The Adventures of Dr. Suzie

China: Beijing Tourism

2011-07-10T23:00:00.000-04:00

Prior to this China trip, I heard horror stories about visits to the Great Wall. Many friends commented on the hoards of tourists crowding into a few sections of a dilapidated wall that seemed less impressive than the history books’ accounts. Complaints about aggressive touts following tourists for miles abounded. I had actually been warned on multiple occasions that a trip to the wall should be on the bottom of my Beijing to do list. After a visit to the Jinshangling section of the Great Wall of China, I would argue a Great Wall hike should be near the top of any Beijing touring list.

The trip started in usual tourist fashion. Rick, Charlie, and I dragged ourselves to the tour pick-up spot at 6am, only to be actually picked up at 6:45am by a scruffy man driving a beat up white van. He drove us to a central spot where a chipper guide herded fifty other tourists onto buses of various sizes and condition. We unfortunately ended up on the short bus, where extra side seats had to be pulled down to fit all passengers and made legroom virtually non-existent. After much debate amongst pot-bellied, chain-smoking bus drivers, we finally pushed off on the three-hour drive north. The long ride afforded ample time to nap and fatigue overcame the aroma of backpackers and shrill of giggly Danish tourists.

We woke to the cheerful guide providing a brief overview of Great Wall history and handing out group ID badges. She then strongly suggested we pay to take the cable car to the top of the wall to save our energy. Barely able to stand the tourist group mentality any longer, Rick, Charlie, and I skirted away from the pack and headed for the stairs. The hike up to the wall was well paved and far from grueling. It provided a nice warm-up for the ups and downs to come.

The Jinshangling section of the wall runs along the top of the ridgeline providing breathtaking, 360-degree views of the surrounding mountains. It is hard to fathom how the Chinese transported all of the brick up to the top of the ridgeline. The accomplishment is even more impressive given that this section of the wall was built by the Ming Dynasty using 14^th to 17^th century technology in order to defend against Manchus and Mongols from North. When we arrived at the top, Rick said, “If I came all this way as a Mongol and saw this wall, I’d just turn around.” Too bad for the Ming that the Monguls didn’t think like Rick.

We decided to walk left and spent the next four hours hiking up and down the steep wall dotted with fortified stations providing shade from the blazing sun. Mini markets popped up at each station, with entrepreneurial salesman offering water, beer, and nuts for ten times the going rate. Though touts were present, often posing as guides before revealing their wares, the harassment level of Jinshangling felt tolerable. The further we hiked, the more dilapidated the wall became. Eventually, we faced a decision. Jump out the door of a crumbling wall station window with no ladder to allow easy re-entry, or turn back. Thirsty and fatigued, we decided to turn back.

A four-hour hike in 80-degree temperatures built up our appetites that we immediately treated with cold Tsingtao beer while waiting for lunch. We then scarfed down the substandard cafeteria fare included in the group tour with little complaint. Herded back to the buses with full tummies, we joined the sweaty masses for the long journey back to Beijing.

Beijing traffic made the trip back to the city center over four hours long. With the streets so jam packed, we could not be dropped off at the hotel to freshen up and decided to continue our touristy theme with a trip to the Beijing Opera in our post-hike state. Taking the subway to Hepingman, we sought out the Zhengyici Peking Opera Theater, a 300-year old company on the verge of bankruptcy. Unfortunately, no shows were playing this evening. We continued on in search of the Huguang Guild House, a colorful museum-theater built in 1807 that reportedly houses an excellent opera. With the clock ticking past 7:30pm and still unable to find the theater, we started to turn back just when Charlie spotted a sign for the Peking Opera Company. We hustled in, bought tickets in the back row, and joined the opera already in progress.

The Opera came in two acts. The first involved a man and woman in the throes of a dramatic romance. Elaborate costumes and face painting distracted from the screeching, five-tone music accompanied with cymbals and gongs. Charlie likened the sound to “a cat in heat.” The second act provided more appealing, upbeat music and involved the male character from the first act joined by acrobats who dazzled with juggling, gymnastics, and martial arts. Though a classic Beijing Opera lasts for hours, this performance was tailored to tourist and lasted only an hour.

We continued on our “checking the tourist box” theme and left the opera in search of Peking Duck. It did not take long to find an obliging restaurant. Peking duck is served as the whole duck that is thinly sliced by the chef to be wrapped in a paper thin flour wrap filled with celery, sprouts, and peanut sauce. It reminded me more of a Thai or Vietnamese meal and tasted delicious. The meal served as a fitting end to our day of playing tourist.

China: Beijing by Bike

2011-07-09T23:00:00.000-04:00

Despite the explosion of fancy cars and wide highways, Beijing in best explored by bike. Rick, Charlie, and I rented beat up old Giant bikes complete with front granny baskets and “bring bring” bells and hit the town. We returned home eight hours later after our best day in Beijing.

We started from the Bamboo Garden Hotel in the Back Lakes District and headed east to the Yonghehgong Lama Temple. Riding on main streets in the bike lane proved safe-ish, as the lane protected us from cars but not mopeds, pedestrians, or dogs. It reminded me of the old Nintendo game Paperboy, where obstacles regularly popped out of nowhere and blocked the path. We started by following the map but soon realized it was more fun to wander. Cruising through nearby hutongs provided a glimpse of real Beijing life on a lazy, hot Saturday afternoon. Woman bathed an adorable three year old in a plastic outdoor play tub, groups of men crowded around tables drinking beer and playing cards, and vendors pulled carts selling their wares of beer, rice, and vegetables.

The hutongs ranged from downtrodden to trendy, falling down in one block and sporting a high-end clothing store the next. At times, riding down tree-lined streets provided refreshing shade from the blazing sun and a tranquil escape from the bustling city. Moments later, the streets narrowed into a dark, dank maze that felt like a rabbit’s warren. The names of hutongs blurred past, each neighborhood running seamlessly into the next. And then we popped out at the hotel. We had unknowingly completed a full circle.

Not ready to hang up the bikes, Rick suggested riding up to the Olympic stadiums north of the city center. The main streets running north and south looked more like highways so we decided to take stick with smaller lanes and a less direct route. Zigzagging across side streets, we stumbled upon Fendinghu Park, a lovely oasis in the middle of the city, where brides held wedding shoots by the lake and grandmothers played badminton with their grandchildren. More meandering took us through residential hutongs nestled in between highrise apartments. The further we went, the more loud and crowded the city became. Street crossing became impossible and we had to carry the bikes through subway underpasses. We were eventually forced onto main streets and finally arrived at the gargantuan Olympics area. A long, narrow concrete strip runs for kilometers, leading through the Chinese Ethnic Culture Park and past the National Stadium and National Aquatics Center, much more aptly named the Bird’s Nest and Water Cube.

Having been engrossed by the 2008 Beijing Olympics, it was a special treat to see the sites in person. The Bird’s Nest, designed by Swiss architects Herzog & de Meuron with artistic consultation from renowned Chinese artist and political activist Ai WeiWei, is easily the most architecturally inspiring stadium in existence. It stood out even amongst the hustle and bustle of Beijing streets. The Water Cube looked a bit goofy, like a square tennis bubble about to pop. The Olympics area seemed very popular with locals and tourists alike, with kids as young as three practicing in-line speed skating in front of the Bird’s Nest, families picnicking all along the park, and vendors advertising popsicles, fans, and kites to anyone who would listen.

With night falling, we decided it was time to turn back. Exhausted from nearly seven hours or touring, we debated taking the subway home. The idea of changing subway lines twice with our heavy bikes seemed too daunting and we plugged ahead. Charlie and I decided to break off and treat ourselves to a nice meal at a fancy restaurant we had passed on the way up while Rick, ‘Mr. Cliff Bar,” headed back.

After weeks of eating Luna bars, Mountain House meals, and more Laghman than I thought possible in Xinjiang, I started salivating the minute we pulled up to the restaurant. We parked our bikes next to sleek Mercedes and Audis and wondered if our sporty attire covered in sweat and Beijing grit would meet the obviously trendy restaurant’s attire standards. From the minutes the hostess opened the door, we were welcomed us with open arms. She escorted Charlie and I to a private table in the back and an army of waiters brought a menu with pictures.

I had already been fired from ordering food after a few bad choices (insert “chicken feet” here) and happily let Charlie take the lead. We ended up with our best meal in China. Lamb wrapped in a banana leaf that literally fell off the bone. Fish doused with honey mustard tartar sauce. Seafood medley filled with lobster, shrimp, and squid. It all washed down well with oversized Tsingtao beer. Only desert, a bland coconut custard role, fell short.

Rejuvenated by the excellent food and encouraged by a bit of beer, we used our second wind to fly south down the Beijing thoroughfares and arrived back at Bamboo Garden Hotel in only 20 minutes. Returning the bike to the hotel, I longed for the old Beijing, where bicycles were the usual form of transport.

China: Kashgar Old Town

2011-07-08T22:00:00.000-04:00

I enjoyed being back in Kashgar after traveling the Karakoram Highway and took advantage of our last day in the city to explore Old Town. This picturesque area was the setting for the movie “Kite Runner” and still retains its charm.

When walking along Kashgar’s wide avenues lined with new Chinese buildings, it’s easy to miss Old Town. Various entrances exist, some that even charge tourists admission. While Rick headed off to take pictures, Charlie and I snuck into Old Town through a non-paying entrance. It immediately felt like we were in a different city. Maze-like dirt streets snaked through mud-colored, two-story brick houses with simple wood doors. Some streets were eerily empty. Others filled with naked children playing with simple toys and cackling with laughter. Old Town streets felt small and cramped but seemed to go on forever.

After wandering through Old Town without a map, we popped out near the river. I had heard that the Chinese government wanted to raze Old Town and replace it with shiny new high rises but was meeting significant resistance from both the local and international community. Walking around the edges of Old Town, it became clear the government had embarked on a more subtle and insidious plan. Block by block, moving from out to in, traditional Old Town homes and business were being replaced with new buildings. Eventually, then next block knocked down will be Old Town’s last.

With only a few hours left until our flight back to Beijing, we hit the market to stock up on gifts and remembrances. We bartered over tea and hand-made instruments, marveled at the roadside melon mounds, and enjoyed the rich smell of lamb kabobs cooked on the open grill. With great appetites, Charlie and I turned down the row of restaurants that specialized in pigeon soup and landed, shamefully, at a café catering to westerners for a comfort food lunch of crepes and croissants. Without having planned it, Rick walked in just as we sat down.

China: Shipton’s Arch

2011-07-07T22:00:00.000-04:00

When Rick, Charlie, and I booked the car, driver, and guide through Uighur Tours in Kashgar, the agent mandated we pay more for a 4x4 vehicle. This seemed an unnecessary luxury for our trip to Western Xinjiang where the well-paved Karakoram Highway provided a smooth ride. Our need for four-wheel drive became clear when we traveled to Shipton’s Arch, also known as Heaven’s Gate, the largest freestanding arch in the world.

Waking early in Tashkurgan, we retraced our steps, traveling six hours down the Karakoram highway starting near the Pakistan border, skirting Tajikistan, and then heading toward Kyrgyzstan. After a brief lunch stop in a trucker café too dirty even for our low standards, we left the main road and started bumping our way to Shipton’s Arch. The “road” ran across a high plateau and was more of a deeply rutted dirt track dodging large boulders and flirting uncomfortable close to the edge of sheer cliffs. Holding on in the back seat did not prevent a few head bumps on the car’s ceiling. After 45 minutes of driving and seeing no other humans, we pulled up to a man sitting on a motorbike on the side of the road. He appeared stranded. But, in typical Western Chinese tourist attraction style, he was the ticket taker and charged higher than the guidebook price to enter the Shipton’s Arch area because of “new ladders.”

