Happy New Year

A hearty welcome to 2007!
2006 has been a most challenging year and although I am so happy to see its back end in my rear view mirror I also feel like it was one of those years that really teaches you some of life's most important lessons and for once I was forced to learn. It was definitely a year where I learned who my real friends are and to those kind people I offer you my deepest gratitude. It's not an understatement to say I couldn't have done it without you! I truly have amazing friends and sometimes it takes a dark time to make you recognize all of the things that you might take for granted.
Hopefully this year will involve more meaningful time with these people and also find me visiting some of said friends in far flung places...
I can't wait to explore my essential self in 2007. Thanks to all who endured my over-worked and under-balanced social self in 2006!

Gross Grind - GTL's Birthday Edition

There is only one person who could have provided the inspiration for such plenteous perspiration on Holiday Monday and that is our favorite birthday gnome, the fleet and nimble GTL, whose age advancement did nothing to hamper another shockingly expeditious time on the Grynde. My old foe Grouse remains as daunting as ever but bolstered by the ghastly words of Ms. Muppet - "Let's do the Grynde and meet GTL on the top on Monday" (crazy talk that was obviously precipitated from exhausting hours of moving Caveman Paul that day) - I did the requisite mental and physical preparations. Mentally I pushed the whole idea out of my head in favor of thoughts of Dave and physically I trained by spending over 30 hours in a car, sleeping for two nights on a saggy air mattress in my tent with inadequate accoutrements for staying warm; played some appallingly abysmal but physically taxing bocce against my old foe, Roggles; ate nothing but chips; drank little to no water in favour of Summer Wheat (with a touch of coriander orange) Ale Shandys despite the desert temperatures of 36 degrees; and imparting various other nonsensical but equally destructive acts upon my body. In fairness, Roggles, Laura, and Steph experienced the exact same drain on their finely-tuned athletic machines.
But I still had my excuses for a poor Grynde time firmly in place. The arthritis is always a given and an easy one. I also was suffering from Flip Flop feet but spurred on by the camaraderie and enthusiasm of my female brethren I was game. Dominican Stephanie was attacking the mountain for the first time and as such, was untouched by the cruelties of the mountain and arrived at its base brimming with enthusiasm and naive zeal. Lovely Laura brought her enviable good nature and limitless joy and a distant memory of having once climbed the mountain and survived. Linz brought with her such adoration and love for the Gnome that she would do that which she had proclaimed she would never do again. I simply brought with me the car in which we journeyed to Grouse - and a few bday cookies.
The plan was for us gals to start our climb at least an hour before Roger and GTL in order to avoid the most distasteful of all comments from the sprightly Gnome as he gently dances by you on the trail: "Great job - keep up the good work - see you at the top." Such an ignominious comment from a gnome. So after purposefully avoiding any stretching or water intake we began our climb. I forged ahead to spare my compatriots the hideous contortions that envelop my face when I am pushing myself up the Grynde, chasing an invisible foe that in actuality looks a lot like me. I saved my cantankerous looks for a middle-aged man that was climbing with a Starbucks Strawberries and Creme Frappucino in one hand and a young woman who had stopped for a smoke break. I cursed my way up the trail stopping regularly to look back for any sign of the jaunty gnome or muculent Roggles. At the blessed 3/4 sign I finally felt safe. Sitting alone on the rocks under the shadow of the Grouse chalet I felt even safer. I was joined on the rocks by the ever jocular Laura and the rosy Muppet - all of us basking in the glow of our accomplishment and the simple joy of being alive. A churlish Steph soon followed, obviously surprised and not even the least bit amused by the grind of the Grynde, and not as happy to be alive. We knew it would only be minutes before the birthday Gnome emerged from the sinister shadows of the trail so we armed ourselves with the birthday favours Linz had so bravely carried up to the top. Sure enough a flash of white trumpeted the arrival of a blanched GTL and as we blew on our birthday thingamajibbers and sang Happy Birthday, GTL crumpled face first onto the rocks and allowed the bugs to eat him at will. A flash of red signalled the arrival of Roggles. Our shouts of congratulations were met with disgust and contempt - such a horrible time was not deserving of such celebration he harrumphed.
The Gnome did not break 35 minutes but he was good spirited about his time and we assured him that his "slower" time could be attributed to the distraction caused by the women partaking of this particular grind. He graciously disagreed but did mumble something about a life-threatening case of cotton mouth, a foul malady that Roggles had apparently fell victim to on the trail as well. We women all agreed that in the face of such hideous cotton mouth their Grynde times were exceptional.
After cookies and water at the top and a cursory nod to the beautiful view, a couple of cases of painful "sweaty boobs" necessitated an immediate trip to the tram and a quick journey to the Black Bear Pub. All suffering was forgotten with the arrival of a tasty brew (or for some reason Carling Black Label if you are Roggles), burgers of all different forms, and delicious fat-free cake. We sang to and toasted our favorite Gnome and dispensed copious compliments about his lack of body fat and his amazing mental fortitude while Roggles cursed his over abundance of the former and lack of the latter. We also uttered a cursory "get well" to GPC who was thinking of us from his deathbed and a "better luck next time" to the transportation-challenged Gilman who had run afoul of the Vancouver transit system which, ironically, was being negatively affected by the filming of the latest Paul Birkett cinematic masterpiece - Snakes on a Tram, I believe.

