Wanderlust: A Global Odyssey by Matt Prater

Goodbye, Indonesia

2010-06-23T12:00:00.047-04:00

Day 143: Jakarta, Java, Indonesia

I splurged on an executive overnight train to Jakarta. It was $24 for the eight-hour trip, but it had air-conditioning and reclining seats, a welcome change from the filthy, crowded public buses I had been using. I wasn't able to sleep thanks to the man across the aisle from me who was talking loudly to his friend for almost three hours. I've never heard someone talk so fast for so long. The voices in the carriage grew quiet around one o'clock in the morning, but the offensive fluorescent lighting never dimmed, and the sliding door to the coach banged open and shut all night as the train rocked. At one point our train stopped mysteriously for half an hour with no one boarding or exiting. It turned out we were waiting for a train heading in the opposite direction to pass. Travel in Indonesia can be painfully slow sometimes.

Skyline of Jakarta at night, Java, Indonesia

The train arrived at the station in central Jakarta at the absurd hour of 5 a.m. – and it was an hour late. I had contacted a guy named Anton through CouchSurfing and was planning on staying with him in Jakarta. He was nice enough to pick me up from the train station, even though it turned out he couldn't host me. He also helped me out by calling BCA, the bank whose ATM ate my card, to ask how I could retrieve it. It wasn't good news: BCA's policy is to destroy non-BCA bank cards that are eaten by their ATMs, even if I could show that my passport matched my name on the card. BCA was a dead end, so we grabbed breakfast, and then Anton dropped me off at a cheap guest house in the backpacker area before he went to work.

As a last resort, I visited the U.S. embassy to see if they could do anything to convince BCA Bank not to destroy my card. The embassy was a nightmare of security, and given Jakarta's history of terrorist bombings, I'm not surprised. Even as an American citizen, I was not even allowed in the gate without a scheduled appointment, which could only be made during a two-hour window in the afternoons. It was futile to explain to the guard that I could not possibly have made an appointment, as the incident had occurred only the day before. I tried to explain that my Indonesian visa expired the next day, and that I was flying to Singapore, but he would make no accommodation to allow me to ask someone if the embassy could even help. It probably couldn't anyway – I suppose they have more important things to worry about. At least I knew the score; my card was irretrievably lost. So now my only option is to have a new card sent to me whenever I stop for more than a few days somewhere. It's hard to receive mail when you're constantly on the move. I'm lucky that I have my other bank card.

Canal in Jakarta, Java, Indonesia

Even though I hadn't slept on the train, there was no point in wasting the day napping, so with the bank card issue at a halt for now, I mustered my energy and set out to explore the city. An estimated 22 million people live in the urban agglomeration, making Jakarta the second most populous city in the world. With forests of skyscrapers, sprawling shopping malls, and epic traffic clogging the highways, Jakarta looks like some super-L.A. Beneath the surface of gleam and polish, ugly poverty grips the city. Slums sprawl along sewage-filled canals, saturated with the stench of decaying garbage. The contrast between modern boulevards and crumbling, Third World alleyways is glaring.

In the Menteng subdistrict, I visited the school attended by Barack Obama when he lived in Jakarta in the 1960s; a statue of him as a boy sits in the courtyard. I also visited the Istaqlal Mosque, the largest in Southeast Asia, and Merdeka Square, which boasts the 422-foot-tall National Monument at its center. In the evening, I met back up with Anton and a couple of German backpackers, and we went to a rooftop restaurant for dinner. The view of Jakarta at sunset was breathtaking.

Old City Hall, Jakarta, Java, Indonesia

This morning, I visited Jakarta's Old Town, Kota, which contains the vestiges of the Dutch colonial capital of Batavia, founded in the early 1600s. The former city hall, built in 1710, served as the administrative headquarters of the Dutch East India Company, which controlled the region at the time. The Dutch-style canals that were built in Batavia are today not much more than rivers of sewage flanked by dilapidated colonial buildings. I enjoyed a cup of coffee in the lonely Café Batavia on the main square of Taman Fatahillah, and then proceeded to find an ojek (motorbike taxi) back to my guest house. It was a surprisingly time-consuming task to find one; when I'm not looking for transport, I'm endlessly bombarded by offers, but when I actually want to go somewhere, there are no taxis in sight. Once I finally found a motorbike, the driver navigated through the dense Jakarta traffic, stopping often to ask directions. Ojek, becak, and taxi drivers never seem to know where anything is in their own city, even if you are asking to go to the central tourist hotel district. Of course, they don't acknowledge that they don't know where your destination is until you're already on the vehicle.

I was soon back at my hotel, having explored Jakarta as thoroughly as can be done in two days. After spending the past month in Indonesia (the longest I've spent in any country so far on this trip), I am leaving for the airport and will be in glitzy Singapore in just four hours.

