Stuffing and Bathing Suits: Happy Thanksgiving to Me!

The Thanksgiving holiday this year was interesting-a vastly different environment, yet not without some of the usual accoutrements that typically accompany this day. I was slightly bummed to be missing my family celebration this year, but not bummed enough to stay home. Turkey in West Virginia vs. Wild Animals in Africa.....that is a no-brainer for me. Having said that, when Thursday found us waking at 5 AM, mumbling a Thanksgiving day greeting to each other, and once more hauling our stuff into a waiting bus, I felt a touch of the holiday funk start to wash over me. This was soon to be displaced, albeit temporarily, by outright fear for my life on the bus ride. If you have not done so already, please read the previous post for a breakdown of bus rides in Tanzania. Then you can come back.

So there we were, all settled in for the eight hour ride to Morogoro. It is hot as Hades, cramped (remember, I am sharing the seat with a man twice my size) and I am hungry. Longingly, I think of the feast at home and my family around the table. This is my first holiday being engaged, and not only am I not there, I am not even sure that a telephone call to Adam will be in my imminent future. Oh dear. Will he think I forgot about him? Surely, he knows that I will still.....oh wait! We just nearly had a head-on collision with another large bus, and my bus driver's head is drooping. This reverie is postponed until later when I can stop the ceaseless prayers.

After eight sweaty, cramped, hungry, thirsty hours, we arrive in Morogoro to a chaotic scene of buses, taxis, and touts. There is lots of yelling and shouting from people who desperately want us to choose their taxi for the next leg of our journey. I am not in the mood for this. We don't see our friend, so we have no choice but to take a taxi to the center of town to find the supermarket because that is near where the internet cafe is and we need the internet to find the number of either our friend or the farm at which we are staying and then we need to find a phone so that we can attempt to enjoy what is left of this day.   That is exactly how the thoughts were running in my head. A shower and a meal seemed a dismal prospect. Thanksgiving joy? Forget it.

Then, in the time it has taken me to write these few paragraphs, the tide of gloom turned to a veritable fountain (or maybe just a spray) of happiness. We found some mango juice next to the internet cafe and followed that up with some ice cream at the supermarket. With sugar coursing through my body, the world was looking much better. Armed with the telephone number we needed, a random and very nice man let us use his cell phone without even charging us. (Completely off topic: if you ever need to use a phone in Tanzania, it is usually no problem as long as it is domestic. Many Tanzanians will let you use their cell phone if you compensate them anywhere from .50-$2).  Then came our crowning moment of the day, the moment that defined this day and now graces the title of this post. Katy, our friend and contact in country, arrived in her air-conditioned vehicle, bearing the news that not only had she prepared stuffing to accompany dinner, but that there was a pool at the place we were staying! This last piece of information was met with brief exultation until we all realized that we had left our bathing suits at her home three hours away. Spirits down. Spirits jubilantly high when she informed us that she had brought them with her and the pool was ours for the taking!

So, to sum up, it was not my usual Thanksgiving in many respects. It was, however, one for the memory books. The menu was mostly the same. I was beyond thrilled when I was able to eat real mashed potatoes swimming in a delicious pool of gravy. The stuffing? Amazing. Just like at home, I did have to take a long ride in a vehicle to get to dinner, although the two hours in my clean, roomy, temperature-controlled car does not quite compare to this year's ride. That is probably where the similarities end though. I do not ever recall swooning in near ecstasy over the prospect of swimming before dinner (at least at that time of year) or the presence of stuffing.  Sitting around the candlelit table that evening under the African sky, I wished I could preserve the contentment of the occasion. There was great food, new people to make friends with, and old friends with whom to chalk up another treasured memory. I knew that next year would bring a different happiness, another type of gratification-I will have a husband to call family by then.  Yet, for that moment, I just wanted to relish the warm glow of my African Thanskgiving.

This is what I find funny....

I took lots of pictures in Tanzania. Many of those will never see the light of day again. Others, I am pretty darn impressed with. And these? Well these have a special category all of their own. They all make me laugh just by looking at them. Some of you may understand why at first glance; others of you will just have to wonder at my sense of humor. Either way, enjoy and make up a caption if you wish! The best captions will be posted under the picture in a separate blog entry,with your name and a link to your blog or website- once I figure out how to actually do that. I am having some technical issues today, which is why you are not reading this paragraph until halfway down the page.

Joy O' Public Transit

Backpacking across a continent or country inherently means that a chunk of your time will be in spent in transit. Presumably, if you are backpacking, you are doing it on a shoestring budget. Which means, go as the locals go. That could be by bus, train, boat, tuk-tuk, dalla-dalla, combi, or your own two feet. This most recent trip to Tanzania was absolutely no exception. We spent some quality time on large, non-airconditioned, dirty buses, packed with people and luggage. As I was bumping along on an 8 hour ride from Arusha to Morogoro Thanksgiving day, I pondered that the only good thing about these long rides is that it gives me a chance to catch a glimpse of life  in whatever location I happen to find myself. In Tanzania, I watched snippets of routine unfold before me-market day, washing day, meeting day, and  "rush hour" all provided colorful explanations of the routine of daily living.

