Erin and Brad's Travel Blog

2007-07-20T10:39:00.000-07:00

The Things We Learned

Since we've gotten back to the US, we've been asked for tips from other people interested in taking a long journey. To make things efficient, we developed a lovely document of tips and lessons from our ramblings.

I posted it on Google Docs: http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dftsb59v_3c6q7tt

2007-06-11T07:30:00.000-07:00

On our way home

Nine months ago today, we boarded our flight from Seattle to London, bound for Capetown. In the intervening time, we've had experiences of a lifetime.

Watching a lioness stalk and kill a zebra on the plains of the Serengeti. Seeing a llama born beneath the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu. Paddling a swan across Lake Titicaca. Crossing the street in Saigon.

All these are memories I will carry forever. And of course, there are many, many more.

And beyond all the amazing memories, this trip has been wonderful for another important reason: It has given Erin and me a lot of time together. Literally, we have not been apart for more than a few hours in all this time, which is more than many people spend together in an entire marriage by our calculations. For this, we feel very lucky.

As we prepare to re-enter American society, Erin and I are both feeling ready. Travel has been wonderful beyond expectation, but it has also been a bit tiring. We're looking forward to sleeping in our own bed again, unpacking our bags and eating a salad. And speaking for myself, I'm looking forward to a good Q-Tip for a change. It seems Q-Tip quality really declines outside the US. Go figure.

I look forward to connecting with many of you in person in the days to come. We head to Buffalo on the 14th and then wend our way West, visiting family along the way. We land in Seattle on June 27th.

As they say down here in Buenos Aires, "ciao, besitas."

2007-06-11T07:25:00.000-07:00

Some favorite photos

For those of you with limited time, I created a set on Treemo with 27 of my favorite photos. You can check them out here: http://www.treemo.com/users/brad/sets/43835

2007-06-11T06:43:00.000-07:00

Solid like a rock

Throughout this trip, I have resisted a strong tendency to get scatological in the blog. I say “strong tendency” not only because my natural sense of humor drifts (stampedes?) towards the potty, but also because developing world travel commonly leads to discussions of an intestinal nature.

However, in deference to the dignity and propriety of my grandmothers – regular readers of this rag – I have explicitly avoided certain topics. Until now (sorry Gigi and Grammy).

With just three days to go until we board our flight from Buenos Aires back to the US, I have just (fingers crossed) emerged from a hellish week of intestinal distress. I will spare you the details, but needless to say it rivaled my experience in Laos and exceeded the Chilean and Thai experiences. Ah, the parts of travel not frequently covered in Conde Nast.

And lest I be accused of “only child” behavior, I must add Erin had it pretty rough too. Her bout hit in La Paz, where she saw only the inside of our Radisson Hotel room. Luckily, she emerged from the tunnel after a few days.

I, on the other hand, got on board for an eight-day ride.

We can point to no particular meal, no specific drink. But something in Bolivia latched on and refused to let go. We threw Cipro at the little beast and it only chuckled. Gatorade by the gallon kept us sentient, but the fever and constant trips to the “small room” made for a tough week.

Luckily, our apartment in Buenos Aires was nice and the cable TV had lots of channels in English.

Now that I am approaching human again, I have had a chance to reflect on this aspect of our trip. And frankly, if there is one thing I will not miss for a second, it’s the stress I have felt for the past nine months at every meal. Fine dining, street vendors, airplanes, cafes – they all pose risks. We never knew from where the next attack would be launched. We ate cautiously, but we needed to eat. And always, the risk was there.

I have not had a salad in nine months. I’m sure I could have eaten salads, sometimes, without problem, but I decided I would avoid them. Too risky. I have been dreaming of a Cobb salad for about three months now. I love a good, meaty salad with bacon.

So as we prepare to re-enter American society, there are many parts of travel I will miss: new experiences, beautiful landscapes, lots of free time to explore.

But there’s one thing I will definitely not miss: intestinal distress. Bring on the salad.

2007-05-31T17:20:00.000-07:00

A really high lake

At almost 13,000 feet above sea level, Lake Titicaca is the highest lake in the world, I think. In any case, it's really high. Shared between Peru and Bolivia, we spent the last few days exploring its waters and islands, to our great delight.

Our exploration began on the Peru side, in the slightly dumpy town of Puno. Curiously, the town doesn't really feature the lake at all. In fact, it would be possible to be completely ignorant you are sitting right next to a world-famous destination, since most of the town centers on a couple squares about a 1/2 mile up from the water. Of course, we knew why we were there, so we made our way to the shore and beyond.

Besides its elevation, one of the things that makes Titicaca unique is the collection of floating villages offshore of Puno. Yes, you read that correctly. These little towns are floating on large rafts made of reeds that grow in the shallow parts of the lake. Existing since Inca times, the islands really do float. Walking around town is a bit like walking on a waterbed, without all the randy connotations.

As a curious aside, it seems evolution has dealt the villagers an interesting adaptation: They all appear squat and rotund. Not exactly obese, but rather round. I'm guessing hundreds of years and many generations of living on small, floating islands have resulted in people comfortable sitting a lot, weaving baskets, houses, boats and property out of reeds.

After las islas flotando, as they are known in these parts, we headed off to Isla Taquile a couple hours away by our very slow boat. On this solid, landed island, we wandered over the hilltops, witnessing another ancient culture dating back from pre-Incan times.

Crossing over to Bolivia, Erin and I landed in Copacabana. Sadly, string bikinis and tanned Brazilians were nowhere to be seen. On the positive side, there were plentiful swan paddleboats for rent. Given the opportunity to navigate Titicaca's waters in a swan, how could we resist? Erin swooned as I laid on my marital charm with the sun setting over the lake's azure waters, cold pilsener in hand.

From our Copacabana base, we struck out for Isla del Sol, the lake's largest island. Visiting pre-Incan ruins along the way, we hiked along the islands ridgeline for a few hours traversing from North to South. Between the altitude and namesake sun, I managed to develop an interesting tan line through my baseball cap.

Now sitting comfortably in the La Paz Radisson (our first US chain hotel), I feel we have seen Lake Titicaca sufficiently. Ringed by snow mountains, sitting under constant sunshine, the clear waters are truly something special.

2007-05-24T09:26:00.000-07:00

Exploring condor country

One of the things that makes Arequipa such a gem is it's proximity to the Colca Canyon, one of the deepest in the world. Surrounded by 18,000 ft. peaks, the canyon is another natural wonder in the seemingly neverending list of Andean pleasures found in Peru. Intrepidly, we set out to explore.

Crossing a 16,000 ft. pass, we arrived in Chivay mostly unscathed. Sitting at over 12,000 ft., Chivay is the regional market town, which served as our base to explore the surrounding areas.

Before heading out, we needed a quick soak in the town's hotspring resort, La Calera. While the surrounding volcanoes can cause frequent earthquakes and ocassional eruptions, they also provide ample hot sulphur springs. Given the high, dry, cold climate, 104 degree water is a real treat. Soak on.

Fully pruned up, we headed out with our tour to the Cruz de Condors, definitely a highlight of the trip. It seems the Andean Condors like soaring on the thermals high above the Colca Canyon and the Cruz offers an amazing vantage point to watch the second largest bird glide overhead. At times, these massive birds (which can have wingspans up to 10 ft.) were so close they actually pooped on the woman directly to my left. As she wiped the correspondingly massive dropping off her head, I considered our collective luck.

Moving on from Cruz de Condor, we headed into the small town of Yanque where Erin had the pleasure of perching a massive white eagle on her head. What a day of avian excitement!

Now back in Arequipa, we definitely see Colca Canyon as a Peruvian highlight. Massive peaks, deep canyons, hotsprings, huge birds and friendly locals. What else could you want?

For video of condors soaring, check out Treemo: http://www.treemo.com/users/brad/channel/item/87028

2007-05-24T09:15:00.000-07:00

Living la vida coca

Coming of age in the Reagan era, I was taught early and often to "just say no." While Nancy and I didn't see eye to eye on much, one aspect of her message did hit home: I avoided cocaine and all it's derivatives like the plague.

That is, until we arrived in Peru.

While I have known for a while that the coca grows prolifically here, I didn't realize how intertwined it is in Peruvian culture.

Before I go any further, let me clear something up: There is a big difference between the cocaine of the Reagan Era (known as blanca down here) and the coca leaf (coca), the ubiquitous product of Peruvian culture. As our tour guide so eloquently explained the other day, "cocaine is bad, coca is good."

In Peru, coca leaf is made into products such as tea and candy, and it is chewed directly. In all forms, it is said to possess medicinal qualities that alleviate the effects of soroche, altitude sickness.

And it is available everywhere. Every restaurant serves mate de coca (coca tea). Every corner store sells coca leaves and candy. When we arrived at our hotel in Cusco, we were greeted with cups of coca tea.

Until a couple days ago, I had not chewed the leaves themselves. However, with our tour to the Colca Canyon slated to hit 16,000 feet, our guide was strongly recommending everyone chew the coca. When in Rome...

Sadly (or perhaps, happily), the experience was anything but pleasant. Tasting a bit like rancid spinach water, my first reaction was an involuntary gag reflex. While nausea was one of the symptoms I was trying to address, I couldn't help consider the irony of the nausea I felt as soon as the gnarly leaves entered my mouth.

However, as I chewed I noted a tingling, numbing reaction on my tongue and cheeks. The closest feeling I can compare it to is Novocaine, which I suspect is derived from a similar product.

Other than numbness and nausea, I really didn't feel much else. But perhaps that's a good thing, since I also avoided headaches, vomiting and other common effects of hitting such a high altitude.

Now that I have experienced the gateway drug in it's purest form, I can honestly say I am happy to let that dog lie. Sure, the Peruvians worship the coca, but for me the experience was best left in the Andes.

2007-05-20T14:58:00.000-07:00

Soaking up the rainforest

The Amazon. From Ben & Jerry's icecream to Vanity Fair's Green Issue, the world's most famous jungle is everywhere. Evoking images of towering trees teeming with wildlife, it's a veritable Garden of Eden, guardian of biodiversity, producer of oxygen and moderator of global temperatures. And it's disappearing at a rapid rate.

So given the opportunity to visit, how could we pass?

Flying from Cusco to Puerto Maldonado, Peru, we caught our first glimpse of the expansive forest below. Seemingly unending, the wide swath of trees was interlaced with broad, muddy rivers flowing inexorably to the sea, thousands of miles away.

One such river, the Madre de Dios, was our destination. Located in the heart of the Tambopata Nature Reserve, Explorers Inn would serve as our base of operations for five days of jungle exploration.

Stepping off the plane from Cusco, we could immediately feel a difference. In place of cool, dry air was an hot aerosol stew, more water than oxygen. To call the feeling oppressive is an understatement. I began to immediately sweat. Erin of course only glowed.

In town for less than an hour, I already smelled like an authentic jungle explorer. So along with our friend Catherine, off we set, upriver for a few hours until we landed on a muddy bank surrounded by towering trees. We had arrived.

Greeted with cool tropical drinks, I immediately took note of another aspect of jungle life: The panoply of insects swarming by land, sea and air.

During my time in graduate school, I had learned there are many more insects in the world than humans. By factors of ten. However, learning this fact is very different from understanding it. In the Amazon, we reached an enlightened plane of understanding. From the cockroach that jumped out of my toiletries as I reached for a toothbrush, to the nasty biting sandflies (or perhaps chiggers, I was never sure which), bugs are a reality of life deep in the forest.

Luckily, not all of them bite. I was constantly astounded by the array of multi-hued butterflies and moths circling frenetically. Led by our fearless guide Patricia, we set off to explore the jungle.

Wearing knee-high waterproof boots, we slogged through clay-based mud that threatened to remove our footwear with each step. Slurping our way forward,we covered miles in search of otters, monkeys, birds and other critters. And we were not disappointed.

Even with all this excitement, I have to admit I was ready to move on after five days. Our clothes had started to mold, despite our best efforts to dry them out. With a smell that could gag a mountain goat, I could see the baggage handlers in the airport grimace as they entered the six-foot stink radius of my suitcase.

Luckily our next destination was Arequipa, a high, dry city with plenty of laundry facilities. Jungle behind us, I am left feeling the Amazon is a bit like a sewer system: I am really glad it's there and I am happy to have an understanding of how it works, but I don't need to rush back again to visit anytime soon. As amazing as the jungle is, I really am a mountain guy.

2007-05-13T13:45:00.000-07:00

South America´s first Socialists

From Che Guevara to Hugo Chavez, South America has a long history of firebrand Socialists. In fact, we learned this history extends all the way back to the Inca civilization, nine million people strong.

While Erin and I are as left-leaning as any other good Seattle progressives, the Inca form of government really had very little to do with our decision to hike the trail to Machu Picchu. Rather, we were looking for some fine scenery, good exercise and historic ruins. We found all this, plus a bit of political discourse thrown in for good measure.

It turns out ¨The Inca Trail¨ is really just a famous 46 kilometer segment of over 9,000 kilometers of stone trails the Incas built during their rein. And with so much trail crossing steep, mountainous terrain, the Inca needed labor. Lots of it.

Considering the work requirements, I lobbed a question at our fearless guide Bobby: ¨How did they get all this trail built through such steep terrain?¨ Whereupon came the history lesson. It seems all Inca were expected to work for the good of the society. This meant when they weren´t farming, they were building trails, temples, houses and myriad other structures that today lie in various states of ruin.

Yet the total effect of their efforts is still awe inspiring. During our journey, we found the hillsides littered with stone ruins dating back hundreds of years. Add in stunning mountain views with porters carrying our heavy loads, and you have the makings for an epic trek.

So while Machu Picchu is the most famous and largest Inca ruin, it is far from the only one. As we hiked for four days over mountain and through vale, we crossed paths with many Inca sites. In each case, Bobby would wow us with his knowledge culled from hiking the trail over 400 times.

One example of this knowledge is the following interesting aside: It seems Machu Picchu was re-discovered in 1911 by Hiram Bingham, who was under contract with Yale University at the time. In the process of restoring the site, Good Samaritan Hiram illegally exported 400 crates of artifacts that today continue to reside in Yale´s Whitney Museum. Needless the say, the Peruvians would like their looted treasures back, but Yale is balking. For all those Eli´s out there, feel free to suggest to the Development Office they consider returning the Inca artifacts to their rightful owners.

Sitting showered and rested back in Cusco, it´s hard to see our experience on the trail as anything other than life changing. It was that epic.

And now that we´ve walked in the footsteps of the Inca, I can´t help feeling a sort of kinship with them. What they built is beyond description. Especially, since it was almost all constructed on steep mountain terrain. Sure they disappeared without a trace, but in my opinion the Inca ruins stand as a testament to the sophistication and immense efforts of South America´s first Socialists.

2007-05-08T06:28:00.000-07:00

Curious observation

I´ve noticed in Peru that the water in toilets does not swirl as it goes down in the bowl. I´ve been told that in the Southern hemisphere, water swirls the opposite direction from in the Northern hemisphere. But the lack of swirl confuses me a bit.

We are not right on the equator, but at about 15 degrees South latitude. My only guess is we are close enough to the equator that the swirl is minimized. I will continue collecting data in toilets around the country. Stay tuned.

2007-05-08T06:16:00.000-07:00

Hockey around the world

With the Buffalo Sabres in the Stanley Cup Playoffs, I have been inexorably drawn to hockey like moth to a flame. Much to Erin´s confusion (¨He never really cares about sports at other times...¨), I find myself compelled to stay connected to the boys in blue and gold (at least in my mind they still wear the classic jerseys) at all hours of the day.

Luckily, in these days of high-speed connections around the globe, this is no longer an impossible task. So as game five approached against the Rangers, I dove into the latest technology to identify my options. Sure WGR55 would be streaming Rick Jeanneret live, so I could get the best in audio coverage.

But what about video? I do like to watch as well as listen. This is where things got a bit trickier. Sadly, NBC Sports doesn´t stream sports, unlike Versus.com which provides a live feed on its website. With game five on NBC, I had to explore other options.

Enter SopCast.com. Learning on the fly, I discovered SopCast allows anyone to stream TV live over the internet. After a bit of digging, I discovered there were at least a dozen channels ostensibly devoted to the Sabres/Rangers game.

Downloading and installing the software onto the computer at the internet cafe, I quickly brought myself up to speed on the new technology. And at game time, I was able to find a channel that was in fact showing the fast-paced action.

The trouble was they were streaming RDS, a Canadian channel which in turn was showing the NBC feed with one significant alteration. The commentary was in French.

Turning the volume on RDS down and on Jeanneret up, I was able to both see and hear the game, albeit with a 30-second delay between Jeanneret and the play on the screen.

Nonetheless, I felt quite lucky to be able to stay so tuned in while sitting at 11,000 feet in Cusco, Peru. After hours sitting in front of the computer, scaring other customers around me with seemingly inexplicable outbursts and vulgarity, I emerged with a big smile on my face. The Sabres won.

Now it´s on to Ottawa for another tough series. And through it all, I will be dazzling Erin by wearing my new Sabres cap. As newlyweds, she is still learning about the connection we Buffalonians feel to our sports teams. You can take the boy out of Buffalo, but you will never take Buffalo out of the boy.

Go Sabres!

2007-05-06T09:20:00.000-07:00

Excitement in Lima

Roaring throuugh Lima´s streets in the pre-dawn hours, we were hoping not to miss our flight. Luckily, our taxi driver seemed to be doing all he could to make up for the earlier troubles.

Our day began early with a 3:45am wakeup. We were headed to Cusco on the 6am flight and had diligently arranged the day before for a taxi pickup at 4:30am. Our ride into the city cost 50 soles ($15USD) and the hotel staff member making the arrangement assured us the return trip would cost the same. All sounded good so far.

However, when I arrived in the lobby at 4:15am to settle our bill and wait for our ride, I noticed an elderly grandfather with his two toe-headed grandsons also waiting. Sitting mutely in a post-sleep stupor, I overheard them say they had ordered their taxi for 4:20am. So when a car arrived at that time, I assumed it was theirs. Fatal mistake.

No sooner had they headed off to the airport than the person at the front desk began looking a bit worried, asking me what time I had ordered a taxi for. Telling him 4:30, I noted the clock was striking 4:35am.

In a series of semi-frantic phone calls, it became clear our taxi was on its way to the airport without us. With the hotel staff helping, we were able to arrange another taxi, which arrived at 4:45am.

Feeling a bit rushed, I responded in the affirmative when asked by the driver if he should hurry. And hurry he did. By my count, we ran 6 red lights, caught air over a dozen speed bumps and generally broke every traffic law on the books. But we got to the airport in 15 minutes, half the time usually required.

That´s when the fun began. ¨Dosciento soles, por favor,¨the driver said with a smile. Oh and he wanted 50 soles more for parking.

Clearly aware we were being scammed, we also were feeling a time crunch. Our plane was slated to board in about 10 minutes as we stood in the parking lot arguing with the taxi driver. So we paid. Unhappily.

On the bright side, we did make our plane. As the last passengers to board, we arrived just as they shut the doors.

Other than this incident, our travels have been mercifully free of excessive scams. So I guess we just have to suck it up and laugh. And remember the cardinal rule: No matter the time or situation, always negotiate taxi fares up front.

2007-05-02T10:20:00.000-07:00

Off to Peru

As we head off to Peru in the morning, we are leaving our laptop behind in Buenos Aires with a friend. While I will endeavor to post photos and blog entries on a regular basis, I will once again be at the whims of local internet cafes.

