The End...and a Beginning

I never expected this go-round to be easy.

After experiencing my fair share of precarious and uncomfortable travel over the years, I was firmly in the camp of feeling it important and worthwhile to struggle through the rigors of a journey to fully appreciate the rewards at the end, but I was not keen on putting myself through difficult travel simply for the sake of “the experience.” I was resigned to the fact that, if the travel got too laborious through Africa, I was going to be quite alright with flying from highlight to highlight before moving on.

Oddly enough, while we did take a number of flights throughout Africa and Southeast Asia, we found ourselves taking the local (read: difficult and uncomfortable) means of transport over and over again, and, I must admit, I think I liked it. For any two-week getaway or vacation, I would never recommend the 24-hour bus connections through Botswana, or the jam-packed matatu crossing of Uganda, or sharing a taxi with a family of sheep-reeking farmers in Ethiopia. Just pay for a private car, you cheap-ass. For me, though, with plenty of time and ample curiosity, the slow and difficult means of transport became part of the sightseeing in itself, and provided a gradient of culture change from place to place that is impossible to notice with point to point air travel.

While bucket list sights will always provide some impetus, I realized on this trip that the opportunity to explore a bit of the unknown is the primary driver behind my penchant for travel. What made sleeping on top of Mt. Nyiragongo in the Congo all that much more exhilarating was the fact that I didn’t even know the volcano existed until I touched down on the continent. Throughout southeast Asia, I reveled in the freedom and familiarity of worry-less travel, but found my senses most heightened cruising on a motorbike in the remote regions of northern Vietnam, unsure of what we might stumble upon. Sure, there is thrill in adventures and potentially dangerous activities, but I think the explorer mindsight is really the driver in what I do. For this reason, Africa will always pull me back, even if the experience may not be suited for everyone.

I started this trip looking forward to having time to think, time to press pause on the constant doing and going of my life. The doing and going didn’t necessarily stop per say, but the ability to process and reflect on those doings, as they were happening, was afforded, in between the adrenaline rushes and exploration of new people and places. A slightly disconcerting notion from the experiences on this trip is that I feel as though I may have come home with less figured out that when I left. I was bombarded by a world of grey, devoid of black and white certainties and convictions. While, at first, I was a bit perplexed and disheartened about this initial clarity deficit, upon further reflection, I believe it stems from the fact that some of the “aha” moments and realizations from previous travels have become fundamental to my thought process, even exaggerated, as the ideas remained and were healthily reinforced:

My life is a great story, that I, myself, can author

My recipe for fulfillment involves only a handful of ingredients

I have been given ten-fold more than I could ever possibly need

Getting out of my comfort zones (physical, mental, and emotional) affords opportunities for growth

Embracing the current moment for what it is, good or bad, without running from, or towards, certain feelings or emotions, at the expense of acknowledging the present for what it is, enables perspective.

While there were fewer “aha” moments, there were some clear themes that I was reminded of throughout the trip. In all the negotiations and scam avoiding, rarely did I ever come away pleased when I let frustration get the better of me. As soon as I showed any sense of anger, I lost. Every time, from Africa to Asia. Calm and a smiling face, and perhaps a laugh or two, even through gritted teeth, gave the best results, no matter how tense the situation. Another common theme that resonated with me was the idea of choice, and, namely, the lack thereof. I’ve often times heard, and participated in, the argument revolving around the notion that everyone has a choice to do what they can with the situation they’re given, be it concerning economic mobility or education or the like. As with most complex situations, there’s nuance, and I can’t pretend to know whether someone is the victim, or beneficiary, of choice vs. chance. What I do know, is that for the Congolese citizen born near a border region engulfed in never-ending bloody conflicts, there is no such thing as choice, no such thing as nuance. They cannot choose to move to a different country, a different region, to escape the turmoil surrounding them. They cannot choose to educate themselves and do something about the situation. Their only choice must be to make the attempt to get by every day, tending to their crops or livestock to sustain, hoping that a militia group does not come into their village during the night to senselessly murder their family or friends in an attempt to prove some point to those in power. I’ve always been of the opinion that luck is a product of preparation meeting opportunity, however, when it comes to being born in a place where you don’t have to fear for your life or for your basic needs to be met on a daily basis, dumb luck is most certainly an appropriate designation.

While I have my biases when it comes to the benefits of physically putting yourself in a different world of practices and perspectives, I believe it sufficient to simply entertain the notion the world may not revolve exactly the way you think it does, that there is someone else, somewhere, that sees what you see, or perhaps what you don’t, and comes to a different conclusion. And there is a very good chance that you’re both right. East Africa, situated very near the equator, runs on Swahili time, as the sun rises around 6am (the 1st hour of the day) and sets at 6pm (the last hour) every day of the year. The notion of partaking in activities under the “midnight” sun in Iceland may be preposterous to a Kenyan farmer who has never seen the sun past 8pm. The Icelander is perfectly sane in going for a walk, riding a horse, or having a soak in a thermal pool at that time of “night,” just don’t tell the Kenyan.

This time around I think I talked, really talked, with fewer fellow travelers and locals. Adding a partner inherently changes the dynamic of solo travel, as lulls in communication, dinners alone, and shared dorm rooms go by the wayside. Never being truly alone, you spend less time reflecting, but more time sharing. I will not be able to adequately recount or retell the feelings of many of the triumphs and failures from this adventure, simply because the experiences were already shared and discussed right after they occurred. I noticed less, but shared more. It’s an altogether different experience. In the years of previous travels, I gained personal victories, both mental and physical. What was lacking, though, was a shared sense of accomplishment. Personal growth is imperative, no doubt, but accomplishing a feat together, be it 15 days of backpacking around Mt. Everest, or escaping Ethiopia in one piece, gives a confidence boost like no other. It was always just me out there on my own, but the me turns to “We,” and with that, the burden is halved, and the joy is doubled.

While the number of conversations and encounters of fellow travelers was fewer, some do stand out. Half way up to Everest basecamp, we sat down for early dinner at the teahouse, across from an Indian gentleman that was attempting the trek on his own. We’d passed him early in the day, as he crept along at less than a snail’s pace, drained from the altitude and the climb. As he began relaying his time crunch in getting back to work, it was pretty apparent that he didn’t stand a chance to make it to base camp and back in time to catch his flight home, given the difficulty he was having with what was a relatively easy day of hiking. His positivity, though, was encouraging, as he casually explained the concept of the “J” curve that kept him motivated, explaining that sometimes things have to get more difficult before you reach the inflection point, where you begin to recover and reach greater heights (quite literally in his case), than you started. On a trip as long as ours, “W” might be more appropriate than “J,” as the highs and lows were plentiful. Much like the lessons learned from green sea turtles, the J-curve hiker will forever be my little reminder to hang in there and embrace optimism during troubled times.

In describing the trip to friends new and old, I find that I’ve attached a sort of reductive quality to the whole experience: started in Nepal, did some hiking around Everest, then spent three months in Africa, then a couple months in Southeast Asia, then ended in Iceland. That’s it. Six months, neatly wrapped into one sentence with a couple commas. Typically, I am unable to even answer a yes or no question in less than a paragraph, yet somehow, I am quick to summarize six months of ups, downs, exhilaration and exhaustion, in one, boring, line. I’m not sure why this is happening, perhaps I am testing the waters to see what the listener is interested in hearing more about, or I subconsciously know that if I dive into any sort of detail for one place, I will no doubt talk for 10 minutes straight before anyone gets a word in edgewise.

Perhaps it’s all just too much, given the current climate of coronavirus and unrest. Very few people, even some close relatives, seem to have many questions to ask, seemingly distracted by everything else. Multiple friends have encouraged me not to go into any details about the trip during our conversations, as if at some hypothetical point in the future we’ll sit down and go over every detail. It’s easy to assign some reasoning behind the seeming lack of interest, be it distraction, worry about the virus, apathy, or whatever else, but I’m not sure I’ll ever really know why exactly there was decidedly less interest in my experience this time around. Perhaps it’s how I’ve portrayed the trip to others, as I’ve learned that people will naturally adopt your own level of excitement or passion about a given topic, and my downplaying of the whole trip has been subconsciously communicated. Whatever the reason, it’s most definitely different, and so be it.

For the end of this adventure, I had grand plans that serially disintegrated over the course of a few weeks as the Coronavirus began to show the havoc it would eventually wreak on the world. And so, with 2 hours to spare before the end of another “trip of a lifetime,” I got down on one knee during an impromptu dance session in the mineral-rich waters of Iceland’s Blue Lagoon, smack dab in the middle of a sleet storm, and established a beginning. The beginning of a life together that will be nothing short of adventurous, accomplished, reflective, resiliency-tested, grounded in perspective, and, above all, fun.

Six months of mountain climbing, island-hopping, wildlife tracking, motorbike riding, jungle exploring, cliff-hanging, and glacier spelunking with my future wife may not have been completely necessary as a kind of pre-marital counseling, but hey, it couldn’t have hurt, either.

Let the real adventure begin…

Fjords in the Far North

Some days are so much more.

Facing a fork in the road, our options were to go left on what appeared to be the main highway, through a tunnel and straight into the mountain range, or go right, down a hill on what looked like a semi-maintained road that may or may not wind the long way around the peaks standing in front of us. With not many miles to make on the day’s agenda, we decided there wasn’t much to lose by taking the long way around, and perhaps we’d stumble upon something worthwhile.

Turns out, understatement needs a superlative.

Immediately, we were pleased with the decision, as the gravel road wound precariously along the water’s edge and directly beneath the steep slopes above. The perspectives of the underside of dangling rocks and cliff faces shining in the morning sun was enough to warrant more than a few calls to keep my eyes on the road. The dirt tracks came to an end at a small corner store / guesthouse, where we found out we’d happened upon Vestrahorn, a place we’d read about but couldn’t quite pinpoint on the map. Paying our fee and making our way out into the bay, we parked the car in front of miniature, rolling black sand dunes. Almost immediately, the clouds began to part as if we’d unlocked some secret new level in our Cruisin’ Iceland video game. What lay behind was a set of almost symmetrical, snow capped peaks, running down onto the flat beach, made mirror-like by the falling tide. With pools scattered about on the beach by the recent rains, peaking over each black and yellow dune left us with glimpses of the peaks reflecting at our feet. Aside from being yet another photographer’s playground, it was all just…fun. Soft black sands, gentle tides, frozen pianos on the beach, reflections galore, sea shells, and surprising serenity as just behind the protection of the jetty, the violent ocean crashed against the boulder-filled coastline, while in front of us the water crept up as calm as a lakeshore. Add to that a green-screen backdrop up and down the coast, and a morning stop turned into an afternoon picnic before we knew it.

Back on the road, we weaved our way in and out of the eastern fjords, hugging the coastline and doing our best to avoid the potential avalanches from the steep and precarious ridges above, and the potential drop from the cliffs we were skating along above the waves below. The weather was perfect, with the sun shining deep into the impossibly steep valleys carved like fingers by the ocean waters. The snow glowed and windows reflected from miles off. Every 30 minutes or so, we’d happen upon a small village at the edge of a fjord, maybe a couple dozen houses, seemingly cut off from everything else, nothing but snow (and perhaps some horses) between them, the sea, and the mountain peaks. When it comes to social distancing, Iceland takes the cake.

There was no avoiding the next tunnel we came across, a multi-mile, exceptionally unsettling, hole through the middle of the mountains, with narrow turnouts for oncoming traffic and no escape routes in sight. We were relived to finally exit, though the coast was long gone by this time, as we must have journeyed to the center of the earth. Into the mountains we went, over passes and along roads with many feet of snow piled on either side. The surrounding summits, with the afternoon sun setting on smooth, pristine snow, unencumbered by trees or rocks of any sort, looked peculiarly similar to the sand dunes of Sossusvlei in Nambia, trading deep oranges for bluish purple hues. Descending from the pass, we made haste for Seydisfjordur, a town at the base of a fjord and bottom of a mountain pass, made famous by Ben Stiller’s longboarding escapades as Walter Mitty. Unfortunately, the weather finally got the best of us, this time in the form of wind, as the road became completely invisible from the blowing snow, and the car seemed no match for what felt like a hurricane outside. In attempting to reach the little town, we happened upon quite a viewpoint, with expansive views of the mountains we’d just come from and what lay ahead in the following days. Taking note, we waited for the weather to clear a bit and darkness to fall before making our way back up the pass to wait. While the forecast was not promising, the Northern Lights is one of those phenomena where you just have to get lucky and be in the right place at the right time. Turns out, we weren’t exactly where we needed to be, though off in the distance we did see some faint green hues. Braving the blistering wind and cold, I set up my camera for some long exposures and captured somewhat decent photos of them, though it was not the jaw dropping experience we’d hoped to have. Alas, we’ll be back someday for more.

Over the course of the day, we were faced with an array of choices of which paths to take. At times we chose adventure, at others we chose caution. We chose to take time to stay and enjoy and also chose to get the hell out as quick as we could. We were scared, surprised, eager, nervous, vindicated, but mostly, just happy. Through it all, we braved the elements and our fears, and at times were rewarded tenfold. Other times we were let down, as well, and that’s ok. Things don’t always work out the way you write them up, and I’ve found it’s usually better that way, anyway. Retiring to our guesthouse for the night, we were bombarded by calls and texts from nearly every family member, questioning whether we were alive and well. Of course, they had no way of knowing how rewarding a day we’d just had, the slew of choices and rewards that made the day a microcosm of the entire trip. We could only tell them they need not worry; we had it handled.

