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Ethiopia Part I: Impressions from Ethiopia

27 Tuesday Feb 2018

Posted by Anita in Africa, Ethiopia

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Culture, Opinion Pieces, Personal, Women

Men chanting and singing during a church ceremony in Lalibela

I’ve now spent about three weeks in Ethiopia and one thing is for sure.  This is unlike any country I have been to in Africa.  It is a confounding place – it is both claimed to be more purely African than any other nation – since it is the only country on the dark continent that managed to escape the atrocities and impacts of European colonization.  On the other hand, it doesn’t feel like Africa at all – at least, to me.  So, I must state as my opening caveat to this post – these are merely my opinions and my impressions of this – my 21st African country.  Other tourists here may have totally different experiences, in fact, I hope they do.  These are just my own personal experiences, and I grant you – they might have felt different if this were the only country I was visiting on this trip.  Since we came here after having spent almost two months in West Africa, it was far easier to compare the people with those we had just had experience with.

Ethiopia is a staggeringly beautiful country – the geography is interesting and diverse and the history is rich and there is so much to learn and see for a history lover. It is an archaeologist’s paradise – ancient civilizations that have only just started to be excavated.  The potential for tourism, therefore, is immense and from what I can tell – there is an established tourist circuit in the north, and wherever we traveled – we met a lot of tourists.

Having said all of that – I would recommend to anyone wanting to visit Ethiopia to consider coming here on a package tour that is organized and paid for by a western company – OR – be prepared to need nerves of steel.  In order to fully appreciate each and every day, it is important to have a “separation” from needing to deal with local tour operators, guides, and almost any type of service staff.  The reason for this is there is more hassle, difficulties, price-gouging, unfair treatment, lying and horrible service here than anywhere else I have traveled.  Some of it, of course, can be attributed to the language barrier – but this does not explain all of it.

Stunning landscapes and beauty of Ethiopia

Before I launch into descriptions of the struggles Mike and I have faced, I would like to point out that we did have a handful of positive local interactions.  Our driver in Tigray was a 22 – year old called Sneetchie (spelling?) and though he didn’t speak English, he was always cheerful and helpful.  In the Danakil, our driver was the exact opposite of everything I’m going to describe here – but to the extreme.  Sisay, constantly asked if we were okay, did we want the windows down or AC?  Did we want to stop for a photo?  When we responded, he would verify our answer by re-asking the same question 3 or 4 times.  It was overkill – but at the very least, he was extremely caring.  I will give him a great review on Trip Advisor – because these two individuals were absolutely the exceptions to the general rule.

Just last night, at our hotel in Bahir Dar, I decided to order the same dinner I’d had the night before because it had been so delicious.  It was a chicken breast with a mushroom sauce and mashed potatoes.  The meal arrived but it was a chicken thigh and leg served with rice.  Looking at the menu, it was a totally different meal.  The waiter came over and I asked if it would be possible for him to bring me some mashed potato?  He said “of course” and went away.  Fifteen minutes later, a woman arrived (who I presumed is the restaurant manager) and asked me “what is the problem?”  I said, “there is no problem, it’s just that I got a different dish to what I ordered and could I have some potato?”  She pointed at the menu and told me that I had the dish I ordered.  I said, “no” – this isn’t a chicken breast.  To which, she responded “Yes, this is chicken breast – it has just been flattened out.”  I laughed because I thought she must be joking.  “No, this can’t be a chicken breast because there are bones.”  “No bones, madam.” “Yes, bones…look!” I said, holding the chicken leg up for her to see, “…this is a chicken leg, right?”

“No,” she replied, “this is not a chicken leg. It is breast.”

This went on for a few hilarious minutes while she continued to deny that what I had on my plate was a chicken’s thigh and leg.  I told her I didn’t care about the chicken (I had only wanted some mashed potatoes instead of rice) but what I did care about was her lying to my face that the chicken leg was breast meat.

She simply didn’t care, and walked away.  The waiter also just walked away.

I sighed and ate my meal.  Then, without being told anything, 20 minutes later a fresh plate of food arrives – and it is the dish I had ordered and the one I’d eaten the night before.  Of course, now, I wasn’t hungry – just exasperated.  I thanked the waiter and told him that next time, it might be a good idea to TELL the customer that you are planning to replace a dish.

Traditional Ethiopian coffee being served street-side

This is an extreme example, but Mike and I experience hassle and trouble here with logistics and site-seeing on a daily basis.  Vendors pester us with a persistence that is mind-numbing – you can say “no” 15 times and they still come after you to buy whatever it is that they’re selling – even super strange things like, in Axum, a round rock split in two filled with purple-looking gemstones.  Or wooden flutes.  Or strange-looking hats with a giant pointy bobble on top that we are told are “traditional Ethiopian hats” – yet we haven’t seen a single person wearing them other than the vendor pressuring us to buy them.

Even with the kids.  We have come across kids selling items and/or begging all across West Africa.  Here, they follow you, not taking no for an answer.  It goes like this: “Sir, you buy?  I give you good price?  Please.  Sir, you buy?  You want this?  Sir?  Madam?  Where you from?  You have pen?  Give me pen.  Pen. Pen.  I want pen.  Money.  Give me money.  Hey, money!  You.  You.  You give me pen?  Money. Pen. Pen. Pen.  Sweets?  You have sweets?  Madam, Madam, Madam….” This entire time, you’ve been walking away, fast, and they keep up with you, not tiring out.  I have had to take to stopping, looking them in the eye, and yelling “NO!!!!!” to get them to stop.  The other day, while visiting the Blue Nile Falls, a young girl no older than six, actually hit me in the legs with her bag of wooden flutes when I told her “sorry” but that I didn’t want to buy one.  Mike had rocks thrown at him.  Today, a school boy hit me in the small of my back as I rode past him on a bicycle.  It is really, really sad situation – that I’m actually afraid of groups of children here.

Thank God for Mike – he saved me from most of the hassle and dangers I would have faced if traveling here solo

As for issues with money and pricing for all things needed to see this country – I don’t even know where to begin.  As a foreigner, we are called “Faranji” (or even more hilariously, “China”) and everywhere you go, service providers will name a sky-high price that is sometimes 3 or 4 times what the standard price for a service should be, just on the off-chance that you don’t know this and you’re a stupid tourist who will fall for the quote.  In Lalibela, I was quoted 100 Birr for a tuk-tuk ride that I knew to be 30.  In Gonder, we wanted to buy a beanie hat for the mountains, and they asked us for 700 Birr.  That’s over $25!   We laughed and walked away.

While visiting the Rock-Hewn churches of Tigray, we negotiated with a scout who told us we needed his services to get up the steep trail to the church Abuna Yemal.  Our driver had told us we should pay no more than 100-150 birr in total.  This scout tried to charge us 300, but we managed to negotiate him down to 200 birr, with him explaining that entrance to the church was separate at 150 Birr each.  After carefully repeating this back and confirming that there would be no additional fees or costs, we agreed to head on up the trail.  At which point he asked us if we wanted him to bring a rope?

“A rope?  What for?  Do we need it?” we asked.

“If you want, I can bring” his response.

“But will we need it?”

“It’s up to you.”

“But we haven’t seen the trail – do most tourists use the rope?”

“Some do, some do not.”

“Ok, well, then, let’s bring it and then we will have it if we need it.”

“Then that is extra 100 Birr.”

“Oh. Isn’t it your rope?”

“No, you have to rent the rope.  It’s 100 Birr.”

Mike and I look at each other, exasperated.