Hasta pronto.

2007-05-02T10:08:00.000-07:00

Like a glove

After nearly eight months of travel, my money belt feels almost like a second skin. Always on my person, nestled in the small of my back against my skin, the belt has almost taken on a life of its own.

And like any good albatross, I have developed a bit of a love-hate relationship with the belt. On the one hand, it is undeniably useful for keeping my passport, credit cards and cash relatively safe. On the other hand, it can be quite constraining after a big Argentine hunk of meat.

And there are many times it has gotten a bit gamy as we have traveled through some of the hottest, most humid places on Earth. Needless to say, after many months of near-constant wear, the belt has taken on a life of its own. In the morning, I need only whistle and it leaps to my midriff, ready for the day, wagging like an excited dog.

So as the end of our long journey approaches, I am faced with a range of emotions: gratitude for this opportunity, excitement to see friends and family, only a bit of melancholy. Yet unquestionably, I am ready to get this f%&$ing belt off me. My belly needs to breath again.

2007-05-02T06:47:00.000-07:00

Where the cardon is king

As the cliché goes, Argentina is more like Europe than South America. And as with all clichés, there are certainly elements of truth to this statement.

Yet as I write this at 35,000 feet (mas o menos), reflecting upon the landscape and people of the North, I feel we have experienced a different Argentina. A South American Argentina.

Our adventures began with the arrival of our 17-hour bus ride from Mendoza into Salta’s Grand Central Station. Road weary and bleary eyed, we staggered to our lodging, Hostal del Antiguo Convento. And following in the footsteps of nuns, as we do so often, we retired for a sound nap.

Waking refreshed, we struck out into the center of Salta to explore. The differences from down South were immediately evident. The architecture called to mind Mexico or Santa Fe more than Buenos Aires. And the people resembled Peruvians or Bolivians more than their compatriots to the South.

And then we got the menu. Tamales, humitas, empanadas and locro were all on offer. Sure there was lomo and bife de chorizo – this was still Argentina after all – but there were actually items that did not derive from a cow or pig. And, heavens to Betsy, there was…spice. While the salsa picante would be considered mild by many palates (including mine), it was refreshingly spicy after nearly two months of bland Argentinean food. We were thrilled to add some new flavors into our repertoire.

After a couple days in Salta, we rented a car to tour the local environs. That’s when the fun really started.

Surrounded by cardon cacti, high mountains, altiplano, salt flats, multi-hued canyons and adobe pueblos, the area around Salta was as diverse as it was beautiful. From Purmamarca through Tilcara to Humahuaca, back through the salt flats to San Antonia de los Cobres and onto Cachi, we covered 1,000 kilometers in five days.

And throughout, we were blown away by the scenery, friendly people and laid back vibe.

On our last day in Cachi, we decided to go for a hike to see what the area had to offer. Set amongst foothills overshadowed by an 18,000-foot peak, there were plenty of lonely dirt roads and paths to keep us occupied.

With only a vague sense of goal or direction, we began our walk out of town. With air smelling of peppers drying under the cloudless sky, we marveled at the snow-rimmed peak high above and the skinned goats hanging from branches by several small huts. It seems Sunday is goat-skinning day in Cachi.

Five hours and 22 kilometers later, our sense of wonderment had shifted to feelings of dehydration and exhaustion. Luckily we had finished our unexpectedly ambitious circuit, none the worse for the wear.

Sitting at a streetside café in the main plaza, we couldn’t help but smile. With a table full of Gatorade, water and Cerveza Salta Blanca, our mood had returned to amazement that such a chill little place still exists. And at risk of squashing it by spreading the word among our vast readership, I encourage you to include the North into any trip to Argentina. Make it so.

2007-05-02T06:41:00.000-07:00

Man’s best friend

As an avowed dog lover, it seems to me many people in the United States have dog hang-ups. In their minds, a dog running free in the park or neighborhood is grounds for military intervention or at least a panic attack.

It´s probably a good thing many of these Americans never travel abroad.

And while the potential for dog interactions likely doesn’t figure into their travel avoidance behaviors, it probably should given the reality in most of the world outside the US borders.

Throughout our travels, we’ve encountered man’s (and woman’s) best friend in a wide range of settings. From the menus of Vietnam to the streets of Dar es Salaam, dogs are everywhere. Running, barking, skittering away from kicks and cars, dogs rule the roost in the developing world.

But here in Argentina, the dog is elevated to a different level. There actually seems to be genuine affection for these four-legged amigos. And as a result, their presence is even more common.

For example, unlike in Southeast Asia, dogs seem almost welcome in some restaurants in Argentina. And I don’t mean in the stir fry.

In the towns around Salta, we had the pleasure of sharing our meals with furry friends on several occasions. And mostly, they were well behaved, simply looking for a scrap or two to fuel their next incursion around the pueblo.

In the United States, a dog in a restaurant better be attached to a blind person or be subject to immediate incarceration.

And like a big Karma wheel, the Argentine love of dogs is reflected back in the dog behavior. Sure they still bark and we crossed paths with the occasional yipper (Aside: David and Kim, we saw many dogs resembling Mr. Chompers. Has he ever travelled abroad?), but mostly dogs in Argentina were very friendly. Tails wagged, scruffs were offered for a scratch and generally our interactions were very pleasant.

It was actually quite refreshing to see people demonstrating affection for the village curs.

When we return to the US, we (maybe one of us more than the other) are considering getting a dog. And if we do, I will make it part of my mission to spread the dog love within my own country.

2007-04-29T16:04:00.000-07:00

Revisiting Mendoza

Mendoza holds a special place in our hearts. In addition to being the ¨land of good wine and sun,¨ it is also the place Erin and I first talked about getting married. And it is the place we first discussed going on a long journey around the world.

And to top it all off, we have friends there from our first visit. So we were amply excited to get back into the heart of Argentina´s wine country for a few days of malbec and good times.

A bit of background: A couple years ago, Erin and I were looking for a place to go on vacation (back in the days when this meant two weeks away from work).

As luck would have it, my good friend JR was sleeping on my hide-a-bed for a few weeks. Being a world traveler, I thought it wise to ask JR, ¨what´s your favorite place you've visited?¨ With only a bit of hesitation he answered, ¨Mendoza.¨

A few months later, we were off to explore this metropolitan Mecca sandwiched between vineyards and the snow-capped peaks of the Andes. And the rest is history.

Fast forward to a couple weeks ago. As we staggered off the Andesmar bus, I couldn't help feeling a bit like I was coming home. After so many months of visiting places we've never been before, it was oddly comforting to return to a place we knew we loved. We had favorite restaurants, we knew people, we could navigate the streets.

After a quick nap, we dove right in. Off to the Park Hyatt - Mendoza´s swankest hotel - for a light three-course lunch extravaganza. This being Argentina, the bill for my empanadas, beef tenderloin, postre, wine and water came to...$15. Nice.

The next day started late, as we slept off the remaining drowsiness from the long bus ride. After our cafe con leche and medialunas (croissants), we headed out for a walk in the park to build our appetites. After lunch, we wandered into one of the many new wine bars for a tasting. Ten wines later, we were feeling ready for another nap. Albeit with a smile on our faces.

Already a solid day, the highlight had to be heading over to dinner with our friend Eugenia and her parents. Our introduction to Eugenia came through a Buffalo connection (where else?) too complex to get into here. Basically, I went to highschool with her cousin Jorge and my mom is friends with her Aunt Silvia. In our visits to Mendoza, Eugenia has been a good friend.

And it´s always nice to have dinner in a home rather than a restaurant. With our laptop in tow, we spent a lovely evening eating empanadas, drinking wine and viewing slides of our trip. We tried to keep the slide show brief to avoid becoming ¨those people,¨and hope we succeeded.

This being Mendoza, Eugenia had a new job in a winery. So on our final day in town, we headed out to Finca Flichmann, one of the regions oldest and most respected wine producers. Founded by Herr Flichmann - an Argentine Jew, of which there are many - the winery is today under Portuguese ownership.

Since we had an inside connection, Eugenia gave us a top-notch tour of the winery, including an ample tasting of some of their finest (OK, middle shelf) wines, which were quite quaffable.

As we headed back to the bus station, Cabernet and Chardonnay in hand, we were sorry to leave Mendoza so soon. But it is one of those places we couldn't help feeling we would see again.

2007-04-28T05:20:00.000-07:00

34 hours from Bariloche to Salta

In the United States, it seems people rarely take buses long distances. With flights costing less than the price of fuel, the Greyhound seems designated for the fringes of society. It’s the places where an unshaven man with brandy on his breath falls asleep on your shoulder.

Yet in other parts of the world, the bus is the main form of transportation for trips great and small. And in Argentina, bus travel has been elevated to an almost sublime art form, catering to all sorts of people, sober and other.

As Erin and I boarded our first 17-hour bus ride from Bariloche to Mendoza, we were braced for the worst. Feeling a bit under the weather already, I foolishly declined to bring anything stronger than water to drink. Eight hours later, I was regretting this decision as I stared another nine hours in the face.

That said the bus was quite comfortable. Even deluxe by US standards. We had leather seats that reclined to 150 degrees (I took their word for it), movies on the screen up front and a relatively functional bathroom.

I say “relatively” because of the nuanced sign hung over the toilet, “Solo pipi, no popo.” Even a Spanish novice like me could get the gist of this subtle message. Claustrophobia set in.

When the chicken and rice under tinfoil was served, I couldn’t get the sign out of my mind. “No gracias,” I demurred. “Well OK, just a little.” Actually, the food was quite good by mass transit standards. And the portions were hearty enough to put us to sleep for a few merciful hours. 17 hours seemed to pass like a flash of cold molasses. We arrived in Mendoza bleary-eyed and in need of a nap, but otherwise ready for wine tasting.

With fate smiling upon us, three days later we had the opportunity to board another 17-hour bus ride from Mendoza to Salta. This time, I was better prepared with a bottle of Finca Flichman’s finest Cabernet on hand. And to make things even better, our seats on this bus reclined to a full 180 degrees, 30 more than the previous bus. And speaking from experience, it’s a precious 30.

As opposed to our first long ride, we slept like babies on this bus. Flat is so much better than reclined when it comes to sleep. And with The Departed on the screen up front, we had some enjoyable viewing in the cuss-filled cabin as well.

Even so, we arrived in Salta feeling a bit ragged. In some ways, a deluxe bus ride is a bit like a first-class surgery. Sure you get good food and a comfortable bed, but you still want it to be over and don’t feel that great at the end.

Now from our perch in Salta at the top of Argentina, we have only bus memories. We have now traversed the country from the southern tip of Tierra del Fuego to the northern fringes by Bolivia. From here, we are flying back to Buenos Aires in two hours.

2007-04-21T06:41:00.000-07:00

Patagonia Overview

After nearly three weeks in southern Argentina and Chile, we have moved North out of Patagonia. Sitting comfortably in our hotel lobby in Mendoza, surfing the free wi-fi, I thought I might offer a bit of reflection upon our Patagonian experiences.

To sum up briefly, even with a Thesaurus in hand there are not enough superlatives to describe the Patagonian landscape. Rugged, austere, vast, windy, stunning - these are a few words that leap to mind. But Patagonia is also composed of very different landscapes. From the coastal town of Ushuaia to the landlocked lakes region, it is a place that's hard to sum up succinctly.

Nonetheless, I will offer a few highlights:

Ushuaia: We visited the town that heavily markets itself as the "southernmost city in the world" with my parents. Being tethered to a (just barely) four star hotel meant we saw Tierra del Fuego National Park from a train, bus and boardwalk. From all appearances it is an amazing place, perched out at the end of the world.

And while our time delayed in the Ushuaia airport on the way to El Calafate was a bit trying, I will have a tough time forgetting this image of my dad sleeping on the floor. Good times.

El Calafate: This place is famous for one reason, Perito Moreno Glacier. And rightfully so. The glacier is unlike any I've seen before or since.

Actively moving almost a meter a day, the glacier calves impressively every ten minutes or so. The ongoing cracks, splashes and waves make it a very dynamic place. The preponderance of rainbows and sunny day helped too.

Torres del Paine: I've covered this one already, but it's worth re-emphasizing this park as one of the most scenic and amazing places on earth. Huge peaks, remote location and comfortable backcountry refugios where beer is served - what more could you want?

Bariloche: The town itself is fairly touristy, but not without its own charms. First, there are more chocolate stores here than Starbucks in Seattle. And there is a legitimately tasty Mexican restaurant run by a family from Mexico City. We're always on the lookout for non-Argentinean food options after almost two months in country.

But its the surrounding areas that make Bariloche world famous. From the rambling pampas and babbling trout streams to massive peaks, it's definitely an impressive place.

In all, Patagonia was a place I left wanting to return, with more gear in hand. With my skis, rod and bike, I could spend a lifetime. Or at least a few months.

2007-04-18T07:27:00.000-07:00

Plumbing the depths

For anglers around the world, Patagonia is one of a few Meccas. Known for massive trout, stunning scenery and little fishing pressure, it is a place dreamed about, pored over in picture books and occasionally, for the lucky few, visited.

Feeling like I am living in the "lucky few" category these days, it seemed only right to take advantage of my proximity to the hallowed waters by wetting a line. After many fishless months, I was ready to get back onto the water and see how the rivers down here treated me.

I was not disappointed.

First thing I needed to address was my lack of gear, transport and local knowledge. Luckily, guides are plentiful and the local fly shop was happy to point me towards German.

Picking me up at our hosteleria, German and I headed out in his late-80s vintage Renault (detail important later in the story) for a local hotspot. In my subtle application of the Spanish language, I had conveyed to him, "quiero pescar con moscas secas en un rio pequeño donde puedo andar en el agua." Basically, I want to fish with dry flies in a small river where I can walk in the water. He understood me perfectly.

Rio Pichi Leufu was a beautiful river about an hour from Bariloche. On the dry side of the Andes, we were blessed with a cloudless sky and relatively light winds. Perfect conditions for a day of fishing.

Within minutes of casting a mayfly into the riffle, I had a fish on. And the fishing remained consistent throughout the day. At German's insistence, I spent a while casting a beadhead nymph, with impressive results. And once I had proved myself worthy, German took me to a special little side arroyo.

This place was like the Land of the Lost for prehistoric monster trout. As I watched, I could see massive beasts cruising the depths and voraciously attacking mayflies hatching on the surface. Of course, they weren't fooled by my clumsy presentation. Still, it was impressive to watch.

About an hour into the fishing day, German noticed the headlights were still on in his car. Feeling a bit energized from the hot fishing, I was excited to have the opportunity to push his metal chariot up a grassy hillside so we could position it for a rolling start. An hour later, sweating in our waders, we had succeeded in getting it started. Not before I had plenty of time to consider our remote location, of course.

Car troubles aside, the day was amazing. And while the taste of Patagonian fishing only left me hungry for more, I was happy to have had the opportunity (not to mention a wife who understands my needs). Perhaps someday, I will return again to plumb the depths of this fishing Mecca.

2007-04-18T07:12:00.000-07:00

GO SABRES!

With the Sabres facing a tough series against the rednecks from Long Island, I thought it only appropriate to send my best wishes for the team. Being somewhat superstitious, that's all I will say. I just want fans across the Sabres diaspora to know I am sending the love from South America.

Bring it home.

Postscript: The Sabres have won their series against the Islanders. We are now waiting to see who we play in the next series.

2007-04-17T16:38:00.000-07:00

Getting our Gaucho on

I’ve always had a similar feeling about helicopters and horses: I can’t wait to get up onto the big beasts and once I do, I can’t wait to get my feet back on solid ground.

Luckily my memory is short, so each ride is like a new experience, bringing excitement about the upcoming thrills.

And so it was as we prepared for our day of horseback riding with Carol Jones, local gaucha extraordinaire in Bariloche. Based on a recommendation from my friend Leon, we signed up for a day of riding through the Andean foothills around town. What better way to get our gaucho on than to ride a two thousand pound mammal around the countryside. Needless to say, I felt mas macho.

However, the feeling didn’t last long as I tried in vain to get some control over Charol, the feisty stallion charging over the meadows with me on his back. “Pull on the reins. Show him who’s boss,” yelled Carol. Feeling like I was riding a furry jackhammer, it seemed pretty clear who was boss of the situation.

Luckily, Charol and I eventually saw eye to eye and our day was nothing less than stunning. With weather in full cooperation, we toured the Jones estancia, first settled by Carol’s grandfather in 1887. With a varied topography and views of the mountains in the distance, the ride was wonderful.

And the intermingling of gaucho culture made it all the more memorable. For those who have not been to Argentina, gauchos are Argentinean cowboys (and possibly cowgirls too, although the local masculine culture might have something to say about that). On our ride, we were accompanied by two gauchos-in-training, who served as Carol’s assistants.

To say these guys had personality would be an understatement. From the top-of-the-lung singing to the massive sheathed knives stuffed into their belts, they screamed “Argentina man.”

And nothing says man down here like massive portions of meat. We were not disappointed, as Carol and Co. laid out huge steaks on a grill over the campfire. Grrr. In true Gaucho style the only beverage served was red wine.

Which was a good thing, since the ache in my hips required some sort of analgesic. Being mostly a city slicker these days, it’s not often I climb up onto a horse and force my legs into the unnatural position required by the stirrups. After several hours of this position, my body was screaming out, “Get off!”

And so we’ve come full circle. I’m back on solid ground, slowly forgetting the low-grade pain and feelings of helplessness I felt on the back of the beast. Like Charlie Brown when Lucy offers a football, the next time I’m offered a horseback ride, I will jump in with both feet. And I am sure once again, I will not be disappointed.

2007-04-16T15:16:00.000-07:00

Andre has a posse

When I was a student at Brown in Providence, there was another student at the Rhode Island School of Design who created what has to be one of the most (in)famous art sociology projects of all times. While my information is limited to hearsay, speculation and urban myth, my understanding is he was testing the power of art by placing stickers all over Providence.

Over 15 years later, his project continues to have legs. I have spotted the stickers across the United States, and rejoiced recently when I spotted one in the middle of Torres del Paine National Park in Chile. Andre certainly does have a big posse.

2007-04-16T15:04:00.000-07:00

I cannot move that rock. I can move a smaller one.

One of my favorite Bill Murray roles – other than as the greens-keeper in Caddyshack, of course – has to be his moving portrayal of Hercules softened by many months of inactivity. “If you do not exercise, the muscle turns to flab,” laments the mythic hero as he is challenged to move a massive boulder.

As I walked up the trail, surrounded by the stunning scenery of Torres del Paine National Park, this Saturday Night Live skit came to mind, as the toll of months of sedentary travel manifested itself in my legs, knees and lower back.

Or to be more accurate, it became apparent on day 2, when I tried to lift myself out of bed. Looking for a pull-up bar, I was a bit confounded by a sharp soreness in my lower extremities – nothing three Advil couldn’t handle of course.

So off down the trail we went, for five more days of walking through one of the most beautiful places in the world.

Fitness challenges aside, Torres del Paine is a place everyone should see. The mountains rival the Tetons or El Capitan in terms of sheer size and severity (Estremo, as they say down here). But the location, on the tip of South America, feels more remote by several degrees.

And the refugios inside the park make this wild unspoiled place incredibly comfortable to visit.

