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…

On Safari

It was just before dawn as our small group piled into the popped-top, converted land cruiser and raced out into the savannah, clamoring our way towards the perfect spot to catch the Serengeti sunrise. The cold morning air numbed my face as I stood up in our vehicle, head on a swivel, wildebeest-dotted plains in front and the silhouettes of top-heavy acacia trees behind, waiting for the warmth of the sun soon to show its face. In the faint blue dawn light, out ahead, I caught a glimpse of 2 yellow-ish figures perched on a giant boulder seemingly dropped onto an otherwise flat expanse. Our mad dash turned to a slow crawl as the scene unfolded before us. The male lion’s mane flowed in the early morning breeze as he surveyed his kingdom (and recent kill) from atop the rock. Two female lions lazed next to him, surely full from their early morning feast. In the distance, hyenas roamed near the kill as vultures flew in and out, and the remaining lions made their way towards the others, satiated and satisfied, just in time for the warmth and light of the rising sun to crown the king of the jungle with a golden coat for all to see. Behind the canopies of the acacia trees, the blood-red sun made its grand appearance, lighting the sky on fire as we sat in awe of the spectacle.

Such is life on Safari.

From the moment we drove into Tarangire (the first of 3 national parks we’d visit during the 5-day safari in northern Tanzania), the wildlife was abundant. On the 2-minute drive from the park entrance to our first camp, zebras, impalas, and gazelles grazed just a stone’s throw from the vehicle, not to be bothered by our presence, unless they happened to be in the middle of our path on the dirt road. The sun shown brightly on their brilliant coats: the dark blacks and bright whites of the zebra, the golden brown of the impalas, it was all so pristine. Setting off for our first game-drive from camp, we happened almost immediately upon giant elephants taking a sip from the nearby pond. Everyone was enthralled with the sight, zoom lenses at the ready, for little did we know that we’d be getting up close and personal with hundreds of elephants throughout the afternoon. On multiple occasions we parked our car on the dirt track and watched as herds of elephants passed in front, so close it felt as though you could touch them. The giant beasts ranged in size from (relatively) tiny babies to the giant bulls with tusks that looked to be 10 feet long. They rumbled about, incessantly eating anything they could get their trunks on, always protecting their young, sometimes play fighting with each other, and seemingly enjoying a life that consists of eating for 16 hours a day. Twenty minutes into the drive, after a herd of 20 or so elephants surrounded us on all sides and made us wait for them to cross the road, swaying their trunks and ears to and fro, I would have been happy to call it a Safari and head home – I’d gotten my money’s worth already, one day into the trip, in a national park I’d never even heard of until the day before. I couldn’t imagine how it could get any better.

Per usual, I was mistaken.

Aside from the dozens of herds of elephants, we encountered topis and antelopes of all kinds amongst peculiar baobab trees, baboons, wildebeests, and warthogs (Pumba!), along with giraffe families and lone rangers munching at the tops of the thorny acacia trees. One friendly giraffe paid us no mind as he sat gnawing the branches directly above our heads, his brilliant coat, like some kind of artist’s canvass, on full display at eye level. Only after he noticed us did he begin a kind of slow-motion sprint that was one of the more awkward spectacles of the day. The exhilaration of being surrounded by such a multitude of varying wildlife was intoxicating. On a normal day in the bush back home, you’re lucky to maybe catch a glimpse of a deer or bear, but here, as we criss-crossed the dirt roads of the park, I struggled to keep up with, and gave up on counting, the sheer number of different species that called the place home. My heart jumped with every set of horns I saw, my belly chuckled with each short-legged trot of the warthogs, and my neck creaked with each extended giraffe observation from below.

Upon arrival in Serengeti National Park, the rolling hills flattened to endless plains and the sky opened up to its widest as countless impalas turned to wildebeest herds and we traded elephants for lion sightings. Truly witnessing the circle of life, we observed lions gnawing on a wildebeest carcass before catching a Simba-sized mating session, with a climactic roar and all, across the Savannah. Even with 10 vehicles watching, it looked as though those lions felt the love that night. We chased cheetahs and spotted leopards sleeping high up in the trees. One leopard had just made his kill, a baby zebra he’d brought up in the tree with him, hanging on the branch next door. He must have been spooked by us, as he made his way down the tree, zebra clenched in his jaw, and up another. While somewhat sad for the baby zebra, it was truly nature in its rawest and most authentic form. We watched hyenas lurk about with their hunched backs and gnarly teeth, always at a distance from whatever beast they were near, always on the prowl for potential remains. Their calls were just as you’d imagine, a cross between a squeal and a laugh, which doesn’t help their less than stellar reputation as the creepy scavenger of the jungle. Needing a slight pick-me-up after the multitude of carcasses, we found ourselves at a hippo pond, where dozens of hippos lay just partially out of water, grunting and maneuvering on and around each other as they jockeyed for sleeping position. One can’t help but laugh, though the living conditions of these giant beasts aren’t quite luxurious. The stench can be smelled a mile away, as most of the day is spent defecating into the shallow ponds and spraying it over all the other fellow hippos with a swift flapping of the tail. It’s hilarious as an observer, but I can’t imagine the other hippos find it too funny.

While some beasts are fascinating individually, others awe you with their sheer numbers. Caught in a portion of the ongoing wildebeest migration, we witnessed thousands upon thousands of wildebeest wandering the plains, often times with zebra scattered throughout. They huddled together in morning and late afternoon sun, glowing in the mist, or walked in single file as far as the eye could see, in search of greener pastures. The impalas and gazelles seem to also number by the thousands, darting their way all about.

