the six or so dogs that decided I was an intruder on their owner’s land and proceeded to run after me gnarling fiercely to the point where my heart almost stopped. None of them bit, thank god, and I made it to Coffee Bay in one piece…mostly.

I immediately enquired as to whether I might be able to procure a massage for my aching body – and was told to go ask after Carl at the other backpackers in town – Bomvu. I walked across the road to Bomvu and what I found in no way resembled a hostel. It was more like a movie set of the next slasher movie “Hostel Part 3 – South African Bloodbath”. Half of the place had clearly been in a fire, the place was deserted and there was no sign of Carl or a massage therapy office (which I’d been told was separate to the hostel) It had major creepy factor. I felt sorry for any hapless tourist who’d been allowed to make a reservation here and turned up to this. Giving up, I came back to Coffee Shack for dinner and ran into Carl who was dining there. Happy to give me a massage at 10am the next day, I was thrilled until he told me I should meet him at Bomvu.

Yeah. Like hell I would!!

No, thanks. I’d like to live to see another day.

My Return to Cape Town – 14 years later

27 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by Anita in Africa, South Africa

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Cities, Culture, Opinion Pieces

Gorgeous Cape Town’s Skyline

I visited Cape Town in the December of 2001 with Semester at Sea. It had made quite the impression on me then and I had counted it in the top three cities in the world, for me. I was so looking forward to returning and doing the activities that I hadn’t had the time to on my visit fourteen years prior!

Entering the city on our rented bus, I was sorry to hear Pete (who’d come instead of Tabby because she can’t get a SA visa with a Kenyan passport) tell us to be really careful in Cape Town because it’s the most dangerous place the tour goes. I was looking forward to walking around by myself, but I realized that I was still going to have to be cautious, especially in the evening, and take cabs/carry little etc.

On arrival at our hostel, The Ashanti Gardens, I was very happy to see beautiful Table Mountain right from the deck. The air was cool and a welcome 15 degrees celcius. That evening I enjoyed the best meal of the trip so far when I ordered “The Game Platter” which consisted of Ostrich, Springbok, Gemsbok, and Wilderbeest Ribs. Damn. So good.

Bench outside city magistrates court

On my first day in the big city – I ventured downtown to take the Free Walking Tour – these guides rely entirely on tips, so the quality of tour usually is reflected. I wasn’t disappointed – it was a great introduction to the main commercial/political city centre; we even had the opportunity to observe a protest march passing right by the main town hall where Nelson Mandela made his first speech after being released from prison.

On a more sombre note, we visited the main city courtroom where people had to go during the Apartheid regime to get classified into a “race category”, of which there were five to start, eventually the government deciding on eleven categories, which, hysterically, included “honorary white” – to enable Japanese or Chinese dignataries/athletes/journalists etc. to be allowed to visit South Africa and be afforded the same privileges of movement as white people. People would first have to pass what they called the “Pencil Test”. If a pencil fell out of their hair, they were classified as white. If it stayed, then they had to proceed to the court hearing to be classified.

Square with the slaves’ memorial

Our guide told us a few horror stories of families being physically separated after individuals who were related to one another were deemed to belong to different races because of having perhaps lighter or darker skin. Couples, siblings, even parents and children could be separated and forced to live in different sections of the city.

Of the categories that were created, a few have survived and are used in everyday speech – White, Black, Colored, and Asian. The use of the word “colored” has been the most interesting to me as it refers to people of mixed race, and has made me realize how strange it is that back home, we refer to those of mixed race, such as President Obama, as black. Slightly black = black in the States. This has been fascinating to ask locals about and I will dedicate an entire post to my thoughts on this topic later on.

V & A Waterfront

Our guide also showed us where the slaves that were brought to the Cape were housed upon first arrival. The Dutch settled the cape in the 1800’s but had to bring in slaves because they needed a workforce to build the city, and they were also in need of women to help populate the area. Every Saturday, female slaves – from Madagascar, Malawi, Mozambique, Malaysia (to name a few countries) would be rounded up outside in the square for the men to take pleasure with. He said that it is estimated, now, that every “white” South African can actually attribute at least 8% of their DNA to this initial slave gene pool.

Which means, if correct, that the very men who wrote Apartheid into the constitution, were part black themselves. An idea, which meets with tremendous resistance among some nationals here (as attested to my bringing it up in some conversations over the last few weeks, as a data gathering experiment).

In the park, we were shown a fully albino squirrel and were told that he’d been nicknamed “Apartheid Squirrel” and has his very own twitter feed… Funny.

#ApartheidSquirrel

Later that evening I met up with my friend Martin Slabber. Martin and I were on a tour together in Chile back in 2008 and it was delightful to catch up. He and his wife and his new baby Max picked me up in their car (well, the baby had little to do with it) and drove me to their home in beautiful Hout Bay where they live. It’s about a half hour drive from Cape Town and it has quite a stunning beach setting with dramatic hills that rise up out of the ocean in jagged spectacle. We picked up pizza take out and shared life’s stories over a lovely bottle of red wine.

It was so good to spend an evening in a person’s home after so long on the road. Thank you Martin!

My visit with “Ice Bru” and Bob Vela!!

I hadn’t gone to Robben Island back in 2001, and nowadays, the visit to the infamous prison is one of the top visitor attractions, and most tours sell out days in advance. I got my ticket online and visited one afternoon. Though the boat service/tour was poorly organized, I was really glad that I went to experience the place for myself. I really got a sense of what it must have been like for prisoners like Mandela, to be taunted daily with such a beautiful view of Cape Town’s Table Mountain, always out of reach. We visited the rock quarry where prisoners were made to perform hard labor, often which was pointless and therefore soul-destroying, such as moving large rocks from one area to another, only to be forced to move them back the next day.

On Robben Island, the quarry where prisoners’ worked

The most disturbing thing I learned at the prison is best summarized by the attached photo. During apartheid, a person’s skin color could literally determine where they were “allowed” to live, whether they could move freely in a city, and whether they had to carry a pass, or face being beaten or thrown in jail. Here on Robben Island, it was taken a step further and the food that the prisoners were fed was different for coloreds vs. Blacks (that they deprecatingly referred to as Bantu) Of course, at Robben Island, there was no meal plan for whites because a white prisoner would never be sent there.

Menu at the prison for different races

My final day in Cape Town, I got to do something I’d been waiting 14 years to do. Great White Shark cage diving. I was supposed to go back in 2001 but the trip got canceled due to bad weather. While the activity is somewhat controversial, our company did a decent job of sharing their efforts in Shark conservation and explaining that they don’t feed the animals, they only attract them to the vessel and use the opportunity to study their behavior at the same time.

Mandela’s cell

Unfortunately, as excited as I was, not even the seasickness medication I took ahead of time was adequate in preparing me for the rolling waves that we had to sit through for over three hours on the open water. Spotting the first shark was thrilling, and I made my best efforts to try and capture the moments on my camera, but after 15 minutes or so I began to feel queasy.

Me trying to keep food down in the shark cage

I spent most of the rest of the trip laying down at the front of the boat just trying to keep my breakfast down – and failing to:-( I did, however, go into the cage – as the marine biologists on board assured me that the nausea would be alleviated somewhat.

It didn’t really help, especially since the girl to my right was still puking right into the surf as we clung together to the metal bars of the cage. There was definitely a few very memorable moments when the sharks swam straight towards our faces, but with the sea as rough as it was, it was very difficult to remain steady underwater while holding one’s breath at the same time.

I’m still glad that I did it, but it certainly wasn’t what I’d been expecting.

Swakopmund – Bizarre German city in the desert

21 Thursday May 2015

Posted by Anita in Africa, Namibia

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Culture, Tours, Townships

Swakopmund just looks funny. It isn’t congruent with any sort of mental image one has of a city in Africa. Granted, that initial image is often quite misdirected to start with, given the shamefully limited amount of exposure we Americans get to African news/culture/history. It’s German influence was clearly visible; from its architecture and the manicured design of its streets to its cold meats at breakfast. The language of the predominantly white city population, however, was Afrikaans and the people were fiercely Namibian (which they made very clear if and when it came up in conversation).