Ancient Temples / Civet Coffee

2010-06-21T19:00:00.071-04:00

Day 141: Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia

Buddha statue at Borobudur Temple, Java, Indonesia

Friday afternoon, I took a train to Yogyakarta. A 14-year-old boy across from me blew smoke in my face from his cigarette, and there was no air-conditioning, but for only a dollar I wasn't complaining. I walked to the backpacker area in Yogyakarta from the train station and booked a closet-sized room in a losmen (guest house). Like most places in Asia, I had to remove my shoes at the door, but I found it a bit hypocritical that motorbikes were rolled inside each evening and parked in the middle of the tiled common area.

I booked a tour for the next day to Borobudur and Prambanan, both of which are UNESCO World Heritage sites. The minibus left Yogyakarta at five o'clock in the morning and arrived at Borobudur at six o'clock, just when the gates were opened. Although Borobudur is the most visited attraction in Indonesia and one of the most famous temples in Southeast Asia, arriving just after sunrise assured that the place was pretty desolate. The lack of tourists, coupled with the thick morning fog, lent a meditative and mysterious atmosphere to the place. I explored the many stairways and levels of the temple, admiring the lush, misty countryside that stretched in all directions.

Morning fog shrouds the Borobudur Temple near Yogyakarta in Java, Indonesia.

The massive structure – 400 feet on each side – was built in the ninth century and was only rediscovered in the early nineteenth century by the British, who governed Java at the time. These first Europeans to glimpse Borobudur found it crumbling under jungle vegetation and centuries of volcanic ash. Standing near the summit of the temple, shrouded in fog, I could almost imagine this place as a lost temple. As the sun rose in the sky and the fog lifted, busloads of Indonesian children arrived in school groups, and the temple was soon crawling with tourists. By eight o'clock, the temperature and humidity had soared, and Borobudur quickly became just another hot and overcrowded tourist attraction typical of Southeast Asia. I feel fortunate to have experienced the rare magic of the temple at sunrise.

On the way to Prambanan, on the other side of Yogyakarta, we stopped at the relatively small Mendut Temple, also built in the ninth century. It was another hour to Prambanan, a Hindu temple compound built around the same time as Borobudur and Mendut. It was in use for less than 100 years before it too was abandoned. The compound contains well over 200 temples, but most of them are just piles of rubble, having been ravaged by earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and looters over the centuries. The inner complex contains eight main towering temples, featuring statues of Hindu deities and ornately carved reliefs telling the story of the Ramayana. While impressive in scale, Prambanan lacked the enchanting atmosphere of the imposing Borobudur. Next time, maybe I should visit in the early morning when there aren't so many tourists.

Mendut Temple, Java, Indonesia

Prambanan Temple, Java, Indonesia

I spent the next two days exploring the city of Yogyakarta. On Sunday evening, I walked along the main street, Jalan Malioboro. An endless chain of stalls sold t-shirts, sandals, and souvenirs, and I had to wade through a slow-moving river of people. Motorbikes were parked six abreast on the sidewalk, and hundreds of people walked in the street. If the person in front of me stopped to look at a stall, I had to wait until they moved along – there was no space to bypass them. Today I visited the Kraton, the palace of the sultan of Yogyakarta. Yogyakarta is a specialized province of Indonesia that still functions as a monarchy, as it has since precolonial times. The sultan serves as the provincial governor, but he is unique from other governors in Indonesia in that he is not held to a term limit. The Kraton is only open at limited times of the day because it is actually a functioning royal palace.

Yogyakarta has also been a good place to try some unusual Javanese food. For dinner on Sunday, I ate cobra prepared in a spicy tongseng style. It tasted similar to alligator with hints of calamari (although less rubbery). The meat had been sliced from the snake in such a way that the pieces naturally assumed a rolled form, approximating a tube-like shape. I also tried kopi luwak, or civet coffee. Because of its unusual production process, this is allegedly the rarest and most expensive variety of coffee in the world. A weasel-like creature called the Asian palm civet, which lives in Sumatra, Java, and other areas of Indonesia, eats the ripest coffee cherries. The fruit is digested, but the civet excretes the beans, which are collected from the dung, washed, dried, and roasted. Enzymes in the civet's digestive system are infused into the beans, resulting in a much less bitter coffee with subtle, unique flavors. I'm no coffee connoisseur, but I could tell a difference between kopi luwak and all other coffees I've tried. I usually put a lot of cream and sugar in my coffee, but I drank the kopi luwak black, and it was not bitter at all. It was definitely the best coffee I've ever had, and at only $10 for two cups, a bargain. As one of the rarest coffees in the world, kopi luwak sells for as much as $600 per pound elsewhere in the world.

On the way back to my losmen, I decided to withdraw a bit of cash from an ATM. I wasn't desperate, but it would be my last chance to get cash until Jakarta. It was one of those split-second decisions that drastically alters future events. After I received my cash, my card didn't eject far enough from the slot. I could see the card refracted through the curved plastic slot cover, but the edge of the card was just barely inside. The ATM beeped persistently and mockingly, telling me to take my card. It was tantalizingly close; if I had a pair of tweezers, I could have grabbed the edge of the card. And then, the inevitable happened: the machine sucked my card deep into the abyss of its dark, impenetrable guts. The ATM version of the "blue screen of death" appeared, indicating in both Bahasa Indonesia and English that the machine was out of order. All hope was lost.