After 15 more minutes of feeling like a pinball in the back of the car, we finally arrived at that start of the hike up to the arch. We walked up a rocky track that zigzagged in between large vertical rocks where ladders had been wedged to allow ascent. We panted in the thin air and made it to the top in about 30 minutes. From the lookout point at the top of a steep hill, it seemed impossible that I was looking at the largest freestanding arch in the world. When I summoned the courage to look down over the hill’s edge, the immensity of the arch became clear. It soared up from a deep canyon below, so far down that the base of the arch could not be seen from the hilltop.

After a patella-tendon straining hike down to the car, we bumped our way back to Kashgar with Kasim and Ilham. After settling the tour bill and freshening up in the Chinibagh Hotel, we sought out a guidebook-recommended eatery in attempt to eat something other than laghman. Foiled by an inability to read Chinese or Arabic, we could not find the suggested spot and landed instead in what looked like a formal restaurant. Ordering based on the menu pictures led to a meal of cold black noodles, veal kabobs, and undercooked squid salad. I would have preferred my hundredth meal of laghman. Still hungry, we wandered the local market and found some delicious lamb turnovers cooked on a street grill that filled us up for the night.

China: Tashkurgan

2011-07-06T22:00:00.000-04:00

Invigorated by our hike around Karakul Lake, Rick, Charlie, and I asked Kasim if he could arrange for us to hike up to Muztagh Ata’s climbing base camp at about 4,000 meters. He said we needed to buy permits, which seemed odd as we just wanted to walk along the trail and had no need to enter base camp or climb higher. Initially, he mentioned an approximate cost of $20 each. As the conversation continued, he started mentioning “environmental fees” and “entrance fees” and the price suddenly ballooned to $50 a person. That seemed a bit steep to pay for a hike. We decided to try anyway and see if Kasim could negotiate a better deal.

We drove for ten minutes from our lakeside yurt to a village at the base of Muztagh Ata. Ihlam pulled up to an elderly man lounging outside a group of simple yurts. Kasim said this was the man who controlled the climbing permits. We reiterated to Kasim that we only wanted to hike up to base camp and had no need to enter the secure area or climb any higher. After a prolonged greeting, he entered into an animated conversation with the elderly man. Lots of hand gestures on both sides. Kasim then returned to the car smiling only to say, “Have to pay for permit and environmental fee.” That was $50 each. We couldn’t believe it. $50 for a hike? Thinking Kasim did not understand our English, we asked him to make our request clearer to the permit keeper. Kasim kept shaking his head and saying this was not negotiable as security at base camp would ask for the permits, but we pushed him to ask again. This time, the non-negotiable permits were bargained down to three for the price of two. This was still more than we wanted to pay, so we asked Kasim where else we could hike. He responded that Tashkurgan offered great hikes in a valley where the Kunlun, Pamir, and Tian Chen mountain ranges meet, but it would cost us an extra $200 to take the car there. Deflated and tired of being nickeled and dimed, we decided it would be interesting to see a Chinese town on the Pakistani border and headed off to Tashkurgan more out of interest than any great hike it may offer.

As we drove southwest on the Karakoram Highway to Tashkurgan, the road continued to be well maintained and filled with a mix of commercial trucks, tourist taxis, and lone cyclists. We climbed to the high pass at 4,200 meters and stopped to look at the view. From this spot, we could easily see the police station located on the border of Tajikistan. In this mountainous area, it seemed a new country stood just on the other side of each mountain.

We arrived in Tashkurgan two hours later and found it tranquil by Chinese city standards. One main street runs through the town supporting an easy grid structure and making it easy to explore on foot without getting lost. Tucked in the mountains at 3,200 meters, the air is cool and dry. Tashkurgan felt like an outpost, a place where everyone was either coming or going, and it possessed a strong Tajik bent, with women wearing the traditional square hats covered in a veil that streams down both sides. I liked the slower pace of Tashkurgan compared to Urumqi and Kashgar, but found the Chinese state-sponsored news cast blared from loud speakers on every corner for 16 hours a day polluted the calm atmosphere.

It turns out the Kunlun, Pamir, and Tian Chen mountain ranges do not meet in Tashkurgan and the supposed “great hike” described by Kasim was fictional. We shopped around for hotels finally deciding on Traffic Hotel, once described in a travel guidebook as, “the worst hotel in the world.” With clean linens and bathroom, hot water, and TV, the hotel has either improved significantly or that travel guide had incredibly high standards. Exhausted and suffering from my liberal street food eating habits, I decided to nap and recover while Rick and Charlie went with Kasim to the city’s main tourist attraction. Five hours later, feeling much better after sleeping in a real bed, I met Rick and Charlie to explore the city. While we sauntered down Tashkurgan’s orderly streets lines with poplars, Charlie described the famous fort as a “pile of rocks,” another Chinese tourist attraction that did not live up to its billing. We window shopped, wandered to the edge of town to take in the mountainous surroundings, and ended at the new National Culture and Arts Center dedicated to Tajik life. Though we looked hard for food options that did not involve laghman with its pulled noodles, tomatoes, and peppers, we ended up eating this initially delicious but now getting very old meal once again.

China: Black Lake

2011-07-05T23:00:00.000-04:00

After perusing the guidebooks regarding western Xinjiang Province, Rick, Charlie, and I decided visiting Karakul Lake was a must. Directly translated as “Black Lake” this glacial runoff sits 3,600 meters above sea level at the base of Muztagh Ata (“Ice Mountain Father”) that rises to 7,546 meters. It sits like a lonely giant separated from the Kunlun mountain chain to the north and the Pamirs to the west. As we looked up facts about the lake on the Internet, some maps put it in Tajikstan. Others in Pakistan. But most drew the lake in China, clinging to the Pakistani border. Despite the uncertainty, we decided it was worth a road trip along the Karakoram highway, hired a 4x4 with driver and guide, and set off to find the Black Lake.

We met Kasim, a fast-talking Uyghur whose fluent introductions hid his surface knowledge of English, and Ilham, a quiet thin young man who didn’t look old enough to be out of high school. Ilham took great pride in his Toyota truck, which fit all five of us in relative comfort, and drove in a pleasantly civil fashion. As we started off, he actually seemed to be going too slow and we all complimented Ilham on how he made us feel safe with his driving.

First we stopped at the Opal Market, where the number of flies equaled the sum of fruits available from produce men lining the streets. We stocked up on melon, oranges, bread, water, and soda and then continued past the burial site of Mohammed Kashgari, a renowned 11^th-century translator who first complied the Turkic dictionary in Arabic. As we started to climb on the Karakoram highway, the car seemed too lackluster, with Ilham struggling to change gears at times. We asked if the car was having trouble and Kasim answered quickly, “No problem.”

Two hours of “I think I can, I think I can” chugging up into the mountains and we arrived at the Oytag Glacier. Like may tourist destinations in China, the land had been bought by a Han family who now charged each person the equivalent of $10 to enter the “park.” Sadly, this fee did not pay for park maintenance. As we climbed up a cobble stone path that gradually sloped up to the glacier, littered beer bottles and trash of all sorts lined the path. Puffing in the thin air, we arrived at the glacier viewpoint to find a medium-sized snow-peaked mountain with a black glacier spilling down the side like a pile of sliding coal. Kasim then said, “It’s a dirty glacier.” Unimpressed, we trudged back to the parking lot to find Ilham. He was gone.

Kasim immediately started yelling into his phone, presumably to Ilham. When we asked where Ilham had driven off too, Kasim replied, “To fix car, no problem.” Of course there was a problem. The car could barely make it up a mild incline and we were headed into the Kunluns and Pamirs. Feeling snookered and naïve given that the car obviously had problems from the beginning, we started instructing Kasim on how this situation would proceed – we’d give Ilham an hour or so the fix the car, but if it so much as sputtered, he would drive us to Karakul lake then head back to Kashgar for a replacement automobile. Kasim didn’t love the idea and kept yelling into his phone. Thirty minutes later, Kasim received a call from Ilham that all was well and he would be right back. Tired of waiting, we decided to walk down the road toward the car. An hour later, Ilham came tearing around the corner and skidded to a stop next to us. He rolled down the window grinning and holding a broken cable. His pleasure at fixing the car stood in stark contrast to our anger that he had left Kashgar knowing the car had problems. But you had to give the man credit for ingenuity. Mountains and sheep pastures surrounded us and Ilham somehow found a replacement part.

With a working truck, Ilham’s driving became more similar to his compatriots, but luckily not completely out of control. We sped up the well-paved Karakoram highway, past low rouge-colored peaks followed by increasingly impressive snow-covered mountains. Without warning, we arrived at a police checkpoint. Everyone in the car had to leave the vehicle and present his or her passports. At first, I thought we were entering Pakistan but was quickly corrected. The Chinese control their western borders tightly and like to keep track of everyone coming and going in these parts. A smileless man took down our passport information and we jumped back in the car to continue the journey to Karakul.

Just before arriving at the lake, we passed through a new dam project sponsored by the government. The job looked enormous – covering current mountainsides with concrete slabs to form what soon would be the side of the dammed lake. With water already starting to build up, a precarious narrow channel had been left for the road as it bisected the current body of water. As with so many construction projects in China, you could see the workers make progress even in a short drive-by.

As we pulled up to Karakul Lake, the weather took an interesting turn. It has been sunny and warm during the entire trip. But just as we stepped out at the Karakoram Hotel to rent a yurt, hail beat down with a vengeance. By the time we made accommodation arrangements and moved into our yurt tucked between the hotel and roadside, the squall had already cleared leaving a cool, crisp, and sunny afternoon to hike and explore.

Karakul Lake lived up to every expectation. The vivid blueness of the water rivaled Crater Lake, Oregon. We could not wait to stretch our legs and, the minute the weather cleared, hit the hiking trail. We walked clockwise around the lake, about a 15km in total. Starting on the wooden elevated bridge, we strode by various Kyrgyz yurt owners intent on selling us some jewelry then wandered by undulating inlets, sheep pastures, and a town at the base of Muztagh Ata. Looking to take the road less traveled, we decided to cut back to the hotel by walking through what appeared to be a flat green field, complete with picturesque horse enjoying the sunshine. We soon realized the lake penetrated the field multiple times creating small rivers that took considerable effort to jump over. The last 300 meters of the field was in fact a marsh, with undulating mounds sticking up like moguls out of the murky water. We looked like Frogger characters, bounding from mound to mound to avoid getting swamp juice on our shoes and pants. Three and a half hours later, we returned to the yurt, ate more Mountain House dinners, and warmed up by the coal stove. Whether we were in China, Tajikistan, or Pakistan didn’t matter. Karakul Lake is a gem no matter the host country.

China: Silk Road Train

2011-07-04T23:30:00.000-04:00

When Rick, Charlie, and I signed up to serve on the medical team of Racing the Planet Gobi, we immediately began debating where to travel after the race. It’s unimaginable to come this far and not see more of the area. We debated traveling to Tibet but worried about obtaining visas. Mongolia came up but we decided against it because travel across the Chinese-Mongolian border can be unreliable and we all needed to make it back to Beijing on time for the flight home. Since the race already brought us to Xinjiang Province, we decided to stay in China and head further west along the ancient Silk Road.

I love trains. I adore the gentle rocking, freedom to walk up and down carriages at any time, food cars to eat and meet other travelers, and views of the countryside. As someone who still gets nervous on airplanes and whose toosh falls asleep in a car after two hours of driving, train is my preferred way to travel. But I hadn’t experienced over 24 hours on a Chinese train yet.