The restaurants were overpriced compared to other stops we’d made, the meals costing roughly what they would back home. It was nice, however, to order some really well prepared fruit smoothies, western wraps, and grilled steak. There was a distinctly European feel to everything in that city and one could easily forget they were on the African continent.

That is, until you ventured even a few blocks outside the city. Like major metropolitan areas in South Africa (and South Africa governed Namibia until it gained independence in 1964) – Swakopmund is surrounded by sprawling townships, the raw materials utilized in the their construction getting progressively more temporary and non-robust the further out of the city you went, like the outer layers of an onion. Swakopmund’s main industry is mining – and people come from all over the country with the promise of better wages in the urban areas. However depressing, 90% of Swakopmund’s population live in the townships – and they are all people of color, known in Namibia as Black and colored (anyone with mixed blood/race), yet they earn/retain only 10% of its wealth. That is the reality here. Ethnically, Namibia’s gene pool is about as diverse as you can find here – with the main tribes living here being San, Tamara (who like the Xhosa in South Africa, have a language based around 5 clicks) Otambo, and Herero – though the Herero’s numbers are vastly diminished due to their almost being exterminated by the Germans after colonization in a massive genocide that I’d never even heard of.

The other side of Swakopmund

Of course most of the group were busy doing the adrenaline activities Swakopmund is touristically famous for: Skydiving, quad biking, sand boarding and the like. I didn’t begrudge anyone enjoying these activities, of course, I just decided that I wanted to have a recuperative break here, and try to get to know the local communities a little better. So, together with the Frenchies Sandrine and Benoit, I elected to go on a Township tour that could be done on bicycle.

It was a wonderful experience.

Getting out on our bike township tour

First of all, it was just great getting out on a bike for the first time and getting some needed exercise. Our guide, Costa, was wonderful, generous, and enthusiastic about showing us the township which was also his home. We made several stops enroute – to try biltong being sold by women on the side of the road (this is a type of dried meat like jerky but way better tasting) and next to a Herrero woman’s home. She talked about what life was like here in the townships when the whites basically ousted all colored/black people to the outskirts of town – telling them that they would be provided better housing even though the purpose of the move was to establish segregation. She said her family were given a much better concrete house compared to the converted rail carriage that they had been living in, so they were happy.

Township water pump

I learned that Herreros are essentially descendants of the Himba people. The Himba were employed as servants and in general labor when the Germans first arrived here. However, the German wives were none too pleased that their husbands were in the constant company of women who walked about without shame of their nakedness. When these women started having babies that were far more light skinned than their husband’s genes would naturally procure, the wives insisted that the Himba employees clothe themselves modestly. The Herrero chose very distinct clothing to ensure that their heritage would remain very distinctive, with giant headdresses that appeared like the bulls of a horn and would make the people look taller than they were. Women of the Herrero were expected to marry young, and their husband would be chosen for them by their father’s brother. Of course, as in many African cultures, men could have multiple wives, but it was interesting to hear this woman talk about how it was the first wife’s job to choose wife number two and three, making sure that they weren’t as pretty as wife number one. For the lady whom we met, she thankfully said she’d raised seven children while being her husband’s only wife. Enquiries as to why he hadn’t married more women were politely smiled at but not answered.

Cycling further into the outskirts of the townships we were able to observe the concrete permanent structures changing to tin, corrugated metals and makeshift cardboard and the dwellings went on as far as the eye could see. Water is a precious resource in this township and it was interesting to see the line of people at the single pump for hundreds of residences, awaiting to pay money into a coin slot in order to fill up their jerry cans. When you ran out of cash, you also ran out of water…

Me and a local Herrero woman

Our guide explained how you could qualify for help with certain types of housing with the Namibian government. However, he also said that it wasn’t enough for you to have low wages; they had to be low enough to qualify, but high enough to afford the high interest rates on the mortgage. He said he didn’t earn anywhere near enough to qualify, and was stuck sharing a small two bedroom unit with about 6 of his friends.

Closer look at the houses of the township

As the sun was setting we also visited a herbalist who was Tamara and kindly also gave us a great demonstration of the five clicks of her language while talking us through the various herbs and remedies that provided her livelihood. It was so crazy to me that these people all lived together, all with such different backgrounds, cultures, each speaking their own native tongue but communicating with the majority either in English or Afrikaans. We finished our tour with some streetside bbq which was delicious and then retired to a local bar where we were serenaded by an incredible 8 member a capella group who astonished me with their beautiful faces and harmonies.

This was definitely one of the highlights of Swakopmund for me. The other came quite strangely, again, from my computer dilemnas. Attempting to find a cheap replacement laptop as well as a way to fix my camera, I met a woman called Marshall who worked at Royal Computers about 15 minutes walk from our hostel. After talking to her several times about the various models she had for sale, and discovering that she could very kindly restore the over 2000 photos that had been accidentally formatted from my SD card at a dumb internet café, she offered to drive me around the city in search of a good laptop. I couldn’t believe how kind she was, and after four or five stops, I found a decent Lenovo for just over $500 that would serve me well for the remainder of my trip, if not in life after.

Me and Marshall

She introduced me to her husband and son, and her co-worker Chri-Lei, and the small group of us hang out after the shop closed on a Saturday, chatting merrily about life and what my travels had been like thus far. I invited everyone out to lunch, but unfortunately the family had an appointment to go to. I sang Marshall a song after she requested one and choosing a Janis Joplin number, she welled up with tears as she reached to hug me goodbye when I finished. I was very moved.

Walking towards the beach in search of a deserved beer, Chris-Lei joined me and he and I ended up having several rounds of drinks over fish and chips at a great little beachside restaurant for the rest of the day. We talked about philosophy, religion, race, life in America, life for him in Namibia; there wasn’t a topic that was off the table, and it was so completely refreshing to feel such a great connection to another person. To feel that I mattered again, to someone if only for a few hours.

Me and Chris-Lei

Returning to my hostel first to take care of some errands, we arranged to meet up later and catch a movie at the local cinema. Despite being a horrendous American Avengers movie, the cultural experience of going to a film here in Namibia made it well worthwhile. Popcorn was served only half-full – the people applying all manner of different flavored toppings before handing it back and having it filled completely. The movie theatre was packed small with people of every shade of color, all talking in multiple languages and often during the movie that had terrible sound quality. I still enjoyed myself thoroughly, especially in my new found friendship with Chris-Lei who later walked me back to my hostel.

It had been a lovely and refreshing change of pace to stay here a while. But it was time to head back out now into the southern desert.

Namibia – Cheetahs, Tribal Nakedness, and Extreme Temperatures

18 Monday May 2015

Posted by Anita in Africa, Namibia

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Animals, Camping, Culture, Desert, Safari, Travel Days, Villages

View over the northern Namibian desert

We were on the road staying in a different bush camp each night for several days following Etosha and preceding our stop in Swakopmund – a luxurious four days that we’d get to enjoy the luxury of a dorm bed. What was fast becoming apparent in Namibia was the difficulty of maintaining bodily comfort due to the excessive swings in ambient temperature each day. Mornings waking up huddled in my 15 degree F sleeping bag were cold, breath creating its own fog on exhalation. They required long pants, and fleece layers as well as my wooly hat. However, by 10am we were often sweltering in the heat of the sun, the temperature starting to soar and then bake us through to sunset when it would turn around and plummet once again.

I came up with an ingenious routine of dressing in layers that could be easily peeled away – so I’d wear my shorts under my long pants, and my tank top underneath a t-shirt and long sleeved shirt and fleece on top, knowing that I could peel the clothes and stow them comfortably in my day bag.

There were times, however, when even this wasn’t adequate – such as during our drive south once we’d hit the western coast of Namibia, known as the skeleton coast, presumably because of the number of ships that had wrecked here as well as the number of skeletons that amass on the shores of the massively populated seal colonies. Apparently, this area gets a lot of its wind currents from Antarctica, and on two separate days, the cold was so bitter that it sent all of us diving into our lockers to extract our sleeping bags which we proceeded to climb into, fully clothed, even as we sat on our chairs huddled together for collective warmth.