A man behind me in line gave me a ride on his motorbike to the nearest bank branch to see if there might be a maintenance person around. Apparently, banks here close at 3 p.m., and it was ten after. More bad luck. But I did meet an incredibly helpful English-speaking guy who advised me that I would probably not be able to get my card back in Yogyakarta even during bank hours. I was better off continuing with my plans and taking the overnight train to Jakarta. It is bank protocol to send lost cards to the main bank, so if I could retrieve my card at all, it would have to be done in Jakarta anyway. He also suggested I report the incident to the U.S. embassy to see if they might be able to help.

It is quite a predicament, and I don't have much time to resolve this issue. My Indonesian visa expires in two days, and I've already booked a flight to Singapore. I really don't want to go through the trouble of extending my visa and delaying my flight just for a lost card. In fact, this is the second flight I've booked to Singapore. I canceled the first one after I realized I needed much more time to see everything I wanted to see in Indonesia. To miss one flight is bad enough; to miss two would be ridiculous. Will I ever make it to Singapore?

The Spirit of Java

2010-06-18T16:00:00.024-04:00

Day 138: Solo (Surakarta), Java, Indonesia

After so much hassle in Surabaya, I just took a taxi to the long-distance bus terminal south of the city. For $3, I booked a bus (with working air-conditioning!) to Solo, also known as Surakarta. Like all public Indonesian buses, vendors boarded at every stop. Snacks, perfume, books, bracelets, switchblade knives – all sorts of random trinkets were thrown into the laps of the passengers as the vendors strolled down the aisle. Now familiar with this sales routine, I surrendered to the goods piling up in my lap, handing each back to its respective vendor when he made his second round down the aisle to collect payment. A large man sat next to me, digging his entire weight into my side. I wiggled my way into a more comfortable position, turning at an angle to prevent my shoulder from crushing into the window. He seemed to spread out even more and I became cramped into a very awkward position for quite a long time. Another man across the aisle threw peanut shells onto the floor as if the bus was a bar.

When I arrived in Solo, I took a cycle rickshaw into town. Like most drivers here, mine didn't seem to know the way, and we ended up in a narrow alley where uniformed school children swarmed the rickshaw. The driver asked them how to get to my destination, and we drove off as the children chased us and demanded money from me. I settled into my simple $5 room and then walked out to explore the main street. It was lined with appliance stores, banks, a handful of western hotels, and even an indoor soccer court. Like Surabaya, Solo did not seem very popular with Western tourists despite its rather zealous tourism campaign. The city's tourism slogan – "Solo: the spirit of Java" – appeared everywhere, but the campaign seemed geared towards Indonesian tourists and not foreigners. Nevertheless, it was a much more pleasant place than Surabaya. In the evening, I strolled past a string of street food vendors in an area known as Galabo. I decided to brave it and try a dish from one of the stalls. I picked a dish called nasi liwat, but it had many different varieties listed only in Bahasa Indonesia. The vendor indicated that they referred to different parts of the chicken by motioning to a large bucket of pre-cooked meat. She pulled out various chicken parts and knew the English words for most of them. "Head? Heart? Foot? Wing?" I asked for a wing. I sat at one of the plastic tables set up along the street, and my meal arrived within two minutes. Rice with coconut milk was wrapped in a banana leaf with the chicken wing, which was cold and contained very little meat. The meal was only 90 cents, but it was not filling enough, so I went to an attractive Italian restaurant down the street. I usually try to stick to local cuisine, but I needed a break from fried rice and noodles. But Western food comes at a premium in Indonesia – my spicy penne arrabiata was over $4.

Wayang Orang performance in Solo (Surakarta), Java, Indonesia

After dinner, I strolled down the road to a cheesy amusement park teeming with excited Indonesian kids and their families. There was a theater behind the park, and I bought a ticket to a wayang orang masked dance drama. It was not intended for foreigners – no English information about the performance was available – but it was therefore an authentic experience. As a local event, I paid the local price of only 30 cents for the two-hour performance. When I gave my ticket to the man at the door, he excitedly motioned for me to sign the guest register. Over the past month, only a handful of foreigners had listed their names. The performance was beautifully accented by a gamelan orchestra, and the elaborate costumes were captivating.

This morning, I booked a tour to two temples in the mountains around Solo. As I am traveling by myself, I could not book a car or minivan, which required a minimum of two people. I went on motorbike instead. My driver picked my up at my hotel, and we sped out of the city. Half an hour into our journey, we encountered a police roadblock. They were checking vehicle registrations, and unfortunately my driver's registration was expired. I had to wait for an hour for someone from the tour company to bring another bike. As time passed, the crowd of waiting motorists grew. Apparently, very few people actually had properly registered vehicles. We switched motorbikes and were finally on our way to the first temple, Candi Sukuh. This fifteenth-century Hindu temple is nestled picturesquely on the slopes of Mount Lawu and features a pyramidal central monument that would not look out of place in Mexico or Central America.