The following days were spent navigating the weather and the roads, chancing detours that were often times closed or led to frozen waterfalls. The twists and turns of the road and the fjords of the north only became more and more beautiful. We bathed in silica-filled hot springs (though we passed on the Beer Hot Tub), passed endless volcanic craters, even caught a glimpse of Iceland’s famous green moss that, up until that point, had always been hidden by snow. Town after town exhibited the beautiful isolation that characterizes this country, a country that will completely change colors and feel in another month or two as the snow melts and the midnight sun returns. We ventured out to whale watching towns and cold-water surf spots, never tiring of the endless vantage points and quirkiness of the culture, with its heart-shaped stop lights and painted rock troll people welcoming us to each little town, or its witch shops and stark, black churches.

Our last hurrah, after a multi-tiered waterfall viewing enjoyed under sunshine, then blizzard, then sunshine, was a trip to Iceland’s most famous tourist attraction, the Blue Lagoon. Normally packed to the gills, the thermal pools are set between volcanic rock, its steamy teal blue waters cleanse the skin and soul, or something like that. We arrived to an empty parking lot, and enjoyed the complex almost completely by ourselves, beneath and incessant wind and rain storm that made the calm waters turn to a proper wave pool. No matter, we danced and laughed under hot waterfalls, hunkered down in a makeshift cave, and let the elements rain down on us, laughing at the thought of letting a little inclement weather get in the way of unbridled enjoyment.

There’s no raining on this parade.

Ice Caves, Glacier Lagoons, and Diamond Beaches

Hopping into our cargo van turned monster truck, with its enormous tires and hydraulics, we made our way onto the glacier, cruising along the hard-packed snow still left over from the long winter. The further we climbed, the more eerie things got, as the bright horizon became indiscernible with the glacier’s end. We came to a stop near a group of workers shoveling snow, which seemed somewhat odd given we were surrounded by snow and ice in all directions for miles. Turns out, they were digging down to expose the surface of the glacier, the thick, blue ice which our destination lay beneath. We squeezed ourselves through a small opening in the snow and made our way down into the abyss.

The transition from blinding white to a dim blue was abrupt, leaving us a bit weary as to where our next step would lead, seeing as how the glacier was anywhere between 1000 and 3000 feet thick, with plenty of never-ending crevasses scattered throughout. As our eyes adjusted, we found ourselves surrounded by walls of bright, translucent, blue. We walked underneath natural arches into pockets of light shining through the layers of ice above. Looking closely at the walls, the ice took on its own personality, with swirling waves, kaleidoscope-like patterns, and channels that looked like a bullet had been shot through. With each angle of perspective, a new pattern would emerge, or a new object buried deep in the solid walls would come into focus.

Aside from the seemingly never-ending waterfalls, Iceland contains its fair share of peculiar sights and activities. We opted for a tour of the Vatnajokull glacier (try pronouncing that) and its famous ice caves. Vatnajokull is absolutely massive, covering almost 10% of Iceland’s land mass. The ice caves are formed when summer snowmelt begins to make its way down into the giant crevasses in the glacier’s surface, forging new paths that eventually freeze in place as the winter days grow short. Each year, caving expeditions go out onto the glacier in search of what the chilly waters have created this trip around the sun. While the catchy names of these caves (Crystal, Blue Diamond, etc.) stay the same, each year a new site to explore will be revealed.

As you would expect when walking inside a glacier, our feet became properly frozen, and 20 minutes or so inside the cave was sufficient exploring time. On top of the glacier again, we explored the surface and its other-worldly environs. Looking back towards the coast, a blue and white haze settled beneath the peaks in the distance, with the sky seemingly deciding between having a bright sunny day or an ominous blizzard. We moved to another cave, this one completely dark, having almost a subway or mine-shaft type vibe as we crawled deep underneath the surface of the glacier. As if some kind of charcoal-ridden river was frozen in time, the black, iced ceiling was littered with rocks big and small. Some were half in, half out of ice, suspended above our heads and cemented into the ice like King Arthur’s sword. The surface was smooth, yet undulating, like upside-down rolling hills on a frozen tundra. Deeper we went, fully aware that there was no escaping should something go awry with the volcano in the mountains nearby. Turning around, I began my ritual of catching as many last glimpses as possible of the natural phenomenon I was leaving behind. Streaks of shiny grays and perfectly round stones inside and on the surface of the petrified ceiling, reflections of the head-lamp illuminated snow at our feet in the mirror-like sections of perfect ice above our heads. We emerged from the cave, again blinded by the light from the sky and surface, to the “normal” world, or at least as normal as an endless glacier surrounded by mountain peaks and open ocean can be.

At glacier’s end lies more surreal sights. The ever-growing lagoon at the foot of the glacier is riddled with massive icebergs that have fallen from the edge, making for a sort of eerie obstacle course in the frigid waters. Seals swim about in the lagoon, popping their heads up to check out the views and the tourists, before descending back into the depths or lounging on their own private iceberg inner tubes. The lagoon empties out into the ocean, taking with the remnants of the glaciers through a narrow inlet. Due to the currents, many of these icebergs end up washed ashore along a nearby black-sand beach. Having been cleaned of excess dirt and snow, the massive chunks of ice become pristine abstract art as they litter the beach for hundreds of yards. The “Diamond Beach” is like nothing else I’ve witnessed before, another photographer’s dream and explorer’s paradise. Every visitor finds something unique, some angle of light or peculiar shape that only their eyes will discover. The whole scene looks as though you were shrunk down to the size of an ant, then placed in a tray of sea-salt covered brownies and told to “Go for it.”

While nearly the entirety of the day was spent asking ourselves, on multiple occasions, whether this was all real, we were certain of the fact that the dark skies above us were as real as it gets, as we made a break further along the coast towards our lodging for the evening, though we were forced to again ask ourselves the same question as we watched dozens of actual reindeer grazing along the side of the road. Settling in to our digs with a couple hours of light to spare, and with clear skies, we decided to take a 30-minute drive to the nearest town to fill up on gas for our early morning start. We pulled into the un-attended gas pump with zero miles left on the odometer, just as the snowfall began to work its way up to storm status. Naturally, none of our cards worked at the machine, and cash wasn’t an option with no attendant on site, leaving us with no other option but to chance the 5-mile drive into town, which was currently being blanketed in a blizzard and pitch-dark skies. As the tire tracks in the road became more and more faint, I was comforted by the fact that at least we saw some reindeer before it was all over for us. Alas, the light of 2(!) gas stations appeared in the distance, our cards worked, and we were able to fill up what must have been the entire tank. The journey back was treacherous in and of itself, though not quite as daunting without the threat of running out of gas in the middle of the storm.

Settling into our warm room, with wall to wall windows looking directly out onto the snow-covered plain, we popped open some Icelandic gin and cheers-ed to another day of borrowed time, of adventures you just can’t make up, and the realization that it’s all become just another day in the life…

Iceland: Falling Water

Sitting on an impossibly stiff bed half draped in a mosquito net, I stared out the pane-less and screen-less window onto the patchwork of rice fields below, leading into the calm waters of the mountainous Ba Be lake. Outside was pure serenity, while inside our homestay we wrestled with the thought of an abrupt end to our months-long trip. With the spread of the Coronavirus reaching the West, a series of well-laid plans and re-plans was disintegrating before us. China: cancelled. Israel & Jordan: cancelled. Italy: cancelled. With our visas running out for Vietnam, we found ourselves potentially ending our trip within the next 48 hours. While we’d experienced more than our fair share of sights, sounds, and fun over the last few months, the thought of a sudden end, not on our own terms and before we were mentally prepared to return home, was troubling. Scrambling to salvage one last itinerary before giving in to the pressure to return, we looked for the perfect combination of isolation and connectivity, and booked our tickets.

Next stop: Iceland.

Trading heat and humidity for cold and snow, we arrived into the capital of Reykjavik just as a light dusting began to fall on the quaint streets of the small downtown district. Having not yet unpacked the layers that hadn’t seen the light of day since Nepal back in October, we were sufficiently frozen as we found our way to a small guesthouse outside of town. The feeling of warming up next to a steam heater was one we hadn’t experienced in what seemed like years, and, looking out the window at a blanket of snow covering cars and houses, the Hygge was in full effect.

In preparation for two weeks circling Iceland on the famous “Ring Road,” we stocked up on as many supplies as possible, considering that the cheapest meal you can buy in Iceland is a $6 hot dog, and their definition of street food is a $14 cup of soup. We’d also planned on camping so as to avoid the high cost of lodging, though one day driving through nothing but snow and ice quickly shelved that whole idea. Iceland in the spring is, for lack of a better term, icy. We checked hourly at the road and weather conditions, knowing it could all change in a matter of minutes, hoping to avoid the horror / adventure stories of travellers and their cars getting buried in an onslaught of snow.

We began our road trip heading towards the Golden Circle, a series of sights doable in a day trip from the capital, culminating in a viewpoint of Gulfoss, one of many spectacular waterfalls for which Iceland has become famous. The diversity of geological features is what makes Iceland so appealing. In one day, we stood on one edge of the North American tectonic plate, with the European plate off in the distance, as we walked between canyon walls and over crystal-clear waters, before heading up the road to Old-Faithful-like geysers spraying boiling water into the sky. Volcanic craters dot the horizon, as remnants of past eruptions sprinkle the roadside. Black volcanic rocks covered in layers of snow, the scene looked like we were surrounded by massive mounds of cookies and cream ice cream. With very few trees, the layers of snow remain perfectly smooth, glistening in the sun across the plains and down the mountain sides. In each and every small town we passed, we could count on seeing a stark, lonely church, and a community swimming pool. The Icelandic people love their swimming pools, treating them like the Italians treat their piazzas, a gathering place for socializing and enjoying the warm waters heated by the geothermal activity bubbling underneath the island. Pools often times come with views, saunas of course, and sometimes even water slides. Some are a bit harder to reach, as we hiked about 30 minutes into the mountains, avoiding the fabled Icelandic trolls along the way, to reach a pool situated at the foot of a mountain face with a view of the steep valley behind. The people may be hardened by the harshness of their environment, but they sure know how to enjoy the simple pleasures.

In the first three days of our trip we must have visited 10 waterfalls, each with their own unique character and majesty. Many of the falls have carved out the cliffside behind them, allowing visitors to walk behind for views through the waters. Unfortunately, since most of the landscape was still covered in feet of snow, we were unable to walk behind any of the famed falls during our trip. Regardless, the cascades themselves are quite beautiful, with viewpoints in front of, at ground level, and on top to be had at most locales. While the power of Gulfoss, with its multiple layers, was extraordinary, Skogafoss stands out, as it’s possible to walk right up to the base of the 200-foot falls as the sheet of water smoothly tumbles over the sheer cliff above. The whole island seems like a never-ending onslaught of picturesque waters in all sorts of states and motions. Rivers flowing through canyons, waterfalls roaring over cliffs, ice melting from glaciers and rooftops, snow falling in all directions, steam rising from natural vents in the earth and warm pools all around, and waves crashing from the surrounding ocean.

Moving towards the coast from the Golden Circle, we began weaving our way in and around the sea-front mountains that run straight into the icy waters of the Atlantic. With each corner turned, we’d find a new village nestled under a towering cliff, or a barn built straight into a rock, or, more often than not, a group of the most peculiar horses frozen in the white abyss, braving the winds and harsh temperatures. Icelandic horses are a bit stubbier than horses we’re used to seeing, with an extra layer of fur on their coat and a haircut that rivals Donald Trump’s. They’re happy to come say hello, though I think he mistook my fingers for carrots at one point, quickly nipping my hand and turning around once he realized I had no food to give. While the horses are quite majestic with their vibrant coats set against the blindingly white backdrop of a tree-less snow cover, it was the beaches that enthralled me the most. Black sands, with a backdrop of snow-covered mountains and violent crashing of waves, gave a whole different perspective on beachin’ it compared with the last couple months spent in Southeast Asia. The contrast of blue waters and white seafoam on the black beaches became such the norm that yellow sands started to seem boring and foreign. Many beaches come with a view of craggy islands just off shore, or basalt stacks where the sand meets the land, acting as some kind of step ladder for the monster trolls living in the caves. At the right time of year, the black beaches are inhabited by the adorable puffins, though we just barely missed the window.

With the views seemingly never ending, we followed the one road leading around the country, ocean on our right, mountains to the left, both searching for and attempting to avoid the falling and frozen waters from which this country gets its name.

Adventure on.

Vietnam - The North

Over the years, I’ve learned that my travel bias is in favor of remote beauty. I am drawn towards areas or regions that are somewhat difficult to reach, resulting in a sparse tourist presence, perhaps lacking on luxuries, but making up for it in simple pleasures and views that make up the daily life of the local population. While Vietnam’s north does have its fair share of the antithesis of this type of travel locale, with bustling Hanoi and over touristed Ha Long Bay, there are a myriad of treasures waiting to be unearthed throughout the windy, mountainous roads on your way to China.

