The Adventures Of Susan & Lars

The Spectacular Sand Dunes of Namibia (South Africa into Namibia)

susanandlars — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 20:40:00 GMT

[Editor's Note: Stick with me here, it gets funny toward the end]

Our super-exciting, fast-paced Africa-overland safari-adventure started with... two days in exactly the same place where we already were.

We met up with the group at a guesthouse about half an hour south of Cape Town, four having flown in that morning from Great Britain, four coming off a few days in South Africa scuba diving with Great Whites, and one connecting from a previous overland across ZA. All Brits. We got up early to make the 9:30 meet time, which consisted of being told there would be a briefing at 11:30 and then wine tasting after lunch.

The next day was more ambitious, and we went down to the Cape of Good Hope. Actually, not the southernmost point in Africa, but the south-westernmost.

It is the demarkation between the Indian and Atlantic Oceans, and anyone who thinks this is purely cartographic convenience hasn't seen the way the currents collide here.

The weather was four-seasons-in-one day.

We got some great photos with our new camera, and I managed another “Dangerous Wild Animal Yelling at Lars” photo when this Baboon decided I was taking too long to get the framing just so. Let me tell you when they bark, they mean it!

Next up was Table Mountain. We hoped to take the cable car up to the top, but it was totally socked in. The whole point is the view, so they close it when the weather turns foul.

The “normal” format for this trip is to start in Victoria Falls and end in Cape Town. Hence, two days of relative R&R with some shopping stops for good measure. But we're heading north, so we get the rest days at the beginning. Why the “normal” direction is one way when you obviously have as many South to North is beyond me (hello – one truck). Anyway, we had our rest days, complete with private bathrooms and real beds. Too bad, really. We could've used them later...

Susan: We also saw penguins! Here are some pictures --

Day 3 was a long haul up the west side of South Africa.

It's the wet season in this part of ZA, so the scenery was very different from our earlier drive across the country.

The wildflowers were in bloom and the route winds through verdant agricultural areas.

“Camp” was the backfield of a backpackers' lodge nesteld among citrus trees.

It was a little odd at first, I think I was expecting something more “Yosemite Valley” but my chagrin vanished once the sun went down. It got cold fast, and the common area of the hostel had a fireplace. The group continued getting to know each other as we ate dinner in front of the “bushman television”.

A modest drive the next morning brought us to a camp on the ZA side of the Namibian border. It was teeming with other overland trucks – more companies than you can count. This is apparently a popular route and a very popular way to see it. The spot was pretty, right along the Orange River.

The next morning we took some inflatable kayaks for a ride down the river – “crocodile and hippo free since 1933”.

OK, actually I have no idea since when, but they were all shot long ago and that rhymes. It was... nice... but not brain-melting. Mostly calm and sort of pretty.

Really, that was sort of the whole thing so far. The first few days were consumed with “just getting there” and breaking up the haul into manageable rides. But that night we'd see sunset over “Fish River Canyon” in Namibia. It's the second largest after the Grand Canyon.

Susan did a little celebration dance after we cleared Namibian customs (oh wait, she just needed to pee, nevermind) but we smiled at yet another exotic passport stamp. We piled back into the truck and I braced myself for what are supposed to be the “inferior roads of Namibia” which, unlike South Africa, are mostly unpaved. I was prepared for the worst. Namibia is a very poor country, almost completely desert, so everyone has to scrape a living out of the rocky, sandy soil and few sources of permanent water. I'd also read in at least one guidebook that Namibia had some of the worst loos in the known world.

The road turned out to be quite good, in fact everything in Namibia turned out to be quite good. Every preconception I had was dispelled, and most of what I had been told to expect was flat wrong. We spent roughly two weeks here, and I gotta say, Namibia has it's shit together. I'm sure they are still poor, statistically, and that the incoming wealth is slow to trickle through the population. However, signs of economic development were abundant; a bustling tourist industry in Swakopmund, new developments of vacation homes for South Africans along the coast, the roads were always in good shape, even unpaved roads seemed to get regular scraping to keep them smooth. You can always drink the tap water, as the government has an aggressive program of water quality regulation and testing. The cities were clean, dusty of course, but litter free. And the loos were universally better than you would expect from their peers in the States. That last one isn't so much Namibia as most of the world, come to think of it. The toilets in the US tend to be pretty dicey... anyway, Namibia was a joy to travel in.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here and skipping the telling of sunset over Fish River Canyon.

Honestly, and I hate to say this, I am skipping it because it is skippable. The Canyon is pretty, and the sunsets in Namibia are always spectacular (it's all that dust), but if you've been to the Grand Canyon this one just ain't gonna impress.

I feel kind of bad writing this. Five days into our trip now, and I'm sort of unimpressed. OK, the wildflowers were pretty, the sunsets are to die for, but we've driven something over 1,000 kilometers and spent 25% of our (rather expensive) trip and so far we've done some ho-hum kayaking and one “really spectacular world heritage site” that is disappointing. But to be honest, it might have been the cold.

We thought we were prepared. We still have most of the clothes we used to keep warm in Mongolia, for Christ's sake. Also, we bought sleeping bags (rated to 0-degrees Celcius) in Cape Town specifically for this part of the trip. We also still have our sleeping bag liners, so some not-even-freezing-temperatures nights should be no problem, right? Maybe it's the contrast. It is winter (August in the Southern Hemisphere) but the days are warm, hot even. There was some chill in Cape Town when the sky was cloudy, but since then it's been warmer. But every night it gets cold - really, really cold. And we're camping. In tents. Not sleeping has a habit of messing with your gumption levels the next day.

I was actually faring much better than Susan, who, specifically because it is a huge pain in the ass to get up and pee in the middle of the night, couldn't help but get up to pee in the middle of the night. An evening beer was a quick casualty of this, but by the end of our trip Susan would hardly drink water after 5. It's a cruel psychological trick that when you have a nice warm bed to come back to, and a private loo five feet away you sleep 10 hours, but if you have to put on clothes, get out of your sleeping bag, unzip the tent, climb out, rezip the tent, walk across a dark campground and then reverse the whole process, you need to pee every five seconds. Then you are stuck, back in you sleeping bag, waiting to warm it back up so you can get to sleep again, only to get woken by the guy zipping open the tent next to you.

We weren't the only ones, and Clive, our poor henpecked guide, was greeted by a daily barrage of “is the next campsite warmer?”

From Fish River Canyon we drove to Sussusvlei. This tongue twister is the gateway to the magnificent dunes of Namibia.

The campsites were charming numbers contained by low stone walls and huddled under huge trees planted for shade in the otherwise open grassland. The tall grass was dry, and the view gave that same feeling you get driving by wheatfields when you think you could just stick out your hand and pass it over the tops and it would feel like soft fur. The area was nestled between jagged mountains on one side, and the red-sand dunes on the other. It never rains, but once a year water flows from inland and floods the area. A short burst of activity and growth is proceeded by 11 months of dry dorrmancy.

Before sunset we climbed a dune near the campsite. The sand changed color with the fading light, covering the spectrum from orange to red to purple.

This is the oldest desert in the world, 80 million years or more. The wind blows inland in the morning and out to sea in the evening. The constant grinding of the dunes under the shifting wind makes the desert sands the finest in the world, with a consistency more like dust than what a California beachgoer would think of as sand.

This makes climbing difficult, and also fills your shoes. We thought we had poured it all out after the walk, but the tiny grains had gotten in through the little holes in the mesh and my shoes were stufffed with sand between the layers of construction. In Cairo, weeks later, I would still be working out small handfuls of sand.

In Soussusvlei, finally, was an experience worthy of the hype. The view from the top of the dune was spectacular, as now we looked down on the grassland and could see the textures left by last flood, a thousand feet below us. Behind us the jagged mountains rose up, their faces scoured by eons of wind, but never any water. Our dune was the first in a long line, stretching 130 kilometers to the sea.

Not satisfied with one existential experience, we woke the next morning at some ungodly hour to make the drive out to Dune 45 in time to climb it and watch the sunrise. Our departure was delayed by one of the other campers, and the driver did his damndest to make up the time en route. I don't know if you've ever driven 160 km/hr or not but I'm sure you haven't done it in a huge safari truck on unpaved desert roads. The excitement was mixed with watching the lightening sky out the windows as the desert slowly acquired color, like a slow motion tale of Genesis; “Let there be Light!”

Fortunately, we did make it to the dune in time, and Susan and I were at the top before the sun broke over the horizon.

I was the first up, and could snap some photos of the perfect, untrod line of sand made by the night's winds.

The air was warming already, and the dunes were giving up the little bit of moisture that had accumulated as dew. Mists hung just over the curves, slowly becoming like halos ringing the larger dunes before the winds picked up. They briefly hung over the dunes in perfect visual echos of their shape before evaporating completely and vanishing altogether.

After taking a ridiculous number of photos, knowing they could never really capture the view we sprinted down the steepest part of the sand, a thrilling drop of 1000 feet in a few seconds.

The colors continued to shift as we ate breakfast and then drove deeper into the wilderness for a short hike. We spooked away a herd of springbok, who sprinted off before I could capture them on film, and saw lots of spoor; of snakes, antelope, lizards. Testaments to the rich wildlife in what at first glance seems a beautiful, but desolate landscape. We contemplated the ingenuity of life as we alternately watched ants at work and looked out across the completely motionless dry lakebed.

This was about the time the damn kids started to get to me.

Of the eleven tourists on our trip, four were travelling together. Evan (late 40s?), the not-actually-father of Hannah (21) was squiring her and two friends, Becky (24) and Shereen(21). Like any young girls suffering from arrested development, they were constantly talking about nothing. Yap, yap yap, all day long from the seat behind us on the truck. Fortunately, while their brains were stuck in their teens, their voices had matured and we were spared the squeals of real teenagers. I'd gotten pretty good at tuning them out. Occasionally they would put in their ipod earbuds, and even from 4 feet away I was treated to the melodically-challenged brit pop of today, but this too, I'd gotten pretty good at tuning out.

But here we were, a few hours after dawn, an hour hike from the end of an hour-plus drive from a remote camp days away from the nearest airport, a full days airline journey from Europe, surrounded by the glories of nature, in the oldest desert on earth, immersed in the wonders of nature that fights to scratch out an existence in such a harsh place. The wind murmurs and groans as the winds rise and die under the warming desert sun - And they didn't shut up. Not once. Not even to breathe. Yap, yap, yap. I think they were talking about their gym. Not some intimate whisper about the humbling power of this place, or a contemplation of the eternal, nor a breathless question about the existence of a creator. The gym. It definitely messed with my mojo.

When we got up to walk back they were silenced, finally, not by the exertion of walking on the sand, but by the ritual injection of ipod buds to their ears. Then, and I am not making this up, Shereen asks “So, are we in Namibia then?”

I weep for the future.

Later, we had a brief visit to a nearby slot canyon, which was nifty, but nothing to compare to Zion. It was impressive to still find water (and Jackal tracks) in what was by this time of day a very hot and dry environment.

Camp was a little nothing place en route, but with a fabulous sunset. One of the best I've ever seen. The bands of color in the sky stretched almost all the way back to meet again behind us in the Eastern sky, and encompassed every known hue, even a ghostly green that I have never seen before in an evening sky. The next day we were off for Swakopmund; a real bed, our own showers, and a chance to buy extra blankets. Plus, the best best thing to Snowboarding in August for invoking the envy of my buddies back home – Sandboarding! (stay tuned)

Meerkat Magic! (South Africa)

susanandlars — Wed, 8 Oct 2008 18:00:00 GMT

At this point we had a little over a week, and only a few hundred kms to go. This is the “Garden Route”, South Africa's answer to the Pacific Coast Highway.

We shot over to Knysna, a pretty, but overrated town.

The most striking part was the new developments of vacations homes and condos that looked straight out of the Truman Show. It was spooky, knowing that the township and it's poverty was a short drive away.

From Knysna we took in Swellendam, a cuter town up in wine country. We had a couple of fantastic meals, adding Warthog Samosas and Springbok Filets to our list of game-meat.

One of the beautiful things about having plenty of time on your hands is you can risk a day on the kind of things that could be a hoot, or a total disappointment. With careful expectations, we shot up to Outshoorn, the self-proclaimed “Ostrich Capital of the World.”

Naturally we had ostrich steaks, ostrich burgers, and ostrich eggs. We took the tour of the ostrich farm, but the big winner was Susan's Ostrich ride.

I was laughing so hard I could hardly hold the camera. OK, before you watch this video, you need to swallow whatever sip of coffee you have in your mouth, because you really will do a spit take:

Ostrich Video

But the surprise hit of Outshoorn was “Meerkat Magic”. That's OK, finish laughing, I'll wait.

This was a kind of pricy item. I'd booked it through the hostel's reception, and when Susan heard we were going to spend the equivalent of $30 each to look at “overgrown rats” she was a little surprised. She grilled the hostel desk guy, “Is it worth it?” So now both he and I were on the hook for the promised “amazing” experience.

We'd also been warned that this “Meerkat Man” was a little crazy. He doesn't do the tours everyday, just “when he feels like it”, so you have to book ahead. We were “lucky” and he accepted the booking. You meet him on the side of the road at precisely 6:50. If you are late, he won't wait for you, we are told. He'll then take you to the secret entrance to the Meerkat sanctuary. But you can't take pictures, because the whole place is “copyrighted.”

Dateline 6:53am, near Outshoon South Africa. We're sitting in our little rental car on the side of the road, with two girls from our hostel bumming a ride in the back. There is another car parked behind us, with an American in it. I have no idea if we are actually in the right place. A beat up old white BMW pulls up. Picture a fortyish, big, ball shaped guy in denim vest and bowl haircut. This is Grant. The sun isn't up yet, but Grant is all smiles, handshakes and booming voice. He's the world expert on Meerkats. Discovery Channel, National Geographic and such come to him for info and to his sanctuary for filming.

We follow him to the sanctuary, and quickly after parking the tour begins. He is a font of information, and as enthusiastic as a child at play. Mid sentence whilst explaining that “Now these aren't the Kalahari Meerkats, but a different subclass, with darker coloring” he stops to point at some rocks on the path “See these rocks? This is exhibit A, I'll get to that later”. And then returns to his train of thought.

Grant has 36 pairs of shoes. Two pairs for each Meerkat group, one day pair and one nighttime pair. He's treated these with the scent of the group, so they know to expect him. “Anyone wondering why I'm talking so loud?” Well, yes actually. Turns out that since he has habituated this group to his presence he wants them to hear him coming. If all they hear is the quiet crunching of leaves etc. they might think a predator is trying to sneak up on them. “OK, I'll be making funny noises and gestures with my hands” (He really did say this) “This is so the Meerkats know it is me, and since you are with me, they won't worry.” Grant sets up a line of chairs.

“You can sit in the chairs, since they are left here all the time, they have the smell of the Meerkats on them. As long as you sit in them, they don't mind you. If you need to stand up, let me know, and I'll stand next to you.” I'm halfway between really impressed and really depressed. Did I just give $60 to a crazy man?

“In a minute, the Meerkats will start coming out of this hole right here. See the hole?” No actually, but Grant doesnt take a moment to breath, much less respond to his rhetorical question. “First one will come up, I call him the weather forecaster. He'll come up, and look at you. Don't make any sudden movements. If everything is OK, the others will come up too. Then they'll stand in a line, and warm their bellies in the sun. If one of them stands in front of the others, they'll move so they aren't in the shadow, even a little bit.”

OK, he's nuts.

Then, way closer than I thought his invisible hole was supposed to be, there was a Meerkat. “Meerkat Magic!” He said. Then “Brrr, Brrr, Tweep, Tweep... Look at me, it's OK” as he made little round gestures with his hands. I thought of Ophelia with her “herbs”. But the little guy didn't run away, instead he stared at Grant for a second, then each of us, then he kept looking around... Then it happened, just like Grant said it would. One after the other. Meerkats appeared from this pile of mud, warming their bellies in the sun one by one. Nineteen in all.

After their sunbath they went on the hunt, and we followed them for a good two hours, sometimes getting within a couple of feet. A few came up to us, curious, but mostly they just dug for bugs and crunched along. Grant explained social structures, lookout behaviour, child rearing (they have babysitters), etc. The guy knew everything – geology of the environment, the plant and animal life (common English, Dutch and scientific Latin names). He was spotting other game and birds from impossible distances. At some point they started infracting to the territory of the next group, and were visibly nervous. It was amazing... magic.

Basically, Grant was an academic in his previous life. Writing academic papers for esoteric journals. But he came to realize that if he really wanted to help save the Meerkats, he needed to reach a different audience. So, now he tries to educate the public, local farmers and anyone that will listen. Meerkats eat pests, not crops; make lousy pets; and need corridors of bush connecting their sanctuaries to enable reproduction. Now you know too. Plus, they are really cute.

Bottomline, Susan said she would have paid double.

From Oudshoorn we criss-crossed down to Hermanus Bay, the “Worlds Best Land-based Whale Watching” We had lunch, saw some whales, and promptly got bored. Plus the weather was lousy.

