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.

Rwanda

There’s something about border crossings that brings joy to my world. The cha-chink of a stamp being applied to an empty page on a passport is perhaps the most beautiful of sounds to my ears, all at once a feeling of excitement to be in a new place, relief of not being detained, and gratitude for being allowed into someone else’s home. Whether moving in or out of a country, the same feelings persist.

Cha-chink…I made it in (or out) alive!

The border crossing between Uganda and Rwanda is quite stark, as the red dirt road gives way almost immediately to pavement, lines, and sidewalks as soon as the crossing into Rwanda is complete. Of course, there was a bit of confusion on where exactly to go upon being stamped out of Uganda, but no man’s lands are fun, too. Arriving in Rwanda was a bit anti-climactic, as we waited a good 2 hours for a bus that potentially would take us to the capital city of Kigali. Nobody seemed to be able to tell us what was coming and where it was going, nor did they really care to help. They did enjoy stopping and staring, though, so that was fun.

Once a bus finally showed, we were on our way into a city that looked like no other in East Africa. Kigali has been undergoing a renaissance of reconstruction since the genocide occurred 25 years ago. Cafes and restaurants line streets, bright colors of Kitenge fabrics are donned by most all women, sidewalks(!) are everywhere, road work signs exist (and road maintenance is actually happening), art galleries abound, green spaces for exercise and leisure and international restaurants can be found all over…it’s altogether as western as East Africa gets. Thankfully, in between the French and Japanese restaurants, you can still find rolexes and matoke fries.

A middle class seems to be burgeoning in Rwanda, but this is all so very new…

In 1994, a series of events set off the genocide of nearly a million people in the span of just a few months. The horrors of the events are quite difficult to fathom. Militias walked the streets with machetes to lay waste to entire families by means of blunt force, to the tune of 800,000 dead. Entire villages killed off, families and friends murdering each other in cold blood. Women and children were not spared, but instead raped before being killed. Those looking for relief inside church walls were turned on by their own priests, as the buildings were firebombed. It was a complete, brutal annihilation of a society as the world watched and did nothing, while back home we were watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Family Matters.

There’s a beautifully made, horrific genocide museum in Kigali that captures how all of this came to be. At this point, I’ve grown sick and tired of visiting these museums. I recall visiting Dachau, the Nazi concentration camp outside Munich, and seeing the “Never Again” sign out front, thinking to myself how recent these heinous acts occurred. Then I visited Phnom Penh, and the Killing Fields in Cambodia, disturbed that something like that could happen only a generation ago. Again, “Never Again” was the theme. I now find myself in Rwanda, where perhaps the most jarring of genocides I’ve learned about happened within my lifetime, and probably within yours as well.

The question is always asked…How?

It’s really not all that complicated of a story, and perhaps you may notice some similarities to what is occurring in society today. Upon colonization by the Belgians, the people of Rwanda were classified into two, previously non-existent, ethnic groups: The Hutu and Tutsi. The Belgians decided that the two different groups exhibited different physical characteristics and mental capabilities, and therefore enacted policies regarding the two different groups as such, favoring one for political leadership. Two groups, previously thought of as more or less the same, now distinctly different, according to a some faux-scientific research. Rwandans were given identity cards that classified their identity as a Hutu or Tutsi, cementing the divide. Tensions rose and rose over the years, identity politics, in the most literal sense, took over. All societal ills began to be blamed on the Tutsi (the smaller portion of the population, around 15%), and the solution became to simply eliminate them all. After the president’s plane was shot down, an all-out assault began on the entire Tutsi population, in the most brutal of ways imaginable. Checkpoints were set up all around the country. If your ID card showed Tutsi, you died. If you were considered to be a “moderate” Hutu, meaning you did not participate in killing every Tutsi in sight, you died. By machete. On the spot. Your kids died. Your wife died, after she was raped, that is. People that lived and ate together, had their kids grow up together, were murdered on the spot, because they were the problem, apparently. Please read the Wikipedia page on the Rwandan genocide for the full extent of what occurred.

The genocide museum contains a wall of the names of those killed during the genocide and buried in the area. I’d read statistics of ~250,000 people buried within the confines of the museum grounds, so I expected to see a never-ending wall of names listed. Instead, there are maybe half a dozen columns of names on the wall, the rest is empty. I was confused at first, until reading that the names listed are the only ones where records exist, through tales of family members who somehow survived. All of the bones and bodies collected and placed in giant graves are anonymous, because everyone was simply wiped out. Whole families, whole villages, nameless. This wasn’t a declared war. This wasn’t what some may write off as tribal conflicts deep in the heart of Africa. This was a modern, albeit impoverished, society. 25 years ago. Full-on extermination of everyone in sight. It’s altogether horrifying and incomprehensible.

As an American, I can’t help but think of just how unaware our society is to the dangers of demonizing groups of people. We speak nonchalantly about how horrible a given subset of people are, how the country would be in a much better place without them or their ideas: The “Illegals,” the Trump Voters, the “Libs,” the GOP, the Poor on welfare, the Rich. We seem to be ignorant of the dangers of such lazy classifications, of what people can be convinced of doing to one another. We speak so outrageously on social media without truly knowing what can happen when ideas become words become actions become violence become tragedy become history. Then we look back, confused, and ask…How? Our country is no stranger to systemic persecution of groups of people, though conveniently the extent of the topic typically doesn’t make its way into our classrooms. Perhaps because it’s never reached, in recent history, the level of becoming a genocide, or because it doesn’t fit the narrative of the USA as a beacon of hope for the world to strive towards. We continue to act and behave and speak as though there are no repercussions to our sentiments, blind to the potential results. In reality, these words, these sentiments, are dangerous, from all sides and angles.

So please, the next time you feel the need to vocally demonize a specific group of people for a singular, perceived reason, choose instead to look into flights to Rwanda, perhaps you’ll better understand the dangers involved.