Before heading remote, we made plans for the obligatory sights, spending a couple days in Hanoi and Ha Long Bay. Hanoi was more enjoyable that I’d remembered, with its myriad of alleys and markets in the old quarter, and delicious dining options spread out either on the street or in tiny hole-in-the-wall type restaurants, or perhaps right on the train tracks. What might seem like chaos is actually a well-oiled machine, with the freshest of foods and variety of services all at your fingertips. I took some time to purposely get lost one afternoon, walking through alleys filled with birdcages (the Vietnamese love their birds), stopping for a quick bowl of pho while avoiding having my toes run over in the street, bargaining for the best Ha Long Bay tour I could find, and relaxing under an overpass on tiny chairs while I waited for my Bia Hoi (fresh brewed beer) and peanuts to be served. I was most definitely out of place everywhere I sat, but, as is the case anywhere in the world, sitting down over a beer brings people together. The streets of Hanoi are a wanderer’s dream, it really is a crapshoot as to what you might come across, be it frogs in a bucket or the best tasting soup you’ve ever had.

Cruise booked, we opted to spend a couple days in Lan Ha bay, the less-visited neighbor to the famous Ha Long Bay. With many reports of trash and murky waters in Ha Long Bay, we were hoping for a bit more serenity, away from the party boats and general abuse of the pristine nature that can be found in the waters off the northern coast of Vietnam. While the weather didn’t exactly cooperate, it felt like the misty fog and rain added to the ominousness of the waters and the thousands of limestone karst islands that make up the scene. So, while there was no sunbathing on the deck to be enjoyed, the environment was more than conducive to a little rest and reflection. We passed floating fishing villages and remote beaches, stopping for an afternoon on Cat Ba island, sampling some local snake whiskey and sticking our feet in the river for a fish-eating frenzy.

The cruise itself was a comedy of errors. With the Coronavirus fears in full effect, demand was down and staff was low, leaving us with one cruise manager (Eagle) who played the role of formal host, kayak guide, happy hour party starter, tableside slam poetry reader (in Vietnamese), and morning Kung-Fu instructor (the Tai Chi instructor was gone, so we got Kung Fu instead). Eagle wasn’t particularly good at any of those roles, and he must have changed outfits at least 5 times, but we were along for the ride and couldn’t help but laugh at how seriously he took himself. The next day at dinner, a failed flambe attempt left one cruise guest completely on fire as everyone swarmed to put her out. Thankfully, no serious injuries occurred, but the mishap seemed to fit right in with the rest of the experience. By the time late night squid fishing rolled around, we were certain somebody would be lost at sea, but surprisingly it all went off without a hitch. As was the case the last time around, Ha Long and the surrounding bays are stunning, and should not be missed, just remember to bring your sense of humor.

Bidding farewell to our temporary travel friend, we left the city and headed for the hills in the far north of the country, arriving to Ba Be Lake as the sun was setting behind the mountains and a blue haze began to settle on the lake. A small agricultural village sits at one end of the lake, with almost every family home turned into a homestay in the hopes of attracting the tourist dollar. Our basic homestay came equipped with a dining deck overlooking acres of bright green rice fields running right into the lake. The combination of the geometric shapes and lines of the rice fields, the calm waters of the lake, the backdrop of densely forested mountains, and the complete silence (save for the incessant rooster crowing), did nothing but reinforce my biases for this kind of travel. A family style home-cooked meal and some strong rice wine capped it all off.  We spent the following day in a boat exploring around the lake and, while no site in particular was anything to write home about, we enjoyed a relaxing ride in yet another idyllic setting tucked away in a remote corner of an underappreciated travel destination.

Leaving Ba Be, we moved closer to the Chinese border, grabbing a motorbike and making the journey to Ban Gioc waterfall, on the border of Vietnam and China. It’s a spectacular, multi-level set of falls, with turquoise waters tucked between more limestone mountain formations. The ride itself may have been even more beautiful than the waterfall. Rolling hills, rice fields, and mountains, an environment as rural as it gets, we took detour after detour to find beautiful vistas, friendly faces, and scenes you wouldn’t believe were real unless you were looking at them. I’ve run out of words to describe the scenery and experience at this point, I just know the feelings evoked: freedom, awe, excitement, appreciation, disbelief, and the desire for more. I will go back to this region of the world over and over again and never grow tired of it. Vietnam may not be the easiest place to travel, but the rewards are unmatched.

I can’t wait to go back.

Vietnam - Caves & Karsts

Continuing our adventurous transport in Laos, we found ourselves crossing another remote border in an iffy bus that may or may not have been smuggling dozens of sacks of illegal charcoal into Vietnam. After nervously waiting while our passports were taken away for inspection for just a bit too long for comfort, we were finally relieved to hear the clicking of another stamp press as we made our way into the last country on our Southeast Asian itinerary. While Cambodia and Laos contain pockets of serenity and natural beauty between plenty of dusty, arid, and bleak landscapes, Vietnam seemingly contains nothing but lush jungle covering striking mountain landscapes and endless coastline. Colors change from bland to bright seemingly at the border.

After another 12+ hour day of travel, we arrived to my favorite of Vietnamese cities, Hoi An. Colorful walking streets filled with hanging lanterns, tea houses, coffee shops, restaurants, and, of course, the famous tailor shops, make Hoi An tough to top when it comes to charm. Meandering through the pastel alleys in search of homemade banana ice cream, coffee ice cubes, sweet herbal tonics, miniature snacking snails, local noodle and dumpling dishes, daily Banh Mi sandwiches, and historical shophouses, I was pleased to see Hoi An was just as enjoyable as I’d remembered. With the coast nearby, we spent a day lounging on white sands after exploring a few temples built into existing caves in the surrounding mountains. With some new found company from California, we rented bicycles and made our way across the river to a more rural island, with verdant rice fields and palm trees guiding our way through various villages, boat docks, and canals…leisurely exploration at its finest.

The country of Vietnam is much larger than you might imagine, with so many sights to see that one trip, even five trips for that matter, is not enough to enjoy all it has to offer. On my previous motorcycle adventure through the country, I’d skipped the region of Phong Nha, famous for its enormous cave systems, one of which is the largest known in the world. The train ride from the Hoi An area passed over the Hai Van pass, part of the old Demilitarized zone during the war. As if Vietnam hadn’t shown off enough already with its scenery, the slow train ride was nothing short of majestic, carving around and through the mountain range, revealing hidden beaches along the coast and rivers flowing from the mountains above, all with a backdrop of every shade of green you can imagine. The one-hour drive from the train station to our final destination was just as serene, with ominous limestone karsts in the distance and endless green rice fields lining the road and the rivers. Arriving in our bungalow for the evening, we made our way to a bench down by the river and enjoyed a refreshing beer while the fisherman came to shore and the smoke from small fires slowly billowed from the few houses along the opposite river bank. Idyllic to say the least.

We spent the next day in the hands of our trusty hotel owner turned chauffeur as he took us around to 3 of the most famous cave systems in the area. The first cave was the largest, with nearly a mile-long platform leading us deep into the earth. Massive formations growing from both the ceiling and floor, all lit up with different colors to accentuate the mineral rich contents, had us forgetting the reality that we were way further underground than we’d normally be comfortable with. Some ceilings looked as though they were painted in the Vatican, while small pools hidden from light sources looked so dark that I thought they might lead all the way to the center of the earth. It’s possible to follow the cave for 5 miles or so past the wooden platforms, but we opted to save that adventure for another day. The second cave required a zipline over the river to access, and more than our fair share of mud crawling to get through in some places. We were brought to a mud pool of sorts, with the softest mud you can imagine tickling our toes and making for a nice face scrub after months on the road. Overcoming a fear of small spaces, our crew squeezed through the darkness and made our way out of the cave, where an overwater obstacle course lay at our disposal. Rope swings, zip lines, American Ninja Warrior-type ropes courses, you name it. The views upstream and downstream were spectacular, with giant limestone karsts towering over the turquoise water of the river. Paradise found once again. The final stop of the day required a boat ride straight into another enormous cave, with more intricate formations and colorful walls waiting for us. Thinking about the random farmers that happened upon some of these caves had me daydreaming, as I often do, of discovering something which no eyes had ever been laid on until then. Throughout my life, the settings of these faux discoveries have changed from ruins in South America to some crater on the moon to an island on the high seas. Having not yet discovered any new frontier, I am resigned to accept that it’s all about the journey blah blah blah…

After enjoying another evening of smoky serenity on the shore, we decided 3 giant caves were enough and spent the following day back on motorbikes, two this time, to explore the countryside and visit the local hotspots, which did not disappoint. Our morning was spent at “The Duck Stop” where a local family has turned their Aflac white ducks into an obligatory stop for anybody looking to have a hundred ducks follow you around, give you a foot massage with their beaks, and ravenously eat from your hands while you hold them. Nearly the entirety of the 15 minutes with the ducks was spent laughing hysterically at their mannerisms and massaging skills. Further down the rocky dirt road, we found ourselves at another café overlooking the river below, this time fully equipped with a giant tree swing that was definitely safe. For a few dollars, we enjoyed a coffee, laid out on some hammocks, and braved the adventure swing out over the valley below. The ride back across narrow bridges, past a beautiful church, and through winding rice fields brought us to quaint little lunch spot, where a local family whips up everything from scratch (you can pick your chicken while it’s still walking around, if you’d like). The family spoke no English, but had a translated menu to choose from. The genuineness and welcoming environment were yet another reminder as to why I, and many others, are so drawn to this country. Here we were, sitting on low, open air tables next to a field of crops against a mountain backdrop, staring into a bare bones kitchen watching an entire family cook up our meal from items they’d just picked from their farm, smiling and gesturing with us as the sole means of communication between two groups full of gratitude for entirely different, yet intertwined, reasons.

We took a detour for the final leg home, passing along the riverbanks at dusk, waving to the young children outside on their porch, maneuvering our way between cows and water buffalo, catching glimpse after glimpse into homes right as dinner hour had come. By now I was used to seeing families sit down for dinner just inside their open front door, and no longer felt like I was intruding by letting my gaze linger. With each passing wave from families and children, we were invited further and further into a world that we knew was not ours, despite how graciously we were made to belong.

Si Phan Don, Laos

Often overlooked on many Southeast Asian travel itineraries in favor of Thailand or Vietnam, Laos is sandwiched between the two countries, along with Cambodia, its neighbor to the south. While every aspect of travel in Thailand comes with ease, there was no shortage of situations in Laos in which I found myself simply shaking my head and laughing it off because, well, what else could I do?

The adventures started with our arrangements from Siem Reap, Cambodia, the jumping off point for Angkor Wat. We were meant to take one bus to the remote Laos border, then another from the border to the edge of the Mekong River, where we’d cross by boat to Don Det, a backpacker-filled island within the region of Si Phan Don (translated to Four Thousand Islands). What really happened was we took one van, one bus, one 2-hour rest stop, one kilometer-long walk across the border, one covered truck-bed crammed with 15 backpackers and backpacks, and finally, one rickety boat across the river to reach our island home for the next 3 days. The trip became progressively less comfortable, capped off by the 30-minute walk in the dark along the dirt path to our accommodation. While the road was rigorous, we reached the beach / boat dock just in time to watch a blood-red sun sink into the river behind the hazy skies of the remote paradise of four thousand islands, a reminder that the trip was well worth the trouble.

There’s not much to do on Don Det, with no cars or other transport options, bicycles become the preferred mode of transportation, assuming you can navigate through the soft sands and potholes around. Simple guesthouses line the shores, each with their own small restaurants and coffee shops and hammocks. There’s a sunrise and a sunset side of the island, best enjoyed with a coffee or a beer, depending on which side you find yourself. While there is a small amount of debauchery and hippy-ish life going on, the island is very mellow compared to many of the party islands in Thailand. We spent our days cycling around Don Det and the neighboring island, enjoying the calm river views, the small hikes to waterfalls, and the overall sleepy vibe of an oasis in the middle of nowhere.

Si Phan Don’s famous residents are the Irrawaddy dolphins, who live in the waters of the Mekong River between Laos and Cambodia. While quite shy compared to other dolphins, and with their populations currently on the decline, we were fortunate enough to be able to catch a glimpse of a small group while in the area. They proved to be too quick for the camera lens, however. It takes no more than a day to check off all the must-dos in the region, leaving plenty of time for watching the sun make its way from one side of the island to the other, hammock hopping between riverside restaurants and juice shacks, and reflecting on the simplicity of a so-called travel adventure.

Once bicycles could no longer cut it, we traded pedals for gears and found ourselves atop a motorbike once again, this time headed for the Bolaven plateau, the coffee growing region of Laos, where homestays and coffee plantations are nestled between waterfalls and roaring rivers, for another few days of getting lost off the tourist trail. Our first stop, after passing by quite possibly the longest string of watermelon stalls on earth, was at a local coffee plantation turned homestay, where we received a makeshift tour of the crops and coffee processing facilities by Mr. Vieng. We were also treated to a tasty appetizer of tree ants smashed between the leaves of the coffee trees. They actually tasted delicious, just the right amount of zest! We enjoyed a home-cooked meal under a thatched roof that Mr. Vieng had slowly built up from a roadside stop to a full-blown compound, basic bungalows and all. We walked the roads, admiring the adolescent’s skills while they played a game that looked like volleyball, with the use of feet instead of hands, and the thousands of cassava roots drying out in the evening sun after a hard day’s processing. We awoke to fresh roasted coffee from the plantation, and stocked up for future brewing before heading out to our next homestay, the infamous Captain Hook’s.