“Ok, but if we pay you another 100 Birr, that is EVERYTHING, right?”

“Yes. Everything”

So.  We pay him the 100 Birr for the rope and move to get going.  He then stops and says:

“No, it’s 100 Birr EACH to use the rope.”

“What on earth?  Why would it be 100 each?  It’s one rope!  You said we have to rent a rope. You can’t charge per person for a rented rope! That’s just ridiculous.”

“You pay each…”

Me, ascending sans rope to the Rock Hewn church of Abuna Yemal

And so it went on.  Mike walked away, his energy for talking to this guy having evaporated.  I told the guy, we’d pay for the rope, and I would see if I needed to use it.  In the end, I climbed without the rope and Mike used it, however, the whole “rope rental” cost was a total fabrication because our scout LEFT the rope up there for other tourists to use who came by.  Other clients who shared our car in the Danakil told us they were charged 150 birr each for the rope going to this church.  It feels like those who work with tourists simply pull prices out of the sky whenever it suits them – depending on just how much they think they might get away with charging.

So, you can see, it is quite tiring having to negotiate for each and every little thing.  Everything is a discussion.  Everything.  Nothing is simple.  Nobody ever apologizes.  Ever.

We have had some very shady/incompetent/mendacious tour guides during our time here.  The owner of the tour operator we booked with to go to the Simiens got into an argument with me when he claimed that almost no-one ever suffered symptoms of altitude sickness while hiking to 4500 meters – I told him that not only was he wrong, but that saying that to less experienced hikers could actually be dangerous.  On our first night – over half of our camp had symptoms of AMS.  The same guy who promised our main luggage would be stored safely for us and returned to us, at no additional cost per his website (our trip cost us $300 each) – had the audacity to yell at me on the phone and tell me that he had never claimed our bag storage would be free and that we would have to pay 120 birr to the hotel manager to get them back.  He had never mentioned this additional cost and we were lucky that we had spare cash on hand at the end of our 4 day trek – but seriously?  Why would you argue with a client who’s just paid you $600 for a four-day tour over $4?  On the last day when we were scorched, dirty and exhausted?

On our boat trip to the Zege Peninsula in Bahir Dar – we negotiated to pay 1500 birr to visit two monasteries on the peninsula, then visit one of the islands, and the outlet to the Blue Nile on the way back.  After we’d finished the second monastery- our boat captain informed us we were “going back to hotel now” – and when we pointed out that we’d only covered ½ of our promised itinerary, he rolled his eyes and started getting pissy.  We called our hotel, who had arranged the trip, and explained that if we were going to be taken directly back, we wanted a discount (thank goodness I had refused to pay the full 1500 Birr before the trip, stating that a tourist typically pays for a day trip at the end.  They finally agreed to letting me pay 1000 up front and I would owe 500 at the end.)

Me and our lovely driver, Sissay, in the Danakil Depression

At this point, the trip was ruined anyways and we didn’t want to visit any more places with a boat captain in a foul mood.  The guy from our hotel asked to speak to the boat captain who proceeded to start yelling into the phone for a good five minutes while we tried to calmly enjoy a coffee at a tranquil lakeside location.  After giving us the phone back, our hotel person said that there was “no problem, and he would take us to all the promised places now, no problem” to which we explained that “yes, there was a problem in that we didn’t sign up to have to listen to him arguing about giving us the service we’d agreed upon.”  There was more yelling and calls back and forth, and we had to insist he just take the boat directly back to the hotel, whereupon we got out giving him 300 Birr less for the hassle we’d suffered.

In the Danakil, we stayed for one night in a hotel, and after several days in the hot dusty desert, I was eager to take a shower.  I didn’t have a towel with me as we’d been told we’d be camping for each of the 3 nights.  But the hotel gave us a double room, which, unfortunately, only had one towel on the bed.  I took the towel to the manager, and asked if I could possibly get another towel?  He said he would go get one for me.

Half hour later, I still didn’t have a towel.  I went out of the room looking for the manager.  I spoke to five housekeepers, showed them the towel, and asked for another towel.  “You want water?”  “No, just a towel.  A TOWEL.”

Five women commence a long and loud conversation in Amharic.  It goes on and on and on and on.  Eventually, they point me to the restaurant where I see the manager sitting and eating a meal and having a beer.  All five women follow me into the restaurant.  I ask the manager for a towel, again.  He just stares at me.

Then, his phone rings.  He leans back in his chair and takes the call, completely ignoring me.  I look at the women, who start to laugh.  I ask them again, pleading, “Please?  May I have a towel?”  One of them says “Office is closed.”

Oh, God.

I’m about to lose it, when a GUEST of the hotel who has observed this whole fiasco, gets up from his meal, apologizes to me, says something to the douchebag still on his phone, then something to the five housekeepers still standing there gawking at me and laughing, and proceeds to go behind the counter of the reception, grabs a key hanging from a hook, saying “Come with me.”

We walk down the hall to another hotel room, he unlocks the door, grabs the towel from the bed and hands it to me.  I thank him profusely.

Guys being guys in Ethiopia – Friday night cuddles in the bar

These situations – unfortunately, have become very common interactions for us as independent travelers.  The bigger downside, is, however, that I feel I have my back up, and I’m already on the defensive whenever someone approaches us, or offers us a good price for something we are actually interested in doing.  When most of your experiences with vendors is bad, one can’t help tensing up, anticipating getting lied to or ripped off.  The problem then becomes that I can inadvertently come across as hostile or nasty to someone who genuinely wants to help.  I admit that – the effect of this daily hassle has been cumulative and I’ve almost reached my breaking point.

It is a real shame, because as I said earlier, this is a stunning country with so much that is worthwhile to see and visit.

That covers what it feels like to be here in Ethiopia as a tourist. Let me tell you a little bit about how it feels to be here as a woman.  First, I have been hassled, ogled, stared at, whistled at, called after, yelled at, and grabbed (once) during my three weeks here.  It has been the worst in terms of unwanted male attention compared with anywhere else in Africa.  I get this attention even when I am out with Mike walking along the street together.  If I am separated from him, it gets much worse – to the point that I would probably advise any white woman thinking of traveling to Ethiopia alone – to not.  I even got hassled when riding a bike today.  Almost every 20 meters, a guy or group of guys would call out, ask me where I was from, tell me I was beautiful, stare and say “hey, Baby!”, and the funniest of all…every tuk tuk would pull over next to my bike, even on a crowded bridge where driving close to a bike could be dangerous, and the driver would try and get my attention in any way possible.

It is exhausting and a little unnerving, even if it is flattering – which I’m not even sure about.

The shirt I should have worn every day in Ethiopia to ward off unwanted male attention

I was grabbed in a park a few nights ago in Bahir Dar and the guy said he wanted to spend the night with me and would I let him bite my butt?  I mean, what the hell? Luckily, I swiveled around kicking him and told him to “fuck off” sharply and loudly enough that he let go – but it was in a crowded place and no one even noticed.

From Gonder to Debark, from Axum to the Danakil – everywhere we went – whether in the cities or in rural areas (though it is worse in rural areas) – men are abundant in number, be it on the street, in restaurants, bars or cafes.  Men are everywhere.  Women ? – not so much.  Yes, there are a few, and definitely more in the markets selling goods.  But for the most part there are at least 10-15 men out to every 1 woman.  In Debark, we went out to the bars after our hike through the Simiens and got to witness the famous “shoulder dancing” of the north – but it felt super strange to me because all the men were only dancing with other men.  Some even “coupled up” and never once broke eye contact as they gyrated their shoulders and bodies in time with one another.  I asked our guide where all the women were – he remarked that since the next day marked the first day of their 55-day fasting schedule – the women were probably at home preparing food for the family and caring for the kids.  Whatever the reason, women simply are not out in public as much.