As we prepared to depart the pub, leaving behind empty glasses of Dead Frog Ale, I silently hoped we would be reliving the event in two years time with Geoffrey T. Gnome, PhD.

2006

Happy New Year!

There really is no place like home. It's oft said and over used but I feel that I am partially qualified to utter these words because of the number of times I actually depart from said home. I am recently back from Africa and finally, after 3 weeks, mostly bug free and it's wonderful. I travel a lot and when I am not traveling I am usually lamenting the fact that I am not traveling but I sense some subtle changes in me this time - post Horn of Africa. I loved my trip and I love traveling but I now realize that I love home, whatever home might be. Recently my idea of what constitutes home has been shaken but there are always the little things that remain important and make me feel, at least temporarily, at home: My niece's giggle, a Starbucks, warm water in a bath, the invigorating smell of Vancouver during and after a rain, a cozy toque, dinner with a friend, an afternoon matinee with a fellow movie afficionado, and a large hand on my back when I really need it.
It's amazing what extreme lonliness in a foreign land can do to a human mind. I have never enjoyed the small things like I have enjoyed them this past month in Vancouver. Life may throw you some curveballs - and you might take a direct hit instead of ducking - but I guess all you can do is break it down into the small things because these are really the only things you can control and when you stop and pay attention to the little things they can really be rewarding.
So I guess my New Year's resolution is to pay attention to the little things. I have spent so much time worrying about the big things that lurk in the shadows. And chances are they aren't even there. And quite frankly I don't have the energy to worry about them anymore anyway. Well...at least I am going to try.

Djibouti Dumps

There is nothing worse than getting sick while traveling. And there is nothing worse than getting Africa sick. I think I probably invited it towards the end of my 6-week journey through the Horn of Africa when I symbolically patted myself on the back for getting through the arduous journey through widely varied terrain with temperature shifts ranging from -5 to 40 degrees with only a minor bronchial infection. But then I got to Djibouti and a particularly shifty fellow in charge of the boat I was sleeping on instead of paying for a hotel room in the diabolically expensive country that was once under French rule (and has somehow retained many of the less impressive cultural characteristics of their haughty overlords) felt the need to switch the safe, delicious mineral water in my bottle to a swarthy mix of local fecal and parasite l'eau. It was only after drinking with gusto precipitated by the 40-degree stank hanging over the fly-infested swamp I was habituating that I heard the words uttered by the distinguished French (and therefore of finer palate than me) citizen sitting next to me: "What the hell is with this water. It tastes like she-it." He was right. It did taste like she-it. Mostly because it was she-it. But it was too late. I just sat back and waited for the rumble which of course delayed its onset for a few days to coincide with my exhausting trip through Eritrea’s Danakil Depression (328 feet below sea level and the hottest place on Earth).