The night brought its own adventures, as giant buffalo roamed just through the surrounding trees, which can be slightly startling when the initial sighting is a set of green eyes glowing in the light of a headlamp. Baboons swung from branch to branch, defending their territory, and zebra gnawed on the grass just outside our tent. One person from our group even had a nighttime encounter with a hyena on the way to the bathroom. What more could you ask for?

On our final day, we dipped down into Ngorongoro Crater, a massive crater containing yet more wildlife of all shapes and sizes. We watched jackals call for their mates and rhinos slowly strut their stuff across the crater floor. Lions fit into the same frame as elephants, while bright green snakes and multi-colored birds, both big and small, hung out in the shrubbery. Driving through the crater, passing hippo ponds and lion-infested, reed-filled lakes, my face once again out in the breeze, I questioned whether I might be able to stay on Safari forever, to spend my days racing across the plains in search of unadulterated nature, never getting bored with the sight of a lion and its prey, the waddling of a warthog, or the elation of an elephant. It was not meant to be this time, as the top dropped and we climbed our way out of the crater, headed back to civilization, leaving our Serengeti Safari behind.

Lucky for us, our Grand African Safari is just beginning…

The Local Africa

With the necessary R&R complete in Zanzibar, we finally made our way to mainland Africa, our home for the next few months. Taking advantage of the brother-brother connection, we were graciously invited to stay in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania’s commercial hub and former capital, for the weekend. With no set plan to see any sights of the city, we were afforded the opportunity to simply tag along. Aside from the God-send of having all of our laundry cleaned, along with unlimited shower opportunities and climate control at night, we enjoyed an itinerary-less weekend as we got a taste and feel for life halfway across the world, in a big (and getting bigger) city, in a beautiful setting, that few people could point out on a map.

In between crash courses on Swahili, African customs, books to read, scams to avoid, and overland routes to plan, we found ourselves at local music bars and Indian Bingo nights filled with endless plates of food and failed Bingo/Sudoku cards as we did our best to decipher what numbers were actually being called out. We walked dogs along the sea cliffs, coming to the realization that everyone around was deathly afraid of our new companions, making for a stress and hassle-free stroll. We sat down for dinner with companions and friends not seen for almost 4 years, yet didn’t miss a beat.

The highlight of the weekend was an all-day voyage on the pride and joy of the household, Mandy Lee. A ski boat resurrected from the depths after it was sunk my torrential rains, she ran like a champ (after a couple false starts), taking us out to the islands off the coast of Dar, to more crystal clear, turquoise waters, white sands and complete serenity. Obliterating all pre-conceived notions of what Africa, and in particular the city of Dar es Salaam, looks and feels like, we strolled on the idyllic island’s shores, cooled off in the waters, hiked to its cliffs, snorkeled in the surrounding depths (even through a shipwreck), and munched on fresh cooked calamari, spotting giant monitor lizards lurking for potential scraps.

Amply prepared for the long journey that lay ahead, nourished by the most gracious of hosts, we watched the sun set on a weekend we never could have planned…the kind of weekend you can only wish to have.

Zanzibar

Welcome to Africa…sort of.

Aside from evoking an aura of exoticism and adventure based solely on its name (Zanzibahhh!), I knew very little about what I’d be getting myself into as we put one toe into the waters of Africa, landing on the historical spice and trading island just off the coast of the mainland.

The shock of tropical weather had us dripping with sweat as we found our way to the hostel, entertaining Hellos (Jambo!) and Hakuna Matatas from more or less everyone we passed. As is customary upon arrival into a new region of the world, we promptly figured out a way to be ripped off, as “Fisherman George” led us to his night market food stall containing every kind of seafood you can imagine and more: lobster, calamari, kingfish, sweet potatoes, chicken, all cooked with unfamiliar combinations of spices that both smelled and tasted of luxury. Of course, following our noses and failing to agree on prices beforehand, we paid a King’s ransom for our seaside, styrofoam-plate meal…such is (travel) life.

The energy on the sea shore in Stone Town is intoxicating, as youth catapult themselves off makeshift trampolines (read: old tires) into somersaults, backflips, and twists, all the way into the rising tide. A potential Olympic gymnastics team in the making, the kids jumped higher, ran faster, and looked stronger than anybody we’d encountered in all of Nepal during the past month. Not to be outdone by their counterparts, another crop of youth gathered around the seawall, tempting fate as they flipped and dove into the dangerously shallow waters below. It all felt so foreign, new, and exhilarating, even if I was still stewing over Fisherman George’s daily market rate.

The following morning was reserved for exploration. Stone Town is a maze of winding alleys and pathways set up to disorient. Thankfully, it’s small enough that eventually you’ll pop out at the sea or on the main road to gain your bearings. Locals and tourists alike meander the coral-built town, with knick-knacks, curios from yesteryear explorers, coffee houses, juice shacks, and mansions turned hotels waiting to be happened upon. We were prevented from becoming too lost thanks to a local guide, a Kansas-ian turned Tanzanian expat, and best friend of my brother-in-law. While I am not sold that he was able to better navigate the maze of Stone Town, his company made for truly enjoyable exploration, watching him dialogue with the locals in Swahili, as I did my best to catch on to the phrases that I’d have at the ready next time I saw Fisherman George. We sampled delicious food and juices, traded some schillings for spices, watched a fish auction, and learned how and what Zanzibar came to be, how spices turned to slaves, and how the sultanate eventually loosened its grasp. The evening was capped off by rooftop sundowners and pre-fixe at the Emerson Spice Tea House, as the Islamic call to prayer echoed throughout town, bidding adieu to the sun and a day well spent.

