Avoiding the Red Light

Saturday rituals

2012-01-28T20:07:00.002+01:00

Every Saturday is the same... or, at least I'd like them to be. I wake up at a decent hour (10:00-10:30), and spend a leisurely morning slowly moving myself from my bed to my sofa and turn on my laptop in order to check my email for stored breakfast recipes. After deciding what to make, because weekends call for so much more than oatmeal or cold cereal, I head to the kitchen to start baking. Breakfast is usually ready around 11:00, and once I've devoured all my stomach can handle, I start thinking about motivating myself enough to get ready for the day. On good days, that means I'm out the door by 12:15... on blissfully lazy days, it's more around the 1 o'clock hour - because if it's any later than that I start to feel guilty. You know, the type of guilt which is produced from your mother's voice in your head exclaiming "you've just wasted half your day!"

But it's where I head to first which sets my day off right. It doesn't matter if I woke up earlier or later than normal, if breakfast was good or not, or if any fiasco occurred around the house that morning - once I head to the Westermarkt. Because, even in the winter, it is that great.

Old vs New Amsterdam

2012-01-23T14:14:00.000+01:00

My main objective in visiting New York, besides shopping and eating copious amounts of food, was to finally experience New Years on Times Square. It was a long time coming really. During New Years of 1998, a friend and I made a (un-fulfilled) pact that we would ring in the millennium watching the ball drop - in person. Instead, on December 31, 1999, I partied the night away... somewhere in Kansas City, in the cold, with my family and a random couple, who we would have thought were drunk had they not told us they hadn't had a drop of alcohol.

Finally, twelve years later on December 31 2011, after stuffing our faces with what looked like 10 lbs of pastrami, sandwiched between two slices of bread with a side of the most sour pickles in existence, we exited the Times Square/42nd Street subway station around 5:00pm. Like cattle, we were then herded towards 8th Ave and told to make our way due north until we see the first open street letting us back onto 7th Avenue.

Block after block we pushed our way forward, relishing in the momentary gaps in the crowd. After what felt like an eternity, we reached our entrance point... on 56th Street. Determined to get the best view possible, we made a mad dash to 7th Ave and started our way back down towards 42nd Street. We made it three blocks until we were stopped short by a wall of people - on 53rd Street... eleven blocks away from the action.

Did you know, at eleven blocks away, you can't hear any music? Not a sound... besides the people around you. We didn't know if we'd make it, standing in the crowd for over six hours, as far away as we were. But, for the first twenty minutes we remained positive... until the 6 o'clock hour when they raised the ball. Because at the 6 o'clock hour, we realized: we had only waited twenty minutes! As the cheering and the "Happy New Year"-ing was going on at that moment, I couldn't help but think about the celebrations happening at home, in Amsterdam, since it had just struck midnight there.

I looked around me, then pictured the Dutch way of celebrating. Again, I looked around me, and then again pictured the Dutch way of celebrating. It was a little something like this:

And then, after the 9 o'clock countdown, we left... guilt free. Because we were at least able to say we celebrated New Years at Times Square... even if it was for only three hours.

California Love

2012-01-16T19:54:00.002+01:00

Pre-Christmas dinner photo

Come. Take a little trip with me down memory lane. In my High School chemestry class, Ms. McFadden, in satisfying the request of one of my classmates, had us hold two minutes of silence for the death of 2Pac Shakur. Yes, that really happened. Anyway, in his immortal words (may he rest in peace), and those of Dr. Dre, let me just say: "California knows how to party/...Let me serenade the streets of L.A./From Oakland to Sacktown/The Bay Area and back down/Cali is where they put they mack down/...Let's show these fools how we do this on that west side/Cause you and I know it's tha best side/Yeah, That's riight/West coast, west coast."

On December 23rd 2011, I stepped out of the San Francisco airport... and took off my coat. Did you read that? I took off my coat! I can't remember the last time I had been able to do that on the eve of Christmas Eve. Wait... wait a minute... yes! I do remember. Silly me. It was December 23rd 2007... in California.

From the 23rd until the 28th, I spent sun-filled days on the veranda of my grandmother's villa, overlooking the vineyards below. We hiked through parks, shopped at little boutiques, and ate bite after delicious bite of food at every meal.

I spent a day in San Fransisco with my aunts, shopping around Japan town, eating Japanese for lunch and relaxing at a Japanese spa. Thankfully, the day we went to Kabuki Springs & Spa, was co-ed and 'mandatory bathing suit' day. (Hooray for US customs. In Holland co-ed day is the same as female or male only days: not in your swimming suit, but in your birthday suit). And I'm just not down with that.

lunch in San Francisco

My 5 days in California had me wishing for more. Then again... you never know what the future may bring.

an American holiday... in snapshots

2012-01-10T21:23:00.005+01:00

Kenwood, California

Kenwood vineyards

breakfast in San Francisco

best french toast ever

view at breakfast

Brooklyn Bridge

5th Avenue - Museum Mile

the MET

Little Dancer of Fourteen Years

maple bacon scone & hot chocolate with a homemade marshmallow at
the City Bakery.
-Best Breakfast Ever-

the place for HUGE pastrami sandwiches

home of my family's favorite dessert, boccone dolce

leaving Manhattan

floating lotus flowers

2011-12-21T19:35:00.000+01:00

On the first of November, the bungalow we were staying in put up a glimmering gold-metallic banner with red letters spelling out "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year" in both Thai and English. A few other shops and restaurants hung the same sign, but unlike our bungalow, they cut off the part which read "Merry Christmas".

Either way, a New Years sign seems a bit untimely in the month of November, unless you're following the Thai lunar calendar. Because, if you did, the decor wouldn't seem out of place at all. Actually, it would be strange not to see it.

What I was looking forward to was not the Thai New Year, but what preceded it: Loi Kathrong, a festival to pay respects and ask forgiveness to the goddess of water, Pra Mae Khongkha. It occurs the night of the full moon on the 12th lunar month. It also happens to coincide with the annual floodings, which seems fitting.

In some parts of Thailand, the holiday is also celebrated on the same day as Yi Peng, the lantern festival. Millions of paper lanterns are lit and float gracefully across the sky. Sadly, due to the protected rainforest on Koh Chang, the Yi Peng celebration was prohibited. So instead of lighting up the sky, we lit up the waters with slices of banana trees covered in banana leaves to resemble a lotus flower.

After attending a festival in a nearby city with its staged plays, street markets selling everything from clothing to fried cockroaches, games for children, and stations to receive blessings from monks, we went back to the pier in our little village of Bang Bao and made our wishes for the new year before lighting the candles and letting our kathrong float off into the ocean.

Forest monks

2011-12-15T22:05:00.001+01:00

One afternoon, thirteen of us crammed into an open air taxi; which appeared to me like a smaller, cleaner and more modern version of a dala dala. We were told we were going to visit a special Buddhist monastery, one with meditating monks - the only of their kind on the island. For an hour and a half we drove up hills, around corners, and through highly touristic villages, all the while trying not to jab an elbow in the face of the person sitting next to us. We only later found out that the monastery is located a mere 10 kilometers east of Bang Bao. But due to a number of mountainous hills, no road was ever created to connect the two locations. Instead, those in Bang Bao have to drive the entire perimeter of the island to reach the monastery. On our return, we opted for a boat ride instead.

The monastery is located on top of one of the aforementioned mountainous hills, surrounded by trees. It houses four small sleeping huts set on stilts (one of which being the resting place of one or two deceased monks in a coffin hanging off the underbelly of the hut),

an unpretentious temple,
a few other one-roomed buildings and places of worship. The four living monks spend most of their days sitting in meditation, or walking along a prayer path in order to release pent up energy.

The local is quite beautiful, not to mention peaceful. Yet, I don't see how the monks manage it. I'd be bored in minutes... (I can't manage to meditate for more than 10 minutes, none-the-less years).

Isn't it, like, an unwritten rule or something?

2011-12-11T22:37:00.001+01:00

As touristic as it is, you really can't visit Thailand without riding (and swimming with) an elephant. It may even be borderline compulsory.

no inhibitions

2011-12-06T22:26:00.000+01:00

With rare exceptions, I don't mind making a fool of myself. I'll try new things (as long as it's not compromising to my health, such as eating monkey brains or jumping out of an airplane without a parachute or something). I'll ask to join in on things, like a Thai karaoke session, held in an open garage, if it looks fun enough. After all, the worst that could happen is that I'd look like a fool while receiving a rejection, or in this case, while singing a song in a language I can't understand.

Then again, I didn't hear any complaints, and everyone was enjoying themselves despite the music. Plus, they even asked us to come back the next day.

Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay

2011-11-30T19:49:00.000+01:00

For two weeks I lived in a fisherman's village. Roads are wooden docks which branch off one main dock, houses are built on stilts which sit over the water, and a long cement pier leads to a beautiful, non-functioning, lighthouse. There are 4 restaurants, a handful of souvenir shops, a couple bars, an internet cafe/bakery/coffee shop, numerous massage spots, and a 7eleven at the village entrance.

Generally, I wouldn't take a 10 hour flight, a near 6 hour bus ride, an hour long ferry, topped off with another 40 minute long bus ride to reach a remote fisherman's village at the southern most tip of a island in Thailand, where I would confine myself for the following 14 days. But this wasn't any given trip.

Months before, I came across a workshop to learn a few techniques in Thai Yoga Massage. The 5 hour workshop flew by, and I found myself eager to learn more. The thought of taking lessons to be certified intrigued me, but the thought of taking lessons in Thailand had me sold. That was really all it took for me to make the long journey to the little village of Bang Bao.

The Thailand I didn't see

2011-11-25T14:24:00.001+01:00

Days before my trip, various colleagues came to me and asked if I was still going due to the floods. I'd smile and say that I'm bringing my swimming suit just in case. It amazed me how nervous they were... but then again, I avoided all news-related articles on Thailand. Because, had I seen this before I left, I might have gotten nervous myself.

(From the moment I flew into Bangkok until the moment I flew out from it, I didn't see any flooding.)

A rude awakening

2011-11-20T19:47:00.001+01:00

It feels like a dream. If it weren't for my photographic evidence, I might believe a dream is all it really was. A dream that I was abruptly woken up from. One I wish I could return to by rolling over and shutting my eyes as tightly as I can. But every dream must come to an end at some point... and it's only the flashbacks that I can hold on to. The ones that make me escape my reality for a split second and feel the warmth of the sun glowing on my skin once again.

Monday morning as we were taxing into our gate, just before 6:00, the pilot announced over the intercom, "... and the current temperature is 2 degrees." (Celsius, that is - otherwise I would have died). I had just left near 90 degree Fahrenheit weather for temperatures in the 30's. A thick gray mist loomed outside. I garnered all the courage I could to step out of the plane.

Two hours after we landed I was home and showered, but barely awake. At that point I had been up for over 30 hours, and I was beyond exhausted. But I made my way to work. Because that's what you do when you've used up every possible vacation day (all 5 weeks of it).

I biked in the cold, bundled in a hat, scarf, mittens, coat and boots. My eyes were so tired, my vision was blurred. The gray mist didn't help. But I arrived in one piece, although a bit drained. I turned on my laptop to find more work waiting for me than I could have ever imagined. I was overwhelmed. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend I was still in Koh Chang, Thailand. Right then my manager walked in. She took one look at me and said, "I'm so sorry you had to come back to this." The word "this" encompassed more in my mind than what she was implying, and my exhaustion overtook my emotions. So I cried. And then through my tears I laughed in embarrassment.

That was Monday. Today is now Sunday. There is still a thick fog covering the city. The weather has warmed up a bit, but the sun has barely made an appearance since I've arrived. So I hang on to the flashes of memories which feel more like a distant dream, and I feel better.

"One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

2011-11-15T19:40:00.001+01:00

It's a funny thing, taste buds... at least mine anyway. A little over two weeks ago I left the land of bland food and sat down to an in-flight meal thinking, "mmm... this tastes good." But throughout the 14 days following that flight, I was presented with a splendor of heavenly, mouth watering creations - each dish better than the rest. On my return flight, I could barely eat half of the food on the tray the steward offered me. My very first meal back home was at my company's canteen (cafeteria). Not only did the price of the 2.50 Euro hot dog seem astronomical, it was barely edible, and nearly vomit inducing. (And that was even the best item offered).

Clearly, Thailand tainted my tongue.

Old Amsterdam

2011-10-25T17:23:00.001+02:00

Sometimes you come across gems so good, you just can't wait to share them.

Amsterdam, 1949. Few things have changed since then. The only notable ones being the houses-turned-factories are now houses again, and bridge tolls are no longer collected the same way they were 62 years ago.

trouwdag

2011-10-20T23:02:00.000+02:00

Although videographer may not be in my repertoire, I could add non-commissioned wedding photographer to it,... all thanks to owning a professional grade camera for my travels.

Not bad for someone who just had laser eye corrective surgery and still sees blurry. (Three cheers for auto-focus!)

ride home

2011-10-16T19:51:00.002+02:00

On rare beautiful days, there's nothing I love more than biking home from work. We've had a few of them lately, rare beautiful days that is, and it struck me that I may want to capture one on video. You know, in case those rare beautiful days becomes even more rare before I finally skip on out of here.

So, for your viewing pleasure, I give you: My Ride Home.

(Be advised: I fully acknowledge that the title of videographer is not in my repertoire. I have not now, nor will I, probably, ever profess it to be. Secondly, although my bicycle is wicked awesome, it isn't fully equipped with wicked awesome shock absorbers... so pardon the bumps).

cultural differences

2011-10-09T15:32:00.000+02:00

And this is just another thing that sets the Dutch workplace apart from the American one.

"All: In the light of Customer service week, we are organising a happy hour this afternoon (starting 15:30 to ----?) in the Kitchen area at D1. There will be refreshements (bier en frisdrank) and some chips to go with the drinks. Hope you can make it."

population 270,000

2011-10-06T13:54:00.000+02:00

Legend has it, Jason, the Greek hero, slew a dragon where present day Ljubljana now resides. So it is said, there were many dragons in the Slavic region in those days - most of which were not in the least bit friendly. Today, however, four dragons sit atop a bridge as protectors of the city. Ljubljana couldn't be in safer hands.

The capital city is the smallest I may have ever visited. But that might be due to the outdoorsy Slovenian mentality, and their desire to be as close as they can to nature. The city itself is surrounded by mulitple parks. The old town is pedestrian only, with an occasional bike, and it provides the most charming atmosphere with its outdoor cafes lining the river Ljubljanica. Even its supermarkets were the most visually appealing places. The store wall shelving was made from mahogany wood, the doors were painted with a rich color of red, and the whole feel was reminiscent of a late 1800's general store, with a shop employee standing behind a counter ready to wrap up whatever you request.

On summer evenings, the air is filled with the music. You can easily spend hours walking from one street to the other in persuit of the best band, which is no easy feat. And eating a deliciously massive ice cream cone, from a botique parlor called Cacao, makes the experience all the more enjoyable.

Bats and all

2011-10-02T20:38:00.000+02:00

Slovenia tourism websites boast of two "must-see" caves.

The Postonja caves are quotedly referred to, by a fellow traveller, as being "just like Gringotts, minus the goblins." And who wouldn't like to feel like they've stepped into a Harry Potter film? An open air train carries its passengers through the extensive caving system for a ten minute ride before the hour long tour on foot. It is the longest accessably available cave system in the world, measuring 5.3 kilometers (3.3 miles) long. Since the caves are relatively close to Ljubliana, along with multiple tour operators offering packages to Postonja and its nearby castle, the caves are infiltrated with visitors.