We boarded the train from Urumqi en route west to Kashgar at about 10am on July 3. The train would roughly follow the renowned Karakoram Highway and was certain to provide breathtaking views. Rick, Charlie, and I bought four bunks in order to control the whole compartment and gain semblance of privacy. After boarding, we stumbled through the train’s narrow hallways to find our “luxury” suite consisting of four bunks cramped so tightly that I could not sit up all the way on any bed and my feet hung out the door when lying down. I am sure there are six-foot Chinese citizens out there as outraged as I at the obvious lack of sympathy for tall people. I did like that each bed had a pillow, cleanish sheets, and blankets, and the extra bunk provided useful for storing our mountain of luggage. Outside of the cabin, miniature seats could be folded down at each window to enjoy the view, except that the window directly outside of our suite was opaque. I found the presence of a western and squat toilet pleasantly surprising until I ventured inside the bathroom filled with flies and smelling of stool. I longed to be back in the desert where at least the sand provided a clean place to relieve myself.

With a loud creak, the train lurched forward toward Kashgar. Exhausted from repeated sleepless nights during the race, the rocking immediately put me to sleep. Eight hours later, I emerged from a deep slumber ready to take in the view and explore the train. I peered out the window to see a landscape exactly the same as in the Gobi – brown desert with brown mountains dotted with green scrub brush. Where were the gorgeous, craggy, snow-capped peaks I had heard we would pass over? Unfortunately, these breathtaking mountains were behind us. I had slept through all of it.

Feeling cramped in the bunks, Charlie and I decided to visit the food car and check out the cuisine offerings. Almost every table was filled with Chinese families enjoying fresh-looking dinners and playing games. The atmosphere was festive. I broke out my laptop to finish up the last of the Racing the Planet medical supply inventory while Charlie enjoyed beef and green beans on rice. Soon after, a food car employee came and chatted to us in Chinese. I had no idea what she said, but it appeared she wanted us to leave. With over half the food car now empty, I saw no reason why we should leave and decided to order food to keep her at bay. We played this game, order more food or drink every time she approached the table, until her voice rose and gestures for us to leave became increasingly forceful. The last thing Charlie and I needed was to be escorted from the train.

I slept another eight hours through the night and woke very ready to get off the train. There is only so much journal writing, reading, and sleeping one can do, and I began to feel claustrophobic. I paced the tiny hallways for a bit and then, with only an hour left to go, performed a Turkish bath and packed my bags. As the scheduled arrival time of 10am came and went, we found out the train was two hours behind schedule. But what’s another two hours when you have already been on the train for 24? They are agony. Those two hours felt longer than the entire day that came before. Twenty-six hours after boarding, Rick, Charlie, and I stepped off the train in Kashgar at 12pm on July 4, very happy to be free.

China: Predictably Unpredictable

2011-07-03T23:00:00.000-04:00

The Gobi Desert is hot. That’s a given. But as I prepared to serve as medical director for Racing the Planet’s Gobi March adventure race in Western China’s Xinjiang Province, fog, rain, and lightening were not on my radar.

The afternoon prior to race start, we boarded buses for the two-hour drive from Urumqi, the congested small town of three million and capital of the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, to the Turpan Basin, the third lowest exposed point on Earth and thought to be the hottest and driest area in China. We took a pit stop at a Kazak festival set at the center of a new village built by the communist party. In the middle of neat rows of one-story rectangle houses covered in shiny lime green and white tiles, Kazak villagers performed traditional song and dance routines to a local crowd sporting communist red baseball cap. Competitors huddled in tents to avoid the searing mid-day sun beating down from a cloudless sky.

When we arrived at camp situated in a field next to a Uyghur village, a cool breeze blew from the mountains through the valley of poplar trees as the competitors enjoyed local Hani melons and watermelon, a last “real” meal before the self-supported race got underway. It cooled off enough in the evening to actually sleep inside the sleeping bag and not sweat through the night.

Stage 1 of the race proceeded as expected. Competitors ran and walked on undulating gravel paths surrounded by mountains that changed from brunette to coffee to tan as the sun rose overhead. The Gobi looked like crumpled military fatigues with green brush scattered amongst the various shades of brown hills undulating towards higher, snow-capped peaks. Clear skies and low-40C heat provided a feasible challenge for competitors with some dropping out from previous orthopedic injuries and only a few cases of heat-related illness.

We went to bed hot and woke freezing. I stumbled outside the tent at five am to prepare for Stage 2 and fell into soup. Damp, thick fog prevented seeing past my shoes. I could barely make out the morning campfire only a few meters away. Finding the latrines proved futile as glow sticks marking the site could not penetrate the miasma. Despite the weather, the stage’s four checkpoints still needed to be set up. I joined the Checkpoint 2 crew as they drove into a mountain valley searching for the correct checkpoint location previously marked by Chuck, the course director. Through what seemed like sheer luck, we found the checkpoint site flags and pitched tents while a whipping wind blew the fog higher. Mist sneakily hovered below the peaks of surrounding rolling hills, eerily hugging the valley’s curves with its tendrils.

Then it began to drizzle. Dawning every piece of clothing brought to the desert, including a wool hat and gloves, I huddled with the other checkpoint volunteers wondering how this is one of the hottest places on earth. Looking to get warm and obtain better communication, we hiked to the top of a nearby ridge. Pacing back and forth along the ridgeline, holding the radio high in the air to pick up reception, we learned through a series of craggily radio communications that the race start had been postponed until noon, Checkpoints 1 and 2 cancelled, and 20km shaved off the race.

Cold and damp, we packed up the Checkpoint 2 that never was and headed to Checkpoint 3. Within minutes, racers flew through the checkpoint looking fresh and happy. Cold and wet is runners’ weather. But it is no good for feet. Everyone finished the stage that had started but foot care kept the medical tent busy. And just as the medical tent starting heating up, so did the climate. The sun popped through, cleared all fog, and created a glorious evening. For the first time, competitors looked around to realize our camp stood on the top of a cliff surrounded by mountains. Such a gorgeous spot, the Kazak’s used it as a graveyard.

We landed on the moon for Stage 3. The desert seemed especially gritty in these parts. So sparse and granular you felt it between your teeth. A nice wind blew through the canyons most of the morning making the 44C heat bearable. But by the afternoon, as runners trudged through dry riverbeds and narrowing canyons, the real Gobi heat set in. Competitors stumbled into camp saying the last 10km were the hardest of the race, despite the terrain being all down hill. At least the runners found a surprise treat at camp.

Instead of the usual tent city, we all stayed in Peach Village, a tiny Kazak community located near a natural stream. Across a dirt road from the stream, villagers built concrete homes with a central courtyard surrounding multiple small rooms filled with concrete sleeping platforms. On the stream side of the road, goats, donkeys, and chickens lounged in pens while open latrines perched about ten meters from the water. Despite the public health nightmare, competitors lounged in the river for hours, soaking feet and even enjoying a bath.

Soaking feet covered in tape, of course, led to tape falling off. This resulted in to an incredibly busy medical tent as the majority of runners requesting we re-tape feet. After a back-breaking evening of foot care, the medical team looked forward to a good night’s sleep. Unfortunately, bugs and heat made sleeping on the concrete platforms almost impossible. The four am wake-up didn’t help either.

Due to ever increasing development of the Gobi Desert for oil and mineral extraction, finding pristine areas to run an adventure race has become difficult. Thus, Racing the Planet had to change the course and drive competitors further into the desert. Most of the runners woke at three am to eat a hot breakfast before boarding buses for the three-hour drive toward the city of Turpan. They jumped off the bus facing the hardest stage thus far starting with 10km of infamous sand dunes. Finally, we had arrived in Hollywood’s version of a desert. But Stage 4 took its toll on both the competitors and staff. Runners slid over heaping mounds of sand as the weather gods again came through – overcast skies and even drizzle kept the temperature pleasant. But once the sun beat away the clouds, it hit the ‘dunnettes’ and salt flats with tyranny.

During the midday heat, a runner went down in the dunes. We had prepared for such a situation and sent a doctor with volunteers and a camel escort to treat and extract the runner as trucks could not pass through the soft sand. After a successful resuscitation, the competitor, doctor, and all volunteers arrived at Checkpoint 1 looking exhausted but otherwise well. Just as I sighed in relief that all had arrived safely, the medical dominos started to fall. One of the volunteers involved in the dune extraction started showing signs of severe heat exhaustion and required evacuation to a nearby clinic. Multiple lead runners dropped out secondary to heat-related illness. One competitor had an irregular heart rhythm that necessitated evaluation in an ambulance. And when I finally arrived at camp, I walked into what looked like a refugee camp.

The entire camp seemed to be receiving medical care of some sort. Extra tarps had been set up to serve as IV stations to treat the dehydrated and heat sick because the medical tent was already full with runners being treated for asthma attacks, infections, orthopedic injuries, and foot care needs. Too hot to sit inside the sleeping tents, competitors lay anywhere they could find some shade. Everyone looked pale and utterly exhausted. Almost 20 competitors dropped out or were pulled medically from the race on Stage 4. The searing Gobi heat had truly arrived. I didn’t think it could get any hotter. And then we started the “Long March.”

Traversing 80 km in any weather is a feat. Running or walking 80km through salt flats in up to 50C heat while carrying a pack seems unfathomable. And yet, the vast majority of those who started Stage 5 completed it. By 1pm the next day (most competitors go all night), all runners had crossed the finish line in the Flaming Mountains. With the rest of the day to relax and recover, the question became where to find a place cool enough to do so. It was too hot to sleep. Too hot to eat. The surface temperature read 60C. Competitors that looked good upon finishing developed heat exhaustion just sitting around and soon we had to break out the IVs.

The heat eased off a bit by 10pm as the sun began to dip and the medical team became giddy at the prospect of eight hours of sleep. Just as we had settled in with the tent sides rolled up for ventilation, wind gusts started dumping sand into the tent. Within minutes, a power sandstorm arrived with wind gusts trashing tarp poles and nearly blowing away tents. It required all six doctors to lay on the medical tent walls to keep it from flying away. Local staff ran into the tent multiple times, shouting what seemed like very important instructions in Uyghur, that were unfortunately lost in non-translation. The then lightening arrived and forced us to evacuate the medical tent as we had tallest central pole in camp. Running through camp with buff-covered faces and sunglasses to prevent corneal abrasions, we looked like a bunch of old-school bankrobbers as we barged into other staff and volunteer tents. Cramming nine people in to a space enough for six led to cramped quarters and we spent most of the night wondering if the tent would fly away.

We woke to an apocolyptic scene. The Flaming Mountain scenary was bleak enough without the broken tents and trash strewn about the camp. And then it started pouring rain. What kind of desert is this?

On Stage 6, the final 14km, the weather started off rainy but finally returned to the hot we expected. Runners cruised through the Flaming Mountains to finish line at the Buddhist Village in the bright sunshine. It was hot and dry. Just like a desert.

China: The Center of the World

2011-06-22T23:32:00.000-04:00

For our first full day in Beijing, Rick, Charlie, and I decided to travel to the center of the earth and obtain a history lesson along the way. China, directly translated, means “middle kingdom.” And in the center of this middle kingdom stands the heart of the Chinese world: The Forbidden City.

We woke early to beat the Beijing summer heat but soon realized the choking climate persists 24 hours a day. Humidity and smog made my eyes burn from the minute we hit the pavement. Beijing’s pollution makes Mexico City, Santiago, and Cairo look environmentally friendly. Despite the oppressive heat, we decided to walk south from our Back Lakes hotel to the Forbidden City, taking in Beijing street life along the way. Hoping for dumplings, we stopped in a cramped local eatery and sat down. Without asking for our order, the server put two plates of steamed dumplings on the table. The waitress then made a gesture mimicking drinking and we nodded yes. What appeared to be milk and a gelatinous soup then arrived. The mystery meat dumplings hit the spot but I could have done without the scallion dumplings, milk, and soup. This first stop was definitely a test of my supposedly iron stomach.

Fueled and acclimating to the smog, we kept walking south toward the Forbidden City. On the map, it appeared to only be 1.5km from the hotel, but everything in Beijing is further away then it seems. We circumvented Jingshan Park, a man-made hill with five temples that fills the requirement of all palaces having temples behind them, and approached the Forbidden City from the back (northern) entrance.

