Remember That Town Where I Only Had Mangos and Wine

"I didn't mean to treat you so bad
You shouldn't take it so personal
I didn't mean to make you so sad
You just happened to be there, that's all
When I saw you say "goodbye" to your friends and smile
I thought that it was well understood
That you'd be comin' back in a little while
I didn't know that you were sayin' "goodbye" for good

But, sooner or later, one of us must know
You just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you"

I picked that song for you, Elliot. You better get it.

In keeping with my "Hostile Hostel Owner" theme, in Nairobi, I found yet another backpacker joint with yet another totally psychotic ex-pat owner. He found out I would be in Kenya for another two and a half weeks, so he invited me to stay and work for him. He explained that the hostel needed "a woman's touch". I am not really sure what he meant by that and frankly not too sure if I want to find out. It crossed my mind to take him up on the offer, as I would get free accommodations and meals and a flight out to Lamu the next weekend. Then I heard him go on one of his many rants to one of his employees and I quickly changed my mind. I had actually heard about this guy from other travelers back in Rwanda and came knowing about his lunacy to some extent. I guess I've developed some sort of morbid curiosity toward crazed hostel owners.

I stayed in Nairobi for a few days. I found it to be a nicer, less threatening city than I had anticipated. Or perhaps people don't bother me because I might be walking around with a grrrr on my face. During my freshman year of college, I remember my History of Music professor telling the class about riding the Seattle Metro bus into work and noticing that the seat next to him was the only unoccupied seat. He brought this up because he is African American and he felt sure that this was the reason the seat next to him remained unoccupied. (I can tell you all from too many personal experiences on the Seattle Metro that having an empty seat next to you is actually very desirable, given the characters that may join you.)

I thought of this professor's story because the exact same thing happened to me one evening in Nairobi. I was being brave and decided to take the bus from downtown back to my hostel, even though it was the evening. I went to the main bus stop and boarded the appropriate bus. Being one of the first people on board, I waited quite a while until the bus was full. I was sitting near the front in a row of three seat and I had moved all the way over to the window to free up the other seats. After a while, I noticed that people were cramming two people into the rows on the other side of the bus, which only had two seats per row, rather than sitting next to me. I felt sure this was happening because I was the obvious foreigner; granted I also may not have showered for a while and I did spot a cockroach or two on the seat next to me. Eventually, when all other seats were full, two women sat down next to me. They didn't give me a second glance. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Or maybe they thought if they didn't look at me I wouldn't notice them. I hear some parents tell naughty children that mzungus will come and take them away. Great, now not only am I pale, I'm also a boogy man.

All joking aside, this really didn't bother me at all. I just thought it was interesting. I suppose people are most comfortable with strangers that most resemble themselves. Theoretically, when I get on the bus, I would feel most comfortable sitting next to a Caucasian woman, or any woman for that matter. In actuality, I tend to skip that 7 second size up (check out my friend Elliot's blog on this) and end up sitting next to the homeless man who has drunk so much he has peed on his seat and the air around him is so full of alcohol, I'm drunk by the time I get off the bus too. But that's just me

Today, I went diving off the Kenyan coast. It was warm and beautiful. I spotted many turtles, a few eels, rays and even octopus. This evening I have been invited to a local politicians house to have dinner. He is currently out in search of fresh fish! Watamu is a beautiful little village, that happens to be an Italian resort location. Since the Italians bring good coffee and ice cream, I don't mind the crowds of them so much. Beside, it seems the locals are more inclined to invite me to dinner, perhaps because they are thinking, "at least she is not part of a huge group of Italians". I have a fabulous hotel room with a bed I could fit five of me in, a hot, private shower, my own porch and a pool. After dinner I plan to sit on the porch, eat a mango and drink some red wine. I have no corkscrew, but with Sharlee's help, I have become pretty good at pushing corks into wine bottles. The only problem with this technique is that I then must drink the entire bottle before moving to another hotel or village because I can't get the cork out of the bottle.

The White Nile

"missy aggravation
some sacred questions
you stroke my locks
. . .
you can gouge away
stay all day
if you want to"

I believe the last time I left off (ages ago, I know, I'm sorry) I was speeding through Tanzania, Rwanda, Uganda and Kenya. Or at least that was the plan anyway. I did make it through Rwanda fairly efficiently, spending enough time to get to know the country a bit and to see the mountain gorillas. Seeing the gorillas, for me as a biology student, was amazing, though expensive. In my opinion, the tourists are allowed too close to the gorilla families; however, if this allows the Rwandan government to successfully prevent poaching through the money made off the gorillas, then I suppose the tourists are the lesser of two evils. I found Rwanda to be fairly efficient and modern, with good roads and friendly people. It was hard for me to imagine the genocide happened only 13 years ago. I hope my positive impressions reflect what is really happening in the country; however, I heard later through some UN workers that there is still a strong undercurrent of tension and many believe another genocide is inevitable. Being surrounded by volatile countries such as Burundi and the DRC probably does not help Rwanda maintain peace.

I intended to make a few brief stops in Uganda on my way to Kenya, one of which was to go rafting on the Nile. I decided the stop was imperative, as another dam will soon be constructed on the river, changing many of the rapids. Kampala has frequent power cuts, mostly in the evening. My understanding is that these are due to lack of adequate power for the population, which is currently exploding, especially in Kampala. Hence the second dam. I did notice the power seemed to be cut more frequently during my second time through the country in September. I have heard various conspiracy theories that the power is being cut more often now to increase support for the dam. Frankly, it seems likely. I wish I was going to be around in November for the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) because my hunch is that for that week, power cuts will decrease substantially. Need to make a good impression for the Queen, you know? Uganda has put tons of time and money into preparing for this meeting of prior British colonies. In some ways, this has been beneficial -- the airport is being renovated and roads are being improved. Unfortunately, I've heard and seen downsides as well, including poorer people with unattractive houses and stores being forced off the main roads. It does seem to be a big dog and pony show to say "Look how well we are doing"; I think it would be most beneficial to give a completely truthful picture of Uganda. Uganda IS doing well and should be proud of many things without feeling that Ugandans need to hide aspects of their country that still need work.

In Kampala, I met several people from the UK who were in Uganda to kayak. They told me that there was a good kayak school on the Nile and, that being the slow season, setting up lessons should be easy. This is how I discovered kayaking and ended up stuck in Jinja, Uganda off and on for 3 weeks. By the time I finally made myself leave, I had become pretty good at my roll, even in rapids, learned to surf a bit and partied a bit too much. I am certain I will continue kayaking now wherever I end up and may even decide to become a raft guide in the near future. My biggest hesitation is that I'm not sure that I am up to the crazy atmosphere that seems to be bred on the river. Now I just need to find a way to integrate this river life with some sort of actual career -- I've enjoyed my free time over the last 7 months, but I am feeling up for a more structured academic or work-related challenge.

I'm not sure what exactly Mr. Bonderman and the University of Washington Honors Program expect me to discover on this trip. My hunch is that they actually don't really care. At least that is my hope. Over the last 8 months, I have thought a lot about my life and what I am doing, but I have also tried not to think about it too much (a difficult task for me). I have become even more interested in conservation biology. I have also learned more about human rights, public health and foreign aid. Though I feel even more strongly that conservation programs must work together with human populations, I have to admit that I feel somewhat jaded toward foreign aid, many NGOs and many governments.

I am now in Kenya and have already booked a plane ticket home. It feels so strange to know that I am leaving in just two weeks. My sense of time is so skewed at this point that two weeks seems like nothing compared to 8 months. Somehow, my leave date seems so close, I kind of wish it was now. I hate waiting for things, especial waiting for new phases in my life. I feel that the sooner I return home, the sooner I can figure out what I am doing next; however, I'm trying hard to enjoy my last two weeks and not think too much. I'll be headed to the Kenyan coast for some diving and relaxing, then back to Nairobi for my flight.

Adventures in Public Transportation

"Where does this mean world cast its cold eye
Who's left to suffer long about you
Does your soul cast about like an old paper bag
Past empty lots and early graves
Those like you who lost their way
Murdered on the interstate
While the red bells rang like thunder"

I realized recently that my current plan involves me being in 5 countries within the month of September. It is true that plans are only vague outlines of what might possibly happen when in Africa, but it is getting late in September and I am actually in the fourth of five countries. The plan might just happen. For once.

Obviously moving through five countries requires a lot of, well, moving, so I'm dedicating a whole post to my adventures in public transportation.