The Skocjan caves are a UNESCO World Heritage site and are ranked among the most important caves in the world. Earliest records of the caves date back to 2nd century B.C., and is believed to have been inhabited as early as 3,000 B.C. Its distinguishing factor is the Reka river which flows right through it. The biggest stalagmite is 15 meters (45 feet) high and 250,000 years old. Up until recently, tourist would have to scale the cave walls, sometimes as high as 140 meters (460 feet) above the cavern floor. It is also rumored that the Greek god, Hades, lived there.

Since I wanted to visit one of them, I was left with a choice: Gringotts or the underworld. The decision was easy. I chose hell.

Soteska Vintgar

2011-09-27T18:33:00.000+02:00

Five beautiful miles outside of Bled is Vintgar Gorge. The ravine was discovered in 1891 and by 1893 the nearly impassible area was made more accessible to visitors. In 2011 there is no better Sunday stroll than the one leading to, through and returning from Vintgar.

night water rafting

2011-09-23T12:07:00.000+02:00

Once a year, when the moon is full and at its highest in the sky, rafts are carried down the river bank for a ride of a lifetime.

I happened to be one of those people, helping to hold the raft above my head while making it down a rocky slope to the waters edge. As I stop to think about it, it's become a tradition of sorts to do something over my birthday holiday that I wouldn't normally do. It started during the "Mommy and Me" trip by hangliding over the Swiss Alps. Then it continued with glacier walking in Norway. That was followed up by jumping off a 30 foot cliff in Africa, which felt more like I was plunging to my death. So it was only fitting for the stars to have aligned in such a degree that I would arrive in Bled on the exact day of the annual midnight rafting trip.

There is an entirely new perspective to rafting down the rapids when the world around you is in various shades of gray. I was in awe that the scenery could remain stunning, even devoid of color. With 8 rafts in the river, our pace was a lot slower than it would have been otherwise. But to liven up the lulls, we had water fights with neighboring rafts, walked along the circumference of the raft while holding onto the ores as not to fall, made massive amounts of noise while passing campsites, and some people took involuntary dips in the water. To top off the event, as we neared the end of our rafting tour, we were treated to a beautiful fireworks display.

And now, the trip is just another item to check off the list of things I never knew I wanted to do but did anyway. An awesome item at that.

the land where fairytales are made

2011-09-18T21:45:00.003+02:00

Thirty miles north of the capital city of Ljublijana, Lake Bled attracts people from all around the globe. It was a picture of that idilic location I saw two years ago which tugged at my heart and gave me the desire to visit its country.

Half way around the lake's four mile circumference, I sat at the shore and absorbed the views. A long haired man slowly paddled his kayak behind a pair of swimmers, gliding across the crystal clear waters to the island set in the middle of the lake. It is a small island, lush with grenery, and home to a 14th century gothic chapel. It is that chapel which draws people to the alpine village of Bled. The bell from the old church chimed - dong, dong - slowly, but determinedly by a tourist with a wish. That's what the little island's church bell does, they say, grants wishes.

Every Saturday wedding parties will fill the pletna boats, Slovenia's version of a gondola and the traditional way to reach the island, so the groom can carry his new bride up the 99 stairs to the chapel for a wish of their own to be fulfilled.

High up on the cliffs, keeping watch over the entire lake, sits Bled castle. Being first made mention of in the year 1011 AD, it is the oldest castle in all of Slovenia. A small walk through the woods brings you to to a wooden staircase leading up to the castle doors. At night, each step is illuminated, adding to the enchanted feel of the surroundings.

It is no wonder why Lake Bled is called the Disneyland of Slovenia.

Slovenia

2011-09-12T23:07:00.000+02:00

In the end, I chose to be alone. And this is why:

Destination birthdays

2011-09-08T16:39:00.003+02:00

Every year is the same. "Why don't you stay here for once?," questions a colleague of mine who enjoys badgering me about not sticking around town for my birthday. He can't fathom going on a vacation instead of having a party filled with family and friends. He's never tried it though. If he had, he'd understand why Paris, Norway and Kenya far exceed any Dutch birthday party gathering.

So once I cleared his spit fire questioning this time around, "You're not going away on holiday for your birthday this year, are you? Don't you want to share your day with your favorite colleagues? What about cake? Don't you like presents?", he decided to shoot out one more: "So then, where are you spending your birthday this year... instead of here with us?"

And that's all it took for me to be struck dumb. I had no answer, even though my birthday trip was less than a month away.

It wasn't for my lack of decision making. I knew where I wanted to go... it was finding a travel partner which proved difficult.

I asked 30 people... plus or minus 15. But we'll stick to 30, because that's a nice round number, and will garner more sympathy. Of those 30 people, 27 could either not take the time off, were already going to another destination at that time, or didn't want to go where I wanted. Wait... scratch the last reason, because 30 out of 30 people didn't want to go where I wanted to go, or had already gone there before.

The three finalists included one friend who wanted to go on a Baltic cruise, and two friends who wanted to keep things cheap and requested a trip to Ibiza. Neither destination tugged at my heart. I knew where I wanted to spend my 31st birthday... I knew it for two years. I wanted to go to Slovenia.

The Baltic cruise issue was resolved rather quickly... it was full, so we weren't going. However, left with the thought of spending my birthday alone, or subjecting myself to an island I didn't care to visit in order to spend the vacation with friends, I was distraught.

The decision consumed my life for a few days. I asked the opinion of everyone I came in contact with. I was stressed. My heart screamed Slovenia, but it also screamed friends. I was agonizing over it. Truly agonizing.

And then... I stopped. Because, during a moment of distress, one thought popped into my head. It said, "if deciding between Ibiza and Slovenia is your biggest trial right now, you've got it pretty good."

Touché little voice in my head. Touché.

Long dark days of Amsterdam

2011-09-04T18:48:00.000+02:00

photo credit

My first winter here was the coldest in 12 years.
My second winter here was the longest in 30 years.
My third winter here produced the most snow in who knows how many years.
This past July was the rainiest on record.
Yesterday, September 3rd was the 7th day of summer... meteorologically.
Rumor has it, this upcoming winter will be the worst yet. Oh joy.
And I... I am not a cold weather person.

Someone, please remind me why I live here.

sailing along on Moonlight Bay

2011-09-01T20:41:00.002+02:00

I could have stayed in Bonifacio for ~~days~~ more than just a few hours. But the sea beckoned and we couldn't leave it waiting. (Plus, I had a flight to catch the following evening).

Once the skies darkened, our bellies were full, and one extra person came aboard, the 5 and a half (the dog) of us set sail. The stars were out in abundance and we all sat on deck, with our faces to the wind.

"I see a little silhouetto of a man, Saramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango!" we sang. "Send a bolt of lightning, very, very frightening me." Simon, our most recent boarder, even singing the instrumentals. Queen would have been so proud.

Later he sang us songs from his native French tongue.

Tim taught us the basic navigation skills needed for the night skies, the flashing lights in the distance, and how to determine how far we were from each.

When the hours drew on, the air got cooler. I could no longer stand on deck without shivering, so I ventured below. On the captain's desk sat the nautical chart. I watched as Tim moved his tools around on the map, unsure of what he was doing. He explained that the tool I lovingly called 'the ruler thingie' was technically referred to as a Portland Plotter. He gave instructions on how to read the map, use the tools, and provide the exact degree the boat should be pointing to the person at the helm. Then, he left me to my own devices.

Talk about confidence. So in between playing an off-shoot rendition of scrabble with Sarah, another passenger, I safely led us to the marina. And, just to toot my own horn, I even (correctly) informed everyone of the precise arrival time. That is mad navigating skills right there.

the French island

2011-08-28T16:59:00.003+02:00

The evening of our first day sailing, we arrived in La Maddalena, an island north of Sardinia. I found it beautiful, an Italian riviera feel. "It's nice," Tim said, "but it's no Bonifacio... just wait. You'll see."

I wasn't expecting to visit Corsica. After all, I only had 3 full days of vacation. But, early the next morning we set "sail" for the 30 mile journey to the north. The thought of sailing always intrigued me, and I had a huge desire to experience it. Sailing along the coast of Sardinia the day before was touch and go, but in the end we had enough wind to get us to our destination. The path to Corsica, however, was as still as still could ever be.

We tried multiple times to catch whatever light breeze would blow in our direction. But it availed us nothing. Instead, we motorboated it at a whopping 3-5 miles an hour, sail-less.

I could have been left feeling disappointed, as though I was given the short end of the stick. But with the view that awaited us at our final destination, all of those feelings would have disappeared anyway.

Tim was right, Bonifacio was spectacular. Better than I could have ever imagined. And a place where even pictures can't give justice.

Deep blue sea

2011-08-24T21:26:00.001+02:00

Sardinia, population 1.67 million, is actually the second largest island in the Mediterranean. But, I didn't see much of its size in area or density, having spent all my time on (and in) the water.

crabbing

Captain Jack Sparrow... and me

with water was so blue, we couldn't not go in... even with its freezing temperatures

steering in style

When life gives you lemons...

2011-08-21T17:52:00.000+02:00

A little over a year ago, my mom and sister sailed the Greek Isles... without me. (cue the gasps of horror) OH THE OUTRAGE!

Why didn't I go, you ask? Well, I was being a good cousin, niece, sister, aunt, daughter, friend and went back home for two weeks.

Why did they have to go during those exact two weeks? Besides the fact that it is a cruel, cruel world and I am clearly deprived,... it was the only week the sailboat had two open spots left, for the rest of the summer.

I'm sticking with the self-pity, obviously the world is against me, story though.

Now, fast forward a year. I was faced with a 4 day weekend and a desire to be anywhere but home. I mulled over a few options, unsure of which I'd choose, when it struck me - like a brunt force to the back of my head. Greece! I could go sailing in Greece.

After receiving the contact information from my mother, I emailed Tim, the skipper, to see if he had any availability. To my delight I was informed he did, in fact, have one spot left on his boat. However, the boat would not be sailing anywhere near the Greek Isles this year. Instead, I was informed the boat would only sail from Sardinia to Corsica and back.

I let out a sigh of resignation, and boarded a plane to Sardinia.

Barcelona: take two

2011-08-11T22:27:00.001+02:00

I could go again, and again, and again...

making people happy

2011-08-07T17:54:00.000+02:00

For all the times you wished a parade would walk down your street, just to make you happy.

the separation fence

2011-08-04T19:44:00.004+02:00

In the time of Jesus, travel to and from Jerusalem and Galilee involved going well out of one's way to avoid Samaria - a land looked down upon due to their mixed Israeli/Gentile blood. In our time, travel to and from Jerusalem and Galilee involves going well out of one's way to avoid the West Bank. Today's reasoning, however, is due to the barricade surrounding the land.

We couldn't go through it, but we did go in it... to visit Bethlehem. I just couldn't imagine traveling all the way to Israel without seeing the birthplace of Christ. Now I wish I hadn't been so adamant about it.

Inside the lightly guarded walls, life feels different. Cars are old, buildings are darker than the rest of Israel, and the landscape isn't as clean. Bethlehem itself is cramped, modern, and very hilly. In the tour guide's haste, we had a split second view of the old city as we drove past it. That momentary glimpse is the only one we had of how the little town could have appeared when Mary and Joseph rode into it over 2000 years ago.

The Palestinians within the West Bank are vastly different from the Palestinians without it. Their oppression and forced imprisonment inside the walls is the only conclusion I've been able to come up with to explain the hostile attitude and blatant disregard of some of the locals towards all tourists. Not that I blame them; I'm sure it's painful for them to watch hundreds of people freely walk in and out of the West Bank, when they'll never be able to leave the 5,640 square kilometer space.

the "exact spot"

After seeing the "exact spot" where Christ was born (and the three hour wait, which I had a hard time dealing with, preceding it) we stopped at the compulsory gift shop. Boredom set in after my initial walk around the small store, but I took a second loop while my mom mulled over jewelry. I stopped in mid step as I noticed olive wood bust statues of Joseph and Emma Smith.

Turning to the shop owner, I asked, "Is that...?" "Joseph Smith," he replied, "many Mormons come here." "Ah, I see." "They like olive wood," he continued. "Yes," I said lightly, "I know." "They also like nativity sets," he added. "Yes," I responded with a smile, "I know." After another minute or two of being shown items Mormons generally like, I thanked him and stepped outside for some fresh air.

The moment I sat down on the last available patio chair, a peddler, who already targeted the others in my group, turned to me. "Necklace?" he asked, attempting to hand me a few. "No thank you," I responded, without reaching out to take the offering. "Purse? Do you want a purse?" quickly exchanging the handful of necklaces for a crochet bag to give me. "No thank you," came my response, without giving the bag any regard.

He turned back to the woman in my group who naively took the necklaces handed her. He proceeded haggling, as she made futile attempts to hand back the necklaces. After a few minutes of his persistence, it was easy to see the growing frustration on her face in wanting to return the items. "Just set them down on the chair," I whispered to her as the peddler was speaking to someone else.

You would have thought I killed his only child. The peddler whipped around, red in the face, and started yelling at me. On and on he went, venom in his eyes. "I'm sorry," I explained, "she didn't want it." I stood up and walked to the van. The others followed, and so did he.

He threw snide remarks to the woman who didn't buy the necklace, from the opening of the sliding door. And, feeling as though he didn't express himself well enough, he stood on the opposite side of the window of which I sat and pointed at me, swearing... until the moment we drove away.

Then we visited Jericho, the oldest continuously inhabited city and the lowest city in the world. And that was that.

buoyant

2011-08-01T21:50:00.000+02:00

The water was amazing, silky smooth... although not so amazing that I wasn't embarrassed when my mother filled empty bottles with dead sea water to take home with her.

But the mud, on the other hand, was amazing enough to take home... pre-packaged and overpriced, naturally.

Where would you choose?

2011-07-29T10:32:00.000+02:00

Tel Aviv Bauhaus architecture photo credit

My mom and I tend to play a game while on vacation, which we initiated three years ago during the "Mommy and Me" trip we took. Since then, 'I could live here!' (guess how the game works) has provided hours of conversation material.

When we reached Tel Aviv, I declared it on the spot. "Man! I could totally live here," I exclaim to my mother. The city is vibrant; a Miami meets LA atmosphere. Palm trees line the waterfront and city streets. Its Bauhaus architecture had me waiting for Don Johnson, wearing a white blazer over his pink T-shirt, to appear at any moment. There's hardly a soul that isn't between the ages of 20-40. Well built men in wife beaters and Bermuda shorts work out on the beachfront gym equipment, as women with perfect bodies run past them on the beach's walking path. Natural food and specialty grocery stores are hidden around every corner. Frozen yogurt shops (with all you can choose toppings) grace every city block. There's shopping and restaurants galore. I was wide eyed in amazement. My heart even skipped a beat when, due to a confused taxi driver, we drove past a Max Brenner's Chocolate Shop. I demanded we eat there, which we did. Twice. In the evenings, the city is abuzz with beautiful people making their way to the best clubs, or to their late night dinner reservation. It felt as though we were in a whole new country, thousands of miles away from the Israel we had experienced up to that point.

"I don't know," my mom replied, "I think I'd rather live in Jerusalem."

the zoo

2011-07-25T19:51:00.001+02:00

Crossing the border back into Israel was inevitable, but doing so back in Aqaba/Elat was not a possibility. We only had one option, and through my pre-travel research, that option didn't seem very pleasant.