Let me stop there. For that is the ONLY, I repeat ONLY positive attribute of such a ride. Did I mention that many of the vessels of transit I have taken over the years are veritable deathtraps? Again, Tanzania was no exception. For example, hurtling along in a large bus, indiscrimanately passing other buses, cars, bicycles, goat herds and crowds of small children found me sitting with my heart in my throat. These were not interstates we were traveling upon. No, these were paved (barely) roads with tight curves,  no markings, no lane boundaries, no shoulder, nothing. Everyone uses these roads to get where they are going in whatever type of transportation they can muster. Consequently, it's an obstacle course of roadblocks. At least, that is how our driver apparently saw them as he whipped past TODDLERS on the side of the road! Speaking of the driver, he also chugged several Red Bulls during the course of this ride, presumably to stay awake. That became my assumption just after I had the misfortune of looking in his rearview mirror and seeing his eyes and head drooping. This is the point in our journey when the prayers heavenward were amplified with a quickness. To complete this situation, we passed not one, not two, but three major accidents involving tractor trailers turned over on their side in a twisted heap of metal and wreckage. Not a comfort as we zoomed past. I was also sharing a seat with a man twice my size, which was a welcome relief after the woman three times my size attempted to wedge herself in beside me. It was sweltering, I was sweaty and filthy, I couldn't move, and fear for my life was in abundance. In spite of all this though, (or perhaps because of) I wouldn't do it any other way. The exposure to life in Tanzania (or Bangladesh, or Costa Rica, or wherever) even from a bus window, is well worth the discomfort and the pittance fare. Happy Thanksgiving to me!

Oh, What a Wonderful World!

Never in my life have I witnessed unparalled beauty, splendor, and raw majesty in nature. Truly humbling. The vistas of the Ngorongoro Crater are magnificent, testament to the work of a Creator. Quietly observing the rhythm of routine was a privilege that I may never encounter again.

My favorite part? Watching the Discovery Channel unfold in front of my eyes as two cheetahs, slinking through the grass, stalked a giant herd of wildebeests and a smattering of zebras. They were trying to play it cool-advancing a few yards and then frolicking and rolling around as if they were merely out for a stroll and not their lunch. The intent to kill was obvious to all who were watching, but not to the happily munching  herbivores.

Inexplicably, the cheetahs gave up after a time and stalked back towards us. This was good for our cameras and of course, the wildebeests. I actually found myself a bit disappointed though. My heart had been pounding, wondering if I was going to see the circle of life in action. My disappointment caused me to ponder just exactly how I went from "accidentally" letting fish go uncaught when fishing with Adam, to hoping to see blood and gore on the Crater floor. How is this even possible? I attribute it to the heat of the moment....when in Africa, do as they do. Or something. Those cheetahs were things of beauty-sleek bodies and proud faces. Later, a faint rainbow peeking through the mist solidified my contentment with this adventure. Oh, what a wonderful world!                                     

 

Does This Sound Like a Vacation to You?

I haven't even left yet, and I am already exhausted. Just pondering the sheer amount of travel we are going to be doing has me dragging. After flying 20 hours to get there, we are going to get up in the morning and travel eight hours by bus back up to the northern part of Tanzania where we will be "safariing." Is that a word? Incidentally, we will have already landed in this area as our first point of entry the night before. However, KLM is being snotty and telling us that we cannot disembark there. Pew on KLM. I have been eagerly anticipating this trip for nine whole months now, but  a vacation it is not. Imagine yourself leaving your already hectic life, transporting yourself across the world one Thursday afternoon, awakening Saturday morning in the capital city of an African country, and then hopping on a bus to go meet a jeep that will ferry you around while viewing wild animals that you usually only see on television. Then, keeping up that pace for two hectic weeks while simultaneously attempting to navigate the terrain and the transportation system , plus  trying to fend of mosquitoes and other agents of disease every day. Does this sound like fun to you? No? I cannot imagine why not! Yet, it's a slice of heaven to me. I will come back exhausted, but I will also come back happy.

In Which I Devise A Plan to Fool Tanzanian Immigration Officials

I have stepped up my trip research to frantic levels these past few days. We leave in less than a month and there is much to be done. Did I mention that I am also trying to plan my wedding? I am. Add that  to holding down two jobs, my own schoolwork (I am working on shaving the "substitute" off of "substitute teacher"), moving, and I might as well have thrown myself into a maelstrom. That actually might be preferable to the current feeling I have of being sucked out to sea in a Costa Rican riptide. Remind me to write about that little experience. Such a fun one.

