Tag Archives: Travel

Ghana Part I: Physical and Personal Journeys

26 Friday Jan 2018

Posted by in Africa, Ghana

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Tuesday the 9th turned into a super long, hot, and frustrating day of driving with a long sweaty border crossing thrown in for good measure. The guards at the Ghana border were quite funny though and kept telling us that all was good because we could finally stop having to talk in French and speak English again. “This is Ghana! We speak English here!” they kept saying.

We stopped at a market to do cook team shopping and I caught sight of an exact replica of the very first car I drove – a 4-door Silver Renault 5 from the early 80’s. I had a photo standing next to it and for some reason, it made me feel rather nostalgic.

We stopped on the side of the road to make lunch in the middle of the day and quickly were told to move by a local because an armed robbery had taken place in that exact location the day before. It was a little unnerving but I was super impressed with how efficiently the group quickly packed everything away in just a few minutes so that we could find a safer spot to eat.

We arrived at our destination for the next two nights – Elmina’s Stumble Inn – when it was already dark. Most people set up tents on the beach but I was feeling quite tired and stressed out and so I opted to upgrade to my own beach bungalow which came with its own private outdoor bathroom. I include photos of that here because it was truly a unique room to enjoy.

The reason for my stress was quite a personal one but I will share it here as I will surely look back upon it with relief rather than embarrassment. The truth was – my monthly flow was severely overdue and I had finally broken down and bought a pregnancy test. Due to the stress I’d experienced prior to my departure, my last menses was extremely light – and that fact combined with the calculation that I was now 18 days overdue had caused me to become completely paranoid that I might be pregnant. That is not something I would wish upon anyone traveling on an overland truck in West Africa. Denial was proving to be much more than a river in Africa, and I had been putting this off for days now – convincing myself that there was no WAY I could be pregnant with my ex’s baby given the fact that I have an IUD – and ignoring the fact that I had been throwing up in the morning the past few days and feeling more bloated and emotional than possibly any other time in my life.

Thoughts of what it would MEAN if I were pregnant had been haunting my every waking moment for days and it was my friend Jack who convinced me after I’d broken down crying to her in Grand Bassam that it was time to buy a test and just find out for sure.

The test was negative.

On the one hand – it was a huge relief. And on the other – an emotional kick in the gut. If a baby had found a way to form in my body, at 41 years of age, despite the measures I’d taken to prevent it, I’m almost certain I would have had the child. That possibility wiped from my mind, I immediately could stop ruminating on the “what ifs” such a scenario would impose upon my life and all of its repurcussions.

Additionally, it led me to be even more worried about my physical health. I had never before been more than a few days late. I was as regular as a clock. Clearly, I had mentally underestimated the extreme stress and heartache I’d been going through – but my body was not so easily fooled.

In the end, it wasn’t until Accra 4 days later that my period finally arrived. I don’t think I have ever felt so relieved and happy, mentally, hormonally, physically and emotionally.

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When it’s Time to Travel Again

03 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by in Africa, Opinion Articles

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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.

Reflections on Race – Conversations from South Africa

13 Saturday Jun 2015

Posted by in Africa, South Africa

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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.”

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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.

Onward to Ecuador: When it sucks to travel alone

27 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by in Ecuador, South America

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The day I arrived in Huaraz after 4 transfers

The day I arrived in Huaraz after 4 transfers

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

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

The German girls I befriended on arrival in Peru

The German girls I befriended on arrival in Peru

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

I didn’t want to repeat that.

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

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

So all was well.

Until I got back from the trek.

At least I got you, Quatchi

At least I got you, Quatchi

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

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

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

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

Ceviche with Gustavo and Javi

Ceviche with Gustavo and Javi

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

Screw it, I could deal.

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

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

And that was that.

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

My first Ecuadorian meal "Plato Typical"

My first Ecuadorian meal “Plato Typical”

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

I took a photo of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stunning Cathedral in Cuenca

The stunning Cathedral in Cuenca

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me, riding the Nariz Del Diablo Train in Alausi

Me, riding the Nariz Del Diablo Train in Alausi

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

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

My tiny little room in Banos

My tiny little room in Banos

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

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

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

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

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

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

Travel mishaps on the way to Jordan

06 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by in Jordan

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The most delicious $45 breakfast I’ve ever had

Monday, April 7th. This was going to be a relevantly uneventful day.  All we had to do was bus back to Dubai,  take the subway to the airport, board our flight to Amman, pick up our rental car, and drive 3-4 hours to the red sea port of Aqaba where we would be going on a dive the next morning. As it turned out the day had something completely different in store for us.

It all started to go “tits up” (an expression that’s very English and for which I’m unapologetic) upon arrival at the Abu Dhabi buts station. It turned out that all of the public transport in the United Arab Emirates works on a card system, much like the orca card we have here in Seattle, you simply add credit to the cards balance in order to use it on public transport such as buses and subways. If you don’t have enough credit for the full fare of a particular journey, you have to top up the card in order to use it.  Which is all pretty simple, unless you happen to be at the Abu Dhabi public bus station, and you happen to be one Dirham short on each of your two bus cards.

Not only were none of the vending machines that allowed you to put credit on your cards working, but in order to purchase brand-new bus tickets, you needed to have cash, which we didn’t have since this was our last day in the United Arab Emirates. To make matters worse, there were no ATMs in or near the bus station, at least any that were working.