After sufficient urban exploration in Stone Town, we set off north to Nungwi, a small fishing village and our paradise for the next two days. Packed into a dalla-dalla with nothing but locals, we made the 2-hour journey to turquoise waters and white sands, and found our place alongside honeymooners and middle-aged women looking for young love. While it’s nearly impossible not to be approached by locals or young Masai along the beach, our resort provided just enough buffer to relax and hear nothing but the crashing waves, see nothing but the clear waters and dhows headed to sea, feel nothing but the sun and the sand, and think of nothing but how good it was going to feel to dive in. Doing, feeling, and seeing nothing only lasts so long in my world, though, so thankfully the receding tides provide plenty of opportunity to explore what lay hidden in the coral. Starfish of all sizes and colors, sea cucumbers, crabs, octopus, and sea urchins lay scattered by the tides, providing a seashore Easter-egg hunt to satisfy any desire to explore.

With the late afternoon comes the rising tide and the cue for the fisherman to raise their sails and head out into the sea for the night. Dozens of traditional dhows slowly make their way in search of their catch, majestically raising a single sail as the vessels lean into the horizon. A real-life postcard, the romanticism of it all is undoubtedly lost on those living the reality of a long night ahead, unaware they are posing for the perfect shot from telephoto lenses, that they may one-day find themselves permanently displayed inside a living room or kitchen half way across the world.

In search of simplicity, we travel half-way across the world to do nothing, and to admire a life consisting of evenings at sea and days on the shores, all the while those we admire covet the extravagant lives that allow for trips to far off lands, and wonder why one would choose, of all things, to watch them.

As they (probably) say, the water’s always bluer…

A Day in Dubai

Making our way to Africa from Nepal meant connecting through somewhere in the Middle East. The cheapest fare ended up taking us through Dubai, where we opted for a 24-hour layover, giving us just enough time to see what all the fuss was about. Dubai was significantly bigger than I realized, a city of 3 million plus people that sprawls along the Persian Gulf. With its paved roads, new cars, and high-rise buildings, Dubai was a stark contrast to our few weeks in Nepal. While I am sure it doesn’t take much effort to spend a pretty penny in the city, we limited our expenses to getting around the massive city, starting, where else, but the mall.

Not just any mall, the Mall of the Emirates is about as pristine of a shopping location as you’ll find, with every name brand you can’t afford and every activity you’d never think of (like an indoor ski slope). Fresh dates of all sorts and kinds fill the supermarkets while stained glass lines the ceilings, it’s all quite the sight. From the indoor mall to the outdoor, we made a pit stop for a fire-red sunset on the beach before arriving at the Mall of Dubai, spread out at the foot of the Burj al Khalifa, the tallest building (by far) in the world. Seen from miles away, like something out of a Star Wars planet, the Burj towers above the city and the plaza. We arrived just in time to see the Bellagio-esque water light show, as the tower itself illuminated with lighted patterns to the beat of the music. The plaza buzzed, with fine dining and flagship stores all around. We were truly in another world, not quite sure we belonged with our smelly shoes and 3-day old shirts.

With the glitz and glam of Dubai behind us, we made our way to the souks, where the storefronts were more muted, even if the merchandise was just as extravagant. The window displays of the tiny stores of the gold souks contained enormous pieces, with massive gemstones and necklaces that looked more like some sort of golden body armor, while the spice souks contained every exotic spice you can name. The smells ruminated down alleys to catch your nose, while the bright shining gold took care of the eyes. A bit more haggling and hard selling made us feel more at home as we came away with some new spices for the kitchen, but no gold body armor, unfortunately.

A quick boat ride across the creek on an old, traditional dhow felt miles and borders away from the lavish lightshow that was the city center. A walk through old town, where our restaurant of choice ended up being out of everything we wanted and the street-food vendors hawked whatever they could to the passers-by, made it feel like perhaps we’d found more of the real Dubai.

With our $1.25 dinner-bag of fried everything, we called it a day.

Pokhara, Nepal

Maintaining flexibility in travel plans is necessary when undertaking such a long trip as you’re bound to discover a new locale or adventure you previously didn’t know existed. The flexibility can come with a price, however, as failing to book ahead can often times result in wasted days, as the timing of events may be off, or the bus you’re looking to take may be full.

The former can be chalked up to bad luck or poor planning. The latter can always be negotiated.

Arriving back in Kathmandu on a Sunday meant all the bus offices were closed, so Monday morning we made our way to the offices just as they opened, and 30 minutes before the only bus of the day left, headed for Pokhara. We needed 2 tickets, but unfortunately, they only had one seat left. The office worker gave me a sad look as if he thought I was just going to give up on finding another seat. I awkwardly stared at him and assured him we would find a seat. He pretended to make some calls, again telling me there was only one seat left. After 15 minutes, he must have got the hint that I wasn’t going to let the bus leave without me, as he opened the door to the bus, folded down a makeshift co-pilot’s chair across from the driver, and pointed to the 1 square foot platform, asking with his eyes if I was crazy enough to buy a ticket for this newly-found “seat.”

With my front row seat, I saw the chaos of every little town we passed and the serenity of the open mountain roads, potholes and all. 8 hours later, sore butt and all, we arrived in Pokhara. It didn’t take long for us to decide that we would leave hiking in and around the Annapurna range for another trip, and instead enjoy the lakeside setting, picturesque views, spas, and delicious, healthy food of Pokhara for a few days as a well-earned respite.