Refugios are like backcountry hostels, with restaurants and hot water. While they have their own challenges (to be covered in a moment), they make visiting the backcountry of Torres del Paine as easy as hiking with the clothes on your back – no tents, stoves, cooking pots or other gear required. As people on a long trip without camping gear, the refugios were a godsend for us.

Spaced three to seven hours walk apart, the system within the park works efficiently, leaving me to wonder why we don't have something similar in US parks. Because hiking is required, the RV crowd is left far behind. But without heavy packs, it is possible to cover lots of ground in a day. And cover ground we did, walking over 100km in five days through mountains, forests, meadows and boulder fields.

The primary challenge of refugio life involved sharing a room with 6-8 other strangers. While people were uniformly friendly, on our first night this meant having a woman with a tubercular hack at the foot of my bed. As I ruminated about the diseases festering in the fetid, close quarters, I had ample opportunity to consider the costs and benefits of the refugio. Luckily, our roommates the other nights were mostly fine, other than a bit of snoring.

On the plus side, the refugio experience did renew (as if it was necessary) the awe-inspiring sense of appreciation I have for sharing a room with only Erin – who doesn’t snore even a bit.

As an aside, I observed an interesting cultural phenomenon: Social norms aren’t really well defined in the refugio setting, which feels like a cross between a hotel room, living room and bus station. Most people don’t spend enough time in such settings to develop or understand the norms.

As a result, I had the pleasure of witnessing a bizarre Canadian man sand down his toenails – with a full sheet of sandpaper. As a guy who appreciates a well-groomed finger or toenail, I only regret I did not ask him about the grit number.

Instead, I watched in amazement as he went to work on his digits, which were obviously toughened by the miles walking over scenic Chilean landscape.

2007-04-03T08:43:00.000-07:00

Growing a curly tail

I love ham as much as the next guy, especially if he’s Homer Simpson. Yet even for a pork-o-phile like me, Argentina has tested my limits. In the six weeks we’ve been in the country, I have easily averaged one ham and cheese sandwich per diem. At my peak, I consumed four hammy, cheesy snacks in a single day.

But Brad, why don’t you try some self restraint? I can hear the questions reverberating around cyberspace even as I write.

So let me set the record straight. It is very difficult, if not impossible, to avoid the ham and cheese sandwich in Argentina. It exists on all menus in a multitude of formats. Ham and cheese medialuna (croissant), ham and cheese tostado, ham and cheese empanada, ham and cheese burger, ham and cheese chicken. I’m not making this up. And I could go on.

In fact, during a heavenly seven hours in the Ushuaia airport on the way to El Calafate, I had the opportunity to count the ham and cheese items on the menu in the café. Of 50 food items for sale, fully 40% involved ham and cheese. Seriously, 20 ham and cheese options on the menu. How could I resist?

If ham and cheese were an Olympic sport, the Argentines would be bringing home gold year in and year out. They are experts.

But my ambition forces me to give them a run for their money. Mmmm, ham.

With almost two months ahead of us in Argentina, my only fear is the very real possibility I will begin growing a short, curly tail before returning to the US.

2007-04-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

Sublime buttocks

I’ve been thinking for a while about a thread to connect several Argentine experiences together and I think I’ve found it.

If Argentina is known for three things, they could be meat, football and tango. So, with my parents in the country for 10 days, Erin and I thought it only appropriate to show off this power trio.

The tour began in Buenos Aires with a hearty helping of fine beef. I may be playing a bit loose with facts, but I remember hearing Argentineans eat more beef per capita than any other people on the planet. You can’t swing a cat in the capital city without hitting a parilla, or what we would call a steak house.

And ordering a steak in Argentina means strapping on the feedbag. Servings remind me of the opening scene of the Flintstones, where Fred is delivered an order of brontosaurus ribs that tip the car over. The only difference is people in the Southern Cone like to eat at a relaxed pace - drive thru isn’t really their thing down here. It’s just too hard to drink malbec and wolf down beef while negotiating Buenos Aires’ notorious traffic.

But what, you might ask, does this have to do with a fine posterior? Everything, if the buttocks you are referring to belong to a sweet southern heifer, seemingly a favorite cut down here. In fact, Erin once had a rump steak larger than her head served up on a plate. There’s something truly impressive about an enormous piece of meat served on a plate without a single garnish. No apologies offered in the form of an under-baked potato or even piece of parsley. Just a honking piece of beef. Sublime.

After eating so much meat, I generally feel downright manly. And nothing says “man” like a battle to the (near) death on the futbol pitch. As in Brazil, futbol is not a sport in Argentina, it’s a religion. So parents in tow, we headed out to watch River Plate take on Gimnasia de Jujuy. River is one of the most popular teams in Argentina, and in their last 15 meetings, they have lost to Gimnasia only once. Sitting protected by high barbed-wire fences in the tourist section, we watched in rapt enjoyment as the locals rocked the end zones with non-stop singing, chanting, jumping and stomping.

Interestingly, the game had been moved from River’s home stadium in La Boca to another venue in the suburbs, due to a slight riot at their last home game. Nothing like a police force fully clad in riot gear to add excitement to the match.

While the experience was great, the game was only mediocre. River played a sloppy match and lost 1-0 to Jujuy. On the bright side, we learned several new Spanish phrases, as the excited River fans screamed their favorite vulgarisms at the team owner (seated just above us). It seems people aren’t happy about River’s new coach. With veins popping out of their necks, the River fans shared their opinions of the owner’s decision at top volume. Luckily the riot police kept tempers from flaring into action.

As for the thin literary device connecting the pieces of this rambling entry? Well, it was hard not to take note of the effect of all that running and kicking on the posteriors of the teams on the field, even for a newly married hetero male like myself.

But just as I took a scientific interest in the muscular buttocks of the futbol teams, I also noted the shapely bottoms flitting across the stage at the Madero Tango. Outfits painted on, it was difficult not to notice the athleticism required to be a dancer. And what athleticism it was.

As the birthplace of tango, any trip to Buenos Aires would be lacking without seeing a dinner show. Sure, there are dancers in the streets, cafes and plazas, but a dinner show really provides an opportunity to witness the dance carefully. Served alongside a fine rump steak (what else?), the dinner show at Madero Tango was enough tango to last me a lifetime. With dancers twirling, jumping and even stomping a bit, ala Riverdance, the passion of tango was in full effect. Born out of the brothels of Buenos Aires La Boca district, the dance – while not exactly forbidden – is nonetheless quite randy. Especially when the dancers are wearing sheer outfits.

Which brings me back to the beginning. Three prototypical Argentinean experiences, one connective thread: Sublime buttocks all around. No wonder so many people wear white pants down here.

2007-04-03T08:32:00.000-07:00

Who was that brunette?

I’ve spent a fair amount of time writing blog entries about our travels so far on a wide range of topics and locations.

Yet no entry has elicited as much response as the one about our big night out in Buenos Aires. For some reason, Roberto’s girlfriend – I am ashamed to admit I can’t remember her name – has caught the attention of many readers. Especially male readers.

I just can’t figure it out. To date, Erin and I have each received multiple emails from friends asking, “Who was that brunette?”

While Erin chatted with her more than I did, we both found her interesting, kind and possessing of excellent English language skills.

And while I can’t remember her name, I will never forget her. Viva Argentina.

2007-03-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

Bike touring around Buenos Aires

Great walking cities are not always great biking cities.

Take Manhattan for example. While I relish a good sunny day wandering the deep urban canyons of that big city, the thought of biking down Fifth Avenue leaves me a bit cold. Between racing taxis, darting buses and car doors opening without warning, the hazards of big city biking are numerous.

I felt similarly ambivalent about biking in Buenos Aires. That is, until we signed up with La Bicicleta Naranja for a bike tour around the city.

The day was a sunny one and I was looking for a new way to see the sights. When I mentioned a bike tour, the response I received from Cousin Andy (visiting from NYC) and Erin was tepid at best.

Always a glutton for punishment, I decided to persevere. After years of preaching physical activity by walking and biking, I am committed to living the talk.

Donning our helmets, I noted we were the only people in our group of 15 wearing protection. As a slave to fashion, I considered what the helmet might do to my perfectly coiffed hair. Nonetheless, I thought it best to wear one.

Following our fearless guide Carla, we struck out into Buenos Aires traffic. Applying the "safety in numbers" principle, we created a long line of orange bikes, eliciting stares wherever we rode.

I quickly learned biking in Buenos Aires wasn't too bad. Cars mainly avoided us and the biggest hazard was posed by buses cutting into the curb for passengers. It made me feel like I was home again, where I routinely battle bus #28 on Dexter Ave. for pole position along the curb lane.

Mostly we were on quiet side streets or bike paths, seeing a wide variety of neighborhoods, restaurants and parks. Throughout, the novelty of the bikes brought stares, hoots and laughter. It seems the Porteños aren't that accustomed to tourists on bike.

After four hours of fairly relaxed riding, we returned to our starting point in one piece. With smiles on our faces, we all agreed the tour exceeded our expectations. Under-promise and over-deliver, that's my motto.

2007-03-22T09:15:00.000-07:00

Bacon bread

I thought I had seen it all, but the world never ceases to amaze me. In a county where a good bottle of wine costs five dollars and fine dining is ubiquitous, I have been introduced to a culinary masterpiece: bacon bread.

Speckled with little pink chunks of nicely cooked bacon, the bread was both salty and crunchy, just like its namesake. Consumed with a nice bottle of malbec, I found the experience a true delight.

And while the restaurant that introduced us to this legend-in-the-making wasn't all that great, I can cut them some slack. At the very least, they have opened my eyes to a new universe of bacon foods. Upon return to the US, stay tuned for my own version.

2007-03-21T05:45:00.000-07:00

A long weekend in Buenos Aires, Part 1

A new marketing slogan could read: Buenos Aires, closer than you think. To test this catchy tagline, my cousin Andy flew down for a long weekend from New York.

While the weekend was a success, two red-eye flights in a five day period does require a bit of travel stamina. Yet when Andy arrived, we did our level best to show him the fruits of Argentina's labors.

Allowing some time for a shower and nap, we explained that dinner in Buenos Aires really doesn't happen before 10pm. In fact, on a Thurs, Fri or Sat, a midnight reservation is equivalent to 7:30pm in the US.

Bring on the Speedy - Argentina's version of Red Bull. And like its Thai/Aussie competitor, Speedy gives you wings. The Argentinian beautiful set seems to down the stuff like water, providing the needed boost to dine until 2am, then head to the clubs - which don't even really open until 3am.

Even in my prime, 3am was a late night.

But with Andy in town for only a few days, we had to give it a go. Luckily, we had a local tour guide, Roberto, to show us the ropes. Roberto is a friend of our friend Henry in Seattle. Born in Argentina of European descent, he is the type of person who always has a smile and seems to know people wherever he goes. A perfect new friend and guide to have with us.

Being neophytes, we booked a relatively early 10:30pm dinner at Restaurant Azema, a lovely Asian fusion spot. Our friends Aaron and Susan were also in from Seattle and Roberto brought a date, so all told we were a lively group of seven.

When dinner finished a bit after midnight, it was still too early to head to any serious clubs. Plus Roberto explained we were really too old anyway, since most clubs target people in their teens and twenties. But the pre-party scene was going full bore, so he took us to Las Canitas, a neighborhood we hadn't seen before.

With crowds spilling onto the streets, Las Canitas is known for its bar scene. Whether Roberto knew the bouncer or not, I couldn't tell. But because of our advanced age, they offered us the VIP section. In the next moment, bottles of Chandon began arriving and we were comfortably seated on leather sofas, while on the other side of the protective railing, a throng of twenty-somethings crowded in a line up to the floor above (where smoking was allowed).

NB: Buenos Aires recently passed an indoor clean air act. Now smoking is only allowed indoors in large establishments and only in a separate section. In a city where it seems everyone smokes, this is a very welcome surprise.

By 3:30am, I was beginning to nod off. I don't think my head was bobbing, but my eyes were definitely at half mast. Enough so that Roberto took notice and began poking fun at the "old man" falling asleep.

For the record, Roberto will be celebrating his 40th birthday later this year (we hope to make the party). But his Argentinian genes are strong and his intake of Speedy vodkas prodigious. As a result, he was still wide awake, telling stories of what it takes to do business in Argentina.

By 4am we were home, calling it a night. For me, it felt like a good effort, but I was reminded of our novice status when I heard the neighbors coming home at 8am.

As has happened every weekend so far, they were singing merrily while pouring out of the cabs. Kisses all around, as another Argentinian night comes to an end and the sunny day starts to get hot.

2007-03-15T10:40:00.000-07:00

Disconcerting drips

In the two weeks we’ve spent in Buenos Aires (BsAs), I have already fallen in love with this city. It’s cosmopolitan, exciting, architecturally diverse and full of great restaurants. And as far as I can tell with my limited grasp of the Spanish language, the people are very friendly.

Yet like all great places, it’s not perfect. BsAs has some warts.

Picture this scenario: It’s a beautiful sunny day, without a cloud in the sky. As usual, the sidewalks are crowded with people heading to work, sipping café con leche, walking immense packs of dogs and generally looking beautiful. Ensconced in this sea of humanity, I amble with limited purpose. Looking up at the detailed carvings on the buildings above and generally enjoying the beautiful weather, I am suffering from a condition that plagues all tourists in a new place: Cluelessness. That’s when it happens.

A drip of unknown origin and substance lands squarely on my slowly balding pate. Did someone spit on me? Was I blessed by having a low-flying bird drop a treasure on my nest? What is that cool liquid now running down my forehead?

To say the least, it’s a bit disturbing. The reality is almost all apartments in BsAs have air conditioners, and with the ubiquitous humidity, these machines condense water on their outsides. This water collects on patios, ledges and sills high above the street until a critical mass forms. Then it drips.

Throughout the city, as in no other place I’ve encountered, there is water dripping onto the sidewalks. And until I figured it out, I was troubled by it.

As a seasoned veteran of the big city now, I know to look for pools of water on the sidewalk. These small aquatic ecosystems indicate drips above. So like Serpico, I weave my way down the streets, avoiding the wet places and the drips they foretell.

Of course, it’s also wise to watch where you step because of another of BsAs’ charms. In Crested Butte, we knew them as the brown crocus flowers. But this is a story for another time.

2007-03-10T05:19:00.000-08:00

El Asesino

Before we began our travels, we were curious how people would react to us as Americans during a time when our country isn't very popular around the world.

Six months in, I'm happy to report people are very capable of separating citizens from governments.

From Tanzania to Vietnam to Argentina, we've encountered nothing but friendliness. At the same time we've heard nothing but disapproval about our president and government policies.

Yesterday's discussion with the guy shining my shoes (trying to maintain standards) was typical. It began with the common question: Where are you from?

We've been asked this hundreds of times on our travels and we always answer honestly: The United States (or America or Los Estados Unidos, depending on context).

Of course, yesterday Hugo Chavez was in Buenos Aires railing against Bush and Bush was across the Rio Plate, spreading the love in Uraguay. So it was a good day for some political conversation, albeit in Spanish.

Once we firmly established my level of support for our President's policies, the shoe shine guy really let off the hand brake. "El presidente es un asesino," all the while, smiling up at me (and giving me a good buffing) through three front teeth. Si, claro, un asesino.

Luckily these conversations have not focused their energy on us directly. Rather, people around the world want to share their thoughts about our president and his policies. And so we listen, hoping the help with a bit of global catharsis.

2007-03-08T14:07:00.000-08:00

Getting to know Buenos Aires

To say the least, this trip has afforded us many luxuries. We've seen, smelled and felt more in the six months so far than in a typical lifetime of travel.

Yet until we reached Buenos Aires, our travels were about breadth more than depth. We rarely stayed in one place more than a couple days and other than Luang Prabang, Cape Town, Chiang Mai and Bangkok, we didn't stay anywhere more than four nights. After six months of travel, we were ready to stay put a bit.

So we rented an apartment in Buenos Aires, Retiro to be specific. And we've been loving the opportunity to explore this amazing city.

We've heard for a long time about how cool Buenos Aires (BsAs) is. The "Paris of South America" is what most people told us. We have not been disappointed.

Our neighborhood is walkable, full of historic architecture and parks, and has plenty of restaurants, cafes and bars to keep us happy. And that's just within walking distance of our apartment.

As a whole, BsAs is full of hip, resurgent barrios. From San Telmo and Puerto Madero in the South to Recoleta and Palermo Viejo in the North, we've only begun to get a handle on all the city has to offer.

But we are loving the opportunity. More posts soon on the specifics as we learn a bit about the coolest city in South America (I know, them's fighting words).

2007-03-03T04:39:00.000-08:00

I love benches

Yesterday, Erin and I spent the better part of the day wandering the streets of the Palermo Soho neighborhood in Buenos Aires. If there's one thing the area is known for - besides a huge collection of hip and tasty restaurants - it's shopping.

I like shopping about as much as any other guy. Shopping for me is about buying; a successful shopping trip is one where I purchase the needed item in the least amount of time. If I can walk into the first store, buy what I need and return home quickly, that is the pinnacle of success.

Needless to say, Erin (not alone among women I am guessing) has a slightly different perspective on shopping. It is an adventure, an activity that can swallow whole days, and is almost entirely removed from the act of buying. Shopping is more like visiting an art gallery, where different works are scattered among hundreds of stores and the tour can last a lifetime.

Yesterday's artistic medium seemed to be the shoe. The Argentinians love their shoes, especially leather ones. And coincidentally, so does Erin.

While this scenario might sound like the makings of a long, painful day for a red-blooded American male like myself, a night-in-shining-armor appeared to save me: The bench.

I love benches and Buenos Aires is littered with great ones of all shapes and sizes.

[Sidebar: Too many American cities have rid themselves of benches as a way to combat the problem of homelessness (sic). While this progressive policy may seem superficially sensible, in my opinion it only further degrades a neighborhood.]

Buenos Aires - a city with it's own problems related to poverty, education and crime - is rife with benches. And refreshingly, people sit on them. All over the place.

Yesterday I sat on more benches than I can count (at least with my clothes on). Red benches, green benches, wood benches and steel ones. And I loved it. I could watch the world go by from the comfort of my bench, waiting without a care while my bride visited her museums to fashion.

We need more benches in America.

2007-03-03T03:51:00.000-08:00

These are a few of our favorite things

During our time in the US, one question kept surfacing: "What's your favorite place so far?"

As I said when asked, it's really a hard one to answer. How can you compare wandering the stone ruins of Angkor Wat to sipping wine among South African vineyards? Both are really quite lovely.

While I struggle to name one favorite place, I think I can name my top five places (or things we did). So here's my attempt:

1) Early morning at Ta Prohm
Surrounding Angkor Wat are hundreds of related temples, all built during the 9th, 10th or 11th Century. Of all we visited, Ta Prohm was my favorite. The way the forest grows over the walls of the temple, mixing organic and stone, is really something to behold. Plus we got there early in the morning when the light was just right and the crowds were thin.

2) On safari in Botswana
We took three safaris in Africa and they were all great experiences. Yet our safari in Botswana was my favorite for a few reasons: First, it was a wilderness safari (and Wilderness Safari), which meant we camped in the wilds (sans fence) and saw few other people. The food was great, the animals abundant and the camping made everything a bit more real and exciting. There is nothing like seeing a black mamba right outside your tent or elephants scratching themselves on a tree just feet away to get your heart racing a bit.