Men getting it on, I mean “dancing”, on the dancefloor in Debark

Incidentally, the shoulder dancing is really something to see.  It reminds me of “pop and lock” dance – which I’m sure was influenced by this very traditional form of dancing.  When it is just guys – like it was that night in Debark – I find it altogether very strange.  And, of course, it just looks so different to me as dancing is such a culturally below-the-waist activity (for me) – and in Northern Ethiopia, the movement is concentrated above the waist.  We did go see some traditional dancing in Bahir Dar and this was far more enjoyable to watch – the movements are so intricate and fast it almost defies belief.  I will try to upload some video to YouTube! so you can see what I’m talking about.

The country as a whole is predominantly Christian and very very religious at that.  Women, however, are even kept seated in a whole other section of the church during mass, many churches don’t allow women inside (because they might be menstruating – oh the horror!!!) and choirs that sing during mass are all made up of men only.  So, there’s discrimination even in the practicing of their faith.

In Mekele, after our trip to the Danakil, I went to get a haircut and met a group of six female students from the university there.  One of them spoke very good English and asked me what my general impression of Ethiopia had been.  When I mentioned this lack of women, and also how men had treated me here – she immediately sympathized and nodded with understanding.  She agreed that a female is still treated as a second class citizen in much of the country – but she was positive that change was coming.  She explained that a large portion of girls, especially those in the countryside, don’t get educated much past the age of 12 and often are married and starting a family by the time they are 14 or 15 years old.  She said that many women just accept what men expect of them – that they belong inside the house and nowhere else.  Again, she said she was happy to be getting her masters’ degree because it meant she at least had the chance of getting her own job so that she wouldn’t have to get married just to be supported.  We talked about how educating girls was the key to progress – and she assured me that even though it was difficult, women were starting to be able to compete for jobs.  Twenty years ago, she said there were almost no jobs available to women.

I hope she was right and that things are improving for women here.

Yummy traditional food

On a final note – I’d like to tell you about the food here.  For the most part, it has been quite delicious, though typically very hot & spicy – notably our first meal in Gonder at a restaurant called the Four Sisters – it was a vast array of traditional foods like Ndjera that was served with Lamb Tibs, lots of different sautéed vegetables and a variety of side dishes.  However, on the day after we completed our trek through the Simiens – Ethiopian Christians began their 55-day Fast for Easter/Lent – and this meant that many restaurants now would only serve “fasting food” – which is a paradise for vegans or vegetarians because all the dishes did not contain any animal products whatsoever.  So, no meat, no eggs, no dairy, no butter.  Meaning, rather bland vegetable based dishes only.  As a consequence, we have had to seek out non-fasting restaurants or stick to more touristy places where we can satisfy the unavoidable cravings for food from home, such as pizza or a burger.

Oh!  You can buy delicious juices everywhere here too – that has been a huge hit with Mike and I.  We love the avocado, guava, mango and banana combinations!

Coffee has a very long history here, and it is served everywhere on the street and at makeshift huts lined with grass on the floor and always a little stool where a woman boils the coffee in a traditional pot over hot charcoal before pouring out an espresso sized blackest of black liquids into a tray of waiting cups.  I’ve grown more accustomed to taking one of these strong black coffees in the afternoon, but in the morning, I still crave my coffee a little less strong (I just add hot water) and with some milk.

It has been quite a feat trying to get all 3 items in the morning when we aren’t at a hotel serving a breakfast buffet.  I bought packets of powdered milk which I use sometimes, but even in a 4-star international hotel, when I ask for one coffee, and some hot water on the side – the servers just stare at me and begin a debate with all of their co-workers that lasts at least 15 minutes.  Eventually someone brings me a coffee and then I pour it into my to-go bottle and ask again, with different hand gestures for more water?  They just stare at me and laugh.  What is this woman doing with her coffee? – they must be thinking.   Hahahaha…I guess it would be easier for me just to learn to take my coffee strong and espresso sized.

My remedy at the end of a day being a woman and a tourist in Northern Ethiopia

The language barrier has also been difficult – moreso with guides who claim they can speak “very good English” but, as it turns out, they can speak English but they cannot understand it spoken to them, and cannot answer the simplest of questions.  So, communication has been a little bit of a struggle.  My favorite exchange was in Bahir Dar with the aforementioned mean boat driver (before he got mean).  I asked him where he lived, and his response was simply:

“Hippo?”

When it’s Time to Travel Again

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by Anita in Africa, Opinion Articles

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Opinion Pieces, Personal, Travel

Seattle Skyline

A distinct and undeniable pattern has emerged in my life.  A job loss precipitates a period of long term solo travel.  This is an embarrassing thing to admit – but I have been fired or forced to resign 4 times in the last 3 and a ½ years.  After each kick to the gut, I have booked a trip abroad for one to six months.  I admire people who can jump right back into the job search after losing their job.  For me, a job loss, especially one that is a result of a firing for personal/painful reasons and not poor job performance is too hard to come back from without a chance to hit a reset button.  Searching for a job requires you to be truly “on” in regards to self-promotion and self-marketing.  At a time when personal confidence has been severely tested and the inevitable self-doubt regarding whether I should continue in an industry that keeps spitting me out like sour milk rises to the surface, a job search is very unappealing.  Then, well-intentioned friends shower you with the advice to take this opportunity to do some reticent soul-searching to discover a way to make a living fulfilling myself on a deeper ‘soul’ level; or how this is simply an opportunity disguised in tragedy – the inevitable and unavoidable assurances that “as one door closes another one opens.”

As true as these well-wishes might be, the only thing that ever really helps me move forward after such a traumatic event is going away for a while.  Call it escaping one’s problems, refusing to face reality, shirking responsibility, or being fiscally irresponsible – it’s the only thing that has ever worked for me in the past.

This job joss was particularly harsh because I really loved my job and the company I was working for.  After nearly 12 years as a financial advisor/planner – I had finally found a firm whose values were aligned with my own.  Unfortunately for me, I misjudged the value alignment between me and the CEO of the firm.  The firing could not have come as a bigger surprise, totally out of left field and only four days following a positive performance review.

I was left feeling totally shattered.

Me at my former office

There’s nothing worse than finding yourself unemployed right before the start of the holiday season in Seattle, when the weather is so grey it looks like late evening at 10 o’ clock in the morning.  I found myself going through a grieving process, in shock and disbelief over what had happened and in a state of growing anxiety about what the future might hold.

It was in this rather unstable frame of mind that I set about booking my next big trip.  West Africa was high on my list as the next big “adventure” and lucky for me- the only tour company that offers overland trips in West Africa had their once-a-year trip leaving at the end of November.

As exciting as it sounded, I was also suffering from the typical pre-booking anxious ‘glued to my couch’ syndrome that has also resulted in me booking and canceling flights in a repeating cycle in past years.  Adding to this issue was the fact that unlike East Africa, 5 of the countries on the Dragoman itinerary required visas be obtained in advance and it started looking like I wasn’t going to be able to obtain all of the necessary documents by the time of my intended departure.  The trip was starting in Senegal, and being a dual citizen, forced to use a visa agency that could only obtains visas in DC for US passports, I tried to convince the tour company that I could fly there on my British Passport since the first 3 countries permitted visas obtained on arrival for British subjects.  What harm could there be in getting my US passport fed-exed to our guest house in Guinea-Bissau?  Being told it was simply too much of a risk in that the passport might not show up and I’d be left stranded/unable to continue the journey – I was forced to book only part of the tour that started in Freetown, Sierra Leone and took in the countries of Guinea, Cote D’Ivoire, Ghana, Togo and Benin.