The minute we arrive at the back gate, Lee approached us for a tour and his price was right. 150 yen for 1.5 hours. We decided to walk and listen to the guide first, and then wander and take pictures after. Lee, a tour guide during the day and English teacher at night, had his pitch down. Here are some of my favorite facts that Lee taught us:

· The Forbidden City is 7.75 million square feet or 1km x 750km – ie., it’s huge

· Built from 1406-1420 by Yongle emperor and designed by eunuch Nguyen An

· Between 1420 and 1923, it housed 24 successive emperors from the Ming and Qing Dynasties

· Arranged based on compass points with most rooms opening south, the direction associate with imperial rule

· Built from South to North with political buildings first followed by residential buildings and then gardens/tea houses

· The emperor had 4 tea houses, one for each season, made tongue and groove from wood with no nails

· Dragon signifies emperor, phoenix represents empress

· The colors of the buildings each have significance. Yellow = emperor, blue = heaven, green = earth, red = happiness and harmony

Though we had many more questions for Lee, our time ended quickly and we were itching to take pictures of the magnificent buildings and gardens. Rick went one way and Charlie and I another with the goal to meet back in 1.5 hours. As we wandered, I quickly realized the smoggy grey skies muted the cameras ability to capture the vibrant colors and decided to change my focus to people watching. The Forbidden City is the most visited site in China and throngs of Chinese tourists filled every inch of the colossal area. Fifty-six ethnic minorities live in China and many arrived on their trip to the center of the earth in traditional clothes. I enjoyed seeing the awe on the faces of many of these visitors who had traveled days by train from tiny rural villages to Beijing. I felt like an outsider watching pilgrims arriving at a spiritual site they had dreamt of for years.

Amongst the throngs, Charlie and I quickly lost track of time and started hustling back to meet Rick at the southern entrance of the Forbidden City. Following the well-marked exit signs, we made it just on time to the wrong gate. Our inability to read Chinese letters led us to the east gate, over 1km from our intended destination. We should have been following the large meridian that runs north to south through the entire city and found some English-speaking tourists to point us to this thick line of concrete. We then started running. We wound through concubine suites out to the imperial gardens and then hurdled stairs of one imperial palace after another whose yellow tile roofs accented with green and blue trim with red walls started to blur. Charlie and I arrived 30-minutes late to find Rick happily perched against a column reading his book about China.

Heading against the sea of tourists entering the Forbidden City, we walked through the ticket corrals and marveled at the security guard engrossed in his phone texting instead of looking at the baggage being placed diligently on the x-ray conveyor belt by everyone who entered. After a brief stop for a pea popsicle that tasted too much like peas, Rick, Charlie and I passed through the Gate of Heavenly Peace marking the entrance to Tianamen Square. From this very spot, Chairman Mao declared the founding of the People’s Republic of China on October 1, 1949. To this day, Mao still looms over the largest public square in the world, his picture flanked by signs declaring, “Long Live the People’s Republic of China” and, “Long Live the Great Unity of the People’s of the World.” I found the square’s expansiveness uncomfortable. The area seemed to belittle the power of an individual versus the gargantuan state. Even with thousands of tourists milling about, the square still felt empty and haunted.

Exhausted by our visit to the center of the world, we decided to forgo exploration of the hutongs south of Tianamen Square and braved the Beijing subway for the first time. Compared to the public transit systems of DC, New York, and Boston, to which I have become accustomed, the Beijing subway is clean, cool, and efficient. We boarded the blue line at Qian Men and followed the Second Ring Road around to Gulou Dajie near to Drum and Bell Towers. Low in energy from a long day of touring, we refueled at another local, no name eatery where ordering by pointing at other patrons’ food led to a delicious meal of noodle soup and beer.

China: Surprising Beijing

2011-06-21T22:00:00.000-04:00

With the majority of US-sold commodities being made in China, the likes of Donald Trump shouting our economic downfall at the hands of the Chinese from every rooftop, and news programs sharing frequent images of communist China on the nightly news, I thought I knew what to except when landing in Beijing: a chaotic, polluted, developing city ringed by factories and swarming with oppressed locals who suffer at the hands of a overly paternalist regime. Though true in words, this description does not adequately describe Beijing life.

Arriving in Terminal 3 of Beijing Capital International Airport provided a first glimpse of the real Beijing. Gargantuan, spotless, and high tech, the airport rivals any fancy international hub. After serving as fresh tourist meat for the frothing cabbies and bargaining down from triple to double to usual price, we cruised onto a well-paved road lined with groomed foliage. Most cars stayed between the lines and some even used a turn signal to change lanes. Only the Chinese characters above English words on green road signs proved we were not driving on I-95.

Though busy, navigating street life in Beijing is anything but onerous. As a tall female with light hair and Celtic skin, I am used to causing a mild stir when strolling foreign streets. Stares in Beiijng are present but seem more based in fascination than sexual hyperness. Even in touristy areas, touts approach but politely leave with a simple, "No thanks." This is not India or Egypt. I will not cause a traffic accident just walking down the street and running from vendors will not become a sport. Beijing locals appear too concerned with their own interesting lives to care much about foreign tourists.

The lives of Beijingers seem anything but oppressed. I have a feeling that paternalistic government is lurking somewhere but you can walk down the street in Beijing and completely forget about communism. Capitalism (with Chinese characteristics) is alive and well. Countless restaurants, bars, food carts, hotels, banks, art stores, and clothing shops surround our Bamboo Garden Hotel in the Back Lakes district. Businessmen and woman commute to work in Hondas and Audis, teenagers play with their iPhones, mothers push strollers, couples walk dogs, men play mahjong in the hutong lanes. Life appears interesting and full. Only when I tried to open Facebook and YouTube did I actively feel the legacy of Chairman Mao.

Unfortunately, my preconceived notion of Beijing got the pollution part right. Smog the color of dirty dishwater swirls heavily over the city. I can see why locals wear masks. Eye watering and sneezing must be a regular part of Beijing life. I recently read in Peter Hessler’s Oracle Bones that the Chinese government often forces the closing of factories, institutes odd and even driving days, and even seeds clouds to cause a cleansing rain before important government events. We need to add some more communist holidays to the calendar.

Mexico City: Coyoacan and San Angel

2010-12-29T23:59:00.001-05:00

With Stu leaving in the early am, El Patio 77 staff requested a room shuffle. I was initially disappointed to move to the same “wing” as Scott and Chris, given that their interior room felt cold and dark. Then I saw my new abode. Sun streamed in through the wall of 20-foot windows as a cool breeze billowed the four-poster bed’s creatively draped mosquito netting. I curled up in the retro red chair by the window and happily read First Stop in the New World, waiting for the boys to finish getting ready and hoping the stomach cramps that had started up would subside. I fully deserved to get sick given my reckless yet yummy survey of the DF’s street food.

Today, we decided to head outside of the city center to visit Coyoacan, the village made famous by Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera and now engulfed in Mexico City’s sprawl. Though only 10km south of our hotel, the cab ride took over an hour thanks to traffic. Coyoacan, with its tree-lined streets, two large plazas surrounded by open-air restaurants, relaxed atmosphere, and strong arts presence gave off a Santa Fe air. Scott, Chris, and I wandered the colorful side streets then settled into a cozy café off the square called Salamander Otra Vez. Here, among empanadas and chicken tacos, the Traveling Triumvirate was born.

I am not sure who first broached the subject, but two bites into a delicious beef empanada, I had agreed to travel for a year with these two yahoos. Here’s the basic idea:

The Traveling Triumvirate Experiment

Hypothesis: Three friends and ENTJs, a 20-something attorney, 30-something physician, and 40-something politician can successfully complete a yearlong journey through Asia, Africa, Australia, and America while:

Having the time of their lives
Remaining great friends
Staying safe
Monetizing the experience

Methods: Travel like an ENTJ by creating a traveling government complete with constitution, bylaws, and budget to increase chance of obtaining goals

Results: TBD

The conversation turned most interesting while hashing out bylaws including:

Minimum monetary buy-in per member that will be used to create the Traveling Triumvirate LLC (TT) and fund group travel, visa, hotel, satellite and cell phones. Buy-in due six months prior to departure.
Individual TT members financially responsible for own travel insurance, healthcare insurance, food, gear, souvenirs, incidentals, and costs from US (mortgage, loans, etc.).
Others who wish to join group for part of the trip are welcome but must agree to and sign bylaws. Small buy-in required given that TT will be arranging all travel.
Grievances to be aired at mandatory Wednesday night Alcohol Discussion Hours (ADH) to hash out all issues from previous week. Debate encouraged. All hard feelings and tears must be left at table. Meetings adjourn once all three voting members have reached consensus.
Mandatory separation time at least once per week.
For every three weeks of travel, one week of staying put in vacation-like atmosphere.
Reassessment and creation of “5 things to do differently” list every month
Set monetary penalties for certain actions:

Leaving trip prematurely for any reason (illness, pregnancy, fatigue)

Wising to spend time with member of other sex

Bringing in traveler not liked by other group members

Rotating roles among triumvirate every month

President – sets global travel plan

Vice President – responsible for local travel and hotel bookings, day-to-day plans

Treasurer – maintains financial records, final say on disputed purchases

Monetization Plan

Create blog postings every Monday and Friday including flip video footage

Marketing through ENTJ travel meet-ups in each country

Each member keeps journal to be turned into book

Pitch movie idea

TT will be doing trial run in July 2011 during trip to China. Who knows if a year of travel will actually happen, but it was certainly fun to bat around the idea!

After deciding to launch the TT, we returned to reality to visit the Frida Kahlo Museum. The museum is located in the home of Kahlo’s birth, which she bought from her parents (a Hungarian immigrant father who worked as a photographer and Mexican Catholic mother) and shared with on then off then on husband, Diego Rivera. The house, painted a powerful royal blue, is located a few blocks from the main city square and has been beautifully appointed with the art of both Kahlo and Rivera along with their large collection of pre-Hispanic and Mexican pieces. Rooms have been frozen in time and include Kahlo’s studio complete with the wheel chair she painted from after losing her feet. As she so aptly stated, “Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?” Depicted in the engaging movie, Frida, Kahlo’s cathartic painting style stemmed from her life’s many health tragedies starting with a near-death bus accident at age 18 that led to a life of chronic pain, not being able to bear children and almost dying from a hemorrhagic miscarriage, and losing her foot to gangrene. Of her fantastical, raw, and often gut-wrenching self-portraits, Kahlo once said, “I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.” Her paintings also showed her communist leanings, often depicting Stalin and Lenin within an Amerindian context. One of Kahlo’s more infamous claims to fame is serving as Leon Trotsky’s lover upon his exile from Russia when he took refuge in La Casa Azul.

While in Coyoacan, we had the pleasure to be joined by Scott’s former graduate school classmate, Alexi, and his girlfriend, Maricela. The consummate hosts, they joined us for drinks at Gaudalapana and then took us to Alexi’s hometown of San Angel, located just next to Coyoacan. San Angel is the Beverly Hills of Mexico City filled with glitzy shops and high-end restaurants. It also houses Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera’s second abode designed by Rivera so that each had his or her own house connected by a bridge. While Alexi had to settle some business, Marcela treated us to a meal at the historic San Angel Inn, originally a Carmelite monastery built in 1692 turned 5-star hotel and restaurant catering to the likes of Rock Hudson, Prince Philip, and Mohammed Ali.

Alexi rejoined us and graciously offered to drive us home. The drive became a full-blown local tour with stops a Siquieros murals covering the outside of a theater, the huge bull-fighting stadium, and Garibaldi Square. My favorite part of the night involved the car being chased by mariachi men attempting to win our favor. In Mexico City, it is very common to drive down to Garibaldi Square and literally pick up mariachi musicians for an event. Mariachi prostitution at its best. The tour could have lasted all night had Scott. Chris, and I had a single once of energy left. Around midnight, we parted with our gracious hosts and prepared to bid farewell to the DF.

