January 15, 2012 in travel, africa, photos,
After our trip through the Selous, the driving about the Ruaha that came before it, and dusty Arusha, and the mud and jungle of Mahale, it was time to recover from our vacation. From 5am wake-up calls to afternoons out in the bright sun and hundred-degree heat and hours spent peering into the foliage for a moment’s sight of a brightly-colored bird or a rare, stalking predator, we were tired out. Yeah, I know, us poor folks on a once-in-a-lifetime safari half the world away.
But there were no two ways about it: we were tired out, and we’d seen enough animals. So it was time to leave the mainland and jet — or, rather, the usual 12-seat turboprop — our way over to the Indian Ocean island of Zanzibar. Once the center of a vast and wealthy Sultanate that controlled East African trade, Zanzibar is a verdant pool in the midst of bright blue water; so of course we went to the beach to relax with drinks with umbrellas in them. And it was everything we’d hoped for: azure water, friendly staff, delicious drinks, and a lagoon as warm as a bath with cabanas floating in it for the delicious drinks the staff had served you on the beach.
We even were able to celebrate the new year on that beautiful beach, dancing with the happy staff of the resort, around a bonfire in the stiff sea breeze.
It was all a relaxing delight, even the massages. Oh, of course the massages would be good — it was what they made you wear during the massages that was odd. For modesty’s sake, it seems, they prefer you to wear disposable undergarments, which I suppose I could see being modest if they weren’t completely transparent black mesh, the kind of thickly-waled, wide-gapped black mesh that I’m pretty sure is quite à la mode in Berlin’s finest S&M techno clubs. But, hey, I managed not to laugh and the masseuse hopefully managed not to be mortified by my nudity, so I suppose it was a win for everyone.
After wearing our — well, I don’t know what you’d call them, gayderhosen? — we felt ready to rejoin society. And that was our next stop: the old Zanzibari capital of Stonetown.
Stonetown is a beautiful city, a warren of streets built before automobiles and far too thin to fit anything larger than a motorbike. It has a beautiful market with fresh fish and meats and some of the best spices anywhere, and this translates into absolutely delicious restaurants. And history is everywhere, from the ornate touches of India and the Middle East in architecture to the 16th century Portuguese cannon that the Sultanate captured and then, ten generations later, tried in vain to use against British battleships in the shortest war in history (it took the Sultan only 45 minutes to have all of his stuff blown up and surrender).
Once a fabulously wealthy city, the slow decline of the Sultanate of Zanzibar, revolution, and poverty hit Stonetown hard, however, and a shocking exhibit in the local museum — a building called the House of Wonders, the Sultan’s former palace and the only part of his landholdings not blown up by those British battleships — stated that 60% of the buildings in Stonetown were in danger of collapse. Looking at them, I wasn’t surprised; in fact, there were gaps here and there where a building had fallen down already.
Decay or not, Stonetown was an adventure. Perhaps a bit alien — the bustle of the market, with vendors all pitching their wares, the smells of butchery, and the yelling of cabbies overwhelmed the two of us just a bit — but the people were lovely and the artisans made beautiful work everywhere. Two days, and probably ten showers in the dusty, hundred-degree weather, we were finally able to start our 39-hour trip back to the US. You know, the part of the trip where we ended up in a cab driven by a guy who didn’t speak English and didn’t know where we were going, so he had to pull into a dark dirt alley in the middle of the night and ask a hooker for directions.
Actually, that sounds a lot like riding in a cab in LA. So, welcome home it was indeed, and welcome back to civilization for sure!
January 15, 2012 in travel, africa, photos,
We arrived at the Selous right ahead of a storm, just as we had at Ruaha. We could feel it too: as our unpressurized Caravan made its landing turn, hot, humid, close air burst through the ventilation system, filling the cabin with languor and the promise of rain. Again, just as at Ruaha, the sun was shining and the sky clear as we landed, but there was a vast, dark cloud in the corner of the sky, and the wide horizons of Africa made it easy to see that rain was streaming out of it. At Ruaha, we started back to camp as if on a game drive, but then dark clouds emerged from two other corners of the sky, and then we sped back to camp to try to get there before the storms converged from three sides.