Hangin' with Hippos

Nearly 6 weeks after our Serengeti safari, I was feening for more animals. Sure, the geladas in Ethiopia, the lemurs, stick bugs, and chameleons of Madagascar, and the monkeys seemingly everywhere were nice, but it was time to see the big boys again. Situated between Lake Nkuruba and Lake Bunyonyi in Uganda, lies Queen Elizabeth National Park. The park served as a nice pit stop between the lakes, and allowed for a different kind of safari, a boat ride along the riverbanks to see what the shores had to offer in terms of wildlife. Famous for its hippos and elephants, the Kazinga Channel did not disappoint, with plenty of hippos, buffalo, and elephants all around, as well as crocodiles, eagles, and plenty other bird species. Finding myself eye-level with the hippos was a whole new rush not yet experienced.

The highlight came halfway through the ride, as we located a herd of elephants across the river. Making our way towards the group, we arrived to more than just elephants, as hippos popped in and out of the water while buffalos sat comfortably half in-half out of the water. The elephants got their evening drinks of water, spraying each other, doing goofy, elephant things, interrupted only by the hippos’ loud exhales of water and air from their nostrils. As the elephants made their way along the shore, they arrived at the buffalos, who were intent on not moving an inch. The elephants took turns trying to intimidate the buffalo into moving, shaking their trunks and ears, pretending to charge by kicking dirt in the direction of the beasts, who couldn’t be less bothered. After looking as though they’d given up, the elephants would make another push, with half hearted charges towards the two buffalo, only to stop just before reaching the shore and kick up some dirt. It was altogether hilarious to watch, as nobody really wanted to fight. It’s as though the elephants just weren’t happy with the buffalo pooping in their water supply, which I can understand.

While it appeared as though neither species enjoyed the other in their presence, as the buffalo made their way downstream, so too did the elephants, almost as though they decided they weren’t done playing with each other. The elephants clumsily climbed the sandy shores, with one adolescent unsure of its footing requiring some additional push from his brother and mother. As I’ve written before, there’s a certain joy in watching an elephant doing elephant things, and it never gets old.

Arriving back at our lodge for the evening, we enjoyed a dinner over the river, and sunset outside our safari tent, glampers back at it again. The night brought with it its own adventures, as I awoke to hippo grunting that seemed abnormally close. While during the day, you’d be hard pressed to find a hippo outside of the water for long (too hot for a chubby guy), at night it’s belly-filling time, as the hippos spend 7 to 7 getting their grub on. They’re actually quite dangerous, as around 500 deaths occur each year at the hands, er feet, of hippos when people accidentally find themselves on hippo highways in and out of the water. With the grunting increasing, I peaked my head out of the side of the tent, finding a giant hippo strolling its way through camp, illuminated by the spotlights of camp. The smooth as a baby’s bottom giant was munching and grunting about, thankfully turning its way away from our tent instead of towards. The rush of adrenaline was real, as I was unsure of whether I should be excited at the sight or afraid for my life…or perhaps a little bit of both?

Animal itch satisfied, with a new safari experience to boot, it was on to new frontiers in Rwanda…

Ugandan Lake Hopping

Picking up where we’d left off a month prior, we made our return to East Africa, flying into Entebbe, Uganda, near the capital of Kampala, on the shores of the great Lake Victoria. Upon leaving the terminal, the dirt entry and parking lot was calmer than anticipated, with a fair share of Mormon and other Christian missionaries awaiting the arrival of newcomers to help in their efforts that seem to be abnormally concentrated in this country more so than others in the region.

We didn’t plan on spending much time in the busy capital, instead lounging on the shores of the lake before catching a ride to the nearby backpacker’s haunt / weekend getaway of Jinja. I’d say we took a dip in the lake, but unfortunately, many bodies of water in Africa are home to a parasite called Bilharzia, which consists of microscopic snails that seep into your skin then lay eggs 6 weeks later. Sounds fun! The idea of Jinja being nearby is, of course, relative, as the short, 50-mile journey between the cities took no less than 3.5 hours, each way. Thankfully, the ride was made interesting by torrential downpours and endless street vendors at set intervals along the road, selling chicken sticks and matoke (think starchy bananas), along with corn nuts and greasy trail-mixes.

In Madagascar, I was mistakenly expecting one big rainforest, but, as it turns out, I was simply looking in the wrong country. Uganda is every shade of green, and then some. Dense forests, thick grasses, lines of matoke trees, sugar cane plantations, and rolling hills of tea bushes, it’s a literal breath of fresh air (outside of Kampala, that is). While this much green requires a fair amount of consistent rain, we never seemed to be too bothered by the short-lived storms.

Arriving in Jinja, we received our first real taste of backpacker life since we arrived in Africa. Equipped with a bar and restaurant overlooking the Nile River, with campsites, dorm beds, safari tent (glamping) options, and even a waterslide, tours were available for white water rafting, kayaking, sunset cruises along the river, you name it. The outdoor deck provided a view tough to beat. Jinja’s claim to fame is the chance to go white water rafting at the source of the Nile. Unfortunately, after the recent construction of a dam, the number of rapids has been more or less cut in half. Delaying our white-water adventures until Victoria Falls, we instead opted for a relaxing kayak along the shores and small islands of the river. Paddling along the verdant green riverside, we encountered another family laundry day, accompanied by shouts and laughs from the shore, a cacophony of the term used by most all East Africans for white person: Mzungu! Exploring the river islands, we found dozens of different bird species, some brightly colored, some a beautiful black and white. The shores and islands teemed with life. A few fishermen had found their honey holes tucked on the back side of one island, as the currents must have drawn the fish right to them. After a paddling up stream, we began the journey back with a dip in the pleasant waters of the Nile, surrounded by the greenest of hills, save for a few resorts dotted here and there. Nobody around but the birds, complete freedom reigned. As if the sky was somewhat jealous, it didn’t take long before the clouds decided it was their turn to rain. Being caught in a torrential downpour in the middle of a kayak on the Nile River may sound like your version of hell or heaven, depending on your personality, but for us, it was pure bliss. We made our way back across the river to our dock, not caring in the slightest about the driving rain, just us and the birds. Oh, and the giant monitor lizards waiting for us on shore. We slept well that night, to the chorus of cackling monkeys, the cracking of thunder, and the pattering of rain on the tent.