Landing in Freetown, Sierra Leone

I booked everything on a self-imposed whim and found myself crying hysterically on the drive home after sending off my passport for the $1,000+ visa process.  What had I done?  Was I emotionally/mentally stable enough to handle the rigors of overland travel in such an undeveloped-for-tourism area of the world for two months?  What if I experienced a repeat of my last overland experience where I didn’t connect with anyone on the truck and it was filled with 18-year-old party/sex/alcohol driven lads from pretentious private schools in the UK?

I found myself full of trepidation and regret that interchanged with excitement and fear on an endless loop.

Faced with spending Thanksgiving in the States, I made plans with one of my best friends and former “flame” who’s sister was visiting that week from out of the country.  Little did I know at the time that the 3 night/4 day excursion to Olympic National Park would turn into a nightmare.  Heading out to stay on the peninsula at a friend’s place to avoid the Thanksgiving day lines at the ferry – an innocent dinner conversation turned into a huge fight that continued to escalate into the night.  In the morning, both of my so-called “friends” refused to follow through with our plans to stay at a lodge a few hours’ away.  In tears, I told them I would call another friend to see if he might join me that evening since I was damned if I was going to spend the holiday alone – especially one that is characterized by family, love, good times, and gratitude.

When I emerged from the bathroom after making my tearful phone call – they had both left and ensured that they were non-contactable by blocking me on any and all forms of cellular communication.

I spent the holiday alone and in tears.

I’m not sure if I have ever felt that emotionally devastated in my life.  I’d now lost my job and my so-called best friend.

I was in such poor state I immediately flew down to Palm Springs to visit my dear friend Craig and hopefully get my mind off the previous weeks’ events.  I was so grateful to have someone to talk to, laugh with, and get up to no good with.  Despite my best efforts, the pain and struggle continued and I knew it was going to take being somewhere so foreign that it felt like Pluto to really help me process, heal and move on from the past months’ trauma.

Visiting Craig in Palm Springs

The last few days spent in a frenzy of last minute arrangements for house-sitting, packing and buying essentials – I finally headed to the airport for my 3-leg journey to the capital of Sierra Leone: Freetown.

There was no going back now: with a heavy but hopeful heart – I got on the plane.

Into the Ugandan Highlands – Gorillas, Pygmies, and a Tragedy

13 Monday Jul 2015

Posted by Anita in Africa, Uganda

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Animals, Culture, Indigenous People, Opinion Pieces, Trekking, Villages

The indomitable Silverback

The indomitable Silverback

After my emotional day in Kampala we had a long drive to the town of Kabale located near the Rwandan border and the Bwindi Impenetrable National Park where we were going to trek deep into the jungle in search of the mountain gorillas.

I have been slightly obsessed with gorillas ever since childhood when I first saw “Gorillas in the Mist” with one of my hero actresses Sigourney Weaver, as the passionate conservationist Dian Fossey. She spent the majority of her life in this part of the world documenting the Gorilla’s behavior and was instrumental in creating the national parks and the facilities therein that would give them at least some chance of survival.

One of the unfortunate ramifications of the creation of these national parks was that the Batwa Pygmies, an ethnic tribe who had resided in these forests for hundreds of years, were forced to leave their homes and their lifestyles with nowhere else to go. I need to do some further reading on this topic as I’m unsure to what degree these people could be blamed for the poaching and subsequent diminishing numbers of gorillas in these mountains. Having said that, fewer than 800 are now recorded to be living in these thankfully protected areas (the gorillas that is, not the Pygmies!)

Heading into Bwindi

Heading into Bwindi

That isn’t to say that visiting the gorillas is absent of any ethical considerations. It’s more of a catch-22 situation. We visited the Ugandan park in May when the permits are discounted by 40%, but typically it costs about $700 USD for a day permit to visit these creatures. Without this revenue, the parks wouldn’t be able to hire the kind of manpower that it takes to protect these magnificent animals from poachers. On the other hand, selling these permits means that each of the family groups’ of gorillas gets visited by eight people + guides per day – which has lead to the gorillas being completely habituated. On top of that, I do believe that my visit to the group of gorillas we saw absolutely did cause them stress. Not that it was just our presence – but the guides were extremely aggressive in pursuing the members of the group, often hacking at vegetation with machetes to allow our group better viewing and photo opportunities.
So, as I recall this amazing experience, it is with mixed feelings of both awe at having seen them in the wild, together with regret that they can’t be kept safe from both poachers and from being hassled by daily visits.

Still coughing from my cold, I was a little worried about the arduous day of hiking in the heat and humidity that was before me. I kept my inhaler with me and managed to keep the cough under control most of the day. We were picked up around 5am from our campsite in Kabale and driven into Bwindi where we had an initial orientation and were then split up into two groups of 8 (together with some non-Oasis travelers.) We headed out up a rather steep trail and I felt myself echoing the steps of Dian Fossey as we began to penetrate the impentetrable forests of Bwindi.

Bwindi Impenetrable National Park

Bwindi Impenetrable National Park

The views were extraordinary with thick blankets of fog covering the lush green slopes. The sweat was already pouring off of us by 10am and the temperature beginning to soar. It was a little over 3 hours into the trek when we were informed that a group of approximately 11 adults and a few babies had been spotted.

Me and a Gorilla in the background

Me and a Gorilla in the background

Our group in the early morning mist

Our group in the early morning mist

The next hour was filled with incredible moments. From the very first glimpse of the silverback sitting and chewing grass not more than 15 feet from where I stood, to then being charged, twice, when he sensed our group had overstepped his privacy threshold. At one point, a mother gorilla with a few months’ old baby clinging to her back rushed out of the bush and practically ran into the middle of where we were standing. I couldn’t believe how close these creatures were to us.

The highlight for me, however, was observing the group as they ascended and later descended from the high treetops. I managed to capture a lot of the action on a video sequence that I will happily share with you here.

Baby Gorilla

Baby Gorilla

On our return to the jeep, the heavens opened and we experienced a downpour which was accompanied by thunder and lightning. It really added to the memorable nature of the day for me, such an atmospheric element to our descent. When we got back to Kabale, the other group hadn’t returned yet, so we set about making dinner as they were obviously going to be very hungry and tired by the time they got back. A little before they arrived, however, our drive, Pete, informed us that one of our group members, Greg, had tragically died of a suspected heart attack only an hour into their trek.

That evening and the next few days were very hard for us, and there was a lot of emotion shared – the group grew closer together for support. It was such an unexpected and shocking turn of events. Later in the trip, I was very moved when we learned that his family had requested that half of Greg’s ashes be taken to Cape Town and released in the ocean so that he could “finish the journey he had started”.

I will never forget him.

Lake Bunyoni

Lake Bunyoni

The day after our emotional sojourn to see the Gorillas, we traveled as a group to Lake Bunyoni to spend a day with a Pygmy village. This village was funded and created by a group of Ugandans who wanted to help a select group of displaced individuals who’d lost their home and their land when they were ousted from the national park system in 1994.