Captain Hook’s homestay was an eye-opener, in both the best and worst way. The small village consists of a few hundred people, and since Hook wasn’t keen on the normal agricultural duties that make up life in the village, he began taking in tourists a few years back, giving them tours of the village and coffee plantation, and offering affordable homestays along with home cooked meals. What we soon found out, though, was that we were about to receive a whole lot more than we bargained for. Upon arriving to Hook’s home, we gathered in area underneath the stilted house, home to 20+ of Hook’s relatives. Hook was roasting fresh coffee beans, while his young helper was smoking out of 3-foot long bamboo bong, eyes glazed and bloodshot. The tour started simply enough, as Hook walked us through the coffee plantation, telling us all about the origins of coffee that he’d Wikipedia-d over the years. Most of the information seemed legitimate, but after 45 minutes without much walking, we were ready to move on. Meandering through the village surrounds, we found many foreign plants used for medicinal purposes, and even a leaf and nectar we used to blow bubbles. Throughout the walk, we saw many locals picking coffee beans, large bamboo bongs by their side. We learned many a disturbing fact about the village along the way, ranging from 5-year old smokers to unattended forest births, from child marriage to family banishment into the jungle whenever accidents occurred. The most disturbing were the animal mutilation and sacrifices, too graphic to mention here. The animist beliefs and practices of the village were enlightening, if not disturbing. There’s a dance the governments are forced to play with many of the indigenous groups, a balance between allowing traditions to remain, while ensuring everyone is playing somewhat by the rules when it comes to health and safety, particularly for the children.

It became apparent that the villagers don’t exactly take too kindly to Hook, as we were not introduced to anyone outside his family members, and our lodging for the evening was far outside the village. I imagine they allow him to continue the tours solely because it brings a steady stream of income to the village. Nevertheless, the basic bungalows proved to be a peaceful place to reflect on all the craziness we’d experienced during the tour, as we watched another blood red sun fall behind the mountains and valley below. When the time for dinner came, we gathered in the large family room while naked babies ran around, kids smoked from the bongs, and the rest of the family gathered around the small television to watch Muay Thai fights. We traded stories with the English-speaking young adults, and chowed down on some delicious dishes, family style. Following dinner, we went dessert hunting, catching as many crickets, grasshoppers, frogs, and even catfish as we could. It was hilariously awkward, as I think our young guides waited anxiously every evening for this event. We ended up with quite the haul, and watched them clean and cook our findings with some lemongrass and chiles, another surprisingly delicious treat that we hadn’t planned on partaking in earlier. We sat around the campfire and watched the family interact joyfully with each other, smoking their bongs and laughing away as if we weren’t even there.

I can’t decide whether the whole experience at Captain Hook’s homestay was a positive one, or worth recommending. I often found myself conflicted, which, when on a short vacation isn’t necessarily a positive thing, but is something I embrace during these long escapades of adventure and reflection. I found myself full of both joy and disgust for what I saw and experienced in the middle of absolutely nowhere, geographically and on the moral compass as well.

Leaving Hook’s homestay, we completed the loop, stopping along the way to visit more waterfalls, farmhouses serving passionfruit jams and fresh coffee, passing village after village in between the green jungles of the surrounds, asking if the last week had really happened or if it was all just a strange dream.

With no real way of knowing, we shook our heads, laughed, and made our move to Vietnam…

Angkor Wat on Wheels

Some sights are worth repeating.

Four years removed from my last exploration of Angkor Wat, I found myself back at the staggering compound of ruined temples in Cambodia, this time trading the comfort of a tuk tuk for a questionably stable mountain bike as my mode of transportation through the maze of temple complexes and courtyards that make up the famous Angkor Wat.

After a 5am wake up call, we hopped on our bikes, flashlight in mouth, and made our way through the dark towards the back entrance of the postcard temple from which the complex gets its name. Having shared the sunrise with the hundreds of tourists that gather in front of the temple on my previous visit, we opted this time to escape the crowds and instead went to the backside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the first morning rays on the spires, rather than see the sun rise over the temple. As is often the case with sunrises, the hour or so we spent in wait was a bit anticlimactic, as the hazy skies gradually brightened, blocking the rays of the sun. No matter, we made our way inside the temple and began the exploration through narrow passageways and immense courtyards, past monks handing out blessings and the most intricate of carvings along seemingly every wall. Windows provided views of the vast surrounds, while staircases seemed to be hidden around every corner. If so many weren’t blocked off, it would not have taken long to be completely lost in it all.

The main temple of Angkor would be a sufficient sight in and of itself, but, thankfully for us, it’s just the beginning. The entire complex is enormous, covering over 400 acres and containing 70+ temple complexes and hundreds of smaller sites. The complexes were built by the Khmer people in the 12th century, and contain a mix of Buddhist and Hindu temples. When the temples were rediscovered in the 1860s, nature had run roughshod on the place for a few hundred years. What’s left is a mix of beautiful architecture ominously shrouded in horror-movie-esque root systems growing in, around, and on top of temple walls and rooftops. Cycling around the various complexes made for quite the day, but any fatigue was suppressed by the seemingly endless ruins to discover, often times all by ourselves. While the iconic scenes are quite the spectacle, particularly Ta Prohm (Tomb Raider Temple) and the many faces of Bayon, it’s the random bulbous root wrapped around an enormous rubble pile, or the small chamber with a beam of light shining through the hole in the roof that you stumble upon at just the right time of day that really makes Angkor Wat and its temples a joy to explore. Every visit will yield new scenes, every time of day a new shadow that accentuates the ongoing battle between man’s creations and mother nature. Making our way in and out of the city walls felt like we were storming some kind of ancient castle, with giant faces staring down at us as if to warn us not to enter lest we dare tempt our fates. Enter we did, however, perhaps with some chills, a product of some curse sent down from the ominous onlooker perched in stone above the gates.

Twelve hours in, we abandoned our two wheels and kicked our feet up in front of the main temple of Angkor again, basking in the afternoon air as golden hour had begun on the mighty temple’s spires. We watched tourists of all kinds begin to slowly scatter, leaving us alone to enjoy a peaceful end to an adventurous day discovering as many of the hidden and not so hidden secrets of a true marvel of both man and nature. Crossing back across the giant moat to make our way back into town, we walked down to the water, finding that the greenery we’d seen below was actually clovers. Peculiarly, every single clover was of the 4-leaf variety, which seemed quite fitting to find after months and months of experiencing so much of the very best this earth and its inhabitants have to offer.

Lucky us…  

Thailand Take Two

Walking the streets of Bangkok in the dark of night, surrounded by food carts and vendor stalls selling everything from elephant pants to cigarettes to male enhancement products, it felt like we’d been dropped into a different world if for no other reason than the fact that we were walking about in crowds of people long after the sun had gone down. After months in Africa of planning our evenings around ensuring we weren’t stuck somewhere after dark, it felt strange to be in amongst crowds and bright lights in every direction. It did not take long, however, to feel like we were right where we needed to be by means of our dinner selections. A fresh mango from the first cart, a spicy papaya salad served in a takeaway plastic bag at the next, and finally a noodle-y chicken and broth with fresh greens, crunchy onions, and more than a small kick of spice to cap things off. No Yelp, no blogs, no maps to guide the way, we simply followed our noses and the steam rising from cart after cart of Thai dining at its finest.

Having last visited Thailand in 2016, I immediately remembered why I enjoyed my time so much. Everything is just so…easy. Most all Thais are very friendly, laughing at both you and themselves in any and all circumstances. Anything you might need or want is always at your fingertips, be it food, drink, necessities, or luxuries. Anywhere you want to go is accessible via tuk tuk, bus, train, or plane, right from your doorstep, with little to no advance planning required. Any and all comforts of home can be had…for about a tenth of the normal price. At the cost of about a US dollar, you can find yourself a fresh squeezed juice, or some homemade coconut ice cream, served in a coconut, or perhaps just the coconut itself with a straw in it. Maybe you’re feeling a nice plate of tropical fruits, or a savory noodle soup. Better yet, how about a banana pancake for an afternoon pick-me-up? Whether you’re in a big city or a small town, nearly everything is accessible within a short stroll from the town center. Add to that the foot and back-bending body massages and you have yourself questioning what took so long to get here. Thailand has mastered the tourism industry, so, while many experiences may feel somewhat contrived or overrun with fellow travellers, you’re having such a great time that you don’t really care.

With the party scene of backpacker-central Khao San Road firmly in my rear view, we opted for some new experiences I hadn’t had the time for during my last retirement. The floating markets outside Bangkok have grown to be quite popular amongst tourists over the years, but arriving early enough provides a glimpse of the charm that made the market so popular in the first place. Large market stalls line the waterways, selling mostly the same things you can find all throughout Bangkok, while marketgoers and vendors alike ride through on canoes equipped with outboard motors that require significant maneuvering to avoid each other. We encountered orange-robed monks rowing their daily rounds to receive food or money from each vendor, in exchange for a small blessing to begin their day. Grandmas engulfed on their canoes by giant woks and all the necessary food supplies to serve up meal after meal from their floating restaurants. Ice cream, fried chicken, fruits galore, coconut pancakes, grilled bananas, elephant pants, live snakes, rare marsupials, you name it can be found beneath the rainbow umbrellas of the dozens of canoes jockeying for position in the narrow canals. By the time we’d finished our rounds, the market had become a madhouse of boats and tourists lining the canals. The market is overcrowded, loud, kitschy, overpriced (by Thai standards), and not exactly authentic anymore. But damn, is it fun. Every blog and travel guide will tell you how touristy and overrun the market is, and they are correct, but it’s touristy for a reason, and no amount of crowds can take away the experience of bartering for an exotic apple or bunch of bananas from a canoe, or trying to catch up to another boat to catch a glimpse of what smells so good, or yelling from the river’s edge for a serving of barbequed bananas with some sweet nectar after you’ve just finished devouring a bowl of savory, spicy, noodle-y goodness from a lady that’s probably been cooking the same thing from her canoe for the last 30 years. Sometimes things are touristy for a reason, and I felt no shame in imbibing.

From Bangkok, we headed north to Chiang Mai, escaping the chaos and busyness of the city for the Thai lifestyle both backpackers and soccer moms dream of. Seemingly every day of the week is the proud owner of a different walking street market, with local dishes, handmade ceramics, and a myriad of art pieces conveniently laid out along the traffic-free streets. Ornate temples and buddhas hide down alleys, while colorful flags and streamers are strung across the narrowest of streets. The walls of the old city protect the crowds from the busy streets and crazy motorbikes outside, enabling a peaceful stroll for the shopper or foodie or artist or writer or hedonist looking for his or her next inspiration. We found ourselves in a cooking class, whipping up curry pastes from scratch and washing it down with the sweetest of mango sticky rice. Apparently, the word spicy is interchangeable with sexy in Thai as our instructor enthusiastically urged us to make our dishes “More Sexy!” As is compulsory for any Southeast Asian adventure, we found ourselves riding a motorbike through countless hairpin turns along the Mae Hong Son loop, a 5-day journey spent meandering through the hills of northwest Thailand, with never-ending  views, waterfalls, small villages known for tea or coffee or nothing at all, and an air of freedom unique to these parts of the world. We slurped up night market Pad Thai noodles whilst shoeless on mats lining the shore of a lake, staring at the reflection of the temple complex across the water, after taking in the town and its surrounds from the temple atop the mountain while the sun burned reddish orange as it set behind the haze of burn season. We took detours to caves large enough to raft through in the pitch dark while koi fish surrounded our canoe waiting for their afternoon snack. The last stop on the motorbike adventure was Pai, a place filled with hippies, free-spirits, revelers, and pseudo-intellectuals. Pai is overrun by now, and lacks much of the oasis-vibe it held in years past, but, like the floating markets in Bangkok, once you get over the crowds and clichés, you really can’t help but enjoy yourself. Health and ayurvedic food concoctions, yoga and dance studios, nightly performers, night markets, and funky crafts line the streets behind makeshift gardens and open-air dining spaces, while a motorbike ride across the river brings you to waterfalls, elephants, rice fields, and sweeping views. It’s tough not to be high on life when you’ve spent your day lounging in a hammock overlooking a valley sipping on fresh ginger tea with a book and not a worry in the world, watching bandage-wrapped backpackers clumsily get on and off their motorbikes to partake in the fun. It’s easy to see why people stay too long, and even easier to tell who never got out. During one open-mic performance, we listened to an old man ramble for 20 minutes about a weed he’d found in the forest that cures everything from cancer to the flu to depression. Who needs science when you can have a slice of Pai instead?

After a quick detour to Chiang Rai to see the intricate white and blue temples, we hopped on a flight headed south to get back to the island life we’d been missing since Zanzibar. Life only gets easier once you reach Krabi, the section of Thai coastline home to hundreds of islands small and large, their limestone compositions forming monstrous looking shapes in the sea. We spent our first few days at Railay Beach, doing a whole lot of nothing aside from lounging on the beach or at the pool, sipping drinks while watching rock climbers scale cliffs below base jumpers launching themselves from the tops, or enjoying fresh coffee daily from a hut serving up smoothies and spliffs. The one dirt road through town is lined by makeshift structures selling the bare essentials and boat tours, and takes all of about 10 minutes to walk through. Sightseeing complete, nothing but relaxation with great views is on the agenda. We opted for one boat tour of the islands, prepared for another relaxing day and beautiful scenery before we realized we’d accidently joined the party boat, with blaring music, rooftop jumping, and plenty of revelry. When not distracted by the craziness and the sporadic rainstorm, we soaked up the scenery and secluded beaches, and maybe partook just a little bit in the sunset dance party. Back on shore, once darkness had fallen, we made our way along a cliff face to a secluded beach and immersed ourselves into an underwater world of phosphorescent plankton, glowing and dancing with every movement of our extremities. Figure 8s and swirls and slow-motion hand waving created a lightshow under the surface that rivaled any Star Wars jump to light speed scene you can imagine. Only a rising tide could end the rambunctious, yet astonished shallow water swimming session.