Exploring the town of Jinja a bit, which required a 30-minute ride on the back of a motorbike taxi (Boda Boda) through potholed dirt roads in the pouring rain (noticing a theme?), we noticed a few more western touches than we’d seen in the last month. Coffee shops serving avocado toast, filled with Westerners swapping stories of how much good they’re doing in the area, or the churches they’re running. While much good can come from the help, there’s also clearly a bit of “White Savior Industrial Complex” going on with many who are here. Speaking of churches, Ugandans are quite religious. We passed dozens of small Christian churches, in the most remote of places, enthusiastically worshipping from makeshift stages and extremely loud (and blown out) speakers.

Heading further east, we made our way towards Lake Nkuruba, a small, crater lake with a quaint campsite just above, perfect for another couple days of Ugandan glamping. The journey there was quite the undertaking, consisting of the 3-hour ride back to Kampala, then 6-hour bus across the country as the only Mzungus in sight, then finally a 30-minute car ride up into the hills to our lovely lakeside home. The bus ride was somewhat tame compared to others, as we first listened to an exuberant preacher pray over half a dozen bus riders before hopping off at the edge of town, then watched a couple hours’ worth of social-issue / politically driven music videos on the screen, then nervously watched the bus navigate around baboons scattered in the roadway as we drove through a National Park. The highlight of the ride however, was during a bathroom break in which we found the crown jewel of Ugandan cuisine: the Rolex. Rolex sounds like “Rolled Eggs,” which is basically what we’re dealing with here. A thin omelet wrapped in a homemade chapati (tortilla + grease), with a couple tomatoes thrown in for good measure. It must be up there with the best 60 cents I’ve ever spent. You can find street stands everywhere, and you most definitely should if you happen to find yourself in Uganda.

Our 2 days on the shores of Lake Nkuruba were spent lounging by the lake, hiking through the hills to more crater lakes, viewpoints, and small villages, in depth conversations about Africa with ex-pats away for the weekend, and watching black and white Colobus monkeys swing through the giant trees surrounding. We also happened upon the perfect addition to the Rolex. Walking through most rural parts of Africa, you’ll find fruit or vegetables randomly stacked up in front of someone’s house, or just on the roadside. Often times, kids will throw rocks into mango trees to get them down, or pick what they can from what’s available to try to sell. We happened upon a gold mine during our walk through the hills, as we found an unmanned pile of giant avocados on a blanket, which were very nearly the size of my head. After finding the owners, I made the best 30 cent purchase of my life, a creamy avocado that fed a group of 6 for two meals. What more could you ask for?

The last body of water in Uganda turned out to be the most serene. That is, after we got stuck in another driving rainstorm whilst canoeing across the giant lake for nearly an hour with all our bags in tow. Lake Bunyonyi sits in the southwest corner of Uganda, and is filled with a few dozen islands, some of which contain eco lodges geared towards supporting the inhabitants of the small islands. While we weren’t necessarily weary after having glamped our way through the beautiful countryside of Uganda, the lake itself is the perfect respite from life on the road. We chose to stay at Byoona Amagara, in an open air, thatch roof geodome, with a view of lake, it’s surrounding hills, and nothing else. The lodge provided transport options to get to its island home: a motorboat for a fee, or the free canoe ride. We went with canoe, and we got soaked, and I was dead tired after having to help get us across the massive lake, but hey, at least we earned the serenity. Watching the sun set from the front deck before crawling under the mosquito net surrounding the bed, listening to the sounds of life around and the soft waves of the lakeshore below had me questioning whether I could really be considered a backpacker anymore. The following morning, we walked around the island, joined by a group of adolescent girls that started following us halfway through, leading us to their favorite spots, not a care in the world, happy as can be to talk with us, play games, pick fruit from the trees, and show off their English. I laugh to myself thinking what it would look like back home if parents just let their children run off with a group of tourists passing by. Not talking to strangers hasn’t made its way to these parts yet, thankfully.

Without a care in the world, after learning and teaching some new games to our new friends, we took a quick dip in the chilly lake and made our way back to the bungalow, for another sunset on another lake after another blissful day in another jewel of a country.

Life is Good.

Lemurs and Lychees

Three quarters of the way through the 14-hour ride back to Tana, we decided to hop off the van in Antisirabe (the most pronounceable of the Malagasy cities), where rickshaws reign over motorbikes, where, depending on your budget, transport consists of a bicycle rickshaw or the good old-fashioned human powered. I felt bad for some of the guys running up the hills with not the lightest of passengers, some barefoot, but the dollar (or ariary) must be chased. From Antisirabe, our plan was to head south, in hopes of finding the Madagascar we imagined, one filled with rainforests, lemurs, chameleons, and other strange creatures. After a day of souvenir shopping that, refreshingly, did not include beads and animal carvings like pretty much every other souvenir shop in all of Africa, we arranged for transport to a few of the national parks that dot the RN7, the main north-south artery through the country.

First stop: Rainforest

Ranomafana National Park sits in the southeast-ish center of Madagascar, a protected area of rainforest that gives a glimpse of just how much forest has been cleared from the country. Tree-less, terrace-filled hills went on seemingly forever throughout the drive, save for a few small forests here and there. Ranomafana, however, was a pocket of dense rainforest, teeming with life from the second the park begins. We arrived in the twilight hours, the sound of creatures almost deafening as we stepped out of the vehicle. Making our way to our lodging, it was clear that a village still existed inside the park, with the protection of the forest no doubt a challenge in terms of resource management. Our lodging for the evening was thankfully protected from the slew of creatures outside: geckos, spiders big and small, cackling who-knows-what, and a variety of creepy crawlers. The next morning, we made our way out into the forest in search of the creature unique to Madagascar, the lemur. Ranomafana was created in order to protect the golden bamboo lemur, a rare species found only there. We set off into the forest with our guide, while his spotter disappeared ahead. 15 minutes later, we found ourselves underneath a few of the funny creatures, golden in color, tiny heads and human-like hands/feet. Another species was nearby, and we watched a family with child swing through the branches and jump from tree to tree, noticing us, but not paying too much mind. While there was some semblance of a main trail, tracking the lemurs required some roundabout meandering through the jungle, and it didn’t take long for me to become completely turned around.