3) Quaffing and dining in Franschoek
The wine country of South Africa was really our official honeymoon, where we ate epic meals, drank prodigious quantities of cheap and tasty wine and slept among down duvets. And while Stellenbosch, with its quaint streets and corner cafes was a nice spot, I loved the scenery and food of Franschoek. In particular, our meals at Rubens and Le Petite Ferme stand as two of the best of my life.

4) Kicking back in Luang Prabang
Despite the intestinal distress I suffered in Laos, I loved Luang Prabang. There was a feel to the town - a combination of the scenery, smells, smiles and setting - that makes it a world-class special place. With great restaurants (even if the hygiene in the kitchen might be lacking a bit), plentiful coffee and a very relaxed pace, LP is a place to hang for a few days. And the town is full of monks, monasteries, wats and stupas, imparting an ethereal feeling to even the most banal activity. It's hard to explain sitting at an internet cafe reading email while the monk next to you - garbed in bright orange robes - downloads White Snake and other butt-rock onto the computer. LP is a gem, and it's on the River Kahn (ok, Khan) to boot.

5) Poolside at the Peninsula
What's not to like about an Olympic-sized infinity pool along the Chao Praya River in Bangkok, where the city's heat is easily forgotten under the shade of a teak palapa with a cool Singha in hand? What made it so amazing, besides the free ice cream cones and attendants who remembered my name, was that only meters away from the chaos of Bangkok's central river highway, we were in an oasis of cool calm. The boat traffic, even the roar of the longtails' huge engines, became something interesting to watch. But it no longer rattled my nerves. Peace among chaos. I loved it.

So at this moment in time, with push coming to shove, these were five of my favorite things about the trip so far. Yet even as I write this, I am riven with doubt. What about coffee at my favorite cafe in Saigon? Or watching the zebra being stalked and killed on the Serengeti? Or riding quad bikes on the sand dunes of Namibia? Or? This list could go on and on. So, I submit these five as a good representative sample.

For the full list, a long night of beer drinking will be required.

2007-03-02T13:52:00.000-08:00

US Highlights

Our nine days in the good old US of A was a whirlwind, to say the least. After five months abroad, our list of foods we craved had grown long. In particular, Erin had been talking about Kraft mac 'n cheese with cut-up hotdogs for weeks (seriously).

With the chaos of JFK behind us (mostly), we landed in Buffalo excited for some solid home cooking, charcoal-grilled hotdogs and a Sabres game.

In a year when the Sabres are playing their best hockey in years (decades? Ever?), we were fortunate to score a pair of tickets (thanks Mom). And while I am always excited to see the boys in action, I was doubly excited to expose my wife to her first NHL game. "It's so fast," she exclaimed. Yes it is, but no glow puck here.

Anyway, we had a great time with the family in the Queen City and in her fourth visit, I think Erin is starting to understand how Buffalo really is the center of all things.

After four days, we were off to Boca Raton, a different sort of Mecca, where my grandmother Gigi waited with open arms and cracked stone crabs. As always, it was great to see her and wolf down a massive portion of seafood delight. While South Florida is not really my cup of tea, I have no complaints about the meaty, tasty crabs they have down there, especially when they are dipped in a spicy mustard sauce.

Three days later, Manhattan was a lovely counter-balance to Boca's staid culture. Hours after leaving Gigi's apartment, we were noshing yellowtail and jalepenos at with friends Nobu 57 and wandering the hallowed halls of the MOMA (post-$500m renovation).

If there's one thing I really enjoyed about being back in the US, it was eating with impunity. For months, I had looked at every meal as if it could lay me out. Salad? No thanks, I value my intestines. Sushi? Are you kidding? But back home, bring it on.

And so two days later, we departed from JFK, the scene of our arrival only a few days before. Of course, another winter storm was moving through. But this time, the gods (and United Airlines) smiled on us. Right on schedule, we landed in Buenos Aires 10 days after leaving Hong Kong. Talk about culture shock.

2007-03-02T13:43:00.000-08:00

Culture shock

After five months of travel, Erin and I arrived at John F. Kennedy International on Saturday, February 17^th. 16 hours in flight from Hong Kong had left us a bit dazed, but otherwise unscathed. And after negotiating airports in Tanzania, Namibia, Laos and Vietnam, among other developing hotspots, we thought our transition back to the US air travel system would be smooth as a baby’s bottom.

What fools we were.

JFK was like returning to Dar Es Salaam International. In a word, it was chaos. As fate had it, there was a large winter storm on the East Coast a couple days before our arrival. Hundreds of flights were canceled, travelers were stuck in planes for up to 11 hours on the tarmac and a lucky few got to spend four days camped out in the airport trying to get home.

So the scene we entered was a bit tense, to say the least. The heat in Kennedy seemed to be out of order, as the airport hovered around freezing. Every Delta flight appeared to be departing from one of two gates, resulting in a sea of humanity swarming the boarding areas, hoping to catch snippets of information about upcoming flights.

Of course, we hadn’t really slept in 48 hours, so we were a bit edgy ourselves. And to add insult to injury, passengers in the US are not allowed to wander the airports with beers in their hands. Oh how I longed for the relative comfort of Vientiane International, where Beer Laos cost a buck.

After seven luxurious hours in the passenger “lounge,” our flight to Buffalo eventually departed. Welcome home.

2007-03-01T05:51:00.000-08:00

Reaping the Hong Kong whirlwind

When we booked our round-the-world plane tickets (at Airtreks.com - a really cool website), we had the opportunity to spend a layover in Hong Kong. Since our travels began in the most expensive city in the world - London - on our way to Africa, we figured it was only logical to book-end our Africa/Asia travel in another wallet buster.

But only for two days.

And so we had a whirlwind visit to one of the great cities in the world. From the beginning, Hong Kong was amazing. As we took the speeding train directly from the airport to the city's shiny subway system, which took us to within a block of our hotel, we could tell we were in a city that works.

If there was one downside of our arrival, it was that I was loaded like a pack mule, carrying the extra clothes - seemingly a closet-full - we purchased in Vietnam. Nothing like a full body sweat to endear the other riders on the crowded subway to me.

Working her magic, Erin was able to get us a bargain hotel room ($80/nt) and for some reason (pity, perhaps, on sight of my excessive perspiration at check-in), they upgraded us to a suite. Other than a bit of a musty smell in the room, it was perfect.

And so we set off to explore the city. Upon arrival, I had a singular purpose: Purchase a cheap laptop to bring with us to South America.

On our big day in Hong Kong, I woke early (and quietly, careful not to disturb Sleeping Beauty next to me) to head to the Wan Chai Computer Center - Mecca for geeks the world over. Four stories filled with hundreds of computer stores awaited me in Wan Chai. To say the least, it was a bit overwhelming. Luckily many people spoke English, since my Mandarin was non-existent.

After visiting about forty high-tech outlets, I started to sense a pattern. Prices were good, but not ridiculous. There's no tax or duty in Hong Kong, and among global brands this explains most of the price difference. In the end, I left the mall with a brand-new Acer laptop for $600, guessing I saved about $150 over US prices. Not bad in my mind.

Upon returning to the hotel room around noon, I found Erin ready, waiting and hungry. So off to lunch we went in Soho. As an aside, it seems almost every big city has a Soho. In Hong Kong, it stands for "South of Hollywood," a street filled with rows of antique stores.

After lunch, we went to the Hong Kong Art Museum, a beautiful building rivaling the MOMA in New York. Wucius Woo - a name I love to repeat ad nauseum - was on special exhibit. His pencil and watercolor art was really cool, reminding me a bit of Chuck Close, one of my favorites. And while I still prefer Chuck's art, I prefer Wucius' name by a long shot.

Our day ended with a walk along the riverfront, where Erin met a bronze statue of one of her childhood heroes - Bruce Lee. Demonstrating her knowledge of Martial Arts, she instinctively dropped into a battle-ready pose, mirroring the master.

Overall, Hong Kong was a real treat, as we left the city wanting more. Which is a good thing, since China is definitely on our travel radar. But alas, that will have to wait for another day.

2007-02-25T10:36:00.000-08:00

US Hiatus

We're currently in the US for a few days, re-supplying before heading down to South America. Stay tuned for more posts soon....

2007-02-14T01:49:00.000-08:00

The Black Hole

"What a lovely dinner. The restaurant was charming, food tasty and service prompt. And I don't think it will send me to the emergency room. Let me see if I can get the check. Hey, where is everyone?"

Ahh, the black hole. In our time traveling, Erin and I have noticed a subtle yet powerful phenomenon in restaurants around SE Asia. Much like it's stellar cousin, the restaurant black hole can be found by looking for what you don't see - anybody in the restaurant who actually works there.

Let me explain.

We have noticed that there is little correlation between the service during the meal and what happens immediately after your food is delivered. On the contrary, it seems to be nearly ubiquitous that food delivery equals service over. Time to head out back to have a smoke or take a nap on the cot in the kitchen or just wander off somewhere.

Seriously, we have encountered all these and more as we tried to pay for a meal. Where once there were four or more people eagerly taking drink orders and bringing food (although rarely clearing dirty dishes), now there are none.

There have been times when I have had to head into the kitchen, calling as if into a large cavern, hearing echoes come back to me. Helloooo, anyone around?

It is truly one of the mysteries of our time in Asia. To be fair, this scenario is more common in small towns and family-run places than in Bangkok's glittering nouveau establishments.

Yet it has happened enough that we began to take notice. And as we looked for what wasn't there, we could see a blank spot forming on the restaurant universe. Light bent around the end of the meal and all waitrons were pulled inexorably into a hole by a gravitational force many times stronger than our sun's.

2007-02-03T20:22:00.000-08:00

Wheelie Bags Rule!

Why carry when you can wheel? That's become our informal motto as we watch people walking by with heavy loads on their backs under the noon-day sun. How uncivilized.

When we were planning our trip, my grandmother gave us two pieces of luggage as an engagement gift (Thanks Gigi). As we debated the costs and benefits of different styles of luggage, Erin laid down the law: She didn't want to travel for nine months out of a backpack. Been there, done that. No thank you.

So we bought ourselves Eagle Creek wheelie bags that can also be used as backpacks. What an inspired choice. In almost five months of travel, I have only used the backpack feature once. And even then, it wasn't really necessary.

In every other case, we wheel our bags through town as others shoulder their heavy loads with audible groans. Since it's been thousands of years since early humans invented the wheel, it surprises me how many people still avoid this elegant tool.

In fact, one of our favorite activities (if a bit sadistic) is watching the new load of backpackers scrambling to find lodging as we sit under the shade of a palm, drinking a cool beer. To my eye, many of these people must be carrying a side of mutton in their bags, so laden are they. Sweating and moaning, they rush around like human turtles under the hot tropical sun. Turn them belly up and I am sure they would fry helplessly.

By contrast, the worst we suffer is looks of surprise as we storm our next destination by wheelie bag. Many locals aren't as familiar with these modern conveyances, so we occasionally can hear a chuckle or two. Never fear, we are strong and confident in our wheelie-bagdom.

So for those planning long trips, I say: Go wheelie. You will not regret it.

P.S. In an ironic twist of fate, shortly after posting this entry, I was forced to endure the situation in the photo at the right. Specifically, we had to board a longtail at low tide at Ao Tonsai, which required carrying the wheelie bag on my head (the boatman carried Erin's - chivalry) for 200 yards over sharp coral in my flip flops. Karma.

Wheelie bags still rule though.

2007-02-01T03:37:00.000-08:00

Cambodia: The temples of Angkor

While Angkor Wat may be the best known temple outside Siem Reap, the reality is there are dozens of massive stone ruins littering the countryside on a scale and frequency unlike anywhere else in the world. As "they" might say, you can't swing a cat in Siem Reap without hitting an ancient temple.

All this makes the place an epic spot to visit.

Built around the 11th century, the temples are a testament to the strength and longevity of Khmer culture. As I looked around, I couldn't help wondering which of our modern buildings or monuments would still be around 1,000 years from now. Not bloody likely.

In a scale that would dwarf most buildings today, these temples are truly a sight to behold.

And behold them we did. Along with thousands of other tourists from around the world. Clearly, from the proliferation of double-decker tour buses and five-star hotels, the word is getting out about Angkor Wat, et al.

Yet these crowds don't really diminish the experience. One lovely benefit of a tort-free society is tourists are able to wander freely through these ancient sites, creating a sense of exploration, albeit with many new friends around.

One of the interesting things we learned from our fearless guide, San, is that as the Cambodian leadership changed, so too did the temples. For example, several temples built under the reign of a Buddhist king had the Buddhas chiseled out under the reign of his Hindu son. Today, the temples are rife with chisel marks - Another example of the benefits of religious fervor.

More recently, bullet holes in the stone pillars mark places where Khmer Rouge fought the Vietnamese - using the temples as fortresses. The history of these places are palpable.

If there was one favorite part for me, it was Ta Prohm. Made famous by Angelina Jolie (yes, her again), the temple was used in the filming of Tomb Raider. While I have not seen this epic tome, I am keeping my eyes open on the streets of Bangkok (and Phi Phi) for a pirated DVD.

Ta Prohm remains in the same state as many temples when they were "discovered" in the 19th century - mostly reclaimed by the surrounding forests. This blending of stone and tree gives the place an eerie feel. Almost like discovering it for yourself.

For anyone considering a trip to SE Asia, look into Siem Reap. It is an experience you won't soon forget.

2007-02-01T03:17:00.000-08:00

Ko Phi Phi

When the tsunami slammed into the Andaman Islands of Southern Thailand just over two years ago, Ko Phi Phi was particularly hard hit. This is due in large part to the fact that the main town - Tonsai - is situated on a sandy isthmus about three feet above sea level. When the wave came, it hit the town from both sides, obliterating the thatch huts and many lives.

As Erin and I prepared to spend some time in Thailand's islands, our progressive sensibilities (read: Liberal guilt) suggested we visit Phi Phi to help jump start the economy. Much as I wanted to locate my bachelor party in New Orleans to help rebuild it one beer at a time, we were now hoping to show our support for Phi Phi by leaving a few big bad baht behind.

In reality, I am not sure Phi Phi really needs our baht.

In the intervening time since December 26, 2004, the island has managed to wipe out almost all evidence of the cataclysm. The bungalows are back up and running full steam ahead, except concrete is replacing the thatch and people seem inclined to build higher off the ground. And the crowds are thick at the beaches during the day and bars at night.

As we selected our lodging, Erin and I had two criteria: A/C and hillside location. Applying my innate talent for bungalow selection, I found us a gem that met both criteria - and very little else. In almost five months of travel, I managed to find the smallest room I could ever imagine - literally the size of a double bed.

And if price is a sign of demand, it is safe to say demand for Ko Phi Phi is as high as ever. Prices here are higher than many other Thai resort locations and most places (although curiously, not ours) seem full of tourists quaffing buckets of mixed drinks (seriously) and watching "lady boy kick-boxing" on nightly basis. Ah, Thailand.

2007-01-27T23:56:00.000-08:00

Over the top

Quad biking in the dunes of Namibia, stalking lions in Botswana, cruising Halong Bay in Vietnam - Our travels so far have been full of innumerable highlights. Yet our accommodations have been mostly modest.

So it was with eager anticipation that we awaited my parents arrival at Bangkok's shiny new (if already falling apart) airport. Because in addition to the love I feel for my parents, their arrival meant the start of two weeks of luxury hotels.

Checking into the Peninsula in Bangkok, I knew we were on a different type of trip. Nobody wore flip flops around the lobby (except me of course). In fact, the hotel specifically requested the guests dress appropriately. Hmm.

But they have standards to maintain. And what standards they are. From the TV in the bathroom to the free champagne delivered to our room (I had mentioned we were on our honeymoon, which is mostly true), the Peninsula was over the top. And the D2 in Chiang Mai and Hotel de la Paix in Siem Reap weren't far behind. For 13 lovely nights, we rested under goose down comforters in quiet rooms cooled by powerful air conditioners. Ambrosia.

Lunch was consumed poolside. Breakfast buffets included all-you-can-eat crispy bacon. On our last day at the Peninsula, the cabana man at the pool welcomed me with, "Good morning Mr. Kahn. Nice to see you again." I had really arrived.

But as with all good things, this life of luxury couldn't last forever. Last night we flew to Krabi and checked into the Friendly Bungalows. With a fan whirring overhead and a terry-cloth sheet to soak up the sweat (seriously), we settled back into budget travel life.

Please don't misconstrue this as whining. It really isn't. Not a day goes by that I don't appreciate how fortunate we are. But that doesn't diminish the sense of change I felt as I stepped under the cold shower this morning, straddling the toilet. This definitely ain't the Peninsula.

2007-01-27T23:41:00.000-08:00

No soup for you

Cambodia was the 10th country we've visited so far, if you count the couple days we spent in England.

Including entries, exits and multiple visits to Thailand, our rambles around the globe have given us ample opportunity to interact with immigration agents on four continents so far.

From these experiences, I have begun to develop a Pavlovian response to the sweet sound of the immigration stamp. When I hear that solid thud of metal on paper, I can feel the saliva pooling around my tongue. In a word it tastes like, freedom.

It's not that I am doing anything illicit. Really. On the contrary, years of crossing the Canadian border outside Buffalo taught me not to mess with customs agents. Plus my uncle reminds me of Midnight Express every time I prepare for international travel.

But whether I am operating within all international laws is not really the point. Customs agents have a certain way about them that could make even Sister Theresa nervous.

In my experience, customs agents are a bit like the "Soup Nazi" of Seinfeld fame. Wait behind the line. Step forward only when called. Present all your papers quickly yet politely. Speak when spoken to. No smiling and no extraneous comments. Next!

Yet there is one significant difference between the Soup Nazi and customs agents: In one instance, you are denied a bowl of soup - albeit a very tasty one. In the customs scenario, "No soup for you" equals a body cavity search.

It is the scale of potential impact that makes interactions with customs agents stressful. If they want, they can hold you indefinitely for no reason. In my oh-so-creative mind, I have conjured images of hot, close, stone enclosures full of mosquitoes and cockroaches where foreign travelers are held. In some of the countries we've visited, I am sure my image is not far from reality.

So it is with an air of respectful deference that I approach each immigration scenario. And as I hear the sweet sound of my passport being stamped, my mouth can't help but water for the tasty freedom soup soon to come.

2007-01-11T20:33:00.000-08:00

Vietnam: Frequently Asked Questions

As a recovering (and future?) communications consultant, I thought it was well past time for me to develop an FAQ document. And what better place than Vietnam, about which we were getting a fair number of questions from back home.

What's it like being an American in Vietnam?
I can honestly say we did not have one negative interaction in our month in Vietnam. While our conversations with locals were limited to those who spoke English (I recognize the potential for sample bias there), everyone I spoke with shared a similar sentiment: The war was a long time ago and Vietnam has a long history of war - not only with the US but with the French, Chinese, Australians, Cambodians and others. So we need to focus on the future, not the past. Plus, governments wage war, not people. The people do what their government orders them to.

All that said, the Communist party does issue some surreal / comical propaganda about "American Imperialists" at tourist sites we visited. In particular, at the Tunnels of Cu Chi, we watched an over-the-top video "documentary" that was obviously developed during the war.

In it, we learned "the ruthless Americans want to bring violence to the peaceful people of Cu Chi to prop up a puppet government that has already fallen 12 times. Like a crazy flock of devils, they shoot women and children."

While the facts of these statements may be true (not to mention disturbing), we couldn't help smiling a bit at the tone and presentation.