Stroking one of the “pet” cheetahs…not that I approved of the place

Namibia is covered with desert landscapes, but also incredibly beautiful rock formations, sand dunes, and miles and miles of beautiful sandy beaches. Our first stop after leaving Etosha National Park was the Petrified forest park where we endured blistering sun and temperatures for a thankfully short walk to view the petrified logs. Later we were taken to a rather strange and somewhat disturbing “Cheetah Park” where the white Namibian owners had 3 cheetahs kept in a domestic capacity as pets, together with a group of “fenced in” cheetahs that they fed daily as part of their artificial cheetah safari. Enquiring as to how they came to have cheetahs on their farm, the owner told a rather disturbing story, but didn’t seem to have any ethical issues with it himself. He basically explained that cheetahs had been attacking and eating his cows, and that he’d taken to shooting them (around 10-15 years ago) but then one time, decided that he’d catch them instead using a trap. After successfully trapping one female cheetah, it turned out she was pregnant, and so he decided to take the cubs away from their mother and keep them as pets, and later charge people to come to his home and have pictures taken with his cuddly friends. Of course, he used slightly different verbiage – but this was the gist of it.

Creepy, right?

Pretty Cheetah

What made the place even more suspect was that we were later driven around what was essentially a penned in area of land where we observed maybe twenty cheetahs all waiting to be fed by the chunks of meat the driver would heave into the air. Some of the cheetahs looked a little sickly, like they’d been physically harassed by the other cheetahs, and besides my obvious concern over their well being in this regard, I couldn’t shake the feeling that cheetahs really should be roaming free, hunting, and catching their own food.

Cheetahs, cheetahs, everywhere…but waiting to be fed? please….

Hoping for a more authentic experience than the Cheetah park, we headed the next morning on a visit of a Himba tribal village. Many of the Himba people living in rural Namibia still live with their traditions and customs that are unavoidably startling and somewhat uncomfortable for us westerners to observe – especially when it is presented in this fashion of “come to our village and see our naked women, our huts, and our children presented to you as if they are exhibits in a museum.” Except the exhibits are alive and you feel as though you’re violating their rights to privacy taking photos (which they encouraged us to) as if they’re lions in a game reserve. Ultimately, however, the culture of the Himba people is so foreign and fascinating, that one feels compelled to go and see for oneself, and one can’t help but take photos and swallow the given discomfort that accompanies the experience.

Himba woman and her son – I love the village meets western clothing in this pic (see the baby’s shoes)

Young men of the Himba tribe have their three front lower teeth knocked out by their fathers when they are young teenagers. We were informed that this both distinguishes their tribal roots and also aids in the pronunciation of their dialect. Women are mostly naked, dressed in little more than leather strap-like skirts and elaborate beadwork about their necks and chest. Most notable, however, is the habit of the women not to bathe – at all. Instead, they keep “clean” through a combination of spreading Okra-based paint onto their skin (which gives them their rich rust-orange like color) and sitting in the huts and “smoking” themselves – which is exactly what it sounds like: sitting in an oxygen deprived hut directly in front of a fire and letting the smoke cleanse your body (though exactly how this happens I’m not sure.)

The men, apparently, wash as we do with soap and water. Of course, I felt a natural revulsion for their sanitary practices, and I recognize how ethnocentric that stance is, but I’m ok with it. Making it even more difficult to believe – the women also put copious amounts of okra onto their hair, creating these elaborate headdresses out of their own tresses that they then embellish at the ends with circular mounds of animal fur.

The seal colony on the Skeleton Coast

I found myself aching to ask how/what the women used during their menstrual cycles and whether they could use water during this time for their ablutions. I was left, unfortunately, to wonder.

This visit had been a highlight for Andy, a beloved member of our group, who was also celebrating his 46th birthday on the same day. There were the obvious jokes about getting to see naked women on his birthday. Since we were facing a very long drive to our bush camp that evening, we all decided to stock up on some booze to go along with the game bbq dinner Tabitha had promised to make us that evening, as a treat. Around 2pm in the afternoon, someone suggested we crack open the alcohol stash and make a party of the afternoon’s drive, and that was it.

Truck Party time.

Sunset and partying on the roof of our truck in our Bush Camp

Andy put on a rocking compilation of music and we were all soon singing along and dancing up and down the central walkway of the truck. We just about managed to get out of the truck and scramble to dizzying high viewpoints as the truck stopped at scenic photo opps along the way, though the climbs got progressively more difficult the more libations we imbibed.

By the time we got to the absolutely stunning setting for our bush camp, it was already time for sunset and most of us were winding down from our “night” of drinking. The meal that night was the most memorable of the whole trip – we ate Oryx or Gemsbok and it was quite possibly the most delicious meat I’ve ever put in my mouth.

By 8 o clock, Andy had collapsed asleep in his tent, so any further party plans were soon squished besides the few of us who decided to make a night of sleeping directly under the stars sans our tents.

Nicely recovered from what had been a “day of revelry” – we happily set off towards the skeleton coast, first re-tracing our route a few miles as two members of the group had lost articles of clothing and hats during the dancing and truck party the afternoon prior. Half successful, we turned about and headed towards the aforementioned block of cold air that hit us a few hours later, promptly finding us inside our sleeping bags in due course. We had a number of strange stops that day before our perhaps even more strange stop that night at our camp (that had showers!!) at Hettie’s Bay. We visited an abandoned oil mining shaft in the desert, a shipwreck on the beach, several more cliff top view points, and most surprising of all – Cape Cross Seal Colony.

Never have I seen this many seals in one place. It made the Galapagos look like a quiet vacation spot for seals by comparison. There were literally thousands of them crowded on the beach as far as the eye could see, lots and lots of young pups all screeching for their mothers amongst the masses. If you looked carefully, you could also spot lots of pups that hadn’t survived and their remaining skeletons littering the beach too. Reading the interpretive signs that were on display, we were disturbed to read that during the summer months when the pups are born, thousands can perish on a given day if the wind dies down for an extended period of hours – offering no relief from the relentless heat that they are just too weak to survive.

Desert

The temperature dropped even further as we arrived in Hettie’s Bay – a very very strange and somewhat creepily deserted town that was home for the night. As it was the birthday of another member of our group, I made my best effort to go out for a drink after dinner – and found myself in a pub that somewhat resembled one of the nasty run down pubs they have in Everett along the Aurora highway. Except with really bad Afrikaans music playing.

Weird.

I was very happy to arrive in Swakopmund the next day, and the weird Germanness of the town was overlooked, for now, because of the prospect of sheets and a bed for the next re-humanizing four days.

Onward to Malawi – From Dar to Chitimba

27 Friday Mar 2015

Posted by Anita in Africa, Malawi

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Culture, Travel Days

Driving towards Malawi

I last left you on my return journey from Zanzibar. Getting back to the campsite in Dar was a little arduous, leaving at 5am taking a bus, then immigration control, then a ferry, then immigration control (bear in mind Zanzibar is the same country, Tanzania, as Dar), a 15 minute walk in steaming heat carrying our bags, another short ferry with so many people one felt like chickens packed into a crate, and finally a tuktuk ride in torrential rain. Having the afternoon to rest before our next 2 very early starts was quite welcome and passed almost entirely without incident – unless you count a guy called Moses who plonked himself next to me on the beach and professed his love for me and asked me to marry him and take him to America within his first three sentences. When I laughed and ignored his advances he literally begged me “just talk to me for five minutes, ok?” – to which I suggested that in the future, he might wanna open with the latter of his two propositions.