Much different than the norm in the United States, most all trekking of any sort in a National Park in Africa requires a guide. Whether for protection from the elements, the people you may encounter, or simply because the trails are not well marked (or perhaps a combination of all 3), you really cannot get complete solitude in nature. At first, this tended to frustrate me, however, walking around a place like Ranomafana, as well as other parks we’ve made our way through on this trip, would be nearly impossible without the help of a guide. Though the accessibility and solitude is something I value in the US, perhaps our number of National Park deaths would be reduced if guides were required!

Further through the jungle, we encountered yet another species of lemur, this one black and white, and quite larger than the others. The size of lemurs ranges from the tiny Mouse lemur at just one ounce, to the Indri at up to 20 pounds. In my attempts to photograph the new lemur, I happened to crouch down next to, thankfully unbeknownst to me, a coiled Boa having a mid-morning nap. Of course, everyone laughed it off like the snake would never hurt me, but I knew better. More walking, more creatures, from tiny chameleons to bright green geckos hanging off banana trees. It doesn’t get more rainforest than that!

Following our morning walk, we were southbound again, away from the rainforest and into the mountainous regions, stopping first in a small, protected area that housed the King (Julien) of all lemurs, the ring-tail. If the Baobab is the iconic tree, the ring-tail must be the iconic animal. Long tails, black and white spirals throughout, stick straight up and arch like a shepherd’s staff, elegantly floating in the air while the white faces look like they’ve applied a bit too much black eyeshadow and lipstick. Fascinating creatures, that seemed to enjoy their human company, even with babies in tow. There are certain animals I’ve encountered that elicit elation when in their presence. Dolphins, elephants, penguins, and now, lemurs. They seem to hop around and play with no worry in the world, and I couldn’t help but want to join them. By the end, we were able to recognize the various calls they use with each other, ranging from Help, to Stranger-Danger, to Love. The hike through the area brought us to some stunning views across the countryside, filled with peaks, rolling hills, and rice paddies.

Further south, the mountains turned to endless open roads, dotted with Zebu (Malagasy cows) and the occasional cloud. Arriving at Isalo National Park, we arranged for an overnight trek through the park, where we found ourselves in landscapes unlike any we’d seen thus far. Rocky outcroppings, funky trees and plants, canyons, and oasis-like swimming holes and waterfalls, a perfect respite from the desert heat. The scenery was altogether different than we’d expected, but still managed to be uniquely Malagasy. We encountered 6-inch bugs that were indecipherable from the maze of twigs in which they were hiding (stick bugs), bulbous plants that seemingly floated on the sides of rocks (Elephant’s foot), technicolor grasshoppers, slow motion chameleons, and a new lemur…the dancing kind. Our new friend hung out around camp, swinging through the trees and jumping across the ground on two feet.

After a slightly too warm night of sleep, we headed out of the park and back on the road for the long journey north. With the sights checked off, it was time to enjoy the more immediate sights and sounds of the roadside. Loaded up in our Isuzu Trooper-ish, gold-rimmed, tinted-windowed ride, driver and guide in front, us in the back, the stereo blasted a mix of classic rock, old rap, and some local flavor, as we navigated the two-lane, unmarked road that was the equivalent of Interstate 80 of I-5 back home. We stopped at a slew of official and unofficial roadside stands for chicken drumsticks, Tapia fruit, mini plums, peanuts, and lychee honey. Lychees seemed to be everywhere in the country, the spiky balls served in bunches as finger foods, ready to crack open for the juicy fruit inside. I always enjoy finding situations in which foods or sights originally thought as exotic or specialties become common fare or normal, every day occurrences. It’s not often you find yourself hanging out with lemurs and on the same day buying handfuls of fresh lychees with the change in your pocket, but it’s a life many have grown accustomed to on the island.

Our last stop on the road trip happened to be an unanticipated one, as the reputation of Madagascar’s roads caught up with us. In an attempt to pass, an oncoming car swerved into our lane, side-swiping our vehicle in the process. Aside from some shattered glass and the shock of it all, we walked away unscathed, thankfully. A slight blip in an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable trip, the incident has seemed to pass away from my memories, replaced by the sights and sounds of the seemingly never-ending, twisting roads: rice farmers and red dirt hills, chameleons and cows, rainforests and rickshaws, and, of course, lemurs and lychees.

Madagascar

As our time wound down in Ethiopia, we were faced with a decision on where to head next. While travelling at off-peak times provides a more relaxed experience, with fewer crowds and less competition for lodging, it sometimes means facing inclement weather that preempts the best of travel plans. So, as we reconciled the calendar with the time of the rainy season in Madagascar, which brought with it torrential downpours and cyclones, it was now or never.

We went with now.

On arrival into the capital city of Antananarivo (good luck pronouncing that), we enjoyed a pleasant ride in past many a rice field, rolling hills and cityscape in the distance. As we arrived into the maze of windy city streets ala Montmartre district in Paris, the sky turned dark. Within 5 minutes, we were caught in a deluge. At what seemed like the peak of the storm, our taxi came to a stop on a steep street turned flowing river. We saw the sign for our guesthouse above a roaring waterfall pouring into the street. Under that waterfall were the stairs that perhaps lead to our guesthouse, we weren’t sure, and neither was our taxi driver. After an unsuccessful attempt at waiting out the water inside the taxi, we got the hint the driver was ready to move on. Stepping out into the ankle-deep road turned rushing river, we were immediately soaked, and ran for cover underneath an overhang, still unsure as to whether we’d need to brave the waterfall stairs to find our bed for the night. 20 minutes later, the rain let up, though the flowing water did not, and we watched another traveler race up the stairs and out of sight. Knowing our fate, the shoes came off, the pants rolled up, and we slogged our way up the stairs, around a corner, into a narrow alley that thankfully led to our gate. Completely drenched, shoes waterlogged, we settled in to begin planning our next couple weeks.

So much for avoiding the rainy season.