Sukuh Temple on Mount Lawu near Solo (Surakarta), Java, Indonesia

Mountain village at Cetho Temple near Solo (Surakarta), Java, Indonesia

We rode along pitted, serpentine roads to Candi Cetho, another fifteenth-century Hindu temple that atmospherically cascades down a mist-shrouded volcanic slope. During our visit, the fog grew thicker until the ancient stone gateways of the temple framed only a nebulous, milky whiteness. I held on tightly to the back handle of the motorbike as we descended the vertigo-inducing road back to Solo, bouncing through potholes and cracked pavement the entire way. We stopped for lunch at a plain roadside restaurant in Karangpandan. I ordered a regional specialty called nasi gudeg, consisting of rice, young jackfruit boiled in coconut milk, chicken, beef, and a blackish-brown hard-boiled egg. At 75 cents, it was the cheapest meal I've eaten yet. It was another hour back to Solo, where I had a little time to relax before heading to Yogyakarta by train.

Chaotic Surabaya

2010-06-17T08:00:00.001-04:00

Day 137: Surabaya, Java, Indonesia

After watching the enchanting sunrise over Mount Bromo yesterday morning, I headed back to the village of Cemoro Lawang, where I hopped on a minibus back to Probolinggo. At the main bus terminal, I bought a ticket to Surabaya from a man in the tourist ticket office. After buying my ticket, I sat on a bench outside to snack on some banana chips I had just purchased, and the man from the ticket office walked by and asked if he could have some. "Sure," I replied. He reached his grubby fingers in the bag and brazenly pulled out not one or two chips, but a huge handful that amounted to half of what was in the bag. It looked like he was on one of those game shows where contestants have to grab as much cash as they can while a fan blows it around inside a glass booth. I don't mind sharing, but come on!

It was only $1.50 more for the air-conditioned express bus to Surabaya, so I splurged. It turned out that the weak air-conditioning was less effective than the open windows of a normal bus, but at least the express bus made it to Surabaya in two hours instead of four. I was in a seat next to the aisle, which was fortunate considering there was so little leg room that I needed to sit askew with one leg protruding into the aisle. Even in this position, my knees still poked quite far into the plasticy covering of the seat back in front of me, causing my knees to sweat so badly I had a rash by the time we arrived in Surabaya. I tried to ignore the cramped, sweaty conditions of the bus by enjoying some snacks, but I soon finished what was left of my banana chips and moved on to some fluffy cookies that turned out to have the taste and texture of insulation rolled in dry flour.

At every stop, "musicians" with home-made metal guitars boarded the bus and sang appallingly out-of-tune songs, expecting to receive tips afterward. These performances were not like the pleasantly atmospheric accordion music of the Paris Metro. They were ear-splitting songs that lasted so excruciatingly long I felt like I was going to have a nervous breakdown and start screaming. One musician actually sat on me, putting his entire weight on my shoulder as he shrieked out his obnoxious noise directly next to my ear drum. Turning my iPod to its maximum volume didn't even begin to drown out the horrendous tune. These men were not musicians by any stretch of the imagination – they were simply trying to eke out a living any way they could. Nevertheless, when that little collection cup was shoved in front of my face, I felt like taking coins out of it for having to put up with the never-ending racket.

In addition to the annoying musicians, snack vendors also boarded the bus at every stop, walking down the aisle and throwing snacks in the passengers' laps. If you don't want the snack, you have to shove it back in the vendor's face when he walks back down the aisle to collect payment. I quickly realized that the vendors usually didn't throw their merchandise in my lap if I feigned sleep.

After two hours, the bus drove up an on-ramp onto a proper divided highway, the first one I've seen in Indonesia. Soon, we arrived at Surabaya's main bus terminal, which unfortunately lies quite a distance south of the city. I had to navigate my way to the proper public city bus to continue the rest of my journey. A sprawling, decaying metropolis spread out before us, becoming ever denser as we advanced into the run-down heart of the city. As the second largest city in the fourth most populous nation in the world, Surabaya is an overwhelming and chaotic patchwork of dilapidated Third World buildings, punctuated by a sprinkling of modern shopping malls and towering Western hotels.

Becak drivers in Surabaya, Java, Indonesia

I hopped off the bus near the Chinatown area known as Kya-Kya, the closest thing Surabaya has to a tourist district – not that I saw a single foreigner my entire time in the city. As soon as I stepped off the bus with my large pack, I almost had to duck under a barrage of shouts – "Hello mister! Transport? Where you going?" – coming from a gang of cycle rickshaw drivers waiting like vultures for the rare (and highly lucrative) foreign tourist. Cycle rickshaws are know as becak in Indonesia, and I had little choice but to climb into one: I had only a vague idea where I was in relation to the hotel I was looking for, and I didn't feel like wandering the streets with a heavy pack in the heat of the day. I negotiated a price for what I knew was a short ride, but after five minutes I quickly realized that the becak driver was going in circles. I saw the sign for my hotel ahead, but my driver veered off onto an alley just before the hotel. I yelled at him to stop, but he continued for another twenty minutes in a loop through busy streets before finally listening to my incessant plea to return to the hotel. In many developing countries, taxi and rickshaw drivers often take tourists to places they did not request – a shop that will pay a commission to the driver if the tourist buys something, or a hotel that will pay a commission if the tourist books a room. It sometimes helps to insist on being taken directly to your destination, but drivers often take you to places that pay commission anyway. I'm not sure if this becak driver was attempting such a scam on me, but it definitely took much more time than it should have to reach my hotel. It's not like I could have jumped out of the moving vehicle the first time I saw the hotel sign. To make matters worse, when I handed the agreed-upon payment to the driver, he retracted his hand and refused to take the money. Instead, he requested 10 times the amount! Changing the fee after a ride is yet another common scam in developing countries, but at least I had control over this one – I was already at my destination. I placed the proper payment on the seat of the becak and walked away. Of course, the driver yelled at me to stop, but I continued walking. I turned around as he began to cycle away, and I saw a disappointed but accepting expression on his face – he knew I had paid a fair price.