To sum things up, I made it through the desert sitting in the back of various pick-up trucks loaded with cargo - the last one arriving in "civilization" at 2:30 a.m. with me coated in dust, wrapped like a burrito in all of my clothing b/c the desert goes from 40 degrees during the day to 0 at 2:30 a.m., and lying across 40 boxes of local baby formula only to be rewarded with Africa sick.
A sauna room near the fetid Red Sea, fan revolving, bodily fluids escaping into a non-flushable hole, fever, chills, hallucinations, aches, pains, African indifference...
Midnight flight from Asmara, Eritrea to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia to Frankfurt, Germany. 5-hour layover. 9-hour flight from Frankfurt to Toronto. 3-hour layover. 5-hour flight to Vancouver.
I'm still sick and I have vowed (again) to never again visit the African continent...but oh how I do love both of my bathrooms and the three Oprah magazines waiting for me. My body is completely and utterly spent and I can’t bear to look at my unopened bag.

Qat Woman

Qat controls the lives of seemingly everyone in Djibouti and when you are traveling it can get a little irritating. Qat rules.
Qat is natural stimulant from a tree that grows in Ethiopia and is shipped, among great fanfare, to neighbouring Djibouti. Djiboutians shove the leaves in their mouth and chew, chew, chew like tobacco. It supposedly produces a mild cocaine or amphetamine-type euphoria without all the bad stuff and at first this seems to be true. The country shuts down in the afternoon when the weather is fiery hot and the Qat arrives from Ethiopia. The local men laze around on mats chewing and chatting and dispensing irritating funhouse smiles. Everyone is so mellow and happy and I can't help but think that this whole qat culture is good for people. At first, anyway (later I notice that the men can get pretty aggressive and the fact they drive and operate machinery under the influence of the leaf is not really a laughing matter).
I am always invited to join them and at first I balk. The last thing I need while traveling alone through Africa is to be stoned doing it. But eventually curiosity kills the qat. How can an entire nation be beholden to something day after day after day?
I accept qat from a nice young Ethiopian man who has a cousin in Toronto. I take a tentative bite, not sure exactly what I am supposed to do. Eat it? Bite it and spit? The leaves are bitter and not the least bit enjoyable. I give the local a look of disappointment and he assures me that it tasted bad to him the first time he did it. I chew and swallow. Yuck. I am forced to try some more - "you must eat more my sister". Alright. Peer pressure wins. I am suddenly dying of thirst and I swig some water but the taste remains. But I suddenly feel a swoosh of mellow. I know mellow because I so rarely feel mellow and it's kind of nice. It's like someone has taken my brain and put it on battery-saving mode. I sit with the dudes and we smile and laugh a lot - we are obviously having a great time. Certainly taking qat each afternoon is the key to my future happiness. I will have to smuggle a tree back from Ethiopia. We chew and drink water for an hour and then I realize somewhere in the lucid depths of my chemically-altered brain that I need to go back to my room. When I insist that I have to leave, the men smile at me with their yellow teeth and then they shake my hand and then they watch me leave through yellow eyes. I collapse onto my bed still enveloped in a yellow glow of qat.
But then it happens.
Two hours and one litre of bottled water later I come down. So much for the claim that there are no bad effects. Suddenly everyone is out to kill me and the local cats are scratching at the door, intent on eating me for dinner. Everything is horrible and out of control. Oh no. I am going to die. Paranoia rules my life.
When I am tired of paranoia, the depression sets in and instead of worrying about dying I want to die. The next three hours are a huge drag.
Thankfully sleep eventually claims me and despite some pretty nasty dreams and sweat stains, I wake-up the next day alive but with a pretty nasty dehydration headache.
My reign as Qat Woman is over. I don't look good in yellow and that stuff tastes nasty.
Plus, things in my traveling life are wacky enough with my malaria medication.