A few days on the beach proved not quite relaxing enough, as we made our way down the coast to Koh Lanta, a large island known for trading parties for even more low-key rest and relaxation. We opted for a bungalow atop a cliff overlooking a pristine stretch of sand, an ideal place for afternoon sunburn sessions. In between swims and clifftop foot massages, we found another motorbike to explore the rather large island, perusing the old town shops, beachfront cafes, and views of all sides of the island. Nights consisted of beachfront fire shows, and at least a couple hours spent at our favorite hammock-filled restaurant at the end of the block. With a 7-eleven and a good coffee shop within a 5-minute walk (or 30 second scooter ride), we had all that was needed to while away our days with coffee and coconuts.  

In looking through photos of our time in Thailand, I’ve realized it’s somewhat difficult to adequately capture the serenity of the scenes we found ourselves in, or the pleasure and silliness of interacting daily with the Thai people. Most difficult to capture, however, is not a sight or experience, but rather the feeling of complete freedom and content in an adventurous, yet agenda-less ramble that is travelling through this country.

I can’t wait to see what the third act has in store…

Out of Africa

Sitting in the back of an Uber on our way to our sea and city view AirBnB, it was evident that we’d long since left the heart of Africa. The previous three weeks in South Africa, and to some degree the two weeks of road tripping through Namibia before that, were an altogether different experience of a continent we’d grown accustomed to over the past few months. While the sights and comforts were welcome after the challenges of East Africa, Ethiopia, and Madagascar, I couldn’t help but feel as though we’d left behind an Africa that I wasn’t yet prepared to leave.

The comfort of a sedan equipped with a seat belt, functioning power windows, and a fixed price felt so foreign after the months of over-capacity buses and vans, after sharing seats with bags of rice, livestock, and televisions, and after needing MacGyver-like skills to make our way out of many a taxi. While comfort and safety are nice, I’d be hard-pressed to find a more immersive travel experience than riding local transport. Riding with the locals provides the opportunity to truly appreciate the societal norms and understand the origins of behaviors and quirks that remain foreign when viewed from a passing tour bus. I would never understand the life of an Ethiopian shepherd had a white-robed family of four not crammed into our shared van after flagging us down in the pitch dark on a mountain pass. No words were exchanged, and none were needed, as the overpowering stench of raw lamb that seemed to seep from their pores and cloth conveyed all that was necessary about the activities of their daily lives. Whatever you call them: Dalla-Dalla, Matatu, Taxi-Brousse, Share-Taxi, or Kombi, the semi-fixed route mini-vans/buses are ubiquitous throughout Africa, jam packed with commuters and a money collector usually hanging out the side or back shouting to the world where the bus is headed, eager to squeeze in as many passengers as humanly possible. On one 3-hour journey, we shared our seat with a flat screen TV, wondering for the first hour why the passenger made the choice to transport his TV in this manner, but after realizing during our unplanned flat tire pitstop that the other option was to attempt to hold onto it from the back of a motorbike, cramming it in between the seat-back and throbbing knees turned out to be the best option. The minibus mode of transport can be frustrating or life-saving, depending on your timing. The minivans don’t leave unless they’re almost full, so getting into an empty van can mean long waits, but if you happen to be walking and get stuck in the rain, the odds are a godsend will appear within a few minutes and, thankfully, there’s always room for a paying passenger. There may not be an app for minivans, but they’re as on demand as it gets in my book.

With the pent-up nostalgia for our African experiences in the back of my mind, I was nothing short of elated to find that our Uber driver was originally from the Democratic Republic of Congo, a place we’d experienced the most intense and invigorating days of our time in Africa. We learned of his childhood days hiking the mighty Nyiragongo volcano, and he learned how the region he’d grown up in had changed in the decade since he’d been home. We exchanged pleasantries in Swahili, perhaps the most endearing of languages I’ve come across, and passed along photos of places he only remembered through an adolescent’s eyes. I realized that his humility and genuineness were the origins of my nostalgia. If I think about where I’d want to return to if I just had a bit more time, or what I’d want to do, I have a hard time pinpointing any specific location or activity. What that conversation with the Congolese Uber driver helped me to understand was that the interaction with the people, with societies clearly lacking the amenities we take for granted back home, yet clearly having unlocked the secrets of happiness that wealthy westerners drive themselves nuts chasing, is what I felt on edge about leaving behind. Even with the scams, untrustworthy touts, and general shadiness of much of the African tourist industry, you can’t help but feel a sense of endearment for the societies of the various nations as a whole. In Swahili, “Karibu Sana” is translated to: “You are very much welcome,” or “You are most welcome,” a phrase we heard over and over in the most pleasant of accents, an assurance that, though we were clearly out of place, we were made to be at home by some of the most welcoming people on the planet.

I found myself somewhat troubled by the internal conflicts the realities of life in Africa bring. Areas of grey abound, as both the benefits and drawbacks of everything from financial aid to missionary work to tourism have very clear examples, with each having its own unintended consequences, sometimes only apparent years down the line. I doubt the first tourist or humanitarian worker who brought pens and paper to the children in Ethiopia thought they were laying the foundation for parents to have their kids beg for pens “for school” from every tourist so that they could turn around and sell them back to the local market for a sports jersey, and that this would be viewed as a better use of time than actually going to school. I also can’t imagine a good-intentioned American looking to spend their vacation volunteering in Africa realizes there’s a possibility the orphanage they are paying to volunteer for is incentivized to keep sufficient stock of their assets, the orphans, in order to keep business humming. This can result in children being taken from their homes, or parents renting out their children for the day to act as an orphan. To add to the moral dilemma, it’s also possible that the only way for that parent to feed their family is through the income gained from renting out their children. Another grey area are national parks and conservation areas in desperate need of protection from poachers and natural resource hunters that charge absorbent fees to enter, knowing that half is going straight to corrupt government officials looking for their next vacation home, while the other half seemingly goes to a just cause. Most disturbing of all are the public health conflicts, where choosing to ease the suffering happening before your eyes may result in more people suffering down the road because of the reliance on foreign aid rather than internal governments. How could you possibly explain to a suffering child that it’s best for future generations if immediate aid isn’t provided? The distribution of foreign aid, volunteer efforts, and simple charity seem black and white from the comfort of a couch or behind the keys of a laptop, but things aren’t so simple in a world of grey.

Wrestling with what to give, aside from my tourist dollars, to a continent that’s provided me with so many perspectives and experiences, I found myself stuck in limbo trying to ensure that any sort of time or money spent wasn’t actually going to proliferate the suffering or injustices I would intend to alleviate.

I settled upon a smile.

Impossible to misappropriate, a smile and perhaps a wave is what I chose to give to as many people as I possibly could, particularly the children, who often times seemed to be the biggest beneficiary. Seeing how far a random smile and positivity, with no strings or stipulations attached, can go to brighten someone’s day was the most uplifting of my experiences in such a challenging place. Perhaps when I find myself deep into my work in the future, a random stranger will grab my attention and give me a smile and a wave, with the intent of making my day, and perhaps they will.

Hopefully I will remember why…

Around (Cape) Town

“You Screeeaaam, I Brrrriiinnnnggg…ICE CREEEEAAAM!”

Lounging on a pristine stretch of blindingly white sand, protected from the wind by giant boulders left and right and the granite peaks of a new world wonder behind, a granadilla lollie (passionfruit popsicle) from one of the handful of rhyming and roaming beach vendors seemed like the natural choice. Having been in Cape Town for a week-plus by now, you’d think I would have grown accustomed to the movie-set scenery and delicious food, but I found myself unable to prevent my gaze from darting all around me as I gnawed on some frozen deliciousness. Do I re-count the “12 Apostles” stretching from Table Mountain down the coast, or try to spot hikers climbing Lion’s Head, or pick out which beach house to buy someday, or enjoy the crashing waves in front of me while digging my feet as far as possible into the soft sands? I’m not sure which view I decided I liked the most, but the decision process required more than one visit from the Ice Cream Man.

Cape Town is, undoubtedly, one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever had the chance to visit. The setting is second to none, with multiple beaches, each having their own feel and backdrop, panoramas of Table Mountain from almost every neighborhood, and a saddle between that seems to split the city skyscrapers from the idyllic beach town. Everything you could ask for is within 10 minutes: beach, mountains, forests, gardens, fine dining, fish & chips shacks, city lights, and serene neighborhoods. It’s quite amazing how so much, and so many views, can be packed into such a manageable city center and surrounds.

Having been on the move for the better part of 3 months, we chose to kick our feet up a bit in Cape Town, opting for a couple different week-long stints in AirBnBs around town. We spent our days moseying to a Jazz brunch in an Old Victorian house turned restaurant, sipping cappuccinos in a Steampunk-inspired coffee shop that looked like a line at a Disneyland attraction, sampling gourmet chocolates while discovering a secret, nondescript gin bar nestled into the back courtyard, enjoying sundowners over the beach from a swanky rooftop bar, biking through city parks and the coastal promenade, and discerning which snacks to buy from waterfront market halls. While there are seemingly endless options for food and activities in the city, we spent a good amount of time simply relaxing inside. After months on the go, some recuperation was required, along with some home-cooked meals. My fried egg game had become a little rusty, but cooking our own meals, brewing our own coffee, and waking up with no pressure to go, go, go was just the shot in the arm needed after making it through the ups and downs of travel through Africa.

Each one of Cape Town’s neighborhoods provide their own appeal, from the brightly colored Bo-Kaap, to the edgy, but up-and-coming Woodstock, to the upscale Camps Bay, there’s something for every taste and preference. Cape Town manages to feel like somewhat of a small town through it all, where walking is manageable most anywhere you want to go. It’d be irresponsible however, to define Cape Town only by its trendy trappings, as behind the craft gin bars, colorful streets, and boutiques is a history of repression still very much visible today. The days of apartheid, amongst other extreme acts of segregation, saw entire, mostly Black, communities uprooted and moved into “Townships” outside of the city center. These townships remain today, throughout the city and country, and provide a stark contrast from the modern city centers and suburbs. Corrugated metal shacks, brightly painted in all different primary colors, sprawl for miles outside of the central business district. Residents are mostly black. Housing is extremely basic. Crime is rife. Adolescents are left with limited options, paving the way for gangs to flourish. You might understandably mistake yourself for being in Europe or any other developed nation wandering around the nicer neighborhoods, but, in reality, there’s simply a large bubble enveloping the stunning setting that’s made Cape Town globally famous.

I found it a bit difficult to pinpoint South African culture as compared to many of the other African nations we’ve travelled through to date. Is there a coffee culture? Is it a foodie paradise? A surf town? Outdoorsy? High Class? The answer, technically, would be Yes to all of the above, making for a great holiday and plenty of nice pictures, but, to me, there was something inauthentic about it all. It all felt a bit manufactured, like a “trendy, western city” blueprint was laid out and followed to a T. When, for the most part, the people participating in all of the activities that have made Cape Town famous are White, yet White people only make up 15% of the population in the city, you start to wonder what everyone else is doing, and where the doing is happening. Of course, with a bit more digging and steps off the beaten path, I’m sure it would have been possible to see more sides of Cape Town and its culture, but the city that 99% of tourists and Instagram feeds will see, outside of some museums, will be the one in which a small, specific percent of the population participates. Racial divides accompany divisions in income levels as well, making robberies an unfortunate reality of the city. While taking the normal precautions during sightseeing usually suffices, I was disappointed to learn how rampant muggings were within Table Mountain National Park, Cape Town’s icon. Nature typically provides a respite from the dangers of cities, but unfortunately, Cape Town has not been able to control thieves from entering the park and robbing guests of their valuables. With gun ownership the norm, a pleasant hike can become quite unnerving.

With all its scars, and perhaps some open wounds, Cape Town still shines as a stunner of a city. Saving our hikes for the end of our stay (in case we were robbed), we made our way up Table Mountain via a less travelled route, thanks to some insider information from siblings and friends. Hugging the coast with the 12 Apostles ahead, we made our way up the mountain to a precarious ledge for a few cliffhanger photos, before working our way to the top, where the cable car drops off all the cheaters. The views in all directions are expansive, with city meeting sea and peaks dropping straight down to the water on one side and into rolling hills on the other. Beautiful flora is everywhere, rock formations abound, and the countless peaks make sure you never run out of potential hikes. After loitering around at the top to take in the view as long as possible, we made our way down the other side of the mountain, dropping through Skeleton Gorge and out into Kirstenbosch gardens, probably the most beautiful botanical gardens I’ve seen, with summer concerts, movie nights, and picnic opportunities galore. While it took us all day, I’d be hard pressed to find a better day hike. The following day, we made our way up Lion’s Head, the 2nd most famous hike in town, with 360-degree views and a more intimate look at the city and its neighborhoods, as well as a front row seat to Table Mountain in all her glory. From the top of Lion’s Head, you can plan out your entire stay in Cape Town, pointing to your favorite of the Clifton beaches, the waterfront markets you want to try, the trail you want to take up Table Mountain, and of course, your future dream home in the hills of Camps Bay.