Man making wooden sandals in Surabaya, Java, Indonesia

After checking into my bland (but air-conditioned!) room, I set out to walk around the city. Surabaya, like most all Indonesian cities, has no walkable sidewalks. Where sidewalks do exist, they are monopolized by parked motorbikes or workers unloading merchandise in front of shops. Sidewalk cafés are not the quaint variety found in Europe – they literally hog the entire sidewalk with cracked plastic chairs and tables. There is not even walking space next to the curb. That space seems to be reserved for parked cars or trucks, which often back out of their spaces without warning. All these obstacles force pedestrians to walk in the middle of the busy streets, avoiding traffic on one side and reversing vehicles on the other. Space is so limited on the streets that becak, motorbikes, and trucks drive dangerously close to pedestrians – so close that I was even clipped by a side-view mirror at one point. Crossing a road is an even more daunting task. Crosswalk signals are unheard of, and the lack of traffic lights creates a never-ending stream of cars with no gaps. The only way to cross is to unflinchingly walk into the traffic, holding your hands up as if you have magical superpowers that will stop cars in their tracks. Somehow, it seems to work. It is best to cross in the middle of a road rather than an intersection so you don't have to worry about turning cars. Of course, one-way streets are optimal.

I visited a bustling fish market in Chinatown, where motorbikes squeezed through hordes of people crowding the narrow, crumbling alleyways. It was like any other Third World fish market I have visited, overflowing with the sight of fish both common and bizarre, the sound of vigorous haggling, and of course the unmistakable smell that can be detected from many blocks away. Foreigners must be a rare sight here, as children kept running up to me to give me high-fives (after which they usually asked for money).

Chinatown fish market in Surabaya, Java, Indonesia

I wandered past the fish market to the Qubah, the city's Arab quarter. The area is packed with bazaars and several mosques, including the dominant Mesjid Ampel. The alley leading up to this mosque is packed with stalls selling all sorts of religious clothing and other wares to the devout Muslims who stroll back and forth to the mosque from the main road. A couple of persistent beggar women followed me through the bazaar for a while, and one of the old women even grabbed my arm, holding on tightly until I shook her off.

Minaret in the Qubah, Surabaya, Java, Indonesia

I had walked quite a distance to the Qubah, so I decided to take a becak back to my hotel. As always, I negotiated the price before I stepped into the vehicle, and unsurprisingly, the driver kept trying to veer off course to take me to some place that would probably pay him a commission for bringing me there. Luckily, I knew the way to my hotel, so every time he tried to deviate, I would say, "Hey, where are you going?" and point in the correct direction. After I caught him for the third time, he surrendered and said, "OK, OK, fine." He didn't try to make any more detours, and we were back at the main road near my hotel in a few minutes. I was not surprised when he tried to pull the common change-of-fare scam that my previous becak driver had attempted earlier this afternoon. I handled the situation in the same manner, placing the proper fare on the seat and walking away. Unfortunately, my tactic didn't work so well this time: the driver hopped off his becak, ran after me, and grabbed my arm. I explained that we had agreed on a certain price at the beginning, and that he can't change the fare – not to mention that he kept trying to take me on a detour. He didn't (or acted like he didn't) understand what I was saying. The argument was going nowhere, and every time I tried to walk away, he grabbed my arm tightly or blocked my path. He began to raise his voice and his eyes even teared up, but I refused to give in to this elaborate act designed to guilt me into being ripped off. Scam artists in developing countries know how to twist your conscience so that you feel like you are stealing if you don't consent to being ripped off. But not paying the driver what he asked is certainly not stealing; it's simply a matter of paying the pre-negotiated price. There is such desperation in developing countries that such scams do not seem wrong to these poverty-stricken people. To them, ripping off comparatively rich Western tourists is an honest way to make an income. Certain poor people may even feel that they are entitled to money from Westerners because there is such a gap in wealth.