At Selous, we had less of a worry if we would beat the weather, because our afternoon safari was planned to take place in a covered boat. We’d head down the broad, muddy Rufiji river, keeping our eyes peeled for birds, hippos, and, yes, crocodiles, returning at sundown to clean up in our tent.
And it was some return. The Selous Impala camp, where we stayed, offered the only fan we had in any of our safari stops. Courtney, who loves keeping cool and had been quite the trouper to put up, uncomplaining, with day after day of 100-degree-plus weather. She quite literally almost hugged the fan as soon as we walked into our tent.
It’s no exaggeration to say that Impala was a very, very different place than Kwihala — or any other place we’d been. Impala is owned by Italians, who, it’s fair to say, have their own set of priorities. For instance, in the middle of nowhere, with no source of power or anything other than diesel they truck in, they have this:
Dinner was served in a grand style, too, in a lovely setting as well:
There was even the house hippo, Andrea, who loved to hang around the place:
Andrea was quite the challenge: while having him around was exciting and scenic, the reality is that hippos are cranky, cranky animals and, if you were to unexpectedly stumble upon Andrea, the reality was that he would almost certainly trample you to death. Us urban types have few skills related to not stumbling upon hippos, so, rather than deal with a ton of dead tourists they have to hide, Impala employs a bunch of Maasai warriors who escort you from place to place. You just stand outside and yell “Jambo Masai!” and they come and get you, pointing out little animals (and, of course, Andrea if he’s around) along the way.
We had just one driving safari in Selous, but it was a humdinger: a tracker had found a lion pride, and our driver was on top of it:
Most of our time we spent on river safaris, going up and down the Rufiji. The river teemed with birds of all sorts, like this bee-eater:
And this kingfisher (hot tip: I love photographing kingfishers, no matter what part of the world we’re in):
And even this egret — the local egrets seem to like standing on the local water buffalo:
But of course what we came to see were the hippos, like this one who took a serious look at us:
And this one who wanted to tell us: these are my teeth!
And, of course, the sinister crocodiles:
The sunsets? They were a bonus!
December 22, 2011 in travel, tanzania, photos,
Lake Tanganyika is the second-longest freshwater lake in the world, and contains 17% of the world’s fresh water — or so it said in the brochure in our resort, the Nkungwe Lodge in the Mahale Mountains. Easy-to-believe statistics, given that the lake stretched almost as far as the eye could see in all directions, a deep, clear blue to rival any Caribbean or South Pacific ocean. I say almost because, while we couldn’t see Zambia to the south or Rwanda and Burundi to the north, we could see the misty hint of the Congo’s eastern forests on the far horizon, and the rain over there would hide it all behind a curtain of dark blue in the eggshell sky.
We’d gotten to the Mahale Mountains area on what was practically a private plane, a scheduled charter that only had the two of us and one other passenger on it. The 12-seater Cessna Grand Caravan shot right into the sky from Arusha’s runway and took us on a scenic, smooth trip over deep-green jungle. (In an old blog entry from my trip to Southeast Asia, I said that Thailand had a yellowish-green jungle and Vietnam a bluish-green one; Tanzania has a black-green one, like the platonic ideal of a tree color but with the shadows clipped straight to black, so that brightness drops into murky darkness straight away.)
From there we were picked up by a guide in a little, fast boat that sped us down Lake Tanganyika to our resort, where they welcomed us warmly. There aren’t many resorts in the Mahale mountains — actually, only three, all offering mountain jungle safaris to see a group of chimpanzees native to the area. One of these is apparently incredibly famous but would’ve had us blowing practically our entire budget in just a few days; we picked the camp, Nkungwe, that many called the second-choice. As the boat pulled up to Nkungwe’s glowing golden sand beach, expansive thatched-roof lounge, and little tents tucked up in the edges of the forest, it was hard to see how this could be a second choice.