The capital city (Tana for short) is a hilly maze of small and winding streets, the French influence apparent in the language and cuisine. We enjoyed a proper French meal our first night, as we sat in the upstairs of a dimly lit restaurant wondering if we’d accidently flown to Europe. Croissants and coffee for breakfast and some pleasant meandering through the streets was just the relief we needed after the rigors of Ethiopia. Alas, the relief did not last long, as our first major stomach bug of the trip hit hard (perhaps it was the rare/raw steak from the night before), leaving us down for the count for the better part of 2 days.

Antibiotics in full effect, it was time to brave the infamous roads in Madagascar.

While Tana lies in the middle of the country, most all sights require long drives in every direction, with no network of real roads connecting them. Hub and spoke models are great with airlines, but can be quite inconvenient with road networks! We chose to go west first, in search of the giant Baobab trees that serve as the de-facto icon of the country. Following a 6am departure, 14 hours later we arrived after dark to the coastal town of Morondava. We did not see all that much during the drive, as the Madagascar I envisioned, endless rainforests with all sorts of strange flora and fauna, was instead comprised of endless rice fields and rolling, red hills. While there are pockets of forests that remain, it was quite sad to see how over-cultivated the land was, and how much wealth and beauty had been forfeited for rice. As is typically the case when travelling through rural areas, the amount of poverty was significant. Many small villages, out in the middle of nowhere, with little access to anything, provided a stark reminder of the unfortunate conditions in which many Malagasy people live.

It’s quite unfortunate that the world (that is, the world contained in the screens we live in) tends to romanticize poverty to some degree. Photos from far off places, with kids sporting dirty shirts and boogers hanging from their noses, or women carrying their livelihood in a bucket on top of their heads, or weathered farmers riding atop a water buffalo, grab our attention, almost giving us a sense of some sort of ironic wanderlust. I’m not sure if it’s the desire to see “another world,” or compassion for the perceived suffering, or appreciation for the comforts of home, but something draws us towards these images. I often find myself see-sawing between indifference and compassion. I think the indifference stems from the fact that, over the course of my travels, I’ve seen many a sight that would leave a first time traveler feeling sorry for the people and conditions they see, as if the people behind their lens could in no way be living anything less than a miserable life, based on their possessions and living quarters. I’ve found, however, that those living the simplest of lives, with nothing to their name, are often times significantly happier than those that seem to have everything, which of course is just shy of enough for them. Turns out, a nice house, fancy dinners, Instagram-able “Sunday Fundays,” and sharing your entire life (the superficial good parts only, of course) is not the recipe for a happy life. Who knew? The smiles and laughs of kids and adults sitting in the dirt outside a mud hut constitute true joy moreso than any number of likes on a clip that is going to disappear from existence tomorrow.

I found myself caught in a sort of mental limbo between indifference and compassion on the long ride to Morondava, as with each river-crossing I saw an increasing number of people handling their daily duties below in the mud-brown water. Midday was laundry time, with garments strewn all about each shoreline, drying in the hot sun. Come late afternoon, each village saw more and more people headed towards the bridge for their evening bath. Young and old, male and female, all seemed to have their set times and bathing locations. They walked down the main road, sarong wrapped, with bathing supplies atop their head, in the golden sun. Privacy was out the window, and with it the shame we count as one of our most prized possessions back home. Many of us cannot imagine in our worst nightmares bathing naked in front of any and all passerbys along the road, but when faced with no other option, perhaps you’d get over this unnecessary shame quite quickly.

Upon reflection, the romanticism of the moment began to fade to some degree. While there were no jarring sights experienced, as by this time in my travels the sight of poverty has become normalized, I found myself wondering what happens when an injury or illness occurs, or complications during childbirth. With limited access to facilities, it’s no wonder I saw very few elderly, or even middle aged, people, during our time in Madagascar. When the closest water source is a 15-minute walk away, how long does it take to get to a hospital? Poverty may not equate to misery, but improvement is imperative.

Arriving in Morondava, we traded the rain in Tana for unrelenting heat, and midnight bathroom visits were traded for midnight cold showers to provide some relief, no walk down to the river required.

Finally making our way out to the Avenue of the Baobabs for sunset, it didn’t take long to make the assessment that the never-ending drive and sweltering heat was worth the effort. Smooth, massive trunks rise high into the sky, where a bulbous canopy of branches fans out in twists and tangles. The trees were unlike any I’d seen, fascinating to look at from every angle, strong, stoic, and old…some 800 years! The avenue itself is an adventurous dirt road leading elsewhere into the depths of the country, but the road is best walked, as the trees not only line the walkway, but dot the horizon in all directions. After enjoying a beer and chatting with some new friends, we watched the sun set behind the behemoths, their distinct silhouettes almost cartoon-like against the orange sky. We strolled the avenue some more, as local children ran about and mothers sat against the tree trunks, probably wondering what all the fuss was about. As we left, passing small villages beginning to burn the fires for supper, I reflected on both the time and money spent to simply reach these peoples’ backyard.

We had also hoped to visit Tsingy National Park while we were in the west, a spiky limestone forest with rock climbing and swimming holes. Unfortunately, nobody was certain whether or not the road would be passable to visit the highlights of the park. The trip would require a 3-day investment just to get there and back, and the risk of 3 days of travel with a so-so stomach didn’t seem worth the reward at the time. So, the trees would have to suffice, which I’m happy to say, they did.

Major sight checked off the list, it was back in the van to make the same 14-hour journey we’d just completed, and head south for mountains and rainforests and lemurs…

Lalibela, Ethiopia

Chanting reverberates inside the deep tunnels that weave their way through the volcanic rock, growing louder and louder the further we walk and seemingly deeper we plunge into the maze of a highway built 30 feet below the surface. Popping out of the earth, we find ourselves surrounded by thousands of white-robed worshippers repeating chants, kissing the ground, and, naturally, staring at us. The rock they kiss is sacred, as it’s the closest many of them get to the church itself. Too small to fit the masses, too many rules for everyone to be allowed in, the rock outside becomes the church itself, made from the same ground, with nothing but sweat and a chisel used to sculpt out a church buried in the earth.