It was a rather strange day for me. While I really enjoyed the scenery of the lake and the surrounding countryside, and watching the amazing performances put on by the people and their children, it all felt a little bit like a “Human Safari” to me. I kept asking the group leader about what the community’s long-term plans were? Were they going to be able to secure land that they could farm for their sustenance? How were they going to survive?

Well, it turns out that they were entirely dependent upon charity and the proceeds from tours such as the one we were on. That made me slightly uncomfortable. Our leader explained that the schools that they had built would serve to provide the offspring of the people an education, so that hopefully, the kids would be able to graduate and go off and get work and then help support their families in turn. I found that to be a little optimistic, but I didn’t want to judge at the same time.

Pygmy father and his baby

Pygmy father and his baby

Th entire time I was there, I couldn’t help but think one thought – how BAD do things have to really get before people stop reproducing so much?!!! I know, I know: in Africa, one’s “success” in life is very often measured by the size of one’s family…and yet – I couldn’t help but wonder – WHY? when you have little food, and your family is hungry, and the babies you already have are malnourised, AND your women are so malnourished that they can’t produce enough milk for those babies, AND you have no means of supporting yourselves….WHY not practice birth control? At least…the withdrawal method? (if there are no condoms available) These were the reactions that I couldn’t help having.

I wanted to provide condoms for these people, not food.

Does that make me a bad, judgmental person?  What do you think?

I hope you enjoy the video I took of the children dancing for us. There is one fact that cannot be denied: these people have the most incredible innate rhythm and sense of music. It warms my heart!

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Kampala – My Life Changing Experience in the Bwaise Slum

23 Tuesday Jun 2015

Posted by Anita in Africa, Uganda

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Tags

Charity, Cities, Culture, Opinion Pieces, Villages, Volunteering

IMG_0704After a couple of long days driving on the truck, I was beginning to feel better and had purchased an inhaler to help with my hacking cough that was now a month old. We made a nice stop in Nakuru at a lovely campsite that had a nice pool to lounge next to as well as an annoying and aggressive flock of geese.

I had no plans specifically when we arrived in Kampala, but I decided to do the “Slum Tour” as I was interested in seeing how many poor Ugandans living in the capital dwell.

This day took me completely by surprise and has become the absolute highlight of the entire trip.  Salim Semambo Mukasa was the director of the Slum Tour company and came to the campsite in the morning to collect myself and Emily to go visit Bwaise – the slum that he himself grew up in. I was immediately impressed by his English, his passion for creating this eye-opening experience for tourists and his selfless attitude that was demonstrated when he explained that every cent of the proceeds from the tour goes directly to the everyday needs of 25 orphans that live in an orphanage his volunteer organization established.

IMG_0714I was so disheartened that he’d been unable to come to the Red Chilli Hideaway backpackers the night before in order to explain this to our entire group – I’m sure more of them would have come if they’d known that $20 was going to directly feed kids and not to a “for profit” business.

In any case, we took public transport to Bwaise and the experience really began there. I asked Salim how he’d come to start giving these slum tours and how he helps tourists overcome their fear of it being a “human safari” experience. He explained that he knew all of the residents of the slum – it was the slum where he grew up – and that the people are always happy to see Mzungus coming to see where they live, experiencing it, and coming away with a fresh perspective. Salim’s father had died when he was young, and it was due to a neighbor’s generosity that Salim was able to get an education through “Primary 7” which I believe is until you’ve reached 12 years of age. The neighbor had started the volunteer organization “Volunteers for Sustainable Development” and when he died, Salim felt it was important to continue in the work that his benefactor had begun. He now runs these Slum Tours for people visiting Kampala together with several other volunteer friends he knows from living and working in Bwaise.

At the orphanage

At the orphanage

Salim was right about our welcome, and how the residents would perceive our visit. Everywhere we walked, people smiled and waved and were extremely welcoming. The children followed us in droves as if we were celebrities, unable to wipe the wide grins from their faces.

Of course, it was difficult to see the conditions that people have all but grown accustomed to contending with. Many of the residents’ dwellings were made from temporary or poorly constructed materials, trash floated on the waterways that ran through the slum, children ran in bare feet and tattered, dirty clothes, and some people sat in doorways looking visibly sick and hungry. It was tough to see, and yet, this is the daily reality for so many people – I felt a responsibility to see it for myself. This was the real side of Africa.  The one that hasn’t been artificially sterilized and designed only for tourists.

One of the highlights to the tour was learning how Salim also works with donations by providing micro loans to women in the community to start small businesses. With just $50 or $100, we met with several women who between them had started a sewing business to make school backpacks, and another who had built and was running a small food stall. It was heartening to see these women being industrious and taking pride in providing for themselves and their families. Salim explained that it is always the women who show such a spirit of enterprise as all too often, a loan given to a man will be squandered on selfish temporary pleasures such as alcohol or sex.

Salim with his friends, the orphans

Salim with his friends, the orphans

Salim also took us to the sex trade area of the slum which was a real eye-opener. A customer can buy sexual favors here for as little as 50c, and of course, HIV infection is a real problem. As we were walking through, a woman started talking to Salim in an agitated voice, and I learned later that she had been complaining about how he hadn’t come around in a while with fresh condoms for them. I was amazed at the amount of impact and assistance this one very industrious young man was able to provide.

(Salim, you are amazing!)

IMG_0705We visited the home of a woman who was sadly dying from AIDS. I learned something which up until this point I was very ignorant of. Despite the fact that the Ugandan government does supply its’ HIV+ people with free anti-retro viral drugs, these drugs are not always readily available for a person to continue their prescribed course without interruption. The drugs themselves are very hard on the body, and having balanced and quality nutrition in one’s diet is vital to their being effective in suppressing the virus and boosting the immune system. So, what ends up happening is that these drugs are being taken by people who can barely afford to stem their own hunger with maize and beans. The consumption of fresh greens and fruits just isn’t a possibility. Therefore, when a person goes to pick up their week or month’s supply of drugs and they’re perhaps out of stock and they are told to return in a few days time, this person’s body reacts violently and sometimes they can deteriorate very rapidly, even dying while waiting.

The Gadaffi Mosque

The Gadaffi Mosque

This lady whom we met had been infected by her cheating husband, who had since died himself leaving her with their three children. She was upset because she’d spent her last 3000 shillings (about $1) going to the medical clinic the day before to get her prescription of anti retro virals re-filled and was told they’d ran out and to come back on Monday. I held her hand and gave her 3000 shillings from my purse so that she could go back again, and I hoped that she would have the strength to do so.

Salim explained that her biggest fear is what would happen to her children if she were to die. I asked him what would happen, and he just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as if to suggest children becoming orphaned because of HIV was just another reality of slum life that he had grown accustomed to, though not unaffected by.

We visited one of the slum schools and I was surprised to see that the kids were learning on a Saturday – out of choice, because they loved going to school.  I was quite impressed at what the children were studying – one of the 7/8 year old classrooms were learning about the process of cell division through meiosis and mitosis  (which I don’t think I studied until college!)  We sang some nursery songs with the kids in the kindergarten aged classrooms and thanked their energetic and lovely school teacher profusely for introducing us.

walking around Bwaise

walking around Bwaise

At the end of the tour, we were going to visit the orphanage, and both Emily and I wanted to first go to a store and buy some food supplies to give to the kids. We bought several kilos each of rice, beans and sugar and then hand delivered them. The children immediately swarmed around Salim as he sat down and tried to wrap his arms around as many of them as he could. While many of the kids were clearly smiling and happy to see him, you could also see in some of their faces the knowledge that they’d been abandoned and that they were unwanted. That is what broke my heart – not seeing them poorly fed or poorly clothed – but knowing that they were wanting of affection, hugs, and emotional security.