Hyena Men of Harar

Darkness falls over the ancient walled city of Harar as I make my way to a gate at the outskirts of the city to see a unique and intriguing event.
I am going to watch one of the two Hyena Men of Harar willingly summon wild hyenas from the spooky depths of the forest in order to feed them. Again, wild hyenas. Feed them. From his hand. Often from his mouth.
This is insanity. Why would anyone do this? It can't be possible.
But the Hyena Man softly calls out to them in the trees and someone points out the eyes in the shadows. Spooky. He calls out to them much louder and then the hyenas arrive and I am instantly shocked by how big they are. These are real hyenas - and they have brought their jaws of death and a serious appetite.The Hyena Man calls them by name and they trundle right up to him. Impossible.
There is a taxi at the location and the driver turns on his headlights so that we can get a better view of the hyenas as they approach the Hyena Man. I am amazed by how calm both the Hyena Man and the hyenas are in each other's presence - I am not so calm. There is something about a hyena that doesn't lend itself to calmness or trust - they are filthy predators. We have brought raw meat, which is scary in itself to me, and we hand it over the the man and he puts it in his mouth! He sits down and the scavengers pad right over to him and snatch the meat right from his mouth. Unbelievable!
Would I like to try? Um. Hmm. No FCKU way. I am an adventurous gal and little scares me while traveling but this is way out of my league. I am ok with my face. It's a decent face. People recognize it. I don't want to look like the bloodied meat that dude had in his mouth and is now in the hyenas belly.
I am happy to watch this ancient tradition, supposedly originating during a time of famine when the locals wanted to appease the hungry hyenas, from a distance.
It is an amazing experience. I think of how obedient the hyenas "seemed" later that evening when I am out on the roof of my little hotel watching hyenas forage for food in the bushes adjacent to my lodging. Real freaking hyenas. I watch with fascination and a little horror. I am no Hyena Woman of Harar.
Harar is definitely of another time.

When in Goma

I decided that I needed to see what has happened to poor Goma since the last time I visited. Once a relatively attractive city, Goma has since been decimated by two horrendous events. The first one occured when Mount Nyiragongo erupted January 17th, 2002 and a river of molten lava ate half of the city and continues to shake Goma with substantial earthquake tremors. Secondly, the poor city is in the Democratic Republic of Congo, which is mired in a brutal civil war thanks to an evil dictator and the effects of the genocide in neighbouring Rwanda (Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, Angola, Zimbabwe, and Namibia all have troops in the DRC).
As I crossed over the border, I was instantly struck by the number of UN vehicles plying the streets. Non-stop vehicles of war loaded with troops and weapons, including rocket launchers manned by men with a serious lack of humour, giving me looks akin to "what the hell are you doing here and don't you dare make me save your tourist ass."
Hmm.
I plodded on towards the outskirts of the city where I could really see the devastation of the volcano. Volcanic rock and boulders litter the barren terrain and it's very spooky. I walk through the rocks and end up on the airport strip (security seems to be an issue here) and I am nearly run down by a UN plane taxi-ing to the end of the runway. It's very bizarre to be almost run over by a plane; especially a UN warplane. I continue on down the road, careful to avoid the UN road vehicles that again seem intent on running me over. I arrive at the area of town that houses the war refugees and the area is abyssmal. Even though you get used to seeing human suffering and squalor in Africa, this area of Goma is particularly disturbing and I feel very despondent and I am only shaken out of it by some authoritative guy in a UN Land Rover who pulls over and asks me what I am doing in the area and whether I have a "death wish". Holy dramatic. He insists that I get in the vehicle and he deposits me back on the main road (where the other UN vehicles can better run me over) and then he lectures me about staying out of war zones.
Hmph.
As I make my way back to the "safety" of Rwanda I am haunted by Goma. It's impossible to understand why such horrible things happen to some people while other people (me) seem to get off scott free. This world is definitely not fair. It all comes down to a card game - it's all in the hand you are dealt.