This is Lalibela

Created sometime in the 11th century, the monolithic churches of Lalibela are carved completely out of the earth. Unlike the Tigray churches that were carved into the rock, these churches were built by chiseling the rock and earth away, leaving only the church behind, much like Michelangelo chiseling the David from a giant slab of marble. How this was possible is beyond me, as many of the churches contain multiple rooms inside, with pillars and archways, along with windows carved into crosses and other shapes. Legend has is that only a hammer and chisel were used, which, 1000 years later, is difficult to fathom. What I found to be most authentic about the churches was that they were not perfect, and how could they be? Shapes of crosses were slightly uneven, pillars were sometimes top heavy, and lines not always perfectly straight. Imagine chiseling a 30 ft tall pillar and accidently going too deep, would you start over every time? There’d be no pillar left by the end! Add to that the fact that the churches are still very much in use today, with very little (local) thought of preservation or restoration aside from external weather covers and makeshift drainage systems.

While the minor flaws are noticeable when looking closely, taking in each church from outside, they are clearly spectacular works of art. Each of the 11 churches is connected by a series of underground tunnels. Only when you’re standing on the top of the hill do you realize that the roofs of all the churches are perfectly situated at ground level. All the holiness lies below the surface. The star of the show in terms of preservation and design is St. George, set off at a distance from the other churches. Inside there’s not much to look at, but the outside is perfectly carved into the shape of a cross, unfettered by the years of wear and tear due to an ingenious drainage system built onto the flat roof. From below, the church dominates the man-made crater it sits in, but from above, the cross-shaped roof is but one feature of the vast rolling hills that surround the town.

We were fortunate enough to arrive the afternoon before the festival of St. Michael. The following morning, we arose at dawn to join the worshippers as they gathered on the slopes in front of the church, and in a makeshift tent I assume was built as a shelter from the rain. Like some sort of tent revival, chanting and dancing emanated from the bright white tent, where priests and choirs performed song and dance while crosses were paraded in and out of the church itself. Every 15 minutes, decadently-dressed priests carrying a large cross would emerge from the tunnels, into the tent, then back into the earth and the church. More and more white-robes surrounded us as a more formal ceremony began. Our vantage point above the church gave us a bird’s eye view of not only the now-packed hillside, but of the church itself, as worshippers surrounded the walls, kissing the damp rock faces and peering through the windows.

I came to Ethiopia knowing of its deep Christian roots, and expected to feel some sense of familiarity with the practices and beliefs. What I experienced was altogether foreign in almost every way, from the long-distance worship of kneelers outside church gates, to Ark of the Covenant – centric church constructions, to the seemingly endless numbers of priests, to the almost cultural vs. spiritual practice of the religion itself.

I’d be remiss not to mention that, much like the rest of Ethiopia, while the sights of Lalibela are spectacular, everything that goes with it is, unfortunately, not. The city feels and looks like a shanty-town, with minimal paved roads (though much Chinese construction is happening), and very little of note outside a couple of nice hotel restaurants. Another unfortunate, but familiar tune, was the confusion of whose pockets all the money was residing. Each and every tourist pays $50USD to see the churches, which is a very significant amount of money by Ethiopian standards. Yet, aside from the decade-old UNESCO-built structures protecting the roof of the churches, it is unclear as to where that money is going. Certainly, the people of Lalibela are not seeing much.  

Below ground, in amongst the churches and the tunnels, is where time should be spent, where it’s possible to remove yourself from the world above, to bring yourself back in time, when the world from this view didn’t look all that much different than it does today. I found myself removed from reality towards the end of our visit, as we walked down a long, dark tunnel, meant to signify the passage from hell to heaven. Walking, eyes wide open, in pitch dark, feeling the sides and top of the tunnel for my bearings, I was walking with no sense of direction, no idea where the path might lead, and no way of knowing how to go back. As it always does, the path lead to light, where the slightest ray was enough to lead me out of the unknown and onto the next endeavor, this time in the form of an empty, 1000-year-old rock turned house of worship.

What’s next?

The Rock-Hewn Churches of Tigray

Finding our way out of Debark, our favorite (not) little town near the Simien Mountains, was an adventure in and of itself. The lodging suggested by our trusty (not) Lonely Planet was planning to do some early morning (read: 5am) painting, so we were told that transportation would be arranged to take us to the “new” hotel for a nice breakfast before we caught our bus. Fast forward to the morning, we found ourselves sitting on plastic chairs set up outside at a gas station as every tuk-tuk in town was in line to fill up, having walked halfway across town in the early-morning chill. The coffee never came, though thankfully our breakfast did. Others got the short end of the stick as they sat down 20 minutes later and proceeded to wait for 45 minutes while the cooks didn’t realize they needed to eat as well. Nothing like the sweet smell of gasoline and exhaust with breakfast. At least it kept us warm.

We caught our public bus up to Aksum, or at least most of the way there, from the somewhat mellow-by-Ethiopian-standards bus station. This time, I knew to load the bags ourselves, as anyone and their brother will pretend to be a bus worker, then demand money once your bag is safely on top. The 10-hour bus ride was absolutely beautiful, with much of the same scenery we saw during our trek in the Simien Mountains turning to desert formations, not unlike my home away from home for the past couple years, St. George, Utah. The mostly uneventful ride was your typical fare: crammed seating, a door that required prying open with a screwdriver, winding and precarious cliffside roads, multiple police stops, priests begging for our money, and tiny villages with adorable children that have unfortunately learned 3 English words: Hello, Money, and Pen. It struck me as odd that the brand-new roads built by the Chinese seemed to have very little traffic on them throughout the 10-hour journey. I was also suspicious that the roads would face the same fate as the national park, as it was clear very little maintenance was being done, or planned to be done.

Arriving in Aksum, we were pleasantly surprised by the first town on our trip that exuded a slight bit of charm, with its cobblestone streets and more well-kept archaeological sites. We explored the millennia old stelae scattered through town, and walked outside the church that supposedly holds the original Ark of the Covenant. Many of Ethiopia’s official storylines and archeological history seem suspect at best, but who am I to argue.

Having struggled enough with arranging transportation and sightseeing on our own, we opted for a one-day tour that would take us on a little adventure pilgrimage. Throughout the Tigray region of Ethiopia, you can find hundreds of Christian churches and monasteries built into and on top of the large rock outcroppings that make up the landscape. Some are fairly easy to reach, others require some rock climbing and nerves. Our tour was meant to take us to 3 of the most extreme, with one being carved into the most precarious of rock faces, and the other two perched atop a mountain with sweeping views across the land.