I have been more than lucky to have stayed safe on the road in the last 7 months and I hope that streak continues. There have certainly been some close calls, most notably side-swiping the cow in South Africa, but nothing too tragic. The drivers in most countries I have traveled in all drive within some degree of a completely and utterly terrifying manner. They regularly pass on blind corners with on-coming traffic and drive at speeds much too fast for the road conditions. Today, I bought a newspaper in Kabale, where I stopped upon crossing into Uganda. I wanted to read about the recent flooding to update myself on whether my travel plans needed to change. While sitting in the minibus, waiting for it to leave from Kabale to Mbarara, I read an article that stated 2 people had died and 7 had been injured yesterday when a minibus had rolled on the Kabale-Mbarara road. Not a good way to start my journey this afternoon.

Generally, I have become rather accustomed to public transport in East Africa. It is much the same throughout different countries. At first I was surprised by how many vans, rather than buses, I was riding in and how incredibly crowded they were. That taxi ride in Peru at 5 am where my friend Jo and I were joined by 3 men and 2 women who were moving and therefore brought all their earthly possessions would be nothing to me now! I think my current "transportation zone" could qualify as a new type of meditation; however, occasionally things have happened that even I still find noteworthy.

While heading north in Malawi, back to Tanzania just to cross the entire country and get into Rwanda, I was riding in the typical minibus in the first bench behind the driver. The minibus stopped for some mechanical problem that I was not too concerned about. Even if this particular minibus couldn't continue, we could easily flag down another on the busy road. I was mildly surprised to see the driver fold the front passenger seats forward to expose part of the engine, but I was not concerned. Then, without warning, hot water began spraying from something he was working on -- presumably the radiator. For a second I was still not concerned, as the water was not burning hot and the seat folded backward, partially shielding us from the spray. Despite all this, the woman sitting next to me decided that quick evacuation was necessary. Unbelievably, considering her age and size, she sprang from the bench next to me and jumped behind me, out the door, kicking me in the back of the head on the way out. Seeing as no one else was sitting to my right, threatening to climb over me and considering the offending radiator cap had already been removed, I still stayed where I was, my meditative state only slightly perturbed. One man, upon reentering the minibus, said to me, "Be careful mzungu, this is Malawi." My head hurt far more than my slightly damp arms for the rest of the ride.

Once I entered Tanzania, I was in a hurry to make it across the country to Rwanda, as I was traveling on a transit visa. The immigration officer had asked how long I needed. I told him 4 days. He asked where I was going. I told him Rwanda. He told his co-worker to give me 10 days. She gave me 14. It was then that I figured out Lonely Planet might not be exaggerating when the author highly advised against traveling by road in the northwest of Tanzania.

The next day, I left the boarder town of Mbeya for the capital, Dodoma, in a large bus. The first 4 hours of the trip were fine and I judged by the map that we were about half way there. Four hours later, we enter a large-ish town that was not Dodoma. It was then that I realized, by consulting my guide book, that we had taken a road northeast rather than straight north and were almost all the way back to Dar Es Salaam! Another 3 or 4 hours later, after turning straight west, we made it to Dodoma. I was irritated that we didn't take the direct route, but figured that since the bus was full of locals the whole way from Mbeya, there must have been a reason for the road choice.

I figured out the reason the next day. Lonely Planet states that the roads north and south of Dodoma are appalling. We skipped the south road the day before, but were stuck taking the north road to my next overnight stop, Mwanza. Within 5 minutes of leaving the bus station on a bus that left 3 hours late (still "on time" by East African standards) the man sitting behind me attempted to slide his window back to shut it. He only succeeded in causing the window to shatter all over me. I spent the next 11 hours sitting in broken glass on the roughest road I have ever ridden on in my whole life. It was worse than the dirt road down to the salt flats in Bolivia. What made it especially bad was that our driver insisted on driving at no less than 80 km/h. When we hit a pot hole in the dirt (which happened roughly ever 30 seconds) we all flew from our seats. I had to put my hands up to avoid hitting the ceiling of the bus. Then I would come crashing down into my seat, which was embedded with glass. Further, I was wearing my sandals, so the glass on the floor would inevitably be thrown inside my sandals. We eventually had to stop in a town south of Mwanza because we were not allowed to travel past 10. I had to be back at the station at 4 am the next morning. Mercifully, we reached pavement for the rest of the ride that morning.

Once I reached the Mwanza bus station, I immediately inquired about another bus to the boarder. I was prepared to get on another bus that morning if it hadn't left yet. Unfortunately, I was informed that there was no bus that day, nor was there a bus for the next day. I got stuck in Mwanza for two days, but luckily it was a decent town to be stuck in. I was beginning to figure out why the immigration officer kind of chuckled at me when I told him I was going to get to Rwanda in 4 days.

In a lucky turn of fortune, my last bus actually took less time to reach its destination than I had been led to believe. Even managing to catch the bus was a bit of a miracle, for several reasons. First, there are multiple bus stations in Mwanza and I had to be sure I knew which one my bus would leave from. Turned out, the correct bus station was 12km out of town, so I also had to arrange a taxi to pick me up from my hotel and take me to the bus station at 3:45 in the morning. Also, many Tanzanians operate on a Swahili clock, which I believe begins with 1 am when the sun rises, so 7 am on my clock; however, I get easily confused by this because I never know which clock a particular person is using. All these problems were confounded by the fact that almost no one in Mwanza speaks English, so clarification is nearly impossible. One characteristic the East Africans have that is both endearing and maddening is their tendency to answer any and all questions with "yes". Does the bus leave at 4:30am western time?" "Yes." "Or does it leave at 4:30am Swahili time?" "Yes." It is very difficult to actually get anything figured out in this type of conversation.

Rwanda proved to be much easier to travel in, as it is a very small country. Even bad roads can't take too long when the distance is short. Uganda is not too bad either. I am trying to go to a national park tomorrow -- Lonely Planet says it should take 8 hours, but the hotel staff said it should take 1 hour. As I write this, I realize it will sound ridiculous to you to not be able to to determine, between a map, a guide book and local advice, whether a drive will take 8 hours or 1 hour, but somehow it makes complete sense to me. I'll let you know when I get there.

Development That Actually Develops

"We dont need streetlights just a new star
Not paralysed by appearences with big ideas
And just way too smart to walk around on the surface
When theres an ocean just beneath its blue-green smile
All the while nothings stopping me from jumping in it"

I have been trying to maintain at least some vague academic aspect to this trip up to this point, but I will probably have fewer opportunities for the remainder of the trip, as I will be moving fast to make it to all the places I still want to visit. I will be moving fast, that is, when there is actually a bus to take me to the next destination. I got stuck in Mwanza, Tanzania for a while in the process of going to Rwanda. I finally caught my last bus at 4:30 am the other morning, after staying up all night worrying I might miss the bus because I couldn't figure out if it was leaving at 4:30 am western time or Swahili time.

I managed to see everything I was planning to see in Malawi and more. I made it as far south as Cape MacLear, hitchhiking in the back of incredibly old, tiny pickups that managed to fit about 20 people in the bed. I usually had to help hold the odd toddler, as long as he or she wasn't too afraid of the mzungu. At Cape MacLear I went diving in Lake Malawi in one of the few fresh water protected areas in the world. It is home to a high concentration of cichlid fish. In theory, fishing is not allowed there; in practice it is difficult to prevent. That afternoon I also managed to find a place to go water skiing and was treated to dinner by my traveling companion, Rachael. Not a bad day considering it was my birthday.

On my way back north, I met up with Trent Bunderson, from WSU, who directs an organization called Total Land Care. He arranged for me to join the Speaker of the Malawian Parliament to tour some of the projects. The organization works to prevent soil degradation and deforestation around Malawi. Their strategies are very simple and easily implemented by many farmers. For example, they teach farmers to plant thick grass and trees between crop plots, parallel to the river in order to prevent rain run off during the wet season, so that the soil is once again capable of holding water which feeds the river throughout the year.

I then continued north to the small village of Nkhotakota, where a branch of the organization exists. The branch is run almost completely by locals. It was amusing to see one man wearing a WSU pin on his shirt collar. There, all the projects relate in some way to maintaining the Chia Lagoon. There are a lot of crop diversification projects, which not only protect soil integrity, but also increase surplus for the local farmers. The most interesting project I saw was the mushroom house, which allows farmers to cultivate mushrooms year round rather than only during the wet season.