Riding on the “Beach” area in front of the truck

Our journey was taking us to Malawi, and we faced two very long, very hot days on the truck driving, each of them beginning at 4am. Yes, you read that right. That first day was a 14 hour drive and we thankfully spent the night at some altitude at a Farmhouse called Irina near the Malawi border with Tanzania. The farmhouse runs almost entirely on solar power, and was spotlessly clean and a refreshing respite from the road. Their bar was a reed made structure that is lit entirely by candles in the evening, and since it was one of our group’s birthday, we enjoyed homemade brownies and hot chocolate after dinner. I also forced myself to do an hour’s worth of exercise on arrival with another one of the passengers who is a huge crossfit enthusiast. We ran sprints, did pushups, squats, burpees and improvised steps using picnic tables until I was exhausted. I can’t believe how out of shape I’ve become after only two weeks of very limited cardio activity.

Sleeping with a cool breeze was so welcome after all the heat we had endured.

The following day, our drive took us through some beautiful lush green scenery and the landscape became more and more hilly the closer we got to Malawi. As a country, Malawi is about the size of Pennsylvania, but with a population of over 14 million people, it is the 4^th most densely populated African country. Average life expectancy is 52 years and more than half of the population is malnourished. GDP is less than 250USD annually per citizen, so I was prepared to see some very impoverished communities during our stay here. Our destination inside Malawi was the lake formed by the Great Rift Valley – Lake Malawi, its size so immense you would swear you were staying by the ocean.

Our campsite in Chitimba

By now, I’d say that I’ve almost completely accepted the loss of my computer and phone and am quite settled (though not yet content) into our group’s day to day routine. There has been some friction between certain members of the group, but for the most part, we are getting along ok. I am left still feeling quite alone and lonely despite being with these people every single day – and I find myself wistfully imagining just how different of an experience I’d be having if Giovanna, Tanya, Jerri, Nolan, or Eve were here with me…or better yet – all five of them! While I am now convinced that I will experience some incredible things during this sojourn of Africa, I am equally convinced that those experiences will not carry the same meaning since they won’t be shared with a friend in arms or even a fellow traveler of my choosing.

Our four lads aged 18 and 19 have formed a very tight-knit group and are rarely without each other for more than a few minutes in any given day – and I find myself glad for them that they have each other, but sad that I can’t enjoy a similar experience. For instance, staying here in Kande on the southern lake, I chose to upgrade my room, but none of the other passengers wanted to share with me, especially since there is only one single woman on my trip and she keeps almost entirely to herself, opening her mouth from time to time only to share her latest set of complaints about how the trip is organized. We are picking up an additional passenger in Lilongwe, so we shall see how that affects the dynamic of the group and whether she might end up being a kindred spirit.

I will end this entry with my latest set of smaller observations about our journey:

I have just gone three days without any coffee whatsoever. Due to our early morning departures, we leave without breakfast and then grab cereal alongside the highway, literally, a few hours into our drive. I think I’m in caffeine withdrawal.
Pricing for things makes absolutely no sense here. Our 13 hour day hike with a guide in Chitimba cost only 3 USD despite the fact that it’s the same price as a glass of wine and entrance to the museum that we visited for only an hour was 4 USD. Missing our local transport on our descent (story for this will be my next post) we were told that a car could be sent to pick us up saving us from walking for the last 5 kms or so, but that it would cost 80USD. Strange, right?
From my observations thus far, the Malawi people are much friendlier than Tanzanians and there’s a far lesser sense of their approaching you for ulterior motives other than wanting to converse.
Much like South America, people trying to sell you their crafts and wares from the roadside just need to learn to stop hassling you and incessantly telling you what they have for sale when your own eyes can quite easily discern the same. I swear I might actually buy something from a vendor that just let me browse without assuring me that I’m his bosom friend, that he’ll give me a good price, and insisting I’m his “sister”.
I don’t understand travelers who don’t carry a Ziploc bag with hand sanitizer, soap, toilet roll and wet wipes with them at all times. I cannot count each day how many times I pull that item out of my bag and put it away.
My hatred of plastic bottles of water and the people that continually buy them instead of investing in a longer term\more sustainable water purification system hasn’t waned one bit, and though Malawi is a lot cleaner than Tanzania – the GLUT of plastic everywhere is staggering. I LOVE my steripen and I don’t understand why every traveler doesn’t have one of these.
We have procured the pill which kills the parasite that one can apparently contract from snails in Lake Malawi. They can cause kidney failure and enter your bloodstream through the skin. Lovely. Again though, our guide Tabitha instructed us to purchase the medicine with the same amount of concern or anxiety that she would assign to the purchase of cheddar.

No biggie. This is Africa. Lots of things can kill you here.

The Lost City and Paradise Found in Tayrona – Part I

08 Friday Aug 2014

Posted by Anita in Colombia, South America

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Archaeological Sites, Culture, Hikes, Trekking

Hot and Sweaty in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta

Cartegena had prepared me somewhat for the temperatures and humidity of Santa Marta. But I was about to embark on a 4 day trek in the jungle where I would find a new brand of suffering from the heat, one that had bugs, mosquito repellant, sunscreen and sweat all mixed into one disgusting mass that would cascade off one’s body in uncontrollable puddles. In addition, 4 days of gross would not end up being enough for me and I sought more punishment by actually combining what is typically two trips into one – hiking through and staying in Tayrona on my return journey from Ciudad Perdida, aka The Lost City.

The actual Lost City is a set of archaeological ruins from a city built by the Tayrona people in approximately 800 AD. It was only discovered in the 1970’s by a team of explorers searching the hills of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta in search of gold. What has now been re-constructed is about 600 stone ‘platforms’ that formed the basis for their sacred city in the jungle.

Misty mountains in the morning

There were at least 30 or so individuals starting the hike the same day I did, and it became quickly obvious that this was not going to be as easy from a physical standpoint as I had been expecting. These were long, arduous uphill slogs, river crossings and often marching through clouds of thick dust that kicked up and coated your skin with white powder. The vegetation was lush and beautiful and often gave way to impressive vistas of mountains covered in thick trees as far as the eye could see.

Our First Camp

Along the trail, we encountered several villages of the indigenous people who still live in this valley – The Kogi. Our guides talked us through the Kogi traditions and ways of life which were totally fascinating, albeit slightly disturbing as well. These people still live in huts made from tree bark and all the men and women wear white dress-like garments and keep their hair long, only parted in the middle. Sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish the males from the females except for their cultural trademarks: women wear multiple colorful beads, and the men carry a “mochilla’ – a colorful purse that contains their “gord” of power.

Kogi people and their villages

Gord of power? – you may ask. Well, the Kogi men officially become so on their 18th birthdays. At this time, they are brought to one of the Shamens of the village to receive their gord and instruction on how to use it. Essentially, the hollow gord is used to mix crushed coca leaves with a type of sea shell powder that they then stick a type of spoon into, then lick, and continually do this from morning till night. The powder and coca leaves combine to form a potent drug that keeps the men alert and full of vigor. It is essentially one of the old processes that helped form the idea for cocaine production.

Jumping into a swimming hole

Oh! The men at 18 also get to spend a few days with the Shamens’ wife and she teaches them the art of sex. Which I think is actually a pretty cool tradition. However, even after couples are married (very soon after this “induction”) they do not get to sleep in the same hut. Women and men have their own huts and sleep separately. All “relations” occur outside in the open where they can be blessed by Mother Earth.

And I’m sure Mother Earth also blesses with mosquito bites.

Beautiful Tree

Unfortunately for them, the women are not allowed to partake of the coca leaf mixture, nor even the coca leaves themselves. No, they must be content to do the work of growing the coca plants and harvesting them for the men. And, of course, having lots of babies starting at the age of 15. I saw so many young girls with babies strapped to their backs, fronts, and toddlers running in front of them.

So, yeah, fascinating culture to have the privilege of observing during our foray into the jungle.

The Main Mirador over the city

Each day we walked between four and seven hours and generally we had the chance to stop at a swimming hole for a refreshing dip both once during the hike, and then once we got to camp. I usually was so hot and filthy that I just jumped in still wearing all of my clothes, happily walking in them still wet for hours after.