Around 2pm we stood at a window counter of Jordan's King Hussein Bridge crossing, where an unhappy gentleman grabbed our passports and told us to pay for the exit fees, pointing to the woman behind us. We paid and were directed to another window where another unkindly man looked at the receipt and stamped a few papers. He then told us to sit off to the side, in the waiting area, for the bus to arrive - gruffly informing us that he wouldn't return our passports until we entered the bus.

Our wait, in a windowless room, was over 30 minutes. Our knowledge of the bus's arrival had to be instinctual, because no one advised us of when it would come. But somehow those of us seated in the waiting area knew the right moment to make our way outside and onto the bus. Our passports were returned, after we paid the bus fee, which we were informed of after we were comfortably seated inside it.

The 15 minute ride took us across no-mans land; an area stark and desolate in the parts not covered by the Dead Sea. Our bus stopped right outside the beautifully landscaped, gated, entrance into Israel, where we stayed for a good 40 minutes. Once given the green light, the bus continued into the border control complex where our luggage was unloaded and we queued in line. Two seconds later, a bus load of Palestinians crammed their way into the queue, pushing themselves in front of us. It was a veritable mosh pit. Suitcases were floating over our heads and people were crawling between our legs.

Thirty minutes after we got in line we reached the luggage drop-off point, where 10 people would try cramming their suitcases into a small opening to 2 governmental workers. Somehow the workers managed to keep track of each suitcase and the correlating passport which we all had to surrender as well, to have scanned and tagged before being returned to us.

We were corralled along, forced to wait another 30 minutes before reaching the interrogation point. Upon passing the minute long spitfire questioning we moved from outside to inside... to, surprisingly, wait in yet another line. It only took a few seconds for us to make our way through the security checkpoint, which we thought was the end. But our elation was short lived. We turned the corner to see rows and rows of lines slowly inching their way forward to customs officers.

So we waited, in our own tourist queue, for another 20 minutes before reaching a friendly customs officer - who was surprised I actually wanted an Israeli stamp in my passport as opposed to one on a separate sheet of paper like everyone else had requested. Maybe the rest wanted to go to Syria or Afghanistan or Iran? Although..., Iran would be a neat place to visit. Thankfully my passport expires soon. But, now I digress.

Because we made it. We had finally made it through. But not completely. For after we left the customs officer we had another (yes, another) line to go through. An official needed to verify that the officer did, in fact, stamp our passport - or sheet of paper. Then we were free. Free to go into another line for someone to confirm that we had a piece of luggage (based off the sticker tagged on our passport) so that we could randomly pick whichever suitcase looked the nicest.

And then there was the line for the taxi and the hotel ordeal that inevitably ensued...

Ancient city, youthful charm

2011-07-21T20:06:00.000+02:00

Whereas the two items on my wish list were Petra and canyoning, my mother wanted to do nothing more in Jordan than go to Jerash, the largest Roman city outside of Italy. Her excitement peaked when she discovered daily chariot races are held in the ancient hippodrome. Her discovery occurred at a moment we thought canyoning might not be a possibility. I was discouraged, and in her pitiful efforts to cheer me up she chimed "but Claire, the chariot racing will be so much cooler than canyoning!" "No, mother, no it will not," came my response. "Well, at least it will be just as cool," she argued.

Just for the record, I would have won had we made a bet. While my eyes rolled during a very long 45 minute show comprising of mock fights and 3 second chariot racing, my mom laughed out of embarrassment for ever thinking the show would be worth seeing.

One of many "thrilling moments" in the chariot race show

The city ruins on the other hand were interesting to see. We arrived at the same time as a few busloads of school aged boys. They ran around the ancient city, playing football (soccer) in the city square, climbing on buildings and taking constant pictures.

My mom and I found a quieter area and took a picture or two ourselves when one boy came up to us and asked "take your picture?" Assuming he was asking if we wanted him to take our picture for us, I politely declined. A few minutes later my mother determined it was imperative to have a guide, so she went off in search of one while I sat on an archway overlooking the entrance to the ancient city.

"Take your picture?," another boy came up to me and asked. "No thank you," I responded. Soon after, I noticed one boy after another strategically place himself in front of me, while trying to act inconspicuous, to have his picture taken. It then dawned on me what they were actually asking. "Hey," I called to one of the boys standing a few feet in front of me, "do you want a picture with me in it?" His eyes lit up and he nodded his head. "Sure," I smiled, "I'll take a picture with you."

Hoards of pre-pubescent boys rushed to my side and passed cameras back and forth, snapping photo after photo. The session was cut short with the return of my mother with our guide. In their gratitude, I was presented with a poppy to adorn my hair.

Those boys were never too far away, though, as we toured the cobblestone roads. For when the poppy began to wither in the heat, I was immediately presented with another, and another, and another.

If only experiences like that would happen to me in the rest of the world... but by men who were in their 30's as opposed to boys who were 13.

Wadi: an Arabic term traditionally referring to a valley

2011-07-18T21:08:00.001+02:00

Two things. That's all I wanted out of our entire vacation together. The first was to visit Petra, and the second was to go canyoning. My second desire was touch and go for a while during vacation planning, but in the end it was better than I could have wished for. Abseiling, hiking from 500 feet above sea level to 400 feet below with a delightful guide, water sliding and more.

Fun fact: after we completed our hike, our driver took us to the top of Mount Nebo (where Moses was given a view of the promised land). On our descent, the driver stopped the car, put it in neutral and stepped out. The car then began to go backwards - UP the hill. I wouldn't have believed it had I not experienced it myself. But I did. So now I believe.

the Last Crusade

2011-07-14T22:32:00.001+02:00

secluded lunchtime retreat

50 Euros for a tour. Yes, that's right. 50 Euros. "But I want to know what I'm looking at," my mother reminded me. I should have made her pay for the entire thing. Not that the 3 hour tour into Petra wasn't enlightening, it just wasn't worth the price. Unless... . If the following day's adventure was brought into account, which was due to that 50 Euro tour, the price wouldn't seem too astronomical.

Our guide walked us down the Siq (the hour long entrance to the city) and told of a time when the entire gorge was filled with trees and greenery. He showed us the artwork carved into the walls, rocks made to look like animals, and boasted of his photography skills as he would take pictures of us without getting another soul in the shot. He gave a brief history of the ancient city as we walked past the enormous cliff buildings. He explained that most of the buildings were family tombs, and there were many more below the ground which we were standing upon. The city seemingly went on forever in every direction.

When the tour was nearly finished, we stopped at a cave shop to get a drink. There we met the Bedouin shop owner, Ali, who after a friendly conversation invited us to a genuine Bedouin dinner at his house that evening. We had to decline, due to the Petra by Candlelight tour we had planned (which, in case you were wondering, is not worth seeing). So we planned on meeting him in the morning and having a genuine Bedouin lunch instead.

8:30 the following morning we piled into Ali's truck after breakfast and drove to his house. We met his wife and kids, grabbed a few bottles of water and started on our behind the scenes trek into Petra. The hidden back entrance to Petra provided views of cliff side buildings most tourists never set eyes upon, or know exists. Ali led us up and around all the places we hadn't seen the day before, walked with us into the dark rooms of open cliff buildings, introduced us to more of his family and showed us the cave he grew up in - which is now inhabited by his sister and her family.

Around lunchtime we were joined by a friend of Ali's with a donkey loaded with food goods. Together we hiked around cliffs, down hills, and across stretches of green sagebush, until we were in a private valley surrounded by brilliantly colored canyons and an occasional tree.

Ali (on the right) and his friend

They gathered brush and began a fire on which a beautiful lunch of chicken and vegetables was served with yogurt and flat bread. That along with the scenery made the whole afternoon seem somewhat surreal. But my watch continued to keep reality in check. The time raced forward to the hour when our bus to Amman was scheduled to leave. I was unable to truly relish in the moments of the carefree Bedouin way of life because of it.

When I voiced my concern, and the current time, we quickly packed up and hurried towards Ali's house. But even at our quick pace, we were still losing in the race against the clock. Once we reached the center of Petra, knowing we would never make it to the bus on time, Ali commandeered two donkeys and a horse. We all jumped on our respective animals and galloped (as quickly as donkeys will) to our destination... making it to the bus just in time.

Petra in Photos

2011-07-10T19:39:00.000+02:00

Journey to the Rose City

2011-07-07T17:55:00.001+02:00

Due to the fact that our flights back home were on a Sunday morning in Tel Aviv, and on Shabbat there is a lack of transportation and shortened border crossing times, we decided to shove our visit to Jordan right in the middle of our trip.

The border crossing into Jordan from Elat, a resort city on the coast of the Red Sea at the southern tip of Israel, was highly uneventful. In less than 10 minutes we paid exit fees, had our passports stamped, walked across the border, paid for a visa and had our passport stamped again. It was much easier than I had imagined it to be. But then again, it wasn't the King Hussein/Allenby Bridge crossing which we would experience later in the week.

Just outside the border crossing were a few taxi drivers, ready to take us wherever our hearts desired. One greeted us and offered his services - to take us all the way to Petra, a few hours drive, if we wanted. We talked things over and decided to take him up on his offer. But once we reached his car my mom was visibly worried.

"It's not a marked taxi," she whispered to me. I stopped and tried thinking of the last time I had actually been in a real marked taxi. I couldn't remember if I had in Bosnia, I knew I hadn't in Mali, definitely didn't in Kenya, I really don't think I had in Zanzibar, I never did in Russia. My unresponsiveness made her a bit more nervous... I guess the time it took for me to think of a country I had taken a real taxi in was longer than I had thought.

London! I had definitely taken a marked taxi in London. "Mom, it's fine. We're not in a Western country... that's just how it is." A group of taxi drivers a few feet away also confirmed my statement as our taxi driver pulled out his permit to calm her nerves.

She was still a bit hesitant while I threw our suitcases in the trunk and slid into the back seat of the car. "It's just that I've always been told to never get into an unmarked taxi," she stated as she slid in next to me.

Five minutes later we were pulling up behind another taxi... a marked taxi. "I've called my son, and he'll drive you up the rest of the way in his car, that way you'll be more comfortable," our driver said to my mother. "Oh! No! You didn't have to do that," she replied. I shook my head and got out of the car.

Thaer, our new driver, had us in hysterics the moment we entered the taxi. All Jordanians, we later learned, were natural comedians. He asked me if age made much of a difference in a relationship, because to him love knew no bounds... not even our 9 year age gap, with me being the older of the two. "What about your girlfriend you just mentioned 5 minutes ago?," I asked. "Oh, her? Well actually, I just met her last week and she'll be leaving soon, so there'll be plenty of room for another."

He serenaded us with songs played on the radio, changing a word or two as the lyrics went along. "Lady," he sang Kenny Rogers style, "for so many years I thought I'd never find you... I mean this, I really do. You have come into my car aaaaand made me whole."

So it continued on our ride up to Petra. That is, until one point when my mom exclaimed "LOOK! A shepherd on his donkey guiding his flock! Can we stop and take a picture?" Thaer swerved to the side of the road and slammed on the breaks. "Claire, get your camera," my mom ordered as we all stepped out of the car. So there I was, taking pictures for my mother after being given permission by the shepherd.

And the next thing I knew I was sitting on top of the donkey.

"He is not here"

2011-07-04T19:24:00.000+02:00

The location my church and I believe Christ's tomb to be is half a mile away from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, outside of the city walls. The garden tomb, as it is called, is a night and day difference from where the Orthodox patriarch steps in once a year to witness the Miracle of Holy Fire.

Because, even with the Easter revival held in front of the tomb, there was a sweet peaceful spirit there.

Holy Saturday

2011-06-30T18:45:00.001+02:00

Once every four years the Orthodox observed Easter lands on the same date as the one marked by the Gregorian calendar. 2011 is one such year, adding more celebrations over one weekend in Jerusalem. In addition to Good Friday and Easter Sunday, the Orthodox also celebrate what is known as Holy Saturday. On that day, Greek and Armenian Patriarchs follow huge processions into the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to participate in what is known as the Miracle of the Holy Fire.

Hundreds of people fill the church with bundles of long thin unlit candles. The sepulcher (which is widely believed to be where Christ was laid to rest) and the patriarch chosen to enter it are both checked by guards to verify that neither have hidden a way to start a fire. Around 1pm the patriarch enters the sepulcher with two unlit candles, the door is shut behind him, and he kneels on the alter to pray. Soon afterwards a pillar of light pours down from the sky and sets aglow a rock the patriarch is kneeling before. The light changes to a fire that is cold to the touch and has a radiance that is different than all others.

The patriarch lights the candles with the fire, exits the sepulcher, and shares the flame to those closest to him. The fire from that one flame is passed from person to person until the entire church is illuminated.

Due to our Saturday tour of Nazareth and Galilee, we missed the event. But when we entered the Church of the Holy Sepulcher later that evening it was still filled with people. Lit candles lined the wall around the sepulcher, and crowds crammed in line waiting to enter it.

In a moment of insanity we decided to join the crowd for a chance to see the inside of the sepulcher as well. We were pushed, we were shoved, and we were used as arm rests. When we had enough it was too late to turn back; a wall of people blocked us in every direction.

45 minutes of waiting ended abruptly when the door to the sepulcher, which was a mere 10 feet in front of us, closed.

Maybe, just maybe, the light went out.

"You my boy! I really get love an aloha fo you"

2011-06-27T20:58:00.000+02:00

Included in our Nazareth and Galilee tour was a trip to the Jordan River. It was not the exact baptism spot, which is located in Jordan itself, but no one really seemed to mind. They still flocked to the entrance in droves.

The wall leading up to the entrance/gift shop was lined with plaques of the scripture, Mark 1:9-11, in various different languages - which continued past the entrance along the inner wall as well. In my rough estimate, there were around a hundred plaques in total. But only one truly stood out. No language touched me more than the Hawaiian Pidgin's scriptural rendition of Christ's baptism.

But those plaques weren't the real site to see. And quite honestly, neither was the river and its beautiful surroundings. Looking past it all, most of our time was spent watching people emulate Christ and baptize themselves in the waters of the river Jordan. Two types of baptismal robes were rented out: the cheaper plastic variety, which we discovered is see-through when wet, or the more expensive cloth variety. Sadly, most people went the more economical route.

Donned in their garb, people chose one of three spots along the bank of the river to enter the water. Each spot had three rows of bars equidistant apart in a semi-circle shape, which created a rainbow effect, of sorts.

Now... I could continue painting a picture with words, but sometimes (in cases such as these) videos speak more than words ever could.

And over here you'll see...

2011-06-23T22:48:00.002+02:00

Although I paid a pretty penny to tour Nazareth and Galilee, I'm feeling charitable enough to play tour guide for free. It was a rather whirlwind tour we took, with the amount we saw in the time frame in which we saw it... and I figure I may as well give you that experience as well. (So, read fast).

Welcome to Nazareth:

Wait... is that good shopping?

Now, before we get to the Christian sites, just let it be known:

Ok, we are presently inside the church of the Annunciation, and have already seen Mary's home. Why don't we look at some of the depictions of the Annunciation of Angel Gabriel to Mary by various countries around the world:

Over in St. Joseph's Church we can see the steps that lead down to a bath area in Joseph's home:

As we leave Nazareth, if you look below you will see the Mount of Transfiguration:

Time for a small rest break...

Moving on! We've reached Capharnaum, also stated to be "the town of Jesus" - no shorts please.

And finally, the water on which two men walked, the Sea of Galilee:

Don't go too far. This tour's not over. I'm saving the best for last.