Rwanda

As I walked down the hot, dusty road to the Rwandan border I couldn’t help but think of the history of the country – it’s inescapable. With the 10th anniversary of the unthinkable genocide only last year it hasn’t been that long since the horrific events and I look at the faces of everyone older than 30 and wonder what they have seen. The Rwandans are definitely more reserved than their Ugandan and Ethiopian compatriots, but a pointed “bonjour” usually gets them to raise their head (or scares the crap out of them) and respond with a quick “bonjour” back and sometimes even a “comma ce vas”? I use my “bonjours” quite liberally and often seem to take the locals off guard – nothing can be scarier than a big, white mizungo dispensing aggressive hellos so I try and tone it down, but still convey the friendliness that is so important to me. But after being treated like a rock star in Ethiopia and an honored and special guest in Uganda, Rwanda is a bit different – I have to earn my stripes here. There is also more of a resentment, I sense, towards the “rich” white tourist here – many people have demanded money of me, told me how rich I am and how poor they are, and every single person I have come in contact with has asked for my email so that I might sponsor their education in Canada. I feel more guilty and privileged here than in other African countries. The most common thing I here is “Donnez me Frank” – who is this Frank and why do you think I have him? Seriously the demands for Rwandan francs/money are really exhausting b/c they are so practiced and aggressive. I have also been spit on here by women, rocks thrown at me by kids, shoved against a wall by a couple of young men, and pick-pocketed of all of my francs at a crowded bus station. I was also called a son of a bitch by a street urchin when I wouldn’t “donnez me frank.” It has been very trying at times and I obviously don't have enough "franks" to make this country happier.
But the country is working hard to turn things around and safety wise, there is a huge military presence all of the time and I can’t do anything remotely touristy without the accompaniment of at least three grim soldiers with AK-47’s. War is still being waged in the Congo and Burundi, but for the time being, things are looking up for this little country with a thousand hills (milles de collines), of which I think I have climbed 998. Everything in this country is built on a hill and I am always going uphill and no matter how much I go uphill, I never seem to come down.
I suppose things would be easier too if I could speak French, but I can only throw out the odd word and never a complete sentence - and my verb tenses are a disaster. Sometimes the locals look at me so incredulously and I feel like an idiot – yes I hail from French-speaking Canada but we don’t all speak French.
The gorillas made up for some of the incredibly trying times I endured in Rwanda. There were very expensive in terms of money and my body vis-à-vis getting to them, but truly an amazing and once in a lifetime event. I especially enjoyed the huge alpha male silverback which exuded power and seemed quite enamored of himself and less enamored with my camera, which he either avoided or looked at with disdain, and of course the adorable babies. The volcano massif upon which the gorillas live is awesome and hiking and smashing my way through the dense vegetation to get my first view of the eerily human-like gorillas was exhausting, but exhilarating and rewarding. We were only allowed an hour with the animals but I managed to use up most of my film by the time it was over. I felt like I had been part of a special and unique experience. All that was left was the 12 km trudge, with my packs, back to the nearest town (I got there after trudging 8 km and then hitch-hiking in the back of a big old dump-truck with potatoes and curious locals – very glam)...but the big hairy beasts were more than worth it.

Odds and ends

I am really enjoying my time in Africa. Sure, it has been really trying at times, what with the hassles, armed conflicts, bone-crushing travel, the horrible conditions, and the hideous doughy donut-style batter I am eating when I know I shouldn't. But that said, I am also making some amazing connections with some truly amazing people here and their courage and kindness in the face of such challenges is so inspiring. I really feel like I see the world in such a different way while I am here and it's such a gift. It also makes me appreciate my loved one's back home. Being alone and involved in solitary pursuits a lot of the time in a really lonely and often scary location allows me the luxury of thinking about people back in Canada and how wonderful they are. I guess I really take my life and the wonderful people who share it with me for granted. As always, I try to promise myself not to do that once I return, even though I always seem to drift back to my old habits of becoming overly analytical and irritating once safely back in my old life in Canada. But to my friends and family, believe me...I am lucky to have you and I think about this all the time - especially when my back is getting broken while I am traveling in a 12-seater minibus with 24 people and 10 chickens and impossible amounts of luggage over a pot-holed track in rural Africa.
You guys are all amazing and I can't wait to see you when I get home!