Mexico City: Condesa

2010-12-28T23:59:00.000-05:00

I could live in Condesa. As Scott and Chris would say, Condesa is “civilized.” Built around a former horseracing track that is now Parque Mexico, Condesa has achieved a cool mixture of cosmopolitan funk and tree-lined neighborhood charm. Spending so much time in the “real” colonias of San Rafael and Santa Maria de Ribera and the touristy areas of the Zocalo and Alameda, I couldn’t wait to finally see Condesa.

After a brief stop at the newly inaugurated Holocaust museum and breeze through Chinatown, Scott, Chris, Stu and I decided to keep charging forward after a long day in the Zocalo and Alameda to hit the Condesa nightlife. We started at the Red Tree House, a gorgeous B&B that put our El Patio 77 to shame. With its welcoming living room warmed by a fireplace, charming patio lined with tropical plants, and hosts who never let wine glasses go empty, the Red Tree House is a calm refuge amidst the city’s chaos. Scott and Stu had stayed here upon their arrival. Though we had never technically been guests, Chris and I were welcomed like family. Unfortunately, it’s hard to leave this place and took a bit to disengage from the friendly group atmosphere. We ended up joining the Red Tree House posse for a drink prior to escaping for a bit of exploration. Stu stayed behind to continue catching up with Red Tree House friends.

It’s hard to walk down the streets in Condesa without wanting to stop at every establishment. Old men gathered on the stoop of an independent bookstore. A chic boutique stayed open welcoming post-dinner strollers late into the night. Four stools pulled up to a bar dedicated to tastings of mezcal, potent liquor distilled from the maguey plant. We couldn’t pass that one by. But instead of partaking in El Colonial’s mezcal, we devoured its delicious beef tacos. Next stop, Pato Negro, a smooth jazz bar filled with hipsters. But we had to move along to Condesa DF’s rooftop bar, home to Mexico’s glitterati, to meet Scott’s brother. Scott, Chris, and I huddled under blankets and people-watched the DF’s so-called elite strewn about round velvet ottomans and cush couches. Sadly, Scott’s brother could not join us. Even more unfortunately, Stu never made it either. His “disappearance” after speaking with Scott on the phone post dinner led to increasingly alarmist theories of his whereabouts. On the optimistic side, Stu was enjoying the company of a nice young lady. On the less optimist side, he had been kidnapped. Scott took the middle road theory and bet Stu was at the hotel packing for his early morning flight.

Scott was correct. After waiting for over an hour at Condesa DF and working ourselves into a heap of worry, Scott, Chris, and I returned to El Patio 77 just as Stu came down the stairs. After parting with the Red Tree House crew, Stu had become lost in Condesa, declined to pay the late-night cab fare to Condesa DF (which would have been about $2), and decided it was easier to head back to the hotel. After breathing a huge sigh of relief that he was alive, we then ripped him a good one.

Mexico City: Zocalo and Bella Artes

2010-12-28T17:49:00.003-05:00

After finally getting eight hours of sleep, Scott, Chris, Stu and I had a lazy morning and arrived at the Plaza de al Constitucion, more popularly known as the Zocalo, around 12pm. Zocalo means “base” and 19^th century chilangos gave the voluminous square this nickname in the 19^th century after builders of an independence monument never made it past the base.

The Zocalo area has served many purposes. Just northeast of the square once stood the Aztec capital Tenochtitlan’s ceremonial center called Teocalli. The Templo Mayor, located inside the Teocalli, is thought to be the exact spot where the Aztecs saw the eagle sitting on a cactus eating a snake. The Aztec’s then built their “center of the universe” at this spot, originally in the middle of Lago de Texcoco. Part of the Aztec’s story I had never heard before stuck with me – the Aztecs saw said eagle and founded Tenochtitlan after fleeing the Culhuacan tribe. Why did the Aztecs need to run? Because after the Culhuacan chieftain offered the hand of his own daughter to the Aztec leader, a dancer showed up at the wedding ceremony draped in the skin of the bride-to-be who had been sacrificed to Huizilopochtli, the Aztec god of war. So not cool.

More Zocalo history - Cortes razed the Aztec buildings of Tenochtitlan in the 1600s and paved the plaza. Infamously, Inquisition burnings at the stake occurred here in the late 16^th century. The square then turned into a bustle of market stalls followed by Emperor Maximilian turning it into a European garden. Today, the Zocalo plays more of a political role with the Palacio Nacional on the east, Distrito Federal government offices to the south, and the grand Catedral Metropolitana taking up post to the north.

After playing tourist and wandering about the grand colonial church and government buildings, we ventured two blocks east of the Zocalo and entered another world. Every inch of sidewalk and often every inch of street filled with vendors laying out their wares on plastic tarps and shrieking catchy marketing jingles. Scott, Chris, Stu, and I hadn’t walked one block when a rush of salespeople with panicked looks swooped up their merchandise and sprinted down the street, their goods wrapped in tarps and bouncing on backs like hobo Santa Clauses. Turns out these vendors didn’t have licenses and the police had strolled into town. Yet, only moments latter, the same vendors had set up shop on another corner and again advertised their scarves, underwear, batteries, and purses with impressive fervor. One young vendor won me over with his rowdy sales cry and Sponge Bob purse enticing me to spend a whopping $2 on a scarf.

After a bit more wandering and disturbing discussion of which way was north, we finally found the Ministry of Education renowned for its two courtyards filled with three stories of Diego Rivera murals painted in the 1920s. Vibrant murals illustrating themes of revolutionary pride filled the walls separating surprisingly sparse government offices. My favorite works covered the third floor. Under a continuous red banner displaying the words of a Mexican folk song, Rivera played capitalist extravagance against the proletariat revolution. If taken off the wall, the art in the Ministry of Education alone would fill numerous museums and overwhelmed me after an hour. Scott and Chris had lasted 15 minutes. I found Stu and headed off to meet the others at a local watering hole. While walking out of the building, a Siquieros mural stopped me in my tracks. The bold, futuristic images could not have been more different than Diego Rivera’s paintings, yet the themes were the same – pro-revolution and power to the people.

Real Mexico City cantinas are fabulous. They serve endless free food as long as you keep drinking. Stu and I found Scott and Chris very much at home in a cantina just off the Zocalo, enjoying tequila and beers with Jorge, head of a textile company, and David, his employee. Thanks to Jorge, I discovered the joy of Hornito tequila with sangrita and avoided intoxication by eating everything on the menu from tacos to soup to quesadillas to mystery meet. Hours later, after talking on the phone with Jorge’s wife, planning David’s wedding to his not yet fiancé, and witnessing a machismo contest involving who can withstand the greatest voltage of electricity without letting go (yes, they paid for this), we stumbled onto the streets and hailed a pedicab to Palacio de Bellas Artes.

The eight-block trip to Alameda and the Palacio de Bellas Artes by pedicab required 45 minutes, a chain fix, and frequent pushing by Scott. The Palacio, originally commissioned in 1905 by Porfirio Diaz under architect Adamo Boari, had its building stopped temporarily by the revolution and was completed by Federico Mariscal in the 1930s. It continues to serve as an opera and concert hall. The stunning white marble exterior covers a lovely interior and houses multiple murals including Diego Rivera’s El Hombre En El Cruce, originally commissioned for New York City’s Rockefeller Center and re-painted here in 1934. Anti-capitalist themes didn’t sit well with the Rockfellers who paid Rivera for his work and then destroyed the original because it juxtaposed capitalism and war on the left with socialism and peace on the right.

On our way to the newly opened Holocaust museum, we passed a statue of Benito Juarez, enthroned among marble columns. Juarez is a great story. Born to an impoverished Zapotec family in Oaxaca, Juarez took full advantage of the education provided by a lay Franciscan benefactor Antonio Salanueva. He went on to earn a law degree, become the first Mexican president with full indigenous blood, and oversea Mexico’s La Reforma period. He is best known for curbing the power of the Catholic Church and military and overthrowing Maximilian von Habsburg who became emperor of Mexico in 1864 with the backing of Napoleon III. Today, the benefit of many of Juarez’s policies has come into question but he remains a hero.

Mexico City: Teotihuacan

2010-12-27T23:59:00.002-05:00

Tired from all of our travel to the DF, we decided to have a relaxed day wandering around the Zocalo sites with Scott’s brother and his family. While prepping for the day with his guidebook, Stu astutely realized it was Monday, the international day of museum closures. We quickly realized that despite our fatigue, the day should be dedicated to visiting Teotihuacan, the capital of Mexico’s largest pre-Hispanic empire.

First we had to meet Scott’s brother, Steve, and his family to let them know about the change of plans. No one answered at Steve’s hotel and he didn’t have a working cell phone so we headed to the Zocalo to find the designated meeting spot. Scott, Chris, Stu and I headed to the nearby metro and were uniformly amazed by its cleanliness, speed, and cost ($.25 per trip). Even more impressive was the speed of the train’s door closure. Following DC metro protocol, Scott, Stu, and I waited for the other riders to leave the train before stepping toward the door. Before all of the riders disembarked, a bell rang and the doors started to close. Scott hustled onto the train untouched while I leapt forward hitting the doors with my arms in attempt to trigger their opening. A friendly bump from behind pushed me through just as the doors slammed shut. I turned to see Chris on the train but Stu stranded outside. Stu has not traveled internationally in a decade, speaks little Spanish, and tends to use his impressive intelligence to over-think situations. As the train shot off, Scott, Chris, I stewed about whether Stu knew the correct stop and would make it to the Zocalo. Once we reached the Zocalo stop (thankfully actually called “Zocalo,” Scott, Chris, and I fanned out on Operation Save Stu and made sure we had each section of track covered. When the next train arrived, we each ran up and down the track looking in every car until Scott shouted, “I’ve got Stu” who stepped off the train smiling. It’s amazing how traveling can turn such a simple task (traveling four stops on the metro) into a sometimes-harrowing adventure.

Upon arriving at the Zocalo 30 minutes later than expected, we realized that the meeting spot was really in Alameda and decided to give up actually trying to find Steve and his family. What did we every do before cell phones? We hopped a cab to Terminal Norte and boarded a bus for the 50km ride to Teotihuacan. Speeding through seemingly-endless urban sprawl, two cowboys serenaded the bus with Mexican folk songs, which would have been lovely if the guitar hadn’t been inches from my ear. We arrived at Teotihuacan in an hour, just as the noon sun peaked. Seventy degrees and sunny with a light breeze, the day could only have been more lovely if the smog had miraculously disappeared.

Teotihuacan gained its name from Nahuatl-speaking Aztecs centuries after the city’s demise. The actual origin of Teotihuacan’s inhabitants remains unclear. But it is well documented that the city played a major role in Mesoamerican life between 100AD and the 7-8^th centuries. Utilizing talud-tablero (sloping-upright) architectural style, Teotihuacán’s dwellers built the Pyramid of the Sun, the world’s third largest pyramid, and the Pyramid of the Moon to dominate the landscape. Arriving at Gate 1, we sauntered through La Ciudadela, a square complex thought to be the supreme ruler’s residence, and ventured up Temple de Quetzalcoatl, an edifice named after the famed feathered-serpent deity. Still with fresh legs, we then climbed the Pyramid of the Sun and enjoyed the 360-degree view of Teotihuacan and the local city, San Juan Teotihuacan. My favorite moment of the visit came when Scott, Stu, and I settled into a picnic on the Pyramid of the Sun’s shady ledge where tribal leaders ceremoniously threw sacrificial virgins down the over 70m-high steps almost 2000 years ago, while, on our left, Chris joined a conference call from the US and, on our right, sun worshippers called to the ancient spirits and Jesus Christ for salvation.