When you believe

2011-06-20T21:11:00.000+02:00

The thing about Shabbat in Israel is that public transport doesn't run at all. And to take it one step further, you'll be hard pressed to find taxis as well - at least in the Jerusalem area.

Saturday morning we had a scheduled tour (my mother is a tour fiend) to Nazareth and Galilee. We were requested to meet at a hotel near the old town city center, a 10 minute drive away from where we were staying, at exactly 5:50am for pick-up.

The lack of taxi abundance on Shabbat worried my mother to the point of stopping every taxi driver we saw on Friday and requesting if they could pick us up. Hardly any of them were Arab or Armenian Christian, the only two types of people who do drive Saturdays, and those who were didn't work the early morning shift.

The evening wore on and just as we were at the brinks of despair, we walked into a shop to placate the emotion with chocolate and happened to speak to an employee who was able to help us. He called his cousin who was willing to pick us up at 5:30 from our apartment.

At 5:30 the following morning we were waiting outside the apartment for our ride. There was no car in sight. A few minutes passed before I decided to call the drivers number, which his cousin the shop employee gave us. The phone rang and rang, but finally the call was answered by a groggy hello. He said he was on his way and he would pick us up in ten minutes time. I wasn't happy... and I may have done too good of a job expressing it as well. I told him we would wait down by the main road, since we would only have five minutes to reach our destination from the moment he stated he would arrive. Plus, I figured we could catch another taxi if another one came by sooner.

In the end, he never showed up.

Even the main road was empty. At 5:40am we had only seen one car drive by. I was getting nervous. When we saw our first taxi at 5:42 I tried flagging it down, but since it was going in the opposite direction I never made it to the median in time for it to see me.

As the minutes passed by, so did a few more taxis. Only one of them acknowledging me as I tried to get their attention. But as he was also going in the opposite direction with passengers, he only motioned that he was sorry.

When the clock hit 5:50 we weren't any closer to reaching the pick-up point as we had been 20 minutes prior. At that moment I felt any attempt to continue onward would be futile, but we started walking anyway and my frustration towards our no-show taxi driver mounted.

Three minutes later a miracle occurred. The one driver who actually acknowledged me and my frantically flailing arms with an apologetic shrug pulled up beside us. He had dropped off his previous passengers and turned around to see if we still needed a ride.

We hopped in and he sped off (like all Israli taxi drivers do). I watched as the minutes went by on the clock: 5:59... 6:00... 6:01. After each passing minute I made a comment expressing my doubt and discouragement of our likely vain attempt.

But I should have known that in a land of miracles the miracle of miracles would occur. As we sped forward towards our destination point, we rounded the curve to see a bus, our bus, starting to leave without us. Our driver honked, the bus stopped, I jumped out of the taxi to reach the bus driver and confirm our spots... just in time.

Once my mom and I were comfortably seated and the bus started moving, I was again flailing my arm to our taxi driver... but this time to thank him. He returned the gesture by doing the same.

Shrine-ify it!

2011-06-17T09:02:00.003+02:00

Although Israel is a predominantly Jewish country, it was interesting to see the influence of other religions there, namely Catholicism. What I found most noteworthy was that every site deemed holy had a Catholic church plopped on top of it.

Check it:

Mary's home, where she was informed by angel Gabriel that she was pregnant? Now inside a church.
Joseph's carpentry shop? Also inside a church.
The manger where Christ was born? You guessed it: inside a church.
The home where the bedridden man with palsy was let down through the roof? Under a church.
The Garden of Gethsemane? In front of a church (because they couldn't put one on top of it). But to compensate, the garden is fully gated.
The widely believed crucifixion site and nearby tomb? Yes, they too are inside a church - an enormous church.

View of Mary's home from the Church of Annunciation

Two step

2011-06-13T23:11:00.001+02:00

We couldn't have picked a busier day to arrive in Jerusalem. Not only was it a Friday - the beginning of Shabbat, but it was also Passover, Good Friday, and if I can recall correctly, one more holiday which, in the blurred activity of that day, my mind just can't seem to identify. Pilgrimages to the city had taken place from as far away lands as America, Ethiopia, India and the Philippines. (Along with everywhere else in between). Needless to say, the streets were crowded. Very crowded.

Throughout the day, processions were held along the Via Dolorosa - a path where many Catholics and other Christians believe Christ took his last steps. The groups of pilgrims carry crosses of their own and stop at 14 different stations along the way representing the spots where certain things occurred, including Christ's condemnation, receiving the cross, the times He fell, where He met His mother, et cetera up to where many believe He was laid in the tomb.

In another part of the city near Jaffa Gate, David Street was a virtual mosh pit. We found ourselves stuck within it, unable to move in any direction. I had half a mind to climb atop of shoulders and ride it out. But then there were the police, who magically parted the crowds enough to let their little dance train reach a location where they could jump a man. That was all it took, apparently, to ruin the mood. So everyone left, leaving us free to make any type of move we wanted.

In the evening the crowds found their way at the Wailing Wall. Shabbat during Passover is a time for the Jewish of all ages to give supplication near the foundational remains of Herod's Temple. They came in droves, and like the masses earlier in the day, it was quite the site to see.

O Jerusalem

2011-06-09T09:49:00.000+02:00

It was a surreal feeling as we walked up to the Jaffa Gate in Jerusalem. The moment we climbed the stairs and passed through the walls of the old city, we were transported back to a different era. Street vendors dotted the entrance, inviting us into the city with sweet smells of roasted corn and date bread. Limestone streets matched those of the old buildings they joined. The white monotone of the city was offset by the vibrant colors of the linens and spices the multitude of shops had to offer.

Light reflecting off the limestone buildings made the entire city look magical. No photo I had previously seen, nor the ones I took of Jerusalem myself were able to capture its glimmer and sheen. So I stared at the city, sad that the only way I'd be able to see its full beauty is by walking its streets.

In the middle of being enraptured by the architecture, our focus was shifted to people watching as one Hasidic Jew or another rushed past us. We couldn't figure out where they were headed, especially since we saw them walking this way and that all throughout the day. In the end, we just came up with our own conclusions. My mom deciding they all just like to 'walk with a purpose'. While I on the other hand felt that they, like my own genetic disorder (from the maternal side), are chronically late.

Then again, if I lived there and knew where I needed to go, I'd probably walk the same speed to skirt past the hoards of tourists as quickly as possible.

Preconceived notion

2011-06-05T19:36:00.000+02:00

Due to the select pictures I had seen throughout my life, I had what I thought was a distinct image of what Israel looked like. I envisioned a dry, brown, desert-like country with sparse greenery. And while part of Israel does, in fact, look like that - primarily around the Dead Sea, the image I conjured up of the rest of the country couldn't have been farther than the truth.

The lush green rolling hills, the mass amounts of trees, the immaculate roadsides and the stunning glow of the landscape reflected in the rising sun took both my mother and my breath away. With a welcome as warm as that one, neither of us cared that our flights arrived before dawn.

Can I finally qualify for the title of globetrotter?

2011-05-31T22:09:00.000+02:00

I'm the first to admit that I'm a travel-a-holic, if that's even a word. But there are times when even I outdo myself. Four days. 96 hours. 5,760 minutes. That's all the time I allowed myself from the moment I returned home from Bosnia to the moment I left again. I didn't purposefully plan it that way, but it did leave me wishing that my life could always be like that: work four days, travel a few, then repeat. But until that happens, I'll continue to relish in this moment of insanity. Because actually, that's all it really was.

Once I finally felt my feet were firmly planted on the ground, I found myself at the airport again- this time standing behind a podium facing a five minute interrogation. The interrogator held onto my passport as she walked over to another airline employee and proceeded to have a conversation about me. She would frequently glance in my direction and nod her head as her colleague would comment. When she returned, she gave me instructions on the next steps I must take and placed stickers on my itinerary printout. I was informed I had less than ten minutes from that moment to reach a designated location in a far wing of the airport for an appointment.

So I hurried as I made my way to the check-in counter to receive my ticket and drop off my luggage. I continued to cruise past armed guards on my way to passport control. More armed guards line the pathway to the location I advanced towards. When I finally reached the scheduled room, two minutes late, I was again interrogated while my possessions were searched behind a partition.

Fifteen minutes later I was given the clear and escorted to the security check where I passed through the x-ray scanner and frisked down.

When it was all over, I plopped myself down on a chair, exhausted, trying to wrap my head around what just happened. But I wasn't even given sufficient time to do that before I entered a plane with a sign that read, "For your information: This flight has been koshered for Passover."

Might as well jump

2011-05-27T19:31:00.001+02:00

Mostar's beloved bridge is the pride and joy of the locals. In fact, the name Mostar itself means "the bridge keepers".

First built between 1558-1566 , the bridge was an architectural masterpiece. Life and entertainment revolved around the bridge until it was bombed on November 9, 1993. From what we were told, the energy of the locals died with the bridge, and despite its reconstruction the vibe has never been the same.

Had Jeannine and I visited pre-war, we may have noticed something this time around, but to us it still felt like there was excitement in the air. Products from shops spilled out onto the streets leading to the bridge. Vendors stood outside their doors to greet those who passed by. Tourists were huddled around the city's various view points. And I was right in the middle of them, soaking up the views and taking more pictures than the memory card in my camera felt was necessary.

Then one man made the impossible, possible by making the bridge even cooler.

A language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see

2011-05-22T17:19:00.001+02:00

We met some of the kindest people in Bosnia. Like the women who played charades with us for over five minutes in Srebrenica so we could figure out the best way to reach the memorial, and then offered us candy once we finally understood. Or the man we shared a train car with on our way to Mostar, who not only lifted and lowered our suitcases off the overhead rack, but carried them across the platform, down the stairs, and set them down for us just outside the station.

Inside the Muslibegovic House

The kindness continued as we reached our hotel in Mostar, an Ottoman house that has been in the family for generations, untouched by the war. The Muslibegovic House is now a national monument and museum along with being a hotel. We felt we were transported back in time the moment we entered the courtyard. Before we had a chance to catch our breath, the owners whisked us into the dining area since it was mid-morning and we hadn't eaten anything substantial yet. They filled us with breads, fruits, yoghurts, meats and homemade cookies. The following morning, due to our early departure, they specially prepared and provided us bagged breakfast for the road.

Then there was the time we visited one of the mosques in Mostar where the ticket holder allowed us both to enter for less than the price of one ticket and as an added bonus, let us climb the minaret for free.

Suffice it to say, their kindness went above and beyond the call of duty. And we couldn't get enough.

In remembrance

2011-05-16T23:25:00.001+02:00

Srebrenica isn't generally a place a tourist would visit... unless the visit is revolved around the village's genocide memorial. It is three hours outside of Sarajevo by bus and nowhere one would typically spend more than a few hours in.

Jeannine recently finished interning at the ICTY in the Hague. She had spent the last few months editing legal proofs for the prosecution of one of the genocide leaders and wanted to visit the area where it occurred. She had planned on going the day before I arrived, but that day brought about an onslaught of snow and she feared that if she went, in the cold with the snow, she may just die of depression. Instead she asked me how opposed I would be of going with her. Thankfully the request was asked prior to my arrival so I had time to really think about it.

Over a five day period in July 1995, more than 8,000 Muslim boys and men were brutally massacred in and around Srebrenica, only two years after the UN declared it a safe haven. To date it is the largest extermination in Europe since World War II.

It took me a while to make up my mind, to see a place where such inhumane brutality occurred. But I consented, mainly for the same reason people today visit Jewish Concentration Camps... to pay respects and garner a greater hope that a genocide such as this one will never occur again.

It appeared to us that the city must not have changed much in the last 16 years. It is claimed that some of those who participated in the murders still live in the area and go on about their daily lives as if nothing happened. The people we met during our time in the village were as kind as everyone else we had met in Bosnia. But there was something in the air. It felt different. And that somber feeling stayed with us the entire time we were there.

a treasure trove

2011-05-16T15:33:00.000+02:00

Some of the most enchanting countries I've visited are ones in which I arrive with no expectations. Bosnia has definitely made its way onto that list. As we went from one location to the next, I was constantly in awe with the beauty of landscape.

Sarajevo's Old Town charm:

The hills that surround it:

Srebrenica and its picturesque countryside, breathtaking despite the horrors that occurred within its boundaries:

Mostar and its prized bridge:

Even the countryside was magnificent.

Throughout my entire trip I couldn't let go of the thought that if it weren't for Jeannine's request for me to join her, I may have forever missed out on visiting one of Europe's greatest gems.

gone but not forgotten

2011-05-09T18:43:00.001+02:00

Sarajevo Cemetery Memorial

The Bosnian war is still fresh in the minds of locals in Sarajevo. They recall the memories as if it occurred yesterday, with vivid detail and heart-wrenching images. It was sobering to walk down the beautiful city streets, surrounded on all sides by lightly snow covered peaks, envisioning what happened 16 years prior.

"A dead body would be lying on the ground nearly every day. The ambulance tried picking them up as quickly as possible, but it still took a while. After time you got used to seeing the bodies and would walk around them continuing on your way." I sat engrossed by what the owner of the hostel where we were staying was telling us. In a way it appeared as though he disengaged himself from what had happened. Rightfully so, as I'm sure I would too - it's the only real way to cope. But I still couldn't begin to imagine...

The day before I arrived, Jeannine visited a local museum. It spoke of a woman who was leading someone through the post-war city of Sarajevo. When they reached the notorious Sniper Alley (a main road in the city which, during the war, was lined with sniper posts where men, women and children alike were shot at) she started sprinting until she reached the end of the road. Once she stopped she immediately turned to her companion, started laughing and said "sorry... it's a habit."

Only small reminders of what occurred now remain: condemned buildings, Sarajevo roses (red resin filled holes left from shrapnel landing on the concrete roads where people had been killed), a memorial cemetery, and the eternal flame. Beyond that, life has moved on, but the memories of what happened are clearly never forgotten.

Sarajevo Rose

Skewed perceptions

2011-05-04T18:06:00.000+02:00

Bosnia was never on my list of places I had planned on visiting. Really... never.
Croatia? Yes.
Slovenia? Sure!
Montenegro? Love to.
But Bosnia? No way.

Since the end of the Yugoslav wars, Bosnia has been out of the spotlight. Of course time heals all wounds and life goes on, but for an outsider who's last image of the country is one of little children playing in landmines, knowing exactly where not to step... it turns into the first image that comes to mind when the country is mentioned. All you're left with is heartache for the people, along with a hesitance to even visit... because for all you know, maybe no progress was made at all in the past 15 years. But that last thought is irrational. Logically life doesn't stand still, even for war ravaged countries.

Even with its history, I jumped at the opportunity for a long weekend Bosnian getaway when my friend Jeannine asked if I wanted to join her at some point during her own Balkan vacation.

I was called crazy. I was given odd looks. I was asked why I was even going.

I had no answer. I didn't know myself, besides the fact that I had the opportunity.

Looking back on it, I've realized I went for the same reason I went to Mali (plus my most recent trip to Israel and Jordan)... to create a new image, a correct image- devoid of stigmas, of what the country holds. I didn't want the image of little children playing in landmines to be the only one that comes to mind when thinking of Bosnia. Because, truly, it is so much more than the horrible 3 and a half year war.

Three years and counting

2011-05-01T19:05:00.001+02:00

March marked another year living in Amsterdam, but I was too busy talking about Mali to properly commemorate the occasion until now. But even though I'm nearly two months late in celebrating publicly, I just want to make it clear, that a 3 year anniversary is no small feat in my life. As someone with gypsy blood, living in one place for 2 full years is a big deal, but 3... 3 is momentous. I haven't done something like that since 1998 - 13 years ago.