The town of Pokhara can, all at the same time, be considered a trekking capital, a locals’ getaway, a congested, smog-filled city, a health and wellness retreat, and a raw/organic/granola foodie paradise. Somehow, it all works. After weeks of dahl, we welcomed the smoothie bowls, adaptogen drinks, and avocado toast. Grueling glacier climbs turned into peaceful strolls along the lake, the energy previously spent carrying our packs was now used to paddle a rowboat to the distant shore, the ringing bells of prayer wheels turned to releases from nearby OSHO yoga classes (yes, the Wild, Wild Country guy).

We did manage to squeeze in a little adventure in between massages, juice cleanses, and sunrise panoramas, as we hiked the hills for temple views and zip-lined from the top of the mountain (or at least the mountain that sits in front of the real mountains). On our last day before braving the night bus back to Kathmandu (with a real seat this time), we ventured out into the mean streets on a potentially-not-registered scooter, making our way to Begnas lake, a lake that lacks everything Pokhara has grown to be, mostly untouched, save for a few hotels and coffee lodges scattered in the surrounding hills. Between pit stops for fresh coffee, we passed through rice fields and lush forests, making detours for viewpoints and swinging sessions with the local children. Like a daydream, I was brought back to my time in Southeast Asia, where the back roads, best navigated by scooter, seem to always steer one towards the greenest of scenery, smiling locals, and freedom from the business and burden of the towns left far behind.

As is the case when time is of no concern, we were brought back to earth only by the gas meter, as the blinking light signified an end to our ride through paradise, and with that, our time in Nepal.

Mischief Managed.

Gokyo

Nestled deep into the Khumbu, at least a week’s walk from the closest airport, and two weeks from the closest road, lies a village with an aura and setting that every backpacker, wanderluster, businessman, laborer, working mom, housewife, retiree, and Instagram-addicted teenager dreams about. A place where emerald lakes run into snow covered peaks, where strolls along the lakeshore lead only to more lakes in both directions, where every window in town provides a lake view, and where adventure or serenity awaits, take your pick.

Descending upon Gokyo after an arduous 8-hour day over Cho La pass felt like discovering an oasis in the desert, a respite from unforgiving terrain. I had but one desire upon making our way down to the shores of the lake: take the plunge to cleanse from the 2 shower-less weeks and to re-energize my tired feet, legs, back, shoulders, and mind. Alas, my intentions proved to be futile, as the lake is considered to be holy for the native Sherpa, no swimming is allowed. I understood, but lamented what I considered to be a waste of pristine natural surroundings waiting to be enjoyed.

After checking in to our $1.75 room and enjoying some salty yak butter tea along with a fresh-baked brownie, we stared out our window onto the glistening lake, watching the sun make its way slowly behind the peaks as the afternoon fog rolled its way in. The following morning, we made our way up Gokyo Ri, a summit just outside of town, for a panorama of all the surrounding lakes, Everest, and the whole valley. The views never get old, even if the words to describe them run dry. Despite the panorama in front of me, my gaze continued to revert below, as the now tiny village of Gokyo and its dozen or so lodges lay perfectly positioned on the emerald lakeshore, directly opposite a string of peaks similar to Lake Moraine in the Canadian Rockies.

After making our way back to town, I decided to take a walk along the lakeshore in the late afternoon sun. Past breeze-blown prayer flags and meditating trekkers, I found a spot as close to the water sans swimming, and stared through the scattered clouds into the reflected rays on the water, through the peaks, into the hazy sun. I prayed, I praised, I let myself go for a bit, freeing myself from the physical and mental challenges of the trek. With the warmth of the sun fading, I became overwhelmed with emotion as the urge came to speak with my grandfather, catching up on all the things he’s missed since he passed almost 5 years ago, and just how much he’s inspired them all: the trips, the work, the life I’m living. I laughed, cried, joked, and smiled. A long overdue conversation, a physical and mental reminder of what heaven looks like. As the tears dried, the clouds descended, and the sun disappeared, I bid farewell and made my way back along the lakeshore to town, fresh off a cleansing and re-energizing that no dip in the water could have ever accomplished.

Perhaps it is a holy lake after all…

Everest and the 3 Passes

The hike to Everest Base Camp from Lukla is well trodden by many a tour group and individual trekker. The (mostly) out and back route takes approximately 12 days, including acclimatization days, to complete, and has been criticized for the crowds and, unfortunately, trash that tends to accumulate with such an influx of people in an area not suited to dispose of the refuse that comes with. While we wanted to see Everest during our trek, we opted for the 3-Passes route, a difficult route that crosses 3 passes in the 18,000 ft range, with the option to take the offshoot up to Everest Base Camp. The trail was rated as “Hard” and, in some areas, “Remote.”

These are both accurate statements.

From Chukung, we set out for Kongma La pass, supposedly the hardest of the three. Within 20 minutes, I began to feel light headed and the sensation that typically comes prior to passing out. Perhaps it was the 5am start, or the altitude, or the skipped breakfast, or the frozen hands, or the nervousness. Whatever the reason, the first course of action was to remove my pack and get some GU and some chapati in my system ASAP. After a few minutes’ recovery, all was right and we were back on the trail. The morning was beautiful, but the hike was grueling. After what seemed like endless false fronts and one too many impossibly steep switchbacks, we found ourselves at the top of the pass, 18,000+ feet up, overlooking lakes, rocky peaks, and snow covered faces as far as the eye could see. A sense of both accomplishment and awe overwhelmed as we enjoyed our extra hard-boiled eggs from the top, straddling the rocky crags of the pass, looking back at what we’d just accomplished, and out into what lay ahead.