Each camp had stacks of bunks with mosquito nets and various quality of mattress ranging from “like sleeping on concrete” to “bowed in the middle”. It was still a higher standard than I was expecting and since it was surprisingly cool in the evening, I was able to get a decent amount of sleep.

Camp with the bunk beds in the background

Evenings consisted of interpretive talks, socializing with the other travelers on the trek, and reading by headlamp. It was a relaxing time, especially after a nice dip in the cold river.

Unfortunately, the morning of our climb up 1200 stairs to the Lost City itself, I found I had come down with yet another mystery virus/stomach bug. I was proud that I made it up those damn steps, but once I got there, had very little energy for really taking in the monuments themselves.

The walk to our third camp that afternoon was very difficult. I was throwing up and had a high fever and couldn’t keep food down. But I still had to walk, and the walk was not easy. Luckily, I’d learned the mind over matter technique that worked for me when I was really sick in Peru, and I at least didn’t have to contend with altitude on top of the heat and being ill.

Other scenes from the trail

I awoke on our last day with an appetite and feeling far more like myself again. The walk out was long but manageable and lunch awaiting us at our jeep pick-up point was well deserved.

I tried again to convince some of the others to jump out of the return vehicles and come with me directly to Tayrona, but unfortunately, people said they were too tired and nobody was feeling as adventurous as I was.

Medellin – Drugs, Modern Life and…Hippos?

31 Thursday Jul 2014

Posted by Anita in Colombia, South America

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Animals, Cities, Culture, Tours

Medellin – Modern and as colorful as it’s unfortunate past

I was pissed when I arrived in Medellin. The bus journey here from Manizales was supposed to take five hours and it took six and a half because we were stuck behind a town’s Saturday night “procession”, the bus driver insisted on keeping his front two windows rolled down completely nullifying any cooling effect the air conditioning might have brought those suffering in the back, a really cute guy sitting in the front got out only an hour into the journey (obliterating my plan to ask for assistance on arrival and thereby become acquainted,) there was a deafening hip hop concert taking place at the bus station upon arrival, and to top it all off, once I’d found the taxi rank, after five or so sweat-inducing laps of the entire bus station with all my luggage, listening to the thwamp thwamp of the loudspeakers and some dude screaming at the crowd instead of singing, it took seven cab drivers before I found one who actually knew where The Black Sheep Hostel was located. Well, he didn’t know where it was. But his response was at least more than a shrug of a shoulder and silent dismissal; he was willing to wait and look at my guidebook map and hear me explain the actual address.

Joggers on Avenida Poblado

Cab drivers in Colombia, I have concluded, will do anything to ensure that you take a different cab.

Now I’d left the girls at the beautiful Hacienda Venezia because it was Saturday and I’d heard a lot about how legendary Saturday nights are in Medellin – the dancing, the music. It’s supposed to be a really great night out with the locals. By the time I arrived at the hostel it was 8:30 pm, and guess what? They didn’t have my reservation and they were full. So I was sent to the Casa Blanca just down the road – which turned out to be a shitty hostel filled with very pale 18 year old English college students, wearing dirty clothes sitting around plastic tables gulping cheap vodka with Fanta and shrieking with laughter. I enquired around, meekly, to see if anyone was up for heading out on the town, but not getting any response, I decided that I’d had a long day and got a private teeny tiny room and passed out.

Park in Poblado

I immediately regretted my decision the next day when I re-packed my stuff and checked back in to The Black sheep, only to hear and see everyone talking enthusiastically about what a great night out had been had by all. Well, surely Colombians go out on Sundays too?

No, apparently. They do not.

Colorful bars in the Zona Rosa – which I didn’t go out in:-(

After finding some breakfast, I asked the sardonic Kiwi at reception for ideas on what I might do on a Sunday in this city. He suggested a walk around The Poblado (the modern side of town where the hostel was located) and a visit to the botanical gardens for a quiet nice afternoon. Since there wouldn’t be much open today, that seemed like a good plan and I quietly also devised a plan to go watch a movie that evening and treat myself to some nice air conditioning, popcorn and diet coke (bliss – a fast cure for the little bit of home sickness I felt for modern life)

Kiddie play area at the mall

I was thoroughly impressed right away by the city. It was clean, modern, bright and had well landscaped public spaces and parks. On this Sunday, the main ‘Avenida’ in Poblado had been closed to traffic and I joined the throngs of joggers, cyclists and families taking a Sunday stroll, visiting a lovely market along the way and relishing a Maracuya juice.

Piranhas at the Aquarium

The other impressive feature in Medellin is the Metro. On the walking tour (which I would take the following day) our guide explained that it was the building of the metro that gave this city the glimmer of hope it needed to pull itself out of it’s horrific history of drug violence and murder of the 80’s and 90’s, and give it’s citizens something to be very proud of. And they are – on the metro today you will see no sign of graffiti or trash anywhere. It’s extremely efficient, and what I loved most of all – it connects all neighborhoods with the economic core centers of the city for the same price. This means that someone living in the poorest neighborhood, which is typically far away from downtown, is not forced to pay more money for a longer commute, thereby excluding them from lots of job opportunities.

Why couldn’t they instigate this same concept in, say, London? Or New York?

Me on the free walking tour – great concept! If you enjoy the tour – you give a great tip!

In any case, I rode the metro each of the four days I was in Medellin and though it still involved a lot of walking to and from each station, it was a highly efficient, though jam-packed nut-to-butt experience. I rode to the Botanical Gardens only to discover that there was some sort of massive music festival going on, together with the typically deafening music and pulsing beat that Colombians seem so attracted to. It was so packed full of people, but I persevered looking for the orchid complex, only to be told that they had been removed for the festival!

Administrative center sculpture, which is also a memorial for it’s artist – his ashes are laid to rest here too

Statue by the beloved Colombian artist Botero in front of City Hall

So I opted instead to visit the aquarium which also surprisingly was a Science Center, not unlike the one in Seattle or Portland. My cost of admission also included a short movie about the inner world, and entrance to the many exhibits on the science of the human body, reptiles, football and so on.

The aquarium itself was very impressive, focusing mostly on freshwater fish, they had very large tanks full of fish that you might find in the Amazon River, including piranha.

At the movies that night, I got the last seat to the Greg Kinnear flick called “Heaven is for Real”. It was so strange to be transported back to the US and Nebraska culture with a Colombian catholic audience. They seemed to really enjoy the movie, and my aching feet were very grateful for the respite as well.

Catedral Metropolitana

Upon returning to my hostel (to which I walked from the mall in the dark, feeling surprisingly safe as I did so completely alone) I found the hostel cat, Rufus, asleep on my bed. It was lucky for Rufus that I like cats and we snuggled up all night, waking throughout when Rufus needed more attention and stroking which he indicated with a jabbing paw to my neck.

Once again, I didn’t really connect with anyone in particular in Medellin. I spent most of my days alone or in tour groups, which was fine. I did a walking tour with Real City Tours, which I highly recommend. Their owner, Pablo, has lived and studied in France, the UK and Hungary and at only 26, shows a thriving entrepreneurial spirit that is extremely refreshing compared to the service-absent mentality of almost everyone else here involved in the booming tourism industry.

At 26, Pablo, as well as Paola, the guide I had on my Pablo Escobar tour the day before, each remember very well a Medellin that during their childhood, was the murder capital of the world. Shootings and bombings were daily events. People didn’t go out at night. Everyone lived in fear. Those in powerful positions in the cartels, at that time, were literally untouchable. Anyone that stood in their way, a politician who spoke out for change, a police officer, any man, woman or child that happened to be in the general vicinity of someone they saw as a threat to their flow of substantial drug cash was killed without regard for any consequences. They were above the law. Paola, in particular spoke with an extreme amount of passion about seeing people shot to death on the street, her two uncles among the victims. She is obviously still extremely bitter, and was much less optimistic about her country’s ability to fight corruption still inherent in the system.