Sticking around for another year was great, even with its downfalls like the failed attempt to Morocco. Instead that led to an entirely different adventure.

The year even included my first trip back to the United States, which I had vowed I wouldn't do for a few more years down the line. Thankfully I only needed to take one day off of work, which allowed me to enjoy food, friends and family even more.

A few months into the year I celebrated team Orange in the World Cup like I had lived here all my life... and mourned their loss in the same fashion.

There were days of picnicking in the park while watching concerts near Cambridge.

Crazy impulses led to walking knee deep in mud for 10 miles to reach a nearby island.

When August rolled around, I celebrated my milestone birthday in style - heading to Africa for the first time for a luxury safari.

There was also the continued discovery of hot to-do items in Holland, such as the tree lighting ceremony in Gouda.

I played the good daughter over Christmas, and placated my mother in her desires to go skiing even though I'm opposed to the sport.

But to end the year with a bang I had to do something stupendous... something that not very many people do, and that something was to go to Timbuktu and back.

And with having accomplished all those things, I say breaking my 13 year streak was more than worth it.

the long journey home

2011-04-21T11:40:00.000+02:00

We decided to save a bit of money in returning to Bamako, and took a bus from Mopti instead of a plane. The scheduled 8 hour bus ride turned into an 11 hour bus ride, due to stops taken and crowds of people swarming the vehicle selling lemons and meat as we drove through one village or another.

In its prime, the bus must have been extravagant with its nicely cushioned seats and working air conditioning. But its prime ended long ago, leaving us sitting on well used seats next to sealed windows with dusty drapes. The only source of air circulation came from the two emergency roof exits which were propped open a few inches.

When our names were called, allowing us on the bus, the front seats near the first emergency roof exit were all occupied - mostly by tourists. So we moved to the back, namely due to the second emergency roof exit, but also because the back was completely empty. We thought we were clever in our decision, when in fact, we couldn't be more wrong.

There was a reason the tourists piled in at the front, which stayed clean the entire trip and was never full of commotion. Unfortunately we didn't understand that reason until it was too late. Instead, we reveled in the fact that we were receiving the true African bus riding experience.

Many empty seats were soon filled after we sat down; the remaining ones were taken at a stop a few miles into our journey. There was chaos all around as people piled on the bus with large bags of goods and babies hanging off shoulders. The heat was stifling and the space was cramped, so emotions were high. But once settled it was as though a magic switch was flipped- the entire bus, babies and small children included, were absolutely silent.

Maybe it was the heat, it left everyone in a comatose state with only enough energy to sleep, not even to talk. Reading, if one is literate, was even done in spurts as the heat became overwhelming and made eyelids too heavy to bear. The only noise during the long hot hours as the bus drove through the countryside was that of a women seated next to us, whom we presume has Tuberculosis, coughing and spitting into a small bucket.

At each stop everyone was rejuvenated, and our fellow back-of-the-bus neighbors would buy the lemons or meat that were sold. The energy would stay alive for 10 to 15 minutes while the bus carried on and our neighbors ate, dropping lemon peels on the ground, or spitting undesired meat into the aisle-ways.

Absorbing everything as I sat, unable to do much else, I laughed to myself at the rawness of it all. That rawness could be a major contributor of my love of Africa. I feel a bit of heartache when I leave and a longing to return back soon, even amid or perhaps because of the poverty, filth, humility, simplicity and extreme exertion spent on every day survival.

That said, I only felt relief when leaving the bus once we finally returned to Bamako. I hopped up at the first opportunity and made my way outside to breathe in the nice, cool, exhaust filled air. Five minutes later Bremen joined me. When he explained his delay, all I could do was laugh and again comment on my love for Africa. Apparently he didn't find navigating around vomit that a little girl in front of him spewed all over the aisle way as funny as I did though.

une petite fille et sa chanson

2011-04-14T00:17:00.001+02:00

I felt like queen of the land while in Dogon Country. Bremen carried the backpack containing our things and Moumo insisted on carrying my large water bottle, leaving me free to snap photos at will or do whatever I pleased. It was fantastic and I quickly replaced moments of guilt for sheer exuberance, realizing that chivalry is not dead, despite what I was beginning to believe in Holland.

But I digress. Because this isn't at all what I wanted to tell you about, even though it was nice to note. Instead, what I wanted to tell you was a story. A story about a girl and a song. A French song to be more specific.

It all started as we stopped at camp for our lunch break during the second day's hike in Dogon Country. The poor men, having been worn out from carrying all my belongings, found comfortable chairs to rest in and soon fell asleep. Whereas, not having had to carry a single thing besides my camera the entire journey, I was full of energy and set off exploring the area while lunch was being prepared.

After taking a few photos and making my way back towards the camp a little girl, of about 7 years old, came up to me and started singing Frere Jacques. She assumed I'm French, and since the song is probably the only French she knows, she used it as a form of communication. I, in return, joined in and sang with her. At that moment her little hand clasped onto mine and we walked towards camp together, singing a French nursery rhyme.

By the time the song ended, three other children gathered around me. We introduced ourselves.

Apta, my singing companion:

Mata, the baby:

Ata, the middle aged girl:

Segu, the boy:

... and me, Awa Sangare. Our names were repeated over and over. They were repeated as we walked down the path leading to the camp. They were repeated between games of "Duck, Duck, Goose!" and "Ring Around the Rosie", which I taught them. And they were repeated between Dogon songs which they sang to me.

Thirty minutes after we parted, as I was finishing up my lunch, we heard a chorus of children chanting my name: "Awa Sangare! Awa Sangare!" they chimed. Children, none of which I knew, were calling me from below, calling me from the neighboring hill, and calling me from a nearby field. When I looked over the terrace ledge they added "Ca va?" to their serenade and waved their arms around. It was such a sweet moment.

And it all began with a little girl and her song.

How's your mother, your brother, your...?

2011-04-10T19:19:00.002+02:00

The only way to reach Dogon Country is through Mopti, a city nearly two hours away by car. The road leading to Dogon is like most African roads, paved in some areas and dirt in others. Besides the occasional pothole which can swallow a semi-truck whole, there are also animal road blocks to watch out for; (animals such as cows, donkeys, dogs - and pigs, of course). With all the potential hazards, logically one is tempted to use a seat-belt. However, doing such is not advised, as you're left with a brown stripe across your chest from the dirt covered belt. So instead, there we sat, Bremen, our guide Moumo and I, without a seat-belt in an old make-shift taxi cab, as our driver drove us to Dogon Country... at a speed of 120mph (193kph).

The Dogon Tribesmen are kind hearted, hard working, and very sociable people. It is customary to greet friends by asking them how they're doing, how their parents are doing, how their spouse is doing, how their children are doing, how their siblings are doing, how their grandparents are doing, how their goat is doing... oh and not to mention how their third cousin twice removed is doing as well. The customary response to each question is: "fine".

Along our journey, hiking to and through villages, it was easy to tell that Moumo was quite the popular guy as the end of one greeting would interfere with the beginning of another. There were also the group chants, which included three or more people seated a distance away and would offer the same greeting to Moumo at the same time.

With so many greetings being given at such rapid succession, it's easy to think I would have had plenty of opportunities to capture at least one of them on video. Sadly my stealth-like video recording abilities haven't been honed quite yet. Instead I had to request a staged greeting... because genuine or not, I wanted something to remember it by.

10 reasons why I love Africa

2011-04-04T20:34:00.000+02:00

Reason #1: landscape diversity

Reason #2: cliff-side Pygmy dwellings

Reason #3: bucket showers - best while taken under the light of the moon

Reason #4: simple meals

Reason #5: sleeping under the stars, in an ideal climate

Reason #6: the children

Reason #7: artisan skills

Reason #8: textile colors

Reason #9: the self reliance, resourcefulness, and ingenuity of the people

Reason #10: mud huts

... and that was just Dogon Country.

Arabian Nights

2011-03-31T22:06:00.001+02:00

Evening Timbuktu adventures are ones spent in the Sahara atop camels, three more cups of tea, being surrounded (and at moments, bombarded) by Tuareg nomads vying for attention in hopes to sell jewelry, and mad bartering skills.

Three Cups of Tea, Malian edition

2011-03-28T22:28:00.000+02:00

They say the first cup is strong like death, the second sweet like life, and the third is sugar like love. I say, all three cups are disgusting.

We met our Tuareg friend at the same time we met the Mohameds. His English was impeccable, making it hard to believe he was a nomad, but he is. Three weeks prior he had left on his journey to Timbuktu, arriving the evening before us. He was only staying for two days in order to trade his salt goods, and requested we stop by his tent to say hello. "I'll make you traditional tea," he stated. "You can ask questions about our way of life and we will show you the jewelry we make. If you like, you buy. But if not, don't worry, we'll still be friends."

The Mohameds led us to his tent after we made our way through the small market. I don't know if we would have stopped by otherwise, since Bremen mentioned his distaste for the tea, which he once had in Bamako, and neither of us had any intention of buying jewelry.

Our reception was a warm one as we crouched through the door of the tent, slipped off our shoes and sat on a rug designated for us. While the water boiled we learned that Tuareg women are the head of the households and are the ones to make all decisions, most especially where the men are to direct the caravans. We were told the caravans move at night, avoiding the heat of the day while guided by the map of stars.

Once the tea was heated, the sugar added and thoroughly mixed, I, the sole female of the group, was offered the first cup. My tongue numbed immediately. The herb they claimed to used was obviously one I've never had before. Bremen again mumbled his distaste for the tea and forced down the last few sips.

Once everyone in the tent had tea, drunk between three shared glasses, more water was added to the pot and I was left to struggle with my inner germaphobe. The thought of having to drink another cup of tea, from a glass that had been passed around many mouths made my entire body shudder. I managed though, and sure enough, the second cup was sweeter than the first, and the third more so than the second. But I vowed to myself that it would be the first and last three cups of nomadic tea that I would drink. Unfortunately some promises are harder to keep than others.

With the final drop drunk from the final cup, velvet place-mats were laid before us, displaying a variety of jewelry. Again we were told "if you like, you buy. If you don't like, don't worry, we'll still be friends." The prices were astronomical. Even when bartering. As badly as we felt, we left empty handed. But true to his word, we were still friends.

The Tuareg nomads have a bad rap, as they're believed to be the main culprits of hijackings, kidnappings and killings... not to mention the cause of my mother's irrational fear that I'd be turned into a sex slave. But the kindness of our friend dispelled all the rumors. The Tuareg's only focus, from what I saw, was to make money. Sadly, in light of recent events, their lack of wealth and desire for a better way of life has led many down a rocky path: one filled with Gadhafi and the possibly false dream of receiving US $10,000 he promised them if they joined his team. I hate to think that my Tuareg friend might be amongst those who chose to join the ranks.

Tour in snapshots

2011-03-24T21:27:00.001+01:00

Mohamed, Mohamed and Mohamed's masterful skills of guiding us through the city and providing such extensive historical background (thanks to English speaking Mohamed), made the hours fly by.

First snapshot:
They led us through the small market, a location that brought an Indiana Jones movie to life. We walked down a cramped aisle way, where on either side of us sat women surrounded by fruits, vegetables and shea butter; the sun streaming through the holes of canvas linens patched together to form a make-shift roof.

Second snapshot:
We followed them down the streets, past the local schools and cemetery located in the distance, to see the two other mud mosques located in the city. Fun fact: the wood poking out of the walls are not actually for aesthetic appeal; they're more of a built in scaffolding, since the mud structure needs regular maintenance.

Third snapshot:
Walking down one road, they explained the love of cat among children... the love of eating cat that is. Many cat carcasses are hung to dry after the meat is eaten. Yum?

Fourth snapshot:
We visited the homes of Gordan Laing and Rene Caille. A few minutes later, English speaking Mohamed explained that in the time of those explorers, women were not allowed in the streets and instead spent their lives inside their homes, with their only contact of the outside world being through the upstairs windows.

Final snapshot:
To end our time together, since we had more activities on our plate, the Mohameds took us to the large market. Upon seeing it we agreed with them that bigger is not necessarily better since we enjoyed the small market far more.

The Mohameds

2011-03-20T19:26:00.004+01:00

I hate being the bearer of bad news, but I hate liars even more. So, I'll just come out and say it: there's not a single street in all of Timbuktu that is paved in gold. It's true. I searched. Instead there are streets made of limestone, dirt, sand (my favorite) and then, at times, trash.

But really, who needs gold paved roads when you'd probably be imprisoned for trying to steal pieces of it anyway?

Bremen and I arrived with a haze of euphoria, incredulous that we were actually in a legendary place.

Being the only two who were not a part of the German's elite group, we appeared oddly out of place once we exited the plane. We may have stood out due to the backpacks we wore... otherwise it was our wide eyes and giddy expressions. But it took less than a second for Chicago, a guide who adopted that name since his is too hard for tourists to pronounce, to spot us. He won us over and whisked us into a taxi, depositing us in front of the nicest hotel in all the land.

Once we were done gawking at the beauty of the hotel, having already left our things in our room, we set off to explore the city. We hadn't been out more than five minutes when we were accompanied by a local French speaking boy who started explaining the history of the library we were in front of.

As we rounded the corner to come into view of our first mud mosque, it was clear the boy would accompany us the entire day. It was there we were joined by two more boys, one being the first boy's brother, and the other an English speaking friend of both. Each introduced themselves as Mohamed.

Unbeknown to Bremen and I, they all decided to be our guides. Besides, they informed us, since it was Muhammad's birthday and there was no school, they had nothing better to do and found no greater enjoyment than show two strangers their hometown (along with practicing their English). We both thought we saw dollar signs in their eyes, but they held true to their words.

Initially I was a bit wary of their enthusiasm, and wondered if the winding streets they were guiding us through would actually take us to the destination they said it would. But after a few minutes it came clear that they were the best companions we could have ever asked to tag along uninvited.

French speaking Mohamed, English speaking Mohamed, and little brother Mohamed

to Timbuktu and back

2011-03-16T07:16:00.002+01:00

The illustrious city of Timbuktu, founded by Taureg nomads in the 1100's, is located at the edge of the Sahara desert and a few miles away from the Niger river, making it a prime location for trading. In the years following, the city flourished as salt trading, its main revenue, carried its weight in gold. Through the city's wealth it also became a city of learning, with numerous universities and Qur'anic schools, thus acquiring national acclaim.

That acclaim turned worldwide in the mid 1300's when the ruler of Mali carried so much gold with him (180 tons worth) on his way to Mecca, that when he stopped in Egypt the Egyptian currency lost its value and put both Mali and Timbuktu on the map.

Centuries later, legends of Timbuktu drove European explorers to seek out the fabled city. The first recognized explorer to reach the city was British Captain, Alexander Gordon Laing, but was killed upon leaving. Since then it became more than just a quest to find the city of gold, but to return home alive. Rene Caillie, a French explorer, was the first person to accomplish the feat through cunning maneuvers. And now my name has also been added to the success list, as I too can say I have been to Timbuktu and back.

For here am I sitting in a tin can, far above the world

2011-03-10T11:25:00.000+01:00

On the many flights I have been on in the last 30 years, I have only been nervous twice.

The first time was on a flight from Zanzibar to Nairobi when the pilot exclaimed over the loud speaker, "Have a safe flight!"