As if the climb up wasn’t enough, we spent the next 5 hours maneuvering our way down the mountain, over icy boulders and down, down, down what seemed like a never-ending trail. The trip down was wearing, as food, water, and energy ran low. At the bottom of the hill, we reached one last obstacle – a glacier crossing, or at least the remnants of what once was a glacier. A steep climb up, then down into the maze of rocks, ice, and pools, following the flags that would eventually lead us to our resting spot for the evening. Into a new world we ventured, with new peaks to ogle over, new terrain to traverse, and new mental battles to fight. Alas, we arrived in Lobuche, back on the well-trodden path to Everest, the first pass in the books.

With bodies and minds sufficiently shot, but our confidence boosted, we continued the push towards Everest Base Camp the following morning, reaching Gorak Shep, the last remnants of civilization, for a quick tea break and sendoff towards the great Sagarmatha. The route was cake compared to the day before, and we arrived (along with dozens of others) to the desolate wasteland that is base camp. With the climbing season over, just a couple tents lay strewn about the rocky hillside that butts up against the undulating, spiky glacier than leads the way up the mountain. Almost hidden behind the surrounding mountains, Everest barely reveals its broad peak to would-be climbers. Based on my recent reading of Into Thin Air, I could somewhat trace the path up in my head, doing my best to envision how in the world the massive icefall could be traversed up to the next camp. I thought about those who met their demise on the mountain, the fact that they were still up there, preserved in the ice and snow, so far removed from the revelers down below celebrating their great accomplishment of walking to base camp with some trekking poles and a porter. I was proud of our feat, no doubt, and floored by the grandiosity of what was in front of me, but my experience at base camp felt much too heavy to celebrate. I made my way down into the glacier, leaping over a deep, fast-flowing runoff (the closest brush I would come to falling victim to the mountain), and did my best to get a sense of the size of it all. I imagined the difficulty of climbing over the ice 4 times my height, plodding my way up the mountain, staunchly reminding myself that I had no business being on that mountain, and thankfully, no desire.

If Everest Base Camp was sobering, Kala Patthar was pure glory. The following morning, we made our way to the top of the nearby hillside (if you count 1200 ft vertical paths hills), to the “footstool” of Everest. The vantage point from Kala Patthar puts the great mountain in plain sight, along with its neighbors to the left, right, and all around. The climb was tough as always, but invigorating, as we had positioned ourselves face to face with the top of world. Everest stands strong, broad, doesn’t show off with any fancy features, almost blends in as it sits behind lesser peaks that may seem to match its height, but don’t come close. It’s as if the mountain is content to sit and let the other peaks deceive its viewers, because it knows who sits atop the throne, and that’s really all that matters. We sat on our own makeshift throne at the top of a rocky outcropping for who knows how long, soaking up the glory that surrounded, high on both life and earth, unsure that we’d ever come down.

Continuing along the route, a short day on the trail left us in Dzonghla, the jump off point for the next pass, Cho La. Dzonghla quickly became one of our favorite stops, nestled at the top of a valley, perfectly framing Ama Dablam, our favorite peak. After Kongma La and Kala Patthar, we were confident for Cho La, though that didn’t make the effort any less challenging. After a short, lost-trail detour and a slip into the creek, it looked as though we were in for another rough day. With our heads down, we persevered, up and over even larger boulders, across snow-packed ledges where one bad step would send us sliding, and finally to the top of the 2nd pass, where we reaped the spoils once again. Snow and peaks and outcroppings on all sides, we sat again on nature’s perfectly selected pedestal. As tends to be the case, two photos of different passes may not look all that different to the untrained eye, but the real-life experience makes each pass uniquely its own, a spoil only truly reaped from the effort exerted to make your way to the top. A similar fate from Kongma La await us on the other side, as we cautiously made our way down, with another glacier-remnant crossing as the final obstacle before reaching the village of Gokyo, the most beautiful place on Earth you’ve never heard of.

2 heavenly days in Gokyo gave way to our final test, the Renjo La Pass. Nervousness no longer an obstacle, it was our focus and resolve that was tested on the final pass. Being so close to the end, it’s easy to fall into the trap of letting down the guard, of losing focus on the task at hand, of hitting the brick wall that doesn’t provide too many options high up on the mountain. The closer we reached, the harder it was to find my rhythm. Each misstep at such high altitude required an extra few seconds to catch my breath and search for the cadence that would take me to the top. Each false front made for another blow to the psyche. The 3rd pass, the easiest of them all, was proving to be the most challenging, as if my body and mind knew it was almost done, but was not patient enough to wait it out just a bit longer. Alas, the pass was ours, quite literally, as only one other trekker, coming from the opposite direction, joined us at the top. The views, as expected, spell-bounding. Everest and its pals straight across, Gokyo and its emerald lakes below, glacier slashing through the panorama, any and all of the scenes we’d encountered during the previous 2 weeks walking, slogging, bouldering our way up, over, and through the valleys and mountainsides lay right in front of us. The Creator’s canvas, laid bare for us to take in, under a pristine sky.

If I looked hard enough, with enough imagination, I could see our footprints meandering the far-off trails. Permanent strokes on a perfect canvas, a permanent snapshot on an imperfect soul.

Through the Clouds

The mental alarm went off at 5am. Breakfast was packed and we were out the door by 6, ready to take advantage of the typically clear mornings. Our hike up the valley would be flanked by snow-capped peaks as we would spend our breaks trying to identify which was which from our map. We’d be floating on air, energized by the surroundings, unencumbered by the high altitude. It was going to be the quintessential day hiking in the Himalayas.

Until it wasn’t.