Tea and coffee

Even though I am a major shareholder in all of the Starbucks' worldwide locations, it's not until I embark on one of my silly little journeys that I fully appreciate these caffeine-infused liquid wonders. The area I am in now takes their coffee and tea very seriously - in fact, far too much of their economy depends on it - but I am doing my best to help out. Coffee in Ethiopia is a marvelous thing, served many different ways, but always bold and delicious. I have partaken of many a hovel for meals and even the crummiest joint pumps out divine little demi-tasses of macchiato (coffee with fresh milk - in fact the cow is often sharing space in the restaurant with me) from a gorgeous old Italian machine. The average Ethiopian could put the Starbucks barista to shame what with the simple perfection of it's Joe. Mind you, they do have access to the freshest and best beans in the world, but to watch them roast the beans over a small fire and then pound them by hand with a mallet makes me appreciate the drink even more. No fancy grinders over here. I suppose the only drag is that cows go on a permanent siesta from about noon and there is no milk and that is a drag for the pampered tourist. The stuff is so strong and it's guaranteed to get faranjis (white tourists) moving in the morning - even if it's just to the local squatter.
Tea on the other hand has always been my drink of choice and I'm consuming it so liberally here that I fear I might have permanently altered my physical make-up. On some days it's not unusual for me to inahle 14 cups of tea. Tired of water and not a fan of the gaseous soda, tea represents a safe, warming drink and I wake up looking forward to it and I go to bed dreaming of it the next morning (along with my crazy dreams). The locals have pastry shops serving the most non-descript and dry, teeth destroying cakes and cookies so I think I might have a real future here - other than Glenn, most folks seem to love my baking and I've always wanted to open my own shop. Anyone interested in this possible business venture with me?
Speaking of Starbucks, a lcoal woman who has been to Starbucks abroad wanted to open one in Addis Ababa but the company refused citing the abhorrent conditions in the city. She went out and built a coffee shop anyway and she has pilfered everything Starbuckian, including the sign - a veritable Vancouver landmark - and changed everything ever so slightly (actually the snacks are crap). Wonder how long before word gets out to Seattle and its stable of litigation thugs?
Ahh, tea and coffee...my only friends on this trip. I love them so.
Linz...I'm taking you up on the Cafe Artiggiano offer when I get back! The coffee/tea here is good, but it's no Artiggiano and there are no bird's nest cookies!

Malaria

I lie in my bed entwined in the net that is supposed to be saving me from mossies but in reality only serves to make me a mummified prisoner in my bed. I am slapping myself silly in an Abbot and Costello sort of way each time I hear the dreaded, mind-altering drone of the malaria mosquito as it's latest flight plan takes it over my ear and it slowly and methodically plots its course towards a piece of my plump, exposed flesh. I am taking Malarone, a new anti-malarial pill that I hope is protecting me from the ferocious symptoms of malaria (I've had malaria and it ain't pretty), including dangerously high fever, chills, sweats, pain and hallucinations, to name a few. Unfortunately the side effects of this new wonder malaria drug includes high fever, chills, sweats, intestinal distress and hallucinations. But as the army of malarial mossies are swarming around me at night, I down the big $5-dollar-a-day orange malaria horse pills and await the fun that is surely coming. The first night in Germany it was severe intestinal insurgence and as such I felt compelled to dub my location Frankfart. This side effect followed me to Addis Ababa or My Ass is Ababa in Ethiopia. This side effect eventually calmed down but it was replaced by severe dreams/hallucinations that make my nighttime a rollicking roller coaster of an adventure. Malarone waits until you are semi-conscious and then it probes deep in your mind looking for weakness, insecurity, and repressed dreams and then it creates a surreal nocturnal landscape of fear, adventure, and passion. Most of my nighttime hallucinations rotate on a loop and involve the same characters and scenarios: My brother Mark has left his wonderful family to fight with the Lord's Resistance Army in the Congo; My bro RJ is touring with a semi-pro basketball team in Nigeria (he has never played the game); Glenn is dating the big-breasted British porn star Jordan; Lindsay Loomer is running the rapids at the Nile in Eastern Uganda each and every day and she refuses to go home; my pal Teresa has left her govt job in Ottawa to join me in seeing the gorillas in Rwanda, but she keeps tripping and rolling down the mountain into the gorilla family home, where they keep her hostage; and finally, I am always 5:07 late for a coffee date with Ryan Skraba in a coffee shop in the Piazza in Addis Ababa and he never waits and this leaves me in tears.
All of this stuff is obviously nonsensical (especially the part about Glenn and Jordan - he likes small-breasted women obviously), but during the night, these are very real and dramatic and I always wake up sweating and breathing heavily and more than a little frantic. Then I try desperately to de-entwine myself from the stupid mossie net and I feel like I've had a visit from Spider-Man.
Each morning I swear I will stop taking the damn pill but then I remember my last bout of African malaria and I choke down the evil pill.
Stupid malaria.
Stupid Jordan.