Straight off the boat we were offered the chance to trek into the forest to see chimps — wholly unexpected, since we’d heard they were often hours away from camp and we’d arrived just after 1pm. Today, the tracker who follows the group for all the area lodges told us they were only about 45 minutes away, so, after a delicious lunch, we were off!
It took us what seemed like no time to hear their first hoots and screams echoing from only a few hundred yards away. The sound made my heart race — the chimps were close! Maybe we’d catch a glimpse! Oh, how low I set my sights at the beginning of that first trek!
Within twenty minutes we’d come on a group of about a dozen chimps — a mother with a baby just under two in the crook of a trunk about four feet off the ground, the rest up to about thirty feet up in the surrounding trees. We were silent and hesitant as our safari guide, Given, encouraged us to get closer. Finally, I mustered the courage to work to my left and get the chimps so they weren’t backlit and I could start taking photos. The youngster, joined by two friends, was swinging and leaping wildly, testing herself while her mother looked on.
Then there was an enormous hooting and hollering, and a crashing of chimps up to the top of the trees: the alpha male had caught a good-sized monkey and was prepared to share it with the group. We saw four other males tear the monkey — who was already limp and, I presume, dead — into roughly equal parts and chow down. There are no choice pieces, Given explained; they just eat it all.
Soon I was at ease, walking down to where a game warden stood with a machete (more for hacking paths than for defending us from chimps I think), and shot more photos. But, as I climbed uphill to my earlier spot, we were startled by more screaming and general activity as a female in heat came through the group. I could feel the testosterone and aggression around me and suddenly felt very alone, by myself halfway up a forty-foot slope, between the warden and Given. I stood still, as I’d been told, and soon they’d calmed down.
The next day we were out again in the morning, taking a somewhat different path to the chimps. This time they were further up in the hills that rose steeply away from Lake Tanganyika, but fortunately not all the way to the mist-shrouded tops, a good nine-hour hike. About an hour later, we’d crossed a stream and clambered up and down the muddy faces of a rise, tree roots carving the path into natural steps. We ran into the chimps at an intersection, and watched, again, a baby gambol as he and his mother waited for the rest of the group.
Then the alpha male came by — right behind us. We were between the two adult chimps, with no way out except along the path they were sitting directly next to. Given told us to calmly walk right past, and I past close enough to the group’s Alpha that I could’ve brushed him by accident. Later, we saw about another dozen group members together, and even caught two mating, before, with a sudden roar, a downpour enveloped the jungle and drove us home (just as it drove the chimps, who hate to get wet, up higher in the trees).
When we returned to Nkungwe, the staff offered to dry our clothes for us. “Oh no,” we answered, “we’re sure you must have other people to take care of!” (Although, we hadn’t seen any!) “No,” answered the manager, “you’re the only people at any of the three camps in the Mahale.” “Also,” Given expanded, “during the dry season, people usually trek up into the hills, taking 8 hours and having to wait their turn with many other groups to see just one or two chimps. With more than 40 tents at the three camps, and a maximum of 6 people looking at a chimp group at once, and a limit of an hour a day per group, dry season safaris are lucky to see a baby playing, much less something special like a hunting or mating.”
Thus we discovered that the ideal ratio of tourists to national parks is 2:1, just as the ideal ratio of tourists to resort staff is apparently about 2:16. And that even a place that you can’t get to from Europe in less than eleven hours is still packed full at high season.
In all fairness, we did have three other people on our flight back to Arusha, so it wasn’t all a private affair. Also — probably in some kind of penance for our ridiculous luck — I came down with a bit of stomach trouble on our third day and missed the last chimp safari. Anybody who knows my wife knows her luck, and would be unsurprised to learn that, while she and Given were out without me, they saw nearly thirty chimps and even were menaced by a less human-friendly member of the group.
But the lodge fixed me up right that evening, with the traditional cure of soda water and white rice. The rice, as you might guess, was outstanding, as was all of the food served at Nkungwe. Of course, it’s all unfair because they started with fruit of a freshness that’s unimaginable even from a farmer’s market; I don’t believe any fruit was picked as long ago as yesterday, or eggs laid either. And the chef had a deft touch with flavors, mixing spices from southern and western Asia, as well as unexpected techniques like shaved bell pepper (awesome!) into everything.