All in all, our time in Vietnam was fantastic and we heartily encourage others to visit the country.

How's the food?
Some countries are known for food: Thailand, Italy, France, for example. I would say Vietnam should not really be known for its food. On the other hand, we had some great meals in Vietnam and overall found the food adequate. I've had enough pho to last me a while, but then again, I like pho. It's beefy and noodley and generally boiled extensively.

And we found the hygiene standards to be generally excellent, suffering none of the gastro-intestinal distress that followed us through Laos. So that's a plus.

What did you like best?
We loved the four H's: Hanoi, Halong Bay, Hoi An and Ho Chi Minh City.

Hanoi is an amazing city of narrow streets, open-air markets, parks and wide boulevards. It's a great place to wander around and the climate is cooler than in the South. Plus you can see an embalmed Ho Chi Minh in his enormous tomb, which has to stand as one of the most surreal experiences of my life.

Halong Bay is a UNESCO Natural Heritage Site for good reason. Filled with thousands of limestone islands, the place is truly scenic unlike many other spots in the world. Plus you can travel by historic wooden junk and kayak.

Hoi An is just plain cool. Like Luang Prabang in Laos, it's a place you can hang for a bunch of days. There are great restaurants, more custom tailor shops than you could possibly ever visit and a nice beach. Wandering the narrow streets of Hoi An could easily absorb a few days, taking in the French architecture and organized chaos of streetlife.

Ho Chi Minh City is Vietnam's modern metropolis. It's shiny and brash and hot. Luckily there's also air conditioning. The beautiful people ride Honda cycles in throngs and the bars spill out onto the streets. If posh is your thing (we were willing to make it our thing for a few days), HCMC has it.

What were the challenges?
Vietnam is in your face. Always. While it's not quite India, it is definitely an acquired taste that doesn't work for everyone. We met plenty of people who couldn't wait to get out of the country and return to the relative tranquility of Thailand (or even New York City). That said, with the appropriate Jedi skills (see earlier post), we were able to thrive in the chaos.

The Scandinavians have pioneered a form of traffic management based on chaos theory. Basically, they have removed all street signs, sidewalks and other divisions or directions for pedestrians, cars, bikes and motorcycles. The results have been somewhat surprising. They have found the system works - people drive more slowly, remain more alert, injuries decline and streets come alive.

It seems the Vietnamese are also pioneers of the chaos approach. There is nothing like crossing the street in Saigon (as District 1 of HCMC is known) to bring the theoretical to life.

2007-01-09T01:59:00.000-08:00

For the latest photos, visit Treemo.

2007-01-08T16:25:00.000-08:00

These aren't the droids you're looking for

If there is one part of travel in Vietnam that takes getting used to, it's the somewhat aggressive marketing style. "Hello, you buy something," is the typical approach we encounter.

And wherever we walk, people try to sell us all sorts of products - chewing gum, t-shirts, bootlegged books, CDs and DVDs, cigarettes, pineapple, cashews, peanut brittle, ao dais (long flowing gowns worn here), tours, hotel rooms, taxi, cyclo and motorcycle rides - to name just a few of the things we've been offered.

From our encounters with other travelers, there seems to be a couple ways of handling the near constant, albeit generally friendly, barrage of sales requests: The first is to run screaming from the country, declaring it full of rude, pushy people. We have run across several people who have succumb to this approach, call it the Dark Side. I understand, the Dark Side can be very powerful and is difficult to resist, especially as you are being offered your sixth copy of Stupid White Men by women carrying towering stacks of books during one meal. The stream of touts can seem incessant.

Yet there is another way. If you use the Force, you can move through these touts with some ease. I have been testing this approach, employing the Jedi Mind Trick when cornered on the street, in a restaurant or elsewhere. I have begun waving my hand slowly, smiling and saying, "these are not the droids you are looking for." The results have been impressive. Mostly people understand I am not interested and move on. Or I leave them confused.

As a novice, I am still learning the ways of the Force. Yet as another day begins and I prepare to head out onto the streets of Saigon, I am confident I will be presented with hundreds of opportunities to practice my skills. For this, I am thankful. May the Force be with me.

2007-01-08T16:13:00.000-08:00

A legacy of the American War

After three weeks in Vietnam, I have stopped noticing all the people living their lives with deformities. Between legless beggars on the sidewalk and people biking with their arms, deformity is a daily occurrence in Vietnam. And while I am no physician, it seems likely many of these people are living with the effects of Agent Orange, 30+ years after the war ended.

As most probably know, Agent Orange is a dioxin mixture used to kill the jungle during the war. When we visited the DMZ north of Hue, we could see firsthand how effective it was at this primary duty as many hillsides are still devoid of trees or even shrubs.

Yet you don't have to go to the hills to see the other consequences of spraying millions of acres with a known carcinogen. Everywhere in Vietnam, there are people living with dramatic birth defects. Shriveled arms, bent legs that no longer function, stumps where limbs should have grown - these are all common sites on the streets of Vietnam's towns.

When we visited the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City (Formerly known as the Museum of American Aggression, the name was changed after some tourists expressed dismay.), we could see a dizzying array of photos of people living with the impacts of Agent Orange.

Another legacy of our war to keep the Communist domino from falling in Indochina.

2007-01-04T17:08:00.001-08:00

Biking from Dalat to Mui Ne

For New Years, we decided to celebrate in Dalat, a town located at 5000' in the central mountains of Vietnam.

As fate may have it after our train ride to Nha Trang, the 8-hour bus ride from Nha Trang to Dalat came complete with music videos, no extra charge. When Wierd Al Yankovich's Like a Surgeon began blasting over the speakers at 7:30am, we knew we were in for a long ride.

By the time we arrived in Dalat, we were ready for a nap, cocktail or both, having heard enough Lionel Richie for a lifetime. Even today, many days since, I still have Hello, is it me you're looking for, stuck in my head. Brutal.

So when we began exploring options for transfer from Dalat to Mui Ne our next destination along the coast, we were excited to come upon Gecko Tours - the only operator to offer a (entirely music video-free) bike tour between the two towns. In our eternal quest to use as many modes of transport as possible, we embraced the opportunity.

In the four months we have been on the road, Erin and I have struggled to maintain some semblance of physical fitness. Between massive breakfast buffets and fried spring rolls at every turn, this has been a bit of a challenge.

So we were a bit concerned about our abilities to cover the 80 kilometers on bike. Never fear, we were assured, the ride is downhill, mostly.

Six kilometers into the first uphill section, sweating like a hog in the Tennessee sun, I began to wonder when the promised downhill section would begin. I noticed our eternally cheerful guide, V, was not even glowing, let alone dripping with sweat. Hmm.

Moments later, we crested the top of the hill and began more than 20 kilometers of glorious downhill, all on a narrow, winding, freshly-paved road with very little traffic. Ambrosia.

With a van following us to carry our luggage and lunch, and to provide support as needed, the ride was wonderful. The scenery varied from pine forests at the top to rice fields at the bottom.

And all along the way, people called out "Hello Hello" to us.

Children, adults, people on motorbikes, in trucks, under trees, in hammocks, working rice fields, everywhere they said hello. Towards the end of the ride, I was beginning to feel downright famous as children emerged from the shadows to yell hello and run alongside our bikes. I gave a few high fives to the faster ones, and spread my limited Vietnamese (sin chow = hello, which is approximately 50% of my total vocabulary) far and wide.

When we reached our destination, I was feeling hot, dehydrated and happy. More than many of our travel activities, I felt I had really seen some countryside. And the genuine smiles on the faces of the kids as they tried to understand what the crazy foreigners were doing biking during the heat of the day is something I will long remember.

When the option to travel by bike presents itself again, we will have to embrace it.

My special ability

2006-12-30T23:03:00.001-08:00

I have a real special (e.g. special bus, special shoes) ability when it comes to selecting hotels. Throughout our travels, we have stayed at many different hotels, motels, guest houses, hostels - you name it. In general our lodging has been more than adequate and occasionally it has been inspired.

Yet in three distinct cases, the hotels we selected have been terrible. Run down, dirty, dark, moldy. In a word, depressing. In each case, I selected the hotel. In fact, I am batting 100% in my hotel selections. I am 3 for 3. Erin picked all the rest.

I can't really explain it. Our guide book - Lonely Planet - has given these places reasonable reviews. For example, last night's lodging was described as a "charming British country manor." Sounded pretty good to me. And the reality probably did have a bit of charm, back in in 1954 when it was last updated. When we first saw the place, we were prepared to stick it out, until we discovered that the electricity and water didn't work.

No fear, the innkeeper assured us in limited English, water and electricity would be back on at 5pm. So we went out for an amble around Dalat, a Vietnamese tourist Mecca in the mountains. When we returned to the hotel at 5:15pm, the electricity was back on. We were actually a bit disappointed, hoping to use the lack of basic amenities as an excuse to jump ship.

Instead we decided we could make do for a night before treating ourselves to two nights of relative luxury for New Years.

That is, until Erin tried to take a shower. What came out could not be described as either hot or flowing. Instead, a cold drip emerged, hardly instilling confidence in a lathery shower. The helpful innkeeper did offer to boil water for us so we could take a bucket shower, but the deal was done. We were out of there. For $15 a night, we expected much more.

And the reality is in Vietnam, you can get much more. For the same price, we relocated to the Hotel Europa, a lovely family run place in the center of town. We not only had hot water and electricity, but also satellite TV with HBO and BBC. And of course, Erin picked this place.

2006-12-27T21:15:00.000-08:00

10 hours on the Reunification Express

We love Vietnam. We love the excitement, friendliness, scenery and low cost of visiting. But if there is one thing that takes a bit of getting used to, it's the constant noise.

Whether on the streets of Hanoi or hotel rooms of Hoi An, quiet is a precious commodity in Vietnam - one the locals seem to place little value on.

We had heard rumors of long-haul overnight bus rides with karoake blasting the entire time. Surely, we thought, these must be exaggerations. Ah, blissful naivete.

Confronted with a long trip from Hoi An to Nha Trang, I lobbied hard for the train. Known locally as the Reunification Express, the route connects Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City with relatively few stops in between. What better way to see the countryside in comfort than on the train. So we bought our tickets, loaded up on baguettes and cheese food product and prepared for our 10-hour ride.

The ride began comfortably. We had bought soft seats in the A/C car (there are no classes in Communist Vietnam. Tickets are purchased based on how soft or hard you want your seat or bed to be.) and were pleased to see the train depart on time with our luggage firmly ensconced in view above our heads.

After a bit of reading (Angle of Repose, by Stegner), I decided to catch a bit of shut-eye with my iPod on (Sun Volt). We were one hour into our ride when it began.

Over the loud speaker and TV screens, Vietnamese pop music began blasting. And when I say "blasting" I mean really loud. If I played music that loud at home, I would hear about it from the "Claw."

And the Vietnamese brand of pop is a special circle in Dante's Hell. Think Boyz 2 Men or N'Sync, but with a bit less skill and more Velveeta. No matter the volume of my iPod, I was not able to block out the thumping pop in the background. After a while, I relented and decided to soak in the ambience.

iPod off, the noise turned from pop to sitcoms, also at top volume. Whatever was on was very funny to the Vietnamese people around us. With a laugh track in full effect, the crowd - both live and recorded - was roaring along with the show. Two hours into the ride. 8-9 hours to go.

Luckily the beer vendor walked by at exactly this moment. Ambrosia. (Aside: It is possible the loud soundtrack was designed to increase beer sales.)

Om. I tried to be Zen. It was pretty funny watching to people around us laugh jovially. If only it weren't so loud. Eventually I was able to block the noise out, except for certain funny parts when the train would erupt in laughter. I was able to read but not sleep. Tough times.

When we arrived in Nha Trang, I felt a bit frazzled. Even with the soundtrack, Erin and I agreed the train was a good way to travel. It's like so many things in Vietnam - wonderful as long as you can handle noise.

2006-12-25T16:54:00.000-08:00

A couture feeding frenzy

When a shark feeds, its eyes roll back into its head and an opaque second eye-lid closes for protection during the frenzy.

As Erin and I swam into the rich waters of Hoi An, the garment capital of Vietnam, we could feel our eyes instinctively rolling back as we prepared for ... a couture feeding frenzy.

Hoi An is located on the central coast of Vietnam, set back about 5km from the beach along a brackish river. Largely untouched during the American War, the town is a UNESCO World Heritage Site (yes, another one) with strict architectural guidelines for development. The result is a very walkable, quaint and vibrant town - full of tailor shops and cobblers. Rrrr.

Throughout town, there are literally hundreds of custom tailors plying their wares. Since it is the Christmas Season (not to mention, the Festival of Lights), our natural materialistic instincts are peaking. Chum these waters with thousands of bolts of colorful fabric and smiling Vietnamese women in silk gowns and you have the makings of a frenzy.

And frenzy we did. What seemed like an excessively generous budget on our way into town became a challenging constraint in the heat of the feed. Going on instinct alone (and Erin's impeccable fashion sense), we bought pants, jackets, pajamas (silk, randy), shirts, blouses (what's the difference anyway?), jeans, shoes and more.

And why not, every purchase saves money in the long run. We can't afford not to buy now. Or at least our rationalization goes.

As I write, I am sitting in the fourth tailor of the day, long since past the limits of my interest. Yet on we forge - finding new patterns, styles and bargains with each step.

Now six blocks from the hotel, I am regretting not bringing a flashlight and overnight bag, as I contemplate the dozens of clothing and shoe stores between us and our home base.

As I look at Erin, I can detect the second lid, still closed tightly over her (oh so pretty) eyes. But I trust she is approaching satiation, at least for today. It is said, however, a shark must feed every day.

2006-12-20T19:45:00.001-08:00

Optional services on Vietnam Airlines

It had to happen sooner or later. After 12 flights, 7 countries and thousands of miles, our luggage was lost on the one hour flight from Vientiane to Hanoi.

Before I launch into my melodramatic expose, I want to offer an indication that I can keep things in perspective. Erin and I are safe, the plane landed in the same condition it took off, we are both happy and healthy. All is well.

That caveat behind us, I can now describe the scene and slight concern we felt as we contemplated moving forward on our travels without any of the carefully selected gear, clothing or toiletries in our bags.

Our flight from Vientiane was completely full of other travelers happily transversing Southeast Asia. Ironically, Erin and I were still in the process of congratulating ourselves for our flawless implementation of immigration strategy - we got through the passport control lines quickly and without much hassle - when we noticed the baggage carousel for our flight was empty. No worries. This being a Communist country, perhaps we should just assume our Zen pose and wait.

5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes, and still no bags. Now the rest of our fellow travelers were also waiting, with similar lack of results. As a group, we stared at the small black portal in the wall leading to the "land of endless luggage." Alas, despite much psychic energy to the contrary, bags did not materialize.

As if prodded by a growing "Spidey Sense," I became slowly conscious of a queue amassing at the customer service desk across the baggage claim area. Noting a change in the energy aura around the desk (bright reds clearly coming into view), I moved closer to investigate. When I entered audio range, a snippet from a traveling Asian businessman caught my attention: "What do you mean? How could this happen?" Further investigation seemed warranted.

Having been in Asia long enough to begin to understand how lines work, I began to throw elbows and muscle my way to the front of the line. Lucky for me, the Swedish tour group (led by a tall blond woman of Amazonian build) had yet to become aware of the scene unfolding around them. As I towered above the diminutive - although still amazingly scrappy - Asian men and women around me, I was able to push my way to the front of the mass with some expediency.

What I learned left me chuckling. It seems Vietnam Airlines had decided not to load any luggage on the flight from Vientiane. Multiple explanations were given: weather (clear as far as we could tell), weight, balance. Again, we were pleased the plane had made it, so I did my best to keep things in perspective. Lost luggage. No worries. "When can we expect to see our luggage?" I asked naively.

I received an honest reply, one I got used to hearing over the course of the next three days as I interacted with Vietnam Airlines customer service agents: "I don't know." But never fear, they have three flights a day from Vientiane. Soon come.

Erin and I filled out our forms and submitted descriptions of our bags just in time. As we were completing the process, the sturdy Swedish guide stormed to the front of the "line." "I have 25 old people who are tired and need their bags," she fairly yelled next to me. To the 5' 2" Vietnamese man behind the counter, she must have represented all the negative stereotypes he had heard about Westerners in the past.

I tried to point out she should wait her turn, when she threw some muscle around and pushed my aside like wind blowing a curtain. When she explained her group was supposed to leave for Halong Bay early the next morning - about 7 hours later - I was verging on sympathetic. But again, her aggressive style left me only smiling and wishing to be free of the whole scene.

Moments later, the customer service agent handed over our paperwork and we were off. As we prepared to leave, he politely told me the Vietnamese equivalent of "don't call us, we'll call you."

Not much chance of that. The next morning, after purchasing our Vietnam SIM Card (84 904 223 961 if anyone wants to call us before Jan 11), I began calling Vietnam Airways office of lost luggage. And I continued calling for the next 72 hours until our bags showed up. Each time I was told the same thing: "I don't know, but we will call you." Not very reassuring.

As the time for us to leave Hanoi neared, Erin and I decided we needed to buy some clothing and toiletries. Luckily, Hanoi is a shopping mecca where clothes can be custom made for prices not even Walmart - with all it's poor quality, child labor and lack of health benefits - can touch.

Of course, as soon as we bought replacement clothes and other lost articles, the inevitable happened. Our bags were delivered.

So now we are traveling with an extra duffel bag, which seems to call out for us to fill it. In a couple days we head to Hoi An, known for its custom tailoring. Bring it on.

2006-12-13T20:35:00.001-08:00

48 Hours in Vang Vieng (VV)

Vang Vieng is a curious town.

Nestled amongst limestone karsts about 3 hours north of Vientiane, Laos, the town is known informally as the "chill-out capital" of the country.

I'm as big a fan of chilling out as the next guy, and we had heard some positive reports of Vang Vieng, so we decided to check it out for ourselves. While the town definitely has some chill-out aspects, its reality differs from the marketing in some significant ways.

Vang Vieng is an oddity. Part Kho Sanh Road, part Pai, VV is over-run by television bars, mediocre restaurants and bizarre architecture, albeit in a beautiful setting. Our 48 hours there were plenty to get a taste and move on.

The first thing you notice when you get to town is the television bars. We had been warned that there would be dozens of places showing old Friends episodes at top volume, but we naturally assumed hyperbole. We were mistaken.

In fact, it is possible to watch entire seasons of the sitcom, or the Simpsons for that matter, simultaneously from a single vantage point. After television-free time up North, we were ready for a bit of heady stimulation, so we headed to a movie bar to watch some terrible teen movie about traveling through Europe.

Beerlao in hand, we immersed in the television fracas for a night, feeling a bit dirrty (as Ms. Aguilera would say). But one night was enough.

The other "must do" in VV is tubing down the Nam Sang. In high water, this trip can be fast and harrowing. However in December, it is mostly a peaceful float down a quiet river. Except this is Vang Vieng, where chill-out equals "tie one on." Far from a teetotaller (see several earlier posts), our float included constant hawking of "Beerlao, Beerlao here, you like Beerlao, We got Beerlao, Beerlao, tuna sandwich, Beerlao..." And on it went, for three hours of floating through otherwise scenic waters.

The Laos may be Communists, but they have embraced an entrepreneurial form of Capitalism that includes seizing all opportunities to wring hard currency out of the falang. On the river, this meant bamboo bungalow bars lining the banks, sandbars and trees for the entire tubing stretch. At each spot, there would be someone standing on the upstream side with a long bamboo pole, waiting to bring in passing tubers like an angler fishing for falang. Naturally, we gave into to their marketing and charm.