The Pyramid of the Moon provided the most splendid views. From the temple’s base, the Avenue of the Dead rolled down the ceremonial center of Teotihuacan, lined with 12 temple platforms before passing the Pyramid of the Sun looming on the left. Marching down the grand avenue from the Pyramid of the Moon toward Gate 1 gave a sense of Teotihuacán’s expanse. We ended the trip at the entrance café with well-deserved beers and then caught one of the last buses back to Terminal Norte.

After a long day of walking and climbing, we were ravenous and decided to take the New York Times article’s advice and explore the Santa Maria de Ribera hotspot Salon de Paris. The visit started badly. First, the place was empty. Second, the restaurant only possessed one remotely Parisian item – an Eiffel Tower picture on the wall. Third, they had no menu. It turns out the restaurant had run out of food due to the Christmas rush and didn’t have one item on their menu other than beer. After much confusion, we decided on the “specialty of the house” (i.e., the only food they had) and ended up with a surprisingly good meal of carne asada tacos covered in heaps of guacamole, mystery meat in smooth green salsa with potatoes, and Montejo beer. Fatigued and satiated, we decided to make it an early night and returned to the hotel for a good night’s sleep.

Mexico City: San Rafael and Plaza de la Republica

2010-12-26T23:59:00.002-05:00

Mexico City is known for its colonias, or neighborhoods. I met Scott and Stu in El Patio 77’s San Rafael neighborhood, and we struck out to explore the new hood. Scott and Stu had arrived Christmas Eve and already explored the DF while staying in the posh colonia Condesa and Red Tree House B&B for two days. Scott’s first comment about San Rafael as opposed to Condesa: “More real.” Translation of “real” – more poor, gritty, and crowded. Hoping to wander through La Plaza de la Republica before heading to the Zocalo, we mistakenly walked north from the hotel and ended up browsing the makeshift market lining the busy San Cosme thoroughfare. I sampled the street tostadas whose spicy salsa triggered a coughing fit and need for emergency Coca Cola while Scott and Stu marveled at the variety of goods available - $2 DVDs, sexy lingerie, melting ice cream, rip-off Adidas bags, Tigger t-shirts, cowboy boots, dried mangos with chili, Team America soccer jerseys, and used books all crowded into stalls under blue tarps. I enjoyed being back in a country where I can speak the language (mas o menos) and feel comfortable among the market stalls and street food.

Unable to find our location on the map provided by Alan, El Patio 77’s owner/manager, we decided to follow the directions of the locals to the Plaza de la Republica. It soon became clear that the plaza is “three blocks” from everywhere. Example conversation:

Me: “Disculpe. Donde esta la Plaza de la Republica?”

Local store owner: “Camine tres cuadras directo y entonces doble a la izquierda.”

We walk three blocks and turn left.

Me: “Permiso. La Plaza de la Republica, como lejos?”

Woman on street: “Muy cerca, solo tres cuadras y esta alli”

We walk another three blocks.

Me: “Hola muchachos, puede decirme donde esta La Plaza de la Republica?”

Gas station attendant: “Si, si. Vaya tres caudras aqui y doble a la derecha.”

One hour and many cuadras later, we stumbled upon Museo Universitario del Chopo, a building initially forged in Düsseldorf, Germany and brought to Mexico in pieces about the turn of the 20^th century to serve as a trade fair’ pavilion and now used as an art center for less mainstream visionaries. Finding the museum, we realized we had been exploring the up-and-coming Santa Maria de la Ribera neighborhood recently highlighted in the New York Times. Young artists are moving into the neighborhood bringing an edgy vibe to the otherwise conventional neighborhood.

Finally, walking three more cuadras did bring us to La Plaza de la Republica. Vale la pena (worth the effort). Just opened in November in honor of both the bicentennial of Mexican independence and centennial of the revolution, El Monumento de la Revolucion soars over the enormous plaza. Florescent balls shot into the air by local venders swarmed around the domed monument lighted in neon pink. Ironically, Mexico’s infamous dictator Porfirio Diaz started the building in the early 1900s to serve as a meetinghouse for legislators, but the construction halted when the 1910 revolution overthrew his regime. Post-revolution in the 1930s, the building was modified to its current role celebrating the start of the republic. Its grand pillars now serve as the final resting place for two revolutionary presidents, Francisco Madero and Venustiano Carranza.

Scott, Stu, and I joined throngs of Mexican tourists ascending in the transparent elevator to indulge in 360-degree views from the observation deck. After browsing the museum shop and purchasing old-school Pancho Villa and Emilio Zapata photos, we decided to meet Scotts’ brother Steve at the Sheraton on the famed thoroughfare, Paseo de la Reforma.

The blocks on La Reforma are very long. After another hour of walking, we finally found El Angel de la Independecia marking the hotel’s location and stumbled into the lobby just as Steve Talan, his wife Karen, and his wife’s family (mother, sister, and nephew) stepped out of the elevator. We joined them for a brief drink and enjoyed Steve’s stories of Scott playing Polar Rescuer while visiting Columbia. Ravenous, we decided to venture across La Reforma to Zona Rosa, the DF’s gay district filled with hipster bars and dance clubs. Since time seemed to disappear in this grand city, we belatedly Chris’ flight had just arrived after being delayed in Atlanta. Scott headed back to the hotel to meet Chris while Stu and I decided to eat. Upon a local suggestion, we braved La Casa del Turno, a crowded Mexican chain with its menu literally written on the table. As food vocabulary is one of my many weak points in the Spanish language and because Stu has more food limitations than most, ordering became quite a challenge. We settled on a chicken version of everything and enjoyed the “authentic” tacos, tostadas, and flautas (but I don’t suggest the flan). Fed and watered, Stu and I returned to El Patio 77 to find Scott and Chris enjoying beers in the courtyard. With no more cuadras to walk, we kicked back and marveled at our complete traveling crew.

Mexico City: From DC to DF

2010-12-26T17:00:00.001-05:00

After cramming four big international trips into the first six months of 2010, I exhausted most of my vacation and travel energy. Yet, as the year drew to a close, I felt restless and ready to travel again. Scott and his family traveling to Mexico for the holidays provided the perfect opportunity for a brief getaway. Though I have visited Mexico multiple times, I never thought of visiting El Distrito Federal (DF), the third largest metropolitan area in the world. In usual last-minute fashion, the trip evolved quickly over a week with Chris (law student, business owner, lobbyist, and fundraiser extraordinaire), Stu (nonprofit/education PR director), and I joining Scott (former mayor and journalist, now communications professor) in Mexico City for an inter-holiday adventure.

Weather is odd. Booking last-minute, I could only get to Mexico City through Chicago, certainly not the city of choice to fly into and out of in late December. Yet the weather gods created a freak system that dumped snow on the Southeast virtually shutting down the Atlanta airport before pouring over 30 inches on the northern mid-Atlantic. I left Philadelphia just before the storm with on-time flights into and out of the Windy City and luxurious complementary upgrades (thank you Premier status).

Mexico City was oddly empty when I arrived. Most chilangos flee the city for Christmas and New Years, which made the taxi ride from airport to hotel a breeze. The only hiccup occurred when I arrived at El Patio 77. The cab driver pulled up to an imposing black gate with no sign in a relatively gritty section of the DF. After hearing stories of Mexico City’s grand colonial architecture, cozy neighborhoods, and artsy vibe, I was convinced this building only blocks from a hectic market and across the street from a run-down gas station could not be the chic B&B booked by Scott and recommended by the owners of the Red Tree House. I asked the taxi driver to stay and rang the bell. The huge gate creaked open to reveal a charming courtyard with 50-foot ceilings. Inside a humble brown door, an art-filled foyer set a funky vibe. I settled into the large double-bed room with a 20-foot exposed brick ceiling and warm light streaming in from the floor to ceiling windows. Though charming, El Patio’s shared bathroom experience and focus on being the first “eco” B&B in Mexico City led to the lack of usual comforts like heat in 30-degree weather, hand towels, and being able to use normal shampoo. Cold and tired after a 4am wake-up and eight hours of travel, I took full advantage of the warm duvet and remarkably comfortable mattress.

World Cup 2010: Victoria Falls Follies

2010-07-12T18:29:00.003-04:00

I have never been so unprepared for a trip. When I woke up at 3am to catch a 4am cab to the airport, I realized I did not know what country I was flying to. Thanks to Tony’s fabulous travel agent and some serious good juju from the travel gods who helped me change my flight home, Emma and I booked a trip to Victoria Falls for the weekend. The question was, which side of Victoria Falls was I flying to – Zimbabwe or Zambia?

Luckily, the British Airways desk agent cleared up my uncertainty. Victoria Falls airport resides in Zimbabwe. Livingstone airport is located in Zambia. My ticket said Victoria Falls. Then it dawned on me. I am going to Zimbabwe, home of a ruthless dictator, uncontrolled inflation, and a US State Department security warning. Hope I don’t need a visa! Emma, after driving for 16 hours from Cape Town to Johannesburg with Lisa and Milo just yesterday, met me in the boarding lounge and off we went to Zimbabwe.

First impression of Zimbabwe: this feels like Africa. After paying $30 for a visa (interesting that they don’t even accept Zimbabwean dollars) and passing through the surly customs agent, I met Emma and Jerome who had already started on sundowners. We found our ride and headed straight to the Victoria Falls Hotel. It felt like walking into a British novel. Rumor has it that the hotel is a bit run down as of late. I felt like it had the perfect combination of rustic charm and colonial British luxury.

After getting settled in our rooms, Emma, Jerome, and I reunited on the back patio for a proper high tea complete with cucumber sandwiches and scones with jam and cream. We looked out on the Zimbabwe-Zambia bridge as mist that looked like smoke wafted up from Victoria Falls. Wildebeest ate grass on the lawn, monkeys stole sugar from the outdoor patio table, and I didn’t want to leave.

Jerome had arranged for a private sunset river cruise. Nursing G and Ts, we floated down the Zambezi and I saw my first hippo, baby elephant bull, and alligator up close. Even more impressive, however, was my first real African sunset. We relaxed as the Zambezi swallowed the orange orb throwing light on the wintry savannah. After the cruise, we joined local Zimbabweans at the boat club for drinks and dinner. They certainly are a hardy bunch. Everyone knows everyone. Just by mentioning an interest in doing a safari or white water rafting excursion in the morning, we had two invites within five minutes. We decided to brave the mighty Zambezi, known as the most treacherous white water rafting river in the world.

After muddled decision-making at wake-up where we initially talked ourselves out of rafting given its seven am departure, we ended up having five minutes to get ready for the trip. Emma didn’t even have shorts and decided to raft in a dress. We bolted out of the room and met Jerome for a three-second breakfast that involved croissants, ham, and eggs, with most of the eggs ending up on the floor. Of course, since this is Africa, our being late ended up being early. After a brief safety talk, we drove to the gorge’s rim. An hour of hiking later, we landed at the riverbank and boarded the boats. Emma, Jerome, and I joined Henry and Jamie, two Morehead Scholars from UNC who had been teaching grade school for the summer. Costar guided us down the river that grew in intensity with each rapid. Upon reaching a class 6, we walked around while Costar crossed the rapid himself. While passing a small pond, Jerome pointed out alligator tracks. I took off, badly stubbed my toes, and hobbled back to the boat.

There was no time to worry about the toes (which were numb anyway because of the frigid water) as we quickly approached the hardest rapids, two class four’s then a five in brief succession. We breezed through the first class four, almost tipped on the second four, and then got crushed on the five. Miraculously, we all held on to the boat and became short swimmers (as opposed to long swimmers floating down the river and requiring a kayak rescue). Costar then re-flipped the boat and we all re-boarded safely. Freezing and a bit freaked, we thankfully floated the rest of the river with no more flips. The hike back up the gorge proved challenging but ice cold water and Orange Crush made the journey worthwhile.