Anyway, as you might imagine, there are several easily contractable diseases to be found in the Dark Continent. As I am a poor substitute teacher with no health insurance, the task at hand is to find which of these diseases I am most likely to become stricken with, and avoid them at all costs. Great plan right?! Yellow fever and malaria are my chief concerns at the moment, although the random physician I spoke with on the phone earlier today scared the heavens out of me with dire cautions about polio and typhoid. I told him that I was not interested in receiving either of those vaccines and he acted as if my obituary was already printed in the paper. He really should work on his bedside manner.

Yellow fever vaccine costs anywhere between $160-200. They always want to have a "consultation" which runs about $90 and lasts for 90 seconds. No thanks. However, my latest research has been conflicting. Many sources state that you cannot enter the country without a valid certificate stating that the traveler has been vaccinated. Our contact in country says that she has not heard of anyone being detained for not having it. A post from the embassy dating back to 2008 though, says you must have proof. Check the embassy website today, and it has now changed to only needing it if you are coming from a yellow fever endemic country. The US of A is not, but who knows if that will change again? I called the Tanzanian embassy today and the woman told me I do not need it, and in the next breath told me "there is no yellow fever there." Well, I must beg to differ after checking http://www.cdc.gov/ and finding almost the whole of Tanzania covered in yellow to represent...you guessed it....yellow fever!

So my current options are:
1) Pay the $200, get the shot and feed into the vortex of money thrown around for medical "consultations." I don't mind paying for the shot, it's the 90 second consultation that is really going to piss me off.
2) Skip the shot altogether
OR my ace in the whole:
3) Change that "4" to a "9" on my immunization card. You see, I actually had the yellow fever shot when I was 14, prior to heading to Ecuador. The proof is good for 10 years, starting 10 days after the injection. I had the shot in 1994, making it expired as of 2004. However, if I change the 1994, to a 1999, I am golden! Plus, apparently the vaccine is good for anywhere from 10-30 years, which I fully realize is a wide span of time. I am also not sure if that is entirely accurate as you cannot believe everything you read on the internet. Right? This though, I really want to believe. That way, I can have peace of mind about not getting the shot.

So here I find myself daydreaming and scheming to fool immigration officials while I am supposed to be focusing on the 6th graders in front of me. At least I waited until I got home to write about it, but I cannot promise that my mind was entirely focused on the lesson at hand. Rather, I am afraid that I was busily imagining myself sauntering up to immigration and confidently producing my forged documents. Oh dear...am I really plotting this? I should just get the shot.

Do you readers have any input? Better yet, does anyone have factual information about yellow fever in Tanzania??

The Next Best Thing

I love to read. I have loved reading since I was little and had to go to my mom's bookstore after school and wait for her to finish working. There was a big, old ceramic heater that spanned the entire front window of this bookstore and I used to sit there and read my little heart out until Mom was ready to close up shop for the night. I have not been the same since. Boyfriends over the years have elected to get me books or gift certificates to buy them instead of some ole' stand-by flowers.  Then there was the time I dropped my library book in the toilet after....well, you know what preceded it, and had to sheepishly explain to the scary librarian why her formerly pristine book was in shambles. Anyway, I digress.

I was thinking this morning how powerful the written word can be. They are able to facilitate an easy and cheap journey to another hemisphere. Hence, the next best thing!  I was reading a post by a fellow travel blog exchange member and was immediately transported to Bahrain of all places. Mind you,  I am sitting in West Virginia, where to mention the name "Bahrain" a few of my fellow citizens may think I am referring to my brain. (I said a few, so any West Virginians reading this, I do not mean you!) Yet, there I was, in a Bahraini shopping mall, watching the man sleep on the plush couch, and trying to skirt the frowning gaze of the security guard. Cool huh? (Check the post out here if you are interested in reading-thanks to Sophie at http://blogs.bootsnall.com/Anne-Sophie/scenes-from-a-bahraini-mall-empty-elegance.html.   So that got me thinking--what are my favorite books to read that can catapult me across the world with a turn of the page? There are too many to list. However,  I will give you two of them here and I hope that you will add your own. Maybe I have read them already, or maybe I need to get to my local library with a quickness.

First on my short list:
Around the Bloc by Stephanie Elizondo Griest. This is an oft amusing, yet realistic snapshot of the author's life as a foreign correspondent in Communist Moscow, Beijing, and Havana. Her life in all three of these cities was peppered with adventure of the kind you can only experience in countries run by scary dictators. Basically, I want to BE Ms. Griest.

Second and last on the short list:
My Path Leads to Tibet by Sabriye Tenberken. If this book does not make you dig just a little bit to find your altruistic, compassionate, selfless side, then I don't know if there is hope for you! Sabriye became blind at the age of 12 and chose then to never allow this condition to prevent her from doing anything. And by anything, I mean she traveled to Tibet and opened the first school in that country for blind children. Oh, and she developed a Tibetan Braille alphabet. When she found out that blindness guaranteed living as an outcast in Tibet, she made her choice to change that. Change it she did. Her descriptions of the country, the Tibetans that became her family, and her journey made me think I was right there, working tirelessly to organize the school. Awesome book, easy read, and you will want to change something about your world after finishing it!