So, the summary of Mahale Mountains: the only problem is, can any other part live up to this? We’re headed back to Arusha to overnight, then it’s a vehicle safari through Nogorongoro Crater, one of the largest craters on land anywhere. And, to be honest, I fear I’ll find Moivaro’s adorable bar to be rather dull tonight.
December 17, 2011 in travel, tanzania, photos,
Habati from Africa! At least, I think that’s the word. It’s kind of hard to tell details like “what’s the language” and “where am I?” and “what time is it?” after a flight halfway around the world.See, we left the house at 2:30pm and then finally arrived at our destination at 9:30am two days later. Taking into account time change fun, that totals up to about 30 hours in four airports, three planes, and a Toyota Land Cruiser.
It all started in LAX’s Tom Bradley International Terminal, which was a wonderful reminder of just how much of a shithole LAX actually is. I’d last flown out of that terminal probably six years ago, when much of the construction was still ongoing (for instance: the big TSA luggage x-ray machines were right at the front of the building, because that was the only place that there was room, which also meant a building-long line of people waiting for checked luggage clearance that you had to somehow make your way past before you could even get to the line for the check-in counter). I was excited to see the new Tom Bradley International Terminal, with its many restaurants and shops that the wife and I could pass hours in as we waited for our flight.
So we arrived, responsibly, a bit more than 3 hours early (driven by the only good cab driver I’ve had since 1993 in LA, by the way, or at least only the second one who knew where he was going; he got a big holiday tip). And security was fast and we got right in to the gates area. And then we discovered that the restaurants were actually *outside* the gates, and there was almost nothing to do inside. Well-played, LAX, well-played: you almost made me forget what a shithole you are with your nice, clean Tom Bradley International Terminal.
But it was actually OK, because we’d had a pretty outstanding experience checking in for our flight. And how many times have you ever said that? We flew Turkish Airlines — you may not know, since we didn’t, that they won Best Airline in Europe last year — mostly because they met the big two priorities we had:
- Reasonable Price
- Layover less than 8 hours
In addition, they had an add-on bonus that didn’t contribute to our selection of them but certainly made us more excited: a brand-new premium economy section that they were selling at almost-economy prices, and that we could fly on our first leg, the preposterously-long LAX-Istanbul non-stop route. When we arrived for check-in, we discovered an entire queue set up just for premium economy, so we sped to the counter. Once there, we had to talk to a nice lady in ticketing; as she started to help us, she repeated our names back to us, which resulted in the nice lady next to her saying “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong! I know you. Your ticket is right here!”
That’s right, apparently we’re so important that the desk agents at Turkish Airlines recognize us straight away. I assume that this is because my wife works in TV; all fame in LA comes from TV. At least, I assume it’s not because the agent has a thing for content management systems.
Thus, despite the continuing incompetence of LA World Airports, we were able to enjoy our sojourn at the gate with a reserve of good attitude. And then, speaking of good attitude, we got on the plane.
When we bought premium economy, we pretty much expected what we saw on other domestic airlines: a couple of inches more seat pitch, some premium in-flight entertainment, and business-class food. Maybe free booze too, if we were lucky. What we didn’t expect — and what we saw as soon as we walked in — was pretty much what they called “Business Class” 10 years ago. With a probably inappropriate level of oohing and aahing, we sat down — me next to the window, Court along the aisle, in a 2+4+2 widebody configuration — and then suddenly realized that I could get up and walk past my wife to get to, say, the bathroom without her actually having to leave her seat. And there was a footrest. And those little reading lights on the flexible stalks. And a ton of recent movies on the inflight entertainment.
And, just when we thought it couldn’t get any better, the cabin crew brought us our dinner menu. So that we could make our selections. It looked delicious — when was the last time you said that about an airline menu? — and we were excited. Then it came, and it was delicious, with a salad with good-quality feta and fresh olive oil, and great chicken and fish, and delicious rice and sauce and veggies, and free whisky for the both of us.