The second time was on my flight to Timbuktu. After we reached a safe altitude, the co-pilot became our steward as he pushed a trolley down the aisle and handed out croissants and juice. Half way through his duties, the captain also left the cock pit to use the bathroom... located at the back of the plane. Longest three minutes of my life.

Now, I know planes run on auto pilot, but there's a security in knowing someone is keeping watch-- just in case, right?

Dispelling the myth

2011-03-07T22:48:00.001+01:00

Timbuktu. The local your mother threatened to ship you off to unless you stopped acting up. A city paved in gold. The point of no return. And to some people, a purely fictional place.

Being in Mali, country of previously stated "mythical location", I felt it my duty to find out if any of the above statements were accurate. Well, all except the one about your mother threatening to ship you off, because we all know that's true.

To be quite honest, my desire to visit Timbuktu was the catalyst behind showing up in Mali at all. I just didn't know if that desire was going to be fulfilled, since the city is quite literally in the middle of nowhere- not to mention advisories warning not to go (advisories including threats of Al Qaeda in the region). My parents have often stated I have selective hearing... and this time was no exception. So Bremen and I decided we should at least try to give it a go.

Tuesday morning we were at the airport at 6am. The one flight of the day left an hour later. We got in line (there are two, one for each airline) and were immediately told by two Germans, who were predatorily guarding the line, that we'd have to try the other airline. They stated they chartered the entire plane to Timbuktu - all 30 seats, and there was no way we were getting on. So we went to the other airline only to find out they didn't fly to Timbuktu that day. When we stepped back to the end of the line of the initial airline, the Germans again made it a point to tell us we weren't getting on.

In vain efforts to discourage us, they explained that because it was a holiday (Muhammed's birthday) the flight was full. Instead of giving up, we told them we'd check with the airline representative. In turn they preached that it was futile to try to get on a flight the next day or the day after because those flights would be full as well. After each attempt of discouragement, we again repeated our resolve to check with the airline; with our smiles growing bigger and their disgust showing more evident on their faces. Nearly exasperated, they tried one last attempt by spewing out it was pointless thinking that if, by some miracle, we did get a flight up, we'd be lucky enough to get a flight back, because certainly they'd all be full too.

Smiling, we went to the front of the line where the representative asked us wait off to the side. So we waited. And waited. And continued waiting for 40 minutes. Fifteen minutes before the flight was to take off the Germans came up to us, with a changed demeanor, informing us we may be in luck. Five minutes later the airline representative explained that two people from the Germans' party never showed up. Meaning, there were two free spots on the fully chartered plane. Two! Just for us! It was perfect.

With ten minutes remaining we rushed through all the details of purchasing and paying for the flight, filling out documents, hurrying past customs and a security check in order to arrive at the gate before it was too late.

But we made it, right on time to join the Germans and local government officials on a flight to Timbuktu. We even managed to maintain smug looks on our faces as we passed by each one.

Photographs made of words

2011-03-03T11:26:00.008+01:00

It is hard for me to think of a place I've desired so much to photograph, but felt unable to. Photographing people and certain buildings in Mali is taboo - and with hundreds of eyes watching the white girl, it leaves little opportunity to sneak in shots.

Bamako is a vibrant city: the people, the mud/concrete homes, the red dirt that sticks to your shoes, feet, legs, and everywhere else on your body. Women dress in colorful gowns with bold prints and head wraps. Motorbikes zoom in and out of traffic, with most motor boys wearing an airline provided eye mask around their nose and mouth to protect them from the smog, instead of a helmet to protect them if they fall.

Walking around the city on a Monday provides a stark contrast to the quiet weekend. The streets are filled with movement. People (mainly men) congregate at their food, sim card, or tire stands made of plywood. Women sit outside washing clothes in buckets, lining the clean linens on the local football field -turned stadium's fence. One woman multi-tasks by washing her naked baby's feet in one bucket while another continues washing clothes in a second. Most women walk around with baskets on their heads full of items; men with items hanging from their necks. Boys huddle around Foosball tables covered by the shade of a tree or a makeshift roof.

My less than rudimentary French was my crutch. All conversations lasting around 3 seconds - enough time to say a basic greeting of hello and how are you. I was waved over a few times by men who would take my hand and start up a conversation in French. I'd smile, trying to find a perfect moment to ask if they speak English and explain I'm American. They'd take to the news as warmly as they had started the conversation. They'd try hard to communicate in the 5 English words they knew, and then would revert back to French, leaving me clueless as to what they were saying. I could only guess what the conversation was about.

One gentleman called me over from the street to the wall he was leaning against. His smile showed his rotting teeth, two of which were missing from the front of his mouth. He took my hand, asked my name, told me his, then asked where I was sleeping by pressing his hands together and placing them by his ear as he tilted his head. I pointed to myself, repeated the same gesture he had, then added the words 'mon ami' while pointed in the direction of Bremen's house. He understood, although (from what I gathered) he still informed me that if I need a place to sleep, I was welcome at his house and he proceeded to pointed out where it was. I thanked him and continued on my way.

Ten minutes later I was approached by a boy in his mid 20's. He spoke no English, but also asked if I had a place to stay. I again tried explaining I was visiting a friend. He offered me his number, just in case, and led me to his house, since I was in no hurry to get anywhere. Along the way people would say hello and ask how I'm doing. All very friendly and polite. When we reached Mohammed's house, he led me into the courtyard where 2 women, 3 men and a few children were gathered. They each greeted me warmly, one (who was ripping up meat in a bowl) even offering me her chair. I graciously declined. I shook hands with each person then said goodbye. They thanked me for coming.

Having arrived from a country where people are closed and look inward instead of out, I tried wrapping my head around their hospitality and generosity. Maybe it has to do with the warm climate, leaving people with warm hearts. Or maybe their poverty has left them with a greater sense of humility and charity. Unfortunately I wasn't around long enough to figure it out - if there is a reason at all. I'm just grateful to have experienced it.

Bamako residental street

Malian tradition

2011-02-27T15:48:00.003+01:00

Overlooking Dogon Country, Mali

I never knew upon my entering Mali I would return home with a new name. What's more surprising is that I was in the country less than 24 hours before shedding the name my parents spent nearly 9 months deciding upon. Naming your own child must be an arduous process... after all, it is (most likely) the name he/she will be known as for the rest of existence. But naming a stranger-- that can be done in seconds.

Bremen, the friend I visited, and I had stopped at a fruit stand near his home the afternoon of my first day in Bamako. One of the locals at the stand asked my name. After introducing myself, she looked at me, smiled and then told me my new first name.

Later in the evening, on the way to a dinner party, we entered a taxi which was already occupied with 3 other women (besides the taxi-man, which is what all drivers are called). We crammed our way in and made small talk. One of the women asked the taxi man his name and discovered their last names were the same. They began laughing, then asked us what our names are. Once Bremen stated I had no last name, they offered me theirs. I smiled and accepted the offer.

It was as simple as that, and was the only name I used during my stay.

So you too can decide whether you'd like to call me by my birth name or my new Bambara name, Awa Sangare. Because I now answer to both.

You're going where?

2011-02-23T09:43:00.001+01:00

- I'm going to Mali!

- Oh nice, I love Maui.

- No, no... not Maui, Mali.

- I leave on Friday for Mali... can't wait.

- Wow, world traveler! How long are you staying?

- Just one week.

- You're going all the way to Bali just for one week?

- Oh, no, not Bali... Mali - West Africa.

- You're going to Mali? You're not scared?

- Not one bit! I'm counting down the days.

- Claire! Haven't you seen Sahara??

- No, why? Should I?

- Well, probably not now. But I think you're crazy for going. Just be careful...

- I really don't know how I feel about your going to Mali, Claire.

- Mom, I'm going to be fine.

- Well, what about all the advisories warning people not to go? I tell you what, I'll reimburse you half the price of your flight if you promise not to go.

- Thanks but no thanks, I'm not passing this up.

- But what if you're abducted and turned into a sex slave??

- Haha... one could only hope.

Small Market in Timbuktu, Mali

Sneak Preview

2011-02-20T22:38:00.001+01:00

Dive... take two.

2011-01-31T17:48:00.000+01:00

This year was my mom's turn to jump in the North Sea for the New Year's Dive. On the way there she said, "you know Claire, ever since you jumped in 2 years ago, I was secretly jealous."

I'm still trying to wrap my head around that one.

And, to answer the question that may be looming in your mind, no, I did not join her. I'll give you the same reason I have given everyone else as to why: I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid.

That said, my hat is off to those who make it an annual event! (Because we need some insane people in the world to make me feel somewhat normal).

Better than Disneyland

2011-01-25T20:05:00.005+01:00

There are few things in the world that can exceed the expectation of what is known as the most magical place on earth. But locations such as those do exist. Southwestern Germany boasts one of them; a place of excitement, adventure, fun, food and... shopping.

After a near 10 hour drive up to this giant playground, I had a heart stopping moment when they performed ID checks at the door. It wasn't my age that prohibited me from entering, it was my lack of official status. Military Post Exchanges, like the one we were visiting, are sticklers in that regard. A lady at the door looked at my card and then looked at my mom. "You're her sponsor I take it?," she asked. After a nod from my mom she continued, "Well General so-'n-so* has instated a mandatory class whatever* ID check. Only permanent military ID holders are allowed in today. She," pointing to me, "can't come in." She tried placating things by stating I was welcome in the following day, which wouldn't have been a problem had we not booked an overnight train into Amsterdam that evening.

At that moment my dreams were shattered. My willingness to play along with a winter wonderland Christmas vacation, without complaint, was in vain. Discouragement filled my soul to the point I couldn't find my voice to exclaim my disbelief. My mom explained our situation to no avail. Then she asked if I could at least use the restroom. I was about to hand over my purse to leave with my mom, when the lady looked at the both of us and said, "Fine... go. And don't come back."

She didn't have to tell us twice. We booked it away from the entrance as fast as we could. Over the next few minutes I composed myself enough to again see the magic in the air. We spent a delightful time filling my hands with a Mac-book Pro, wireless router, new camera, clothes, food, etc... all paid for in dollars. Tax free.

To top everything off, there was a Macaroni Grill too... a real, American restaurant. I used to drool over their rosemary bread, so the entire drive up I envisioned devouring the whole thing on my own. In the end I could barely eat a fourth of it. Apparently European bread has ruined me. All I could taste in the bread I used to love was salt. And a lot of it. Now I don't know if I can ever return to the States. Not unless I can take European bread (and chocolate) with me. And especially not when I have a family member who can provide access to Military Exchanges to get a quick (American) fix.

* The words "so-'n-so" and "class whatever" were not actually used. But, because this is my story (and I really can't remember everything she said in the exact way she said it) I took the liberty of improvising.
Hmm... maybe I should have added a bit about how much she loved my outfit, or how envious she was that I could look so refreshed after spending over half a day driving.

Dog-gone!

2011-01-20T19:16:00.001+01:00

Luckily Val Cenis had more to do than skiing or snowshoeing. The second full day we spent there would have felt eternal had I not found another activity to do. I could only walk down the same main drag and walk into the same 5 shops so many times. I knew things were starting to get really bad when I enjoyed washing dishes by hand... just to have something to do.

What had caught my eye the moment I looked into the activity brochure was ice waterfall climbing. I wish I could say that's exactly what I did. But it's not, since that option was only available from mid January to mid February. So I moved onto my second choice: cross-country skiing. Sadly, that too was unavailable, due to being booked solid. There was one other option, a glimmer of hope for a somewhat event filled day: dog sledding. It was 40 Euros for 30 minutes, but I gave in... mainly because it's something I had always wanted to do.

For 40 Euros I imagined I'd be able to somehow take the reins, for a few minutes at least. I later realized a large part of the money was actually just used for the care of the huskies, because instead of standing at the back of the sled, I found myself seated in it, with a blanket wrapped tightly around me.

In the end, I guess it was better that way, since, like I previously acknowledged, I don't speak French and apparently that's the only language the dogs know... besides the basic bark that is. Either way, my commands would have probably led me right over a cliff.

Alpine alternative

2011-01-14T17:52:00.001+01:00

So what does a girl do when she's stuck in the French Alps with no fireplace to be found, although she brought an ample supply of books for that one purpose alone? Well, she snowshoes - with a nice guide who, at one point, asks if she's lazy because she doesn't speak French.

(I told him I am fluent in Portuguese and have a basic understanding of Dutch. Although he didn't say it, I knew the word "touche" flashed through his mind ).

backing down

2011-01-09T20:49:00.001+01:00

The evening of December 10th, my mom prevailed. Whether she won the war due to my being the weaker species or that I had no fight left in me, may be something I'll never know. All that matters is we finally put an end to the back and forth vacation dialog and settled on a location to visit. It wouldn't have been my first choice... heck, it probably wouldn't have been my fifth, but the thought of filling up one more night with seemingly endless destination searches exhausted me.

She wanted to go skiing, to spend a winter holiday doing a winter sport. Fair enough... except, skiing is not my thing. Nor is snowboarding for that matter. I tremble just thinking about going down tree lined mountains at high speeds with little children of no more than 5 years of age speeding past from every angle.

My mom would repeat the following phrase at least twice a day, from the moment she picked me up at the train station in Germany until all chances were lost: "You should give skiing a try, Claire. You may find that you like it." As many times as she would state it, I'd reply, "Mom, seriously... please listen this time. I've gone skiing and snowboarding before. I didn't really like it then, and I'm pretty sure 'giving it another try' won't change my mind this time around either." Truth be told, my main dislike is what has inevitably happened each time I've left the slopes: feeling like an old woman, with a twisted knee here and a hurt back there. I could visualize myself this time, exclaiming like one of the elderly in the commercials that aired in the '90's, "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!"

Like I stated before, however, as little interest I had in spending the holiday in an alpine village, on December 10th it was settled. So, after confining myself in my mother's kitchen for two days, catering Christmas feasts, we left for Val Cenis in the French Alps.

The dealings of an indecisive mother

2011-01-05T17:13:00.004+01:00

Ok, so let's rewind the clock a few months, say to September, three months before Christmas. That is when my mother and I started planning our holiday vacation. During those months, my life was consumed with evening phone calls, hours of internet research, emails bombarding my inbox and quite a bit of frustration.

Our planning could have been relatively simple, if the Mediterranean Cruise we had both agreed upon hadn't been full. Or if flights to Egypt didn't skyrocket between the weeks of December 15th - January 5th. Instead, the weeks leading up to Christmas were left to brainstorming... and a bit of healthy banter in between.

Mom: "I know, we can go to the Canary Islands for Christmas!"
Me: "Great, and we can pretend we're in the UK, just farther south." (Since the Canary islands are filled with Englishmen during the holiday).
               ...
Mom: "I've got it! We can go to Scotland and stay in a castle!"
Me: "Perfect. That way we can be cold outside AND inside."
               ...
Me: "How about Greece or Turkey?"
Mom: silence
               ...
Mom: "I've figured it out! We can go to Finland... that's where they say Santa lives."
Me: "Mother, please."
               ...
Mom: "Claire, I don't see why you're making things so difficult."
Me: "Well, what about Greece or Turkey?"
Mom: silence
             ...
(Please note, the following conversation was over a 3 day period)
Sunday, via a phone call:
Mom: "How about Croatia? I can go skiing and you can explore the towns?"
Me: "Sounds good to me... let's book this thing!"
Monday, via email:
Mom: "Claire, I've found the perfect place. It's a small village in the French Alps and has tons of other activities for you to do while I ski. Love, your mother."
Me: "Wonderful! I'm sold! Seal the deal! ... Claire."
Tuesday, via phone call:
Mom: "Claire, this is your mother."
Me: "Really?"
Mom: "Don't be mean, because I've figured out where we're spending Christmas. How about Italy, on a lake, it has tons of skiing and lots of things for you to do."
Me: sigh
                 ...
Mom: "Where's Dusseldorf?"
Me: "It's near the Dutch border."
Mom: "Oh, ok. Did you know that if you took a train to Dusseldorf, you could take a night train to Krakow..."
Me: (unable to hear the rest of what my mother is saying, due to my continually repeating): "Mom, Mom, MOM, MOM, MOM!"
Sister: (joining the call) "Still planning your Christmas vacation I take it?"

snow, snow, snow

2010-12-28T17:04:00.000+01:00

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

2010-12-20T22:01:00.000+01:00

For the past 55 years, Gouda's sister city in Norway has presented a giant tree as a gift to grace the square in front of its medieval City Hall. A ceremony has been held the second Tuesday of December each year, since then, to light the tree. Electricity in the entire square is turned off as candles light the windows of every house and building surrounding it.