Next stop was Stellenbosch, a college town just outside Cape Town. Good food, and good bookshops. We were happy to be back in civilization.

The next morning we were in Cape Town. With four days to spare before our organized overland safari. We had a cool boutique hotel with a nice room (ensuite!!) wireless, and wicked milkshakes.

We took in the sights, including the brilliantly curated Jewish Museum, and less than impressive National Gallery. Plus, did some essential shopping (a new camera) and got some sleep.

We were now ready for our big adventure: 21 days, Cape Town, South Africa to Livingstone, Zambia in a big safari truck with 3 guides, 9 brits and the best leopard luck anyone could possibly hope for...

It's an eclectic group; there is the fifty-something guy sharing a tent with the twenty-one year old girl who he claims is his daughter, but isn't. There's Angela, who is married to Karen, and Becky who lives with Hannah. Paul, no relation to Paula. Plus, one (dumb) blonde, the sweet nice girl and three African guides. Susan couldn't have cast it better...

Kudu Schnitzel, Lion Bites and Tourists Skewered (South Africa and Lesotho)

susanandlars — Fri, 3 Oct 2008 13:01:00 GMT

After leaving Kruger at close, we had dinner at a little family run place and a long snooze in the town of Sabie. Waking up at 8-something is so nice after a week of 5 am alarms.

We did a lot of deliberation about our route through South Africa, but ultimately decided to truck on down to the Drakensberg in one day. It was a long, but very pretty drive through an agricultural region.

Mostly long stretches of very gently rolling plains brown with the winter fallow. Some vistas seemed straight out of a Hopper painting, especially when, for several miles, the telephone poles were yet to be strung with wires!

The views were beautiful, but more memorable were the townships.

Before I got to South Africa, I didn't really know what these were, so maybe a little explanation is in order. Townships are not just “towns by another name”. During Apartheid it was illegal for a Black to be in a town or city without express permission, and even then only during certain daytime hours. Furthermore most jobs were restricted to Whites only. Since the ethnic-majority Blacks, and the only slightly less persecuted Coloreds were no longer able to live in the towns, the government designated “townships” to which they were coercively or forcibly relocated. The result is that basically every settlement in South Africa has a town and a township. In many cases these end up divided by the main road, so on the left you will have nice large houses, clean streets etc. all surrounded by fences topped with razor wire, and on the right the horribly overcrowded slums with virtually no city services, frequently all of which is surrounded by outhouses. Some progress has been made in the last decade and a half, but the de facto economic and residential segregation remains.

Economic development remains a huge challenge, and while there is an official unemployment rate in the 20s or 30s or somesuch, the reality is that, like in the US, if you work one day within the sampling period you are technically not regarded as unemployed. So, work one day a month and you are counted as working. How many people are involuntarily left without jobs on any given day is anyone's guess. But salaries are low here, and are stretched across extended families. Of course, all this is far less true for whites.

It's a really strange place. In Cape Town (jumping ahead a bit here) we visited the District Six Museum. This is a converted church which means to memorialize what was once a bustling Black and Coloreds neighborhood. A combination of corrupt government officials, ambitious developers, and plain old racism led to the forced relocation and literal bulldozing of the entire district. But my takeaway from this musuem was this: For most of the world the history of the twentieth century is a story of progress. There are setbacks and episodes of inhumanity, but taken as a whole, life for most of the world moved forward. This is not so in South Africa. Here, the story is one of accelerating backwardness, and racist policies in the early decades became oppression, became increasingly violent persecution.

We really enjoyed our stay in South Africa, it is a beautiful country with much to offer the tourist. But we never really got comfortable. The entire time I was at pains to subtly indicate that I was an American (either through accent or conversation) because I would much rather be stereotyped for an ugly tourist and citizen of the clumsy behemoth that unleashed George Bush on the world than be mistaken for a White South African (Not that they are all bad people, just that I wanted to distance myself from the still fresh memories).

So anyway, it was a long haul, but we got to the “Amphitheater backpackers” in the Northern Drakensberg a little after sunset. The “Northern Berg” is a spectacular range of mountains, created by uplift and erosion, and our hostel was in the middle of nowhere, with awesome views all around. They coordinated trips as well, and we booked for Lesotho the next morning. Full bellies, and residual sleep deprivation had us retire to our beds in a converted grain silo early. There was a sign over the sink not to drink the water or take long showers. Susan was about to brush her teeth with the tap water, convinced this was just an attempt to get people to buy marked-up bottled water. “You are in rural Africa and there is a sign that says, 'Don't drink the water', at what point do you think that, maybe, you shouldn't drink the water?” I asked. She mumbled something about being me a wuss, but used the bottled water.

The next morning we were crammed into one of a pair of four-wheel drive microbuses for the 3 hour drive into Lesotho. Lesotho is an independent Kingdom, having aligned themselves with the English against the Boers.

Besides providing a high redoubt in which to station artillery, it has no resources of value, and hence the treaty was honored by the British. It's dirt poor, which in this case is also a cruel pun as the soil is mediocre at best and the entire economy is agrarian. We had to go through immigration to check out of (and later back into) South Africa, but we have no Lesotho stamp because there is no Lesotho border control.

Our destination was a little village just down the terrifying road from the border crossing. A rocky dirt track meant for horses now services one or two tourist vans a day.

We did our best not to look down, but at the bottom when we forded a stream, we knew we were out of the water, as it were, until our return trip. The hostel donates part of the tour fee to the village for the completion of their school, so we were welcomed to the village by a local.

It was about this time that we realized this was a mistake. It was a weekend, so the kids weren't in school, but the curious little ones wandered over from their chores or play to check us out. They were greeted by a gang of paparazzi sticking cameras in their faces.

I have seen more decorum from a safari van that suddenly stumbled on lions. One Belgian girl gave the orange from her lunch to a kid with a self-satisfied smile. The guide, to her credit, jumped in and told everyone not to do this because (1) it teaches the kids to beg and (2) the kindergarten lesson that the Belgian evidently missed was “please don't give something to one child unless we give it to all”. Duh. OK, for everyone out there who doesn't already know this – if you want to give charity in a situation like this you give it to an elder, who then can give it to the children at the time and circumstance that is appropriate for their culture. Better yet, ask your guide what is appropriate. This hostel is the only one that runs trips into this village, but by the time we were on our way out at the end of the day local teens were asking for cigarettes from us.

The Belgians continued to ignore the guide. Evidently, they were all in the area as volunteers building an orphanage in South Africa, and came on this trip for a day. Oranges ran out, and they were onto candy bars. Every child was being photographed from three feet away by a dozen or more cameras simultaneously. God save us from the riteous.

Here's the thing with volunteer-tourism. It's a gimmick, just like swimming with Dolphins or bungee jumping. Do it to make yourself feel better. Don't do it to actually make a difference. If you want to make a difference, you don't do it by spending $1000 on an airline ticket to come to a rural area with an abundance of unemployed and do unskilled labor for free. If you are coming all this way to paint a wall, or a cinderblock one-room schoolhouse stay home, use the money to hire local labor, buy books with the money you saved, and preserve the earth with the carbon you didn't emit. On the otherhand if you actually have some skill to offer, or can train people in something useful, you are on the right track. Unfortunately, the more skills people acquire, the older they get, the less they travel, and the more they vote Republican. But that's life I guess, you have people with means to do good and people with motive to do good, but rarely people with both. Hey pot... you are black (sayeth the kettle)!

After a hike and lunch we stopped in to try some local beer. Then we met the Shaman/healer-woman. This was interesting, if a little toursity with the woman sitting at the middle of a circle of twenty-four white people. She explained how she was selected to be a medicine woman, the difference between good and bad magic, and how she communicated with the ancestors to find the way to heal the sick people. I got a little nervous when one of the do-gooders stood up asking if she could fix back pain. Thankfully some spirit of common sense possesed her and she sat down without asking if she could be healed right then and there.

But annoying as the Belgian santimonius troop was, far worse were the other two Americans. This one guy was loud, and obnoxious, always the first to ask a question, always of the type that is meant to show how much he already knows. “These petroglyphs, they were made by the San people?” Dude, I read the lonely planet 5-page history of Southern Africa too, shut the hell up, you aren't impressing anybody. He kept challenging the guide, givin her a hard time about details in her hsitory of Lesotho and South Africa, literally saying “I don't believe you.” to some of the more atrotrious and painful details. This to a woman who spoke a half a dozen languages, could translate in real time between English, Besotho, Africaans and her mother-tongue, shared with us her postponed ambition to go to college and study anthropology and clearly knew a LOT about the area. He was the very embodiment of the ugly American. Sure enough, he went to Harvard.

Now it isn't just me, this guy must have pissed off the fates, and I just can't help the shadenfreude on this one. After our long day in the sun, and our 3-hour bump riddled ride home Susan and I were happy to eat and crash out. But apparently some folks from the hostel went to the birthday party of some local girl. Genius boy rolled his (uninsured) rental car into a ditch somewhere along the road back from the party. Drunk driving in rural Africa! Brilliant! (no injuries)

Eager to put some mileage between us and the retards inhabiting the backpackers we took off the next morning. Now in fairness, we did meet some nice folks. There was a married couple, he from Brazil, she from India, who were doing a sort of on-again, off-again around the world travel after he gradauted UCLA medical school. They were fun, smart, and interesting. There was also a crazy French guy who was riding his bike everywhere. He left France something like two years ago, figured he had a few years of travel left. Great guy with lots of interesting stories and wonderful perspectives obtained by moving through countries at a human and not motorized pace. Actually, not at all crazy except for the whole bicycling thing.

West of the mountainous Lesotho, and appraoching the Southern Coast is the “Karoo”, a huge inland desert.

Plump in the middle of this is Graff-Reinet, a town better known as “set of movies taking place in 1950's America” or “real life Twilight Zone”.

OK, I don't think it has actually been featured in any major media, but it could be. It is a really cute, really eerie town which has proudly preserved it's history and architecture since the era when the proud Africaner residents were boldly fighting against the evil incursions of the British (nevermind that the Africaners were the source of South Africa's oppressive racial politics). The old residence of the parish priest's family was converted into a museum, with all the artifacts of frontier living through the hundred years or so 1850-1950. This was fascinating, and gave a real sense of how much on their own these early European settlers were. There was also a war museum telling the story of the town's occupation by the British during the Boer war, and of the now disbanded local regiment, it's fighting against the British, and then against the Germans (twice). I am no Apartheid apologist, but in a way it was nice to see this history. The museums made no mention of the racial context of their histories, but instead the curation focused exclusively on the subjects themselves; the family and family life of the various pastors, and the doings of the local military troop. This left the curators free to proudly display these histories. As an exclusive history, it would be dangerous. But as one curiousity in the greater context of a visit to South Africa, it was interesting and illuminating.

For dinner I had Kudu snitzel. Yum! Here is a photo of a Kudu:

We stayed in a homestay run by this really nice old Africaner lady and her husband. She was really sweet, and a hoot to talk to. Like everyone over the age of seventy she had opinions about everything and everyone, but was happy to put this to good use and call all the restaurants in town for us to secure a good table. We would just sit over morning coffee and chat about all the changes she had seen in her time. It was fascinating, especially to see how she was trying to deal with her own bigotry. She also answered a key question; if old people keep their houses cold, and foreigners keep their houses cold, do old foreigners keep their houses twice as cold? The answer, dear readers, is yes.

Before leaving Graff-Reinet also took in the Karoo National Park, the next day the Addo Elephant Park – taking maximum advantage of the Parks pass we bought when we got here. In Addo I did a horseback game ride, Susan took the warnings about “experienced riders only” to heart and drove around in the car. I saw Red Haartebeest, Zebra, Ostrich, and a jackal that we chased at a gallop for a while. Susan saw these plus Elephants. Grrr.

But, I did have a lot of fun, and once we swapped horses around a couple of times due to temperament, got pretty comfortable galloping through the African bush. Susan saw a baby warthog.

This was the most time we'd spent apart in more than a month. That night we ended up in Jeffrey's Bay.

This was where I hit a wall. Even after a long sleep, I was staring at this perfect wave saying to Susan, “This is a perfect wave!” But I didn't paddle out. I couldn't, I was just too damn tired. I'm still kicking myself, as after this first day the swell backed way down and it wasn't worth it anymore. So I still haven't surfed in Africa.

Instead, we drove over to a Lion Sanctuary and breeding center. They help their rescue and breeding efforts by letting tourists in to see and interact with some of the cats.

We took lots of photos of the big guys in what amount to a somewhat less ethically troubling zoo (they had tigers too, oddly enough).

I justified it to myself by figuring that they do provide a source of genetic material for the population of game reserves and parks.

But the big appeal for me, was the lion cubs. For an extra fee (of course) you can play with and cuddle the lion cubs. This turned out to be way, WAY cooler than I had hoped.

We climbed into the enclosure with five cubs, all about 4 months old. Lions, unlike domestic cat are social creatures, so the cubs love the attention, even of people. By four months they were about 30 kilos, so the ranger didn't let us pick them up. We pet them, played, and then they started to bite and pull on my clothes. My pant cuffs survived rather aggressive play, but my shirt has a nice rip where the little guy combined claw with teeth.

How cool is that? I literally have shirt that was ripped by a lion! (I had a small scratch too, but whatever) Susan was happy with the arms-length view, but I got her in for at least a couple of photos.

They were so cute!

(Four of these guys are white, and only one the normal tawny. They aren't albinos, just genetically recessive color. I think they deliberately breed some white lions for special purchasers, I don't think you could ever release these into the wild because the impala would see them a mile away.)

Greased Palms, Gutted Giraffes and Gorgeous Game (Kruger National Park, South Africa)

susanandlars — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 07:42:00 GMT

We had an overnight flight from Kuala Lumpur to Johannesberg, and got in about 6 in the morning. We had a little bit of adventure getting from Bali to KL as we had overstayed our visas and would owe some extra fees. This process was pretty shifty, with the desk clerk telling us one thing on the way into the country (we had declared our intented stay length) and the desk clerk on the way out something different. Once a supervising immigration official spotted us with a wad of US cash in line to stamp our passports we went into the office and got quoted a 3^rd rate. Susan, ever the effective attress, put on her best “I'm about to cry face” and we got out paying the minimum of the three quotes. Next time I'll know to do exactly what the skeezy surf bums told me to do, which is slip a US fifty into your visa page before you pass it to the agent. It was quite apparent that this fee (for which we got no receipt and they filled in no paperwork) is keeping these guys in beer for a couple of weeks. Anyway, our tacit support of 3^rd world graft (“Oh, you can discount for us because of the misunderstanding? Thank you very much!”) saved us $80 off the official overstay fee had we insisted on a receipt and everything above board. No worries, as we had expected it and set off for the airport with plenty of extra time.

It took us a few hours to get out of the Jo'berg airport. We had lined up a rental car, and also rented a GPS on site, but lovely-old Capital One again froze our cards. No matter how often we call them they seem to do this. Fantastically, the clerk at the GPS rental let us use her phone to dial the US, sit on hold and get the card unlocked. Hopefully her employer doesn't see the bill.

It's was early afternoon when we got to the gates of Kruger National Park.

We had carefully managed our expectations. We had only a couple of hours in the park this first day, and would need them to get to our Rest Camp, and so didn't expect to see much. We were thrilled to see a Giraffe about 20 minutes into the gates.

We were equally excited to see Impala, which is sort of funny now because the damn things are as common as flies and pretty soon you don't even stop for them.

We also saw three Rhinoceros as they retreated into the bush. All this in the first hour we were in the park. Our early success presaged what would turn out to be a fantastic week of game viewing.

We ended up staying at Kruger for six nights, and leaving at 5:45pm on the 7^th day as the gates almost literally closed on our rear ends. The gates in Kruger (at this time of year) are 6 to 6. You either need to be out of the park or inside the fenced off camps except between these hours, and they mean it. The only exceptions to this are the ranger-driven game drives. Every camp has these and a 5 am departure means an extra hour in the park, spotting game with a spotlight in the predawn light. It means an outstanding African sunrise. It also means being damn cold, huddled under a blanket and inside all of your warm clothes as you are in an open vehicle and this is the savana in winter.

The good news was our jet lag put us 6 hours ahead, so the 4:30am alarm clock was far less terrifying a prospect than you might imagine. For the whole week Susan and I were up before dawn, and completely unconscious by 8, it was heaven.

Kruger was so fantastic that we ended up staying an extra day from our planned 5 nights. Susan joked with some locals one night that I'd spend the whole month there if she'd let me, and it is probably true. Up before dawn for a sunrise drive, then self-driving game spotting all day long, followed by a sunset drive - giving another extra hour in the park to ourselves, and more nightdrive-style spotlighting (hint – look for the eyes).