House where Pablo Escobar was shot

Pablo, on the other hand, believes that things are really improving and that there is a future now for the youth of Medellin, a chance to get educated and improve their lives free of that kind of fear. Much of the drug violence has moved up the chain to the distribution phase, the majority of which now occurs in Mexico. Most of the coca plants are now being grown in Bolivia and Peru because it’s cheaper to do so. The city has invested a lot of money into it’s infrastructure and now builds libraries and community centers in neighborhoods that used to be too dangerous to walk through in the daylight.

Of course, Pablo helped to dispel the myth that is still so pervasive in the world, that Colombia is such a “dangerous” country. It’s not dangerous anymore. Sure, there are areas deep in the jungle one would still want to avoid, but here is the issue. Drugs and their production have resulted in the kind of bloodshed that could be likened to a civil war – countless hundreds of thousands have died. However, until the demand lessens or ceases, there will still be a fight to supply. In other words, it could be argued that those that bought and still buy the cocaine (which incidentally is only about 2-3% pure by the time it reaches, say, the States) are the ones with blood on their hands. That’s where the money came from to buy the bombs, the guns, and created the wealth enjoyed the most notorious drug lord of all – Pablo Escobar.

My group on the walking tour

The tour I took about him was very enlightening. Not only did I learn about the Drug trade from this perspective, but out guide also talked about the rich plentiful resources that are still available here in this country. Colombia is number five in the world for country’s with the most freshwater. There are minerals to mine, incredible flora and fauna not found anywhere else in the world. Including incidentally, Hippos.

What? – you may ask.

Well, along with seeing many of Pablo’s organizations’ buildings, the house where he was finally caught and shot dead, his mansions, and his final resting place (the most visited grave site in South America after Eva Peron) we also learned about his hacienda out in the countryside, which among it’s lavish, opulent staples was a zoo which Pablo insisted should also contain hippos which he had flown in from Africa.

After he was caught, the police seized his compound and rounded up most of the animals and found homes for them all in zoos across the continent. But the hippos were too big to move. They figured that if they just left them, they’d wander off and die from hunger somewhere.

But they didn’t. They survived. And reproduced.

Me, trying to Salsa with Fabrizio

There are now approximately 40 hippos roaming the countryside of north east Colombia and if they continue to do so, will start wreaking havoc on the local animal and human populations.

My time in Medellin wasn’t all learning about history. I also took a private Salsa lesson and hit the dance floor with Lillian and Fabrizio at Eslabon Prendido on Tuesday night. Despite the fact that the place was packed, I was pretty proud that I managed the steps without too much fumbling or looking stupid. I will have to find another place in Bogota later in the trip where there is more room to spread out. I had the typical Paisa dish of “heart attack on a plate” better known as Bandeja Paisa with a couple of boys after the walking tour.

I also learned that the poor service in restaurants doesn’t just stop at the food trying to make it’s way to your table. Every morning, after my Rufus cuddles, I’d plod on down the street to this little coffee shop for breakfast. One day, I just upped and left and forgot to pay! I didn’t realize until that afternoon, at which point I returned to buy a brownie and settle my bill.

They had no idea that I hadn’t paid. They didn’t even care. It was all very strange.

I enjoyed my four days there. I would have to say, that of all the cities I’ve visited in South America – this is the first one that I could see myself living in.

Saquisili Market – Screwing Llamas for sale

06 Sunday Jul 2014

Posted by Anita in Ecuador, Opinion Articles, South America

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Culture, Food, Opinion Pieces

Saquisili main square

In Ecuador, markets are an extremely important part of the culture. We had been told that the market in Saquisili was the most authentic indigenous market in the country and it was held every Thursday. Upon arriving in the city, we were informed there were actually four markets in one- a textile market, a food market, and the large and small animals market. Finding the one hotel in town was easy enough and though a little shabby, at $15 for a comfy bed for the two of us, I was pretty happy.

The difficulty came in finding somewhere to eat. Just like Latacunga, there didn’t appear to be any restaurants in town. We asked lots of individuals where we might be able to eat dinner and we were repeatedly met with blank stares. Since the majority of the townspeople were poor, it appeared that eating outside of the home was a luxury that the vast majority could simply not afford.

Breakfast at Saquisili Market

Eventually, we did find a little converted garage on a side street where an old lady stood over 4 steaming pots of food and offered us potatoes, meat and a fried egg for $2.50. The meat was extremely tough and what made it even tougher was that we were only given a spoon to eat our food with. At least the beer was relatively cold.

Main Food Market

In the morning, I was nervous that I wouldn’t be able to get my caffeine fix. I can almost imagine living in a town that didn’t have a selection of restaurants, but I cannot imagine living in a town where you can’t purchase a cup of coffee in the morning. Luckily, at the food market, there were several stalls offering up a traditional Ecuadorian breakfast of a boiled egg with cornmeal served in a husk and black coffee. I managed to buy a cup of hot milk from another stall for 20 cents and Voila! – Café Au Lait.

Baby pig for sale

There were some shocking sights awaiting us at the animal market. Some more surprising than others. For instance, I was mentally prepared for seeing pigs squealing and being dragged by their legs and thrown into trucks, I was prepared for the cows and sheep all tied up and bleating in unison. I wasn’t, however, prepared for the sight of two Llamas having sex, while also tied up and awaiting purchase. I got some interesting photos to be sure.

Llamas…doing what Llamas do

The small animal market was a little more distressing for me. There were hundreds of plastic and fabric bags on the ground by people’s feet and I didn’t think much of it until I noticed that there was squealing and meowing and barking coming from the bags. The bags were full of guinea pigs, rabbits, puppies, chickens, goslings, and kittens. As people walked by, the owner would grab an animal, often by the neck to show the prospective buyer and then mercilessly drop the tormented creature back on to his buddies.

Guinea Pigs – yummy?

Guinea Pigs and a basket of fowl for sale

In addition, there were hundreds of cages just filled to the brim with little sad creatures. Some showed significant signs of fighting with open wounds on their backs and legs.

Puppy anyone?

It was all in all, quite upsetting, but an eye-opening cultural experience that had to be had at the same time.

Onward to Ecuador: When it sucks to travel alone

27 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by Anita in Ecuador, South America

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Culture, Solo Travel, Transport, Travel, Travel Days

The day I arrived in Huaraz after 4 transfers

I have been traveling the world solo for many years and to lots of different destinations. When asked, I’m the first person to sit up and spout the benefits of solo travel: you can go anywhere you want anytime you feel like it, you have complete freedom, you change your plans on a whim. But the greatest benefit of traveling alone that I willingly promote is that traveling alone hardly ever means that – you end up meeting a plethora of like-minded individuals and traveling together with all sorts of people from a day to weeks at a time.

Regardless, I always have the same set of fears before I set off on a trip with regard to the aspect of doing it by myself. What if I don’t meet up with anyone when I get there? What if I’m forced to spend days and weeks alone without anyone to talk to? What if I get robbed and there’s no-one to help? What about eating meals in restaurants alone? I had these exact questions in the week or so leading up to my flight to Lima.

The German girls I befriended on arrival in Peru

It’s not like I had actually really planned this trip to begin with. As some of you know, I suffered a serious personal loss and I wasn’t myself anymore. I’d lost purpose and focus. Travel is what I always have turned to in similar situations to feel better. So it seemed like the right thing to do. Though given my already precarious and fragile emotional state, my concerns regarding traveling solo were more acute this time around. How would I handle my anxiety? What if I felt really sad and was crying with no-one to talk to? Memories of South America, 2009 came flooding back. While I’d had a good trip, my tears could have filled a swimming pool. I had a broken heart after a relationship ended a few months before my departure from the States.

I didn’t want to repeat that.

Nevertheless, despite the fear, I decided to proceed with the fear not because of it. I said goodbye to my boyfriend and my house and I got on a plane (well, 4 planes actually) and flew to Huaraz, Peru.

It wasn’t long before my fears were allayed. Upon arriving at the tiny Huaraz airport, I discovered that the transport I’d arranged to get to my hostel hadn’t shown up. 3 girls from Germany very kindly offered to share their transport with me, and before I knew what was happening, I’d made 3 friends with whom I’d go on an acclimatization hike with the next day. And I did. They were great – and it was the perfect segway to my getting up the courage to book my 4-day and 10-day treks that I’ve since written about. Incidentally, my German girlfriends had invited me along on their Cordillera Huayhuash experience, but since it was twice as expensive and only 8 days in length, I’d politely declined.