The upshot is: the next time you only have 24-30 hours for vacation, you might just want to book a round-trip on Turkish Air and enjoy the free movies, the delicious food, the friendly cabin crew, and the outrageous seats. Apart from the risk of thrombosis, I think I could’ve spent three weeks on that flight!
Flying from Istanbul to Dar Es Salaam, the commercial capital of Tanzania, wasn’t quite as luxurious, but we still got to travel on a brand-new 737-900. And the meals were good again, even the breakfast that came in your standard airline box. Which just begs the question: why does anyone ever take a US carrier? Or, more than that, why are US carriers so awful?
We landed at 3am at the very relaxed, very tropical Dar airport, waited in line for a while to get a very nifty-looking visa stamped into our passports — it even has our photos on it! — and then hung out on a bench waiting for check-in to open for our final leg of our flight, about 3 hours later. So we waited and read — and I accidentally walked around security and off practically onto a boarding walkway, but they were very nice about it — and finally got in a nice, quick line to check in with local low-cost carrier Precision Air.
Again, the flight was lovely, with smiling cabin attendants who somehow pulled off their yellow-and-lime-green uniforms and comfortable-enough seats even on the little ATR turboprop. Luckily enough, we were even seated on the right side of the plane to get a view of Mt. Kilimanjaro as we went in to land.
The Kilimanjaro airport made Dar, with its actual multiple floors and gates and queues seem bustling. In minutes our bags were up and we found a nice man with a sign that said “Armstrong Wade” (my name order is surprisingly unclear when coming at it from another culture, actually) and a big, tan Toyota Land Cruiser. He took us down well-maintained highways, past a town with a market days and past a bunch of guys on good-looking motorcycles with chrome polished to a rare shine — to our first destination: the lodge at the Moivaro Coffee Plantation, just a bit outside of Tazania’s resort center of Arusha and about 3000 feet up the side of Kilimanjaro.
Which is where I’m writing you from, enjoying a caramel-y Serengeti Lager while Court savors her crisp-yet-nutty Kilimanjaro lager, on a verandah while the sun goes down around us, the birds whistle in the nearby jungle, and the locusts chirp a soothing story. Tonight, it’s luxury under a mosquito net in our little hut. Because, after thirty hours, it’s been well time.
September 26, 2010 in family, food, photos,
We were on our honeymoon — in Queenstown, NZ — when our one-month anniversary came along. Now, being newlyweds, we were thrilled at any chance to celebrate our wedding, so we went on over to the fanciest restaurant we could find. Then we looked at their price list, and decided to sit down in their lounge and enjoy an appetizer and some cocktails instead. We ended up with a couple of glasses of the local bubbly and a little plate of toast rounds, local goat cheese, and local honey. And boy, it was delicious. Who thinks of cheese and honey? But it’s outstanding. And, when we got home, it just seemed like it should be a tradition.
So, every month, on the 12th — that’s the day we got married, folks — we sit down for a dinner of goat cheese and honey and toast or crackers, with some bubbly to go with. Now we’ve had 12 of these great evenings; the first one we were too enamored to shoot, another was in France, and we forgot to take photos back in January, so you’ll only see 9 shots here, but we’ve celebrated all 12, and they’ve all been delicious and perfect. (You’ll notice that we swapped our wedding cake for the cheese for our one-year shot; that was delicious and perfect too!)
Yeah, there was some mixing it up in there — different cheeses (something peppered works wonderfully), different honeys (we highly recommend Avocado), different sparkling wines, different things going along with the whole plate… we had fun with it. And, of course, with so many good options, and so much to celebrate, we really did have a good time with our monthly celebrations!
Today is one year since our second wedding celebration, back out West in Culver City. We both send our thanks out to everyone who made it special on both coasts, and then I’d like to thank Courtney, for saying “OK!” when the waiter put the ring in front of her back on April 29 of last year, and for making this such a wonderful, perfect year for me. Happy Anniversary, baby!
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