So, in 7 days we saw lots and lots of game. Tons of the prey animals (Impala, Zebra, Giraffe, Kudu, Waterbuck, the tiny Steenbock and Grey Dega etc.), more than a fair share of Lions,

lots of Elephants and luckily both White and the endangered Black Rhino. We saw 5 Cheetah, all at once,

and 2 ½ Leopards; one in a tree eating an impala,

one very briefly in a gap in the grass, and one “flying impala” which a leopard dragged into a tree but for some reason left there. This last one we staked out for an hour, but never saw him come back. We figure he was spooked by the cars, and was waiting for the cooler temperatures and privacy of nightfall.

Having so much time we were able to relax and really soak up the experience. By day 3 we had seen everything (except the Black Rhino, which is seriously, almost never seen here). So we could do some really cool stuff at a different pace. One morning we basically stalked a family of Elephants for a few hours as they paralleled the road toward a watering hole.

There was also an evening when we skipped the sunset drive but just drove ourselves, and were able to basically park in the middle of a giant herd of Zebra (thousands, literally) at sunset, simply listening to them eat and play.

The frequent visits of car-encased tourists (and you are always in your car – no getting out except in designated safe(r) places) has made the animals pretty comfortable with vehicles. They basically regard you as especially mellow elephants – neither predator nor prey. They also have come to expect that cars stop for them, and so have no problem hanging out in the road, or crossing at a leisurely pace.

One of Susan's favorite things is when the animals cross the road, and we have a whole series of photos of this.

By far the most special “crossing the road” was the Black Rhino. Our last morning we skipped the ranger-led drive and instead were out of the gates at 6:01 in our own car. We'd seen some Rhinos in the distance the night before, near the Zebra herds, and Susan really wanted to see one closer. We did great, with a good view of two White Rhinos from less than a hundred meters for a long time before they snuck back into the taller grass.

We were on our way to a watering hole with a picnic breakfast so we moved on, and ten kilometers later among the Zebras again, we realized we still had the room key. U-turn, back to the camp, then retracing our steps. Susan had her eyes peeled in case our Rhinos had come out of the grass. Well, they hadn't but a big one was eating off the trees very near the road. We stalked him for a while, as he slowly meandered his way from tree to bush, closer and closer to the road. Eventually he was eating from the bush right next to the car, maybe ten meters away.

About this time he started giving us “the look” and I decided to get the hell out of his way. I started the engine (my fear of a Rhino horn coming through the drivers side door now exceeding my fear that the cough of start-up would scare him away) and reversed a good ten yards. This seemed to placate the big guy, and he then crossed the road, literally where our car had been thirty seconds earlier. This was the time we also saw the second one – Black Rhino number two, who had been quietly snacking in the grass to our left unnoticed! Tunnel vision anyone?

Susan finally got her “Rhino up close” after so many long distance spottings.

The photo from this episode actually kind of created a little photo series of it's own. I call it “Large Deadly Animals Yelling at Lars”. First in the series is the Black Rhino.

Here is the story of the second (though earlier chronologically)

Very near our camp the fourth night was a “kill”. Lions had taken down a young Giraffe.

The clever old things have figured out that the hoofed critters have a hard time on the paved roads, and so lay an ambush into which one Lion chases the prey. The consequence in this case was a Giraffe carcass five feet from the road, surrounded by a pride of nine lions (3 males, 2 females, and 4 cubs) sleeping, eating and pooping as they gorge for days straight. The little cubs were so full from alternately eating and nursing, their little bellies were distended almost to the ground. We got a brief view from our car, through the inevitable “Lion traffic jam”,

but had the good luck of being on a sunset drive that night, which meant our safari vehicle could pull up right alongside once the sun went down.

Being the hard-core game spotters that we are, Susan and I were also on the morning drive. We figured that by dawn we could see the jackals and hyenas scavenging the left overs of the lions. Turns out that two days wasn't enough, and the lions were still on station gorging themselves.

Also, since nobody else apparenty wanted to get up that morning, it was Susan, Lars and the driver on the kill for an hour before the gates opened, and nobody else. We just pulled up alongside, fired up the lights, and watched the lions and occasional jackal (who kept trying to get close, but not too close).

Now the night before I was a little spooked by the idea of being nine feet from a wild lion. But hours of proximity and observing the comfort of the more experienced visitors had calmed my nerves. “They never attack cars – it is perfectly safe” was the assurance of the ranger. So at some point during the morning, after hundred of photos, I tried to get a better angle when one of the lions wandered into a clear spot. Click click, then I sort of stuck my head out the side so I could stand tall and snap a few more. Instantly the half-asleep Lion started to growl and get up. Almost as instantly I retreated inside. “If you break the profile of the car, he can see you. They are very aggressive right now, to protect their kill and their young” explained the driver. OK, no breaking the profile; check. So here is my “Male Lion Protecting a Kill and Young; Lars get the hell back in the truck picture”.

Oh, and the best part was once I was back in, and Susan slightly less nervous I kind of moved back and forth inside the van, just to test. And though the big guy stopped growling, and lowered himself back into the grass, his eyes were tracking me left to right, left to right.

Damn, I am glad I am not a Giraffe (all height jokes notwithstanding).

The third and final photo in the “Big Wild Animal Yelling at Lars” series is a little less dramatic. A family of Elephants was eating the trees by the side of the road. We've been impossibly close to such pachyderms countless times, and so were pretty comfortable. This particular group had garnered their own little traffic jam, as the low grass and several young made for good photos and viewing. We had a nice angle, but a tree sort of messed up any photos. It was a really cute scene of mama with baby, so when the car in front of us moved on, we rolled up so I could get a photo of baby unobscured by Mama's legs. Of course this also meant that Mama was no longer between us and baby. Not something she was so happy about. Ears out, trunk up – I don't speak elephant, but this language I understand. “Keep going!” I entreated to Susan, as I snapped this out the window:

38 Days in Bali... with several surprise guest appearances! (Bali)

susanandlars — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 02:19:00 GMT

Ubud was great. We spent 3 days in a cute little place arranged by our hosts at the Bali Dream Villa in Seminyak. Mostly we ate (and ate well) but we did log some time at the art museum and watching the monkeys in the "Monkey Forest." Thus began an infatuation that, within two months, would net several hundred photographs in two countries on two different continents.

(**apparently to some tourists, Lars is a bigger attraction than the monkeys)

I had a spot of bad luck along the way. The traffic in Bali is insane - the same ordered chaos that one observes everywhere in Asia, with a slightly higher proportion of motorcycles.

But add to that lots of foreign tourists on rented scooters and you have a formula for trouble. Motorcycle accidents are the leading cause of injury for tourists here, and send many folks home in casts with broken arms or worse. So it was no surprise really that I broke my foot walking on the sidewalk, with no traffic whatsoever to blame.

Seriously... We were walking on the sidewalk, but I wasn't really looking where I was going (I was checking out the surf). Instead of metal manhole covers, here they use big square blocks of concrete. These are not flich with the sidewalk, and I tripped. By bad luck, my stumble-foot didn't land squarely, but rather right on the edge of the orthoganal edge of the damn thing. My whole foot twisted sideways, and by even more bad luck I didn't twist my ankle, but sort of fell sideways with my stumble. Net result was all of my body weight and my rapidly-moving foot crashing solidly only that one little bone that sticks out of the side of my left foot.

It hurt like hell, was the size of an orange in no time, and after 5 days of not getting any better Susan convinced me to go to the doctor for an X-ray. The doc confirmed what I had dismissed as impossibility ("I've never broken a bone"). I broke it. Technically, "a hairline fracture to the fifth metatarsal". I would need to cast it for 2-3 months. Fuck.

Susan was crying, and I was doing my best to be optimistic. Thankfully the second opinion (best $70 I ever spent, well technically World Nomads, my travel insurer even spent - thanks guys!) from the orthopedist called for an ace bandage and lots of limping.

Naturally, this put a bit of a crimp in my surfing. Not that is stopped me - I just got a little more selective about which days I went out!

This was less of a tragedy than you might think. We'd already been kept dry by ear infections (2 for Susan, 1 for me) and alternatively HUGE days and tiny days. I will never actually admit it, but being under doctors-orders to do nothing was perfect. I could finally really rest. I still went out some, and sometimes would go with Susan to give her some lessons in between her real surf lessons (me just floating in hip deep water, her surfing). But there were days and days where I laid on the daybed in our villa, ate delivery food and did nothing but read.

So it was that Susan and I spent most of our time in Bali. Finally getting the rest we needed.

About 4 weeks into our temporary residence in Indonesia, Susan made friends with two Canadians in her surf class. Trevor and Ray(line) were teachers - in Qatar. Awesome! We had a blast hanging with them, Trevor and I went surfing a few times together, including one day at Dreamland where I've come as close to drowining as I ever care to be (sorry Mom - don't read that part to Oma). OK, i wasn't actually drowning or anything, but it was just a really, REALLY big day and the sets came through as these monster close-outs. Susan and Ray would sit on the beach and do that girl-thing. It was funny, cause we'd come in from surfing and Susan would ask, "What did you talk about?" - "Surfing. How about you?" - "Teaching and Qatar and relationships and family and traveling and..." I think we both appreciated quality time with playmates of our own gender.

Awesome human beings, Susan and I are now pinching our pennies to see if we can swing a flight to Qatar from Jordan to visit them this winter.

Then, one day, Susan was walking down the street and saw... Benji and Dee! This is not as likely as one might think. This isn't the Thailand-Cambodia-Vietnam circuit where everyone goes to the same places, and every town has 3 bars. Bali is the Hawaii of Australia, with soooo many people everywhere. We only overlapped with them for a couple of days, and regrettably could only meet up for drinks and dinner twice, but had a great time (Hi guys!)

One of the great things about travelling is the people you meet along the way; kindred spirits I suppose.

The end of our Bali sojourn was filled with another friend, but an old one rather than a new one. Susan's friend Amanda linked up with us in Bali for the last few days we were there (she stayed two weeks).

We had a grand time, and again Susan benefitted from having someone to gossip with that didn't need to be taught how. Amanda's visit also served to get us off our asses. We'd settled into a nice eat-sleep-watch pirated DVD's routine, and showing someone new "our" island was just the thing.

We spent a day circling the Bukit peninsula, checking out "the legendary" Nusa Dua, and seeing the spectacular temple at Uluwatu. We got more Monkey photos - they are pernicious little buggers and more than happy to steal from people. Hawkers sell bananas and nuts at the entrance, so they've learned. One swiftly plucked the eyeglasses right off the face of a Japanese tourist and was gone in a flash. Real coke bottles too - I was sorry for the guy. He got lucky, as a zealously protective tour guide went over the cliff edge to chase the monkey and get them back, but lots of other folks are not so lucky.

By pure happenstance, we ran into some other "friends" from back home. The Rip Curl Search was going on, and a big surf competition was set to start the next day. The Top 45 best surfers in the world were in town, and we stumbled on a press conference featuring the new local champ and none other than reigning world champ Mick Fanning:

and 8 time champ Kelley Slater:

Not a bad haul for our last day in Bali!

It Ain't All Fun and Games... (Borneo to Bali)

susanandlars — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 02:15:00 GMT

After three months of traveling in Asia, Susan and I needed a break (see Alive and Well, Just Slacking in Bali). Travel is great, but intense. Asia especially so, and it ain't like we're staying at the Four Seasons (although we aren't rock-bottom budget travelers either).

We had taken another break before, in Laos, where we checked into this grand old french colonial mansion converted into a hotel in Luang Prabang and proceeded to sleep and eat for 6 days. That was right after Mongolia, and a perfect reset before Bhutan. But we'd done a super intense week in Bhutan - great, fabulous - but really, really intense with so much to see and so much to learn. From there to Malaysia; KL and Borneo, which were interesting but far from relaxing. And the thing is, we never really fully rested.

So when we got to Sandakan in Sabah (Borneo) we were really wrestling with ourselves about next steps. On the one hand you have this feeling like "I'm in this amazing trip, I'm on vacation, I should be in a constant state of ecstasy." On the other hand "I am soooo tired." Borneo was hot, dirty, tough travelling and honestly, a little disappointing. We'd spent a small fortune for 2 days at the Rainforest Lodge, and while it was great to see Orangutans in the wild, we couldn't really get everything out of it.

In stepped Benji and Dee; two Brits 11 months into an 18 month around-the-world. By pure chance they were in the lobby of our hostel as we were heading off for dinner. Susan (ever the gregarious one) struck up a conversation and pretty soon they were saying "look, you don't have to prove anything to anyone - if you're tired, you're tired - rest." Hearing what you want to hear but feel guilty thinking is like hearing the trumpets of Gabriel. We briefly flirted with the idea of using our no-longer-Borneo time to go to Australia and road-trip the Great Ocean Road. I have family in Perth I haven't seen in 15+ years, and travelling in Australia is inherently restful (English-speaking, clean, and not corrupt).

After a quick bite we were looking for flights, playing with our calendar and talking it over. But it wasn't so easy (nor cheap). Flights from Sandakan to Kota Kinabalu, from KK to Kuala Lumpur, from KL to Australia, then back, then picking up our prepaid "big ticket" leg from KL to Denpasar (Bali), plus a one way flight Perth to Melbourne so we could rent a car and drive one way... well, first of all "time splicing" is the enemy of enjoying quality travel and secondly- it was anything but restful.

Ultimately, the idea of sitting in a tropical paradise for 5 weeks with absolutely nothing to do appealed to Susan and the idea of 5 weeks of world class surf appealed to me. Bali it is.

We had planned for 2 weeks in Bali, and now would have 38 days - a superlative in it's own right among our trip-of-superlatives. Decision made, the adventure began...

First trick - getting to Kuala Lumpur from Sandakan. Not so easy, actually, as the direct flights were all booked. We could get a ticket to KK, but everything from there was full too. In the meantime I'm Skyping with my Mom to get help changing our big around-the-world ticket for our KL-Bali hop. We grabbed the last minute flight to KK, which has more flights and carriers in general. Most websites don't do tickets less than 48 hours in advance, so trying to get from A to B the next day is a daunting prospect, and there are no 24-hour 800-numbers in these parts. OK, Mom's on the case for the KL-Bali ticket, and will call during US business hours - we'll already be on our way to KL by then. "Maybe we should plan a night stay in KL... in case we don't make the connections?" I suggest. Recalling our previous KL experience, this was not on Susan's agenda. "It's a 2 hour flight and there are tons of flights leaving after we land that will make the connection - we'll be fine. I bet my changefee on it!" At this point in the narrative risk-averse Lars agrees that this could be another example of his playing it too safe, mostly because there is no point in trying to argue that a one night layover in KL is a good idea.

Up early, we were out of Sandakan before the airline ticket offices opened, and into KK. We boarded, all seemed well. Then we sat on the tarmac for an hour. Those 10:00 and 10:30am departures? Not so much. Now in Kota Kinabalu. Did Mom manage to get our KL to Bali flight for today? No idea - no wireless, no internet cafe's, nothing. Still not sure if we will be in Bali tonight or not. Turns out there are some flights on Air Asia to KL today - leaving from a "terminal" 20 minutes cab ride away. Any seats? Anyone's guess. It took a few hours, but we were on the flight to KL - but we would miss the connection to Bali... if we had it in the first place.

A rough day (I thought the point was to rest?), but we're in Kuala Lumpur. Did we miss our flight? Well, no. Turns out my Mom couldn't change the ticket. Did I mention that we left Sandakan Saturday night (Malaysia time). Haha, Continental "Round the world desk" doesn't do weekends. But, they said you can change it at the Malaysia air desk in the airport.

Malaysia airlines desk agent sends us to Northwest (which doesn't exist) we try KLM (no dice), we spend $20 and three or four hours in a fruitless attempt to call Continental international-long distance. Not only are 800-numbers not free, you can't dial them AT ALL from overseas. Here's a fun exercise for you kids at home - try locating a phone number for Continental airlines that you CAN call from Malaysia. Now try doing this over a crappy internet cafe connection inside KL International... OK, trick question, 'cause its Sunday and the only (and I mean ONLY) number is a local Malaysia number that is only staffed on weekdays. No way to call US, Japan, or any other office of Continental no matter what you are willing to pay. We're stuck.

We book a night - the nice airport hotel is full, we get the crappy one, but neither one of us can face the hour long cabride into KL proper, especially since we're only coming back here first thing.

Nine AM, Monday morning. We call Malaysia office of Continental. A very nice lady tell us - Malaysia airlines desk can help you... so we're back to where we were 20 clcok hours (and 10+ active communication-attempt hours) earlier. "OK, if they say they can't, have them call me directly, here is my number..."

Back to Malaysia airlines desk... and in 10 minutes were done. We spent ten hours because we forgot Susan's first rule of dealing with bureacracy: "If you think you are right, and the person on the phone/at the desk is an idiot... the person at the desk is probably an idiot." Yup, the dude yesterday sent us on a wild goose chase and not wanting to be the pain-in-the-ass-American customer we ran around in circles instead of asserting ourselves. Damnit!

But, finally, we were on a flight for Bali. By nightfall we would be sipping drinks with umbrellas... and man would I need it!