Thick clouds blanketed our route, as we descended all the way to the valley floor before climbing back out and up half again as high as we started. With each hour, we anticipated the clouds would burn off, but alas, they never did. Again, our gaze was forced towards what lay in front of us instead of above us. Again, what the sky hid from us was revealed through a different medium: through a serene and beautiful monastery in the hilltop town of Tengboche, through joyous conversation with an Israeli couple turned trekking partners, through internal self-reflection and thought between trying to catch a breath, and through the comfort of a hot glass of ginger-lemon-honey tea after a long day of hiking downhill, uphill, but seemingly never flat terrain.

The next morning in Pangboche, through the condensation of the tea house window and the sleep in my eyes, I glimpsed a patch of bluish-purple sky. Immediately, I rushed outside into the freezing cold morning, anxious to see what could be seen. And see I did. As clear a morning as imaginable, right in front of us lay a double peak, jetting into the sky, looking like a combination of the Matterhorn and Mt. Fitzroy: Ama Dablam, my pick for most attractive in the Khumbu. The morning sun glow behind it, lighting up the entire valley, peaks all the way down. I’d found what I’d come for, just waiting to be explored, seen from every angle, admired, even climbed perhaps. The day’s hike took us through Dingboche, another town engulfed by surrounding peaks, and onto Chukung, a resting place for 2 days prior to tackling the first of three passes. Upon arrival in Chukung, we found ourselves at what seemed like the foot, or perhaps the heel, of Lhotse, a neighbor to Everest, standing at over 26,000 feet. The face of Lhotse, along with its sister peaks, dominated the Skyline with a jagged ridge and rocky, snow-covered face. While other peaks were somewhat majestic, to me, Lhotse felt ominous, like it meant business. We sat in awe as we attempted to recover from our slightly-too-quick ascent from Pangboche, feeling the effects of our 15,000+ foot elevation.  

Our recovery and acclimatization day was spent, you guessed it, hiking. We took an offshoot trail to Island Peak base camp, making our way through glacial river bed run-offs, enjoying some flat terrain as we took in the beauty surrounding us. The scale of everything becomes mesmerizing, as you realize the peaks in front and around are up to 2 miles above. The sense of scale and scope stop functioning, what’s truly known is just how small we ourselves become, that the small rock seen tumbling down the glacier face across the way is most likely the size of a car, and that the trail in the distance, the one that seems to endlessly go in one direction and slope (up and steep) is on the docket for tomorrow.

As the clouds part and the air gets thinner, the breaths become harder, and the steps become slower. We are continuously reminded of the effort required to do what we came for, and must make the conscious effort to continue towards the peaks and passes in front of us, and those hidden as of yet, but that we know await.

And so we go…

Into the Khumbu

There are those places that we so often imagine ourselves being, imagine the feelings we’ll feel, the state of awe we’ll be in, the romanticism, the adventure, the grandiosity, the serenity. For some people, it’s the backstreets of Paris or the cobblestones of ancient Rome, for some it’s the promenade of Rio de Janeiro or a palm-fronded beach in the South Pacific, still others it’s a lakeside villa in the Alps, or standing atop the lost city of mystical Machu Picchu. Wherever the locale, we create the scene in our minds and run it over and over whenever we feel the need to Walter Mitty our way out of daily life. We imagine, we save, we plan, and, if we’re lucky, we go, in the hopes that the fantasy we’ve created becomes reality before our eyes. I, myself, have dreamed up a list of time and place perhaps larger than most, and have been fortunate enough to translate fantasy to reality for many a locale.

Mount Everest was never on that list.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, the Himalayas never made their way into my daydreams. The biggest mountains in the world, accessible to any willing trekker, were never a place I wanderlusted over, incessantly researching and imagining what it’d be like to stand at the foot of the giants. My last world tour came to an end ever so close, as I made it as far as India, but never north into the mountains. Since then, I knew I would make it to Nepal and the great peaks next, but I can’t say I ever really wondered what it might be like. I never put myself at the foot of Everest, never smelled the thinnest of mountain air. Curiously, my only real daydreaming came from a short scene in Benjamin Button, as an aging, but now able-bodied, Brad Pitt travels through India and wakes up to the sun in his eyes rising over some snow-capped peaks that I determined to be the Himalayas where I would one day find myself.

While a lifetime’s worth of wanderlust can enhance an experience, sometimes adventure lies in the unknown. And so, I decided to jump in blind, doing as little research as absolutely necessary to plan for the trip, ready to be overwhelmed by whatever lay ahead on the multi-week trek to and through the Khumbu, the region in and around the tallest mountain in the world. The trek would take us to Everest Base Camp, the jump-off point for would be summiteers, and over three 5000+ meter passes: Kongma La, Cho La, and Renjo La.

We began the journey with a thankfully non-eventful puddle-jumper flight into Lukla airport, a short runway stuck between a mountainside and a cliff (watch the 1st minute or so). From there, our trek began, meandering along the mountains high above, alongside, and over roaring glacial rivers. We passed through village after village situated into the hillsides, with farms, gardens, goats, yaks, porters, and, of course, Tea Houses. Tea Houses in Nepal serve as de-facto room and board for trekkers, glamping if you will. The basic structures typically have a large, comfortable, sometimes warm, common area where meals are served, tea is drunk, and smelly trekkers commiserate before heading to their chilly rooms to sleep the necessary 10-12 hours each night to recover. If you’re lucky, a warm shower may exist (for a fee), and there might even be a fully functioning sink. While glamping may not be the appropriate term, the comfort of protection from the elements, a hot meal, and a steaming cup of yak butter tea sure are some significant perks over pitching a tent.