As people on the street began to stare at the escalating argument, and I began to feel extremely uncomfortable, an English-speaking Indonesian man finally walked by and intervened. I explained the situation, and the man translated my argument to the driver. The driver tried to argue that I had misunderstood the agreed-upon price, which was a lie, as I had negotiated the fee in Bahasa Indonesia in addition to holding up the corresponding number of fingers. The translator communicated this to the driver, who finally relented. The translator said that I had paid a fair price and was free to go. I quickly crossed the busy road, walking into the middle of four lanes of oncoming traffic and hoping that the vehicles would stop. As always, they did, and I slipped down an alley towards my hotel, weaving between motorbikes and parked vans to make sure the crazy becak driver didn't try to follow me.

Persistent scam artists like that becak driver are extremely counterproductive, as they skew tourists' perceptions of their country and therefore convince potential travelers not to visit. Most people do not want to be in a constant defensive mode when they travel. I am passionate enough about experiencing the world that I recognize such unfortunate situations as part of traveling in developing countries. But I too have become bitter and jaded from having to constantly guard against being ripped off. I've become wary of anyone who starts a conversation with me, asks where I'm from, or even says hello. At the first sign of friendliness, I immediately switch into defensive mode and give short answers, or usually just ignore the person completely. The tragic part is that I haven't been wrong yet in being so callous and unfriendly. Every time, without fail, that "friendly" local has wanted my money. I don't think I've met more than a handful of people on my trip who have helped me without expecting anything in return. However, I mostly have contact with people who deal daily with tourists, like taxi and rickshaw drivers, and it is these people who are the most notorious rip-off artists. I'm sure that the locals in Indonesia, or any country, are mostly friendly – but that friendliness is difficult to access for foreign tourists. I try to always maintain that perspective, because if I let the endless scams get to me, I dread how hostile and distrustful I may become after six more months in Asia.

It may be frustrating to be swindled out of a dollar here or five dollars there, but to many people in developing countries, that is a significant amount of money. Although the methods that destitute people use to rip off tourists seem extremely dishonest to us Westerners, I can't fault their tenacity in trying to squeeze a few extra cents out of comparatively wealthy tourists. They don't have many options when it comes to making money. And as bad as it is for rickshaw drivers to rip off foreigners, there are even worse lifestyles that the poor are often forced into in Asia, such as prostitution. Unfortunately, it is very easy to become demoralized in the face of such relentless poverty.

After my sobering altercation with the becak driver and my walk through the crumbling, impoverished streets of Surabaya, I yearned for a different perspective on the city. Having had my fill of rickshaws for the day, I took a metered taxi to the House of Sampoerna Café, which provided a much-needed relaxing atmosphere. The air-conditioned interior of the historic building was tastefully furnished with designer décor and featured a well-stocked bar, trendy ambient lighting, and a flat-screen HDTV playing a World Cup match. A live band played on the patio outside, and chilled-out music enhanced the calm mood inside. Amazingly, my exquisite meal of spicy Singaporean laksa – featuring curry noodles, tofu, and generous portions of chicken and shrimp – was only $2. For dessert, I had banana fritters drizzled in caramel sauce with ice cream. It was the best meal I've eaten since Cape Town.

Refreshed and full, I returned to my hotel ready to wash up and go to bed. Unfortunately, the cap for the spout that drains the mandi (water basin) was missing, so I had to wait for the slow trickle of water to fill up the plastic dipper each time I needed to dump water on myself to rinse the soap off. It took over half an hour for the whole ordeal, but at least I was clean and ready to fall into a deep sleep. Yesterday was an absolutely epic day: remember, it started at 3:30 in the morning when I awoke to watch the sunrise over Mount Bromo. As I try to digest the day's events and distill my thoughts about the becak scams and pervasive poverty, it would be very easy to say that I should not have come to Surabaya. No one recommended that I come here, and I knew that it was not going to be a very pleasant city, but I am glad that I have had the opportunity to experience a place that not many foreigners visit. This massive, manic metropolis rewarded me with a true, unfiltered view of everyday life in an Indonesian city.

Volcanic Vista

2010-06-16T10:00:00.037-04:00

Day 136: Cemoro Lawang / Mount Bromo, Java, Indonesia

Although my room in Probolinggo was the definition of bare bones, the hotel was nice enough to arrange transport to Mount Bromo for me – and it cost less than $4 for the one-hour trip through jaw-droppingly beautiful terrain. We twisted through a verdant, undulating landscape of terraced farmland that more than made up for the sub-par impression of Java I had developed when I first arrived. Morning mist hung suspended in the deep valleys, lending a mystical atmosphere to the vista. The fertile quality of the volcanic soil was evident here, where tropical foliage burst from the hillsides in explosions of green punctuated by colorful splashes of flowers. Impossibly steep fields blanketed the precipitous sides of the hills, guarded by farmhouses carefully placed on the slopes like sentinels. Up, up, up on the steep road, and we finally arrived at the picturesque little village of Cemoro Lawang, perched on the rim of the epic Tengger crater. Inside this six-mile-wide crater are five smaller volcanoes (including the infamous Mount Bromo) rising like phoenixes from a massive, desolate sea of black volcanic sand.