The last project I happened to stumble upon while passing through Dodoma, the capital of Tanzania. While having breakfast at a guest house, I met a local journalist who was trained and is funded through USAid. He explained that the project aims to reduce corruption through journalism exposure. He was trained as a journalist through the program and is now supposed to train others. Perhaps more importantly, he explained how he is now safer in his profession. Apparently even though Tanzania has enjoyed a fairly long peaceful period and relatively little corruption, journalist can still be threatened and even killed for writing controversial stories. He said that within the last few years, a journalist was killed for exposing money being taken away from national park funds. When I asked how USAid could possible make journalists safer in Tanzania, he explained that he is substantially safer just through receiving a decent salary. With adequate money he can live in a secure house (just by having windows and locking doors), he can afford to move out of a dangerous area and he can afford to take safe, secure transportation. It all seems too simple, but at the same time, it makes sense to me.

Seeing all these projects helped me have a slightly more positive outlook on development projects and aid money in Africa, as I have become slightly jaded through traveling here and through reading Robert Guest's book "The Shackled Continent". I highly recommend the book to anyone traveling in Africa or anyone who is interested in Africa or foreign aid. The book is not an altogether negative book, but does point out a lot of the current problems in African politics, in the way development projects are managed and in the way aid is distributed. Go read it now!

No Oil, No Diamonds, No Problems

It's the mines, in Africa

That are to blame

After Kili, I went on safari (amazing. . . predictable) then to Zanzibar (amazing. . . predictable) and then got back on the road to Malawi. Now I kind of feel like I am back on track, whatever that means. As opposed to Uganda, South Africa and Tanzania where I had definite plans of things I had to do, now I am once again wandering rather aimlessly. Despite the aimlessness, my current situation seems more normal, or at least expected. If one is going to get back on the track of being off track, Malawi is certainly one place to do it. I am living up to my "mzungu" title, which is commonly used across Eastern Africa to refer to white people, but is derived from a related word which means "to wander around aimlessly like a mad person".

Malawi, a bit to my surprise, is overflowing with backpackers, probably due to the fact that it is the most reasonable route connecting Southern and Eastern Africa. What exactly does this mean for me? It means I meet tons of mad people!

My road trip through Malawi began after spending a night on a ferry from Zanzibar to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania, where we floated at sea for a large portion of the night until the port opened. I was rocked, or perhaps tossed, to sleep listening to the sounds of most of the other passengers vomiting. Two hours after getting off the ferry I boarded a 26 hour train to the Malawi boarder. Getting off the train, I tagged along with two other backpackers to try to find a mtola (old van imported from Asia, often called a dala dala farther north) to the boarder post. At the bus station, we were ushered into a bus office where we were told we could get a bus across the boarder, all the way to Chitimba, the town we were trying to reach by that night. We easily talked the price down from 18,000 shillings to 9,000 shillings -- this was the first bad sign. Then we got loaded onto a "bus" which was actually just an over sized mtola -- 2nd bad sign. Just before we left, our bus man explained through the window that the next bus across the boarder would have our names -- 3rd bad sign. Sure enough, the mtola took twice as long as it should have and dropped us in the village a few kilometers from the boarder. We were immediately swarmed by bicycle taxis, which we reluctantly agreed to ride down to the boarder. As expected, there was no bus once we crossed the boarder. We improvised back to what we had originally planned to do and just took buses and mtolas in stages.

If there is one thing one needs to understand about public transport in the developing world, it is that it is very crowded. I'm not talking 3pm on the 49 in Seattle when all the high school students join you through Capitol Hill; it is literally twice as crowded. One must expect to share his or her seat with at least one other person, if he or she is lucky. If one is not so lucky, the seat will also be occupied by a screaming baby, several chickens and a bag of fish. Up to a certain point, I was happy to have my two new traveling companions with me to share in my misery. One, an older South American man had been understandably getting progressively more irritated, making me less happy to be with him. Enter crazy #1 (or #2 if you count the bus tout). Eventually the South African lost it and started arguing with the bus conductor on our last bus that he had paid for a whole seat, not half a seat. In the end, he gave in, possibly for fear of being kicked off the bus. When we got off, he was continuing on to the next town. He made it clear that he had to have my friend Rachael's seat, practically shoving her out of it as she tried to free herself from all the people. Luckily, we stayed in a nice hostel on the beach along Lake Malawi, where other travelers commiserated with our story, saying countless others had been scammed by the same bus company in Tanzania.

After a quick visit up to Livingstonia, we headed south along the lake to the fishing village/backpacker hangout of Nkhata Bay. We arrived on a Friday evening, when things were very busy due to the weekly Friday night barbecue. This is where we met our next crazy friend. The owner of our hostel in Livingstonia, Mick, had reserved us dorm beds at the Nkhata Bay hostel and given us a ride there, since he was already going to the barbecue to see his old friend Scuba Steve as well as what appeared to be several girlfriends. When we arrived the hostel no longer had beds for us. I don't know if it was because we had arrived with Mick or for some other reason, but the very energetic, overly friendly owner, Gary, decided to give us a room in his house and a staff room for free. We didn't question his generosity.

The next night is when we got a true taste of Gary. My friends Richard and Rachael joined me at the bar with Gary. Gary was already obviously drunk, so drunk in fact that he was shaking and almost teetering off his stool. At times I was almost afraid he was about to have a seizure. He was very excited to have company at the bar and soon began telling us his life story. The ultra condensed version goes something like this: Gary was a successful hairdresser with 8 salons in South Africa, until he discovered crack and became a self proclaimed "crackhead" (he is perhaps the only person I have ever met who has used this term to describe himself). Later, he was captured by his brother and his brother's boyfriend -- this event apparently involved handcuffs, a white leather sofa and perhaps Celine Dion. Eventually he ended up in Malawi running a hostel. The details of how he got to his current situation were very scattered, but seemed to involve him cutting off a girl's arm with an axe.

The last of the crazies I also met at Nkhata Bay. I actually spent four pleasant days on safari in Vwasa Marsh and Nyika Plateau with crazy Australian before he turned into crazy Australian. I think the transformation was brought about by the 24 hour a day drinking binge he began sometime during the safari. During the safari, he told us about living alone in a cabin in Australia for 5 years. At first I was mildly impressed by this, as he was doing worthwhile things, like living off as few resources as possible and reading tons of books; however, I soon realized this time alone either made him a little crazy or pointed to preexisting craziness. The night we returned from safari, he got into an argument with me basically trying to claim that women are the root of all evil and refuse to do worthwhile work like plumbing. Are you confused? I am. Eventually I escaped him, after he berated me for attacking him by apparently saying things I never actually said. The next day he apologized profusely, but then went straight back to drinking. Unfortunately drinking sometimes seems to bring out certain individuals' true unsavory sides.

My friend Richard summed it up by saying that it seemed to him that expats in Malawi inevitably became alcoholics. Unfortunately, I have to agree that this does seem to happen a lot. You'll notice that of all the crazies I talked about, none were actually Malawian.

For Your Reading Pleasure

From the Malawi Daily:

TWO YEARS FOR WITCHCRAFT
by Mike Chipalasa

The Mtakataka Magistrates' Court last week sentenced four sorcerers to two years imprisonment for bewitching Alindi Jemstala, 18, through a whirlwind.

Dedza Police public relations officer Franklin Gausi, siad the four are Elenola Gilbert, 68; Benson Chimkola, 68; Julieta June, 65; and Jacqueline Gilbert, 64, all from Mlangeni Village, T/A Kachindamoto in the district.

The four were arrested last week and they all admitted committing the offence.

"They picked the girl through a whirlwind and dropped her in Salima but cannot bring her back because it is too late to do that now," said Gausi.

Gausi said the four are currently serving their sentence at Dedza Prison.

Passing judgment, Second Grade Magistrate Yohane Banda said the offence was contrary to Section 6 of the Witchcraft Act.

Banda said he had handed a stiffer punishment to deter would-be witches from committing similar offences, adding the practice was rampant in the district.
______________


Now, before you become too judgmental and sarcastic, remember that it was not too long ago that we were burning people for witchcraft.

Mt. Kilimanjaro

The air will leave your chest
You'll fade from where you're found,
You're finally standing still
And your fingers all go numb,
Get higher on your hill
So your big black cloud will come

. . .

Your legs walked your heart high
Your whole body is sprawling out.
Major view, wide.

When I received this fellowship in April of 2006, one of the first destinations I included in my itinerary was Mt. Kilimanjaro. Now, in the end of July 2007, it is amazing to realize I have just come down from the mountain. To me, summiting Mt. Kilimanjaro is not just an accomplishment in itself, it also represents how far I have come in this journey, following what were at first just ideas through to actual accomplishments.

Another Bonderman Fellow was recently commiserating with me on the low points one can reach during such long solo travels; she stated something to the effect of feeling the Bonderman committee made her live through difficult experiences. While I fully understand her point, I more often feel that I am making myself live through difficult experiences, when I have the full choice to avoid those experiences. Everything about Kili proved to be difficult, not just the trek.