Cut to two weeks later.

After a brief sojourn in Kuta beach we nestled into a genuinely bad-ass villa in a quiet part of Seminyak.

We planned on a few nights, to help kickstart the relaxing, but ended up staying for the whole month. We had our own pool, a huge indoor/outdoor living room/kitchen (with TV! oh how I missed you!). I did a lot of surfing, to the point where I wore that hole in my ribs. After about a week our hotel kicked us out because they had previous bookings for "our" villa, so we went up to Ubud for three days in the unofficial art, culture, and gastronomic capital of Bali.

Ahhh, now we were relaxing...

Leeches, Orangutans and more! Plus, Lars Scares the Locals (Borneo)

susanandlars — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 18:21:00 GMT

From Bhutan we had a couple of days in Kuala Lumpur, to reprovision and sightsee (and buy airline tickets), before travelling on to Borneo. It was my first experience with a Muslim country.

Kuala Lumpur is a fast growing, and rapidly modernizing city. One of the striking impressions of our trip is how internationalized the world has become. Shanghai, Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur are all host to malls primarily stocked with western brands. The big “luxury” brands are here, but so are the surf brands (Quicksilver is huge in Japan, no really) and everything else. The biggest bookstore I've ever been in was a Borders in KL (all English language). It had a larger section on US history than on Malaysia.

Malaysia wants to be a player on the world economic stage, and rapid, planned development of its capital city is a big part of this. Using the Petronas dollars to build the towers was a symbolic aspect of this, but huge planned communities that mix office space with residential dwellings are meant to attract foreign companies eager to outsource. At least in KL, the reinvestment of extraction economy dollars is towards service sector and not just industry. There is a large population of educated english speakers here, but there is also a significant literacy gap. Street signs on the freeways are color coded so that the illiterate can navigate.

Online booking can be a godsend, but it entails certain risks. We got the unfortuante roll of the dice this time, as the hostel we stayed in the first night was crap, though it did have wireless. We left our laptop uploading Bhutan photos to flickr and sacked out.

In the morning tragedy struck. Susan, up earlier, was checking the progress of the upload but the computer had frozen. When she rebooted... the camera chip was blank. Frantically trying to fix the situation, she was damn near histerical by the time I awoke – 600 photos from a trip of a lifetime gone.

Channeling Spicoli I assured Susan “I can fix it”. But first we needed a decent place to leave our stuff. We wandered the backpacker ghetto and eventually checked into a room above “The Bollywood Restaurant”. The guys were really nice, and very helpful when they heard about our photo misfortune. Johnny, the proprietor was a semi-retired stock trader, active gold speculator, and all around good guy. His nephews and extended family staffed the place, and the next morning he hooked us up with a friend of his for a taxi ride to the airport.

Malaysia is an interesting place. Like Indonesia it had no tradition of nationhood before the sort of arbitration consolidation during colonial times. That era, and the geography have made it a melting pot. Everyone speaks many languages, and though Islam is the official religion, multiculturalism seems en vogue, at least in cosmopolitan KL. I'm a little embarassed to admit that this was something of a surprise for me. We get such a slanted perspective from grammer school onwards, reenforced by the media, and I really expected that local religious or ethnic minorities would carry a sort of second class citizenship. This is by no means the case. Freedom of thought and egalitarianism are unique assets in the West, right? I don't question the Framers wisdom in protecting the state from the influence of religion, and as so many people forget, the more important (in the eyes of those fellows in 1776) protecting religions from the corruptions of getting too involved with the state. This is certainly better – but contrary to popular media the absence of a strict wall separating church and state does not instantly bring about the destruction of all liberty.

Anyway, our time in KL was really just errand running. Buying tickets on Air Asia, buying books at Borders, buying coffee at Starbucks, doing our damndest to find someplace without a western brand to buy lunch and dinner. That's the real story here, everything is the same as home. There is some local color, and most of the women are wearing scarves over their hair, but the damn place is almost a doppleganger for Chicago or Seattle or Sacramento except for the heat.

...

We were really excited during our flight into Kota Kinabalu. Borneo is a bright green out the window sitting in what look like sparkingly clear water. You can see reefs and such, and just know the tropical paradise awaits you.

We had a damn early rise to get our flight, and hadn't really slept for two nights – once because of the noise in the hostel and the second time 'cause I was all stressed and trying to save the Bhutan photos. We were so early that when we went downstairs we found we were locked in. The nephews who ran the place apparently also live there, so getting out was simply a matter of waking up one of them sleeping in the booths of the restaurant.

But we got to KK totally knackered. Initially we had designs on a nice, cheapo place, but checking about this quickly proved a terrible idea. KK is a dump, not remotely the “charming, bustling gateway” that the grossly unreliable Lonely Planet would have one believe. We needed sleep, an international phone line (Visa had decided to lock out our ATM cards), and a dearth of bedbugs. We checked into the Hyatt.

We burned almost a full day dealing with photos and visa. I spent nearly 8 hours on collect calls across the Pacific, with eTrade blaming Visa and Visa blaming eTrade. Long story short, your ATM card doesn't work in Malaysia. It should, and if you ask them they'll tell you it does, but it doesn't, even if you go into the branch at HSBC. Visa has decided that ATM fraud in Malaysia is so bad, that they have shut off the whole country, and while technically they do have a provision so you can get your specific card reactivated, nobody knows how to do it.

The second day we hopped one of the boats to the islands just off KK to do some lounging and snorkling, but ended up just lounging.

Eventually we did do something – and caught a puddle jumper to the far side of Sabah provice, and then a 4x4 to the Borneo Rainforest Lodge.

Nestled deep inside some of the last protected areas in this part of Borneo, the lodge gave us access to pristine, first growth forest.

We had two nights there, and our stay included guided walks and a nighttime game drive. It was damn hot and humid, especially since local fauna necessitated the wearing of leech socks, which add a layer of tightly-knit clothing from yoru toes to just below your knees. I can attest to both the necessity and the imperfection of this particular prophalactic. I won't get into details, but rest assured I have a “Danum Valley Blood Donor” T-shirt and a story for over beers that will make any male squirm.

It's a beautiful place, and we saw a lot. Birds out the wazoo, lizards, etc. etc. but the stars are the primates. Slow lorry, gibbons and – we were lucky – one wild Orangutan, who nearly peed on our heads.

Naturally, they had the requisite canopy walk as well.

Not wanting to miss a minute of our time in the Rainforest, we got the last 4x4 back to town, which meant we did miss the last bus out of Lahad Datu. It was a nothing little town, but did have a night market. We walked about in search of food and essentially stopped all conversations as we walked past. Susan was ready to bust a gut as people stopped eating mid chew to stare as this giant walked by. I got lots of looks and at least one startle as a girl who had been walking and talking, looking sideways, was suddenly shocked to see me towering in front of her. It was weird, and I guess I now understand what it would be like for Brad Pitt or somesuch to walk down the street back home.

The next morning we were on the early bus to Sandakan. It's a three hour trip. Seven hours later we arrived in Sandakan.

The real draw in Sandakan is the Orangutan rehabilitation center in the suburb of Sepilok. Like everyone else, we made the pilgrimage, and thoroughly enjoyed it. We spent a solid hour watching as Orangutans and then Macaques feasted from the feed left for them by the don't-call-them-zookeepers. Touristy, but great fun.

Back at our place in Sandakan, we were at a cross-roads. There are two Borneos – one is super expensive (I shudder to think back at what the Borneo Rainforest Lodge set us back), the other really cheap. Problem is, you get what you pay for (or arguably, slightly less than you pay for).

We'd planned for a month here, but not a month of Rainforest Lodges and Beachside resorts – we wanted to do the parks and the natural wonders. But these are not meant to be accessible for the budget traveller. Can it be done? Absolutely. But we were tired – really, really tired after so many months of backpacking. As our bus ride proved, Borneo would be not be easy.

Plus, it was smelly.

No really. Trash everywhere, poor drainage and no gutters combined with tropical heat – it is an unavoidable olafactory recipe.

We were at a crossroads...

Our Last Day in the Happiest Place on Earth (Bhutan)

susanandlars — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 02:07:00 GMT

Day 7...

Our last full day in Bhutan, we set off from Punakha in the morning. We needed to get all the way back to Paro for our early morning flight the next day.

We stopped in Thimphu for lunch with Sonam, who had been a huge part of our pretrip planning. We spent a couple of hours wandering Thimphu on our own, soaking up the athmosphere and shopping a little.

After 7 days of getting guided through the best the ountry had to offer it was interesting to see the “real thing” of the urban landscape. There wasn't any dark underbelly, but it was somewhat less perfect. Trash is a big problem, and the urbanization is clearly outstripping both public sanitation/trash removal infrastructure and the need for social rules about littering. It wasn't as bad as many developing countries, but could quickly threaten the scenic downtown shopping/tourist district, particularly when so much of the tourist's experience here is so idyllic, so the expectations are unfairly high.

Before leaving Thimphu we again were invited to Jack & Karma's, for tea. We got a warm reception and talked a bit about our friends in common back in Los Angeles (Hi to John and Amy!).

Repeating the beautiful drive along the river was a pleasure in it's own right (at the checkpoint to Paro the guys were “bachelors again”). Along the way we could observe locals recreating themselves at the end of the day. Lawn darts is popular here, but Archery is the national obsession.

We'd gotten a good look at the game after the market in Paro a few days earlier, and so had our eyes open for it along the way. Every town has archery fields, and often we would see groups of men gathered shooting at targets impossibly small in the distance. It's a team sport, and the teams cluster around each end of the range (rather trusting, if you ask me, but I suppose adding 'good sportsmanship' to the list of Bhutanese virtues wouldn't surpise anyone). Like I said, the targets are tiny, and very distant, so whenever someone on the team hits the target at the other end the team sings and does a little dance.

The sport is primarily played with imported compound bows of the type you might have seen at the Olympics (Did you see the team from Bhutan in the parade of nations? Archers all!). In the whole time we were in the country I only remember seeing one group that was using traditional bows. Tashi was very impressed, as the range is the same size, but the challenge much greater.

For our last night we were back in our grand hotel in the old governors mansion. A quintessential Bhutanese experience is the hot stone bath, traditionally an annual or semi-annual indulgence. Huge wooden baths, big enough to soak up to your neck, have two chambers that admit water between them - one where you lounge and the other for the stones. It takes hours to prepare, as a huge wood fire is made and the stones heated until they are red hot. These are then put into the other chamber of the bath. The baths were in a kind of shed out behind the hotel, and lit only by candles.

By the time our bath was “ready” the water probably could have been used to cook an egg. After a few minutes of soaking I was somewhere between medium and well done, but when the guy brought in extra red-hot stones in the tongs, Susan was stoked for it (crazy chick). The stone sizzled and popped as it boiled the water around it and ejected the minerals into the water (which provide the water it's beneficial effects). Wrapped in our robes we walked back to our room on rubber legs. It was great.

We had an early wake up as we needed to catch our flight out. But before we left we got breakfast, waiting on us was the same friendly staff member as our first morning, with the same deliberate, gentle english. This time we were expecting it, and left empty the pauses that to an American conversationalist would be painfully long. “We have coffee... toast...” Susan didn't say a word, still dubious that our morning of toast-only breakfast was caused by her saying “yes thank you” to soon.

“...beans... ham... ...”

“That would be great, thanks” I finally interjected. And so we were off for Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur, with full bellies.

A Naked Pretty Girl is Still a Naked Pretty Girl (Bhutan)

susanandlars — Mon, 8 Sep 2008 19:40:00 GMT

Day 6

Our day in Punakha was pretty relaxed. We'd been setting an ambitious pace, both physically and informationally, so this was a welcome change. Again, Tashi's experience benefitted us, and Susan and I probably would have just “pushed through it” and enjoyed ourselves less by doing more.

We did take a short hike up (which still left us gasping) to a temple, but one very different again from those we had seen before. This one was shaped like a giant Stupa, and had several levels.

When we got there, after a short but steep climb that skirted some rice fields, we met an old woman from the local farms.

Too old and vision impaired to work anymore, everyday she climbs the mountain to walk circles around the temple and pray. She was 80-something, which is really, really ancient when you have spent 70-something of those years toiling in rice fields.

The families bond together to work their fields. Everyone has “their plot” but will cooperate to plant and harvest and execute the various tasks of cultivation. From our high point we counted just under 40 people working a set of paddies that terraced an area about a square kilometer – plowing, tilling, planting (at this time of year).

Atop the stupa/temple we were treated to great views.

We were soaking up the whole thing; our second to last real day in Bhutan, the view of the Himalayan “foothills”, the bright blue sky, the green trees and brown rice paddies, standing atop a great religious site in the heart of the nation that invented the idea of “Gross National Happiness” when the monk's cell phone rang. An hour ago we were taking photos of a young man as he adjusted the yoke on his oxen; knee deep in the rice paddy. Ten seconds earlier the red-robed monk was answering our questions in the near-whisper of a tenant of holy places. Now he was yammering into his mobile at a cellphone-voice-volume that would make a New Yorker proud.

For lunch we picnicked along a river.

As we pulled up a couple of local girls were bathing. The guys teased and flirted as the girls laconically covered up and gathered their things to go home. We had a leisurely feast, lounging on rugs set upon the grass then sort of lounged by the water.

Tashi and Phubu wandered in search of rocks to play quoits. A couple of hours later we packed up, and the guys did their best to spy on the girl who was bathing but had strategically parked her car in their line of sight. Nudity doesn't have the taboo here that it does at home, but a naked pretty girl is still a naked pretty girl.

Last stop for the day was the big Dzong of this area. Once upon a time this was the capital, and it is still the winter home of the Monks who reside in summer at the main Dzong in Thimphu. To Tashi, this is the most beautiful of all the Dzong, and he is deliberate in saving it for the climax of our trip. It had also undergone a major renovation recently, a result of fire damage.

Having now seen the Art School we had a new appreciation for the detail work of these places, and this was the most ornately decorated of all. The main temple was a huge, four story chamber. The columns were clad in decorated bronze work, the walls lined with Buddas and lotus-seated scultures of deceased masters, every surface and aquare-inch of ceiling was painted with detail work. The Budda itself and the attendant Bosshisatvas, Precious Master, and Tibetan King were equally impressive in scale and artistry.

There was another group touring the Dzong as well, a bunch of Dutchmen (you see them everywhere). It was led by a friend of Tashi's, who it was later explained was a former governor of the region. He was still entitled to a special colored sash, but could no longer wear the ceremonial sword of office.

By chance we were there at the same time as a former High Lama of Bhutan, with whom we shook hands (Tashi got a blessing). We introduced ourselves and he asked where we were from. “Enjoy your stay”. Nice guy. In his entourage were the three folks from Taiwan we met at Jack and Kharma's. This really is a small country.

Back in Punakha town itself we briefly stuck our heads in at another temple. The monks were performing a ritual, but were shortly quiet again. One of them seemed uncertain about his duties, and an older monk was instructing him on the specifics of placing the offering before the altar. A young monk was then running around filling cups from which they all drank. “A holy water ceremony?” “No, afternoon tea”, explained Tashi. We got the requisite “look at the giant” smiles as we slipped back out. The grounds of the temple also held a Nepalese stule stupa, and we got a primer on the stylistic differences of the Nepalese, Tibetan, and Bhutanese stupas, all of which can be found in Bhutan.

Penises and Polygamy (Bhutan)

susanandlars — Thu, 4 Sep 2008 01:22:00 GMT

Day 5
The next morning we came down for breakfast and noticed the fruit was peeled. Actually, I really noticed this when breakfast was brought for another table in the restaurant and their fruit wasn't. I never said anything, but they had noticed my peeling my fruit the day before. Awesome.

We were off for the Art School. As a part of the active effort to preserve the culture, all the traditional crafts are supported by a training program here; carpentry, embroidery, metal working, painting, and doll making.

We also went through the Folk Heritage museum, which had an example of a traditional Bhutanese home, complete with artifacts of daily life. It was groovy, but our mojo got a little messed up by a tour of Chinese “VIPs” (and it would seem their wives, cousins, next door neighbors etc.) who not only ignored the “no picture” signs but also happily bypassed the little ropes and “no touching” signs to pose in the display holding the various kitchen/farm/religious implements. Like a German in a uniform, a Chinese bureaucrat with a “VIP” card is an object to fear and loathe.

One cool thing about the Bhutanese homes. They all have a prayer room, a space set apart with a small shrine. This room usually has nothing but an altar and cushions, and one chair. The chair is not, however, for the patriarch or any member of the family. The chair (really a raised dais with a cushion for sitting in the lotus position) is reserved for monks of a certain level. At special occasions a monk will visit the family to perform rituals. Most of the time the monk will sit on a cushion to the side of this chair (and the family on the floor). However, on very, very special occasions (a few times in each lifetime for most people) a more senior monk will be in attendance as well, and occupy the chair. So nearly every home has a piece of furniture that by tradition gets used only every few years. And it's not like a box of Christmas decorations that are stuffed in the garage or the attic for 11 months of the year – the prayer room is used frequently by the family (perhaps several times a day by a pious family) but the chair will always be left vacant.