Salim explained that some of the kids were found abandoned in a toilet nearby, or perhaps the parent had just left them wandering the streets a few blocks from the orphanage. Without additional funding, he really can’t afford to accept any more children into the orphanage because it is already full…so the fate of additional orphans is hard to imagine.

Getting fitted for my visit of the Mosque

Getting fitted for my visit of the Mosque

At this point, I was very moved to help Salim and his orphanage. I was interested in learning more, so at the end of our tour, I invited him to lunch so that I could ask more questions about how he managed his organization. I also just wanted to buy him a really good meal because it looked like he could use it – if only to bring him some good cheer.

We ate chicken curry and I had some beer. Salim seemed to be enjoying himself so I asked if he’d be willing to show me around Kampala after lunch? It turns out he didn’t have plans, so we ended up spending the rest of the afternoon together.

After lunch we visited the main market in Kampala and it was just a see of craziness and activity. Just crossing the streets of this incredibly busy city was exciting and lucky for me, Salim was there to help me navigate the crowds. After having walked in chaotic surroundings for most of the day, I was relieved and happy to find myself in the tranquil buildings of the Gadaffi Mosque. I had to rent a ha jib head covering for the occasion but actually found the garment to be most comfortable to wear.

One of Salim’s friends was also a tour guide at the mosque and his name was Ashiraf. Ashiraf has a real character and regaled me with the history of the mosque and even sang some islamic songs for me in its blissfully empty and serene interior.

I was having the most wonderful time.

Being silly with Ashiraf

Being silly with Ashiraf

We climbed the tower for a lovely view over this city that is named Kampala because it was where the British would camp with the Impala. It was a fantastic vista and again, I found myself laughing hysterically at Ashiraf as he demonstrated how warriors would welcome Uganda’s king at the palace.

Feeling a little tired, but very content with my day with Salim, I asked him what he would do, if he could do anything. “Get some ice-cream?” – was his reply. I heartily agreed that this was a fantastic idea as I am always up for ice cream…and cake if that was also a possibility?!

We found a delightful coffee bar called Javas that also served the most amazing ice cream and cakes. I ordered a white forest gateau and he had praline and vanilla ice cream. We sat, eating in silence for some minutes- both with huge grins on our faces.

I really enjoyed meeting you, Salim. You have changed my perspective for a day – and for the rest of my life. I will always be appreciative to you for that.

PLEASE consider making a donation to Salim’s organization.  You can contact him on Facebook at Volunteers for Sustainable Development.

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Reflections on Race – Conversations from South Africa

13 Saturday Jun 2015

Posted by Anita in Africa, South Africa

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Tags

Culture, Opinion Pieces, Travel

Apartheid-era bench

Apartheid-era bench

Whenever you travel somewhere, you tend to pick up on the social norms/mores of the people and the extent to which you do, of course, has to do with the amount of time you’ve spent there and the quantity and quality of the time you’ve spent with the local people.

South Africa is a confounding country, and I wanted to write this post merely as a way for me to catalogue the impressions that bore upon me of this land and its very complex treatment of race. The history of this land is multi-layered and contentious, you can sense that from any conversation with a South African that pertains to the stories of this land essentially made up entirely of migrants – the Dutch and English from Europe and the Bantu African tribes from the north. The only people indigenous to South Africa were the San and the Koi – and most of them were killed as the other settlers moved in ( I mentioned in a previous post that it was legal to shoot a Bushman until 1920 in South Africa).

So I make no judgment, no analysis of moral superiority or inferiority with these observations, as that is all they are. I am sure that if I could have stayed in South Africa longer than three weeks as I did, my impressions would change, adapt and deepen. However, I believe there is validity in anyone’s initial impressions of a country they are visiting and as such, I hope you will take what is written here as such.

Square in Cape Town with a monument to the slaves who built and helped populate South Africa

Square in Cape Town with a monument to the slaves who built and helped populate South Africa

The first thing I noticed when I arrived in South Africa was simply how open and willing people were to talk about race and racial issues. They don’t have reservations to express themselves and their opinions, even if those opinions might be interpreted as overtly racist. This fact was interesting to me, in and of itself. Without even asking, the topic just seems to pop up in conversation. This is probably also due to the fact that I do have an inquiring nature, and I do tend to ask people about their lives, their work, their personal experience of their home, so that could also account for some of it.

When asking what it had been like to be in South Africa since it’s first free elections in 1994, a colored female taxi driver told me “Well, back then I wasn’t white enough. Now, I’m not black enough.”

Menu at Robben Island prison for different races

Menu at Robben Island prison for different races

In an attempt to undo some of the harm inflicted by apartheid, the South African government has implemented some very rigid affirmative action laws that essentially dictate a quota for the number of blacks that must be hired by any given public or private organization, often resulting in an emminently more qualified and experienced white person being overlooked for a job in favor of a less educated, less experienced black person. A number of whites I talked with expressed extreme frustration with this situation and spoke of friends who’d already left the country because they couldn’t find work. Some even suggested that it was like a softer version of reversed apartheid.

“If you’re a disabled, black, woman…you could literally be handed any job, anywhere. Hands down without questions. That is the trifecta.”

The group that appears to have been left out in the cold both during the apartheid years and during the current newly attitude-reforming rainbow state is the colored person. The whole definition of a colored person in and of itself took some adjusting to as we simply don’t have this “third” distinction of race back in the United States. In South Africa, a formerly 11-race apartheid system has now broken down into a socially acceptable 4 race classification of “Black”, “White” “Colored” and “Asian”. Anyone, with a mix of white/black/asian in their blood is labeled “Colored”.

“It cracks me up that you Americans think you have a black president! Obama’s not black, mate, he’s colored!” – I heard this observation on more than one occasion when stating my place of abode.

“A Zulu would never mess with a colored person. He knows he would get messed up.”

IMG_0131

Monument to the tribes that lived and migrated to South Africa

Monument to the tribes that lived and migrated to South Africa

My colored Baz Bus driver helped fill in the picture for me of what it’s like to be a colored person living in South Africa. His above quote spoke to the toughness that all races in this country attribute to the colored people. His father was a South African born Indian man, and his mother was half white and half black. Here is something else he shared with me:

“I’ve been married twice before and both times my wives were white. My first daughter with my first wife turned out to be rather dark skinned like me – and she used to go around saying “No, daddy, I’m white! I’m white!” It was pretty hilarious – I’d just laugh at her, then set her straight…she won’t be popular in school talking like that. Now, I have two sons with my second wife – and they both turned out looking as white as you can get. It is so funny when I go out with my sons now and I’m in the supermarket and they’re running around giving all the white people a fright because they think they’ve lost their parents. The look on their faces when they realize that I am their father…oh man! It’s priceless.”

Xhosa boys I met who were fishing on the Wild Coast

Xhosa boys I met who were fishing on the Wild Coast

He explained to me that a colored person identified with the issues of the colored person. He couldn’t understand when I explained to him that an American who was born with any amount of black blood was considered black. It really left me wondering which environment was better (not that any society that affords different treatment based on skin color is ever good) for a person of color? To automatically be socialized and cultured as “black” because of a trace of black blood, or to be able to identify with an entirely separate third group that has its own unique sense of community and brotherhood that doesn’t ascribe to the ideals of either “white” or “black”?

What do you think?