To celebrate surviving the Zambezi, Jerome treated us a round at the Three Gorges Hotel literally hanging over the river and then to a seven-course meal at the snazy Victoria Falls Hotel restaurant. We then joined the rest of the hotel guests in watching Germany beat Uruguay to take third place in the World Cup. Jerome ran into an old classmate and we finished the night in the lounge learning about Jerome’s checkered past.

I dragged myself out of bed on my last day in Africa to see Victoria Falls, the widest waterfall in the world. The falls are 1708m wide, fall 107m, and change location often with shifting of the earth’s plates. After a decadent breakfast, the hotel guard accompanied me on a mile hike to the falls. Once there, I had the park to myself. Famously poor visibility never materialized and I had gorgeous views from Devil’s Cataract to the Zambian falls. Despite lacking an umbrella and raincoat, I walked the full path ending up drenched at the end of Zimbabwe. Walking back, rainbows graced each step and I enjoyed the mystical rainforest that surrounds the falls. Upon abruptly entering the desert-like environment outside the falls, I also encountered the aggressive trinket salesmen. It took breaking into a run for them to stop asking for my shoes.

Alas, it was time to go home. Other than the stubbed toe, my time in African seemed charmed. Upon arriving in Joberg airport and realizing that I left my jacket in Vic Falls and that my cell phone and presents for family had been stolen from my checked luggage, I felt ready to go home. Being seated next to a family with an 18-month old on the 18-hour plane ride home sealed the deal –I was officially homesick. But by the time I had landed at Dulles, I had promised myself many more trips to Africa.

World Cup 2010: Time to Be a Tourist

2010-07-08T22:18:00.032-04:00

In between soccer and socializing, I managed to work in sightseeing. Lisa, the fabulous organizer that she is, arranged for Deana of Racing the Planet fame to take me up Table Mountain. I have never been to a city with such a wild mountain plopped right in the middle of the action. We climbed 2000 vertical feet to the cable car station enjoying sweeping views of Cape Town and catching up on life since Racing the Planet Sahara, where we both volunteered. I pumped Deana for tips on how she completed Racing the Planet Namibia, as I still secretly hope to compete in a race once my knee shapes up. The knee felt good on the hike and my body thanked me for some exercise. After taking the cable car down, I wished we had time to take a different route up again. If I lived in Cape Town, I would climb the mountain once a week.

Robben Island is another Cape Town tourist must. After a refreshing run along the water and breakfast of yogurt, muesli, and fruit at Newport, I took my meclizine and headed off to the Robben Island boat. The ride from the V & A Waterfront to the island was thankfully smooth. The Cape Town waters can be treacherous, as the many shipwrecks popping up near the shore can attest. Once on land, we boarded buses for an island tour prior to seeing the prison. The island, 5 x 2 km in size, was named for its many seals. Robben means seal in Afrikaans. The island has served as more than a famous prison site, including acting as a leper colony and housing guns built for use in World War II but not finished until 1947.

The prison was most interesting. Led by a guide and former prisoner, we learned that racisms extended to within the prison, with Indians and coloreds (mixed race) treated better than Africans. Political leaders, such as Nelson Mandela, lived separately from the other prisoners. These leaders each had their own cell as opposed to the large rooms inhabited by 40-60 “regular” prisoners. But the leaders could not leave their block while the other prisoners were allowed more freedom and could gather to play soccer and rugby. The famous punishment, crushing limestone, served no practical purpose other than to be punishing. Without sunglasses, prisoners developed severe eye damage and “snow blindness.” The other favorite punishment involved solitary confinement without food for one to two weeks. I think the biggest injustice was viewing gorgeous Cape Town everyday without being able to visit.

The prisoners’ ingenuity impressed me. The political leaders took the limestone they crushed all day and built a tennis court. They then used manipulated tennis balls with a hidden internal compartment to send messages over the wall to the other prisoners. Once the message was received, the ball would miraculously be returned over the wall to the court with a response hidden inside. The guards were clueless. Mandela hid his Walk to Freedom transcript in the corner of his famous garden by the limestone tennis court. Guards discovered the papers, but Mandela had hidden another copy elsewhere in the courtyard. He smuggled the manuscript out of the prison in the boot soles of another prisoner who was up for release.

My over all impression of Robben Island: cold. Despite the newly rough seas, I was happy to get back on board the ship and return to the warmth of Cape Town.

World Cup 2010: Goooooaaaaalllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!

2010-07-07T23:35:00.031-04:00

July 3: Game day. Quaterfinals. Argentina versus Germany. The celebration started at The Grand, a chic restaurant and beach club recently converted from an abandoned warehouse. We then joined the fan walk, a mile-long walk to the stadium filled with fans blowing vuvuzelas, bands leading men on stilts, and spontaneous dance parties. Suspecting massive delays at the stadium, we headed over an hour prior to the game. The entrance procedure could not have been smoother and felt more organized than the Atlanta or Vancouver Olympics that I attended. We breezed into the stadium and continued the party. Coke sponsored a dance stage briefly taken over by a German cowboy, FIFA ran an Argentina versus Germany dance contests, and the beer gardens overflowed with fans on both side. For no reason other than I like the color blue, I dressed in support of Argentina. I added a makarapa featuring Mandela and Obama that drew some attention. Makarapa hats first appeared on the South Africa soccer scene in 1970 after Alfred Baloyi saw a fan hit in the head by a bottle. Given the frequency of soccer fans that worked as miners, Baloyi took the protective miner’s hat to new limits adding outlandish garnishes the provide flare for any soccer wardrobe.

The stadium was gorgeous. The mesh outside prevents easily seeing in but allows dramatic views of Table Mountain, Signal Hill, and Lion’s Head when looking out. We ended up the in the German section. And good luck that we did. In front of 60,000 fans including Angela Merkel, Charlize Theron, Mick Jagger, and Leonardo DiCaprio, the German’s precision and poise destroyed Argentina’s fancy footwork 4-0. Emma and I, fair-weather fans, joined the German party at the bottom of the stadium. I used to think Germans were a bit boring and not so attractive. Their football fans, at least, are quite fun and cute!

Back home to more Phillips partying and enjoying the Spain versus Paraguay game. In honor of international relations, Lisa requested all guests to sing their national anthem. The South Africans proudly belted out their national song that contains lyrics in five of the eleven official languages – Xhosa, Zulu, Sesotho, Afrikaans, and English. The Puerto Ricans came up with a rousing tune in Spanish. Then I muddled through the Star Spangled Banner with the help of the rest of the house. It always amazes me how much people from other countries know about the US. These South Africans and Puerto Ricans knew the tune better than me! The game was a nail-bitter. We rooted for Spain as the Phillips used to live there and Guido now resides in Madrid. Spain and Paraguay both missed free kicks then Spain finally scored to win 1-0. Viva Espana!

July 6: Game day. Semifinals. Netherlands vs. Uruguay. Emma and I decided to pass on tickets and join the fan throngs in the streets. We joined Lisa and Tony’s friends at Cavo, a hidden courtyard restaurant with a white tarp arching from white washed walls to balconies. It immediately became apparent that these “adults” could party like their children. After a drink at Cavo, we joined the fan walk through Cape Town, enjoying fan outfits and stopping at Beefcakes for perhaps the best mojito ever made. We then left the grown-ups and joined Jeremy, businessmen and life coach, at a nearby bar. The crowd definitely leaned orange and cheered their team to victory. We were all happy to see Uruguay lose after beating Ghana, the last hope for the African continent. After grooving on the tables at Finger Bar, we called it an early night and made it home by 1:30am.

July 7: Game day. Semifinals. Spain vs. Germany. We joined friends at And, a ritzy beer café, and watched outside huddled next to a warming lamp. Emma sported the Sergio Ramos look while I wholeheartedly supported the handsome Xabi Alonso with full face paint. After watching Germany dismantle Agrentina, I thought they would be unstoppable. Spain had other plans. They controlled the ball from the first minute and seemed to be teasing Germany. Puyol, the long-haired Catalan defender, sealed Spain’s victory with a gorgeous header off a corner kick. We headed off to Julep to continue the celebration. Villa Villa Maravilla!

The final is set: July 11, Spain vs. Netherlands.

World Cup 2010: Party Like a South African

2010-07-04T08:00:00.009-04:00

After the first night out, dancing to drum and base until 4am following an introduction to cane and appletizer, I assumed the Cape Town party scene was pumped up because of the World Cup. By the second night, clubbing with the likes of Mick Jagger and Leonardo DiCaprio, I continued to be impressed by the festive atmosphere surrounding the special occasion. But by the third night, still fatigued from the first two and when an “early night” started at 12:30am, I realized that this is the norm. South Africans party like it is there job.

And what a great job it is. If I had this many fun nightspots in DC, I might party like a rock star every night as well. Our first night started at the Waiting Room, a crowded grunge lounge with nice outside space. We then moved to Julep, my favorite bar, with its chill vibe, comfy sofas, and citrus martinis. The night ended at Fiction on drum and base night, a ravy scene with music that requires more swaying than actual dancing. As the night progressed, the party crew grew. Devin, the funkified artist and tech guru. Kate, the actress and KFC commercial star who had admirers at every bar. Geraldo, the Mexican New Yorker and brooding filmmaker. The Puerto Rican duo that came for the soccer and scene. An international and eclectic bunch.

The next night started in the afternoon. We began at 2pm by watching the Netherlands shock Brazil at Wafu, an open-air bar above the sushi restaurant Wakame and overlooking the ocean. After an impressive hustle, the Phillips family joined the Collins clan at Vaudeville, an entertaining burlesque show and dinner. The same location then turned into Fez, one of Cape Town’s hottest nightclubs. I soon learned that international men are more generous than their American counterparts. Alcohol, particularly brandy and coke, appeared without being ordered. While jamming with an Argentine contingent to the New York DJ spinning Baltic reggae (I kid you not), Emma and friends got access to Jagger and DiCaprio’s VIP balcony. Surrounded by girls, both men seemed to be having a fine time. After the Argentines, I, of course, met some Americans. One was an ED doc from the Midwest working for the soccer tournament. How did he get the gig, you ask? Sean Penn, his friend from Haiti, hooked him up. I’ll have to work on such connections. The night, or I should say day, ended around 6am as the sun began to rise.

The third night I caved. This lightweight had enough and longed for water and catch-up sleep. So as the party train left the station at 12:30am after sundowners turned into beers on the deck, I curled up in bed and almost got 8 hours of sleep. Yawn.

And I thought I was coming to South Africa to watch soccer.

World Cup 2010: Cape Town: San Francisco on Steroids

2010-07-01T23:00:00.002-04:00

My South African connection started in Chile. I met Tony and Lisa Phillips on Racing the Planet, Atacama in 2008, where Tony persevered through a week-long, self-supported, 250km foot race and won his age group. Lisa volunteered for the race, sacrificing a shower and real food for the duration and putting some miles on her own hiking boots. Their daughter, Emma, happens to live in Washington, DC. We connected post-race and have been friends since. When I realized the World Cup would be in South Africa, I jumped at the chance to join Emma and her family at the biggest sports party in the world.

My first thought upon arriving in Cape Town at night – this is Africa? From the shiny airport full of friendly staff to the sleek stadium rising from the shoreline, the city looked modern, clean, and functional. I could drink tap water and flush toilet paper. As Tony said when I entered the apartment, “This is the first world.”

When I woke the next morning in the Phillips’ Greenpoint flat tucked perfectly between the Atlantic Ocean and the World Cup stadium, I realized Cape Town is likely the most beautiful city I have seen. Sorry San Francisco, Cape Town wins on almost every level – dramatic mountains, rugged coastline, outdoor opportunities, wine country, swanky shopping, and party scene. The only thing missing is Lake Tahoe.