I've wanted to go since 2008, but for one reason or another was never able to. This year I didn't let anything stop me, and even convinced my friend Jeannine to join me in standing around in sub-freezing temperatures for a few hours.

We were filled with the Christmas spirit as soon as we stepped out of Gouda's train station. Carollers sang at every corner. Floating lanterns filled the canals. Roads were lined with votive candles. A Christmas market was held on the street leading to the square. Everyone was in a joyful mood.

And then... there was tree lighting magic!

CHEESE!

2010-12-17T13:31:00.002+01:00

Life really doesn't get much better than:

eating gruyere in Gruyere

and gouda in Gouda.

Learning how to say no.

2010-12-14T11:14:00.000+01:00

My family may laugh when I say this, but I really don't like being mean. Maybe to pacify said family members, I should clarify my statement by saying, I really don't like being mean to people who don't share my immediate bloodline.

As I'd walk down the streets of Stone Town with offers to go out for drinks or dinner, instead of saying 'no' like I should have, I softened the blow by saying 'maybe'. The only problem was, to them maybe meant yes, whereas for me maybe definitely meant no.

On one of those dinner offers from a local loiterer, I provided my one worded reply. He wanted to meet by a tree near the evening market right at sun down, as he was Muslim and was fasting due to Ramadan. Again, I threw out another 'maybe'.

He kept true to his word, and was waiting for me when I walked to the main square with Michael and Gina. When he asked if I was ready to go, I stammered out an apology explaining why I couldn't, but asked him if he wanted to join us at the street market for food. He declined stating that he already booked a table for us at a restaurant. I held my ground, sort of, ... since I agreed to 'maybe' have dinner with him a few nights later. But I added the stipulation that it must be at the street market.

As the days pressed on, he'd wave from his local hangout whenever I passed by on my way towards the square. On my final night in Stone Town, I planned on having dinner at the street market with two people I met at Chumbe Island. I informed them of our potential guest, and explained I was happy to have them as chaperons.

Before the sunset on the horizon that night, and the call to prayer was heard, I again crossed his path. He smiled and asked if I was ready to go. "To the street market, right?," I inquired. He looked at me with exasperation, "no, the restaurant. I booked a table Claire. You're not going to do this to me again are you?" After discovering that the supposed restaurant was in the center of the city (about 5 minutes away, down dark winding alleyways) I explained I wasn't comfortable in going, and again suggested the street market. "What, don't you trust me?" he questioned. The response in my head was no, but verbally was "well, I just don't know you." "What do you mean," he demanded, "we've known eachother for 3 days!"

I held back my shocked laughter as best I could and mumbled that I was sorry, and again explained I just didn't feel comfortable. "We're good people, Claire. Plus, I paid money to reserve the table." "You didn't pay money," I responded disbelievingly. I wanted to end the conversation and walk away, I was tired of reasoning with him.

Instead he went on to explain he didn't want to eat at the street market because it was too expensive. I informed him that I had eaten more food than I could handle the night before for less than 5 dollars. He just looked at me and said "do you know how much money I paid to reserve the table, Claire? 30 dollars - that's what I paid for the table." "Why would you pay 30 dollars for a table when you say the street market is too expensive?" He hesitated for a moment and replied "you don't trust me." And that's when I finally responded, "you're right, I don't."

He stared at me for a few moments, flashed me a fake smile, then turned to walk back over to his loitering spot while saying "Welcome to Zanzibar... welcome to Zanzibar."

like Robinson Crusoe, it's as primitive as can be

2010-12-06T23:37:00.001+01:00

Alcove facing the Indian Ocean

Call it paradise, a haven, or whatever you'd like, Chumbe Island is what I call heaven on earth. It really couldn't be anything less, especially when arriving there from a crowded and dirty location.

My cottage for the day

As we pulled up to the remote island on a small wooden motor-boat, I was in awe with the purity of it all. It is a research island where no rock is left unturned. Only a total of 15 people are allowed access to it each day. Each small group consisting of those 15 people are given an eco-friendly cottage during their stay. The water used in the cottage is collected from the rain and stored under the foundation in large tanks.

The heat and electricity comes from solar paneling located on the rooftops. And the toilet is "flushed" with two scoops of leaf compost.

The main focus of the research is on the overly abundant coral reef. After the few seconds it took for my brain to finally allow me to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose, I could hardly believe an hour and a half had gone by when our snorkeling instructor told us it was time for lunch. The color of the coral was so vibrant, and the species of fish beyond anything I had seen before.

I could have stayed for days and days. If only Utopia didn't cost so much...

dala dala

2010-11-30T17:22:00.000+01:00

On the morning of my third day's stay in Zanzibar I was running to catch my transportation, except I really didn't know what I was looking for. The street market it was located near was abuzz with commotion, people walking to and fro, others cramming themselves around food stalls, all of which I tried weaving in and out of.

I made plans that day to go to the opposite side of the island to visit friends I had met on safari. I was craving relaxation, and on top of that, I was craving a location where I could actually lay out on the beach.

The man, which my two star hotel employs as a five star concierge, spent a great deal of time researching the best mode of transport for me to take to the resort. When I declined the initial private taxi offer which would cost me $60 each way, he provided a second offer of a small group van costing $10 each way. I was perfectly content sharing a van with a few other people for a fraction of the price of a taxi.

The evening before my excursion, however, the concierge gave the unfortunate news that the sharing van didn't pass by my friends' resort. Again I was faced with the prospects of having to subject myself to an astronomically priced taxi ride. That's when the concierge chimed in, "then again, there's always the dala dala." "The what-a what-a?," I replied. He tried explaining, but already had me sold with the words '$2 round trip ride', so failed to listen to anything else. Thankfully I didn't know what I was getting myself into.

As I turned the corner of the last fruit stand, I saw the top of a moving vehicle, with a sign indicating it was the one I needed, just about to leave the station. Before I had time to process anything, I waved them down and grabbed hold of a hand which was helping me on.

A dala dala is the local transport, and due to the number of side glances I got, I'm assuming is not regularly frequented by tourists. I was squeezed onto a bench, already filled with people, that lines the walls of the truck. I couldn't understand why the conductor was waving more people in, but I soon found out. When there wasn't a centimeter of space left for someone to squeeze onto the bench, the narrow aisle way left to walk in and out from was lined with kneeling bodies. There was no sense of personal space. Elbows were jammed in faces. Heads were laying on laps. And we were encompassed in male body odor. On top of that, diesel fuel was hurdled towards us the entire hour long drive. I gasped for air, wondering how the locals could live to a ripe old age when their lungs had to be filled with soot.

But I relished the experience. I sat wide-eyed, trying to absorb everything that went on. I counted the heads of 27 people jammed into the truck bed. I watched as bikes, potato sacks, and other items were thrown on the roof and then taken down just as quickly when the person departed. And then there were the awkward conversations I held, initiated by men whose faces were two inches away from my own.

So I logically suggested it to two Americans I met the next day who were planning to visit the other side of the island.

self invitation

2010-11-25T22:33:00.001+01:00

My first afternoon in Stone Town found me in my hotel room, after a day of wandering the streets, wishing I were somewhere else. Anywhere else. I was tired of the loitering, the cat calls, the men asking me to come look at their shop, their sister's shop, their father's shop, or asking if I'd like to have dinner with them.

Although Zanzibar is an East African island, it was founded by the people of Oman. Nearly the entire population is Muslim. Mosques dot the city streets in Stone Town. Women are covered from head to toe in burkas. Arab mentality encompassed the area. And to top it off, my visit was right in the middle of Ramadan. As much as I would have enjoyed my stay had I been accompanied by a companion, I felt highly uncomfortable all alone.

Had I not been alone, I'm sure I would have taken the time to soak up the beautiful architecture, the vibrant colors, the kindness of others welcoming me to Zanzibar every 5 steps I'd take. The sites and sounds would have enveloped me, instead of overwhelm me. Wishing I were anywhere else is something I had never experienced before.

But there I sat, in my hotel room, mentally creating a game plan for the rest of my Zanzibar stay, determining to fill it up with daily excursions.

Due to Ramadan, the street market and most restaurants weren't opened until sun down, which was around 6:30pm. While on the roof of the hotel, writing in my journal to pass the time away, my mind was racing with the options presented to me. I could: a) walk the dark streets -there are no lights- of Stone Town on my own to get food, b) go to bed hungry, or c) find someone who would allow me to accompany them.

Having been my first evening there, I didn't know the lay of the land, and I didn't know how people acted when the lights were out. Although I've always been fascinated with the Muslim/Arab culture, I really didn't know how to react in it, and the many books I've read didn't seem to help calm my concerns. I really didn't want to go out alone. Not in the dark. Not on the first night. And I wanted to go to bed hungry even less than that.

There was a couple on the rooftop with me, planning their next day's activities. I surveyed them. I tried coming up with tactful ways to invite myself to join them without seeming like an inconvenience. So I struck up a conversation, just so they knew I wasn't crazy, or strange, or anything else that could have popped into their mind had I asked if I could be a third wheel for the evening right after saying the initial hello.

Michael and Gina were kind and gracious people. They humored me as I took their attention away from their guide book. I hinted at being wary of walking around alone at night. I might not have hinted well enough. So we returned to our previous tasks for a few minutes, until I gained enough courage to request if I could intrude on their previously planned evening. But when I did, they smiled and welcomed me along.

As we walked the city streets that night in the dark, with our flash lights, I started appreciating the beauty of the buildings. I enjoyed the sites and sounds, the curves of the road, and the hidden alleyways. And as an added bonus, I was introduced to an amazing restaurant I wouldn't have discovered otherwise.

in search of paradise

2010-11-21T15:46:00.002+01:00

My safari only lasted 6 days, but I wasn't about to fly all the way to Africa to spend less than a week there. I had to come up with another activity. Being alone, however, limited my options since I tried to keep safety in mind. I wanted nothing more than to spend a few relaxing days basking in the sun on a white sandy beach off the Indian Ocean.

I limited my limited options even more by only allotting a small budget on that relaxation. I very well could have payed another thousand-plus dollars on a nice resort on the Kenyan coast and been quite content, I'm sure. But since living in Holland has emphasized my penny pinching nature, I couldn't justify spending yet another thousand on top of the other thousands I spent the first 6 days there.

Sadly, that threw what limited options I had out the window. From what I had researched, I couldn't find a place on the coast that I would feel comfortable wandering alone in with the budget I had. But it was during that research that I discovered Zanzibar. It looked like the perfect place: small, cheap, safe, and even has a budget friendly hotel which is run by a Dutch woman. It had to be fate, and I couldn't pass it up.

Little did I realize though, the island was completely different than I had anticipated.

Divine intervention

2010-11-16T22:17:00.001+01:00

Sometimes my penny-pinching attitude overrides my street smarts (aka. lack of better judgment). Due to flight schedules, I was forced to spend one night in Nairobi before venturing on to Zanzibar. When researching accommodations for that night, I thought of the thousands I was spending on 6 luxurious nights' sleep in the bush, and decided I could rough it just once.

I found the perfect place: cheap and relatively near both airports. When I asked to reserve a single room, however, I was informed that all rooms were booked for that day. Instead, another option was offered: to sleep in a rented tent and sleeping bag. I debated and debated, and searched a few more locations, but the $11 price tag for an evening's stay was enough to persuade me to make the reservation.

I still didn't feel completely comfortable with the decision I had made, but I remained bull headed and determined to see it through. Thankfully, in my case, an angel was sent to intervene. Mary Anne arrived at the Mara Camp the same time I did. She is friends with the manager, Penny, and had come from Nairobi to spend a few days of relaxation. During that time we had some intriguing discussions about the novels she has written, such as "My Warrior Son", and "Nomad". Once she found out I had an evening layover in Nairobi, she asked where I was staying. She had never heard of the accommodation, but after telling her the street it was located on, she was quick to offer her home to me.

As it turned out, the street name of the accommodation I was supposed to have boasts the same name and general location as Kenya's largest slum, Kibera. Mary Anne was a wonderful hostess, providing me with a 4 poster bed, on-suite bathroom, a personal tour of the city and the aforementioned slum, along with feeding me a beautiful cheese souffle dinner at the end of the day.

The best part of it all, though, was that my 5 star Nairobi treatment cost less than it would have to sleep in a rented tent and sleeping bag, as it was FREE.

odds and (rear)ends.

2010-11-12T20:29:00.001+01:00

Ancient tradition? Or modern day knowledge?

2010-11-08T20:36:00.005+01:00

In the Mara I was paired up with a lady from England named Cathy. She had been on safari a few times before, loved birds and was thirsty for knowledge. Meaning, she was great to travel with since she opened my mind up to a number of new observations.

At one point her thirst produced a question I wouldn't have otherwise asked in my desire to know more. We had been talking to our guide, Joseph, who is Maasai. We asked him of his culture; how old he believed it was. He stated that he, and other tribesmen, believe the tribe is thousands of years old, having traveled south from Mt. Sinai. It had me thinking, and when I made mention of the 12 tribes of Israel, he said it is believed that the name Maasai is derived from Manasseh, Joseph's son. He stated that non-tribesmen believe his tribe originated from somewhere in the Sudan.

He spoke of how most men have more than one wife. He is the oldest of his father's sons, being a child of his father's first wife. There are five. When he was a child, the Kenyan government mandated all Maasai tribesmen to send one child to school. Joseph was sent because he was the only one of age. Most fathers send the least favored child to school, that child is generally born from the least favored wife. The seemingly harsh infliction is a huge blessing for the unpopular son. In the end, that son turns into a great blessing for his father and rest of the family as well, since he is the means of financial support for them.

When Joseph was around 14 or 15, the age at which most men in his tribe reach adulthood, the government placed a ban on killing wild game. Until that time, teenage boys, to prove their manhood, would spear a lion. The boy who's spear first pierced the animal would be honored and allowed to wear the lion's mane around his neck. Now there is no ritual accompanying their circumcision into adulthood.

It was upon hearing that which caused Cathy to pose the question I wouldn't have otherwise asked. "What about female circumcision?," she inquired. He explained that after a girl's first menstruation, she too is circumcised. Before Cathy's question, I tried feigning ignorance. Although I had heard it common in Africa, it still left a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't help myself at that point, I had to ask, even though it wasn't my place. "Joseph," I said, "will you circumcise your daughter?" He responded that he didn't want to, but unless tradition changed by then he would have to, since it's hard to find a man who will marry an uncircumcised woman.