We were quick through both of the Folk Heritage Museum and Art School, as we also needed to get over to the city of Punakha. The road takes us up over a very high pass (4500 meters or so – basically the top of Mount Whitney) and back down, also through another checkpoint.

En route is a big new temple, one even Tashi hasn't been in yet it is so new, and a place where the former queen built 108 stupas to protect the King and the army after their campaign against Nepalese insurgents.

We were in the new temple for about three minutes before getting shooed out – some VIPs were on their way to see it.

Technically, this is a family temple of the royal family, and so when a prince, queen, or other royal wants to use it it is closed to the public. Too bad, it's a very cool place. New, and with many modern elements, like realistic faces on many of the paintings, but still very much fitting to the traditonal aesthetic and clearly a Bhutanese temple. Along the top of the walls in the main chamber are murals dipicting the history of the Kings of Bhutan. Outside (where we could still spend a few minutes) angels flew with faces of Bhutanese children.

As we made our way back down the other side of the pass we quickly pulled to the side of the road for a motorcade heading uphill – the Prime Minister and two queens (the King has four wives). Phubu quickly pulled off his hat, and he and Tashi both bent their heads to look down as they drove past. So, I guess that was the VIP. A couple of days earlier we had pulled left (slow lane – they drive on the left here) and let a big SUV pass us. Then too Phubu had quickly taken off his hat. It was a prince driving himself (you can tell by the license plate).

Sadly the weather at the pass was foul and we didn't get the vista of giant himalyan peaks in the distance. We tried to wait it out and eat near the peak, but no dice, instead a mix of rain and snow. In eight days this was pretty much the only time the weather caused us any real trouble – despite what is supposedly the “wet season”.

The climate and flora on this side of the pass is very different, on account of the lower altitude (only 1200 meters or so). They call it “semi tropical”. I don't know about that, but it was hot.

After lunch our next stop was “The Temple of the Divine Madman”. They love this guy here. There are all sorts of wild stories about him – apparently when he wasn't battling demons he was drinking and chasing skirts. Among the stories of debauchery are tales that he bedded his own mother. But whatever, I guess battling demons gets you lots of credit, cause he is a HUGE deal. Especially in this region. Apparently he figured out that evil spirits are scared off by his... well you know. So people will buy a wooden... and hang it under the rafters of their houses. But for some folks, just in case, they seem to augment this by painting phalluses on the outside of their homes (which double as fetility charms). Susan just loved this, and would have filled an entire roll of film with photos of this if I had let her.

The giant wooden phalluses continued after we got to the temple. As Tashi explained on the walk through the rice fields that surround the temple, people come here if they are having trouble conceiving. A special offering and a special blessing from the resident monk and many people find success. Susan asked if there was a reverse charm, maybe one that provided a couple of years protection?

This got us into a discussion of sexual politic, comparing American and Bhutanese ways. Tashi was surprised to learn we weren't married, and really surprised to learn that we've only known each other since November. I hadn't realized he'd missed this, but sometimes things get lost in translation.

Anyway, Bhutanese often practice polygamy, though it is slowly losing favor. Interestingly, this is not only men with many wives, but some wives with many husbands. Typically, the multiple spouses are siblings. The King, for example, has four wives, all sisters. But even a farmer's daughter might marry four brothers. The reason for this is to preserve the wealth and property. While not a hard and fast rule, husbands typically move into the homes and farms of their new wives. For a wealthy landowner, dividing his land among several offspring is not such a big deal, but for those with a more marginal bequeathment polygamy lets them keep the parcel intact for another generation. One daughter with four husbands means a single parcel, worked by four able-bodied men. Four daughters with one husband yields the same result (although multiplying the challenge for the grandkid generation). This practice is slowly being discouraged as Bhutan tries to modernize certain ways. A minister once challenged the King if he thought he was setting a good example with his four wives. His retort was that any young men should just look to him to see a great example of why not to.

The walk through the rice paddies was beautiful and bucolic, with folks cutting weeds and planting rice by hand. Our hotel sat high on a hillside overlooking Punakha.

We had a nice little balcony, where I wrote for a few hours and we watched the sunset. The whole country is like a million postcards stiched together.

"Can You Hear Me Now? Sorry, the Monks are Chanting." (Bhutan)

susanandlars — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 00:18:00 GMT

Day 4

The next morning when I woke up I wasn't feeling 100%. Not really sure why (you never can be) but just in case I peeled my fruit at breakfast (we were always brushing teeth with filter water etc.)

Today's itinerary was 2 hikes – one to a monastery and another to a Buddhist college.

It was a full day, and later Tashi would admit that for the normal guest it is a one-or-the-other kind of affair.

In otherwords, we did two days of hiking in one. He didn't admit this until after we were most of the way down on hike #2, because he didn't want to intimidate us. We got a good laugh, but seriously, how many tour guides adjust your itinerary to make more work for themselves just because you seem like the sporty types? Tour guide gold, I tells ya.

On the way up hike #1 we took a short break on some benches by a stupa. By good luck, a monk was on his way from the Monastery down the hill. We ended up having a really interesting and long conversation with him, partly in his English and with the occasional translation from Tashi.

It was awesome, in part because we got some really specific details about his Buddist mythology (including creation and end-of-the-world stories) and his contemporary world view. Here's a guy my age who grew up in a monastery, in a Buddist country that until very recently was completely closed to the outside world. We quizzed him about his feelings on Bhutan's changes, the world outside, Buddism, everything. Besides a really unique cultural exchange, it was a cool human moment. Here we were, four people, just chatting as one might at a barbershop or over a nice dinner.

The monastery was very cool and very old, embedded into the steep hillside.

We stuck our heads in at the main shrine, and the monks were performing a ritual. We tried our best to be unobstructive as we listened to the low frequency blaring of the giant prayer trumpets, the drone of the chanting, and the occasionally startling clang of bells. It was a ceremony to appease local dieties (not Buddist per se, but much religion incorporates local pagan traditions along the way). Then – Tashi's cell phone rings. And he answers it. Nobody bats an eyelash. We were trying so hard not to make footfalls, but these guys didn't care one whit. It's routine for them, so the giant and his girlfriend are sort of welcome distractions, and a cell isn't considered irreverent.

Back down the hill and we're hungry for lunch. We had hoped to picnic by the river, but the flies were heavy for some reason, so the guys parked in front of a local farmhouse, ran inside, and made arrangements for us to borrow their kitchen/dining room/main sitting room.

Only the eldest daughter was home, and we busted out our best Dzongpa “Thank yous.” Lunch was take-away from a hotel in town, and our expectations were for something simple. Ha! We feasted on multiple dishes – so many, in fact, that Tashi and Phubu sat and ate on the floor so Susan and I could fit all our dishes on the table. This was completely unnecessary, and we told them so, but our encouragements were not persuasive. Clearly, this is a very hierarchical society, and the rules governing the hospitality extended to guest are strong. I had trouble with this, my American-egalitarian ethos says that I have hired these guys as guides, but aside from fulling that role, we are equals. But no matter how many times I got to a door first and held it open, they would never walk through before me.

The house was a simple affair, three rooms in all I think. We got a picture from outside, but it seemed far too imposing to take one from inside.

Up the hill on the other side, again a beautiful view of mountainous forests and a riverine valley below. The place houses several important relics, but the highlight for Susan was how an entire class of monks (including one very important reincarnation) darn near fell over from their lotus positions staring at me. It was almost like those scenes in the movies where you walk into the bar and the music scratches to a halt. Even the chanting sort of lost a few decibles. I beamed back my best “I think it's funny too” smile and got lots of laughs.

The college itself was beautiful, and a renovated monastery from way back when.

After checking out one of the shrines a monk offered us some sweets. There were goats and kids grazing about, and as we left a few horses were being led up the path carrying heavy sacks of provisions. A reminder that everything gets here by muscle power, and usually human not livestock.

As we were in Thimphu, we were in the hometown of the Snowleopard Trekking Co. owners, Jack and Karma. Susan's friend had given us the hookup in the first place, and so we got an invitation to dinner. Jack met us at a very nice Indian place, but ended up not being able to stay for our dinner because he was meeting with some high-ups (apparently he plays golf with the fourth King, and is sought by many others as an advisor because of his long time living in the west and business success). Jack is also the tallest man in Bhutan, so this was pretty funny as he comes up to about my chin. He did stay for a drink, and introduced me to the local whiskey, which I must say is very fine indeed.

After dinner, and evidently after Jack's other appointment, we went by Jack and Karma's house for drinks, finally meeting Karma (with whom we've had a long email correspondence). They were also hosting three Taiwanese, a visiting monk and a married couple. It was great to get a home tour – hospitality rituals are evidently not that much different – and see a real Bhutanese home which we would contrast to the museum version of a “traditional home” the next day. The prayer room was the most important in the house, and had a beautiful hand-carved wooden altar and a not yet painted hand carved prayer chair.

We then had a fun evening of discussing the contemporary history and culture of Bhutan, got insights into the economics, the relationship with India, and the various political controversies accompanying the new parliament and the new Prime Minister. Politics and whiskey; I was like a pig in shit. Well fed, exercised, and watered, we slept well indeed (OK, honestly, I was drunk as skunk and passed out seconds after hitting the mattress).

Of Puny Pilgrims and Proletariat Particulars (Bhutan)

susanandlars — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 00:18:00 GMT

Day 3
Today our destination would be Thimphu, the capital and largest city in Bhutan. Before leaving Paro, however, we went to the weekend market.

One of the great things about Bhutan's protective visa system is that, while tourists are welcome, they are not the raison d'etre. The visitor really gets to see how the locals live, without a “canned” experience. Most of the crowd was in traditional dress, wth all kinds of varieties of patterned textiles. The monks were out doing their shopping, in their deep red robes. It was a hot, sunny morning and sellers spread their wares and produce out on blankets, some with bright umbrellas up as parasols.

The “holy month” had just concluded, during which it was forbidden to slaughter or import meat. So the local population was looking forward to their first tastes of fresh meat (rather than preserved) in a month.

Neighbors were gossiping, a blind man was playing a stringed instrument for alms (the only time we saw anything like this).

We ran into our hostess from the dinner in town, and Tashi enjoyed a little harmless flirting. In short, the market was colorful and boisterous, with all manner of local and imported foods including some freshly butchered meats.

The road to Thimphu winds through the Paro valley along the run of the river, then back up hill along the Thimphu river from the confluence of the two. The rivers run clear and fast, dropping swiftly through 1000 verticle meters (and back up an almost equal amount) in less than a hundred miles. At the intersection of the rivers is a checkpoint – here roads lead back to Paro, on to Thimphu, or 8 hours downriver to the bordertown with India, the biggest of only three ports-of-entry to the country. Once we cleared the checkpoint (all foreigners are registered here and all locals are tracked) the guys declared that they were again married.

In Thimphu we visited a Nunnery, as a contrast to all the monks and monasteries we had been seeing so far.

The place was crowded with pilgrims and people inside praying. We did our best to respectfully review of surroundings without intruding. It was a little hard, as we had to wind through the crosslegged penitents inside the main shrine.

I got a lot of curious looks from laypersons and nuns alike, I tried to smile deferentially when a nun would look up from her mantras to smile at me.

We kept our visit inside brief, and silently slipped back out to the courtyard, happy that we hadn't caused a disturbance to the proceedings. We joined the stream of people circumambulating the shrine for one loop (always clockwise, BTW), when an old woman who had been sitting along a wall caught sight of me. She was a tiny little thing, maybe 5 foot tall, wizened and frail-looking. But her hilarity gave her voice a volume to wake the dead. I have no idea what she said, but her insisting that we pose for photos (so she could see on the camera's LCD) got the whole crowd laughing with us.

Still awkwardly trying to be respectful, I was happy to stand next to her without touching (what are the rules here?) she lifted my arm up so she could show that her head was lower than my armpit, then pulled in around her waist as she smiled and gaffawed with the crowd.

The parade of pilgrims came to a halt, and hundreds of sitting faithful stopped their prayers to take in the sight of the giant and the little old lady. I think it's really easy as a traveller to get really self concious. You try hard to see without being seen, almost apologetic for being a tourist. But the folks here don't see you as some kind of invasive species, just as another human being. And so it is not an intrusion to share a humorous moment together. This isn't the austere religious space of a Puritan. This is the hub of a community, socializing and humor are as welcome here as prayer. We left with big smiles.

Next stop was the giant Thimphu Dzong.

This is Whitehall and Westminster Abbey in one. (Recall that the Dzong are the fortress-monasteries that house the government offices as well as the monks. This particular Dzong is the provincial and national capital.)

As we approached the main entrance, along meticulous gardens I leaned in for some photos (“Hey Tashi, can I walk on the grass?” “No, please don't!”) You can see the Kings palace nesled in a depression along the river and surrounded by trees. We saw the royal bodyguard, and I paused to take a good look. “Please don't stare, keep moving!” says Tashi. I jumped, lest the red-berets assume I am some Nepalese-Maoist spy casing the joint (there was a small bombing in the provinces the week before we arrived). After China and Lao (another sweet country, but still autocratic) I have trained myself to take the “don't mess with the uniformed officials” warnings seriously. But my concern for a black-bag and Abu Graib style interrogation was misplaced. It wasn't my safety that concerned Tashi, but our shared obsession with good manners. Evidently furtive looks are OK, but just as you would (should) avert your gaze in the royal presence, you don't stop and stare at his residence.

Through the entrance (and meal detectors) we entered a huge central courtyard.

One end was dominated by the central tower, originally a monastic reserve, then the first public lending library in Bhutan, now a general use government building with some ancient and some modern purposes. The other end of the plaza was formed by the facade of the central shrine.

We were midway our tour of this, with it's beautifully decorated ceiling and giant Buddha when monks started filing in for a ceremony.Tashi secured permission for us to sit in back and observe from a teenaged monk, and we did our best not to be obtrusive as the monks streamed in. Of course, when you are 6'8” and white in a country that is ethnically almost 100% Bhutanese or Tibetan, this is a little difficult. The monks ranged in age from 5 to 18 or so, and sitting in order of age put the youngest (and most easily distracted) in the back nearest to us. The patter of bare feet running to their assigned places was mixed with a few hits of the bells and blowing of the giant prayer-horns. Then, suddenly, an distantly familiar crack. Then another sharp snapping sound. Not a drum, my brain searched memory for the source as an adult monk, maybe 50 or so, came into view through the entrance holding a large whip, cracking it against the stone-tile floor. He paused from this procedure (scaring away evil spirits?) to whisper with Tashi. We were herded out, I guess the older, more senior monk was less comfortable with our presence.

Back in the plaza we chatted with Tashi, getting explanations of the “wheel of life” murals and other exterior decorations as we listened to the chanting, ringing, and horn-blowing flow out of the doors from the ceremony within.

Three senior monks sat on a bench just outside the door, whispering among themselves. “Why do they have whips?” we asked. “If the young monks are late, or don't perform their duties, they are beaten.” Susan just about jumped. Here is a reality check. The western tourist's view of Buddism is all peace-and-love idealism. The reality is, kids are still kids, and just as generations of nuns spent decades rasping students on the knuckles (and priests paddled insolent problem-students), control of large numbers of kids by small numbers of adults usually relies on corporal punishment – Buddism tenets of compassion or not. Another example that pragmatism, not politics, determines most of “real life.”

Renovations were underway as a part of a grand public works project leading up to the coronation of the fifth King.

Not just here, actually, but all over the country. The road from the airport to the capital was being widened to accommodate the distinguished guests (they expect leaders from 80 countries) in greater speed and comfort. The national stadium is being expanded. They expect a crowd in the hundreds-of-thousands, possibly approaching half the population of this kingdom of 700,000.

We took in another temple in the afternoon, a private one built from funds donated by a single patron, before retiring to our hotel (with a king size bed!). Along the way we quizzed Tashi about the politics of the ethnic-Nepalese. It's a complex history, but the general themes are familiar to anyone who lives in a country where the underclass are disproportionately represented by ethnic minorities. But it also seems that the recent stabilization in Nepal has caused certain elements to seek opportunities to export their extremism.

By and large, this is not a poor country. Certainly a good portion of the population live a difficult, agricultural existence. But the land is productive, and the insular history has kept most of the wealth in the country. Familial ties are strong, and in the event that some catastrophe or tragedy of personal failure should leave a person orphaned, handicapped or otherwise unable to support themselves, relations near or distant will step in to provide. This, and the sleepless efforts of the government to protect Bhutan's cultural heritage actually posed a challenge to modernization; there was no available source of cheap labor. This was addressed by the import of workers from India. Construction, road building, and similar projects are carried out exclusively by imported labor. They represent a slightly-hidden underclass, and we occasionally saw the shanties they occupy. The road workers, for example, live in mobile camps that move with the highway progress. Interestingly, they are granted resident status. Medical care is provided free of charge (as it is for all residents of the Kingdom) and special schools are paid for by the government which move with the camps. It isn't full integration, but it is far better than foreign unskilled labor without local-language skills could expect in, say, the United States. This is not a poor country.