And quite by coincidence, we chose the biggest, loudest and best establishment on the reach. I say "best" because not only did it have the most decks (for sunning and drying the falang after they are brought ashore), but also the biggest rope swing.

At several establishments, the liberal application of $.50 Beerlao was combined with massive rope swings over the river. A tort case-in-waiting in the US, the Lao sense of liability seems a bit more lax. Our establishment had the biggest swing on the river, towering some 20 meters over the river. With more than a little trepidation, I climbed up the bamboo ladder into the tree, where a Lao local sat in a perch, holding the handle.

With Erin gazing dreamily (to my perspective) at me from the deck below - oh so far below - I grasped the handle and walked out onto the small plank that served as a platform. From the safety of the deck, I had watched several people survive the swing and had been feeling pretty confident about my chances. As I stood on the tiny board, tenuously nailed to a branch high above the river, I felt the same rush (dizziness?) I experienced before bungee jumping in Whistler or cliff jumping into the Gross Reservoir in Boulder.

Fearful as I was, I had passed the point of return, literally. The guy behind me cheerfully prodded with, "You ain't getting back past me, so you better jump." So on I went.

With a short, "this is crazy," I swung out over the river at a velocity reminiscent of James Bond's ride in the G-force simulator. I am sure my cheeks were flapping in the breeze as I swung like a pendulum out over the murky water, but was only aware of my guttural, primal scream. When I dropped in the river, I was relieved to feel intact and in possession of both my limbs and sense of self-respect.

After a few moments to collect myself, and bask in the warm glow of my bride's adulation, I decided to give it another try. Such is the nature of the male species.

All told, our time in Vang Vieng was entertaining. And if nothing else, it confirmed our growing sense that our days of being hippie backpackers are over, if they ever existed. We prefer fine food and are willing to pay a bit more for our beers (as long as they are still less than $1).

2006-12-05T22:34:00.000-08:00

A lesson on the nature of existence

According to the Buddha, suffering is the true nature of all existence. While it is clear I have not lived enough lifetimes to fully understand this wisdom, I did have ample opportunity recently to contemplate the lesson.

After our two sleepless nights in Muang Ngoi (see earlier post), Erin and I decided it was time to beat a hasty retreat back to the relative comfort of Luang Prabang. Hot showers, aircon, perhaps even a mattress. Ah, the luxury.

To get there, however, required a three-hour songthaew ride from Nong Kiew. To those who have not visited SE Asia, the songthaew is a hybrid truck taxi - basically a pickup with seats in the back. In Laos, the songthaew is the bread-and-butter of the taxi circuit, especially on routes frequented by locals (such as Nong Kiew to Luang Prabang).

Aware that our ride had the opportunity to become a bit unpleasant, we steeled ourselves, brought food for the road and purchased some motion sickness pills.

The reality was far more challenging, if comical, than the vision we prepared ourselves for.

First and foremost, the Lao sense of "full" is very different than our western conception. When we think of a full songthaew, we think of every seat being occupied. In Laos, full means no available space on any horizontal surface - floor, roof, laps, you name it.

When we saw the mass of humanity waiting to board the songthaew at the boat landing, we naturally and naively assumed two vehicles would be needed. Foolish assumption. To start, almost 20 people loaded into the vehicle, filling all possible nooks and crannies. And we stopped frequently to pick up more people, until we had 23 at max head count.

Then it was time to load in the agricultural products.

On the roof went the bags of cement - of course - along with a bike, oranges and other unidentifiable product. Inside the cab went a fifty-pound bag of rice (which became a seat, directly in front of me) and a comparable bag of oranges. The owner of the produce guarded her oranges like a mother lion over her cubs. This made sense, since bruised oranges wouldn't sell at the market. Yet with the oranges blocking the entrance to the songthaew and forty feet surrounding the bag, it was very difficult in practice to avoid stepping on the sack.

Ready to go? Not without a dead fish we're not. The final coup de grace, a carp, freshly caught from the Nam Ou I assume, was placed in a thin plastic bag on a sliver of ice, under the seat. The smell of warm carp, mingling with sweaty human and souring oranges was really something to behold. Luckily it's plenty breezy in the back of the songthaew once when it's rolling.

Clearly the shock absorbers of the machine were not built for the tons of human and non-human cargo loaded onboard. As we bounced along up the road, I could see a shade of green wash over several faces (thankfully not mine or Erin's). After an hour or so, I thought one of the local riders was going to exit at high speed, as she lurched half her body out the side of the songthaew as we careened along the windy road. Alas, she was only dropping her breakfast along the roadside, adding another fine scent to the already pungent mix.

During this time, I was literally trying my hardest to be the Buddha. I sat as upright as the bag of rice and low ceiling would allow, assumed a consistent pattern of deep breathing and contemplated the nature of my existence. Even at the darkest moments of the ride, I couldn't help smiling about the lunacy of it all.

Watching the kilometers to Luang Prabang decrease with each sign, I had a couple hours of near meditative state. Om.

With this experience now firmly behind us, Erin and I have added another new mantra to our travel book: Take the air-conditioned minibus whenever possible.

2006-12-05T22:29:00.000-08:00

Check out some recent photos
http://www.treemo.com/users/brad/channel/list/

2006-12-05T22:14:00.000-08:00

The undeclared war

From 1964 to 1973, the United States dropped more bombs on Laos than fell in all of World War II. This "Secret War" was never declared and its objectives were equally muddied.

The Ho Chi Minh Trail, connecting North and South Vietnam, runs through Eastern Laos. So one purpose of the bombing was to cut the supply line by destroying the trail. Yet to my perspective, bombing a trail is a bit like pushing a string - not all that effective.

At the same time the Pathet Lao, a Communist group, was taking root in Laos. So the bombing was also part of the US policy of containment. Yet far from containing Communism, the bombing convinced North Vietnam, China and the Khmer Rouge to support Pathet Lao, giving them resources and credibility to run the country to this very day.

To avoid US bombing sorties (over 600,000 were flown), the Lao government went underground, literally.

Laos is strewn with limestone karsts full of huge cave complexes. For almost a decade, the Lao government operated from these caves, safe from US aerial attacks.

During our time in Nong Kiew we visited one cave that served as the offices for the regional Luang Prabang governor.

Besides the caves, another legacy of US foreign policy in Laos is unexploded ordinances (UXOs) littering the hillsides. Even today, people are regularly killed or maimed when they discover one of these unstable explosive devices.

All part of a war we never declared, which until we came to Laos, we never really learned about in school.

2006-12-05T20:46:00.000-08:00

Letting go of audio privacy*

Since we are effectively unemployed at the moment, people might assume we've been getting lots of regular sleep. Sadly, this is sometimes not the case. (Cue up the violin section.)

One of the challenges of traveling in the developing world, at least when staying in cheap bungalow operations as we are, is the lack of audio privacy (see note below). Even in the most quaint, remote mountain villages, quiet is a rare commodity.

Let me describe a recent stay in Muang Ngoi, by way of example.

Muang Ngoi is a tiny village up the Ou River (Nam Ou) in Northern Laos. 8 hours by slow boat from Luang Prabang, Muang Ngoi is accessible only by river. We had heard from friends and travelers alike it was "a chill little town in a beautiful spot." So, feeling somewhat intrepid, we headed upstream to check out the scene.

In Muang Ngoi, the power is supplied by diesel generator for three hours a day, 6-9pm. (As an aside, I decided to avoid meat products in this town, as I was uncertain of the quality of their refrigeration.) When the power cuts out at 9pm, the town goes to sleep. Or so it might seem.

As we settled onto our plywood mattress - seriously, but what do you expect for $5 a night - we could hear some of the locals laughing and talking as if they were in our room. Since they weren't limiting their conversations to our three words of Lao, we couldn't really be sure what they were saying, but uckily as they finished their Beerlao, they too drifted away to bed. Ahh, quiet.

But wait, the charming Kiwi from Chicago seems to snore. He was so funny during the daylight hours, but now as he obviously sleeps about 3 feet away, seperated by two milimeters of bamboo, his charm is starting to fade a bit. In go the earplugs, our constant and faithful companions.

It seemed like just moments had passed when I was jarred awake at 2am by a loud, rhythmic drumming from the wat down the road. While the monks generally announce the morning almsrounds with some somber drumming, this was more Mickey Hart than religious ceremony. After 15 minutes of vibrating the village, the monk tired of his betel nut-induced craze and wandered off to sleep.

However, his reverie had succeeded in rousting our arch nemisis, Rooster. Known by other names in less family friendly settings, Rooster has become the bane of our rural - and even urban or town - existence. This night, the entire Rooster clan was awake and ready to call their respective locations to each other. Since the clan appeared to include thousands of members, this was no mean feat.

Throughout the developing world, there are animals living with people. When we in the United States hear about avian flu, we think we can understand. But not until you see chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys and unknown other species mingling amicably with dogs, cats, children, adults, cows, goats and other sentient beings can you really get a sense of the potential for risk. For the record, we avoided intimate contact with all birds and avoided people with a noticeable hack.

And so it was in Muang Ngoi. Chickens everywhere, and more than half of them seemed to be Roosters. I have now decided that when I order chicken in restaurants, I am going to specify gender.

Once the monks had rousted one rooster, the fix was in. The first distant call, "Hey check me out," was met by one much closer, "Hey look at me." And another. And another. And on, for hours. Roosters were near and far. Some where under our bungalow. Some were in the yard out front. It got to the point where I began fantasizing about running outside in only my polypropylene boxer shorts, grabbing the nearest Rooster, and pulling its head off.

Of course, I realized I should be thanking Rooster for presenting me with such a golden opportunity to practice my patience. But then again, even the Buddha had many challenges on his path to enlightenment.

Over time, I developed an ability to tune Rooster out, and slowly drifted back to sleep.

Until 5am, when the monks were at it again. Time for more drumming to announce the almsrounds. While the music was more somber, it was equally resonant, shaking the bamboo walls around us.

Of course, the drums also signaled time for the locals to awaken, to prepare their offerings for the monks. So the town was awake, and by 6am the sounds of dishes clanking and pots banging were all around. Conversations were in full gear and longtail boats were firing up. The day had begun.

When a dogfight - the first of many to come in the day, as males sparred for access to the myriad females in heat - erupted outside our hut, we knew it was time to get up. Feeling a bit bedraggled, we arose to greet the day, finding to our delight two dogs locked together in post-coital awkwardness. Ahh, small town living.

The following night, our second and last in Muang Ngoi, these events repeated themselves. In addition, the geckos seemed more lively, making quite a racket above our heads. And I had the pleasure of waking to a cockroach drinking from the spittle at the corner of my mouth. Throwing it to the floor, I could only laugh and promise Erin, "we can upgrade when we get back to Luang Prabang."

*NOTE: We first encountered the term "Audio Privacy" when we explained to Erin's cousin Wendy about our experience in Pai, Thailand. During our stay there, the occupants of the bungalow next to ours - Asian tourists as far as we could tell from look and language - woke at 4am each day and began talking, laughing and generally carrying on at full volume with their radio blaring. Even the sight of Erin, in her stylish pajamas outside their window giving the "shh" sigh, only resulted in them pulling the shades. Wendy explained, based on her years living in multiple Asian countries, the concept of audio privacy is not part of the culture. In fact, the people in Pai probably wondered what the rude foreigner was doing invading their privacy at 4am.

"Responsible" (sic) tourism

2006-11-29T03:13:00.000-08:00

During my years living in Crested Butte, I had the privilege of learning firsthand about the tourist industry, from the host side of the coin.

While we all relied on tourists for our livelihood (such as it was), we also continually cringed at the perceived idiocy and disrespect we saw on display. The mountains were our church, and people who came to town didn't seem to show the proper respect. They stood gaping in the middle of the ski run (earning the fond nickname, gapers) or asked stupid questions, such as "where do they store the moguls in the summer?" This earned the other common nickname, tourons (tourist + moron = touron).

I didn't say we were particularly PC about things, but rather we were responding to a sense that many visitors didn't seem to share our sense of reverence for the community.

Today - not for the first time - I am the touron, trying to tread lightly through the nations of SE Asia. I am here to see and learn, embarrassing myself frequently as I do. But in the process, I am also trying to avoid offending or acting disrespectful. This is sometimes easier said than done.

Every morning around sunrise in Luang Prabang, the Buddhist monks perform almsrounds, ambling on a set route around town accepting offerings of food - rice mostly - from the local residents. I gather this functional ceremony has taken place for many years, feeding both the monks and the local karma. When in Luang Prabang, witnessing the almsrounds is one of the things to do.

And therein lies the rub. This religious ceremony is at risk of being over-run by the tourons, something I experienced this morning.

Arising around 6:30, I wandered out of our guesthouse to find local residents kneeling in the streets all around. A few blocks away, I could see a long string of orange, as the monks slowly walked closer, holding their growing pots of food.

Taking my position on a pile of bricks, I was not really sure what was appropriate. I wanted to capture the moment on my camera, but I also don't like taking pictures of people without first asking permission.

As I debated the situation in my head, a bus rolled up and 15 - 20 people of indeterminate falang (as we are referred to in Laos) origin piled out. Immediately, I felt like I was in the midst of a press event. Cameras were snapping, people were laughing and flashes were popping. All the while, the monks ambled past and the locals bowed in humility on the ground. It was just a tad bit surreal.

In two minutes it was over. The monks had passed and the falang piled back on the bus, headed for croissant and coffee (a big plus in a post-French colonial nation). And I was left wondering what happened.

Around town, there are signs explaining appropriate behavior for observation of the almsrounds. To me, this is a sign of need. The tourons come to see and learn, and in the process, change things.

In the end, I did snap one photo - from the hip, without flash - to capture the moment. But it left me wondering, exactly what is responsible tourism?

2006-11-24T18:56:00.000-08:00

Pai: Trekking with Mr. O

Nestled in the mountains of Northwest Thailand, Pai is a chilled-out little town that has boomed recently on the backpacker circuit. With internet cafes, coffee shops, reggae bars and plenty of Thai massage, Pai has all the amenities travelers want. And while some denigrate this development for its impact on the authenticity of the town, it is still surrounded by beautiful mountains and fields of rice and garlic. Best of all, it gets cold at night, a welcome change from the warm temperatures of the lowlands.

And no trip to Pai would be complete without a trek around through the hills surrounding town. So it was that we found ourselves with Mr. O (no relation I know of to O, our cooking school instructor) wandering the hillsides on a sunny Pai day.

Our trek started with a motorcycle ride on the back of two bikes. In typical Thailand fashion, we arrived at the booking agent's office and were immediately plunked onto the back of the motorcycles. With a whoosh we headed up the road, grasping two Thai people we had never met. Ahh, adventure.

After a short ride, we arrived at Mr. O's house, set in a small village in the hills. Mr. O is a (stereo) typically Thai man - always smiling, easily excited and quick to laugh. While his English was limited, he more than compensated with pure enthusiasm. More than once during the daylong hike (and by this, I mean almost 8 hours of hiking), Erin jumped back (in fear of a king cobra, I suspect) as Mr. O let out an excited Thai phrase, only to find the object of his excitement was a butterfly. Mr. O loved butterflies, and we saw lots of them as we walked. With each new butterfly, Mr. O would point it out and alert our attention.

While our trek had waypoints (a waterfall, Hmong Chinese village), it was really an ambling around Mr. O's neighborhood. Everywhere we went, he would call out to farmers, people on mopeds, passersby, anyone we crossed paths with. And while it was a bit hard to tell, they all seemed to know Mr. O. Generally we watched as Mr. O laughed and joked with his Thai friends, as they regarded us as the crazy farang paying to walk around the hills (or at least this is what I imagined them saying, although I never heard the word "farang" during the Thai conversations.)

The fields around Pai are filled with garlic and onions. And Mr. O never tired of pointing them out to us, with his special brand of English. "You garlic. You onion." While there was some risk of this constant identification growing tiresome, Mr. O's enthusiasm and joviality made it quite enjoyable. I'd conservatively estimate we saw 100 garlic or onion fields during our walk, and I am pretty sure Mr. O pointed out each one.

And so our day went. We'd walk, stop to look at a garlic field or butterfly, walk some more, and occasionally eat a tropical fruit Mr. O pulled from some plant (papaya, something pickle-like, something really alkaline that I prayed wouldn't cause instant paralysis and a few others). With each plant, Mr. O would tell us "you eat," or "you cook," or "you monkey eat." A couple times I tried my sense of humor with him, asking whether we could eat things he had just told us only monkeys eat, but alas, I am not sure my subtlety and nuance was being conveyed. Even to native English speakers, my humor can be elusive at times.

All in all, we had a lovely day with Mr. O. It felt a bit like we were with a Thai Mr. Rogers, wandering through his neighborhood fields and jungle. And it was a beautiful day in his neighborhood.

2006-11-22T02:47:00.000-08:00

48 Hours in Bangkok

After two months in Africa, we welcomed our arrival in Bangkok, and with it the switch from Swahili stew to Tom Yum and air conditioning.We spent our first day in Bangkok doing what any tourist should - we purchased a cell phone. After making lots of local calls in Africa, we figured cellular ownership would be cost effective. We headed to one of the bigger malls in Bangkok where the entire fourth floor wasdevoted to cell phones. With hundreds of stalls, our selection process hinged on finding a vendor with English skills. After about two hours we emerged triumphantly from the mall with our own phone. We took a Tuk-tuk back to our hotel to meet up with Brad's friendNorm, a fellow Buffalonian. Norm lives in Bangkok and teaches at an international school. He graciously played tour guide to us for our first 48 hours in the city. He heard that we had paid 300 baht for our tuk-tuk ride. Apparently, that was about 250 baht too much for the trip. We chalked it up to "farang" (foreigner) tax .

Not surprisingly, on our first night out we had Thai food. We went to a traditional restaurant, complete with Thai dancers and musicians. While my mouth was cooling from the fiery food, Brad was invited up onstage for a swordfight. Six beers into the evening, I wasn't convinced that my husband wielding a large blade was the smartest endeavor. Fortunately, his competitor was more into showmanship than swordsmanship so we made it out of the place without a maiming incident. And I think the crowd at the restaurant was entertained.

On day 2 we headed for the weekend market. It's the biggest indoor flea market you have ever seen and you can buy absolutely anything and everything. Large grids of the market are labeled for shoppers convenience-housewares, flowers, clothing, and the catch-all category of"miscellaneous." My favorite part was the pet section. All kinds of animals lingered in hot cages, including flying squirrels that were chained on top of the cages with little copper leashes. At first, we thought theywere fake because they looked dead but they still blinked. I was curious about the aviary row too but Norm convinced me that it was probably okay to skip the bird section in the SE Asian bizarre bazaar.

After our sweaty visit to the market, we were ready for a massage. For about $6, we had an hour-long full body massage. Traditional Thai massage is like a combination of the most intense massage you've ever had plus some yoga, physical therapy, gymnastics, and acupressure all in one. My masseuse had her foot in my groin while my other leg was up around her neck, over her shoulder, and tucked into her armpit.Several times I was close to crying for help but she always let go in the nick of time. While I was trying to relax I got a few glimpses of Brad. He was dressed in the pajama-like pink scrubs that were provided for us. He's about 12 weeks overdue for a haircut so the combination of the outfit and big hair was comical. Of course he found the sight of a 95 pound Thai lady walking on my backpretty funny too.