Our final Sundowner in Cape Town, in Africa for that matter, was atop Signal Hill, as we joined the throngs of Capetonians and tourists on the biggest picnic blanket known to man and bid farewell to the bright orange, unrelenting, African sun, and to a city that can’t help but glow in its rays…

Hangin' with Mr. Penguin

Who doesn’t love a penguin?

Few experiences can elicit the elation I felt swimming with the dusky dolphins in Kaikoura, New Zealand a few years ago, but I think those dolphins may have found some competition at Boulder’s Beach in Cape Town, South Africa.

Like a toddler in an oversized tuxedo shirt, every move and mannerism of penguin’s life is just…awkward, in about the cutest way imaginable. Waddling to the crashing waves at the shore, it’s easy to tell that the penguin is unsure of when to make his move. When he does, it’s usually a faceplant into the sea, like someone given a push with their ankles and wrists tied up. Slightly uneven ground makes for a comical display of pushing, shoving, and body bumps as each penguin vies for its space on the crowded beaches or rocks. Back and forth from the shore to the sea, a tumble here, a tumble there, such is the life of a penguin.

A colony of these loveable goons have made their home in and around Boulder’s Beach, on the outskirts of Cape Town. Walkways have been put in place to protect both the animals and the humans (turns out, the penguin bite if you piss them off). Watching from slightly above the beach is a spectacle in and of itself, but the real fun requires a bit of swimming during high tide. Boulder’s Beach itself is exactly what you might think, a small stretch of sand scattered with massive, almost round boulders seemingly dropped directly into the sea. I’d never experienced a beach quite like it, and if it weren’t for the penguins, I’d be quite content staring at the natural serenity of it all. Upon arrival at the beach, we spotted just a few penguins hanging out on a nearby boulder, but were a bit disappointed in the fact that there weren’t many penguins, but also that the tide seemed to block off most of the beach. Due to the white-capped and wavy sea, not to mention the sharks in the area, kayaking around wasn’t exactly an option, so naturally (after some encouraging), we took the plunge into the chilly waters to swim in between the boulders in search of some new penguin friends.

As always, as soon as the slight turn off the beaten track is taken, rewards await. Wading through the Boulders, we eventually found ourselves on an even smaller stretch of sand, this one inhabited with dozens of goofy new friends. The penguins paid us no almost mind as we sat on the sand and watched them go about their business surrounding us. Groups waddled around while others took turns with their morning laps, losing all awkwardness as soon as they found themselves under the water, darting faster than you ever thought a penguin could swim. Taking another dip, I watched the little guys spiral past me in the water, not exactly happy about my presence, but clearly not disturbed either. We sat on the shore for as long as we could, simply watching the quirkiness of another exotic to our American eyes, but normal to Africa animal, with the standard beautiful backdrop to boot. It seems as though, no matter where you are, from top to bottom, this continent simply excels when it comes to its display of wildlife in picturesque surrounds.

Swimming lessons complete, the city life was calling our name…

The Garden Route

Driving along perfectly paved roads, equipped with newly painted lines, shoulders, and stop lights, we pulled into a roadside farmstand, ordered an iced coffee, plopped down on some happy sacks in the middle of a bright garden equipped with pop-up shops inside old double-decker buses and promptly wondered where the hell we’d been transported.

Surely, this was not Africa.

Where were the chaotic and potholed streets, the overfilled taxi vans, and the screaming roadside vendors? Where were the cattle in the road, or the wandering baboons, or the brightly-colored kitengue headpieces? And what was the deal with all these well-marked prices next to every menu option?

Spending a week along the Garden Route in South Africa felt more like a drive along the California Coast, or the Great Ocean Road in Australia, rather than anything else we’d experienced during the last few months in Africa. Beautiful granite peaks slope gently into the sea, as small towns nestle themselves into valleys or along the jagged coastline. The sea is expansive, stretching east, west, and south all the way to Antarctica. Farmstands are the norm along the route, equipped with delicious goodies, drinks, art, and knick-knacks to enjoy. Enjoying an aperitif at an oceanside bar strewn along the rocks above a natural pool before strolling to dinner along a quaint little promenade, we were humorously reminded we were still in Africa when we had to pay a voluntary “car guard” to look after our car while we walked around to ensure it would not be broken into during the evening. Ah, Africa.

We journeyed inland to aptly-named Wilderness, camping along a gently flowing river that led to waterfalls one way, and the sea the other. We climbed high in to the heads of Knysna for commanding views out into the seas and back into the mountains. We stopped for seafood in Mossel Bay as we watched kids play in the natural rock pools protected from the crashing waves of the white-cap ocean behind. All along the route, rivers flow down from the mountains into the sea, providing ample kayaking and river activities or beach lounging opportunities, whichever you prefer. The route is altogether idyllic, with good, affordable food, wonderful views of landscapes and ocean wildlife, all sorts of outdoor activities, and quiet towns that make it quite easy to get away from it all for a bit.

We happened upon one campsite that might have belonged in a cult documentary, as everyone seemed to be just a little too happy and friendly, even with the beautiful forest views in all directions. Makeshift stages, love treehouses, hikes to big trees you were meant to give big hugs to, and fairy waterfalls were just a few of the activities on the menu at the camp. We were waiting for a shaman to show up for midnight moon-chanting or the like, but alas, we settled for an early night in the tent.

I’d hoped to get the chance to see or swim with the Great White sharks along the way, however it’d been over a year since a great white had been spotted in the area, as the beasts seemed to have disappeared from the bays they had grown famous for hanging in. After up close and personal experiences with lions and gorillas, I could, thankfully, stomach missing out on the Great Whites.

From wilderness to wine cellars, we left our tent behind for a couple days in Stellenbosch, a university town in the heart of South African wine country, where quaint, tree-lined streets provide shade to al-fresco dining options galore. The surrounding hills produce stunning views, not to mention great wine, with a little flair to boot. Chocolate pairings and generous pours at the foot of granite peaks overlooking the sea in the distance, what more could you ask for? In the midst of our 10-course, fine-dining experience that cost about as much as San Francisco take-out, it was clear we’d somehow made the transition to the good life, if just for a week or two. We sipped wines, enjoyed the abundance of well-manicured lawns and flowers, and listened to our stomachs thank us for replacing fried foods with fresh salads.

A week on the route went by in a flash, as the travel became less hectic and life on the road felt more like a weekend away than an arduous journey. Driving back, we took the scenic route of the scenic route, through Chapman’s Peak, to the destination we’d been moving towards for the three months prior…to the end of Africa, to Cape Town…

Sossusvlei

Crimson sand dunes dominate the horizon in all directions as a slight breeze swirls a trail of wispy haze from the blurry peaks. Like enormous serpents, the spine of each towering dune is perfectly pronounced as it divides the light from the dark, the sun from the shade, the searing heat from the relieving cool. Hidden within the dunes, an oasis gone wrong awaits, with waters turned to dry, white pans, and lush forests turned to frozen skeletons of trees long passed. There is no life, save two souls lost in the desert.

Making our way inland from the Skeleton Coast, yellow sands turned to red as we arrived into the Sossusvlei region of southern Namibia. If you’ve heard or seen anything about Namibia, it’s most probably Sossusvlei, and even if you haven’t, the odds are that your Windows screensaver has, on some occasion, displayed the mesmerizing red dunes to distract you from your work. Arriving in the late afternoon, we decided to journey into the park while most others were doing their best to stay out of the sweltering desert heat. After days of dirt roads, the paved road of the park had us feeling like we were floating on air, making the speed limit impossible to keep. Driving deeper into the park, the dunes began to engulf more and more. Upon reaching the end of the pavement, a quick 4WD jaunt through the sand left us at the base of a dune, walking along a hard, white pan, flat as a…cake. While the surrounds were beautiful, it felt as though we were missing something, that what we were searching for was hidden away behind another dune.

Backtracking a bit, we parked our car and looked for some signage pointing us toward our prize. Nothing. The one other couple we saw with us seemed to give up, as they drove off into the distance, leaving us alone in the desert, surrounded by imposing sand seemingly sculpted to look as ominous as possible. So, we chose a direction and started walking. With each small dune cresting, we hoped to find relief below, but were denied over and over. We stumbled upon some signage 95% buried in sand, which we couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or bad, but we carried on. At long last, as we were dwarfed by the biggest dune in sight (“Big Daddy Dune” if you were wondering its name), we crested once more, revealing Deadvlei, an altogether alien universe.

Walking, alone, onto the vast, gleaming white pan at the foot of a 1,000ft, deep orange dune, under a blindingly blue sky, had me wondering when the dream would end, or whether it was actually a nightmare in which I wouldn’t be able to escape. The empty plain is interrupted only by a few dozen seemingly petrified trees, standing tall and preserved, leafless and colorless, as though they were turned to stone during their attempts to reach their limbs into the heavens. If Gokyo Lake in Nepal was Heaven, and Mt. Nyiragongo in the Congo was Hell, there is no more apt comparison for Deadvlei than Purgatory. A hauntingly beautiful place where life ceases to exist, where the heat makes you sweat out any toxins, and where you cannot help but stand in absolute awe of what lies in front of you. I found myself wondering how something so devoid of life could be so beautiful at the same time.

After our moment of dumbfoundedness, the urge to explore returned, as we made our way across the vlei and began the climb up Big Daddy. Conveniently, I forgot the extra water in the car, leaving us in rationing mode as we climbed the scorching sands in two-steps-up, one-slide-down fashion. The view from the top, again all to ourselves, was nothing short of spectacular, dunes as far as the eye could see, the frozen trees in the distance below, the giant, white lake of yester-millenia at our feet. After rationing out a few sips of water, we glided and tumbled down the searing sands of the dune, free as free can be, the afternoon sun no match for our elation. Deadvlei soon became our own private dancefloor, with the disco-ball sun casting the shadows of our frozen-in-time dance partner trees across our rhythmless figures. My lens may have snapped a thousand times, but the mental pictures pushed the limits of my brain’s storage capacity. Leaving the planet behind, I looked back at least a dozen times, wondering if it would all still be there, if I’d really experienced what my mind was recalling. As Deadvlei disappeared behind the last dune, I was resigned to a memory in limbo, which seems about right for the purgatory paradise.

We continued pushing through Namibia’s frontiers, our last excursion taking us around Fish River Canyon, which would have been nothing less than spectacular had we not just spent two weeks in the outdoor wonderland of Namibia and the year prior at the Grand Canyon.

I think they call that the (Travel) Theory of Relativity…

Ghost Towns & Skeleton Coasts

As if the gravel roads of Namibia weren’t adventurous enough, there’s a nice, endearing name for the long strip of land that runs into the Atlantic Ocean along Namibia’s western shores: The Skeleton Coast.

Skull and Crossbones mark the entry and exit gates of the Skeleton Coast National Park, a wasteland of shipwrecks, whale bones, and mountainous sand dunes. A kaleidoscope of colors intermixes with the all-encompassing yellow sands. Blacks turn to reds turn to whites turn to goldens turn to pinks. Minerals brought up with the currents deposited themselves along the coast over the millions of years to form the eerie spectacle racing past our windows as we drove across the hardened salt roads. Stopping for panoramas, abandoned oil rigs, shipwrecks, and an enormous (and smelly) seal colony, the harsh winds from off shore had us running back into the car for shelter.

While the national park is technically only a couple-hundred kilometer stretch in the north, nearly the entirety of Namibia’s coastline can be considered to be a Skeleton Coast of sorts, as the dunes and shipwrecks continue for miles and miles past the park gates. The most spectacular coastline centers around Sandwich Harbor, where giant dunes drop straight off into the ocean below. Though we did have our own vehicle, we opted for a 4WD tour of Sandwich Harbor, from the nearby town (city by Namibian standards) of Swakopmund, a German-influenced town with cafes, eateries, beaches, and adventure activities galore. While paragliding, sand-boarding, and ATVing were on the menu, getting to Sandwich Harbor was plenty of adventure, even from the comforts of a land cruiser. The tides allow for short windows of passable sand crossing to make your way into and out of the harbor, where giant dunes sloping straight in the ocean await. We made our way along the bottom, to the top, and all around the massive sand mountains, completely engulfed by dunes in every direction, save for the summit views of blinding sand and crashing waves along the shoreline below. Like an hours-long roller coaster, we slowly climbed up, just to crest and drop, what seemed like vertically, down. Breaking for a dune-top lunch with a view and some foot-races down the ever-changing mountains, we couldn’t have asked for a better day. Being Africa, we also got the added bonus of spotting some wildlife in the sand, including springbok and a clear-skinned gecko of some sort.

Back on the road, we continued south through more of the world’s oldest desert, more wildlife, more dunes, and more odd crystal stalls. Namibia has this sort of aura of endearing desolation. Many small villages seem to be completely abandoned, until you see one person walking alone a couple kilometers away, and you wonder how the heck he got there. No vehicle, no town for miles, just one person walking towards a seemingly abandoned town in the searing heat. At “highway” intersections, we often times saw groups of people waiting to hitch a ride to wherever they were going, but the traffic patterns of those remote gravel roads makes me think they had quite some time to wait.