So we were facing a dilemma, which was growing worse by the fact that time was pressing and the first bus to Dubai had already left without us.  I did have the two extra dirhams that we needed, but no one was allowing us to pay the difference on the cards in cash. Each card essentially had 24 dirhams left on it and each of the bus fares was 25 to Dubai.

Getting super frustrated, Matt set off to find an ATM nearby while I improvised and try to find a way around the problem. As per usual in a foreign country, it was not the fact that the machines weren’t working, nor the fact that there was no ATM nearby, it was the fact that nobody seemed to offer any sort of assistance nor anything but a blank stare when I explained our predicament to them and asked for help and understanding.

Eventually, thinking outside the box saved the day. I explained our plight to a local who spoke perfect English. He sympathized with us, and essentially took our cards as payment for paying for two one-way tickets for us on the bus himself in cash. I was so grateful to him and eagerly motioned for Matt to give up his ATM search and join me on the next bus that was departing. It was already starting to get a little late.

Finally breathing a sigh of relief on the bus, it wasn’t until 30 minutes into our journey that I turned to Matt in horrified realization.  “Please tell me you remembered to grab our passports out of the hotel room safe?”

Matt’s eyes closed as he started swearing under his breath.

Next thing I knew, Matt had asked the bus driver to pull over on the side of the highway for us to get out and catch a cab presumably. While he was busy pulling our suitcases out of the luggage hold, a group of locals were exhorting me not to get off the bus because nobody would be able to pick us up on the highway! I expressed this concern to Matt, who logically stated that there was no point getting any further away from the one thing that was gonna enable us to get on a plane to another country that day: our passports!

So we disembarked the bus and I will forever have stamped in my memory the image of Matt carrying his luggage in the opposite directions of traffic on the hard shoulder of the highway from Abu Dhabi in the glaring midday sun. After a few minutes of walking towards what we hoped was a slip road, a taxicab pulled over only to inform us that it was against the law to pick up any individual on the highway! I guess he thought we were in some sort of physical trouble (which we sort of were) but it wasn’t worth €3000 fine that he would receive if he took us back to the city.

Great!

Ever less hopeful, we resumed our belabored walk back to the slip road, knowing full well that if we did not secure a ride back to the city within the next few minutes, there was no earthly way we were going to be able to check in on time at the airport.

The new Royal Palace in Abu Dhabi, under construction

The new Royal Palace in Abu Dhabi, under construction

Lucky for us, a pickup truck pulled over and a Sri Lankan man by the name of Rosita picked us up telling us he would take us to the taxi rank for the little town that we were in. So we threw our luggage in the back and got in. After elaborating on our story, Rosita made a U-turn and showing extraordinary kindness, declared that he would take us back to our hotel, an easy hour and a half out of his day!

An unplanned benefit to this predicament was our chance to talk to Rohita for the next 25 minutes about what life is like for him as a construction site supervisor and immigrant to the United Arab Emirates. He spoke of how the Emirati were a class of men all their own, neither requiring nor caring to follow any rules and laws of this state other than the ones that precluded them from drinking alcohol in public. There was never any doubt who was in charge, and for the most part, Rosita spoke of how immigrants were looked down upon, mistreated, and if they were lucky enough to also be female, perhaps not even paid the full $700 the average service worker made (for example staff at our hotel) a month. He did, however, speak with tremendous enthusiasm about his wife and new baby boy back home in Sri Lanka, very excited to be flying home the next week to see them again.

Thanking Rohita profusely, we jumped out of the truck — Matt grabbing cash from the ATM for what was going to be one of the more expensive taxi rides of our trip, and I ran into the lobby to grab our passports.

It was an hour and a half’s journey to Dubai airport, it was 12:45 PM, and our flight left at 3:30 PM. We might just make it.

Unfortunately, our taxi driver very much obeyed the speed limit (it would seem that many of the locals fear breaking any Emirati rules) and also insisted on making a stop to get gas despite having half a tank, more than likely to simply reset his meter which he didn’t want to go over certain amount.

Emirati Palace Hotel

Emirati Palace Hotel

We arrived at the airport with 45 minutes to go before the plane took off. Unfortunately for us, we as yet did not have our boarding passes and were told with very stern and unrelenting faces that we had absolutely no chance of making the flight if we hadn’t already checked in. There was no question we would’ve actually made the flight, it would simply appear that they had given our seats away since we had not checked in online before.

Lesson learned!

Feeling emotionally worn out from the anxiety of the day, we headed off to rebook our tickets and were lucky enough to be allowed to fly out first thing in the morning for only €100 change fee.  Of course it wasn’t the money that was disappointing, it was the fact that that was our one day to go diving in the Red Sea. But it couldn’t be helped, and so Matt and I sat down at Café Costa, grabbed a coffee and try to get online to find somewhere to stay the night.

We chose the Holiday Inn at the airport since we would need to be getting up so early the next day for our plane. By the time we got to our room we were ravenously hungry and didn’t really feel like doing much else in Dubai. We sat in the hotel’s bar and ordered a bucket of ice cold beer and some beef kebabs and tried to have a good laugh about the day.

 Snuggling up and finishing Lawrence of Arabia in bed seemed like a really great way to end it anyways.