Your turn!

On the Move Again

I am leaving for Tanzania in a just few short weeks.  I  am starting to feel that old familiar swell of excitement and nerves within me of being on the move with all my possessions in a pack the size of a small whale on my back. The excitement comes from not knowing where I will sleep that night. Of seeing faces much different than my own, hearing a tongue indistinguishable to my ear. It comes from waiting for the opportunity to snatch a perfect photo op, and from exchanging a grin with a local who has been bemusedly watching me bumble my way through his day.

This excitement arrives slowly, and peaks with a fury. If the trip is a longer one, the fury of excitement subsides into a happy, contented rhythm of life, with my only concern being where to find the tastiest meal on which to spend my cordoba, baht, or rupee.  In this case, it has been simmering since last February when I booked my ticket.

Six weeks before departure, my thoughts are peppered with plans, ideas and "must-do's-prior-to."  I cannot wait to venture out again. The very word "travel" is a simple one.  Yet, it has the power to invoke volumes of nostalgia and an insatiable lust for wander amongst those who have woken up one day in a foreign land and discovered it in their blood.   Simply put,  Africa is a dream come true. My only regret thus far, is that this time I won't be gone long enough to miss home.

How do the rest of you feel prior to a big trip?

Would You Like a Side of Cheese With That Hurricane?

Growing up in West Virginia has all but guaranteed that I am not familiar with how to prepare for a hurricane, much less survive one. And never did I think I would have to until the one fateful summer that my friend Suby and I chose to schedule our big trip to Belize  in the midst of hurricane season. In retrospect, I am not quite sure that the  combination of our destination, its tropical location and the time of the year registered even once on our list of precautions. (Also not registered on the radar of important things: a swimsuit. For some reason, Suby did not deem it necessary to bring one on our beach vacation.)

We arrive in the country and almost immediately learn that Hurricane Dean is well on his way. This causes  more than a little concern. We opt to get all of the water activities out of the way before he arrives so that our vacation is not a complete waste of time and money. Once these are accomplished, we head for  higher ground. San Ignacio seemed like the place to be, especially since it is only nine miles from the Guatemalan border and Guatemala was our next destination.   There was plenty to do in San Ignacio, and it was supposedly safe from the major effects of Dean. Not the only travelers possessed with this idea, we arrive to find that the town is packed and there is hardly a room within our piddly budget to be found. Furthermore, to add dismay to one already unfolding disaster, we hear from the locals that there is flooding in Guatemala and it is apparently in or near the area where we need to go. This is really great news as we have no alternate plan, no friends or family in the area, and clearly, Suby has no swimsuit in case we need to swim out of San Ignacio.

The only sure activity on our agenda at this point was that Dean was coming. That much we knew for certain. Undaunted by Deany boy,  we opted to make the most of the time we had until he blew in and head out the next day to do some things locally; boating into caves, visiting some museums, etc. You know, all the normal stuff you do while waiting for impending disaster. After all the pre-hurricane festivities,  we arrive back into the center of town to find it in a frenzy of activity. People are scurrying about, boarding up windows and buying supplies.  The  implications of what we are seeing finally start to sink in.  A hurricane is coming! A real, honest-to-goodness, the kind you see on the news, hurricane.  What do we do? Suby is from Dallas, Texas, and I am from West Virginia. Neither of those locations are really in the path of this type of disaster.  We are unsure of how to proceed but it is quite clear that some sort of action must be taken. So, we took a cue from our friendly and ever-vigilant media outlets in the US who like to broadcast from the bread aisle of supermarkets in the midst of storms and headed off to find the nearest place to buy groceries.  Everyone seems to be stockpiling something and we feel that we should as well. Now, what to stockpile?  Milk? Nah, powdered gross Belizean stuff. Chocolate? Yes, but not a necessity in this crisis. Meat? No refrigeration. Cheese? Nah. Hmmm. Wait. Yes, cheese! Now at this point, you may wonder why we decided upon cheese. And, at this point, you should stop wondering,  because there really is no answer.  All you need to know is that we triumphantly exited that little store, clutching our cheese. When we eventually  found bread at another store, it was as if we had hit the lottery. We were ready to sit back and wait. Suby, me, bread, and cheese. Good times. Not wanting to wait by ourselves with only our ever-growing sense of panic to dwell upon,  we traipsed off to a bar/restaurant so that we wouldn't feel so alone (and by alone, I mean terrified). As even they were closing early to prepare, it was apparent that we were not going to find much solace in the company of others.  Trudging back to our room with only our cheese and gloomy thoughts,  we considered the flooding before us and the  hurricane coming behind us. What to do?          