2006-11-22T02:04:00.000-08:00

Chiang Mai: Cooking with Tag

In Seattle, it seems you can't throw a tennis ball without hitting a Thai restaurant. So after a couple months in Africa, the cuisine in Thailand almost felt like coming home. Almost.

And while we have tried to make Thai food at home, the results have generally paled in comparison to the real (US-style) thing.

No longer. Erin and I are now well on our way to Thai cooking expertise, after taking a daylong course with local chef and cooking instructor extraordinaire, Tag. Based on a recommendation from Erin's cousin Wendy (who lives in Chiang Mai), we chose "Cooking with Tag" as our entry point into the world of Thai cooking.

When we arrived at his restaurant/school and saw that he also ran the "Yummy Yummy All-You-Can-Eat Buffet (99 baht)," we knew we had chosen wisely.

Our day began with a trip to the local market. Tag led the farang (aka "foreigners" in Thai) through the stalls, talking to us about ingredient selection and explaining what we might use as a substitute in the US. After reviewing vegetables, curry pastes, peppers and all array of other components, Tag put special emphasis on the "Magic Powder." While some of you may know it as Knorr powdered chicken stock, to Tag it is the stuff that turns drab into sparkle. Much as Emeril adds heat with a "bang," (or is it a "wham?" I can't remember), Tag adds Magic Powder. And now, so do I.

After the shopping trip, we headed back to the Yummy Yummy home base, where we each had a cooking station. At this point, the lovely O (I'm really not sure how to spell her name) took over the instruction. With assistants bringing prepped veggies, spices, meats, etc., we spent the next three hours learning the secrets of Thai cooking. We were each in charge of our own destinies, crafting individual portions of tom yum, spring rolls, red curry and pad thai.

(As an aside, having learned all my previous Thai cooking lessons from my friend JR, I was surprised to learn that chili paste is not the base for every Thai dish. After the third time I asked O, "can you add chili paste to that?" I could tell she was just being patient with me, thinking "crazy farang.")

Our day ended by consuming our creations, to our collective delight. With sweaty scalps all around, we enjoyed our own yummy yummy buffet. And with a return trip to Chiang Mai planned for January (with my parents in tow), I have already spoken with Tag about a second course focused on different (and perhaps a bit milder) dishes.

2006-11-12T01:41:00.000-08:00

Photos! Photos! Photos!

Several people have made it clear they want more photos. I want to assure you I have received the message.

That said, technology in the developing world is not exactly what it is in the US. In particular, connection speeds require a Zen approach to Internet usage.

As a result, I am not able to upload all the images (not to mention video) I'd like. If you have not tuned into Treemo recently, you should find plenty of new images to keep you happy. I've posted over 120 photos so far, with more to come as we head to Asia.

Click here to see the most recent uploads. Or visit my channel at http://www.treemo.com/users/brad/channel/.

2006-11-10T23:49:00.000-08:00

Doing battle with the shield of Africa

I used to believe mosquitoes were the most miserable species on earth. When those bloodsuckers buzzed, my sanity was tested.

Yet I have a new addition to this ring of Dante's Hell, the tse tse fly.

Known as the "shield of Africa," these brutal little buzzards deliver a painful bite and, like mosquitoes, a small chance of disease. They are single-handedly responsible for keeping humans out of the bush and preventing farmers from grazing cattle, which they also like to feed upon. Hence they shielded much of Africa from human development.

Until we arrived in the Serengeti, we were blissfully ignorant of the tse tse fly. We saw traps for them in Botswana, but the combination of dry season and pesticide had kept their numbers down.

In the Serengeti, things were different. These little vampires like coming into vehicles and can bite through clothes. While I was only bitten once (Mom: Don't worry, the risk of disease is small and it is entirely treatable), that was enough. Ironically, I had just said to our guide, Urassa, "I think the tse tse fly is the only species I don't want to see in Africa." Talk about instant karma.

After that first bite, the battle was on. Full armor was worn, DEET applied, and weapons (books and other swatting instruments) were kept close at hand. Luckily for me, I married the best tse tse fly exterminator in Seattle. Erin deftly dispatched with the fast-moving devils, with a skill that could not be matched. In tse tse fly cantinas around Northern Tanzania, word began to spread about a new white menace depleting the population.

All in all, we were able to prevent any further bites, but only through constant vigilance. As we departed the bush, I couldn't help feeling a sense of relief. We had won some battles, but the tse tse flies definitely won the war.

2006-11-10T23:25:00.000-08:00

Life and death on the Serengeti

As we began our third and final safari, there were only a couple things I really wanted to see. We had seen the "big five" (lion, leopard, rhino, buffalo and elephant), found leopards and cheetahs and seen plenty of warthogs (my favorite).

Yet the one thing I really wanted to witness was the raw drama of a kill. We had seen plenty of lions, hyenas, vultures and storks feeding upon recent kills, but not the actual act.

It turns out, witnessing the female lions eating a zebra in Etosha foreshadowed our experience on the Serengeti (which comes from the Maasai word, siringet, meaning never-ending space).

After a somewhat uneventful morning game drive, we crossed paths with another safari vehicle and were informed of a lion in the grass up ahead, watching a herd of zebras.

We quickly found the female lion and recognized the classic stalking pose. If you've ever watched a house cat stalk something in the grass, you'd recognize it too; tail twitching, ears back, eyes intently watching the zebras.

From our location about 100m away, we watched through binoculars as the lion slowly crouched her way towards the zebra herd, which numbered approximately 50 animals.

A light drizzle began to fall - November is the start of the short rains - which fogged our binocular but didn't seem to deter the lion as she approached the herd from downwind.

While zebras are known for their keen eyesight and sense of smell, they didn't seem to be aware of the lion as she moved from 75m to 50m and on to 25m. All the while, she was slowly edging her way forward under the cover of grass only. (As an aside, during the 45 minutes we watched the lion advance, it became very clear why we don't go walking in the tall savannah grasses, even when they appear devoid of danger. If you click on the image above, you may be able to see the lion on the left and zebra herd on the right.)

The zebras were mostly grazing during this time, with a few standing guard looking in each direction. In fact, four were looking directly at the lion's location, failing to recognize her subtle movements in the grass. Eventually, she approached to within 5m of the herd, appearing almost underfoot of the closest zebra. Yet still she moved closer.

We were rapt in the truck, watching the drama unfold from under a raised roof in the rain.

All at once, the lion was up and running. The herd took flight, barking warnings that came too late for one. The lioness had her prey, leaping onto the back of one zebra, clawing it to the ground and grabbing hold of its neck in her jaws.

1000 episodes of "When animals attack" can't do justice to the emotions evoked as we watched the zebra fight for its life, to no avail.

Over a period of minutes that felt much longer, the zebra's kicks changed to twitches and the piercing screams changed to grunts, as the life drained out of the animal.

All the while, we watched through our binoculars. I felt both compelled to watch and somehow inappropriately voyeuristic, witnessing the last moments of life for the zebra.

During this time, a second lion joined in, somewhat prematurely going to work on the zebra's hind quarter while the animal was still kicking (Family aside: As I watched, I couldn't help but think of Aunt Bell, tearing into the Thanksgiving turkey leg).

Eventually, a third lion joined in and the battle was over. It was meal time and we watched as the lions rolled the zebra over for better access to the soft underbelly.

In all, we watched for over an hour before losing sight of the lions as they lay down to feast in the tall grass. Having seen and heard this part of life on the Serengeti, I felt glad to have had the experience. Yet at the same time, it is not one I need to repeat anytime soon, as the memory of the zebra's screams will remain with me for a long while.

2006-11-10T23:13:00.000-08:00

Safari lessons, part 2

Animals have really interesting forms of communication in the bush. For example, a group of warthogs (known as a sounder) raise their tails straight up as they run through the thicket, so their compatriots can see the little ball of fuzz on the tip and track its movements. Each fuzzball is unique, thus allowing warthogs to ID each other in tall grass. This habit has led to the nickname, "remote-controlled pig," since the tails up look like antenae. (By the way, warthogs feed on their knees, because their necks are too short and skin is too tight to reach the ground standing. Baby warthogs are born with callouses on their knees.)

Similarly, lions have dark patches on the backs of their ears to allow tracking from behind as they hunt in packs in the tall grass.

As for why zebras have stripes, we didn't get a definitive answer there. Some theories include for confusing predators, identification or heat abatement. Whatever the case, no two zebras have the same patterns.

Some other interesting Claven-esque tidbits:

Egrets follow buffalo and elephants to eat the bugs they stir up as they crash through the bush.
Female lions leave the pride as they give birth and raise cubs to prevent the males from eating the babies. When females are raising cubs, they do not go into oestrus. As a result, males will eat the babies to encourage female heat, thus creating an opportunity for the male to plant his own seed. Randy.
Zebra and wildabeest move together because zebra like tall grass and have good eyesight, and wildabeest like short grass. In this way, wildabeest are like parasites.
When female lions are in oestrus, they select one male and mate every 15-20 minutes for a week. Then she selects a second male for another week. It is generally the second mate who gets her pregnant. And while mating, lions do not eat.
A group of rhinos is called a crush, giraffe a journey, mongeese a cluster, zebra a kinship and hippos a pod.

Overall, a safari in Africa (or three) is a must for people who like wildlife.

2006-11-10T23:11:00.000-08:00

Safari lessons, part 1

Hippos kill more people in Africa than any other wildlife species. When I first learned this, it came as a bit of a surprise, since I had a notion that predators such as the lion or crocodile - animals we had spent much more time worrying about in the days leading up to our camping safaris - would top the list.

Yet we quickly learned it was the lumbering, cuddly hippo that bore this distinction, due primarily to the fact that hippos are aggressive, territorial and don't false charge (especially when you are standing between them and watter).

When on safari, you are taught early on what to do if charged by an animal: stand still.

The reason for this is most animals will false charge before they actually attack. In fact, most "attacks" consist entirely of false charges. The run at you and stop short, before trampling, gnawing or otherwise maiming you.

This is certainly true for elephants and lions. They bluff, a lot. And if you stand still, you are safe, mostly.

As I listened to our guide Richard talking about animal behavior, I envisioned the following scenario: We are out walking through the savannah, when a female lion with three cubs comes into sight. This is the most dangerous scenario, we learned, because the cubs are naturally inquisitive and playful. Yet as they come closer, mom's natural protective instinct grows more acute. With each fumbling step the cute little furballs take, mom becomes more aggressive, until she decides we are a threat worthy of action.

This is not a hypothetical situation, but one Richard lived through with a group that was thankfully not ours. And in this situation, the correct response is to stand absolutely still, even as the lion runs at you, ears back, teeth out, hackles raised.

I imagine a bad day at the laundromat after that.

Yet for a hippo, there is no false charge. When they bring the locomotive up to speed - and they can run much faster than any human - there's no stopping.

In addition to the hippo, the buffalo also doesn't bluff. If it charges, it's coming for you. Oh, and the rhino too. And if you are charged by a buffalo, hippo or rhino, run for the nearest tree (hopefully a stout one) and climb quickly.

Once danger is past, fire your guide, since we learned the key to all animal interactions, from the disease vector ground squirrel to the aggressive elephant, is respect.

And respecting the hippo, buffalo and rhino means watching them from a safe distance, preferably from within a solid steel vehicle.

2006-11-10T23:09:00.000-08:00

Sundowner: A tradition worthy of import

During our time in Africa, we've visited four countries, each with many distinct languages, cultures and values. Yet throughout our travels, one thing has remained impressively consistent: An impressive zeal for the sundowner.

First a definition. A sundowner is a cocktail, beer or other libation taken in a scenic location as the sun sets.

So far, the sundowner may seem similar to happy hour in the US or our general interest in having a cocktail in a nice place. And in some ways, it is.

Yet the difference is one of emphasis and cultural ubiquity. The sundowner is huge.

All bars, hotels, parks, roads, trees and beaches with any semblance of a view are marketed as "a great place for a sundowner." And in fact, the best spots fill up quickly as the sun creeps towards the horizon. And they empty just as fast once the hot orb has fallen below view.

To a gringo just warming into his second cerveza, this ephemeral party can seem a bit disorienting. Crowded one moment, empty the next. And it's only 6:45pm (or 18:45 as we call it now).

To date, we have had sundowners watching hippos wallow, elephants trumpet, waves crash and whales breech. In Botswana, our safari Land Cruiser was equipped with a refrigerator and pop-up bar on the front bumper so we could have cold gin & tonics (quinine, good for malaria prevention) as the sun set in the bush.

So as our time in Africa draws to a close, I reflect upon experiences I will remember. Sure the wildlife, friendliness, poverty and heat are likely to stick in my mind, but so is the sundowner.

This is definitely a tradition worth importing to the US - with curious implications for Seattle, where the sun (sic) sets in winter at 3:30pm (15:30).

Waning days in Africa

2006-11-10T06:35:00.000-08:00

Today we arrived in Arusha, Tanzania, after our final safari - six days in Ngorogoro Crater, Serengeti, Lake Manyara and Tarangire.

On Monday, we head to Dar Es Salaam and then onto Bangkok on Wednesday, Nov 15.

Baadaye.

Wines we've liked

2006-10-22T02:16:00.000-07:00

While neither Erin nor I are particularly skilled in the art of wine tasting, we do like to drink the fermented grape juice and generally know what we like. It was with this technical expertise that we tried to keep track of wines we tasted during our travels around South Africa's wine country. As a measure of my commitment to this task, I have to note that in the first three weeks in Africa, not a beer crossed my lips (OK, one or two beers, but it was a hot day).

So here, in no particular order, are wines and wineries we enjoyed. I am not sure which of these can be found in the US markets, but South Africa seems intent on growing their exports, so perhaps some will be coming to a wine store near you someday soon.

Glenwood

We visited this winery and weren't blown away by any of their wines. We did like the sauvignon blanc the best.

Boschendal

Again, the wines at this winery were not as impressive as the setting. Our ample tasting (As an aside, South African tastings generally seem to consist of 7-10 glasses, each filled amply. An ambitious undertaking unto itself.) took place under a huge oak tree that was planted when the winery was founded, a few hundred years ago. Of the wines we tasted, we liked the 2003 shiraz the best.

Delaire

This was by far the most scenic winery we visited (other than perhaps Le Petite Ferme, which is really more of a restaurant than typical winery), set on a mountain pass between Franschoek and Stellenbosch. Of the wines we tried, the 2005 sauvignon blanc was our favorite.

Buitenverwachting

I drank a fair amount of their buiten blanc over lunch at Col C'Acchio Pizza, one of our favorite haunts. While the wine was very refreshing on a hot day, I think I kept ordering it because I liked saying "Buitenverwachting" in my brutalized German accent. By the end of the meal, I am sure the waiter was tired of my self-entertainment.

Grande Provence

The Grande Provence is known as one of the best restaurants in Franschoek (the culinary capital of South Africa, arguably). However, on the night we dined there, we were the only patrons. This led to the somewhat surreal experience of eating while the entire waitstaff leaned against the wall staring at us. Even the slightest flinch on our part brought at least one, if not several, inquiries about whether we needed anything. If I were slightly more devilish, I might have started flinching, just to see the waitrons jump. Luckily I am a much better person than that. As for the wine, we liked the shiraz and red table wine. In fact, if I were having a party and needed some bulk wine, I'd call the red table wine a good choice.

Chamonix

I wanted to visit this winery, but alas, so many wineries, so little time. I drank their pinotage at dinner at Reubens one night. It was arguably my favorite wine we had in South Africa, but that could be due in part to the excellent meal it accompanied. Reubens would have to be tied for first place (with Le Petite Ferme) as the best meal we have had so far. It is an excellent restaurant that would hold up in New York, as well as in Franschoek.

Now in Namibia and Botswana, we learned that while you can get wine from a bottle, you can also get it from a box. And I have gained new respect for box wines, but I will leave that musing for another day.

Mammals in Namibia

2006-10-21T05:06:00.000-07:00

During our tour of Namibia, the diversity wildlife was truly
spectacular. To give a sense, here's a list of the mammals we
encountered:

Chacma baboon
Ground squirrel
Black-backed jackal
African elephant
Rock dassie
Black rhino
Burchell's zebra
Hippo
Giraffe
Blue wildebeest
Red hartebeest
Spotted hyena
Kudu
Lion
Springbok
Steenbok
Black-faced impala
Gemsbok (Oryx)
Warthog

Not bad for a ten-day tour. And this doesn't include birds. Besides
the noble ostrich, a compatriot on the safari who was tracking birds
seen counted over 140 species.

2006-10-20T03:17:00.001-07:00

Musings on the middle class
As we travel around Africa, I have been giving some thought to the benefits of a broad middle class. In Africa, the differences between rich (relatively speaking) and poor are more obvious than anywhere else I have been. Brand new Mercedes and Land Cruisers mingle with people wearing few clothes and a look of hunger in their eyes. As a result of the massive disparity, security is always an issue. Most in-town hotels where we stay have high walls, barbed wire and security guards standing watch. While most people we’ve met have been very friendly, we must always be aware that the clothes we wear are worth more than many earn in a year (that is if they are among the 50% working). While we have used our heads (and taxis) and have remained safe, the lack of a middle class here has caused me to think about the importance of balancing wealth, if safety and security is a goal. I'll contiune my thinking on this point as we adventure on.

2006-10-20T03:17:00.000-07:00

Maun: Preparing for Okavango
We are currently in Maun, Botswana, jumping-off point for the Okavango Delta. Due to sold-out flights and limited travel options, we had to get to Maun a few days early. Basically, the town seems to be one big safari office, as most people who come here do so to head into the Okavango Delta. And while it’s not the most scenic or lively destination we’ve seen, our hotel has a swimming pool, bar, air-conditioned rooms and TV. So we plan to catch up on our sleep, take care of any last-minute Internet business (in preparation for Tanzania) and generally relax.

2006-10-20T03:08:00.000-07:00

Namibia: 10 Days Touring the Desert
The bulk of our time in Namibia was spent on a Chameleon Safaris 10-Day “Namibia Highlights” tour. From the dunes of Sossusvlei in the South to Etosha in the North, we covered a lot of ground in a relatively short period of time. For me, there were several highlights of the highlights:

Our first two nights were spent at Sessriem (see previous post), a campground/outpost in the Namib Desert, where thankfully they had a very murky pool and cold beer. No need to leave civility behind while exploring the ends of the earth. Sessriem was conveniently located about an hour from Sossusvlei, a collection of huge sand dunes formed over millions of years. If you’ve seen pictures of Namibia (other than ones of Brangelina from US Magazine), you likely have seen Sossusvlei. They were epic, if not a tad windy while there. Definitely not a place for contact lenses. Nearby, we also visited Deadvlei, an old river bottom cut off from water by the dunes (and lack of rain). With petrified trees and towering dunes, it was a trippy place to say the least.

Next on the list of top highlights (although not to imply a hierarchy of highlights), would have to be Etosha. When we were planning our trip to Africa, images of wide-open plains and vast herds of wild critters crowded our minds. Little did we know, Etosha was the place we were envisioning. As an example, after a short while, we no longer stopped for herds of zebra, kudu, oryx, springbok and other “common” animals – unless they were being eaten by a lion or hyena. Etosha is a magical place – more wildlife and variety than I ever really expected. And at night, they fence the humans into camps where you can find – you guessed it – cold beer. It is a bit humbling to feel like a zoo animal, with creatures waiting outside the gates that would love the tender taste of unwashed human. So it goes when you aren’t at the top of the food chain.