This four race system and the automatic stereotyping that goes along with it is further complicated with the additional sub divisions of people based on their tribe or the language they speak. No matter what, people in South Africa willingly or unknowingly constantly ascribe reasons and motivations for people’s behavior based on their color and/or their tribe. For instance:

“A zulu was, is and always will be a violent person. They are warriors, it’s in their blood.”

“Blacks are just lazy, that’s all there is to it. All they (the Zulu in Kwazulu-natal) want is a free handout.”

“No white person will ever move back to the Transkei. They’ve all left. That is over. That is Xhosa land, its tribal land now.”

“Even when he (a Zulu musician who was performing) is being nice to you…he’s not really being nice. He’s playing you…for your money. That’s what they do.”

“Any racism that exists between whites and blacks cannot even begin to compare, in terms of hostility, to the violent racism that exists between different black tribes. They’ve been killing each other for generations.”

The most emphatic comments I heard, however, concerned the overwhelming hostility that can exist between white Afrikaans speaking South Africans and White English speaking South Africans.

“Yar. No-one can let go of the bloody past, Bru. That’s the problem. No-one can let go. They won’t ever forget the war with the English, and they think everyone should speak Afrikaans.”

Balcony where Mandela made his first speech after his release from prison, calling for forgiveness and unity among all races

Balcony where Mandela made his first speech after his release from prison, calling for forgiveness and unity among all races

“Nelson Mandela was a great president. He did a great job of bringing the people together. What people don’t seem to remember is that he killed people too. And of course, things have gone downhill since he died. The ANC will automatically win every election from here on out.”

“There isn’t a white person in this area who hasn’t had violence directed at them by a black. Many of my friends have left. I know people who’ve had their homes taken from them, or who have been shot at.”

This was said to me by a girl from Johannesburg at a bar in the Drakensburg. I asked her whether she shared the fear that had been expressed to me – that the situation would escalate into a mass land-grab like what happened in Zimbabwe?

Sign capturing historic facts concerning Apartheid in Cape Town

Sign capturing historic facts concerning Apartheid in Cape Town

“Oh – its already happening, man. Even these tribal land claims that are currently being processed by the courts…Many of them are fraudulent. And then the white farmers are given rock bottom dollar for their land and told to leave – and then once the blacks get it, they have no interest in continuing the practice of commercial farming – they don’t have the skills for it. If the government is going to turn over these white farms, who is going to ensure that the farms keep operating?”

Finally, one of the more recent racial phenemenom that is happening in South Africa concerns Xenophobia. This is a racial hatred that is being expressed with outbreaks of violence that is directed towards non-south african born blacks, who have been pouring into the economic promised land for years from Zimbabwe, Malawi, Mozambique and so on… Here are some of the comments are heard about this issue:

“I would always hire a black non-south African over a black South African. They will work harder, with less trouble, for less money. ”

“They’ve got to increase security at the borders. They have got to stop letting (the black non-south Africans) them into South Africa. They are taking our jobs. It’s hard enough for South Africans to find work, yar? Problem is too, they come here and set up businesses or shops, and then they arrange to have all their family and friends move down to be with them – and they’re allowed in!”

“What do I think of Xenophobia? I think we need more Xen and less phobia”.

"Apartheid Squirrel"

“Apartheid Squirrel”

Many of the conversations I had left me confused and saddened, most often with more questions for every answer I received. I can’t help also draw the conclusion that much of the division between races nowadays has less to do with skin color, and far more to do with socio-economic distinctions.  It is becoming a country of class rather than color. Predominantly, the wealth is still with the white population and impoverished areas and townships are invariably black.  It is beginning to change, but I can’t see how things are going to improve significantly until the wealth gap narrows – but the same can be said of the United States as of South Africa.

Education is the key.  No child is ever born racist.  It is a learned behavior and equality of all people can only be achieved through love, tolerance, and opportunity/education for all South Africans.

If there is one universal sentiment that I heard expressed from everyone I met- be they white, black, colored or Asian, it was a deep and abiding love of their country. Despite how shockingly deep racial tensions get, despite the outbreaks of violence, despite the threat of civil war that many believe is coming – people speak of their “Rainbow Nation” with great pride, passion, and attachment.

It’s Africa, the land is beautiful, it gets under your skin and seeps into your soul, forever staying with you.

I was there three short weeks, but surely felt the same pull.

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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

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

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

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

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

#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!!

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

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

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

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

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.

-33.924869 18.424055

Going to Africa – Feeling the Fear and Doing it Anyway

15 Sunday Mar 2015

Posted by Anita in Kenya

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

Opinion Pieces, Tours

First day of Safari in the Serengeti

First day of Safari in the Serengeti

2014 started out in a very promising manner.   By mid-April, I would have said I had almost everything I’d always wanted – A great job where I was appreciated, challenged, earning a decent living and enjoying fantastic colleagues and a boss I admired and respected.  I was in a committed relationship that seemed to have real, long-term potential.  I was singing regularly with my band and learning how to climb in a year-long mountaineering course that I’d started in January.  I was a new homeowner since the prior Thanksgiving and was loving my townhouse and that sense of ownership.  I had great friends and was loving life.

My good-bye dinner at Nue in Capitol Hill

My good-bye dinner at Nue in Capitol Hill

All of that changed abruptly in May .  Life has been a series of tough emotional challenges ever since.  My job and relationship ended.  I travelled to South America for a few months to clear my head.  I caught Dengue Fever and was sick for the better part of a month.  I met someone in Colombia and foolishly started a relationship that ended in the kind of painful and explosive drama that Lifetime movies are written about.  I started a new job at a small firm in October, only to be let go on New Year’s Eve (for unclear reasons, oddly enough – especially to my employer), suffering through three months of one of the most isolating, self-esteem crushing  office cultures of my career.  My father’s twin brother suffered a stroke and died in a prolonged and agonizing way on Christmas Eve.  My adopted “family” in Seattle, The Zimmermans, moved to Florida and I was left to spend the holidays without them.

Yeah. December was particularly rough.

At Check-in at Sea Tac

At Check-in at Sea Tac

And thus, I found myself with long, empty days of job searching nothingness in January of 2015.  A kind of numbness set in.  I tried very hard to establish a sort of routine to keep me sane.  I would try to go to the gym every morning, and then follow it with breakfast and a few hours’ of job searching.  I would then try to make sure I had at least one social contact per day with a friend, or perhaps a date (online dating and job searching are eerily similar in many respects, and it made sense to apply my skill set to both pursuits simultaneously,) or at the very least, go to a coffee shop and work if I had no other social engagements.  Days when I didn’t want to leave the house ended up just compounding the sense of isolation, failure, and ambiguity that my life had become.

In fact, ambiguity seems to be the order of the day at the moment and I’m trying to learn how to embrace it instead of allow it to choke me in it’s paralyzing vice.  Why events have played out the way they have is a source of daily mental vexation.  Wondering and fearing what might lie ahead has had the effect of pulling me closer to those little things that feel safe and comfortable.

Like my couch, for example.  My couch is a five foot square space of safety.  I am drawn to it and it has become increasingly difficult to leave it.  My gym, my car, my local Trader Joe’s – these have all become my emotional crutch that help me cope with the overwhelming  amount of change that I’ve experienced these past nine months.

The inside of our Oasis Overland Tour Truck

The inside of our Oasis Overland Tour Truck

Which is why, after two months’ of job searching, I feel it is time to remove the safety wheels.  Rip off the band aid.  Stir things up again.  I’m becoming too comfortable in my own space – its time to go travel again.  That, along with my belief that it’s going to be too difficult to secure employment in my industry over tax season is the reason I started thinking about going to Africa.