The guys went to their homes for dinner, the first real break they've had since we arrived. It's a tough schedule for them, even if their work is seasonal. Never did Tashi or Phubu show an iota of fatigue or boredom.

Into the Secret Layer of Batman... (Bhutan)

susanandlars — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 00:17:00 GMT

Day 2...
We had a full day planned, so rose early. Remedying the sleep deficit of the night skipped in Thailand would have to wait. Not that the morning was without consolations. Breakfast was served on a balcony overlooking the valley, with flowers in the foreground.

The hotel staff/waiter came out to ask what we wanted. In the entire time we were in Bhutan I think we saw one menu, and we didn't order off of it. English is widely spoken here, as with so much of the rest of the world, but it is a second language, and inflections can often be difficult. You never really realize how much language is not in the words... “Breakfast is coffee or tea... Toast...” His English was good, but halting. Were the pauses an implied question? “Yes thanks, coffee and toast would be great”, Susan answered trying to be both polite and encouraging, not leaving the poor guy hanging without a response. So we had a simple meal of coffee and toast with butter and jam. Fine, but a bit light considering our plan for the day was hiking.

Shortly we were on our way to the trailhead for the Tiger's Nest monastery. This is undoubtedly the most famous place in Bhutan, and was the backdrop for the ninja-training sequence in “Batman Begins”. The monastery sits high up on a clifftop, overlooking the valley below. It's a sacred placement, as well as a sacred building – the precipitous ledge into which the monastery is built is said to be the jaw of the tiger-turned-stone.

Even the valley floor is at altitude, and the steep climb ascends something in the neighbohood of 1000 meters total.

A goodly hike if you started at sea level. The path winds up through the forest, which changes in character as we ascend. We get lots of views of the valley and the cliff above us during our frequent water and oxygen breaks. About an hour from the top is a little concessionary where we had the prettiest cup of coffee I can remember.

There was a cute cat there, with a tick nicely nestled into it's neck. There are lots of cats and dogs all over Bhutan, and we were often dodging the canines while playing chicken with the oncoming traffic on the narrow roads. Coincident will all of this was some drama back home. My cat was causing all sort of problems for my roommate, and I wasn't sure he'd be around when I got home in December. My sister had graciously agreed to try and adopt him into her home. So I hoped for some instant Karma as I picked the tick out of the poor little cat here in this Buddist country.

The last part of the path was narrow and steep, with both ups and downs that included some steps hewn into the living rock.

I made the mistake of looking down a few times, and thin air combined with palm-sweat inducing cliffs makes for a light head. I hoped there was enough instant karma left over to preclude a fall.

Obviously, we did make it safe and sound (as apparently, did some 60-somethings going the other way without so much as one short breath).

Tashi gave us the tour. History here comes in layers. Most recently was the impressive story of the reconstruction, as this temple, like just about any old-wood building has been rebuilt. Before that the stories of the resident abbots and their role in Bhutan over the centuries. Farther back is the story/myth of the founding of the temple; how the “Precious Master”, Guru Rinpoche, the founder of the school of Buddism dominant in Bhutan, flew here on the back of his consort in the form of a tiger and made the cliff out of one of her teeth. And before that, the stories that mix Buddism and the local pagan mythology; of battles between Buddst masters and Bodhissatvas against the demons.

At this point it was almost 2 o'clock. Our light breakfast was long since burned up by our exercise, and we were all pretty hungry, but lunch was back at the restaurant where we had coffee. Tashi must have been even hungrier. He was setting the pace downhill and at times we were nearly sprinting.

Lunch was buffet style, a feast of multiple dishes, the cornerstone of which was cheese and chilis. I took a big plate and started with a nice big spoonful of this hearty dish. About two seconds later came the crashing realization that unlike the night before, this was not “not as spicy as one might suspect.” Turns out that the night before Tashi had asked them to make it mild for me by scraping all the seeds out of the chilis. Today's buffet on the otherhand not only used the whole chili, but used these little chilis that they import from India explicitly because they are spicier than the local varieties.

A beautiful downhill hike and a drive before we crashed for a nap back at our cute boutique hotel.

For dinner Tashi arranged a meal at a hotel in town, for a change. A feast, again, and we tried some local beer and a fierce little spirit made from rice. Afterwhich, Susan had the courage to try the “beetlenut”. Everywhere here you see the stained lips and teeth of the habitual users. The bright red fruit has a stimulative effect and is especially popular in wintertime. After a few minutes of “no result” the guys finally realized she wasn't chewing. One chomp of the molars and a few seconds later Susan was flushed and giddy.

The alcohol was flowing, and we bonded with our hosts. Tashi and Phubu tried to explain how, while they are married “here we are bachelors” since they crossed the provincial border. Apparently the zip-code rule isn't as culturally specific as I would have assumed.

Do not pass GO, do not collect $200, go directly to BHUTAN! (Bhutan)

susanandlars — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 16:59:00 GMT

Run, do not walk to your travel agent and book your trip to Bhutan.

If there is a heaven on Earth, it might be the Kingdom of Bhutan. Bhutan literally means “Middle Existence”, as this “Land of the Thunder Dragon” is wedged between giants India and China. But the Himalayas have long provided isolation and security, and while Bhutan has not always been unified under a single ruler, it has never been ruled from without. The natural boundaries kept out much trade as well as armies, and the Bhutanese have developed a rich and unique culture. Only Tibet has significant historical influence, although the last century has seen increasing trade and cultural exchange with India. The landscape is mountainous and very green.

And the mountains are very dramatic. Steep and tall; frequently 1500 meters from valley floor to ridgeline and often as much as 2500 meters. There is only one airport in the country because there is only one valley with a long enough flat area for a runway and enough room between the mountainsides to enable an aircraft to maneuver as it winds its way on approach.

The mountains and altitude make for variable winds and unpredictable weather. So much so, that the two flights into Bhutan both come in the early morning, when the winds are more predictable. Let me tell you, when the fasten seatbelt sign comes on for landing here, nobody questions the wisdom of complying.

This is also a forest country. Unlike Tibet, the more famous Himalayan Kingdom, Bhutan gets significant rainfall. While Tibet is in the rain shadow of the grandest peaks, Bhutan benefits from the warm wet air that comes up from the Indian Ocean. When the warm, wet air ultimately collides with the Himalayas and is forced up it releases its load of water, no longer able to carry such a heavy load in the thin air. Much falls as snow in the extreme elevations, but quite a bit comes as rain in the inhabited ranges. The result steep mountainsides covered in dense forests, and clear, powerful rivers in every valley.

Bhutan has biodiversity and biodensity that is more reminescent of tropical rainforests. It's chief export is hydroelectrical energy. The buildings here all follow a traditional architecture. In most examples a mud brick base supports one or two stories and is painted white. This foundation is often only three sided on the second story.

Windows and the fourth side on the upper level (or the entire third story, where it exists) is made of wood, and painted with bright colors in intricate patters. The walls are crowned with interlocking beams that flange out from the wall, giving a stepped overhang before the roof (and a kind of very intricate crown moulding effect inside). From a distance the more intricate paintings blur together taking the hue of a dark stained wood, and the buildings become a bright white and rich-wood brown.

The whole Kingdom of Bhutan has fewer than 700,000 residents. Farmers and some nomads inhabit the entire range, but only the valleys host significant population concentrations. The mountains are too steep. In some of the valleys with more gentle slopes the hills have been cleared in areas for agriculture, and fields, orchards or rice paddy terraces break the shaggy green texture. But for most of the country, and for most of the view from our hillside hotel balcony there is nothing but green and blue and white.

For a damn treehugger like myself, it makes for a place so beautiful and perfect that I ache. Our first day started in Bangkok airport. We had flown in from Laos the night before, but the flight to Paro, Bhutan leaves Thailand at 4:35 am (see aforementioned need to get there before the sun heats up the valley air). By the time we cleared immigration into Thailand it was 6:00pm. With a check-in time of 2:30, taking a taxi into the city (and back out) was out of the question and spending $70 on an airport hotel that we would use for maybe five hours of sleep seemed stupid. I don't know if it was exactly smart, but we decided to just stay at the airport, eating meals slowly in the luxe lounge and uploading our backlog of photos from Mongolia at the Internet Cafe. The flight routes through Kolkutta, which seems odd at first because it's 1 hour and 40 minutes Bangkok to Kolkutta and from there about 1 hour to Paro. Plus the only other flight into Bhutan goes from Delhi (via Kathmandu). But then we heard from our captain – there is fog in Paro, and landing requires visual flight conditions. Radar just don't cut it. They didn't deplane us because it was standing-room only in the overcrowded airport, so we chilled on the plane for an hour until we got word that the weather was lifting. The short hop there helped us ensure we made what might have been a brief window of opportunity without circling high above the Himalayas. Ah, so that's why we stopped over. The appoach was, as promised, stunning.

Before final we could see over the clouds to the giant snowcapped peaks (higher still than us). It wasn't clear enough to see Everest, but we did see the third highest peak in the world.

At first it just looks like a cloud – then you realize it's snow on rock. The final approach broke through the cloud layer, and we were treated to our first views of green hillsides and sky reflected in flooded rice paddies. At the airport, our guide and our driver were waiting for us right on time. Tashi, our guide, was wearing the traditional Bhutanese dress and our driver, Phubu, was wearing an Eminen t-shirt. They checked us into a cute hotel overlooking the valley..

This was formerly the palace of a local governor, and it is positioned exactly opposite from the fortress-monastery that is and was the administrative capital of the region. Our position on the hillside commands views over the broad valley.

A swift river splits the center. Huddled along the banks of the river and seemingly floating on the rice paddies that surround it is a string of buildings that are considered the “city”. The whole valley has fifty-thousand residents, making Paro a city, but the city part looks like it would fit in a giant's shoebox. It's all very scenic and we could have easily enjoyed the view for hours over the fresh tea they brought us, but frankly the most welcome view of all was two soft beds.

By no means recovered, we rose from our naps sufficiently rested that our excitement would keep up through the day. First priority was lunch.

We were pleasantly surprised by a feast consisting of a dizzying array of dishes completely foreign to us. I recognized some ingredients, but the flavors derived therefrom were wholly novel. I figured that they wanted to “wow” the new visitors with their first meal and introduce them to both the Bhutanese hospitality and cuisine. In fact, this would be the first of many elaborate meals. We again met our guide, Tashi, and driver Purbu, and were off to visit some sights.

It's a direct view across the valley to the Zhong and it's watchtower (now a museum) but the serpintine route down and back up the mountainside took 7 kilometers. The roads here are paved, but almost exclusively one lane. I will never get comfortable with the constant game of chicken, the deftness with which local drivers always seem to know exactly when they have to swerve, and their confidence that their estimates for the width and load capacity of the dirt shoulders. Our first stop is the Bhutan Museum.

Housed in what was once a sort of over-watchtower for the Zhong below. The museum provided samples of traditional and religious art, an exhibit of photographs of all the Kings of Bhutan (there have been 5 since the establishment of the monarchy in 1908), taxidermic example of local fauna, and a few artifacts of prehistory. The curation was passable, but Tashi, our guide, was outstanding. We would later learn that to become a tour guide in Bhutan requires the equivalent of a masters degree in the history, religion, mythology, biology, anthropology and politics of the Kingdom. But our guide was much more enthusiastic about offering knowledge than the other guides we saw accompanying the few other visitors. On several occasions when I asked questions about something, I saw folks bending an ear to get his much more complete, much richer explanations of things. Basically we struck tour guide gold.

Newly versed in the history and mythology of Bhutan, we took a short trip down the hill (again, via the necessesarily serpintine roads) so we could visit the Paro Zhong. Now, I should explain this. A Zhong is built as a fortress. A large central tower is surrounded by fortified stone walls, creating a large courtyard inside. Both the central tower and the surrounding buildings provide functional space. Historically, Bhutan was unified under a Head Abbot, with local lay aristocrats installed as “Governors” who ruled each region. But the bureacratic administration of the country was done by the monks. Today the “monk system” has been replaced by a civil service under the King. But the Zhongs still serve as both government buildings and monasteries.

Every Zhong will house both civil and religious functions but only the monks are in literal residence.

Before we could enter the Zhong, our guide had to add a sort of sash to his traditional national dress. Many sights require Bhutanese to wear traditional “National Dress” when entering, including all the monasteries. The more formal attire is required whenever a local enters a building flying the national flag – essentially Zhongs and palaces.

At first the traditional garb struck me as a sort of funny variant of the Mongolian attire. For men the woolen robe hangs to only just above the knee. Dress shoes are worn, with high socks that nearly reach the knee. Like so many things before, understanding of the form only wanted the opportunity to witness the function. The Himalayan climate is extremely variable, and when heat would cause Susan and me to tie our jackets around our waists, Tashi would roll down his jacket top, and tuck in his sleeves. On the (few) rainy days we had, he could tuck an umbrella into the back, held fast by the wool and ready when needed.

The Zhong itself was very beautiful. These are the most important buildings in Bhutan, and hence the entire structure is very ornate. Plus, Susan got many chances to indulge her eternal “monk-crush”. She keeps telling me to cut my hair really short. I think I'm lucky the monks are forbidden women. When we asked how old the monks would be, Tashi asked them for us.

For the remainder of our visit he took a sampling census. Again, tour guide gold. Often I think Susan and I are hesitant to interrupt locals, to strike up a conversation. We want to be observers, but with the minimum possible imposition, always aware of the stereotype of the ugly American, painfully cautious about being impolite. The encouragement (and often, initiative) of Tashi really helped us navigate through these situations and get way more out of them.

From the Zhong we went to an 11th century monastery, built before Bhutan was Bhutan by a Tibetan King who constructed 108 temples throughout Himalaya.

According to legend, each one pins down a defeated demon. It was cool and old, with lots of Buddhist iconography. I got really into this during my time here, and Tashi never tired of identifying subjects, explaining symbols, or relaying the legends behind them. But I think Susan, who wasn't being paid to indulge my inner 3-year old (“why why why”), gets the medal for patience. I should mention that you can't take photos inside of Buddist temples. Here the prohibition is posted, as it was in Japan. But in Buddist tradition any reproduction of the sacred image is also sacred. As such to take a photo and not treat it as a relic would be sacreligious. So, we haven't done this anywhere on the trip, and have no photos of the insides of these places to show you. Sorry.

We had a couple of hours to crash before dinner at the hotel. Dinner was lunch, but more so, and Tashi had them add the traditional Bhutanese dish of chilis and cheese. Chilis here are eaten as a staple vegetable, and traditionally chilis and cheese are served with every meal; breakfast lunch and dinner. It was very tasty, and not as spicy as one might suspect.

Getting out of Mongolia and some extra photos... (This is the last Mongolia post)

susanandlars — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 17:32:00 GMT

Day 14 – The delay day – good and bad

A 10:40am intenational flight put us at the airport at about a eight. We got out of our cab, hauled our bags in and found the airport mostly deserted. Nobody at the Air China desk, and the information booth not yet open. OK, our 2 ½ hour early arrival was perhaps a bit conservative... We plunked down with our bags and went looking for the monitors. We had checked online the night before, and confirmed our ontime departure. On our double take we noticed that the alternating Cyrillc/Roman announcement was alternating 22:40/10:40pm. Not a typo. Shit.

We had to wait another hour before the Air China staff showed up. A nice long queue, but they did change our Thai Air flight to Bangkok. We would miss our flight to Laos, but that was an online e-ticket, so we were on our own for fixing that.

The staff in UB was pretty efficient. Apparently this happens all the time (as in approaching 80% of the time either huge delays or wholesale cancellations). To their credit they checked in the entire flght to a hotel for the 12 hours, with a bus back and forth and lunch and dinner provided.

At the hotel we caught up on sleep and uploading photos, and made some new friends. There was a really friendly engineer for Thompson, working in Beijing in prep for the Olympics. He had come up to UB to help bid on upgrading their TV networks and to help a buddy pitch a charity project whereby rural Mongolian children would be provided with a sort of watered-down laptop for remote learning. Class materials would then be broadcast across the country directly to the electronic textbooks. We also met a a nice Israeli couple. The five of us had a grand time chatting over meals and learning from each other's travels. We were still sitting in the cafeteria an hour after finishing our meals, long past when everyone else had retired to their rooms. I think Susan regained a little faith in the friendliness of people.

We had a minor misadventure when the hotel tried to charge us something like US$40 for a ten minute phonecall when we had to change our Air Laos ticket (Air Laos, incidentally was very cool and did it all for free). We had asked for instructions on how to use the lobby payphone, but the desk staff said “Oh, just use our phone here at the desk.” Haha, not mentioning that they would charge like US$4 a minute. Fuckers. Hours later as I'm sitting in the lobby using the wireless they present me with the bill. As politely as I can, I tell them where they can put it. OK, actually, I told them they could present it to Air China.