Sunrise over the Tengger Caldera from Mount Penanjakan, Bromo Tengger Semeru National Park, Java, Indonesia

At 7,500 feet, it was much cooler and less humid than in sea-level Probolinggo, so I decided to go for a hike along the rim of the crater. I walked along rural trails, passing only farmers, while I gazed at the apocalyptic landscape below me. When I returned to town, I walked down the steep main road for a while until it started to rain. The temperature continued to drop into the evening, and it eventually became quite brisk outside. I actually had to sleep under a blanket for the first time in weeks, but I'm not complaining.

An old woman sits outside her home in Cemoro Lawang, Java, Indonesia.

A view down the main street in Cemoro Lawang, Java, Indonesia

At the brutal time of 3:30 in the morning, I woke up and got ready to meet my transport to Mount Penanjakan, where I would watch the sun rise over the Tengger crater and Mount Bromo. At four o'clock, our jeep entered the gate of Bromo Tengger Semeru National Park, and we endured a bone-rattling ride down the rim of the Tengger crater, across the vast black volcanic plain, and up the winding road to the summit of Penanjakan at 9,000 feet. Considering that Cemoro Lawang was the only town around, and that I only saw a few other jeeps entering the park, I figured that there would not be many people at the summit. Unfortunately, I was dead wrong: it was packed with tourists! I was shocked, because I had not seen any foreigners at all on my way to Probolinggo, and there are not that many places to stay in Cemoro Lawang. I think most of them were on package tours, so who knows where they started off this morning. The sheer number of tourists did take away from the magic of the experience a bit, as I had to fight my way to the fence to get a glimpse of the view. But what a view it was! When the first rays of the sun lit that otherworldly, desolate panorama, I forgot all about the hundreds of other people that were watching with me. The plain was shrouded in a thick blanket of mist, and the Tengger crater's perfectly formed volcanic peaks rose like islands from a white, ethereal sea. A wafting column of steam escaped from the highly active vent of Mount Bromo, reflecting the pink glow of the morning sun, and the gigantic Mount Semeru (at 12,000 feet, the highest peak in Java) stood watch over the entire scene from the hazy distance. It was one of the most sublime and enchanting vistas I have ever witnessed.

Poten Temple in the Tengger crater, Bromo Tengger Semeru National Park, Java, Indonesia

After sunrise, we headed back down into the Tengger crater, where I set out on the path that leads to the very rim of Mount Bromo itself. I traipsed across the sandy volcanic soil, passing a uniquely positioned Hindu temple nestled at the foot of the active volcano, and began to climb up the rocky slope. The final ascent features a steep stairway that ends on the precipitous rim of the crater. Out of breath and breathing only the sulfuric fumes belching from the volcanic vent of Bromo, I finally reached the top. One side of the narrow rim dropped precariously into the steaming crater; the other side descended at a slippery angle all the way to the plain below. It was one of those special places that begs you to step outside of the moment and say to yourself, "I can't believe I'm really here."

View from Mount Bromo, Bromo Tengger Semeru National Park, Java, Indonesia

The Long Journey to Java

2010-06-14T22:00:00.015-04:00

Day 134: Probolinggo, Java, Indonesia

I left Amed at 6:15 this morning, and it was just under two hours to Singaraja, a large town on the north coast of Bali. I dropped by the post office to ship some souvenirs home, and the process was very methodical compared to my shipping experiences in Africa. It may have taken an hour, but the guy at the desk was very helpful and carefully packed my two flimsy boxes into a large, sturdy box. I chose to send the parcel via sea mail, so it will take up to three months to reach Florida. When I was done at the post office, I hopped on a local bus to Gilimanuk on the western tip of Bali. The bus was full of cigarette smoke, and the boy next to me was sprawled over half of my seat. He was asleep and wouldn't budge, so I sat at an angle with one leg in the aisle. The three-hour journey was slow going, and we stopped repeatedly to be sprinkled with what must have been some sort of holy water. When we arrived in Gilimanuk, I paid the $2 bus fare and crossed the street to the ferry terminal, where I bought a ticket for 60 cents. The ticket didn't specify the destination, so I assumed that all ferries from Gilimanuk cross the narrow straight to nearby Java. I walked over to the nearest boat – no signs were in English, so I hoped it was the right one. I climbed the rusting staircase from the vehicle deck to the grimy passenger deck and sat in one of the rows of plastic seats that were bolted to the concrete floor. A sad, meager snack stand at the front was flanked by aging televisions which played cheesy Indonesian pop music videos. The snack stand attendant was stretched out across the front row of seats, and he slept for most of the journey. Ferries leave every half hour from Gilimanuk, so at least the deck was not crowded – in fact, it was quite empty.

The crossing only took half an hour, but I was on the ferry for an hour including the time spent waiting for the boat to depart Bali and dock on Java. Once in Ketapang, on Java, I walked past the touts offering transport to the bus station. At airports, bus stations, and ferry terminals, gangs of taxi and rickshaw drivers descend like vultures on arriving tourists, hoping to charge exorbitant prices for short rides. The scam usually involves the touts asking where you want to go and then informing you that it is too far to walk. As usual, I walked past the vultures and continued towards the bus terminal, which I figured couldn't be too far from the ferry terminal. Unfortunately, in this case it turned out that the touts were telling the truth, and I walked for ages along a busy road in the stifling tropical humidity. I passed gated off port facilities and ignored the many vehicles that honked at me to ask if I needed a ride. I was determined to not be ripped off. I asked everyone I passed the direction to the bus terminal to make sure I was getting a consistent answer. I spoke using the few words of Bahasa Indonesia that I knew – people here in eastern Java don't seem to speak English nearly as much as the Balinese because there are fewer tourists. In fact, I didn't see a single foreigner on the ferry or anywhere in Ketapang.