I had planned, as with most of my activities, to organize my trek upon arriving in Moshi. Though Moshi is a small town, it has a very large tourism industry based around Kilimanjaro treks and Serengeti safaris. I quickly realized that the plethora of companies made arranging a trek more difficult, rather than less. Unfortunately many companies do not pay their guides and porters well and often their porters are under equipped and under fed; however, the people running these companies are not stupid when it comes to business, so they will not willing admit their business practices. In the end, I used the local Porters Assistance Project to set me up with an independent guide and crew. It worked out well for me and I hoped it worked out well for my crew as well. Most importantly, climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro became a learning experience both in setting up the trek and completing the trek.

I could not help but feel a little strange about using a porter, even though it is the norm on Kilimanjaro. I could never work out in my head how adding porters to carry my stuff made any sense, as they would have to carry my equipment and their equipment. I am happy to give people jobs, but do not want to over work them either. My crew assured me that what I gave to my porter to carry weighed about half of what the normal client brought; nevertheless, my porter carried a pack with my things, plus a bag on his head. Our cook also carried a fair share. The park regulates the weight porters are allowed to carry, weighing their packs at the entrance gate. The limit is 25 kgs, which to me is still a huge amount. Further, porters are often loaded up more later in the trek and other porters can be sent down with only partial pay. The one thing that seemed to even things out in my mind a bit is the fact that the porter and the cook do not make the final summit, which is substantially harder than the first three days.

My trek took 5 days and 4 nights up and down the most popular Marangu route. Due to the popularity of this route, I met many people along the way and was not at all lonely. For the first three days, we walked between camps, staying at small huts at each camp. Each day we hiked roughly 5 hours, increasing our elevation by approximately 1000 meters. These hikes were not nearly as difficult as I expected them to be, though I am glad because the energy I saved was most definitely needed for the final summit hike. By the time I reached the top camp, I was feeling pretty good relative to many other tourists. It seemed that at 4,700 meters, many people were already succumbing to altitude sickness, spending most of the evening vomiting in the "toilets", which were actually holes in the floor of a shack perched over a cliff/hole (I didn't look too closely). I felt slightly weird, in a nondescript sort of way -- it could have been from the altitude, but it could also have been from the cold meats, unboiled water or long hikes.

We being our summit attempt at 12:30 am on the fourth day. At first, the hike was going very well. Though my guide and I were two of the last to start, after the first 3 hours, we had passed most of the other groups. Then, at about 5,300 meters, the altitude sickness struck. Altitude sickness affects different people in different ways; the most accurate way I can describe the way I felt is to say that it was like the flu. I had a splitting headache, I felt very nauseous, and I ached all over. Once I made it to Gilliman's Peak, at 5,600 meters, I was on the verge of tears from pain and from happiness for reaching that point. Little did I know I still had and hour and a half to hike before reaching the highest peak. At points I questioned whether I would make it, but I never wanted to stop trying. Finally, at 6:30 am, I reached the summit just in time to see the sun rise. I even managed to stand next to the 5,895 meter sign and smile for a photo with my guide, which was amazing seeing as at that point I actually was crying. My altitude sickness had only become worse and my hands were so cold I began to have delusions about having fingers amputated once I returned to Moshi. I really think I owe it all to my guide for getting me up there. He used just the right combination of encouragement and sympathy to keep me going. Of course, by the time I returned to camp at 4,700 meters I felt just fine again and somewhat ashamed for not being tougher at the top. Then I remembered borrowing someone's pulse oximeter at camp the previous evening and discovering that, at rest, my pulse was 92 and my blood oxygen level was 86%. I suppose my levels had to be even more abysmal another 1000 meters high, therefore I don't feel so bad.

The experience, though expensive and at times painful, was one of the highlights of my trip. I feel ready to try my next mountain, so let me know who wants to join me! I am leaving Moshi tomorrow and am not quite sure I'm ready to leave this town. As well as making several good friends in town, I also think that I will miss my guide and crew quite a lot. Making the trek by myself was quite interesting as, though I befriended other tourists in other groups, I spent the majority of my time with my guide. I have a strong sense that I just did something slightly profound and that my guide was a big part of it; however, I suppose he has been with so many groups ascending the mountain that the last five days don't hold nearly the significance for him. Interestingly though, when I went to the Porters' Assistance Project office today I got to see my porter again; further, Philip, who runs the office, told me that my crew very much appreciated my tips and enjoyed working with me as they felt I was their "sister" rather than a client. I will take that for whatever it is worth -- it meant a lot to me.

So who is up for Kilimanjaro 2008?! Machame route over at least 7 days this time. And it will be the "Carry Your Own Damn Pack" trip. You have been warned.

Into Africa

There will be bigotry and there will be open minds
There will be days of peace you'll never have the time

Upon arriving in Africa, I was excited but also apprehensive, as it seemed to me I was beginning a whole new trip without actually going home or having a break. Now it is hard to believe that I have been here for a month already and been in three countries within that time.

Except for a short overnight in Johannesburg, I began in Uganda. Uganda seemed to me to be most different from my own country, or at least most different from what I am accustomed. Now, however, looking back Uganda does not seem so different or uncomfortable. I think that my combined seven months in South America within the last three years, as well as various trips to Mexico, have given me at least a vague sense of fluidity and continuity across the Americas. That, and I am formulating a theory that many travelers develop a life long love for the first country they spend any substantial amount of time in. For me, that country was Argentina and grew to include South America in general. I found myself leaving South America and already missing Buenos Aires like fat kids miss empanadas.

On that note, Uganda had a lot to compete with; however, I am grateful that I had Uganda, or more importantly the people of Uganda, as my introduction to Africa. I was lucky to hosted by Alex, the cousin of an old high school friend of mine. For once, I got to arrive in a town and not worry about where I was going to sleep or how I was going to get there. I found Kampala to be a very nice, easy and friendly city (though that is at least partial due, I am sure, to Alex helping me with anything I needed to get done) but I most enjoyed seeing some of the smaller towns.

I spent a week in Tororo, on the Kenyan boarder, observing a locally run NGO that works for women's rights. I really felt that I got a much better understanding of the culture in Uganda through my time in Tororo, though each new piece of information led to more questions and often sleepless nights (perhaps I am now just more confused, regardless of being better informed). I spoke with many women who came to the legal aid centers, most of whom had very tragic stories of abuse and neglect. Though I knew about the dowry institution in many parts of Africa before coming here, it is completely different to witness some of the negative consequences first-hand. To overly simplify a very complicated situation, dowry is a longstanding cultural institution which, historically, was used to thank families for raising a daughter, but is now used as an economic incentive and often traps women in abusive relationships. I have my own personal opinions about the dowry, though perhaps more importantly, I have realized that I cannot be too quick to pass judgement within a culture I am not part of and do not fully understand. Currently, the Mufumi Project is working to make the dowry a non-refundable, optional gift so that women may leave bad marriages even if their fathers cannot return the dowry to the husband.

There were pretty much no other travelers in Tororo, so I was a bit of a spectacleand attracted a lot of attention. I had some interesting conversations with local people regarding the differences between the culture in Uganda and the culture in the States. In particular, it was interesting to learn how important tribal affiliation is in Ugandan culture. I was asked whether there were tribes in the United States. That was the most difficult question about the United States I have tried to answer. I began by trying to explain that there are some remaining native tribes but that most people in the U.S. did not have a tribal affiliation. That answer led to the question, "Then how do you know who is higher or lower than you?" I began to try to answer that, theoretically, no one is inherently "higher" or "lower" in the U.S., but that in practice this is not usually the case. Trying to explain to someone who has never experienced a culture like the U.S. the various ways people may be prejudice or not in the U.S. is pretty much impossible. It is almost as difficult as explaining to a Ugandan that you are an atheist. My, at times brutal, honesty often made conversations more interesting and, luckily for me, I don't think I made any serious enemies through it. Overall, I had a good time in Uganda; my only regret is that I did not go rafting at the source of the Nile -- that might be reason enough alone to plan a return trip.