After a tense 30 minutes, with the hotel staff threatening to call the police if I would not pay, and me insisting that they call Air China we settled on a compromise where Air China would pay half, and I would not have to test their bluff and potentially deal with the local authorities in a foreign language over a $20 extortion. I'm pissed that Air China isn't covering this – they so clearly have a cozy relationship with the hotel. But I shelled out. Apparently, my tolerance for extortion is somewhere over $20 and below $40. I wonder where it will be after Africa.

In anycase, we did get on the bus, on the plane and out of Mongolia. Sadly, this did not mean we had had the last of our China problems.

So whatever - our Air China flight from Ulaanbataar to Beijing was delayed 12 hours. The airline claimed a dubious “weather” delay, but this segment is apparently delayed frequently by Air China because there is virtually no competition. We would miss our Thai Airlines, but after waiting at the UB airport for the Air China staff to arrive, they assisted in changing the connecting flights for all the travellers, ourselves included.

But that meant we got in to Beijing a little after 2 am, the day after we were supposed to. Our new connection is 8:30 am; sadly this cost us a full day, as we also miss our Lao Airlines connection to Luang Probang (of phone call infamy). When we got to Beijing there was no staff except the immigration folks, so we got our bags and found a bench to sleep a few hours.

When check-in for our Thai flight opened, we learned that we would be charged a $35 “change fee”. Thai Airlines sent us to the Air China desk, who absolutely refused to pay the fee, and a nice game of finger pointing left us with a credit card charge for $70 (two tickets) and a stamped piece of paper certifying our flight was delayed (not that anyone cared). All this from two Star Alliance “partners”.

It would seem that Air China is so notoriously late, that even their alleged “partners” will no longer waive change fees resulting from their dubious “weather delays”.

We even spoke to the “Duty Manager” in Beijing Airport. This is the largest airport in the world, but the person who asserts they are in charge of the state air carrier in the airport of the capital city of China can't get a $35 charge waived or refunded.

With the ensuing crowds and chaos of the forthcoming Olympics the situation can only get worse. China's transportation infrastructure is at the breaking point already, (the government here plans to compel half of the cars to stay off the road during the Olympic period). One can only imagine what kinds of delays and frustrations the hundreds of thousands of international travellers will face during this period, but there is one thing I can predict with certainty – the challenges at the world's largest airport will be exacerbated by some of the world's worst customer service.

They don't call it the world's harshest environment for nothing (Mongolia)

susanandlars — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 17:31:00 GMT

Day 11 – At White Lake

The night was a cold one, and we huddled deep into our sleeping bags.

The wood-fired stove had gone out relatively early. It was raining when we went to bed, and turned from a steady pour to a full-on gale during the night. I awoke several times during the night when the whole ger would shake under the gusts. I doubted the stability of a structure which is basically shaped like a wing, but I needn't have. Eventually the storm blew through without tearing our room from over our heads.

We never once had a stove with a flue or any other means to control the speed of wood consumption in the stove. Add more wood, and it would burn hotter, but never very long. This was less of an issue on the previous nights, when the desert would turn cold, but not bitter. Here the air was thin and damp, and the night very, very cold – spilling into your sleeping bag through any uninsulated parts.

The stove is made of thin metal, and so holds no heat of its own. I was tempted several times to add some stones to the stove so that at least something would contain heat during the night, but never did. I doubt it would have really worked anyway.

The sun rises early, and I could see the light out the little window of our ger. Lots and lots of light. It was still very cold, but nature called. I did my best to pull on my fleece and socks before getting out of my sleeping bag. When I opened the ger door I was nearly blinded by the high mountain light. It was then that I realized it had snowed during the night.

It was very beautiful, and I grabbed my camera for a few photos before I crawled back into bed.

By the time I reawoke, the snow had already surrendered much of its substance to the sun, now high over us.

It was a lazy day, and we used the cold and snow as an excuse to abbreviate our ventures outdoors and to bury our noses in books and card games. That afternoon we opted to go on a horse ride, in part because Andre and Natalya had forged the path for us and been supplied traditional Mongolian riding coats by our hosts. Thick and woolen, we wore these over our winter digs with much success.

Note though, that the sleeves on this thing are supposed to be so long as to cover your hands (obviating the need for gloves). It was fun, but these horses were super slow, I could have easily outpaced them in flip-flops, much less in hiking boots and with a good walking stick.

It snowed again that night, and the next morning we were prepared, but no less enchanted by the lighter dusting.

We packed the van and were off the next morning. It would take us two days of long rides to get back to UB, but we were now on our way home. The back of the van seemed suddenly VERY full. I lifted the tarp to see what the extra load was. Apparently coming up short of engines to work on, Bud, Rink and Doc had helped the family cut and split firewood. In return, Doc was taking home several unplit logs of firewood for his family.

Day 12 – Drive to Kharkorum

On the way to Kharkorum, we got another flat tire.

The route to Kharhorum took us through Tsetserleg, and we again had lunch at the only real restaurant in 300 miles. We actually got to meet one of the owners, but forgot to ask what religion he was a missionary for, so this remains a mystery. In any case, I am happy to report that he is a very friendly emissary for whoever it is.

At Kharkorum we had time to explore the old empirical palace. Ghengis Khan never established a permanent capital, instead maintaining the mobility that gave the Mongols their initial strength. But his grandson, who would briefly rule the eastern half of the empire, built a capital to rival the ages here. Tribute poured in from across the known world – the Mongol empire stretched from the Pacific, past the Urals along the shore of the black sea, and to the edge of Egypt. It was Kharkorum that was visited by Marco Polo.

Little remains of the original capital, in part because much of the greatest treasure went with Kubla Khan when he moved his capital to what is now Beijing and became the Chinese Emporer. But some buildings are being restored, and the original palace walls are in place.

That night we commissioned a performance of traditional Mongolian music in our ger. The two musicians were throat singers and played several traditional instruments. It was very cool.

Though we had decended quite a bit in altitude, the winter weather had followed us. That night it snowed. The loo was only fifty feet or so away from the ger, but the door wasn't on it's hinges, just sort of propped at an angle that provided for some modesty unless you are standing right in front. Not that it would have mattered much, the wood for the walls was rough hewn, and the gaps between the boards was wide enough for your pinky. The outhouse also backed against the fence, the other side of which provided backboard for a basketball hoop.

When we first got here Susan aborted a trip to the loo when the transparency of the fence and the proximity of kids playing basketball basically meant that that you had anonymity but not privacy. It was all academic at this point, you don't spend two weeks camping in the desert without learning some skills to politely avert your attention, except that the gaps admitted both sight and snow.

It snowed that night, and the wind howled. I ventured forth from the ger late in the night, and could see only a few feet with the light from my headlamp. The lowing snow was so thick and fast I thought it was a sandstorm. But the next morning the wind had calmed and in the light of day we could clearly see the five-or-so inches of fresh snow on the ground. It would make for an interesting drive to UB, as the wind had calmed, but the snow was still falling fast.

Day 13 – Drive to UB

As much fun as we had had camping, the prospect of a pivate room and a real bed with sheets was very welcome. No amount of snow, slippery road, or near-collisions with sliding trucks could dampen our enthusiasm.

It was a long drive, and the morning was white-knuckle as we weaved around cars and trucks mired in the deep snow. Four wheel drive is the norm here, but the sheer depth of the snow made ground clearance an equally vital factor. We passed many, many other vehicles that would have to wait for the afternoon sun to melt the snow before they would be able to proceed.

Eventually we did escape from under the storm, and as we approached UB the route cleared. We even started to recognise that we were driving on a real road. The foreign aid dollars are being put to use on infrastructure, and a big priority is the linking of population centers. This was the first place we saw any pieces of real construction equipment. Haulers, loaders, dozers, graders, and the like (I noted with a tinge of nationalistic sadness that most were Bombardier, and none Catapillar). And we saw them rather up-close.

The road is under construction but it is still the road. There are no flagmen, detour signs, or closed roads. Cars weave around moving construction equipment, and occasionally we found ourselves on the wrong side of berms of gravel or soil that were stretched for kilometers without a break, awaiting the crews to lay the foundation for the road. Several times we came to a point in the road where the entire tarmac was blocked by a pile of rock. Sometimes there was a rather redundant sign with an arrrow indicating that you can't go straight. So it was that even where there was paving, we spent about half the time paralleling the asphalt.

But we made it, in one piece and with high spirits to the UB guesthouse, hot showers and clean beds. the next morning Susan and I were to fly to Beijing, connecting to Bangkok where we would spend a night before hopping a puddle jumper to Luang Prabang Laos for some rest. This was all part of “Plan B” which we formed when it became evident China was not going to open Tibet as promised. Little did we suspect that Plan B would also be altered by China...

Did you hear the one about the Monastery, the Volcano and the Lake? (Mongolia)

susanandlars — Sun, 3 Aug 2008 17:30:00 GMT

Day 9 – Drive to Tsetserleg

Tsetserleg is a “real city” with electricity, Internet, running water and pavement. Our ger had electric lighting (well, ok AN electric light), and we got to charge our cameras and ipods. We missed on the Internet, mostly because we were too tired to walk back into the center of town. We did get showers, the third in 9 days, again at the public shared shower.

And we had our first honest to god water-flushing toilet since leaving UB 9 days before. This was at the cafe where we had an early dinner/late lunch. The running water ran out somewhere before or after the asphalt, but both fell short of our accomodation.

When we first pulled up to the cafe, it was about 3 in the afternoon. Every building in Mongolia is an anonymous box, sometimes bearing a cyrillic sign, and very occasionally a picture or something legible to the roman-alphabet-only club members. Now in 9 days of driving you do a lot of stopping. Often for bio-breaks, but also the occasional flat tire, photo op, or what not. The Mongolian steppe is beautiful, but anonymous. Frequently, the purpose of our stop is not immediately evident – there might be a special overlook just behind a rock, or a monastery tucked around a corner, or whatever. So it is that every time the bus comes to a halt, the car fills with a familiar chorus. “Toilet?”, “Flat Tire?”, “Photo?” as everyone takes their guess. Then Doc will nod the affirmative as he repeats back “Toilet” or whatever. But we were all befuddled by this one. We had made a few stops in the city – for fuel or groceries (“Shop?”). But the shops all had big signs with faded photos of veggies and fruit (which they don't actually stock, but I suppose there are no truth in advertising laws out here). And so we all sat in silence as we waited for Doc to declare the purpose of our stop (or to jump out and do something). The moment dragged on. Finally, Doc said “No?” as he looked around at all of his unmoving passengers. “What is it?” was the chorused reply. “Lunch!” “Ohhhh!” and we all excitedly poured out of the van.

Besides hamburgers, real fresh veggies, and lasagna there was nothing to report on from Tsetserleg. It was less depressing than crap-town, to be sure. With some vestiges of an actual economy, including at least one factory doing something. But the desert had long since reclaimed most of the roads, the manhole covers from what sewerage there was just sort of stuck up out of the hard dirt in random places. Like everywhere in Mongolia, the permanent structures were bleak soviet-era concrete block buildings, ugly when new. Most of the large, industrial buildings were living answers to the question – 'what happens to steel and concrete when you abandon it in the harshest imaginable environment for a few decades?'

Day 10 – Drive to White Lake

Tanks full – of petrol, fresh(er) food, and ipod-juice we trucked out for our final scenic destination of the trip “White Lake”.

En route we stopped at a restored Monastery.

Basically destroyed under the Soviet-puppet rule, it has been lovingly restored. There are not very many old permanent structures in this country, and the few historic monasteries they have are all significant both historically and religiously. Most religiously significant spots are identified by a piling of rocks and accumulated offerings, usually strung with blue prayer flags. To a nomadic people who in ancient time regarded the great blue sky as the source of divine power, these were the only practical structures to constuct, but also all that was appropriate. It would be counter productive to block out the sky.

But with the arrival of Buddism beliefs merged and adapted, and a few monasteries were built.

The setting was beautiful, as the monastery was established on a natural granite tor sticking up out of the otherwise rolling hills in an alpine area like the sharp, hard bone of a compound fracture jutting out of soft flesh.

I wondered whether the natural geologic parallels to the man-made tor was a deliberate symbolic aspect of the choice, or if the site was selected merely for it's inherent specialness.

Visiting it required some significant use of the quadracepts, and also the inner ear. One area was only accessible via a vertical rock climb, a short distance up, but perched atop a very preciptous cliff. There was no protection, but the rock was quite rough and provided easy hand-holds. Still, any spill would definitly prove lethal.

The drive was only a few hours, but almost entirely uphill. At the “waterfall” we were at alpine altitude, but had decended back into steppe at Tsetserleg. For “white lake” we would climb higher still, to air thin enough that we could feel it. White Lake is a Volcanic lake, inside a huge caldera. It eventually drains northwards, through rivers and lakes to Lake Baikal, in Russia, and on to the Artic Ocean.

The area around the lake has two characters. Immediately adjacent, and in the same depression that the lake itself inhabits, time and weather have worn rock into soil, and smoothed the rough edges. Erosion has carved some spaces back from the water's edge where hillsides can shelter from the biting wind. The lake is wide, but not so wide you can't see across it – a kayak could cross in an hour or so. The length was more significant, and though we could see the far end we would not attempt to reach it by foot, hoof nor wheel. A few dozen miles, I would guess, and upwind. The next two nights we would camp in gers by the lake.

But before we reached our camp we drove through the “other” part of the White Lake area. Extremely rough, and covered with razor-sharp volcanic debris, this area was old enough to have mature pine trees, but was geologically very new. Here was the more recent activity, and we climed up the side of a steep “hill” to see the caldera. This one was much smaller, about a hundred yards across. Had it not been for the thin air we could have climbed down to the bottom, but the sides were steep and the sand loose, and we were sucking wind hiking at altitude. On the way back down we noticed a few smaller depressions where vents must have poked through, spewing ash and chunks of rock. The side of the mountain was very steep, and the earth only loosely held by scrub and trees, yet this little caldera, no deeper than I am tall, was still unfilled. I don't know how long these things take, but the impression of newness was reenforced by the areas of charred tree trunks not far away.

There were four gers at the campsite, and one permanent building; a small two story house made of wood. The lower floor was a bedroom, little bigger than the roughly queen-sized bed it contained. Above this was a combination living room, kitchen, second bedroom where the family spent the whole day when not outside working. The gers were strictly for tourist guests. There was also a proper outhouse with two sit-down loos and actual doors. This was made entirely of wood, and had no running water. It also had a sort of vent out the side for the vault below, and when the wind came from a certain direction there was a rather swift updraft in “the critical places”. Even so, it was pure luxury after almost two weeks of strained knees unused to squatting. It was also only for the guests. The family used a facility that was also on the edge of the compound at a discrete distance. I didn't bother to examine it closely, having seen it's brethren many a time. From a distance there is just three sides of canvas held up by four stakes in the ground. The vault is covered by wooden planks, with one plank deliberately missing from the middle. Both faciliites were sort of mobile, with no foundation. When the time comes a new pit is dug, the wooden structure is dragged into place, the old pit is filled and the location marked with stones or old tires or some other sufficiently semi-permanent designator.

We were right on the edge of the lake, and could look out from our ger door across the water to the far side and mountains behind. It was dazzling in bright sun, the sun still high past dinnertime.

Again here, we had two nights.

Lars has found his true calling (Mongolia)

susanandlars — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 17:29:00 GMT

Day 7 – Drive to Waterfall with no water

We rose early, packed the truck, and couldn't get out of Craptown fast enough. Our destination for the day was the “Waterfall” although, as Doc told us, there was no water – the snows have already melted, I guess.

Still, we would spend two nights along a gorge in the high alpine. The livestock herds were sheep and goats, of course, but replaced cows with Yaks, of whose furry visages Susan never tired.

The route was very beautiful, and took us through an impossible mountain pass, along which we saw several recently deceased livestock. This is a tough time here. While the weather is no longer its coldest, the spring grasses are not yet arrived and so the animals are at their weakest from months of little food. It is sad to think that if the cattle had survived just a few more weeks they would have almost certainly lived until next winter. This is part of why we've been eating so poorly. The locals are still on winter provisions; dried yoghurts, meats, noodled and rice from last harvest season. Nobody would slaughter livestock this early – they wait until it has fattened. We're a little early for the Mongolian tourist season, and so most reports we have read are of travellers who come in summer – when meals consist of meat, meat and more meat.

We all thought that this beautiful, steep and rugged path would lead us to our waterless waterfall. We were at the top of a long and deep valley, a natural destination point. But the road just kept going, until eventually we were following water with the current, rathan than against. It would be several more hours before we arrived.

Along the way we picked a very pretty place to get a flat tire.

When finally we arrived at our home we split into two groups. The dutchmen had a small ger near the family and the paddock – the slovaks, Susan and I had a slightly larger ger just alongside a gorge much like what you would see in Yellowstone, with steep dark rock walls.