The Phillips’ famous hospitality started the minute I arrived. Tony, Emma, Guido (the brother who lives in Spain), and Milo (the sausage dog who runs the show) drove me down the coast from Greenpoint to Seapoint then on to Bantry Bay. We stopped at Clifton Beach for a stroll and pictures. There are four Clifton Beaches, each one its own adorable nook. Bungalows built on the water for soldiers returning from World War II now sell for $2 million and up. We continued to drive past Table Mountain (“the” mountain) and the 12 Apostles to Hout Bay where we picked up Chapman’s Peak Drive. I daresay the views are more magnificent than California’s Route 1 in Big Sur. At every turn, a new beach appeared more alluring then the next. Despite the frigid water temperatures and great white sharks, these beaches offer some of the best surfing in the world. We stopped in the quaint Noordhoek village for snacks where I was introduced to grapetizer, a carbonated grape fruit drink, and enjoyed a samoosa (yes, two o’s here). The tour then continued back to Hout Bay for a stop at the working fisheries. The smell was authentic. Seals played in the water then joined us on the dock while women gutted fish with quick precision. With little Milo growling dramatically at the seal 100 times his size, we headed out and traveled back through Signal Hill to view the city and stadium from above. Tourists and TV reporters filled the streets and intermittent vuvuzela blasts startled the air. Definitely a party atmosphere.

My second day in South Africa, the Phillips clan invited me to wine country. Enjoying another warm and sunny winter day, we drove east towards the mountains viewing my first ostrich and wildebeest on the way. In less than an hour, we arrived in Stellenbosch, a university town as renowned for its drinking culture as its academics. The school maintains a strong Afrikaner presence, with most of the classes held in Afrikaans. The town was founded in 1679 by Simon van der Stel, the Cape’s first governor, and looks like it was transported from colonial Netherlands. Houses are perfectly maintained with white washed walls, manicured brown thatched roofs, and small-paned windows with brown wooden shutters. Stone open irrigation furrows still line the immaculate streets.

We drove into the country toward Franschhoek and stopped at Tokara, the baby of banker G.T. Ferreira. The vineyard looked sleek and modern while managing to feel warm and inviting. Emma and I enjoyed the ostrich egg swing and artistic kiddy slide before dipping into the olive oil tasters. Across the street stood Delaire Graff Estate, our lunch location. We sat outside in 70-degree weather looking out on green vineyards running up to dramatic, craggy mountains while enjoying quail, grass-fed beef, eel/shrimp/mussels with gnocchi, and fish and chips paired with a smooth sauvignon blanc. Pistachio ganache and rooibos tea capped the meal. We drove back through Paarl with more breathtaking landscape, napping off the delicious meal just consumed. When I opened my guidebook to review our route, I realized the Phillips had taken me to Fodor’s top choice destinations. South African hospitality at its finest. I could get very used to this.

India: Interview Antics

2010-04-28T23:05:00.001-04:00

I had a ton of fun teaching today. Almost every fellow arrived (there are now five second years and seven first years) which surprised me. I was warned that only half the fellows would show up. I noticed from yesterday that the fellows’ biggest issue is not knowing where to turn to find new medical information and to answer clinical questions. So I made a cheat sheet last night detailing exactly where they could look on the Internet for information without having to pay tons of money for subscription services. They loved it. We spent most of the teaching session asking clinical questions then finding the answers in the literature.

After class, Dr. Venu asked me to help with the fellow interviews for next year’s class. Given my obvious interest in admissions, I found it fascinating to observe how other cultures perform interviews. MIMS is a rich, private hospital with a gorgeous boardroom fit for a New York Wall Street firm. I walk in and five men are sitting around the table. I couldn’t pronounce their names if I tried but I remember their titles. Chief of the Academy and retired pediatric surgeon. CEO of hospital. Managing Director of hospital. Chief of hospital (and looked very chiefly with his beard and turban). Dr. Venu, head of the MIMS ED program. Previous fellow that graduated last year. Me. As I sat down, the Sesame Street song, “One of these things if not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong” ran through my head. Thankfully, these men pocketed their ego and treated me well.

We had a lot of fun interviewing 13 candidates for six slots. You would not believe what some of these candidates wore and said. From jeans with flip-flops and a rumpled shirt to a sharp suit. The suit guy, as you would guess, was spot on. Refined, researched, and well-spoken. The jeans guy came in and said Emergency Medicine was his third choice behind medicine and pediatrics. That’s the way to get selected! The only woman had not practiced medicine in eight years and was applying for the fellowship just because her husband was an ED doc. Another man didn’t even fill out the application form completely and the head of the hospital called him out on it. All in all, the candidates were pretty darn bad at interviewing. I was later told that interviewing skills are not emphasized in India. Perhaps a new niche for MDadmit?

I always think it’s fun to watch the local news and read the paper. Big news here is that the head of the Indian Premier League (IPL), a private cricket league, has been accused of corruption and was forced to step down. They are crazy about their cricket here. The Kerala strikes are getting good press too. UPA government survived cut motions from opposition. I really have no idea what that means but am trying to pay attention to the news to find out.

India: It’s a Family Affair

2010-04-27T22:50:00.000-04:00

I woke refreshed a ready to teach. I knew the day would be a good one when I didn’t have to call down to ask the hotel to boil water for me (that happened daily on my last India trip) because hot water came out of the shower tap. The hotel is only 100 meters from the hospital known as MIMS. It is a big, busy private hospital with all of the bells and whistles. Every specialist you can imagine. It’s like an academic center in the US except that you have to pay for service. No money, no care. The poorer populations go to the government hospitals, which are remarkably bad off and often don’t have physicians.

According to my colleague who had been here before, the Indian Emergency Medicine fellows have great book knowledge but little clinical sense. The head of this program, Dr. Venu, is an anesthesiologist. No formally trained Emergency Physician works at MIMS. I decided to take a “No PowerPoint” teaching philosophy and stick with chalk talks, case studies, and mock codes with an emphasis on using the medical literature to answer clinical questions. Today, the students seemed happy with this approach. After case presentations, we took a field trip to the library and discussed how journal articles can be accessed. We finished with a mock code. I did not realize how much material is needed to teach for four hours straight and ended up only making it through three hours. I don’t think the students were upset about that!

Jiju, the most eager fellow and a Calicut native, treated me to a city tour after class ended. A hartal, or strike, against price hikes in Kerala closed virtually every shop in the city making it eerily quiet but easy to drive around. We visited the oldest church in Calicut, a Hindu temple, and the local beach on the Arabian Sea. The wide golden-sand beach looked inviting from afar, but closer inspection revealed a trash-strewn, rocky shore with un-swimmable water because the government hospital across the street dumps all of its waste directly into the sea. Since we could not find an open restaurant or hotel, I braved the street vendors peddling fresh mussels covered in scrambled eggs, green pea and onion salad, and a fried egg pastry. We’ll see if I pay for the yumminess later.

Jiju then invited me to his home. As with my previous experiences with Indian family visits, smiles and food filled most of the time. His parents are both retired and speak little English. My Malayalam consists of two words (no and thank you). After the requisite attempt at communicating verbally, his mother quickly insisted I sit down to eat even though we just finished lunch at the beach. I am glad I did. Prior to this meal, I did not enjoy shrimp. Jiju’s mother made the best shrimp I have ever had covered with a mystery red sauce with just the right amount of spicy kick. We also ate mussels, plump white rice (they look like bullets), cabbage used similarly to rice, yellow vegetable curry, and mutton stew. I am out of practice eating with my hands but didn’t make too much of a mess.

After lunch, Jiju treated me to homemade wine and the entire family sat down to show me his sister’s recent wedding photos. Just married 10 days ago, his sister and new brother-in-law flitted around the house giddy with happiness and palpable sexual energy. First, we browsed the engagement book. Jiju’s family is Catholic, a by-product of the Portuguese settlement of Kerala. The engagement is a formal event that occurs in a church and looks very much like a wedding. The only difference is that the bride is responsible for the festivities. The wedding is the groom’s responsibility. The brother-in-law is captain in the Indian army stationed in Punjab and had a military band (with bagpipes!) march him to the church. It looked like a lovely affair but a bit tamer than the typical Hindu wedding.

Almost sick with exhaustion, I settled into the hotel room for a quick, four-hour nap. I then prepped for the next day, red every newspaper I could find, and tried to figure out what to do with myself all night. Finally fell asleep at 1am.

India: Sensory Overload

2010-04-26T23:00:00.001-04:00

Though I have been to India before, I forgot how overwhelming this country could be. The five senses onslaught began on the flight from Dubai to Calicut. Bright saris, Malayalam voices, BO and cardamom aromas, coconut mutton stew flavors, and “inadvertent” touches from multiple men on the way to the bathroom served as a nice warm-up for the arrival in Calicut. I didn’t realize that Calicut’s new name is Kozhikode (pronounced Korikode with an “r” that I can’t quite roll off my palate correctly). This threw me off in the Dubai airport and led to some panicked moments when I thought no flight to Calicut actually existed. But there certainly was flight, and a rowdy one at that. The poor flight attendants. Every passenger sans three (me and two British business men) was of Indian origin and spoke little English. Or else they pretended to speak little English and flat out ignored the flight attendants. As the plane entered its final descent, the crew shouted at the top of their lungs for passengers to sit down. One guy got up to use the bathroom as the plan touched down. And forget about waiting for the seatbelt sign to turn off before getting up. It was a stampede. And that was nothing compared to baggage claim.

The next Survivor should involve a contest where contestants have to successfully retrieve their luggage from an Indian airport baggage claim. As passengers poured through customs, each fought for a spot right at the carousel, playing bumper carts along the way. The first 50 or so items to arrive on the belt were boxes and packages, including at least ten Sony Bravia TVs. Few passengers retrieved these items and the belt quickly clogged with heavy boxes. Carpet bundles, house wares, and stereo speakers tumbled off the carousel onto passengers who toppled like dominos. Some jumped onto the belt to avoid falling over and enjoyed a victory lap. I stood back with the two Brits and laughed at the pandemonium. An hour latter, my baggage arrived. I used my height to reach over the crowd and grab the suitcase only causing minor trauma to others.

I saw the “Dr. Suzie Miller” sign amongst a sea of brown faces and breathed a huge sigh of relief. My colleague, Rick Place, got stranded at the airport when he arrived. But I had a smiling, sideways head bobbing driver who spoke no English but drove halfway sanely and got me to the Kovilakom Residency in one piece. After 31.5 hours of traveling, I hit the sheets in my clean and simple and at that point perfect hotel room for some lunesta-enhanced sleep. I now see why people rave about sleeping pills. I fear I could get used to such a lovely, drug-induced slumber!

India: Seat Hogs

2010-04-26T10:34:00.001-04:00

On my way to Calicut and Calcutta, India to teach Emergency Medicine fellows through the George Washington Ronald Reagan Institute. Each month, a GW faculty teaches for one week at the Calicut, Calcutta, or New Delhi sites. India recently recognized Emergency Medicine as a specialty and multiple private hospitals are starting training programs. GW got in close to the ground floor.

After taking a hopper flight to New York’s JFK, I boarded the Emirates direct flight to Dubai.

Emirates is a fabulous airline. Best economy class I have seen. Unfortunately, I did not catch a wink of sleep on a 12-hour flight. I started sharing three seats with a European woman who five minutes into the flight put her legs up in my face taking the shared middle seat. As the flight was quite empty, I moved to a four-seater in the middle of the plane shared with an Indian man. Not five seconds after I sat down, he stretched out over three seats. Half way (6 hours!) into the flight, after our second meal and three movies, I asked if we could share the seat two and two. He actually said no. I was shocked into silence. Despite a Jack and Ginger, tall glass of wine, and taking meclizine, I stayed eyes open. At least I caught up on all the Oscar movies.

I am currently in the business class lounge that accepts Priority Pass (thank you Scott, great tip!) and very excited to take a shower. Decided not to venture out given utter exhaustion though the city looks enticing. Leave for Calicut in 6 hours.