Naturally, the second we let our guard down, assuming an organized tour would take the stress away from our sightseeing, Ethiopia sensed weakness and capitalized.

After making our first stop at the ancient site of Yeha, which predated Christianity in the region, then stopping for lunch (and attempting to be charged double), we made our way to the first hike at nearly 2pm. For a tour that promised we’d visit 3 churches and be back by 7pm, I wasn’t seeing a way for us to complete the itinerary and also make the 3-hour drive back, but no mind. We made our way towards Abuna Yemata Guh up the side of the cliff, barefoot rock climbing (with the help of rope and some scouts) using the grips that had been dugout into the sandstone by centuries of church-goers making their way up to the top. After some more scrambling, we arrived at the final passage, a narrow strip of flat rock hugging the cliff on one side, with a 200-meter drop on the other. We made the precarious passage, arriving at the small wooden door of a church completely carved into the rock. Inside, centuries old paintings adorned the walls and ceilings. Being used to restored and well-kept paintings in European churches, it was somewhat novel and refreshing to see such old paintings that were in no way restored or really well-kept, they simply existed, just as they have for hundreds of years, atop this outcropping of rock that not only is impossible to see from afar, but also quite the feat to reach, involving a hike, a climb, and nerves of steel. What’s your excuse for not making it to church on Sunday??

After politely denying the priest’s demand for more money than we gave him, we made our way down the cliffside and onto the next hike…or so we thought. The driver informed us that we’d be going back now, the tour was over. Seeing as how the itinerary had two churches left to see on it, the tour was most definitely not over, and our group saw to it that we’d see these churches we paid to see. How we finally came to an agreement in that van is a story best told over a beer or two, but suffice to say, we made it to the remaining churches, attempted tour scam be damned. Along the way, up the steep mountain, we were treated to the most immaculate sunset over a Monument Valley-like scene. Oranges and reds and yellows reflected off the distant rainstorms as the silhouettes of desert formations stood majestically in every direction. We made it to the top at dusk, and with a little convincing, the priest opened the doors to the two churches perched atop the plateau. One was quite small, with open graves surrounding its tiny entrance door. The other, Maryam Korkor, was a true work of art. The church was quite large inside, though you’d never know seeing just the façade on the rock face. Giant pillars, all painted centuries ago, led to dust chandeliers that provided no light. It was a combination of holy and creepy as more open tombs lined the nave of the church. How this church came to be, so many hundreds of years ago, and how I came to be in it, with the supervision of a young guide and a priest, was perplexing to me as I stepped outside, back onto the plateau of a mountain that took an hour to hike up, surrounded by nothing but open desert and rock formations that no doubt contained more churches than I could count.

I was on cloud nine as we made our way down the mountain in the pitch dark, finding our way back to the car just in time before the torrential rains began to flood the roads and fog the windows as we braved the 3-hour journey home, ETA 11pm. While it was debatable whether we’d make it back safely through the storm, one thing was for sure:

Those churches would persevere.

The Simien Mountains, Ethiopia

Ethiopia’s north contains the de-facto tourist circuit for the major sights to be seen and experienced. Rather than start our tour of the country with a 2-day bus journey, we opted to fly to Gondar, an historical city that once contained the dwelling places of many a king, as evidenced by the remains of 17th century castles in the town center. Reading the guidebook, you might imagine an air of royalty still leftover, but there’s not. Aside from one delicious restaurant, and some very nice views outside of town (as is the case with many of Ethiopia’s high-altitude towns) there are few redeeming qualities of Gondar. It doesn’t look as though the money going into both the castles, and in particular the “beautiful” church outside of town is doing anything of value aside from lining corrupt officials’ pockets. Weeds are overgrown on the grounds, and buildings look several hundred years older than they actually are. Despite what the Lonely Planet may say, Gondar is not worth much time, nor are the sights worth the money.

Passing through Gondar though, is a small price to pay to get to the real prize, the Simien Mountains…almost. Unfortunately, you must also pass through Debark, where the national park office resides, along with a complete microcosm of Ethiopia’s systemic and cultural issues. Getting our park permits, arranging for lodging upon our return, and being introduced to our scout (non English-speaking bodyguard who shows you the way whilst brandishing his gun to any kids or creatures attempting to hassle us) was easy enough, all that was left was to get ourselves into the park, a twenty minute drive outside of town. Of course, the park office has no official transport to get solo trekkers to the entrance, but no matter, we could find a tuk-tuk to bring us there for a reasonable price, or so we thought. Upon leaving the park office, we were immediately bombarded by a large group of people telling us they would arrange our transportation for an absorbent about of money, a fairly standard scene in Africa, which we were plenty used to. Upon declining the offer however, we were berated for thinking we were allowed to take any other transportation, that theirs was the official transport and there were no other options. With each passing tuk tuk that stopped, the mob forcibly yelled at the drivers, undoubtedly threatening them if they dared pick us up. Even park office workers sheepishly pretended they couldn’t help us and scurried off, as the mob followed us wherever we went along the road. We finally had to cave if we wanted to get to the park that day, and of course were picked up in the “official” park vehicle, which was a shitty old Toyota truck with a ladder hanging out the back. Begrudgingly, we made our way to the park in the truck, where we were dropped off somewhat near where we wanted to go, after another argument with the driver.

A great start to a peaceful 3-day trek!