So all was well.

Until I got back from the trek.

At least I got you, Quatchi

I arrived back to my hostel on Saturday night and was perfectly happy spending Sunday resting and recovering. In fact, I did go out and have a celebratory dinner with the Polish-French Canadian couple from the trek that day. However, the following day I left for Ecuador and I’ve been alone most of the time ever since.

Monday set up that classic set of fears one has traveling alone (especially as a woman.) I thought I’d devised an ingenious way of getting to Cuenca, Ecuador whilst avoiding 3 days/nights of buses, which is what it would take to travel overland. I decided to fly to Lima, then fly to the northernmost city in Peru that has an airport, Piura, and then figure out a bus across the border from there.

All was going well until I got to Piura. The woman at the airport told me there were two companies that could get me across the border and they both had night buses, however, that night buses were not safe for women traveling alone, plus crossing the Peruvian/Ecuador border was quite “peligroso” as she put it to begin with. Not really wanting to spend a night in this town, I left for the bus terminals by taxi undeterred.

I was faced with a dilemma: take an uncomfortable night journey with a non-reclining bus seat through the “safe” border, or a “semi-cama” reclining seat on a better bus through the “dangerous” border. Just when I was starting to feel quite anxious as I was trying to keep an eye on all 3 pieces of my luggage attached to various parts of my person at all times (the number one most annoying aspect of traveling alone – having to keep track of your bags at ALL times, INCLUDING! ALWAYS having to take all your luggage into the bathroom with you…ugh!) my eyes laid down on two gringos also in line for tickets! Someone who spoke English that I could talk to!

Ceviche with Gustavo and Javi

As it turned out: Gustavo and Javi were Chileans but spoke fluent English. Gustavo was also unusually fair skinned with red hair, and so forgave me for assuming he was Scandinavian or Scottish. After about an hour of debate and lugging bags back and forth between the two bus companies, we all decided to take the better bus and worse border crossing combo. Gustavo and Javi were staying with the bus straight through to Guayaquil, however, the additional issue was that I’d have to change buses in Machala and we’d be arriving there around 4:30am in the dark. Since Peruvian travel agencies would NEVER take it upon themselves to have more information on hand than is necessary to do the bare minimum required for their job, no-one had a clue about when the first bus might be to Cuenca from Machala. I might be waiting around for hours. Alone. In the dark. With my luggage.

Screw it, I could deal.

I can’t tell you what a delight it was to hang out with Gustavo and his girlfriend Javi for that hour or so that night. They were so wonderfully conversational, involved, enthusiastic and funny. We had dinner at a seafood place and I was thrilled to finally have some ceviche before I left Peru! It was scrumptious, but soon enough – we were sitting in our designated half-bed (not really) bus seats and drifting off to sleep. That is, until the border crossing – which turned out to be completely benign and the 3 of us giggled as we filled in our forms half-asleep and I dealt with a particularly offensive banana explosion in my backpack.

That moment of fear returned when we arrived in Machala and I got kicked off the bus. Gustavo was so sweet getting off with me very quickly to enquire about next buses. He looked at me and pointed across a very dark 4 lane street to a fruit stand where a handful of shady characters were standing around and said “That’s where they say the bus to Cuenca stops. He says there should be one in half and hour. Good luck!”

And that was that.

I swallowed hard, held my head high, and walked with my 3 pieces of bodily-attached luggage in the dark hours of the early morning and sat down next to the shady fruit stand and tried to appear very confident that the bus was coming any moment. I even got up the nerve to buy some drinking yogurt. Luckily, they use the US Dollar in Ecuador… Even more luckily – a bus to Cuenca came within 15 minutes and I was saved from having to continue to put on a brave face when I really just wanted to cry.

My first Ecuadorian meal “Plato Typical”

I spent all day on Tuesday in Cuenca. There was literally no-one in my darling little hotel, La Casa Cuencana, and after a little nap, I wandered the streets of the city for hours and then ate my first Ecuadorian meal alone.

I took a photo of it.

Cause that’s what you do when you’re eating alone when you’re traveling!

The other downside to solo travel – you almost always have to take selfies to get pics of yourself

Cuenca was a beautiful little city – and recognized by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site. However, no matter how much I enjoyed the architecture, or the ambience of the central park and cathedral, and even smiled at the crowds of happy families and amorous couples enjoying the festivities of Corpus Christi (where, apparently, we devoutly remember the gift Christ gave us with his sacrifice by pounding our faces at hourly intervals with sweets, donuts, chocolate, and ice cream)- I felt completely alone. And lonely.

I believe there is a difference between the two, and I felt both.

The following morning, I was convinced I’d meet up with some cool people. Maybe taking in a musem in Cuenca? Maybe on the bus to Alausi? (I was heading up north to ride the famous Nariz Del Diablo train)

The stunning Cathedral in Cuenca

But no. I walked around the city again, this time in a light drizzle, visiting the medical museum (recommended by a friend because it was super creepy, and she was right) and the town market where I ate fresh pork sliced off an entire roasted pig together with pico de gallo and potatoes for 2 bucks. Then I caught a taxi and a bus to Alausi. The bus was packed, and I don’t know why – but of the 3 buses I’ve taken so far in Ecuador – I have each time ended up with an indigenous woman with a newborn attached to her back sitting next to me. Which is fine, I’m glad she got a seat, except that I’m sorry to report, the clothes these women wear, whilst very attractive in color, have not seen the inside of a washing machine, or tub for that matter in months or years. At one point today, I had to stick my head out of the window because I thought I was going to hurl from the horrendous odor.

Indigenous Local women in their very colorful, but unfortunately rather smelly attire

So I got to Alausi and had another scary experience worsened by my being alone. The bus “dropped me off” on the edge of town without driving into the center. It was dark, around 7pm, and there were no taxis, just a lot of people staring at me as I asked directions to the center of town. I had to walk for about 15 minutes down a very steep hill with my luggage bouncing along in front of me. Still no taxis. Got yelled at by some drunk guy.

The whole atmosphere of the place was worsened by the kind of dense fog that would make John Carpenter proud. I was feeling kinda stupid for coming all this way to ride a train where I wouldn’t even be able to make out the tracks let alone any scenery from the carriage window. And then I did something I almost never do – I walked straight to what seemed like the first clean, nice, well-lit hostal I could see.

Hosteleria Verana was lovely. I almost cried I was so happy when I was offered a room with private shower for $15. The lovely owner, who had just laid out dinner for her kids, offered me a plate of the same with an ice cold beer. Spinach soup, Beef with potatoes. I was so happy to feel safe again, I forgot my loneliness.

Me, riding the Nariz Del Diablo Train in Alausi

This morning I rode the train (will write about this more later) and did meet a very nice American man who is teaching English as a second language in Colombia, and two Taiwanese friends touring South America. We chatted briefly, but all left quickly after to return to Quito and Cuenca respectively.

And so, I got on another bus, with another indigenous woman co-passenger, and then repeated this step after changing buses via taxi in Riobamba and arrived in Banos today around 5pm.

My tiny little room in Banos

I will admit that I cried when I got into my room at the little Planta Y Blanca hostel. I feel so lost. The weather is matching my mood with rain and large, dark grey clouds looming above. I was so lonely, I decided I needed a massage – if only to feel some human touch.

Feeling a little better, I went in search of a good restaurant for dinner. After having sat down, I noticed another traveler eating by himself. Taking a deep breath for courage, I approached and asked if I might join him. “I’d rather you didn’t,” was his response.

Ok. That’s fine. How could I assume anything – he might have had a bad day himself.

Even so, I was so glum when I ordered my food. What is going on? I never have these issues when I travel solo! What kind of sad vibe am I giving off that no-one wants to engage? Oh God: I’m bringing this on myself through the laws of attraction! I came to Banos to go hiking, mountain biking and visit the thermal pools. But I don’t want to do any of those things by myself. I have no motivation.