As saddening as it to see an ancient culture desintegrate, Joseph saying most people doubt the Maasai will be around in 100 years, it is wonderful to know that modern day knowledge is being brought into the tribe, and the end of barbaric and brutal practices is in sight.

In case you ever wondered:

2010-11-04T10:42:00.000+01:00

There's no better way to feel at one with nature than by peeing in an African bush while wildebeest graze in front of you.

Common ground

2010-10-31T15:47:00.000+01:00

Wildebeest are indecisive creatures. I could see it clearly as we sat waiting at the waters edge for their inevitable crossing. It appeared as though they were fighting an internal struggle. Their nature dictating who they are, animals who at times must cross the river. Their judgment bidding them otherwise. They knew of the dangers, the possible death. Yet that desire to cross is ingrianed in them.

They would skirt around the water's edge for minutes on end before turning back around, their judgment getting the better of them. Part of me wondered why they even bothered. After all, many had just come over to our side of the bank when we arrived. Why go back?

Then again, maybe it was just a game to them, or a time to conquer fears, like I had done a few days prior at the waterfall.

No matter what the reason was, during the 40 minute wait to watch them cross, I came to the realization that earth's creatures, human or otherwise, all face challenges or struggles. Most importantly, we all have an innate desire to reach the other side of those challenges as conquerors.

(skip to minute 6 to strictly see them crossing the water)

rugged conditions

2010-10-25T17:36:00.001+02:00

Camping. In a tent. In Africa.

Not everyone is up to the challenge. Not everyone has a desire to sleep in the bush with only thin sheet of canvas protecting them from the wilds of Africa. And not everyone is able to forgo modern day amenities.

But I'm not everyone. And boy, did I rough it.

First, let's talk sleeping arrangements. Even though the tent was large and spacious, all I had to sleep on was a nice, plush, queen sized bed that was turned down every night. Hello?? Where's my 4 poster bed??

Second, the toilet. Granted, it was located inside the tent's bathroom area and had running water to it, meaning it was flush-able. But it was only an ivory toilet with a wooden seat -- what about the gold plated throne that my royal tush deserves?

Third, the wash basin. Yes, the hand made copper basin was situated atop a beautiful wooden table, adorned with candle lanterns and a large framed mirror. But, I was forced to use a pitcher that was regularly filled with hot water to wash my hands. Honestly, where's the sensor faucet that automatically turns on when I wave my hand beneath it??

Finally, the shower. This may have been worst of all. Although two of the camp employees carry a heavy bucket of deliciously warm water to fill the shower basin the moment you're ready to shower; although you're able to revel in the exotic location you're in as you pull on a cord attached to the shower head, allowing the water to release; and although you're able to feel extremely relaxed with the candle lit lanterns flickering on the nearby wash basin table, while showering under the bucket shower filled with warm water... the water eventually runs out! (What does it matter that soft and fluffy towels take the place of the warm water? All that matters is that it's gone).

So, can't you appreciate all I went through? The suffering I experienced? Aren't you glad it was me, not you, that was subjected to the nearly archaic accommodations at the Offbeat Mara Camp?

Luxury Location, part Deux

2010-10-19T21:10:00.001+02:00

After bidding adieu to Sosian, I drove two hours to the landing strip, boarded a plane and flew 45 minutes south to the Masai Mara. The stark difference between the two locations were immediately apparent. The Mara was hot, flat, brown, and a never ending expanse of land in every direction. And then there were the flies. They swarmed in the thousands... tens of thousands... hundreds of thousands, and especially loved the midday sun.

The Masai Mara is an extension of the Serengeti, near the border of Tanzania. Twice a year the wildebeest migrate across the border, in the winter they go from the north to the south and the summer from the south to the north. My trip was timed perfectly, as the wildebeest were at the tail end of their migration north. They dotted the land as far as the eye could see, yet, Penny, the Offbeat Mara Camp manager, stated it looked nearly empty to her compared to a few weeks prior.

While we waited 20 minutes for the next plane to arrive with 2 more guests at the Mara Camp, Penny suggested we go on a drive. Not once did I think we'd find anything, with the previous experience I had at Sosian, in only 20 minutes. But 5 minutes later we sat gawking at a lion cooling itself under the shade of a tree.

I was in awe at the vast number of animals we saw in such short periods of time. From my tent I was able to see a sea of animals grazing nearby. Every few minutes on drives we'd stop to see yet another animal.The ease in which to see the animals was amazing. They were everywhere. And I was thrilled.

My African family

2010-10-14T21:51:00.000+02:00

It sounds strange, I know. But maybe it was the fact that I was alone and in a way vulnerable, so they pulled me into a protective embrace. Or, it could have been the all meals, the activities, car rides and nearly every other moment spent together in a new environment. Then again, it could have just been the Sosian mentality and their naturally friendly attitude. Whatever it was, after 3 days, it felt like they were family.

natives

2010-10-11T09:36:00.002+02:00

Kenya is the home of two tribal groups, the Maasai and the Samburu - the latter being an offshoot of the former. In the Laikipia region, the Samburu tribe is more prominent. Both tribes, however, are cattle herders. They do have to follow regulations and keep their cattle in certain areas, because the bells of the cows scare off the wild game. Other than that, the land is just is much theirs as it is the animals' that roam free.

After seeing Samburu tribesmen walking on foot with no weapons for protection, I had asked Annabell how many tribesmen die from elephant attacks (or any other animal for that matter). She replied, on average, there are 2 tribesmen a year that die, but having a knowledge of the land and the animals, they're usually quite careful while walking in the bush.

On the way to the waterfall, Albie and I had to slow down due to an elephant bull in the road. The bull moved over and hid himself behind a bush. Hid as in, he positioned himself in a way that people on the road can't see him, but he can see them. A few moments later I spotted a few Samburu tribesmen. Albie spoke to them in Swahili and the next thing I knew we had 3 extra people in the car with us.

We turned around and drove them safely past the elephant. They got out and thanked us before going on their way. When we passed the elephant again, you could see in his eyes and in his posture that he was on the hunt, waiting for an unsuspecting victim. Who knows what could have happened had we not driven them past the bull.

The night of my birthday we were able to visit a local Samburu village. As we drove into the village they all greeted us with a handshake. It appeared as though they were all excited to see us, and welcomed us warmly. They sang and danced for us, and grabbed our hands to join along. We were invited inside one of their mud huts, which lacks any light except for the small fire they had burning on the floor inside. Their humble conditions were even worse than what I had seen while living in Brazil. But what amazed me in Brazil and more so during the visit to the Samburu village, is that their meager dwelling didn't stop them from having wonderfully happy countenances.

After getting a shot of the first person I took a picture of, I turned my camera around so they could see how it turned out. They laughed and pointed, and others gathered around as well. There came a moment when the image screen was so full of fingerprints I wondered how they could even see the picture anymore. After that, one person after another would request I take their picture so they could see it afterward. When I switched from my camera to my camcorder, a few boys started gathering around me. Although I had doubts if the Samburu people had ever seen the pictures taken of them before, I was well aware, in the way the boys were in awe, that they had never seen streaming video from a camcorder. It was such a beautiful experience, to see the excitement in their eyes for something we (from first world countries) have come to take advantage of.

(What's not beautiful is being unable to download my video directly to my blog, but having to go through YouTube in order to do so. P.S. I know the video is long, so I won't be offended if you skip through most of it).

A Sosian Birthday

2010-10-05T17:38:00.000+02:00

Tea time was every day at 4pm. Before we even arrived at the veranda, where tea was served, the table would be full of cups, plates, warm tea, and cake - a different cake each day, to be precise. The day of my birthday, however, was different.

The plates were out, the cups were out, the tea was out... but there was no cake to be found. I knew something was going on. Annabell, the manager, was rushing around, whispering to one employee or another. I thought, "Oh cute. They're going to light candles on the cake for me."

Boy did I underestimate the extent of my cake surprise!

African sunrise

2010-10-01T21:57:00.000+02:00

Every morning on safari was the same. Up at 6am when the sun is just starting to show itself in the horizon and out the door by 6:30 when the sunrise is at its peak in brilliant colors. The wake-up call is provided by someone at the lodge or camp with greetings for a good morning, and a tray waiting outside your door with a drink of your choice.

I'm not a morning person. I'm far from it. But if I was greeted every morning the way I was on safari, I'd be up at 6am, without complaint, every morning for the rest of my life.

Lion hunting

2010-09-27T21:08:00.002+02:00

Because the landscape at the Sosian Ranch is so rustic and finding animals isn't as easy as in the plains, their neighbors had put tracking devices on the wild dogs and lions. The neighbor's reason for the tracking device is for scientific purposes. Sosian's reason for the tracking device is to find the animals for their guests.

My second night there, Steve and Albie (the guides) took Vanessa, Anne, Matt and me (the guests) on a lion hunt. We drove along the dirt roads while Albie held the antenna and listened to the beeps coming from a signaling device. The closer we got the the animal, the faster the beeps came. This is how the hunting went... Albie listening and Steve driving down the dirt road, with the rest of us sitting in anticipation, knowing we were getting closer and closer with every turn of the wheels. And then... we stopped.

The next few seconds happened in such quick succession it's as if my mind was too slow to capture it all. Albie handed off the signaling device to Steve, and picked up a 325 caliber rifle as both opened their perspective doors and stepped out. It's one of those moments you wish you were seated in a stadium with the giant screens showing an instant replay in slow motion, because you weren't certain you saw the play correctly. At least, that's how the four of us sat... in shock and confusion. Unsure of what had just happened and what was going on, eager for an explanation. When Steve told us all to get out of the car, our response was in unison: "wait...what?"

See, the thing about the tracking device is, although it beeps faster the closer you get to the animal, it doesn't give an exact distance. Meaning, you never know if the animal is 5 feet or 50 feet in front of you. You just know that it's really close.

Wary, we stepped out. We looked at eachother with wide eyes. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who's heart started beating just a bit faster. And wouldn't you know it, but the first thing we did was walk through grass that was knee high. I kept thinking: "DIDN'T THEY EVER SEE THE LION KING??" You know, the part where Simba's dad is teaching him to hunt, so they get really, really, low in the high grass in order to keep their prey unsuspecting until the last moment,... when they pounce!

So I grabbed my camcorder and had it rolling. If I was going down because of a lion, I wanted the video played at my funeral.

Best. Breakfast. Ever.

2010-09-22T19:48:00.001+02:00

It's not that the food was beyond anything I've ever eaten before... although, it was good. It was the free entertainment that accompanied it that set the meal above any other that I have ever had.

Acrophobia: fear of heights

2010-09-17T19:37:00.001+02:00

At 16 while training to become a lifeguard, I had made a comment to my trainer about the distance between the lifeguard stand and the diving pool. To be honest, I was a bit afraid that if anyone was in need of my lifesaving skills, and I was required to jump from the stand into the pool, I wouldn't make it. I could see myself jumping and skimming the edge of the pool, hurting myself - which would make me unable to perform my ever important duties of saving someone from a watery grave.

She took my comment as though I was afraid of heights- which, in fact, was also true. But since I'm speaking honestly here, saying I have a fear of heights is an understatement. It's beyond a fear... and I don't even know if there's a word for that.

But to squelch my trepidation, she decided I should jump off the high dive ...a 10 foot drop into the water. Fear jolted through me as I climbed the ladder to the top. My heart rate increased as I slowly made my way to the edge of the board. And before I was given the OK to jump, I was breathing so deeply I thought I'd make myself pass out. But I did it. I jumped. And I felt so relieved to have it over with, until my head came back out of the water and my trainer was shaking her head and stated, "no, no, no... you closed your eyes! You ALWAYS have to keep your eyes on the victim until the very last second you reach the water. Now jump again, but this time: keep your eyes on me."

So I did. And I kept my eyes on her, until half way through when I was asked by her co-trainer to look at him... and I did. I came out of the water to the sound of rolling laughter. Between laughs they were able to get out the words "you know...ha ha...the wall clock...ha ha...that looks like a cat...ha ha...with the big eyes that move back and forth? Ha ha... you looked exactly like it... ha ha!" But at least I pacified them and didn't have to jump again.

My real concern, however, wasn't even met. If the need ever arose that I'd have to jump off the lifeguard stand, I didn't know if I could leap far enough out to hit the water before inevitably hitting my head on the cement. See, as afraid as I am of heights, that fear is increased ten fold when lateral distance is involved. Thankfully, no one ever came close to drowning on my watch.

Age hasn't diminished my fear, even in the slightest degree. But when I neared the waterfall, located on the Sosian Ranch property, I wasn't going to let it stop me from jumping. My entire trip to Africa was about reinventing my independence. Breaking out of the shells of fear I protect myself with. Becoming a new, fearless, woman... one able to conquer anything she sets her mind to.

The waterfall is 30 feet high. Three times the distance from the high dive I jumped half a lifetime ago. But I paid it no mind as a group of us climbed the cliff leading to it. It wasn't until we reached the top that my heart started racing. We walked across rocks in the river as water rushed around our feet and over the edge we were making our way towards. Two brothers, who were barely teenagers, urged me to jump first. I couldn't do it. So I watched as their little bodies flew over the ledge and into the water below. I continued watching as two other people made the plunge.

But when I could use the excuse of waiting for others no longer, I stood paralyzed. It was if I was 16 years old all over again, on the lifeguard stand forced to jump. My feet were planted on the small rock that served as a platform, too small to provide a running jump (or even a large step for momentum) over the rocky ledge that protruded out a few feet below.

I continued to stand, unable to move. All I could think about was hitting my head on the way down and not making it to my 30th birthday the next day. I looked down at the four people happily waiting for me below. I looked over at the two behind me that wouldn't jump until I did, to make sure I landed safely. And I stayed that way for 5 minutes.

My hands became numb and tingly. My knees started to buckle underneath me. I had to hold on to the rocky shelf for support. I couldn't get myself to do it. I couldn't get myself to jump. Finally, everyone decided to encourage me by counting down from 10. The entire time I gave myself a mental pep talk, and when they reached "1", I found myself free falling in the air.

I did it... and I was no longer that scared 16 year old girl, afraid she wouldn't make it to her 30th birthday the next day.

Luxury location

2010-09-13T21:03:00.003+02:00

My travel agent had provided me with two accommodation suggestions in her initial email to me. One was a luxury lodge and the other a luxury tent. She mentioned I could stay at one or the other, or possibly both, for the duration of my stay. There's no way I could have chosen between the two - and I'm so grateful I didn't - so I split my time in half. Three days were spent in the Sosian Ranch and three in the Offbeat Mara Camp. Both were so completely different, inside and out, that it felt I was on two separate vacations.

Sosian Ranch located at red dot

Sosian is located in Kenya's Laikipia region, right on the equator. The elevation is high enough that its geographic coordinates barely play a roll in its temperature. Even the equatorial neighbor, Mt. Kenya, has stumped scientists with its snow covered peak. During the days the weather was warm enough to wear summer clothing, in the evenings the temperatures dropped to the point of needing long pants and a jacket.

The landscape was just as diverse as the weather. It was green and lush, with rolling hills in some areas, rocks that shot out of nothing in others. There were rivers and waterfalls, forests and prairies, and bushes everywhere. Due to all of the above, animals aren't overly abundant, however there are diverse species of animals not found in other areas of the world.

Grevy's Zebra

The Grevy's zebra, for example, is only found in northern Kenya. Unlike their brother, the common zebra, Grevy's are taller, have rounder ears, and stripes that are so close together you could mistake the zebra for a bar code. They also happen to be my new favorite.