Next, I flew down to South Africa to meet my friend Sharlee, who was helping some other veterinarians in Hoedspruit. I wasn't quite sure what I had agreed to, but I was happy to have someone else doing the planing for a little while. We ended up staying with Andre, who works in game capture for various game farms outside of Kruger Park. The whole concept of game farming was totally foreign to me, though it occurs in some parts of the States as well. Basically, Andre's job is to help farmers manage their animals by chemically immobilizing them so they can be moved safely within and between farms. The veterinarians were not as much interested in the game farming, but rather the opportunities to collect data on animals still living in their (more or less) natural environments. This situation provided me with an opportunity to learn a bit about anesthesia monitoring in large wild animals, as my previous experience is limited to cats, dogs, birds and elephant seals. The main reason the veterinarians were there was to collect data on wild giraffe, so that they might better understand how to manage captive giraffe. Unfortunately, we did not get our hands on a single giraffe the whole time we were there. Hopefully the other two veterinarians had better luck later.

I found South Africa to be quite a bit different than Uganda (as expected). To me, the country seems very much fresh out of apartheid -- like everyone is still recovering and figuring out how to move forward. I definitely noticed a bit of what would obviously be described as racism in the U.S. from some of the white population; though it seemed to me to be much a product of circumstance rather than intentional bigotry. Like the U.S. and many other countries, there is also an obvious economic disparity that will take a long time to work through. That said, I visited Soweto, a well known township outside of Johannesburg and was impressed by the progress being made there and about my misconception of all townships being full of crime and poverty. I have been really glad to start out in Uganda and South Africa. Uganda has given me a cultural immersion, though I did not visit as many of the parks as I would have liked and South Africa gave me a bit of a crash course on many wildlife management issues, but came up a bit short as far as giving me a good idea of the interacting cultures.

The Last of South America, But Not For The Last Time

Headed down south
Firewater steps, firewater feet
The South was such a blast
With firewater mind, firewater soul
Where am I?
Well this won't be the last time

As with the rest of Brazil, Rio far exceeded my expectations and became, perhaps, my favorite city I have visited thus far. I will not claim that Rio is any sort of perfect city, far from it in fact, with major pollution problems, crime problems, and sub-standard housing problems. That said, it is still a city that charmed and excited me and made me want to do something about the problems, rather than abandon the city because of them. It gives Seattle a run for its money when it comes to being a perfect city for the outdoor enthusiast, with rock climbing, hiking and surfing right in the city and scuba diving nearby. I took advantage of the climbing and climbed the well known Sugar Loaf overlooking the city and the ocean. I stayed in the best hostel I have stayed in, made a suprising number of new friends and went out to just enjoy myself a bit more, all of which probably added to my love of Rio.

A small group of us went on a tour of one of the flavelas, guided by Bernardo, who works at the hostel. Bernardo explained that the hostel had decided not to use the usual guided tours because the people who worked at the hostel did not feel that life in flavelas was accurately portrayed through these tours. Instead of pointing out the lack of infrastructure and support from the city, the tours tend to highlight that utilities are not paid for and police do not interfere with the drug trade. They tend to glamorize life in flavelas, rather than point out the huge number of challenges people face when dealing with substandard housing. While outside (U.S.) perceptions of flavelas usually revolves around drug dealing, in reality, life goes on in many more or less normal ways: children play and go to school, women run small food stalls, old men sit and chat around beers. Obvious problems arise when children begin working for drug dealers, wanting money so that they can acquire the material possessions they see while attending public schools in wealthier neighborhoods. It was a very eye opening experience; though I cannot expect to have a full appreciation of complicated relationships and inner workings of the flavelas, I certainly have a better, more informed picture of them now.

I left Rio earlier than I would have liked, though it was probably not a bad thing, as I could see myself getting stuck there for quite some time. I also ran out of time to visit any other towns in the south, with the exception of Foz de Igacu. The falls were beautiful, as expect. While there, I stayed at a large hostel outside of town, where I met the craziest traveler I have meet so far. And I have met some pretty crazy people on this trip. I was eating dinner with my extremely friendly and talkative French roommate and she invited a British kid to sit with us. At first he seemed normal enough, though a bit difficult to understand – I couldn’t exactly figure out whether this was due solely to his accent, or perhaps a slight speech impediment. As talk among travelers in Brazil often does, our conversation turned to crime in Brazil. This is were things got weird. Really weird and really uncomfortable. The British guy pretty much totally lost it and started ranting the Brazil is a horrible country and he thinks everyone in Brazil is worthless and should be imprisoned, if not killed. He eventually dropped the bomb of claiming that, in some ways, he thought that Hitler was right -- I saw that comment coming from a mile away, but nonetheless, could not brace myself for it. Seeing as I was talking to a raving lunatic, I didn't attempt to argue with him much, but instead excused myself as soon as possible. The poor French woman was trying to maintain her cheerful demeanor through the whole thing. When I ran into the the guy the next morning, he could see the look of fear and extreme dislike I gave him. He asked me if I was ok. I mumbled something unintelligible and hurried out the door. What I really wanted to ask him was why the hell he is in Brazil if he thinks it is such a horrible place? I doubt I would have received any sort of satisfying answer.

I made it to Buenos Aires on schedule, though I had canceled seeing more of Argentina in favor of seeing more of the countries I had not been to before. I had studied in Argentina a year and a half earlier and had been able to visit several places. B.A. was the first (and only) place I visited that I have some familiarity with and I felt a sense of relief to be coming into a city where I had some previous knowledge of how to navigate the city. As I walked out into the bus station, I saw all the quintessential portenos -- the boys with their scenester haircuts and fashionable scarves and the ridiculously thin girls. Somehow I felt slightly at home, through recognition, rather than actually looking like I belonged in B.A.

I wish I could tell you about all the cool things I saw and did, but mostly I just enjoyed a break with old and new friends. I drank too much and ate to much, but enjoyed it fully. Thanks to Nicolas, his roommates, Christina and Matias for the much needed break!

The Amazon!

With my lightening bolts a glowin'
I can see where I am going to be when
The reaper he reaches and touches my hand
With my lightening bolts a glowin' I can see where I am goin'
Better look out below!

As has happened multiple times during this trip, my expectations and preconceptions were fairly useless and surprisingly inaccurate in the last month. I have been constantly reevaluating my time frame, trying to make it to all of my intended destinations in South America, before needing to leave for Uganda; however, I seem to be a slow traveler, so maintaining the schedule has been difficult. It crossed my mind to skip going to Brazil entirely because I was feeling so pressed for time, and also because I seemed to hear the most accounts of violence and crime coming from travelers who had been in Brazil. In the end, I decide I could not skip Brazil because I was looking forward to traveling through the Amazon so much, having skipped expensive jungle tours in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia. Plus, I had spent 3 days and $100 obtaining a Brazilian visa in Lima. I am very grateful for my decision, as I loved Brazil much more than I original expected I would and, due to having to skip many towns and cities for lack of time, I will definitely be returning to Brazil.

I started out crossing the Bolivian/Brazilian boarder very far to the north of Bolivia. Apparently this is not a usual tourist route, as in the small town I spent the first night in, I ran into more curious stares and frank questions ( "what are you doing here?") than I have anywhere else during my trip. I went north to Porto Velho to begin my long awaited boat journey through the Amazon. The trip from Porto Velho to Manaus took 5 days and 4 nights and was definitely a highlight of my trip. I traveled on two different three story river boats, crammed full of hammocks, people, produce and other goods that need to be transported and distributed to different towns along the river. I quickly became friends with the only other young single girl on the boat, though we didn't share any languages, so she basically just drug me around with her whenever we would dock at a port. A few days into the trip, an Austrian man joined the group. With his help, all three of us could talk together, as he spoke both English and Portuguese. We became an inseparable threesome during the rest of the trip. He told me what people around us were saying -- mostly talking about my blond hair and asking why the gringo got both the single women on the boat. He also filled me in on the fact that Soni, the Brazilian girl, had been telling everyone that I was her girlfriend in order to keep the men from harassing us. They caught on to the lie eventually when they realized we could not actually speak to one another. I eventually made it to Manaus -- the boat only broke down twice, and because the water was receding rather than rising, we didn't hit any submerged trees and sink.

Thomas, my Austrian friend, let me stay with him in Manaus and gave me the scoop on all the sites to see in town. I went back out onto the river for a "jungle tour" which consisted of lunch in a floating cabin and canoeing through the submerged jungle. On the canoe trip, our guide asked us if we wanted him to catch a "slow monkey", as he did not know the name in English. I immediately caught on to the fact that he was talking about a sloth and told him not to catch it, but the other girls said yes and I was left feeling like the odd man out. So our guide went about shaking a sloth out of a tree. When the other girls realized what was actually going to happen, they said not to do it, but the damage was done and the sloth fell from the tree and had to swim to another tree to escape us. I'm sure the poor creature expended more energy in those 5 minutes with us than it usually does in a whole week. Needless to say, not the best money I have ever spent.