While some small towns only looked abandoned, some have truly been left to be engulfed by the surrounding desert.

Kolmanskop was an old diamond mining town that was left for dead when shinier pastures were discovered. Once a boomtown for the Germans, the processing facilities, railway, schoolhouses, and homes were all abandoned more or less as-is sometime in the 1950s. What nature has done with the place is rather impressive. Sand from the surrounding dunes has made a home in every nook and cranny, breaking windows, knocking down doors, and burying entire homes. Sand piles up in a variety of patterns down hallways, leaving some doors impassable and others just big enough to crawl through. Miniature dunes have built up in room corners, while staircases have turned two-tone: half sand, half wood. Every structure has its own unique formation of sand residing within, with elegant wallpapers now coated in shimmering layers of grains waiting to reflect the sun through the drafty windows. I was elated to capture photos of the place, wondering what my lens would find in each new room, racing from door to door like a child playing hide and seek. The contrast of hot sand glowing in the sun and cold, shadowed rooms gave each structure its own unique look and feel, my most preferred being the upstairs bathtub now used for sunbathing instead of washing.

Quirky, deserted, and beautiful. Kolmanskop fits right in…

A Namibian Road Trip

For months, I longed to explore Africa by my own accord. A failed attempt at securing a vehicle in Tanzania, along with some chiding from siblings on the idiocy of driving in the region, in addition to tight timelines for getting to the gorillas, all combined to prevent us from getting behind the wheel of our own vehicle to do some exploring.

At long last, we found the perfect location to finally check off the box of a good, old fashioned, road trip through Africa. Arriving in Namibia, as was the case in Botswana, there was a stark difference in population numbers compared to the other African countries we’ve explored up to this point. Miles and miles filled with nothing. No people, no crops, nothing. Huge countries, seemingly devoid of people. The capital city of Windhoek feels like it belongs in Wyoming or Montana. The few tall buildings of banks and major hotel chains let you know it’s a major city, but it’s mostly all confined to one street.

We picked up our 4-wheel drive, confirmed it had a solid spare tire, and headed north towards Etosha National Park, ready for some more safari adventures, the self-drive version. Expecting to be riding on dirt roads for much of the trip, we were pleasantly surprised with the freshly paved highway leading to the park, only realizing we weren’t driving back in the states as we passed warthog crossing signs and the occasional large baboon sitting on top of roadside fence posts. The pavement gave way to white dirt as we entered into Etosha, a vast plain as far as the eye can see, home to thousands of zebras, springbok, and oryx. The massive herds against the backdrop of endless plains, turned green with the rainy season, was a sight to behold. We explored every offshoot we could, waiting at watering holes for the animals to arrive, paying us no mind. Our camp in the middle of the park contained an amphitheater-like viewing area just above a natural water hole. Following a canned food-filled meal, we made our way to the water hole in the dark, and waited. After an hour or so of nothing, we began to doze off, only to be awoken by whispers from our fellow game-trackers. Turning our heads around, we watched a lone Rhinoceros wander its way towards the water, clumsily stumbling over some rocks in its path. Having never caught a glimpse of a rhino up close, it was a joy to watch its goofy mannerisms and pronounced nose. The rhino hung around for a few minutes, meandering in and out of the bush before getting its fill of refreshment and disappearing back into the night. Minutes later, a hyena emerged, sauntering its way to the shore to loudly slurp up a drink before heading off. We watched and waited for another 30 minutes as hyenas howled and cried what seemed like 10 feet behind us, quite the soundtrack. Satisfied with our encounter, we called it a night…dinner and a movie (and a hyena concert), not a bad date!

Leaving Etosha, we found the adventurous roads Namibia has grown famous for. Fairly well-maintained gravel roads make up most of the road network, winding their way in, around, up, and down the rolling hills and dunes of the country. There is a goldilocks speed required to avoid the washboards that make the ride too bumpy, but also not lose traction going around the corners. Driving for hours on end with the tail of the car being ever so slightly out of control is exhilarating, to say the least. Our excursion took us through Demaraland, which I can best describe as a real-life version of Disney’s Frontierland. Random crystal stands with strange voodoo-like puppets seem to pop up randomly out of the desolation. Villages consisting of just a few houses exist miles from each other, as giant boulders, rock formations, and mountains pop up here, there, and everywhere. Indigenous tribeswomen, bare-breasted and all, sell the most random of stones and souvenirs next to tourist stops that seem to see no more than a couple dozen people a day. We drove for hours seeing only a handful of other vehicles, visible from miles away by the cloud of dust trailing their cars. Our campsites were often built in and around giant boulders, perfect for sunset climbs to take in the scene. Amidst the burnt orange of the desert countryside wander the most unlikely of animals: giraffes, elephants, baboons, horned animals of all shapes and sizes, the list goes on. It’s quite startling to drive through what feels like Arizona and see a giraffe pop up around a corner, right after passing a group of wild ostriches chasing after your car.

The highlight of Demaraland is Spitzkoppe, a Matterhorn-like, boulder mountain surrounded by rock formations, natural pools, and millennia-old rock paintings. The campsite bar is filled with old, popped tires, and all your favorite junkyard car parts, victims of the unforgiving roads. We sat on pallets and enjoyed a drink at the foot of the mountain, just a handful of travelers enjoying the sights with plenty of elbow room. Our Spitzkoppe sundowners were taken in from near a natural rock arch, with just a small amount of risky rock scrambling involved. The sun’s bright reds and oranges only outshined by the golden mountain in front of us, we again found ourselves wondering how we got here.

The longer we travel, it seems as though we keep finding ourselves in the middle of the middle of nowhere, embarking on journeys that only seem to make sense in hindsight, that couldn’t possibly have been drawn up without putting ourselves in the middle of it all. It often times takes a little leap of faith, but those leaps have rewarded us ten-fold what we could have ever wished for, be it with sights, experiences, relationships, or personal growth.

Maybe we should all explore a little more.

The Okavango Delta

Moving south into Botswana, the weariness of being on the road for months caught up to us in the form of about 30 hours’ worth of overland travel in our attempts to reach Maun, a jumping off point for visiting the famous Okavango Delta in the north of Botswana. The buses we’d hoped for either weren’t running due to the holiday, didn’t run any longer due to who knows what, or still ran, but left at times that weren’t exactly convenient. The consistent 100+ degree weather didn’t help, either. As we found ourselves on a night bus in almost the exact opposite direction we wanted to end up, we at least found some respite in the cool temperatures brought on by darkness. Hoping to fall asleep on the crammed (but not as crammed as East Africa) bus, I spotted hippos and elephants caught in the headlights around residential neighborhoods, reacting as though they’d been trying to sneak a bite to eat…who were they fooling? The cool breeze we so desperately needed was abruptly cut off by a rogue hand shutting our window. Apparently, Botswanans get cold easily, as we spent the next 20 hours having our windows randomly shut when we weren’t looking.

We arrived to our backpackers in Maun and checked out the surrounds. The water levels were very low, as evidenced by a bridge that no longer went over any water. There was, however, a small pond remaining just down the hill, which happened to contain a hippo and at least 4 giant crocodiles, one of which added some kind of livestock to the party the following day. Making our way out to the delta required a lengthy drive, which doubled as a sort of mini safari. Having seen more or less every major African animal by this point, it’s quite enjoyable to soak in and study them, while newbies search for their cameras in fascination. The mannerisms of the zebra, the speed of springbok, the goofiness of the giraffe. I will never tire of seeing so many different species of wild animals so casually going about their business.

The proper way to experience the Okavango Delta, whether staying in a luxury lodge or catching a tour from a backpackers, is to take a mokoro (dugout canoe) ride through the calm, lily and reed-filled waters. The serenity of the delta, interrupted only by birds and the occasional paddle from the poler, can bring you anywhere you’d like your mind to take you. For a while, as we passed big papyrus bushes, I imagined we’d stumble upon Moses, floating slowly in the shallow waters. Coming around a corner upon some giraffes nibbling at the top of a tree, I imagined we were the first to discover the species, and thought of how I might describe its features to the world. As we made landfall for a little walking safari, we stumbled upon a large herd of buffalo, startled by our scent from afar. We followed after, while they’d turn and trot off. At one point, they all turned and faced our group, a line of at least 30 buffalo all staring directly at us through the dust, from a couple hundred feet away. Concerning.

Back in the mokoro, the peaceful float back erased the toil of the 30-hour journey it took to get to this place in the middle of nowhere, where lilies grow next to buffalo, where baboons cackle at our arrival, where canoes silently saunter through a maze of water and reeds without disturbing the peace, and where the mind provides all the navigation needed.

Victoria Falls

Bring on the highlights.

If ever there were enough water somewhere to quench the fires of Nyiragongo, Victoria Falls may be Africa’s best shot. Located on the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe, Victoria Falls is the widest sheet of falling water in the world. Over the centuries, the waterfalls have carved out gorge after gorge, as it is constantly changing its shape and position of flow over the block-like basalt rocks. Somewhere around 350 feet high, the flow of water changes with the seasons, as during the dry season, many sections of the falls dry up, leaving only the bare rock face showing. During the wet season, flows can be so high that the mist from the crashing water blocks any chance of actually seeing the fall itself.

Thankfully for everyone, the tourism industry has created solutions for just about all water levels.

Water levels too high? Take a scenic flight. Water levels low? White water raft in Class V rapids! Water level just right? Do it all, then bungee jump off a bridge to the river below for good measure. Adventure abounds on both sides of the falls, from both countries. We spent our first two days exploring the Zambia side, where platforms allow for viewing the falls from a distance and close up, from both back and front sides. After witnessing first hand the fires of hell on Mount Nyiragongo in the Congo, it seemed apropos that we’d start our visit to Vic Falls by visiting the Devil’s Pool, a small pool of water situated directly on top of the falls, on the very edge. Getting to the pool first required a small boat ride onto Livingstone island, the spot the famous explorer arrived to and witnessed the falls for the first time. It’s somewhat nerve-wracking riding in a tiny boat just a few hundred yards upstream from a giant waterfall, but we were just getting started. Making our way out to the pool required a bit of swimming, and a lot of nerves. There are no platforms or safety harnesses, just a guide telling you where to swim across, as we scurried and swam our way along the rocks to the falls’ edge. Upon arriving to our destination, a sunken basin of water the size of a jumbo-sized kiddie-pool, we found ourselves near the mouth of a particularly heavy flow area of the falls, standing directly in front of a double rainbow from the morning sun, with the deafening roar of the falls preventing any sort of casual conversation. Once again, as seems to be becoming a theme, I stood in complete awe of my surroundings, before sliding into the pool and working my way to the edge. When I say edge, I am more specifically referring to the last rock a drop of water touches before it plunges down to the river below. I am referring to a rock that I held onto for dear life as my lower half was submerged in the water attempting to make its way over, while my head and shoulders leaned far enough to watch the water hit 350 feet below. The word “edge” can be a bit subjective, but not at Devil’s pool. I laid there and stared for a while, doing my best to soak in an experience with so much exhilaration. Deafening waterfalls, double rainbows, cliff faces, swimming/holding on for dear life, it’s quite the cocktail of adventure.

As if Devil’s Pool wasn’t enough adventure, we opted to go White Water Rafting the next day. The trip began at the bottom of the falls, before we made the journey through the gorges and their Class V rapids. We paddled and held on as best we could as the rapids tossed us around like ragdolls. To make things even more interesting, we spotted a crocodile lurking in the water just as I was feeling the urge to hop in. There’s something about the thrill of African travel, where there’s always a possibility that you might get your head ripped off by a hyena or a crocodile, or you might fall off a ledge without any safety ropes / nets, or a volcano might erupt while you’re on it, that makes the travel so rewarding. You’ve got to earn it all, either through diligence or nerves of steel.

From the Zimbabwe side, we opted for a bit more relaxing Vic Falls experience, walking the pathways along the front of the falls, enjoying the views and getting sprayed by the mist. While the October / November timeframe saw some of the lowest flows ever recorded, the water levels have begun to rise, making for a good mix of bare rock and roaring water along the face. The trails take you to a variety of viewpoints, through an area of vegetation that has turned into a rainforest due to the constant mist, all the way out to a rocky point where you can look across to Zambia, down to where we began our rafting, and across to the Devil’s Pool in the distance.

We left no angle of the falls untouched, as we experienced its glory from above, below, and all sides. To me, this is the allure of the Falls. No single image (aside from maybe the perfect morning frame on top of Devil’s Pool), makes your jaw drop at first sight. It’s the opportunity to see it from all angles, to experience what it has to offer through a variety of mediums, that makes Vic Falls such a special place. The Falls will look different when I return, and perhaps I’ll choose a different set of experiences.

Regardless of menu choice, I’m confident it will be just as enjoyable, and that I’ll come away with a whole new appreciation for, as the local tribes called it, “The Smoke that Thunders.”

Virunga

The night before making the nerve-wracking border crossing into the Democratic Republic of Congo, we sat on the porch of our thatched-roof hut in the Rwandan lakeside town of Gisenyi and watched the sun set over the shores of beautiful Lake Kivu. Across the lake, we could see nothing but dense green hills, the jungles of the Congo nearly in reach. We were unaware what the next 3 nights would bring us, so the calm and serenity was welcomed, as we sat on the hill and dined al fresco in yet another glamping eco-lodge.