I will just go ahead and alleviate some suspense now and tell you that after a tense evening watching scrambled television and listening to the sounds of the storm, Dean blew right through San Ignacio leaving only a rain calling card. The crisis was averted, leaving only one all-encompassing question:  what to do with the cheese? Suby wanted to sell it to the people in the next room, but considering that our very lives had just been spared,  I felt selling our package of emergency cheese would be a bit too ruthless.  We gave them both the bread and cheese, packed up our stuff, and hightailed it to the border.

PS. I could not find the picture above in any of my online albums, so its grainy appearance is due to the fact that I took a picture of a picture. Ingenuity at its finest. That is sort of what landed us in the whole Belizean hurricane, cheese- hoarding mess in the first place! Next time I hope we will consider age-old weather patterns before venturing to ports afar.

Update to " Rollin' Down the Yangtze"

If you have not yet read the post mentioned in the title, go back and read that. Right now. Then you can come back and read this one! 

So just today, three years after this cruise down the Yangtze, sans fun or any shred of "cruisey" atmosphere,  I discover something. Right now I work part-time at a hostel and therefore get to meet new people on a pretty regular basis. This morning I met a guy who studied for four months in China. I spent about a month there, but that was long enough to venture to many of the same places as him. As soon as I told him I went on a Yangtze river boat ride, he  questioned whether it was the Chinese cruise or the western cruise. I replied "Excuse me? There were other options?"  He then informed me that yes, the other option is the cruise which caters to foreigners, and is a  "party cruise where all the white people go." Apparently, it's the same thing as the Chinese version only you are with other Western foreigners and most people speak English. It's just like a regular cruise you might take to sunny Barbados, minus the muddy Yangtze, prehistoric boat, and the Chinese language.

WHAT??

These last three years I have been thinking that we just got duped into thinking this "cruise" was something other than what it really was. Come to find out after all,there really was a real cruise option where they didn't leave you locked on the boat with snoring wildebeest roommates and in which you understood where you were going, when, and why you were going there. In other words, the complete antithesis of our Yangtze experience.

I keep telling myself it's all about the adventure and it really IS, but couldn't I have enjoyed just one fruity beverage or an itinerary spoken and/or written in my mother tongue?

A Brand Spankin' New Passport

I had to get a new passport this summer. Contrary to the theme of this blog, I did not find any humor or enjoyment in this process at all. Getting the new passport meant two things to me:
1) Without stamps and "weatheredness" (yes, I just made that word up) my trips to lands afar would be reduced to ashes. Ok, not really ashes. Perhaps I am being just a wee bit dramatic here, but you get my point.
2) I am almost 30. ! This was, and still is,  actually more traumatic than having to surrender Old Blue Faithful. Three decades of life is what I have been dreading since the day I turned 21 when I sat in a heap on my couch and sobbed at the stroke of midnight because 21 meant there were only nine good years left. (I am not being dramatic here, although I wish I was. This actually happened). And now, with one little expiration date on one little blue book that I use once a year or so, I could no longer skirt the issue. I must face my resistance to a new book AND a new (old) age.

It is not that I thought the renewal process would be particularly difficult. It is just that I was loathe to surrender the passport that I have had since 1999, at the ripe age of 19. At that time, the ten year expiration date seemed a distant event.   2009? That wasn't until the next century!  However, July 19 of this year crept up on me like a thief trying to steal said passport and I strategically began plotting how I could retain my old one. If I had just researched the topic more thoroughly, I would have known that my old one would be sent back to me. Instead, I was plotting ways that I could report it stolen, lost, or just "forget" to turn in the old one. That little book had hiked with me through the Andes, languished in the possession of an Indian immigration officer, and scaled the Great Wall of China. I don't have children, but I felt as if I was getting rid of one of them. How would you like to exchange one of your children for a new one? You wouldn't if you are at all a nice person.

My new one came by mail shortly after I applied for it and the old one followed suit thereafter. My only consolation is that I look almost the same at 29  as I did at 19. And that is something to be happy about!

Hiking the Andes Mountains in "I Have a Death Wish" Footwear

So, if you know anything about the Andes Mountains, you know that they are the longest mountain range in the world, spanning seven South American countries. More significantly for this post, this range also contains a few of the highest peaks in the world. My trip to South America was not complete without resplendent views of these stunning masterpieces of creation. I could use adjectives such as "stunning," "mesmerizing," or "awesome," but they would remain inadequate unless and until you find yourself in the tiny village of Vilcabamba, surrounded on all sides by them. Truly a sight to behold. However, merely beholding them was just not good enough for us despite the fact that none of are mountain climbers, or even really interested in a mere hike. Yet, when the opportunity presented itself one day to traipse through said mountain range, we jumped on it. In flip-flops.