At long last out into the mountains, we enjoyed the cliffside trek amongst deep green forests, dramatic formations in the distance, Geladas and other baboons, and no mobs…for now. Our scout brought us to lookout points as we began to understand and communicate through grunting and pointing. Words are overrated, anyways. Our first camp was situated overlooking a deep valley, and sliding under the protection of the tent was a welcome respite from the day’s chaos. The stars shown brightly in the sky above as darkness fell, though the night brought with it more adventures as the bathrooms had clearly been neglected since the day they were installed by the Austrians a decade ago. Dodging landmines on your way to find a safe spot to relieve yourself isn’t the most fun…

Day 2 brought with it the good and the bad of Ethiopia. A short hike in the morning led to a spectacular waterfall viewpoint, and large rock formations continued to dot the horizon as we hiked up and along the lush green cliffs. We spotted deer and more Geladas, their bright red chests shining in the sunlight as they chased each other down the cliffs. Lobelia trees, which looked like a cross between a cactus and a Joshua tree, stood proudly along the rolling hills and along rushing creeks. Speaking of creeks, at one point we came upon a river that seemed to be flowing a bit higher than normal, with no rocks or footbridges to enable passage. It was here that we encountered the second Ethiopian mob, the mule mob. There they sat, waiting for you to pay them to walk 20 feet across the river atop their mule. At this point, I’d have enough of these tactics, and I set off up river to look for a better spot to cross. Our scout seemed to pick the most difficult and longest section to make the attempt, at which he failed when the water reached his thighs, all the while the mob was yelling who knows what. We waited for some time before another group caught up to us, their guide braving a path across the river, after which the mob began yelling and picking up rocks to throw at him for showing the way. Such a welcoming and friendly folk, those Ethiopians. We forded the river sans mule, and made our way towards the next camp, though the copious amounts of injera and lentils had finally caught up with us, making the next 2 hours quite uncomfortable on our stomachs, to say the least.

Our 2nd camp provided a panoramic view of the mountains surrounding, interrupted only by the heaps of trash, feces, and toilet paper throughout the camp. It looks as though an outside entity came in and set up all the necessary infrastructure for the national park, including camps, lodging, and facilities, then left it to its home country to be promptly looted, neglected, and abused. It looks this way because that’s exactly what happened. It’s quite sad, and slightly infuriating, to see. Scouts, guides, bus drivers, you name it, treat their beautiful country like a trash dump. Littering is second nature, even in the national park. I am unsure as to why nobody is telling this story of Ethiopia. The pictures you’ll see, in guidebooks and even in this blog, will be of a pristine looking country, there will be no mention of the neglect, the incessant confrontational actions of the people, or the general disregard of common courtesy, both to tourists and fellow countrymen alike. During my many bus rides, tuk-tuks, and car transport, I saw not less than half a dozen fights in the streets, ranging from teen angst to domestic violence. To tell the real story of Ethiopia is to mention both the eye-opening, and probably surprising to many, beauty of the place along with the generally unpleasant experiences that go with. Perhaps the fact that most every tourist is on some sort of guided tour, shielded from the reality of truly travelling through the country, contributes to the lack of the full story.

The 3rd day, now with stomach issues in full swing, was undoubtedly the most beautiful. We hiked to the Imet Gogo viewpoint, the rocks jutting out into the vast, green expanse below, 360-degree views of cliffsides, rivers, canyons, and forests. We sat in peace as we cliff-hopped to viewpoint after viewpoint, doing our best to outrun the incoming fog, the chasing children, and screaming geladas. The riverside camp brought with it a much needed foot-bath, dinner served in our tent, and a milky-way sky that no stomach ache or screaming Ethiopian could distract from. After an attempt by a local cook to provide half the meals we paid for and another attempt by the same cook to pretend like he lost an item I let him borrow, along with witnessing a 30 person almost-brawl outside the unofficial truck we were being smuggled back into town on, we finally escaped the most beautiful nature Ethiopia has to offer, though we were nowhere near the end of the mishaps we’d encounter on the trip.

Ah, Ethiopia. A beautiful place to see, but a rough place to be…

Ethiopian Eats

Following the Safari adventure in Tanzania, our itinerary took an unexpected turn north, as we found ourselves in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, primed for 2 weeks of tracing humanity’s origins, marveling at churches carved completely out of the earth, and, most importantly, eating.

Back in my working days, I often travelled to Atlanta where, almost every week, I’d find myself at a local Ethiopian restaurant, enjoying a collection of mystery mush and spongy pancakes. Little did I know, soon I’d be able to identify what exactly I was enjoying so much. The food is not for the faint hearted, as even the vegetarian dishes can do a number on the waistline, but it sure is delicious. Sampler platters became the dish of choice, where curries and mushes of all sorts and colors populated our plates, and injera replaced silverware. Chickpeas, lentils, lamb, goat, greens, and cabbages became shiro, beyaynetu, key wot, tibs, and gomen. Our go-to was “fasting food,” a meatless array of curries and greens that left our stomachs more than full with every sitting. Apparently, the meaning of “fasting” has been lost in translation a bit. Not to be outdone by the food, Ethiopian drinks hold their own as well. Honey wine, or Tej, can be found at most establishments, often times homemade. The mead-like drink is quite strong, and served in a beaker of hefty proportions (as usual). It goes down smooth, however, balancing out the post-meal heavy stomach with a light head for the walk home.

The star of the show, however, is the coffee. Supposedly the birthplace of the drink, Ethiopia does coffee just right – slow and strong, with some pomp and circumstance attached. An Ethiopian coffee ceremony involves taking a seat on tiny chairs amidst loose grass spread across the floor, while the woman (always the woman) of the household roasts raw coffee beans over coals. As the beans roast, every participant is given a whiff of the almost-ready beans before they are ground in the mokecha and placed into the serving pot for boiling. As if the smell of fresh-roasted coffee was not intoxicating enough, frankincense is burned as well, a delightfully woodsy-floral aroma filling the air. At last, the coffee is ready, poured into tiny cups for enjoyment, almost always served in threes, as is customary for most Ethiopian practices, representing the Holy Trinity. Often times, the tena’adam herb is served on the coffee, providing a slight herbal note. The coffee is strong, the build-up is worthwhile, and the experience one to take home. We were fortunate enough to be invited into a local’s home for the ceremony, enjoying hours of conversation as we watched the preparation and sampled some of the ubiquitous local narcotic, khat leaves. One sitting of khat was enough for us, but the coffee continued to roast and flow throughout the trip.

We left the small shack filled with caffeine and ready to continue our journey north towards the natural landmarks and historical sights of Ethiopia. While we continued to gorge on the food and indulge in the coffee, the hospitality experienced in Addis Ababa would unfortunately be more or less the last we’d see for the rest of our time in the country, but more on that later…