We did some hiking. First along the gorge including the overlook of the non-waterfall. The river in the gorge was flowing, only this specific waterfall was dormant. It would have been very dramatic, a river lazing along an almost flat grassland until it suddenly plunged a hundred feet into a gorge that is invisible from more than a few hundred yards away.

We also spent a little bonding time with the lambs and kids among the mixed goat and sheep herd. Not so much on purpose as because the sheep decided I looked like someone they ought to follow.

Docile or not, sheep and goats are pretty creepy looking when you see them up close; with their funky eyes and threatening horns. Eventually my lack of food became evident and they shuttled off just as quick and they had stormed toward me and I hardly had time to scoop up a little lamb for a cuddle. The kids were too spry.

It was then that I realized that the little lamb had a limp. Either this was why I could catch him, or why he let me catch him. In any case, I didn't help, nor would have known what to do, not that I would dare interfere with someone elses livestock. I suppressed the thoughts that reached me now – the little white ball of fuzz which a moment ago was in my hands would almost certainly not live to see another spring. Either he would fail to keep up with the herd, and die young and alone, or he would fatten on the spring and summer grass and be slaughtered for meat come fall. A lame sheep being hopeless in a Mongolian winter.

We also managed to get quite close to the Yak herd (which are often shy) when I said “oh look, a baby yak”. It was at this moment that I realized three things simultaneously (1) the baby yak was tied in place, it's mother and the entire herd were staying together and this is why we could get close (2) the snorting sound was only coming from one Yak, a rather large fellow with horns who was looking right at us (3) he was not tied to anything at all. At this point we made a strategic retreat, using the rocky landscape to put both distance and uneven terrain between us and the “oh so cute” Yaks.

There was another group staying at the same compound, at gers a bit farther away than ours, but an easy walk. They had gathered a bunch of dead wood, and that night we had a campfire at the bottom of the gorge by the river.

It was a cold and dark night, especially in the bottom of the gorge; perfect for campfiring. It was quite late before we even trekked down the canyon walls. Our latitude is about the same as Nova Scotia, the days are long and campfires are really best when its dark. We had some fun conversation with a Kiwi couple, but by and large reenforced our findings that most people aren't that friendly. You meet lots of people on the road, people from everywhere. But the people you actually talk to, the ones that make conversation rather than just saying hello and then keeping to themselves are invariably Americans, Kiwis, Australians or Canadians (with the occasional loquacious Brit). This never really surprised me; I am not, as they say, a people-person. But it drives Susan nuts. It took her two months of sequential international travel and 10,000 miles to come to the conclusion that “people aren't that friendly!” I don't think she realized until now that she was carryng 90% of the load in many of her single-serving friendships.

The next day we got to enjoy a relaxed pace of life, reading, walking and generally not-driving. We also took a short horse ride. These guys were pretty lively.

We were in the alpine regions – colder and wetter than everything we'd seen so far. The grass here was dense already, and there were actual trees. The horses had taken a group out a few hours earlier (the Kiwis and their unfriendly comrades). They were strong already (or still?) being bred for endurance and fattened since the snow had melted. They were no less spirited for their morning ride. If anything, they were more hyper, having lost their patience for pokey, unskilled riders. As a result they didn't really want to go away, and kept turning back towards the stable and paddock.

Susan had a hell of a time getting hers to go straight. Andre and I, for whatever reason, had little trouble (these wouldn't be the first sexist horses I'd met). The guide was constantly doubling back to grab the lead line of Susan's or Natalya's horse and bring them back close to the group. It got so that at the turnaround point he had me trade with Susan. This was an interesting idea because I had been given the largest horse, and Susan the smallest. Once on Susan declared that she had upgraded to “business class” what with the big saddle to go with the big horse. I just did my best to avoid trotting and was thankful that I don't intend to sire children for a few years at least.

At this point in the narrative, any horsemen or horsewomen out there are already laughing, because there is a reason for the expression “like a horse smelling the stable”. As reluctant as they were to go away, the horses were enthusiastic to get home. No dummies these, and well aware that a minute sooner to the stable was a minute less time carrying the damn tourists (who outweigh their usual Mongolian load by quite a bit). Natalya, who had never riden before in her life, didn't know how to reign in her horse, which promptly skipped trotting and went straight into a canter. This of course made the other horses want to catch up.

No problem for Andre, who was enjoying the faster pace and Susan in her upgraded digs, but I have seen dogs larger than the pony I was riding, and we hadn't lengthened the stirrips when we traded. At a trot I could hold myself up out of the saddle and so avoid the metal ring at the front which is ostensibly used to secure ropes but seems mainly to ensure the compact and efficient genetic heritage of ethnic Mongolians by irrevocably sterilizing oversized horsemen in the most painful way imaginable. The real trouble was when my horse wanted to canter. The damn thing is so small, and my feet so large that at full stride I would basically kick the horse in the shins with each step (really, he was kicking himself, but the argument is academic when you are worried about permanently injuring someone else's livelihood while many many miles from any traditional legal arbitration). Rather than find myself indentured to a nomad for a term equivalent to the value of one horse, I kept reigning him in. Some horses just need to be dominated, and eventually he got the idea of “who is in charge”. This was about the same time that a really beautiful eagle was swooping overhead.

Big eagles are everywhere here, and it is wonderful to see them hover overhead. Every once in a while you'll see them with some part of their catch hanging out of their beaks. But I had yet to see one strike. This one was hovering quite low, and immediately overhead in a tight circle, so I was getting a good look and hoping for some drama.

Drama, of course, came in the form of my horse deciding on this moment to break his stride and instead of cantering, just dancing in circles. We did make it all back in one piece, and without anyone falling off, though I came damn close to watching the eagle from flat on my back. I think I kind of impressed my guide when I managed to NOT fall off, but his smile might just as well been mirth at my expense.

In the morning we were off early for Tsetserleg and the first western food in 9 days, from a cafe run by British expat missionaries.

That is one giant sand dune! (Mongolia)

susanandlars — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 17:28:00 GMT

Day 4 – Stay at Dinosaur Bones, ride camels, take shower

This was Susan's favorite place of the whole Mongolia trip. It was very, very beautiful. This was the area I described earlier – with red mud cliffs ringing a sandy tableland. Again, the feel was qualitatively much like I imagine the Southwest to be.

The night we arrived we watched the camel shaving. And on our full-day (no driving) we did some exploration by foot, meeting the boy with the shovel, and went for a camel ride (see PART 1).

We also got our first shower in three days, paying 2000 Turkigs (about $2) at a tourist camp a short walk away from our gers. They had cold beer, and though it was crap it was oh so nice. Poor Bud had to pump extra insulin, but for once I agreed that it was worth it. We decided to also get a tasty lunch of cooked meat, rice, and “tomato” sauce (ketchup, of course) (poor Bud went through yet another needle – he takes it in stride but to me the guy is a living lesson in why NOT to get diabetes) but there were some carrots in there, and a little potato so we were all pretty stoked. The women folk were a little less stoked when they saw the stock of goat meat aging outside – and feeding the flies.

That night it rained, not much, but enough to be encouraging to the locals that spring had arrived. We didn't stick around long enough to know if this rain brought out the grasses, but as we drive on in the following days the landscape turned more green. Whether this was our change in location or the result of a few critical days in early spring I can't say.

Day 5 – Drive to Sand Dunes, climb dunes

From “Dinosaur bones” we trucked off for the “Big Sand Dune”. One giant dune 160 km long. When I heard this I pictured us driving across a giant stretch of sand-desert so subtlely graded as to appear flat. But in fact we drove across more steppe, dirty and dusty, but not pure sand, until over a ridge we suddenly had view of the “Big Sand Dune”. Also, it isn't one sweeping curve, arching to a peak, but a long stretch of dunes pushed up against rocky mountains at the edge of the steppe.

By early afternoon we were at our ger, and so could start the hike out to the dune. It seemed to be right there, so Susan and I set off right away.

But after 45 minutes weseemed no closer. We had trekked through broken hard dirt and rolling soft soil where clumps of scrub tried desperately to hold onto some earth. Then the ground basically dropped out from us and a small stream wound through the bottom of a muddy cravasse. There was no easy way across this, and after managing a ford without losing our shoes to the slurping mud we still seemed no closer to the dunes. It was the hottest time of day, and expecting a 30 minute walk we had brought no water.

Prudence being the better part of valour we turned back, and aside from a nasty assault by some biting flies who took to the scent of disturbed river mud on our shoes, we made it back to the ger.

Our second attempt was better provisioned and more wisely scheduled for when the sun was lower. As luck would have it, this was also much better for the light and shadow, making the dunescape more dramatic.

We climbed to the top of the steep sand, and sat for a while as we watched our footprints vanish in the wind. Eventually we spotted Rink following our trail, and when he caught up we got a few really scenic Gobi portraits.

Day 6 – Drive to Crappy town

The first half of our trip was the Gobi – steppe, canyons, dunes and all. But the second half was alpine Mongolia. Between these two is a whole lotta nothing.

Day 6 was a long ten hours inside a Russian four-by-four with six other people who hadn't showered in two days, and were all on a new diet.

At the end of it was Ghhhttnnks or some such. Also known as “crappy town in the middle of nowhere”. But important as it has (1) showers, (2) electricity for recharging cameras and (3) petrol.

Now I'm kind of glad I got to see this place. We were in the “downtown” for provisioning in the nearly-empty super markets and for showering in the really sketchy communist showers. was happy to have a shower, and really, it was fine, but again this place, another holdover from the Soviet era, is like a living Public Service Announcement about the dangers of the “Reds”. The other thing that really surprised me was that even in this “city” with something like 10-15,000 residents there was no public sanitation. After our showers, when we got to our gers (locked inside a fence amidst anonymous thousands of other no-longer-nomads) we still had only an outhouse and the water we carried. It will take a long, long time to modernize this country.

I wish them well, don't get me wrong. While China felt like a backwards place trying to build a veneer of modernity, Mongolia is clearly a developing country actually trying to prioritize sensibly (whitening cream notwithstanding). The people are so nice and welcoming, you really hope for the best for them; but with a confidence that they can do it. I'm not the only one - Mongolia's recent peaceful transition from one-party rule to a true democracy (including some shifts in power back and forth) and aggressive anti-corruption activity has yielded significant foreign aide. But they do have a lot to do.

Land of Fire and Ice! (Mongolia)

susanandlars — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 17:26:00 GMT

Day 2 – Drive to “White Mountain” Red rocks

The next morning we were off for another haul across the steppe. The landscape out the windows was constantly changing.

Table-flat at times and rolling and bumpy at others, I took some video inside the car to try and capture the experience, but it doesn't really come out. Nobody was ill (the whole trip, actually) but there were definitely times that Susan and I were eating a few extra peanuts (peanuts settle your stomache which is why they traditionally serve them aboard airplanes). But mostly flat – which was why we were all so surprised to suddenly find ourselves atop a cliff overlooking an infinitude of red rock badlands.

I've actually never really explored the Southwest of the United States, but this is much how it looks in my imagination. We snapped some photos and again were off for our ger for the night.

Soaking up the peace and quite of the empty steppe is a beautiful way to spend an evening. Our ger was in the middle of a very large dale. I sat for a time with the camels listening to them crunch on the brittle grass.

There was very little green; the spring rains had evidently not yet showered here. In the distance I could see an occasional sheep siloutted along the ridge and when the wind was right you could hear them bleating across the miles.

Our ger had only 5 beds, and Bud kept joking that he could “share” with our hostess, a cute little Mongolian woman. Natalya was taken with the Mongolian women from the start “they look like dolls” she would say. Inwardly I cringed a little at the racial generalizations, but I didn't disagree with the sentment.

Now Bud is something like 50, with a shaved head and a huge spare tire. For the first few days of our trip his left eye was ringed in red – not blood shot, bloody. Seems he and Rink had a REALLY good time on the Trans-siberian, but that one night brought one Vodka bottle too many and Bud awoke with an eyeball filled with blood. The red ring was the remnant of an even worse start. So you have to picture this giant vodka-guzzling guy, with his earrings and motorcycle-watch and black t-shirt with a giant skull and this tiny little Mongolian, demure and gentle and seemingly new to the world.

Bud and Rink travel a lot together, both are either divorced or never married – it was sort of unclear. Bud would joke about all his “ex-wives” but I think anything with two-legs and a pulse qualified for the honorific. About half-way into the nights vodka bottles (plural, yes) the guys were retelling stories of previous trips. Bud waxed poetic about the beauty of Thailand's beaches and jungles. “Everyone thinks you just go to Thailand for the sex... I mean, yes you do, but the beaches are really beautiful too!”

Bud did end up sleeping in the other ger, but in his own bunk. Come morning when he found out she was only 17, and the daughter of the family whose other gers were barely visible on the horizon he seemed a little sheepish. Even to a guy in a skull T-shirt, a 30-year age difference is impolitic.

Dinner was dried noodles and rehydrated dried yogurt, and in portions more appropriate for a svelte 5'4” local than a 6'7” guy and two bikers. Susan and I cut up our bell peppers and made a hug bowl of pasta with olive oil and the veggies. They wouldn't keep anyway, and we had enough for everyone. We got lots of thanks and goodwill, especially from Bud as he injected himself with extra insulin to counteract the extra starch. No sooner had we all put down the extra food and Bud was injecting again – this time to counteract the vodka bottle he and Rink were opening.

Despite the quantities consumed, the conversation never got above a certain tembre. Something about the majesty of the environs causes the same sort of sotto voce that one uses in a temple or church. Really, the unholy racket didn't start until we went to sleep. Now I'm not one to throw stones on this, because I know I can saw wood with the best of them, but let's just say I found it sort of appropriate that these two would be driving around in big bikes with drag pipes instead of mufflers. They must keep about the same volume in daytime and nighttime. Again, earplugs to the rescue.

Breakfast was tea and a couple of cookies. Our bread was still passable, I never thought I would miss all the preservatives they bake into these things at home, but by the next day it was getting pretty sketchy.

Day 3 – See Ice Falls, Ice Valley, See Bainzak town, Drive to Dinosaur Bones

From our second camp we had a short drive to the town of Bainzak, where we planned to do a little reprovisioning before heading off to see the “Ice falls” and the “Ice Valley”. The food thus far has been less than subsistence, and nothing fresh. The last of our veg was the cucumber we sliced onto our near-wooden bread for lunch. But we'd gotten the rhythem of cooking a little extra for dinner, and carrying some bread/nuts/whatever for lunch. So we were eager to stock up on stuff, especially some fresh veg for the next three days.

At this point anyone who has actually been to Mongolia is laughing.

If you ever have a conversation with one of those people who is like “Communism is beautiful man, I mean, everybody is equal and works together, it's a workers paradise” you gotta take them to a Mongolian supermarket.

Imagine a room thirty feet by fifteen feet. Along the walls are shelves, and in front of these is a counter. The centre of the room is empty. The sheves are sparsely filled, and about half of the shelf space is given over to household sundries – beauty products, diapers, really awful toilet paper. About a third is vodka. The remaining sixth is cookies, flour, dried rice, chocolate, dried meat, sketchy sausages, canned meat and stale bread. For you non-math types, this leaves exactly zero space for produce, which is how much they had. Not one veggie, not one fruit. The only “juice” is orange soda (which I discovered the next morning when I opened it).

Now to a journal writer this part of the story is about how this would indicate that for the next 13 days there would be nothing fresh – not one veg, not one fruit, not one unpreserved piece of meat. To the social scientist this is about how a part of the world without running water or sewerage DID have “whitening face cream” whatever the hell that is. Public sanitation is 'an important public good', but vanity, it seems, is profitable no matter where you are. Guess which gets priority in practice.

A drive and a hike brought us to the ice falls.

It's technically not a glacier, just winter snowpack sliding down the steep walls of steep canyons, but it sure looks like a glacier. Two hours before we were in cookie-baking heat in the middle of the desert, and here we were treading carefully lest we slip on the ice and snow.

Back in the van and another short hike brought us to the “Ice Valley”. It's a river at the bottom of another impossibly steep canyon.

Even in May it's frozen almost solid – reminder that without moisture to hold the heat from the daytime sun, desert temperatures plummet once the sun has set.

Rather than stay in the bleak Bainzak (which Bud kept referring to as “Mine Sac” in a crude bastardization of Dutch and Mongolian that needs no translation to English) we plowed on to “Dinosaur Bones”, where we would spend two nights.

Bud and Rink helped Doc patch the tire we'd blown earlier, and then we're messing around with one of the local's motorcycles. Neither of the guys speaks Mongolian, and obviously no Mongolians speak Dutch, but Bud and Rink and Doc and the host patriarch were all laughing histerically and halfway through a bottle of the local engine degreaser (OK, the label technially says vodka, but I am dubious) before the host women had boiled the water for tea.

Dinner was pretty exciting – noodles with a few flecks of dried meat (instead of yoghurt).

That night we had one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever witnessed – a scene of steppe, and sheep and distant gers all painted with a humbling palette.