We were out innocently visiting the equator (in and of itself another adventure) when we stumbled upon the possibility of taking a side trip to a volcanic crater. The only issue was that to view such a crater, we had to climb about 4000 meters into the moutain. Now, this may not seem like much, but we had major footwear concerns. However,  when we voiced these concerns to our guide, he assured us "no problema." Unconvinced, but foolhardy, we started out. It started out fine enough- nice grassy patches, beetles, and giant piles of dung to lull us into the false impression that this was just like strolling through pastoral farmland. A bit later, all of these nice things were replaced with loose gravel, sheer drop-offs, and windy conditions. In my humble opinion, these are all potential "problemas." Perhaps our guide was a mountain goat in his previous life, because he did not seem the least bit concerned for our safety. He simply forged on ahead and it remained on us to keep up with him and the group. Furthermore, the little clump of weeds that we eventually found ourselves clutching for dear life, did nothing for our sense of safety. It only reinforced the reality that flip-flops in the Andes are not what the guide book recommends. While this little episode could probably make the cut for TLC's "What NOT to Wear," the view (albeit a foggy one) was well worth the risk of death or disfigurement. This is not to say that my heart was not pounding and that I was not practically hugging that rock with the weed clump, but the Andes Mountains are a spectacle not to be missed, regardless of your footwear.  

Family Vacation

Do not let the title fool you. This "vacation" was anything but fun, relaxing, or anything resembling a vacation for that matter. I chose to title it simply, in order to allow the phrase to seep into the reader's mind, provoking any images, emotions, angst, horror or happiness, with which these two little words are oft accompanied. Let me begin.

It is June of 2002. I have just graduated college. My parents want to relive their young married days and take another cross country trip, similar to the one they took shortly after they became a family. I had the option to go or not, but I felt that as a big college graduate  I should grace them with my presence one last time on vacation. After all, who really knew what the future would hold?

The plan was to start in Ohio at the home of my grandparents and venture out from there into Michigan, through its Upper Peninsula, up into Canada through Manitoba, and back into the States by way of the Dakotas. An industrious itinerary for a two week timespan.

All starts out well and good, if not a bit boring. However, I had never seen this part of the country before, and I always enjoy getting to see new things. The cute little family of black bears on the side of the road was probably the highlight of this portion of the trip. It all went downhill from there. Somewhere in the Upper Peninsula, I began to feel ill, with what I hoped was not strep throat. However, living in the dorms guaranteed not only that I contracted it every year, but that I was fairly well-versed in its symptoms. After a full day of a suspiciously sore throat and aching body, I knew the game was up. I informed the family that I had strep throat, to which my dad replied with "Nonsense, it's just a cold!" His remedy? Over the counter Tylenol and sleep. Anybody who has ever had strep knows this only prolongs the feeling of imminent death.   For the next few days, while the family ventured out into the great wilds of Michigan and then Canada, I stayed in whatever frumpy motel room we had landed in and attempted to nurse myself back to health without the aid of an antibiotic. After two days of this, I became quite irritable which was only magnified by dad's lack of compassion for my condition. No amount of reasoning would convince him that I needed a doctor. This went on for days. So did my grouchiness. Grouchiness and illness do not a happy traveler make. Did I mention that our vacation consisted of driving all day to get to the location of choice and then stopping in some podunk motel at night to sleep? No fun, no sightseeing, no happiness. Finally, hours outside of Winnipeg, headed southbound, I could stand it no more. Dear Dad got out to gas up, and I took the opportunity to win Mom over on my side. I informed her that at this point, I either needed to be taken to a hospital or an airport. My misery could not continue.  Surprisingly, she took me seriously, and announced the ultimatum to Dad when he rejoined us in the car. He grudgingly (and this is a kind description of his acquiesence) agreed to stop at the first doctor we found.

As we were in the rural wilds of Saskatchawan, Canada at the time,  this anticipated visit to a medical facility did not occur until a bit later when we finally crossed back into the great US of A. First town we came to?  "Murder free for as long as anyone can remember" Crosby, North Dakota. I am not kidding.  There may have been absolutely nothing going on in this bucolic village, but we were certainly safe from any thugs trying to murder us. Check out Crosby here, to begin planning your next vacation.


http://www.crosbynd.com/

Anyway, I do not wish to seem ungrateful, because Crosby is where the healing began. We drove around and easily found a hospital. (There are probably only five people that live there, so it wasn't difficult). At least the sign says it is a hospital. However, when we enter the emergency room, the stillness belied its name. There was certainly no emergency except my own dramaticized crisis happening there that day. Quite frankly, I am not sure whether there was ever any event that caused a flurry of activity in this hospital. We walked in and the lights were off! Our shouts of "Hello? Hello?" finally elicited a response on the other side of the building when we stumbled upon the nurse station. We explained my problem and they  informed us that we would need to wait a little bit for the doctor to arrive. He had only been in the US about a week, fresh from Pakistan, and today was not one of his days to work.