Next, I flew to Salvador, skipping much of the north of Brazil for lack of time. I convinced a couple of Australian guys in the airport to share a cab into town with me, as I didn't want to risk taking the bus when I didn't exactly know where I was even going. I stayed in the worst hostel of my whole trip (ok, actually maybe there have been worse. . .) as we were all enticed by its price of 10 reais, about US $5, which is cheap for a big Brazilian city and I think we must have started drinking already by that point, as upon waking the next morning we all agreed we needed to move immediately. We all had very questionable, tiny sheets that had visible bugs crawling around in them, the street noise was incredibly loud and the old blond hippie with massive dreadlocks I found sleeping in the hammock on the way to the bathrooms the next morning may still be there because I am not sure he was actually alive. In order to leave, we had to convince another guest to hold our money and promise to give it to the owner, as no one who actually worked there could be found. I ended up staying in Salvador for 5 or 6 days, waiting to go wreck diving, which never happened due to "weather" (though we had blue skies and calm winds most of the time). Luckily I found a much nicer hostel for not much more money and eventually parted ways with the Australians, as I could not take their drinking and partying, and they had taken to referring to all the girls in the hostel as "whores" in front of me. I think I had been given honorary "dude" status, as I was the only other person sharing a room with them.

All in all, I enjoyed Salvador very much and will have to go back for more warm beaches, colorful people, colorful buildings and perhaps some wreck diving. The one odd thing that kept happening is that I was constantly given colored ribbons to tie around my wrist that said something in Portuguese about the saint of Salvador. I am still not sure whether I was just being marked as a tourist (not that it wasn't already obvious) or whether I was having a curse put on me. I was grateful to leave unscathed from one of the cities I was most sure I would be mugged in. One girl was not so lucky -- she had a necklace ripped from her neck one night while watching capoera (sp?) in the square. A little boy of about 10 walked her back to her hostel, carried her bag for her (after much convincing) and yelled "fuck off" at anyone who even looked at them.

Opinions

Jet City won’t let you go without a fight
You see the pod people on prom night
At Hater High
Don’t stay up late to cry
You’ve got a big trip to plan
Say goodbye to your old friends
Say goodbye, goodbye Jet City

I was really excited to visit this organic farm in the Bolivian jungle that an Israelis friend told me about. He had told me that it seemed I would fit well with the owner there, an American ex patriot. Overall, my feelings toward the place are neutral to positive, but I couldn´t escape the feeling of being back around a high school clique that I just couldn´t quite fit into. That, and few things are more annoying than an overly dogmatic, under educated hippie. I hesitate to state my criticisms, as the family that runs the farm is extremely generous and welcoming. I had a good time hiking, eating home grown, home cooked food, and hanging out in the family´s own house; however, this is my blahg and I am going to continue to attempt to limit my self-censorship. I will try to explain my qualms.

I found that the owner had some very strong opinions which I couldn´t help but feel were not well founded. Being his guest, I did not feel that able to criticise him or argue with him, so I often sat in uncomfortable silence. He had a certain way of voicing opinions in a friendly, non-argumentative way that was still somehow overbearing. For example, within my first hour of being there, he asked what I wanted to do while on the farm. I already knew that preparing meals was a big part of the daily routine and I am truly interested in becoming a better cook, so I told him I was interested in cooking because I didn´t often cook at home. His immediate reply was, ´you eat a lot of frozen food, don´t you.` Said as a statement rather than a question, in a way that wasn´t exactly an insult but more that he pitied me for my evil ways. His sentiments and disguised criticism of me was often backed up by two girls, ironically from Bellingham. They were going through the annoying self-righteous hippy phase I see in so many young people in Bellingham. The combination of the three of them and an Irish girl they had also befriended had me feeling very outnumbered. To them, I was the one who just didn´t get it. I was put in a weird position where any argument from me just seemed defensive toward the group.

One of the things that bothered me most was the blatant hypocrisy there. I know that everyone is hypocritical, but these people were really unbelievable because they spoke with such strong opinions but acted so differently at times. For example, on girl told me, ´the antiperspirant you use can give you breast cancer, and any makeup you have will also give you breast cancer, assuming you didn´t buy it from a natural product store.´ She then goes outside a lights up a cigarette. Ok, I´m confused. As for the farm owner, he prides himself in having such a harmonious life, living with nature and bla bla bla; however he has two pigs on the property, one of which is slowly loosing a leg from having a rope that was tied to tightly still stuck around it, while the other has already lost his leg. He seems totally unconcerned with the blatent animal cruelty he is passively taking part in. The other thing that really got to me were the conspiracy theories this guy believed so strongly in. For example, he believes most historical wars in the Middle East were based on the trade of hash, rather than religion. This could be true, I have no idea. But it is hard to believe coming from a guy from the States who sits around in the Bolivian jungle smoking weed. That argument is slightly amusing; however, when he claims that all vaccines are evil and AIDS is a complete conspiracy I take it personally. I am not denying that some vaccines have side effects and sometimes side effects are not discovered as quickly as they should be. I am also not claiming that all treatment of AIDS is handled efficiently or fairly, but to claim that no constructive work is being done is a severe insult to the many people, some at my university, who dedicate their lives to curing diseases. Also, to claim that all vaccines are useless is to ignore all the children who used to die from now preventable diseases. Perhaps my favorite are song lyrics of a song he wrote that suggest that war footage on the news is faked because reporters are never harmed. He ignores the current and past journalists who have been injured or killed reporting near combat zones. Somehow, whenever I heard those lyrics, I always imagine that he is trying to argue that the photo of Phan Thi Kim Phúc, the little girl burned by napalm in the Vietnam War was faked. What would she say?!

All in all, I am probably being hypersensitive and hypercritical. All of us living in one little house in the middle of nowhere for 5 days was probably a little too much for me. I don´t regret it though and have plenty of good memories as well, including being able to visit the Amboró Park, which is the major reason I headed down there in the first place.

I left the farm by hitchhiking from the road -- really the only way to leave the farm as there is no town there and therefore no bus stop. Hitchhiking in most South American countries is not what we in the United States imagine as hitchhiking though; you dont ride in semi trucks with old fat men on speed (I´m sure they exist down here, but you don't flag down big trucks, only cars and buses, unless you want a real adventure to write home, and possibly your insurance company about). Basically, if you are so lucky as to own your own car in Bolivia, you probably need to use it to make money to pay for it, so it is also a taxi. So when you hitchhike, you are actually just hailing a taxi. You pay for your ride just as you would in a city. I was lucky enough to flag down a real taxi from the company I had used to get to the farm originally, which is the safest option. In the taxi, I met a woman from Madagascar, her Bolivian boyfriend and her very small puppy. She had left England, where she was living earlier, to travel and just hadnt gone back yet. She had a business selling street crafts that you see all over Bolivia and the rest of South America, but she had a friend who sold them back in a store in England as well. She was a wealth of information and stories. She had fallen and broken her ankle several months earlier, exposing the bone. The roads were so bad at the time that she could not get to Santa Cruz to go to the hospital. So she popped things back in place herself, treated it with herbs from the local "doctor" and finally got surgery a month later. I almost didn´t believe her, but she told the story with such innocence and simplicity that it had to be true. She had taken the same river trip I was planning in Brazil 4 times already. She definitely made me feel more confident about doing the trip. It was a great coincidence to meet her before heading to Brazilian rivers, even though she was giving me advice while instructing me to drink the beer she had stashed in the back of the car quickly or her boyfriend drank it all.

Next I headed to Trinidad (the capital of Beni, Bolivia, not the island). Lonely Planet, as is often the case, was extremely negative about Trinidad, so I was not too excited about going there. Inevitably, this was the town I got stuck in. Luckily, I thought it was a nice town and once again, LP is full of crap. I had planned to take a 24 hour bus to Guayaramerin, at the Brazilian boarder after resting for a day in Trinidad, but inexplicably the bus didn´t leave the next day and I was told to come back the following day. I then ran into several people over the next 12 hours who basically told me that I was crazy to try to take a bus to Guayaramerin at this time because the road didn´t even exist in some places due to the heavy rains recently (seems to be the theme of my trip, right?). I took a motorcycle taxi (yes, with my 20kg pack) to the bus station. Luckily, the driver also did tours and was very protective of me as a tourist. He talked to the bus company with me and we eventually decided that I should not go, but rather buy a plane ticket. He tried to get my money back for me, even talking to the station police, but as far as I know, he never succeeded. Before taking my flight, I told him he could have the money if he could get it back. Having to stick around a few days was actually nice as I spent an extra day touring the surrounding area -- we saw the local river port, ate a huge fish lunch in a local village that reminded me very much of Mexico and talked a lot about Bolivian corruption. It was really interesting to notice the difference in opinion on Evo Moralez, the Bolivian president, between the people of the high lands and the low lands. I had thought that he was generally popular with all the lower class people and fairly popular in general, but in fact he seems to be pretty unpopular in the low lands across multiple socio-economic classes.