Our tour around Etosha consisted of driving in “the box,” as our vehicle was known, from one water hole to the next. Since the place is a big desert, water is the key to life. So much of the action happens around the water hole. In fact, each of the camps has a floodlit (and carefully fenced) waterhole that allows the humans to watch the wildlife all night long (at Okakeujo, where we camped the first night, I watched elephants and rhinos drink stand guard, always wary of the predators inevitably lurking nearby.).

Perhaps our most spectacular viewing involved the two separate lion sightings. In the first, we came upon two females chomping happily on a zebra. From a distance, we watched as they ate their meal, always alert for hyena who might move in to steal lunch (supposedly hyena can smell a kill for up to 20km). At the next lion sighting, we got as close as I’d ever want to be to a bachelor pride of males. Literally, lions were all around our bus, as we watched them laze in the sun (hopefully after a big meal). It was truly a magical experience, seeing these top predators from so close.

Overall, the Namibia tour was wonderful. Our group had a lot of personalities, but in a good way. We had the strong German woman, the crazy Kiwi, the comedic Dutch couple and the demure Brit – not to mention the affable Namibian guide and goofy Americans (us). At times it felt like an episode of Survivor Africa. Luckily, we were not forced to eat any of the myriad of massive insects we came upon.

Sesriem: Sandstorm in the desert

2006-10-11T08:41:00.000-07:00

On our first night of our first safari, we headed out of Windhoek, due for the Sesriem campground in the Namib Naukluft National Park. When we arrived at the stunning campsite - dunes all around, shaded by a large acacia tree, sweet braai - we dutifully set our tents up within the stone walls of the site.

During set-up, foolish neophyte that I was, I asked our guide Uanne, "do we need to put our rain fly on the tent?" To this, he answered, "Definitely, it's the most important part of the tent." Were this a movie, the score would turn decidedly ominous at this point.

Ever the positive person, I cheerfully complied, thinking the rain tarp was just some tourist thing to keep the guides from jumping awake during a nighttime shower. At this point, there was not a single cloud in the sky, and a lovely, refreshing, cooling breeze was rustling the leaves above us.

Fast forward a few hours. The cooling breeze has turned to a sand-churning, tent-shaking howl. Erin and I were having a fitful nights rest as sand rained down upon us - inside the tent. While it is possible the rain fly was keeping some sand out, it certainly didn't feel that way. Literally, drifts were forming in our tent. For Erin, who requires that I wash my feet before bed to keep the dust out, this was a bit of a trauma. At one point, I blew my nose and found enough sand to time a hard-boiled egg.

Needless to say, we didn't get much sleep that night. At least we were spared the fate of our safari-mate, Ellie from England, who's tent blew away with her in it.

At 4am, I had had enough. We were getting up at 4:30am anyway to watch the sunrise from the dunes at Sossusvlei, so I decided to get up and take a (cold and refreshing) shower. All part of camping in the desert.

[NOTE: I am testing email posting capabilities here. I will post photos from this epic at some later date.]

2006-10-08T02:12:00.000-07:00

Namibia
Our travels in Namibia began with a flight from Cape Town to Walvis Bay. From there, we caught a taxi up to Swakopmund (Swakop, in local parlance), where we spent four nights. Currently we are in the capital, Windhoek. Tomorrow we leave for a ten-day "Namibian Highlights" safari, which will take us to Etosha, the Skeleton Coast, Swakop (again), Namib Naukluft, Soussvlei (east of Swakop) and back to Windhoek.

2006-10-06T02:30:00.000-07:00

Townships: A legacy of Apartheid
One of the key tenets of the apartheid system was segregation of races - blacks, coloureds and whites - in all activities. This was especially true in housing. And nowhere is the legacy of of the system more obvious to the casual observer (read: tourist) than in the enormous disparity between the white cities and the black/coloured townships that surround them.

While Soweto may be the most famous township (Outside Jo-burg), it seems that every community, large and small, has a set of corresponding townships. When apartheid was in full force, the idea was that whites would inhabit the city centers and blacks would be "repatriated" to the rural areas - bantustans or townships - outside the cities.

To enforce the segregation, all blacks were required to carry passes - dompaases or "stupid books" are they were called - at all times. These passes were the point of rightful tension, as any white could demand to see any black's pass at any time. To enter a city - any city of any size, from Cape Town to Stellenbosch in the wine region, a black would need to have a permit indicated on the pass. Thus the segregation was enforced, both by officials and city residents. Any black caught in a city without a pass or proper permit was eligible for immediate imprisonment.

Today, much of the apartheid system has been dismantled, but re-building housing for millions of black South Africans has not happened overnight. To visit the townships, tours are offered in most areas, since it is generally not a great idea for clueless white tourists to go ambling around these areas.

So, on our last day in Cape Town, Erin and I took a tour with "Our Pride," the first company to begin offering trips to townships in the mid-1990's. Our guide - Ronnie - grew up during apartheid, raised in Langa, one of Cape Town's largest townships. By some estimates, over a million people live in Langa, although a formal census is difficult to take.

Ronnie took us through Langa, where we visited a local medicine man, shebeen and goat head grill. Since unemployment reaches 50%, Langa was lively on the middle of Monday afternoon. Overall, people were very friendly, although the guilty liberal in me couldn't help feeling a bit uncomfortable as a beacon of relative wealth amongst so much poverty. Since most people own their shacks outright these days, taking electricity and water through an "informal economy," there is little incentive for many to move out of the townships (where they would need to pay rent, water bills, etc.).

At the shebeen, we met the "queen," who shared a bit of the local brew from a #10 tin can. Tasting a bit like Genesee Cream Ale, it seemed inappropriate to reject her offer. Plus she wiped the can with a rag from the ground, so it seemed very clean. These are the type of situations the Hep-A vaccination was made for. (And I remember my friend Ashton proudly telling me one day there are no known pathogens that can live in beer.)

Overall, the township scene is both uplifting and depressing. Many people have no desire to leave and there is a strong culture and sense of community. At the same time, with poverty, unemployment, AIDS and illiteracy rates through the roof, one can't help but feel there is room for improvement.

I read somewhere that travelers must look and learn, and perhaps, try to understand. Understanding is the most we can hope for, and trying to change something is both beyond our means and inappropriate (the hubris). When we first arrived in South Africa, our (white) taxi driver told us there are two South Africas - black and white. After our trip to the townships, I couldn't help feeling this is true. Not necessarily all bad, but very thought provoking nonetheless.

2006-09-30T06:41:00.000-07:00

Hermanus: Southern Right Whales Galore
While whale watching was amazing, the most significant thing we learned on the trip is this: Southern right whales – the males at least – have four-meter penises and 500kg balls. Holy #%&* - talk about fears of inadequacy.

OK, now that I have passed along that valuable bit of knowledge, let me briefly describe the whale watching trip. Run by the Ivanhoe Whale Charters out of Gansbaai, the two-hour tour involved whales, dolphins and seals, in such quantities as to be unbelievable in other places. The folks at Ivanhoe seem to be fairly conservation minded, and unlike charters that may come to mind in Puget Sound, it is their rule to stop at least 50m from whales and let the whales decide whether to get closer to the boat or not.

Needless to say, the whales we encountered decided to get much closer. At times, they were directly under the boat – swimming slowly around. No need to go quickly when you have a 14-foot penis, I guess.

All the while, seals were jumping in the surf and dolphins were frolicking about. Except for the absence of Marlin Perkins, it smacked of Wild Kingdom.

For recent video and photos from whale watching and the rest of our South African tour so far, go to Treemo.

2006-09-30T06:40:00.001-07:00

Driving: Think Left
To aid our exploration of the Western Cape, as this province is known, we rented a car for a portion of our time in South Africa. This initially caused us (OK, Erin) some distress, as we thought about driving on the left side of the road, coupled with South Africa’s reputation as a hectic driving location. I have to admit, I was a bit shaky as we first pulled out of the Holiday Inn in Cape Town, where the Europcar was located. My concerns were diminished a bit when I learned that although I would be captaining our fine Ford from the right side of the car, the gas, brake and clutch were the same as in the US. I would just have to teach my left hand to shift – not that big a deal.

Once on the open road, I found the driving to be pretty straightforward, with a couple notable differences.

First and foremost is the slightly loose concept of lanes in South Africa. In the US, a lane is marked by lines and people generally drive within the lines, unless changing lanes or moving to avoid something in the road.

Not so in South Africa. While most roads – even main highways – are officially two lanes, they are treated as four (or possibly even five) lane roads. This is especially true when the shoulder is paved.

When a car comes up on you – as many seem to do to us, since I am driving a crappy little US car and most people of means seem to drive huge Mercedes with V-8 engines, the protocol is for the slower car to drive in the shoulder, while the other car passes to the right. This is done without much regard to what is happening in the oncoming lane, and in fact, it is common for the oncoming lane to have cars behaving similarly.

Once passed, it is polite to flash your hazard lights for a few seconds, as a way to say thank you.

The result of all this behavior is four lanes of traffic on a two-lane road.

NOTE: Due to my understanding of my familial tendencies towards worry, this posting has not been made until after the rental car has been safely returned to Europcar.

2006-09-30T06:40:00.000-07:00

Knysna: Green, Right, Return
As the nautical types know, “Red, Right, Return” is one of the fundamental rules of seamanship in the US. This handy alliteration helps sailors remember to keep red channel markers on the right (starboard) side of the boat when returning to port.

On our recent pass through Knysna (rhymes with “thighs-na”), we had an opportunity to go for a sail on a 54’ one design. The trip involved passing through the Heads – a narrow opening between the Knysna Lagoon and the Indian Ocean where the navigable channel is only about 70 meters wide and the current can reach 8 knots.

As we headed towards the Heads, I noted the red buoys on our right, despite the fact we were on our way out to sea. Remembering the captain’s warnings about how narrow the channel was, I inquired about his decision to sail outside it.

It was then he told me that the US is the only country in the world that follows “red, right, return.” Everywhere else – or at least in Europe and Africa – it’s “green, right, return.” Not nearly as alliterative, but worth noting if you plan to sail outside US waters.

2006-09-30T06:38:00.000-07:00

Comedy: Showering Abroad
One recent afternoon, Erin awoke from her daily nap to the sound of me cackling in the bathroom. Curious about what could be so funny, she did the only logical thing, came in with the camera. The result is this shot, capturing my laughter – not at any anatomical deficiency, mind you, but at the watery chaos that was surrounding my efforts to shower sitting down.

While in the US we grow accustomed to showering while standing, safely enclosed in glass or a curtain. Yet on our travels so far, we have encountered a number of showers that are really nothing more than a tub with a hose. As anyone who has ever shared a bathroom with me can attest, I am prone to causing a bit of splashing in my bathing routine. And that is when I have the full curtain protection in place.

In a curtain-free environment, the entire bathroom got a wash. And as luck would have it, this particular shower had a lot of water pressure. So the hose had a tendency to flail about wildly if I released it from a firm grip.

Never fear, I did manage to bring things under control, but not without getting a fair bit of water on the floor, walls and ceiling, cackling as it went.

Perhaps a shot of Erin would have been an appropriate pair to this photo, since the look on her face was not quite as jovial as the look on mine. Our relationship is stronger for it, though.

2006-09-27T07:27:00.000-07:00

Our route around South Africa: Cape Town, Winelands and the Garden Route

Overall, we are spending about three weeks in South Africa, starting and ending in Cape Town. Our first few days were spent in an around the Cape Peninsula. Then we rented a car and hit the left side of the road up to Franschoek and Stellenbosch in the wine region. From there, we headed to Oudtshoorn in the Little Karoo (where we dined on tasty ostrich tenderloin). At the moment, we are in Knysna, along the coast and in a couple days we head to Hermanus, center of the "whale coast." After a couple days of watching southern right whales breaching offshore, we head back to Cape Town, then on to Namibia.

2006-09-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

Robben Island: Where reconciliation began
It’s hard to visit South Africa without thinking about Apartheid. And while Apartheid was born of complex history and context, to many its violent oppression of Black, Coloured and Indian South Africans was symbolized in Robben Island, the prison where Nelson Mandela and many other leaders were held for decades.

Located twenty minutes by boat from Cape Town, Robben Island is held as a symbol of the struggle for freedom and reconciliation that is still going on in the country today.

When you arrive at Robben Island, you are greeted on the wharf by large photos of prisoners disembarking ships in past years, under guard of white wardens with rifles and black wardens without – the system of class extending even to the guards. The tour around the island is led by former political prisoners, people who spent years of their lives under the brutal conditions of the prison.

Throughout the prison, Apartheid’s system of class based on race was enforced. Black South Africans, known as Bantu, were given smaller rations, no beds, and only summer clothes. Coloureds (as people of mixed races were known) and Indians were given slightly better conditions – an effort to promote division within prison ranks.

While the stories we heard were both fascinating and horrifying at the same time, a couple things stood out: The political leaders were assigned to do hard labor in a quarry, basically moving rocks around as an effort to break their spirits. In the quarry, there is a cave that was used as a bathroom for the prisoners. Because no white would ever share a bathroom with a black, the cave became the place where the prisoners could meet to discuss their plans in private. And so it was that the “Government in Exile” was born, in a bathroom cave on Robben Island.

In addition to political prisoners, the island also contained hardened criminals – rapists, murderers, etc. The criminals were mixed in with the political prisoners, in an attempt to dampen spirits. Instead of having the intended effect though, the political leaders taught the criminals, and banned them from stealing and other crime, except for one case: the criminals were employed in stealing newspapers from the wardens.

Today, 20% of the South African Parliament is comprised of people who were held as prisoners on Robben Island. While it may seem natural for there to be an overwhelming sense of lingering bitterness and resentment, that seems not to be the case. Instead, Robben Island is identified as the place where reconciliation between the races began, as white wardens got to know the black political prisoners, and realized the shared humanity.

While racial issues in South Africa are still quite bizarre (to put it mildly), Robben Island is a place where millions of people from all over the world come to remember the history and learn, in the words of our guide, “there is only one way, forward.”

2006-09-22T10:48:00.000-07:00

Franschoek: The French corner of South Africa
If you want to know what the wine region of South Africa is like, think Napa with mountains. With hundreds of wineries, South Africa is an ideal place to do some serious boozing. Franschoek is about an hour from Cape Town, where the Huegenot settled a few hundred years ago. Full of Cape Dutch architecture and fine French cuisine – at low, low prices – it’s really a great place to eat, drink and generally cavort.

And when the tasting is over, you get to drive home on the left side of the road. (Disclaimer: As the designated (sic) driver, I think I have been mostly responsible in my mixture of fine wines with cheap autos).

While Erin and I know little about wine – I do like using terms like “fruity”, “nose” and “mouth-feel” – we do know if we like something. And so it was we spent three days touring around the countryside, visiting wineries, tasting pinotage, sauvignon blanc, chardonnay and other such things to our hearts’ content.

Check out the photos to get a sense of the fun.

2006-09-17T10:28:00.000-07:00

Blogging Neophyte: Learning on the fly

As our travels proceed, I expect my blogging skills to improve. For now, I am learning how to post images, format entries, add links, etc.

Let me know what info you'd like to see or if you have questions and I can try to include it.

2006-09-17T09:52:00.000-07:00

Cape Peninsula: Southern-most tip of Africa, almost.

For our first day in Cape Town, we decided to do a daylong tour of the Cape Peninsula, which extends South from the City. Where else in the world can you see seals, baboons, penguins and whales all in the same place.

The day began with a boat ride out to Seal Island - basically a rock out in the Atlantic Ocean covered with hundreds of seals. There was quite a swell out on the sea, so we had the pleasure of one of our co-passengers heaving over the side along the way. A perfect way to calm our stomachs.

The swell did produce quite a surf spot on the reef (I think) near Seal Island, where several surfers jumped off the boat in full wetsuits (the water is about 45 degrees) and engaged in combat surfing. With a jetski around for towing into big waves, the surfing looked pretty extreme from my position.

Next it was off to the Cape of Good Hope. For years, we have been taught this is the Southern-most tip of the African continent. Not so. Somewhere to the East is actually further South, so the Cape of Good Hope has to settle for the "Southwestern-most part of Africa." Nonetheless, it was pretty impressive.

Along the way, we saw some baboons by the road. Our guide reinforced several times that these cute little simians have big fangs and a strong drive for human food. Feeding them can cause quite a ruckus, and while he did not elaborate, I envisioned ugly scenes of "primates gone wild." Needless to say, we kept the windows closed in the van.

After the Cape of Good Hope, we headed down to an area known as "Boulders," where we saw one of the few remaining African Penguin colonies. Yes, there are penguins in Africa, and they are cute suckers.

2006-09-17T09:37:00.000-07:00

London: Starting out in the most expensive city in the world.

While we knew it was going to be expensive, we really weren't prepared for the reality. That said, we just pretended that a pound and dollar were the same and it all seemed fine. $10 beers drink just like $3, so no sense dwelling too much on price on day one.

Since we only had a couple days, we decided to take a bus tour around London. While it felt like a touristy thing to do (and who are we kidding, with safari pants and money belts, we are tourists), it was actually a great way to see the city. Big Ben, Parliment, Trafalgar Square, Picadilly, etc...we saw it all from the comfort of a double-decker bus.

And to make sure we put our first day to the fullest possible use, some kindly Holiday Inn guest hit the fire alarm at 7am. So our day began with a screeching siren and orderly walk down 7 flights of stairs to the street below, in our PJs (actually, I was mostly dressed). Luckily we found a lovely little coffee shop nearby and several cups of coffee jump started our jet-lagged minds.

Overall, London is an amazing place to go (especially on some sort of corporate expense account).

2006-09-10T23:27:00.000-07:00

Our Wedding Photos: Our travel inspiration

While our wedding isn't technically part of the travel blog, it is certainly related to the reason we decided to go on an extended exploration (after a certain point, it doesn't really seem like a "vacation" anymore, but perhaps that's just rationalization).

If you'd like to look through some wedding photos, click here.

2006-07-31T21:11:00.000-07:00

Our Itinerary:

What we know so far

Sept 12-14: London

Africa - September 15 - November 15
Sept 15 - Oct 21: Capetown, South Africa (Approx 2-3 weeks each in South Africa and Namibia)
Oct 22 - 30: Maun, Botswana (9 day safari in the Okavango Delta)
Nov 1 - 15: Tanzania
Nov 15: Dar Es Salaam to Bangkok

Southeast Asia - November 15 - February 15
Nov 15 - 18: Bangkok
Nov 18 - 23: Chang Mai
Nov 23 - Dec 15: Laos
Dec 15 - Jan 13: Vietnam (Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City)
Jan 14: Back to Bangkok to meet Brad's parents
Jan 15 - 18: Bangkok
Jan 18 - 23: Chang Mai
Jan 23 - 27: Angkor Wat / Siem Reap
Jan 27 - 30: Bangkok
Jan 31 - Feb 13: Andaman Sea, Southern Thailand
Feb 15: Bangkok to Hong Kong
Feb 17: Arrive NYC

South America - February 26 - ??
Feb 27: Arrive Buenos Aires

Our South America plans are the least formed at the moment. We will be down there for somewhere between 2 and 7 months. If you want to visit with us down in Argentina, March and April 2007 are good months to aim for. Come one, come all.