Insert pause here for slight consternation. 

Only a pause though, because I didn't care; I was not leaving there without drugs. I would have waited if he was still on the plane from Pakistan because that is how miserable I felt. He arrived just a bit later, and he was quite nice and cheery and set me right up with an antibiotic. I felt this should have proved to my dad that I did indeed have strep, but to this day, he insists that it was just a cold, and that I was overly dramatic. Seven years later, I have conceded (not to him though!) that I may have been a tad bit overzealous in my demands, but I will never believe that the strep test lied.

Post-doctor visit, my condition vastly improved, but my attitude did not.  Within two days or so, I was able to regale the family with my snarky comments and demands once again. I was quite miffed over being left in motel rooms, lying in a pool of sweat, yearning for antibiotics. I took each and every opportunity, then and now, to remind him of his cold heart. The rest of the trip can be characterized by the following highlights:
1) Indian reservation in South Dakota where my father manages to offend a young Native American. We will just leave it at that.
2) Mt. Rushmore, one of the few things on my itinerary that dear Dad relented to stop and see. We pull up to the entrance, Dad learns of the $7 fee, and asks "Do you really want to go in? Can't you just see it from here?"
3) Another desired stop by me, Chicago. Dad again relents and we drive through rush hour traffic in one of the seedier parts of the city. We are spit out on LakeShore drive, the only redeeming factor of this "visit" to Chicago. This rush hour ramble was the extent of my entire experience there.  However, he insists that I got to see Chicago. I have since been back to this magnificent city several times and thankfully, have formed a much better opinion of it than I did that day.
4) Shall I go on? I will take this opportunity to say that I love my dad dearly and the constant struggle between us at that time is representative of a less-than-calm period of my life. Plus, we are two peas in a pod.  Snarky ones at that :)

Border Woes and ODB, Part 2

If we had been in a correct frame of mind, we would have realized the "Welcome to Tumbes" sign was not for the town where we needed to go, but rather for the state or province of Tumbes. ODB correctly calculated our ignorance and announced that we had arrived, and "que lastima, look how unfortunate it is that the bus station is closed!" At this point, I knew we had to get out of the taxi immediately. Post-haste, without delay, STAT! This was Costa Rica all over again. I couldn't believe it was happening to me not once, but now twice. ODB kindly offered/demanded to take us to Mancora, for a generous price of course. A price that was probably what he would make in two months of driving his taxi, and two minutes if the occupants were gringos in ignorant bliss. We were gringos, but not ones in bliss. I knew what was up. Of course his price was not to our liking, but it didn't matter-HE was not to our liking. I repeatedly yelled from the backseat (I refused to even sit near him) NO! Let us out!! Finally, I assume he realized that the crazed white girl in his taxi was nearly apoplectic and finally complied with our vociferous demands. We disembarked in a hurry and a huff.

I marched over to the nearest person and very nicely asked if we were in Tumbes. The man looked at me with a mixture of pity and incredulity in his eyes and that is when I knew I had been had once again. He informed that Tumbes was still thirty minutes away. At this point, it was getting late, and the good citizens of Zuramilla were not exactly welcoming or cheery. We attracted a crowd, but they certainly were not the kind that had cookies and tea ready. There are only a few times in my travels when I have felt that I needed a quick exit and this was one of them. Just a slight issue here though, we didn't know where we were, we didn't know how to get where we were going, and whenever we finally did arrive, we would still had another two hours to get to Mancora. Note to budding travelers: Staying the night in a shady border town should never be on the list of options, only the list of last resorts.

Right at this moment, as we are standing on the sidewalk having this semi-panicked discussion, with our baby rhino bags piled around us, a senora in the shop window offers her advice. Now, I greatly appreciate when people more knowledgeable than I step in and offer suggestions, but hers sent chills down my already cold spine. She told us in no uncertain terms that we needed to leave, that it wasn't safe. Senora was only confirming what we were already feeling, but her insistence added another layer of angst to our little situation. It was at this point that what I consider to be an intervention of God occurred. No one will ever convince me that what happened next wasn't courtesy of angels in disguise.