Virunga National Park is the oldest National Park in Africa, and contains perhaps the widest range of flora and fauna, from elephants to hippos to gorillas, from jungle to lakes to savannah to volcanoes, a lot of them. It’s a massive park, as it stretches all along the Rwandan and Ugandan borders with the DRC. There are multiple active volcanoes, one of which destroyed the city of Goma in 2002. The park has been fighting for its life for many years now as militia groups throughout the Congo have imbedded themselves deep in the center of the park, hungry for resources, both from the land and from its inhabitants, by means of poaching for ivory and the like. Because of this unrest, humanitarian workers have struggled to gain a foothold on controlling the spread of diseases such as Ebola and Measles. Nearly every week, militia groups target civilian villages, killing many innocent people, as a means of leverage against the controlling governments in the country. Private interests, as well, have threatened the ecosystem of Virunga, particularly those in search of oil.

The park only stands a fighting chance because of its heroic rangers that have sworn to protect the land and those living on it. When I think of a park ranger, I usually think of a laid-back outdoorsman that enjoys the chance to live out in nature and keep an eye on hikers and the occasional bear. What does not come to mind is a highly trained soldier who must wield an automatic weapon at all times, in constant search for intruders coming into the park to steal, kill, and destroy. I do not think of someone that will protect every step I take into the jungle, ensuring not just my safety, but the safety of every living thing in the park. Such is the life, however, for the Park Rangers of Virunga. Hundreds have dedicated their lives, and many have lost them as a result, to protecting their home. The most cherished inhabitants of Virunga National Park are its Eastern Mountain Gorillas. The rangers have developed a bond and familiarity with many of the gorilla families in the park, and their need for protection is quite real, as just over a decade ago, over half a dozen gorillas were killed by militia groups, in the hope of deterring people from visiting, so they could in turn exploit the land. No gorillas, no tourists, no park, or so the logic goes. There’s a fantastic documentary on Netflix called, “Virunga” that is a great watch. Things are significantly safer now then when the documentary was filmed, but the same challenges remain.

The border crossing from Gisenyi to Goma was relatively painless, aside from being coerced into paying for a physical Yellow Fever card, rather than the scanned copies we’d been using. From there, we hopped into our safari truck and headed through the town of Goma. Things were a bit unsettling to start, as the safari truck’s plastic windows were all rolled up, making the trip an open-air experience. Throughout our trip, driving in African city traffic has required windows rolled up, to avoid the potential for thieves to reach in to snatch a bag or worse. So, naturally, in the most dangerous region we’d travelled to, where kidnapping was a real threat, we drove through town in a damn convertible. The worry was unwarranted however, as most everyone just waved at us as we drove through town, aside from a group of guys that didn’t take too kindly to one of our fellow passenger’s incessant and invasive picture taking of everyone on the side of the road. After making our way through an Ebola handwashing station, we met up with the caravan of rangers that would escort us to our lodging in the park. The road turned from paved to potholed, and the rain came. Though the ride was a bit bumpy, it was a relief to be out of the city and on our way into the park, as volcanoes dotted the horizon and storm clouds swirled.

As we made our way closer to the lodge, we passed through a few small villages, and were given a king’s welcome like no other. It’s commonplace in most parts of Africa to be waved at by children and sometimes adults when driving through smaller towns. People will yell or wave or put their hands out as you pass by. What we experienced on our way to Kibumba Camp however, blew all this out of the water. They must ring a bell when the tourist cars are on the way, because every child within 10 miles seemed to come out to the side of the road to welcome us with waves and an endearing: “MZUUUUUUNNNNNNGGGGGGG!.” Mzungu translates as “one who wanders around” in Swahili, and is the common term for white foreigner. It’s not necessarily a term of endearment nor ridicule, merely a statement of fact. I’ll take it. With every mud-filled turn, a new set of kids would run from their modest wooden shacks yelling and waving our direction, complete joy in their smiles. Some children would show off their spinning tops, or “dogs” made from recycled plastic, leash and all. Others jumped rope, while a few chased the car. Each and every one, though, would peak their heads out, eyes lit up, and yell at the top of their lungs. The highlight came just before we approached the gate to our camp, as a whole group of a dozen or so kids were already on the roadside, mid dance routine, waiting for us to pass. No choreography required, every kid had his or her own rhythm and funk. The experience was euphoric, some of the most pure and innocent happiness one can experience. I am not sure who made who happier, as the joy was mutual. After settling in, we took a walk of the village, where cries of “Mzung!” reverberated throughout, as we learned of the crops grown and lifestyle lived. The poverty is stark, and the distended bellies of the children, even with the large food supplies, was heartbreaking, though not necessarily in the moment, as the sheer joy in the kids’ faces prevailed. At one point, a group of kids asked, through lots of pointing and grabbing, to take a photo of them. They all posed, each one showing off a distinct personality. As I bent down to show them the photo, I was mobbed by all of them, even kids that weren’t in the photo. In all the chaos and button pushing, the kids somehow deleted their own photo! Thankfully, the memory remains of the face of joyous innocence.

The following morning, we completed our trek to visit the gorillas, and remained in awe for most of the afternoon, before beginning our preparation for the primary activity the trip into the Congo and a visit to Virunga National Park was geared towards, the main reason the whole ordeal was worth the risk involved: Mount Nyiragongo.

Nyiragongo is an active volcano with a massive crater containing the world’s largest lava lake. From our camp that night, we watched as darkness fell and the clouds surrounding the volcano turned a blood red. As we stood and watched from afar, we could have been easily convinced that the volcano was erupting that very moment. The stars and clouds and silhouettes of the surrounding peaks, all dominated by the bright red smoke coming from the cone made for a surreal nightcap, and a slightly uneasy stomach knowing that we’d be spending the following night camped out on top of the glowing red fireball.

We began the hike mid-morning, with pleasant weather and a handful of new friends that came to the Congo to hike the volcano and get out the next day. We hiked, with a healthy number of rangers, guns in tow, up the mountain, along volcanic rock and thick jungle. We passed a gaping hole, where the lava had flowed from in 2002, down into and through the city of Goma below. About ¾ of the way through the hike, we were caught in a massive hailstorm, just after I’d decided not to put my full poncho on. Sufficiently soaked, we slogged our way out of the trees and ever so close to the summit. As we approached the rim, we could hear a low rumble, along with what sounded like crashing waves. As if the sun came out from the clouds to shine on our faces, we felt a warmth that seemed out of place. Standing on the rim, we stared down into a basin of thick fog, the rumbling and crashing waves clearly audible now. Looking confused at the ranger, I was told to “just wait.” So I did. I sat and stared at the fog that was making all that noise at me, and waited for the volcano to show me what it was hiding.

Slowly the fog dissipated, revealing what looked like an etch-a-sketch of cracked earth, only instead of black lines they were deep red. The giant lake tried to shake itself into all different shapes and patterns, crashing against the walls, splashing glowing lava high into the air. We watched for a while, soaking in the views of volcanoes, massive lakes, and endless jungle around us, before retreating into our metal A-frame structures to drink some tea and prepare dinner before the light show that would come once darkness fell. After a meal and a short siesta, serenaded by the low rumble and crashing waves of the lava just outside, I poked my head outside to a sky that looked as though a rocket had just been launched; everything was a deep red. Quickly climbing up to the rim of the crater, I was almost blinded by the bright orange fire of the lake below. No fog in sight, I stared straight into the center of the earth, the fiery, bubbling, lurching lake of fire, of liquid hot magma. The lava spewed onto the cooled earth in the immediate vicinity of the lake’s walls, like an artist throwing paint onto canvass. Elsewhere in the crater, a mini cone had formed, spraying lava out its top and leaking a river of fire around the crater walls. The whole experience was like nothing I’ve ever witnessed, no photo or video will do it justice, no story will capture what it’s like to stare into hell. We stared for hours, then came back and stared again. And again. It was complete sensory overload. Our faces absorbed the heat, our noses turned up at the sulfur, our ears were deafened by the crashing lava, our eyes blinded by the fire, and our tongues satiated with the taste of sweet victory in making it to the top of the volcano, and through the dangers of Virunga, alive and well.

After the most spectacular 48 hours of our lives, after being up close and personal with gorillas and volcanoes, perhaps more alive and well than ever before.

Long Live Virunga

Gorillas and Guerillas

I came to Africa for Gorillas.

I imagined what it’d be like to be face to face with a creature so similar to us, yet so much stronger and more powerful. I daydreamed about the encounter consisting of the great Silverback noticing my presence, pounding his chest, waiting to see what I was all about. I’d pound my chest as a response, and he’d grunt as a sign of respect, brushing past me into the jungle, into the Impenetrable Forest it calls home.

That was the plan at least.

When it comes to tracking the endangered Eastern Mountain Gorillas, research typically provides two options: Uganda, in one of two national forest areas, or Rwanda, at twice the cost. Turns out, there’s a 3rd option, the one you don’t tell your family about until you’ve survived: The Congo.

The Democratic Republic of Congo is not in the best of states at the moment. Militia groups are running rampant in the region in and around Virunga National Park, home to a large number of Gorillas, as well as an incredible amount of biodiversity. Random villages are being attacked, Ebola is spreading, and Measles has made a comeback. The area in the Eastern DRC, north of Goma, has been under siege on and off for many years, despite heavy UN presence in the area. It would not be considered a “safe” place to visit. However, there were two reasons the visit was worth the risks involved, one of which was the chance to get up close and personal with the mountain gorillas.

We woke up early to make our way to the ranger station in preparation for our trek into the jungle to find the great beasts. A family of 25 or so was meant to be having their brunch about a 2-hours walk into the forest. We set off in a group of 4, with armed rangers at the front and back, as we hacked our way on and off trails through the deep greens of the steep hills surrounding. The trees changed as we climbed higher and higher, the beating sun only noticed when we would emerge briefly from the dense tree cover. The excitement far outweighed the nerves from the potential danger, as I was ever so close to the dreams/reality crossroads. A little over an hour and half in, sweating from the climb, we came to an abrupt stop. The rangers that sleep in the forests and keep a constant watch on locations of the gorilla families informed us via walkie-talkie that we’d arrived. It was time to creep slowly and quietly towards the gorillas. As nonchalantly as one can imagined, we strolled right in front of a big mama chomping on some leaves. We stood 10 feet in front of her as she sat almost campfire style, discerning the next leaf to chew. She looked at me, assessed I was cool, then moved on to the others in the group, until she saw something she didn’t like. Her head froze, her brow furrowed, before she began to toss about. I stood in shock as she got up and crawled no more than 6 inches past me, then disappeared into the jungle. In 30 seconds, my experience was complete. I could have turned around and caught the next flight to California, and would probably still be in a state of shocked euphoria by the time I landed.

Instead, we spent the next hour watching a couple dozen gorillas meander about the jungle, breaking branches to snack on, swinging about in the trees, wrestling with each other, and lounging on the forest floor. After nearly being rolled over by the mama, we turned around to see the big silverback, looking frumpy as he surveyed his family around. I thought the mama was big, but the silverback, with its massive head and hands, and sun glowing on its famous backside, exuded an aura as though one backhand would send us flying to the bottom of the mountain. Thankfully, he didn’t mind our presence one bit, meandering his way through the thickets to find the next branch to eat. We watched another silverback, not the dominant one, laying on his back, hand over his face, like he hadn’t had his morning coffee yet. He turned onto his belly, leaned on his elbows, and asked us, with his facial expressions, “What the hell do you want?”

The facial expressions and mannerisms of the gorillas is fascinating in the sense that they are so similar to ours. The fingers, the flared nostrils, the scratching of an itch, the chewing, and, most profound, the deep stares into your eyes. There is, without a doubt, a connection between our two species unlike any other in the animal kingdom. You get the sense that we both know what the other is thinking, based on the facial expression, with little interpretation required. It’s an instinctive understanding that wholly captivates. Aside from this clear connection, the gorillas are a joy to watch. Adolescents play fight with each other; babies ride on their mama’s backs before hopping off to grab a stick to split open. They waddle back and forth trying to multitask between eating breakfast and not tripping over the web of vines in front of them. They climb tree branches out to the edge to see if their weight can bring the tree down. If a show of dominance is required, a chest pounding as quick as a hummingbird’s flutter and as intimidating as a lion’s roar reverberates through the trees.

At one point, we stood a few yards in front of a big female minding her own, munching on a stick of bamboo. A pre-teen stopped to say hi, before continuing on his way, while a young male in the background began to make his way forward until changing his mind and wandering off in another direction. Just then, a mom and baby came into the picture from the left, eyes wide, fluffy and curly hair all matted as if it had just woken up from a nap. The baby hopped off the mama’s back, in search of a piece of bamboo half its size. Giant stick in tow, the baby tried unsuccessfully to catch up with mom, as the ground level growth was enough to slow its progress. Watching this all unfold turned my awe and intimidation into pure joy. I giggled to myself and did all I could to hold back from joining the fun, though my tree-climbing would need some work.

Our one hour with the gorillas felt like both a lifetime and the blink of an eye. As the time came to make our way back down the mountain, we began to forge a new path. Led by our machete-wielding ranger, we hacked our way through the jungle back to camp, avoiding the forest elephants hiding in the depths, both very thankful we only encountered one kind of gorilla along the way.