I eventually did catch a flight to Guayaramerin and crossed over into Brazil without a problem. I had a slight (ok, big) problem getting money in Brazil as no ATM wanted to accept my cards and there was no place to change money, but I improvised in the end and headed north to the rivers. More on that later.

How to make your stay in a third world south american country even more uncomfortable

All possibilities
Are landing at my feet
There's nothing I can see
But possibilities

All colours are changing in my eyes
Your hopes are all fading, that will never do
You're seeing the world through cynical eyes
I'm seeing the world through the eyes of somebody new

I am traveling through Bolivia right now and despite the somewhat negative title above (which is intended to make fun of myself, rather than Bolivia) I really like Bolivia thus far. I came south from Lake Titicaca to La Paz, where I met up with two friends I had made in Peru. Joshua and Cody are brother and sister and are taking a month to travel together around Peru, Bolivia and Argentina. I was a little jealous of them because of their spontaneity and because they seemed to be such good traveling companions. In contrast, I took forever to plan this trip and still can´t get anyone to come visit me. I also always wonder if I would have done something similar to this trip if I had not received this fellowship. Obviously lots of other people are traveling through their own means and I hope I would be one of them, but I can´t say with certainty that I would. Becoming complacent in life in the States is really easy, or so I have found. I am still on this trip, yet I find myself planning my next trips already -- this is a good thing, I think, as long as I follow through with it. Even though I am not yet half way through my trip, I still think a lot about what I am doing in the future and when I am going home. I worry a bit that I am not using this opportunity to go to more places, but then I also worry that if I don´t stay in a country long enough, I wont get an accurate impression of it. It is a catch 22.

Sorry, not sure where I was going with that. . .

Anyway, I met up with Cody and Joshua and we made plans to mountain bike down "The World´s Most Dangerous Road". So this began my streak of making traveling in Bolivia more uncomfortable and trying than it needs to be. From what I had read, I was already bracing myself for traveling in Bolivia to be quite difficult due to lack of tourist infrastructure, adequate hotels, sanitary food, working buses and roads and general hygiene; however, in actuality I have found Bolivia no more difficult or unpleasant than Ecuador or Peru. In general, I have found all three countries pleasant, and (gasp) not that difficult or frightening to travel in. So I suppose this is why I decided to challenge myself a little in Bolivia.

First challenge: Death Road. I met up with Cody and Joshua, who I had met while spending a night on Amantani Island on the Peru side of Lake Titicaca. We had a fabulously strange night dressing up in traditional clothing and dancing with our host families. The only person at the party from my family was a quite elderly woman who nonetheless insisted that I dance much more than I would have liked (had I had it my way, I would have not danced at all). Most interesting discovery of the night: beer foams over A LOT when you are at altitudes above 4000 meters. In La Paz, we arranged to bike the Death Road, a one lane dirty road cut into the side of a jungle covered cliff. We were told to bring sun screen and bug spray; what we actually needed was subzero weather gear. We started at some ridiculous altitude in the freezing fog and rain. After the first hour, all of us, including our guides, were back in the van, too cold to ride -- with the exception of a crazy Frenchman, who rode the entire way. It was perhaps the coldest I have ever been in my life, and that is coming from someone who snowboards, scuba dives in the Puget Sound and exercises racehorses in the snow. I thought I was going to vomit, but couldn´t decide whether this was from the severe pain in my thawing hands or from the high altitude. Perhaps both. We continued once we reached the actual Death Road, farther down the road and farther down in altitude as well. We all survived and got very dirty and wet. My advice to anyone following in my footsteps: bring snowboarding gear.

Second Challenge: Salar de Uyuni. I left La Paz and headed south toward Uyuni to see the Salar de Uyuni -- the world´s largest salt flat. I splurged on perhaps the nicest bus I have seen thus far this trip but did not enjoy the 12 hour ride much because we traveled down the roughest "road" I have seen to date. It consisted mostly of a stone path through fields with multiple river crossings -- straight through, no bridges allowed. Once in Uyuni, I was greeted by a ghost town, only with living people. The town was all one color -- tan. The streets were ridiculously wide and the buildings very small, giving the whole town very strange, empty-seeming proportions. I left shortly in a Toyota Landcruiser that had seen better days, but was still in much better shape than many of the other SUVs being used as tour vehicles. I quickly figured out that, though most vehicles had the typical mix of European tourists, my vehicle held only people from La Paz, expect the driver (presumably from Uyuni) and me. I was briefly terrified by the prospect of spending countless hours over the next three days surround solely by Bolivianos; however, as usual, my preconceptions were totally wrong -- I had a great time and was warmly welcomed. One of the women had lived in the States, so she and I had a couple of conversations in English, during which I got to ask all my burning questions about the coca culture in Bolivia. This, however, would make the blog way, way too long, so maybe I will cover my thoughts on the Bolivia-US-Coca-Cocaine saga in another blog. So this was challenging why, you may ask? Well, mostly it was easy, as it was just a lot of driving to some of the most incredible landscapes I have ever seen. I know where Salvador Dali got his inspiration, seriously. The only very unpleasant parts were that the last morning we got up and in the car at 5am in order to make it back to Uyuni at a reasonable hour and once again, it was painfully cold. I hate being cold. My future travel plans will now revolve solely around traveling to places that are always between 55 and 70 (I hate being hot too). The second problem? One of the families had a very cute 5 year old who was very sick due to either the car rides and/or the altitude; therefore the truck consisted of me, the driver, 5 more adults, one small child and bowls of vomit. Not pleasant. At least our driver was not a drunk, unlike the driver of one poor couple I met; thank goodness for small miracles.

Third Challenge: Potosi Mines. Immediately after returning to Uyuni from the salt flat, I boarded a bus for Potosi. For some reason, all buses leave at 7pm, leaving you no time to eat upon returning to Uyuni and before boarding the bus, and also causing you to arrive in Potosi sometime between 12am and 2am (or 5am depending on how many flat tires you get). Luckily, I ran into a kid I had met in Cusco and convinced him to let me join his group in searching for a hotel when we arrived in Potosi. The next day we went to visit the Potosi mines. The mines have been operating since colonial times and still operate today, harvesting silver and zinc. The mines were perhaps the most thought provoking thing I have seen since beginning my travels. I hesitate to call them a human rights abuse, as workers are not technically forced to be there; however, they are forced to be there in a way because the salary at almost all other jobs is very, very poor and pales in comparison to the miners salary. That said, one miner dies every day in the mines, most often caused by alcohol-related accidents, since many miners drink heavily while working. Otherwise, miners die within 10 years of entering the mines from silica pneumonia. We met a boy working in the mines hauling wheelbarrows of rock and mineral outside to where the women separate the valuable minerals from the invaluable rock. Not only did he haul a wheelbarrow, that was a challenge for me to lift, for 10 hours a day, but he is only 10, which means he will likely die of a respiratory illness by the age of 20. One interesting coca fact: coca was seen as "from the devil" by the Spanish colonials until they realized that it increased the output of the indigenous people working in the mines, after which it was official supported by the Vatican.

After this whirlwind tour of the south of Bolivia, I needed a break, some warmth and rest, so I headed to beautiful Sucre. I took advantage of a hot (ok, warm and slightly weak) shower and put on some clean and comfortable clothes. I finally untied my tennis shoes from the outside of my bag -- they had been hanging there for 5 or 6 days; ever since I had ruined them riding the mountain bike through rivers. I successfully rescued the insides with shoe powder I bought in La Paz, but the outsides were still covered in mud. I put them on anyway and went out to explore the town. One commonality between many of the cities in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia is the presence of shoe shine boys around the center of each town. There are slight difference between the shoe shine boys of each town; for example, in La Paz they wear ´80s style sky masks and baseball hats pulled low over their eyes, so it appears that they intend to mug you rather than shine your shoes. I have become used to being approached by these boys, who will shine anything you walk on, including chacos, so I tend to say "no gracias" without paying much attention to them. This time however, two small boys followed me and would not leave me alone. Then I began to understand what they were saying. Basically, they were telling me how dirty my shoes were. I looked down and saw the still present mud from the bike ride and consented to a shoe shine. I paid the boys 10 bolivianos -- 10 times more than they asked, but still only $1.25. Now I have black Asics with a military shine!