And then…3 very young Americans walked in and allowed me to join them. They are so sweet and fun and innocent (ranging in age from 19-22.) Tomorrow we will go bike riding together.

I hope for now, the spell is broken and I’ll start liking solo travel again.

Dubai: First Impressions

28 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by Anita in United Arab Emirates

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Culture, Opinion Pieces

It’s not every day that you land in a new sub-continent for the first time. I had been dreaming of coming to the Middle East from very early on in the incubation phase of my travel bug, but unfortunately didn’t take advantage of it’s closer proximity when living in Europe. And so I found myself a few weeks’ shy of my 38^th birthday landing at Dubai Airport with my boyfriend, Matt, complete with those tingles that accompany me on every foreign adventure but have rarely been triggered since my last long term travel in 2010.

Along the waterfront in Dubai

As usual, I eagerly anticipated that first moment one leaves the airport. I wanted to smell the air, and feel the temperature engulf me like a warm embrace. Feel the palm-bending sand-filled breeze blow into my face and bid me welcome. And as it did, a big smile crossed my face and I knew I was ready.

A little more than 24 hours later I find myself despite jet lag pulling at my eyelids eager to encapsulate my first uninformed, potentially disrespectful and doubtless politically incorrect impressions of this Islamic Arab state. Which I will state for the record, are as unequivocally influenced by my own values (arguably Western and Christian-centered) as any Arab visiting my homeland would be by his. For any offence I might cause, I profusely apologize.

Our adventure started with a very clear message regarding the absolute separation of gender roles, rules and expectations in the UAE. Lining up to get into a cab, Matt was informed that we would need cash for this journey to our hotel. Upon returning from the ATM, I happened to be the first member of our two person party to approach the cab rank, only to be ushered to a different section of roadway where pink-roofed cabs lined up patiently waiting for female passengers looking for a female cab driver. I was fascinated. Our driver’s name was Raquel and she was from the Phillipines. She explained that many women arriving in Dubai do not feel comfortable getting into a cab with a male driver, and so this service is naturally provided, with no difference in fare. Thinking this was an anomaly, we were later again surprised when Matt was politely but firmly ushered out of the subway car we were riding in the next morning because he was sitting in the “Women Only” section of the train. Red-faced he quickly retreated, and the woman gave me a kind smile and gentle head bob that let me know it was ok, we couldn’t have known any better.

Matt was always being stopped at the Souk and had the headdress put on him

Throughout this first day, as I’ve watched women in this city – who’s appearance and behaviors have a greater scale of extreme than perhaps anywhere else I’ve ever observed: from the flesh-baring, heavily made-up, skin tight mini-dress wearing, high heeled women that walk the same halls of shopping malls alongside their “you only get to see my eyes” burka-clad fellow citizens – I’ve wondered if this separate treatment and service for women stems from their own fear for their safety, or is it more heavily based in religious and moral standards? What is life like for the women all in black who patiently walk alongside their pristinely white robed, red headscarf wearing husbands? How do they feel about their small daughters they carry in their arms wearing pale yellow knit cardigans, and Mickey Mouse ribbons in their hair, knowing they too might face a future where their face must be covered in public? And how much is this a personal choice vs. an obligation created by family or husband?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. Matt and I talked about the possibilities. But we both agreed that this feels like the first and only place where access to those answers might be limited to what one reads in books. Actually opening up a dialogue with an Emerati just feels like it’s off-limits. They don’t make eye contact. They don’t engage foreigners. At least in the little time I’ve observed them thus far. It will be interesting to compare what I sense is true here to what I witness in Abu Dhabi tomorrow.

Other than wonderfully rich social observations and people watching, Matt and I have enjoyed a wonderful albeit exhausting day in this oh-so-modern metropolis of wealth that has blossomed right out of the desert like a layer of mushrooms sprouting from the forest floor. Dubai, though settled many centuries ago by merchants and fishermen, was not even a town or city until the 1970’s. Since then it has experienced break-neck expansion into an almost unreal Disneyland like concrete urban oasis that blasts the senses with excess in all forms except those incongruent for the locals to their Islamic faith. This is a city it’s easy to get trashed in, but many restaurants do not serve alcohol. The “real” and still operated market “souks” are now copied in a version made more appealing to tourists with the modern amenities of air-conditioning, refreshments and a lack of hawkers.

Today we wandered the Clothing, Spice and Gold Souks, and rode the water taxi, sweat pouring down our backs in the punishing sunlight. We visited the Dubai museum which provided us with the story of Dubai, complete with wax models and stuffed camels. I had my first taste of that glorious selflessness that usually accompanies tourists when they descend like barbarian hordes on an attraction such as a museum. G.P as my friend Christine used to call it – or dealing with the General Public. I was trying to get a photo of a re-created scene of a typical early settlement, where a woman was sitting in her kitchen weaving. Two women were standing and reading about the exhibit taking up the space that four persons could comfortably share. I politely enquired if I might squeeze between them to get a photograph and I was informed “No, I’m still reading because it’s very interesting” as if that were a reason she couldn’t move one foot to the left and let someone else be interested also.

Camels on the beach

For lunch we headed to the Marina Mall and planned to head to the beach for a bit after. Having read that public displays of affection were strictly forbidden here in Dubai, especially between unmarried individuals, Matt and I had opted to don “wedding bands” in an attempt to avoid causing offense to the people we came into contact with, such as when we checked into our hotel. Walking through the Food court, Matt put his arm around me and I reminded him that we should be more careful to which he retorted “come on, we’re married AND we’re passing a Cinnabon-that’s gotta make it ok.”

The extent to which Dubai has been built up into a concrete skyscraper jungle is most clearly visible from the beach itself. The miles of white sandy beaches and azure water is back-dropped by miles of glittering, numerous and modern architectural high-rises…and the odd camel. It’s a wonderfully unique world and a constant crash of the traditional and the current.

It was the current that entertained us both evenings thus far. Last night we dined al fresco at the Souk Madinat Jumeirah on Persian food overlooking a man-made canal all lit up with fairy lights, overlooking the Burj Al Arab hotel. We followed that with $25 cocktails at a bar with bean bags situated outdoors in an amphitheater bar, and even got to smoke a few rounds of sheesha that a waiter inexplicably brought to us without our ordering it. This evening took us to the Las Vegas-like wonders of the Dubai Mall, beginning with a tour of the observation deck of the world’s tallest building the Burj Khalifa.

At the top of the Burj Khalifa

I was a little underwhelmed, especially after the mile-long pedestrian tunnel that we had to walk through to get to the mall from the very clean/efficient subway system. The elevator ride to the 124^th floor was impressive (10 meters per second) but the view from the deck was mostly obscured by the hundreds of people there and while it was a really long way down, I think my brain lacks the ability to distinguish the height difference to other skyscrapers I’ve visited, such as the Sears Tower.

Next came my highlight of Dubai thus far – the Fountains! These were modeled after the fountains of Bellagio in Vegas and they did not disappoint. I can’t quite pinpoint what it is about a wonderfully emotive and powerfully broadcasted piece of music juxtaposed with jets of water shooting into the sky – but for me it’s a potent combination and I find it very moving. For an extra spot of luck, we managed to secure outdoor seating overlooking the lake and caught 4 shows during our delicious meal. Speaking of food – you can get any kind you want in this city. So far, the most local items I’ve identified have been mint lemonade and Rose Milk. Yes, milk that tastes like Roses.

The city is modern. It is vast and was built upon sand. All the freshwater comes from giant desalination plants. Only a few green palms sparsely dot the landscape.

I cannot imagine a life here. A day or so? Yes…I can imagine that quite well now.

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Anita Go Travel

~ Life as a passport, one stamp at a time.

Tag Archives: Culture

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Medellin – Drugs, Modern Life and…Hippos?

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Onward to Ecuador: When it sucks to travel alone

Dubai: First Impressions