The first 2 days of the trek were devoid of the peaks we were chasing, as the high clouds that typically make for excellent hiking weather weren’t quite high enough to reveal the looming mountains that we were unaware surrounded us. Our eyes instead were fixated on the dense forests, covered in ferns and mosses, and the ubiquitous mani wheels and stones found at the entrance to nearly every village. With each village came a twirl of the wheels to cleanse our souls and ensure a safe passage. Tombstone-like slabs of carved rock piled high and long, all repeating the mantra, served as guideposts. Porters with loads piled high on their backs serve as the long-haul truckers of the region, as no roads exist to transport goods up the mountain. Distances between villages are referred to as days’ walking, rather than kilometers covered. We crossed many a bouncy bridge suspended over the powerful rivers below, some a bit more precarious than others, dodging donkey-train traffic jams and doing our best not to look down over the sometimes hundred-plus foot drops.

The deep greens of the forest and the icy blue-gray of the river below were interrupted by the vibrant pop of color emanating from the famous prayer flags. A repeating series of green, red, blue, white, and yellow flags can be found in and around every corner of the mountains, hanging from bridges, strewn across high passes, covering stupas, decorating the walls of teahouses, you name it. Always eye-catching as they blow in the breeze, they served as a sign that we were near something important, perhaps our destination for the day, providing a vibrant reminder of the different world we were in as we lost ourselves on the meandering trails.

After the first of many arduous climbs, we found ourselves in Namche, the last major “city” before climbing deeper in teahouse-only territory. Sitting at 11,500 feet, Namche is the last stop for anything a trekker may have forgotten; you can find all the gear, food, souvenirs, and WiFi you can dream of. The city itself is situated like an amphitheater high above the valley below, with peaks (still hidden to us) surrounding in all directions, it’s colorful buildings and lodges making for a kind of lego-land feel from high above. All roads, er trails, in the area lead towards, from, and back to, Namche. Many trekkers (us included) choose to spend 2 days in order to begin the acclimatization process prior to proceeding higher into the hills.

After a successful start to the trip and sufficiently getting our hiking legs under us, the anticipation began to build for the prize of the whole adventure. Sure, the vastness of the mountainside, the power of the rivers and waterfalls, the quirkiness of the donkey and yak trains, the charm of the teahouses, and the mystique of the prayer flags and mani stones made for a trek already worth writing home about, but these were the Himalayas, we came to see the Giants, and it was time to do so. My wanderlust was in full effect, no more relying on Benjamin Button, no more zero-expectation travelling. I was Koo-Koo for the Khumbu, ready for the great peaks to knock my socks off.

Let’s Hike…

Kathmandu

As we touched down in Kathmandu, Nepal, we were promptly greeted by 3 separate customs lines, for each of which we found ourselves to be in the “slow lane.” 3 hours later, we were finally on our way into Thamel, the backpacker/tourist district of busy Kathmandu. The taxi ride into town was filled with all the sights and sounds I’ve grown accustomed to in my travels: cars, motorbikes, bicycles, people, animals all occupying the plot of the road they deemed to be theirs, with more than a comfortable amount of overlap. Unprotected lefts, rights, straights, you name it. Roundabouts where the best option was to close your eyes and go. All the natural driving phenomenon you can find in most places outside of the West. I laughed to myself as we made it through one particular roundabout no bigger than a mall merry-go-round, packed with all of the participants mentioned above plus some religious shrine at the center, as smoothly as if we were the only ones on the road. I immediately thought of the recent “roundabout” that was put in near my old neighborhood in San Francisco, that for some reason still had a STOP sign in combination with the roundabout. Naturally, there were tire marks all over the makeshift garden placed at the center of the unsuccessful attempt at improving traffic flow.

I was expecting an environment akin to the large cities I’d visited in India, and I was not mistaken, though everything here seems to be toned down a bit from my experiences in India. The buildings are smaller, the horns not quite as loud, the hawkers a bit more subdued. Make no mistake, however, the chaos still rivals the neighbors to the south. Walking onto Indra Chowk, a main thoroughfare, we were thrust directly into the middle of a street packed to the gills with 90% people, 9% cars, and 1% whatever needed to be sold. Fabrics, fruits, vegetables, flowers, electronics, lassis, teas, spices, copper pots, you name it, all within shouting distance (if it wasn’t so loud), or quickly down an alley/maze. It’s a good thing Nepal isn’t known for pick-pocketing, as the proximity of everyone to everything would make it easy pickings. Our tour of the area, thanks to an art “student” looking to practice his English and maybe show us his art school (of course), brought us to many a Stupa spread throughout the city. Some old and rundown, some with fresh coats of paint, the shrines scattered throughout were often times located through small doorways or alleys that at first looked quite suspicious, but opened up into tranquil areas removed from the chaos outside. Many of the shrines are a mix of Buddhist and Hindu, as the two religions co-exist in the city. A few of the major stupas and temples were damaged quite badly during the earthquake in 2015, in particular Durbar Square, where many of the buildings are either under renovation or being precariously held up by wooden beams.

A quick taxi ride away from the buzzing tourist district brought us to the Monkey Temple. Now, I’ve had my share of experiences with these so-called Monkey Temples, and they usually end up with something from my backpack in the hands of a hard-bargaining monkey/heathen, so I was prepared. After what seemed like an endless staircase that belonged in our upcoming Himalayan trek moreso than in a major metropolis, we arrived atop a hill looking over the sprawling city. The middle contained a large stupa, equipped with the traditional 4 sets of eyes looking in all directions, painted white aside from the gold adornments on the top and corners, and, you guessed it, covered in monkeys. Thankfully, these monkeys wanted nothing to do with my belongings, and kept to themselves for the most part, unless you were in their anticipated leaping route. We made our way around the stupa (always clockwise), twirling the prayer bells as we passed, reflecting on the ubiquitous 6 syllable mantra: Om Mani Padme Hum

Amidst the chaos and delays, we were off to a great start.