However, my emotional ties to routine, to my couch, to not having things “change” again – have also resulted in horrendous indecision when it comes to trying to make plans for this trip.  Since mid-January, I’ve probably booked and cancelled 4 sets of flights.  I was all set to take this 3 1/2 month odyssey on February 16, only to receive a call about a very promising job interview on the 14th, and I cancelled again.

The truth is, I have had this trip to Africa in the back of my mind for the better part of the last decade.  My plan had been to take a sabbatical in my 40th year (fast approaching) and travel from Cairo to Cape Town.  My logic with my employer a few years’ ago, was that I could take maternity leave, but just not have the baby:-)  They found that amusing, but also workable.  Life is so funny.  I would never have imagined in my early twenties that I wouldn’t be married and with a family of my own by the time I was 40.  The “when will it happen” has morphed into “IF it will happen”.  This trip was going to be my consolation prize.

And so it begins...Day 1 of the 56 day Nairobi - Cape Town Adventure

And so it begins…Day 1 of the 56 day Nairobi – Cape Town Adventure

If I couldn’t have what I want most in life, I’ll take travel.

And so, finding myself yet again glued to my couch, I made the decision last weekend, to make my dream a reality, and put my faith in my long held desire to go to Africa .  Despite the intense fear I felt, I had to believe that I’d be glad I made the choice once I got on the plane.  I thank my friend Jerri who literally made me stay with her through midnight on Saturday so that I wouldn’t go home and cancel my flights again.

I got on that plane on Thursday and now find myself writing this in a bar at a campsite in Arusha, Tanzania.  I am horrendously jet-lagged and still haven’t adjusted my head space to where I am and what I am doing here.

But it’s too late to turn back.

It’s time to turn inwards.  To let go of fear.  To embrace change.  To embrace ambiguity.  Focus on my most important relationship.  The one I have with myself.

I hope you will enjoy the journey with me.

(Incidentally, my laptop decided that after working ok for four years, it was going to stop functioning on my first day of this trip.  I am going to be forced to borrow computers and/or use internet cafes, so the posts will be limited and might not contain photos – sorry!)

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

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

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

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

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.

IMG_9504

Llamas...doing what Llamas do

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 – yummy?

A basket of fowl for sale

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.

IMG_9518

Puppy anyone?

Puppy anyone?

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

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 38th 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.

IMG_7942 (640x480)

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 124th 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.

Coming Home: Why Does It Have To Be So Hard?

26 Thursday May 2011

Posted by Anita in Opinion Articles

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

Opinion Pieces, Reverse Culture Shock

Coming back is not all bad: Parties and being darker than your friends

I flew back from Mexico seven weeks ago today. In the few weeks that followed, I set about planning and implementing my self-hosted travel blog. I was full of enthusiasm and excitement for the list of articles that I had still to write, not having had time to finish them all while in Central America.

When I’m backpacking, its all I can do to not write a post every single day about the amazing experiences that I’m having and the sites that I am witnessing. And while the travel excitement did last for several weeks after my return, I have found it increasingly difficult to blog about the rest of my trip.

Blogging is not exactly new to me, I started writing about my travels back in 2001 when I completed a Semester at Sea voyage around the world. However, the idea of continuing to write about travel when I’m not traveling is something I’ve always struggled with.  And it’s not for lack of stories, I have hundreds of ideas that I think of as I am going about my day-to-day life. I just missed how alive and vibrant I feel inside when I’m on the road. How much I want to write about that, every day.

I’m happiest when I’m carrying a back pack

I guess part of this has to do with the reverse culture shock of returning home. I know culture shock is supposed to affect you when you leave home and go to a foreign land, but for me, my time here in Seattle has been so tumultuous over the past few years, it feels more like home when I’m traveling than when I am back.

In many ways I have been extraordinarily blessed over the past two years with the number of travel experiences that I’ve had. This started when I got laid off in January of 2009 from a company whom I had worked for five years. I had dedicated so much of my time and energy to getting my CFP certification, and climbing the ladder in the financial services world, that when it ended I went through an identity crisis. Who was I when I didn’t have that position?

I also learned that the people I had worked with, who had literally been my entire social circle for so long, were not truly my friends – our friendship had been dependent on my continuing to show up at the office every day. To make matters worse, my boyfriend had just left me two weeks previous. So, here I was without my career, my boyfriend or the people I typically turn to for support. It was the perfect time to get away. To get the kind of perspective and clarity that only travel can give you.

Back then I went to Guatemala for a couple of weeks, and ended up returning from Bolivia four months later. It was an amazing trip, but it was very difficult to come back to my empty life in Seattle.

After several months of job hunting I finally landed another position in financial services, which I was then fired from three weeks later due to a personality conflict. That time I left to travel to Nepal, Cambodia and Thailand.

On my return from that trip, I was fortunate enough to land a dream position away from the financial services world that I had grown to mistrust. As many of you know, I landed a position as the Content Editor of TravelPost, the travel tech startup formed by the founding members of Expedia. I was being paid to write about all things travel, and I discovered the wonderful travel blogging community that I now feel a part of.

My last day in Mexico

Just when things were starting to look up, I got laid off again in January of this year, together with another eight employees. Once again, I react to these situations differently than most people would in my circumstances. I don’t panic and start frantically looking for work, I immediately begin thinking about where I should take the next trip to clear my mind, clear my heart, and reassess what is really important in my life.  It’s the pathology of long-term travel junkies, right?

After a Middle Eastern itinerary seemed badly timed due to the political uprisings, I elected to return to Central America and see the rest of Guatemala, Belize and Mexico. It was an incredible journey, and it served to fuel the wanderlust that grows ever larger each time I come home from an amazing journey like that.

I don’t mean for this to be a whine-fest, I’m extremely grateful for the amazing experiences I have had traveling, and in many ways, the three job losses have enabled me the opportunity to travel because of the time it has afforded me to go away. If I had the money, I would probably still be making my way around the globe.  But why do I only feel like myself when I am on the road?  Am I just escaping reality and my problems?  People often ask me how I’m able to just get up and go off galavanting solo around the world at a moment’s notice.  I reply that for me it is easy: what’s hard is making life work staying put in one place.

Must it be so difficult to come back home? And why is it difficult to write about my experiences now?

Anyone who’s been unemployed can tell you that it is extremely difficult to stay upbeat and  motivated when you’re looking for work. This is especially true for me as I feel like being unemployed and looking for work has become my career.  Having only been an online editor for seven months, it seems I cannot parlay this position into another one where I would be writing, even if it wasn’t about travel. Meanwhile, my financial licenses are expiring, and the time it has been since I served in an advising capacity to clients grows longer, together with my doubt as to whether that is the right career for me anyway.

Arnaud and I training for our Mt. Rainier climb

On the positive side, I have been kept wonderfully distracted by training for an upcoming climb of Mount Rainier with my wonderful boyfriend, Arnaud, and by planning a move to the city of Kirkland on the east side of Seattle at the end of this month.  I’m hoping a change of location will do me and my head some good. I know writing this post has already helped – I feel that I have come clean with you, my audience.

For those of you reading this who are travel bloggers, how many of you only write about your travels when you’re traveling? How do you bring yourself to stay motivated to write about your experiences when you’re not?  I would really appreciate any advice you might have, because even though I have been writing for 11 years now, I am new to the world of consistent blogging even when I’m home.

And thank you so much to all of you who have told me that you enjoy my stories, and who have encouraged me to keep writing.

I promise to keep trying.

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anitagotravel

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