I had a wonderful, relaxing time in Sucre resting in a 3 star hotel, for $15 a night and hanging out with a new group of friends. I had originally intended to stay in Sucre for only one night, then head on to Santa Cruz, then on to an animal refuge; however, I was having unspecified anxieties about this plan. Not only was I concerned about time constraints, but also about committing to an organization I knew very little about. Then it finally dawned on me to consult one of the veterinarians I worked with while in Argentina a year and a half ago. Just before I was supposed to leave Sucre, my vet friend emailed me telling me not to waste my time. I felt so relieved to be able to base my decision on good advice. It was also great to find myself suddenly with extra, unplanned time.

Since then, I have been trying to live day to day a little more, not planning so much, which can be difficult for me. I ended up staying in Sucre for four nights with a group of friends from Canada, England and Israel. We kept ourselves pretty busy, seeing a huge set of fossilized dinosaur foot prints, finding the best viewpoint in the city, eating incredibly cheap but good food in the local market, hiking to a set of waterfalls to go swimming and visiting a Sunday market. Now I am in Santa Cruz, again, finding myself here longer than originally planned. I stayed, in part, to meet with some people who work for the Wildlife Conservation Society. They work in the Kaa-Iya de Gran Chaco National Park helping to manage the park and the surrounding indigenous societies. I got to browse their library and learned a lot about this project as well as other similar projects around the world. Unfortunately it does not look like I will make it to the park, as, unlike easily accessible North American Parks, this park has no tourist infrastructure and is quite difficult to reach, let alone navigate inside. Now I am headed out to an organic farm and hope to see Amboro National Park. After that it is on to Brazil. I am feeling the itch to change countries again, though I am having some trouble wading through all the possible travel plans for Brazil. Possibilities are great, but also overwhelming.

Southern Peru

I have dreams of orca whales and owls
But I wake up in fear
You will never be my
You will never be my dear
Will never be my dear, dear friend
Dear dear friend, dear dear friend...

I made it to Lima with refreshingly few problems, after my heinous bus rides in the north of Peru. I had a front row seat in the top of a big tour bus to Lima; however, the scenery up to Lima is pretty desert like and therefore gets a little monotonous. I got into Lima just as it was getting dark, which I never like to do, but seem to do often. Once again, I was not at any recognizable main bus terminal, so I decided to trust my friend Jorge, who I met in Huaraz and assume that I was relatively close to the neighborhood where my host family lived. I was a little apprehensive about the whole situation because I had been told by several people that the neighborhood where I was staying was a notoriously bad neighborhood. I decided I was going to go for it anyway. I argued with no less than 5 cab drivers hounding me to ride with them and eventually got one to agree to take me to my host house for 7 soles -- only 2 more than Jorge said it should cost. Good enough, I decided.

I made it easily to my hosts house where I was greeted by Fresia, a 70-something widow who lives with her daughter in a large house. I had a private room off the back courtyard. Fresia was quite animated and very interesting. She and I are part of an international home-stay program called SERVAS. Look it up and join as a host or traveler; I highly recommend it. Fresia was very accommodating and helpful -- she had her grandson drive me around the next day to complete some of the errands I needed to run, called another SERVAS friend at the Brazilian embassy when I had difficulty obtaining my Brazilian visa and invited over other SERVAS hosts to meet me during my second night. I spent most of the visit with the other SERVAS members listening to very rapid Spanish covering anything and everything from food to politics and trying to stay awake as they gave me multiple glasses of red wine. Yes, Fresia the 70 year old lasted longer than I did. Throughout my stay with Fresia, I never got tired of the look of horror on other peoples faces when I told them I was staying in La Victoria. The part of the neighborhood I was in was not so bad and I had absolutely no problem.

For the next 4 or 5 days, I was lucky enough to get to stay with my new friend Jorge, who I met in Huaraz. Ironically, he has a roommate from Seattle who was gone for the week, so I got my own room again. He also lives in what I would consider the best neighborhood in Lima, Barranco. Unfortunately I do not have pictures as that was the time I was between cameras. If you go to Lima, make sure to visit Barranco, just don't tell all the other tourists. Making a local friend in Lima is by far the best way to get to know the city -- Jorge spent the better part of my stay helping my with my Brazilian visa issues, helping me find an excellent replacement camera, showing me around the usual tourist sites and showing me where to find the best food, coffee and pisco sours in Lima. We even saw a (U.S.) movie, which was a nice break from my usual traveling routine. It is perhaps most astounding to find oneself in Lima, Peru after walking out of a movie theater. For a moment I forgot I wasn't in Seattle.

While Lima was quite a bit different from the towns I had visited in the north, I recognized some of the same characteristics I mentioned about the north. Namely, the income gap that is apparent between individuals, towns and neighborhoods. In Lima, or specifically on the outskirts of Lima, neighborhoods appeared very run down, with shack-type housing that is stereotypical of the foreign perception of Andean countries; however many of the neighborhoods in central Lima were actually very, very nice (i.e. Barranco). Miraflores is the main tourist neighborhood. I spent more time there than I would have liked because the Brazilian embassy was located there. It is so touristy, you really feel you are back in the United States (there are even several Starbucks, oh the horror, the horror) so I really had no reason to want to be there.

The song I quoted above relates to the number of places I have been, how quickly I felt that I moved through Peru, the number of people I have met and become friends with and Lima and Peru in general. I have been thinking a lot about all the people I have met and how I come and go so quickly through their lives, and they through mine. I think we all have intentions of keeping in touch, though it often doesn´t happen. While traveling, we travelers are pretty frank about all of this. I have spent whole days with people and none of us has thought to introduce ourselves by name or ask the others´names. This doesn´t bother me in some ways, but does in others. In contrast, some people I have kept in touch with (thus far) and I hope it continues. Namely, Jorge from Lima and Silvana, a girl who also lives in Lima who I met through my friend Fred, have been extremely kind in keeping in touch with me and making sure my travels are going well. Maybe it is a Peruvian characteristic.

After Lima, I flew to Cusco. Jorge pointed out that taking a 30 hour bus ride straight to Cusco was idiotic when I could get a 1 hour flight for only slightly more money. It was a nice break from my recent bad luck with buses. Cusco and Aguas Calientes (the town closest to Machu Picchu) are perhaps the most touristy places I have been, though not in a displeasing way. Cusco is convienent and a pretty pleasant town. Aguas Calientes raises prices quite a bit because this town is really the only place to stay to access Machu Picchu. Machu Picchu, the Meca of western backpackers traveling in South America, was as amazing as I expected it to be, perhaps as much because of its beautiful surrounding as for the structures themselves. I think my most memorable part of the trip, however, was traveling alone through the Sacred Valley before arriving at Aguas Calientes. I enjoy spending time alone, away from other tourists and guides more. The three towns I passed through, Pisaq, Urubamba and Ollantaytambo, all had their unique charms. Plus I got to do some hiking on uncrowded trails to interesting ruins you do not get to see if hiking the (in)famous "Inca trail". I stayed with another SERVAS host in Urubamba. Jorge or "Yoyo" was extremely hospitable and had a great, though basic house in Urubamba. He speaks fluent English and French and was a great source of information about local politics. He told me about the political influence that radio personalities often have among the communities of Peru. I had seen this portrayed in a strange Peruvian movie, Pantaleón y Las Visitadoras, I saw a few months ago, so it was quite interesting to realize that this was based on some truth.

About the time I got to Cusco, I was still running into lots of street kids and begging mothers with children. What strikes me most as I walk around is seeing the homeless (or at least very poor) children and mothers. In the States, it is easier to become somewhat jaded toward the homeless as they are often middle-aged to older men; therefore, I think it is easier to feel that they are at least somewhat responsible for their condition (though I know that this is not always the case). So now I find myself handing out money indiscriminately and buying things that I don´t need. My ankles are going to be totally weighed down by bracelets within a couple of weeks. Begging is an interesting conundrum because these people really do need money each day to live; however, some argue that handing out money is counterproductive because it encourages a continuation of begging rather than a drive to find entrepreneurial ways out of poverty. So maybe I should continue buying bracelets and quit handing out money? I really have no idea.

On a lighter note, I went rafting in Cusco and it was awesome! The guys that run the company want me to move to Cusco so they can teach me to kayak and then I can work as a safety kayaker, pulling tourists out of the water. Seems kind of Catcher In the Rye - esque to me, saving hopeless, helpless tourists. Unfortunately I think I fractured my foot while rafting. It doesn´t hurt too much as long as I keep it laced up tightly in a shoe or boot. I figure I couldn't really do much about it in the States anyway, so I am not worried.