Time to Think

Time. The ultimate currency.

We all are born with a finite amount of time on this earth, some more endowed than others. Much like the currency that fills our bank accounts, for some reason we seemingly never have quite as much as we’d like. While money can be accumulated and grow without end if we play the game correctly, our time in life begins ticking in one direction the moment we open our eyes.

I believe it to be no coincidence that we refer to our daily endeavors as “spending” time. With a currency so finite, each moment of our lives becomes a decision to deplete our accounts by hours, days, years. While financial spending decisions can be assessed based on the level of funds in a bank account, the beauty (or danger) of time is that we never know quite how much we have remaining. When we “spend” our time, we blindly withdraw some percentage of whatever is left.

The question, of course, becomes “What will I do with my currency, my time?”

What people choose spreads the gamut: some dream, some chase, some love, some hate, some work, some waste, some build, some take, some smoke, some drink, some do, and some think.

I believe that the vast majority of the world spends most of their currency doing rather than thinking. Aside from the fact that very few professions pay you to truly think, a better explanation for why the world spends their time doing rather than thinking is that, quite frankly, it’s easier. Real thinking, not simply opinion formation, is challenging work. It’s far easier to go through the motions of the life and responsibilities we know and are familiar with, no matter how strenuous or stressful they are, as opposed to letting our minds take us to uncharted waters where the outcomes are unclear, with the real possibility of having our foundations and fundamental beliefs shaken.

In the last 5+ years, my profession has put me in the position to challenge the “doing” of large organizations by presenting a different way to think about the problems they face daily. While my job itself (on a high level) is to think in such a way that was not or had not been done before, I myself began to fall into the “doing” trap of account management. I spent almost the entirety of my days doing, rather than thinking. So, as has become my calling card, I am taking an extended break, a retirement if you will, to give myself the time to think, rather than do.

Have you ever made it a point to teach yourself how to think? We are bombarded daily with the problems of our lives and the world at large, so I believe it imperative to process it all with both logic and love, with my engineering degree and my heart. I’ve done my best, through many influencers, ranging from John Wooden to Paulo Coelho to Morrie Schwartz to Eli Goldratt, to teach myself how to think, so that when the opportunity presents itself, as it has for me today, I may think clearly.

When we begin to think, often times our mind wanders toward certainty. If we can convince ourselves that we know why something has happened or why a given reality exists, it gives us both a sense of comfort in understanding, and a sense of place or confidence. This tendency of thinking that we “know” can block us, however, from achieving a breakthrough, be it in a work environment, a family issue, or barstool conversations about the world’s problems. If we allow ourselves to believe that every situation can be improved, that we don’t “know” all there is to know about an environment, we remove a barrier to thinking clearly. Travel constantly reminds me how much I truly do not know, enabling me to bring this mindset into everyday life.

Along the same lines, refusing to believe we “know” allows us to challenge the idea that conflicts are a given. Too often, we accept that conflicts must exist between parties or ideologies. We assume that what the old desire is in conflict with the young, that a child’s desires are in conflict with a parent’s, and so on. The trap we fall into is that we assume the true wants and needs of another party, or simply stay at the surface level. Why do we so easily accept this reality that the world is full of conflicts, full of winners and losers? The more and more people and places I visit in my life, the more I recognize just how similar we all truly are. To hell with the idea of conflicts as a given. If we look for the win-win in every situation, our attention turns toward mutually beneficial outcomes, rather than a win-lose, or worse, a lose-lose situation.

Now, the hard one. The laziest opinion to have about a situation experienced is that it’s someone else’s fault. The rich, the poor, the left, the right, this race or that, the husband, the wife, the boss, the co-worker, the coach, the players, the neighbor up the street…stop it, already. Don’t blame. Whenever the answer to a problem faced is that it’s someone’s fault, we prevent ourselves from reaching any real solution. Suspend reality, convince ourselves that people are good and therefore cannot be blamed for their intentions. Thinking in such a way forces empathy with the others’ views, needs, etc. and enables the real problem solving to occur.

Bringing these ideas together: Never saying “I know,” refusing to accept conflicts as a given, and not blaming others brings a clarity of thought that enables us to greatly simplify the world around us. Forcing ourselves to assume the situation can be improved, that a win-win scenario can be found, and that people are good and can be trusted in their actions and intentions will free us from the limiting belief that the world, or our given environment, is overly complex with no possibility of saving.  

Now, it’s much easier to think about how these manners pertain to others rather than ourselves. Everyone tends to have opinions about how others should think and live their lives, the difficult part becomes adopting an inward-looking approach to challenge one’s own convictions and actions. This difficulty, this challenge, however, is what I hope to embrace as I live each day on a path towards continued fulfillment in my life. This path, this treasure hunt, will involve unbridled joy, a sense of adventure, primal fear, awe, shared laughter, perhaps some tears, community, unceasing love, tragedy, loss, and a great deal of thinking, and how beautiful it all will be. May it all overcome my very being, the emotions high and low, the gifts of everyday life.

So, as I withdraw an unknown amount of my finite currency remaining, my time, I don’t plan on penny-pinching. During this indefinite trip abroad, my “doing” will hopefully enable my thinking, as I make my way from the foot of Everest in the Himalayas to the plains, jungles, and beasts of Africa.

Come join the adventure if you wish…

…or at least think about it.

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*The ideas around thinking clearly are predominately influenced by Eli Goldratt’s book, “The Choice”