Let me reconstruct the scene for you first. We are standing on a street corner in a dusty little Peruvian village a few minutes from the border.  The locals, with the exception of the kind senora, are somewhat hostile. We have huge backpacks. We are gringos. We have no idea what to do. We are hours from Mancora, our final destination and it is already approaching dusk. We do not even have a place to stay whenever we do arrive. There is no public transportation, not even a single taxi in sight. We are surrounded by curious onlookers. I am beginning to come to grips with the fact that out of all of my journeys, this is probably the biggest pickle I have yet to land myself in when two security officers seemingly materialize out of thin air. I really cannot say where they came from. I just looked up and they were there. One of them kindly asked where we needed to go. The instant he spoke, I felt calm and relief washed over me. I felt that we were somehow going to make it out of this desperate little situation. We told them and they instructed us to come with them. As we had absolutely no other alternatives or better ideas at this point, we picked up our stuff and fell in step with them. No questions asked. Their very presence caused the small crowd we had attracted to scatter, and for the first time in hours, I felt calm. We walked across the town square, each of them flanking us, and arrived on the other side to a sight to behold. One lone taxi sitting there, pointed out of town, ready to go! The officers indicated that we should get in and gratefully, we did. With blessings of "Dios te bendiga" (God bless you), I thanked them and we wearily loaded our bags and plopped into the back seat. Of course, this miracle taxi was not without one final adventure to complete it. One thing I have learned about any form of transport outside of the US-the operators like to maximize space! So, in accordance with this, we shared a car built for five with a mother, her three children, the driver, the three of us, and all of our luggage. Tight quarters? Yes! Did we care? No! At last we were on our way to Mancora!

Border Woes and ODB, Part 1.

Another cautionary tale for all you would-be border jumpers. I know it seems that my latest posts are full of woe, warning, and wild rides, but really, it's what keep things entertaining, and it's half  the reason I am able to write this blog. The other half is that I am hoping to be discovered for the literary genius that I am and catapulted to a senior staff position at National Geographic. Or Travel and Leisure. Or the Martinsburg Journal would actually be just fine at this point. Anyway, I digress.

This tale begins at a border town between Ecuador and Peru, one that has achieved the coveted "Worst Border Crossing in South America" award. Hmmm. Perhaps this should have been our first clue to steer clear? Nah. We plowed straight ahead. Enter three gringos on a bus headed towards Mancora, Peru for some blissful soaking in the rays of the South American sun. Our delightful journey through the Andes Mountains with all of its stunning and jagged beauty ended promptly at the aforementioned border crossing in the cozy little town of Huaquillas. And by "cozy," I mean teeming with humanity, garbage, touts, and chaos. To complicate this scene, the immigration officials for both countries got together one day and decided to do their best to confuse any wayward gringos by placing the actual processing stations 2 km before and after the precise border. Why? WHY? Of course, as this reasoning makes no logical sense to the typical traveler, we stayed on the bus as it passed the stop where foreigners should have been spit out, and arrive at the border with nothing to prove that we had safely come from Ecuador. Back we go, via $2 taxi, to find the office, get our passports stamped and try again. Once this is taken care of, we must now proceed to do the same thing on the Peruvian side. All this while hefting backpacks the size of baby rhinos and attempting to rid ourselves of the taxi driver who had picked us up on the Peru side of the border. This man, who shall heretofore be referred to as "ODB," (if you have ever had even a passing interest in old-school rap, you will know what this moniker stands for) swiftly became our archnemesis.

We hopped out of the taxi, happy to finally be within sight of passage into Peru, bidding him "adios." Unfortunately, ODB was not about to let us get away and was insistent upon giving us a ride post-immigration to the bus station in Tumbes. He planted himself just off to the side of the line in the tiny immigration office, every so often reminding us that he would be ready when we were.  He kept persisted with his one-man dialogue while he waited. I was mildly annoyed at this point, but  figured there would be plenty of drivers waiting when we passed through on the other side.  I did not particular care for his demeanor or his insistence and I simply wanted him out of our lives forever. The presence of Peruvian immigration officials and their nightsticks did nothing to deter him! I refused to even make eye contact with him, although I could feel his stares.   Successfully, I gained entry into lovely Peru.  Sucessfully, ODB passed through as well.  As he was a citizen of the country, I don't suppose this was ever an issue, but I was really hoping that immigration officials and their nightsticks could detain him for something. Anything.  I asked him to leave us alone, go away, no thanks, we do not need a ride!!! I would have thought ODB would have gotten the point. In fact, my annoyance only accelerated his efforts.  He simply just kept talking, kept haranguing, never seemingly even pausing for breath. He let me know that taxis were limited, that he would take us where we need to go, "no problema" and "i wait for you." At this point, waves of anger and nausea started to sweep over me as I realized this had all the markings of another unfortunate taxi incident which occurred in Costa Rica. I am not even sure I should write that one up, as the two are nearly identical. I became quite irritable and let ODB know in fairly straightforward terms that we would not be needing his services. I even told him, point-blank, to "vaya te!" GO AWAY! He merely smiled at me, paused for exactly thirty seconds, and continued. At this point, I informed Karl that I would no longer be dealing with this man, thinking that if there was not to be a homicide at the Peruvian border, that Karl would need to take charge. After some huddled conversation and furtive glancing around, it did seem that there were no other taxis and that ODB was our only option. I was furious, but what could we do? We piled in. We instructed him to take us to a town about 30 minutes down the road, where we could catch our next mode of transport to Mancora. I refused to speak to ODB and he kept up his cheery dialogue until about ten minutes outside of town. This is where the real fun began.