Just when I couldn't take the humidity any more, my walk was hindered by an inconvenient but refreshing tropical downpour. I ducked under a plastic tarp on the side of the road so my bags wouldn't get soaked. There was a man sitting on a bench underneath the tarp, and we attempted to have a simple conversation, half in English and half in Bahasa Indonesia. The rain soon let up, and after ten minutes, I finally saw the much-anticipated sign for the bus terminal. It was in the middle of nowhere, and I didn't have much choice other than to pay what the ticket collector asked for the ride to Probolinggo, which was three times the standard price. Even though I got ripped off, it amounted to only a few dollars, and I was just happy to take off my pack and sit down for a while. I wiped the sweat and rain from my face and breathed a sigh of relief as I settled in for the six-hour bus journey.

As I gazed out the window, I immediately noticed how much Java differed from Bali. In Bali, Hinduism permeates every aspect of the island's culture and the overall look of its cities. In Java, mosques are everywhere, and the intricate stone work of Bali's ubiquitous temples has been replaced by more modern, but very bland, architecture. Instead of beautifully patterned batik sarongs, women in Java wear plainer head scarves. Java seems to lack the magical and exotic atmosphere of Bali.

The bus stopped for a while at the bus terminal in the uninspiring town of Situbondo, and I hopped off to use the toilet. No one indicated when the bus would leave again, so I made the stop quick so the bus wouldn't roll off without me. The bus ended up staying for half an hour. It would have been nice to know that beforehand so I didn't have to rush, but the driver had disappeared and no one spoke a word of English. During the stop, a gang of snack vendors boarded the bus to sell snacks, and I bought a packet of weird fried sticks that satisfied my hunger well enough – I had not eaten anything all day except some stale wafers from the dilapidated snack bar on the ferry.

I was exhausted and ready to crash when I arrived in Probolinggo. There did not seem to be much in the way of budget accommodation in the city, as most places seemed to be hotels popular with Indonesian tourists. I finally found a hotel for $7.50, which seemed like a decent price, except this dismal room had only a noisy fan anchored to the wall, a squat toilet, and no sink. Literally hundreds of ants infested the grimy floor. Luckily I was only staying one night.

Room in Hotel Moronyoto, Probolinggo, Java, Indonesia

I still had not eaten a meal, but there were no restaurants nearby. I asked the attendant at the front desk where the closest store was, but he had no idea what I was asking. After charades failed, he finally called the hotel manager, who was able to give me directions. The language barrier in Java is turning out to be quite a challenge. Probolinggo doesn't see many foreign tourists because most people breeze through on the way to Mount Bromo, but I arrived too late and will have to take a bus in the morning. As I set out to walk to the nearby store, a guy out front was pushing a motorbike ride on me. I am starting to become fed up with the never-ending offers of transport. If I needed a ride, I would approach one of the many obvious rickshaws or taxis. I don't see the point in touts bombarding tourists with "Where you going?" and "Transport, mister?". After five minutes, I came across a little shop and bought some juice, stale banana chips, and an unlabeled bag of mysterious little snacks that had the taste and texture of burnt popcorn kernels. In fact, I think they were burnt popcorn kernels. It is quite a challenge to find fresh, decent snacks in Indonesia. It seems that the humidity makes everything go stale in about a day, even if the snack is in a factory-sealed pack.

Bathroom and toilet in Hotel Moronyoto, Probolinggo, Java, Indonesia

With no sink in my room, I brushed my teeth with bottled water and spit into the squat toilet. Instead of a shower, there was a mandi, a traditional Indonesian water tank used for bathing and also for pouring water down the squat toilet to "flush" it. I was dripping with sweat after the day's trials, so I gave the mandi a try, soaping up and then pouring water over myself with the plastic scooper. I wasn't brave enough to wash my face with the stagnant water, although I'm sure it would have been fine. I just have to overcome a psychological block about bathing from water that essentially is sitting in the equivalent of a toilet tank.

I think today is the first time on my world trip that I've truly felt like an independent traveler. I've taken plenty of cheap local transport before, but I felt like all that travel knowledge culminated in today's epic 14-hour journey. Things didn't go perfectly, but I can learn from today's mistakes as I prepare for many more long journeys across Asia.

More Temples / Snorkeling in Eastern Bali

2010-06-13T22:30:00.027-04:00

Day 133: Amed, Bali, Indonesia

Balinese Barong dance in Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia

After twelve nights in Kuta, the longest I've stayed in one place in over four months, I finally left for the tranquil eastern coast of Bali. On the way, I stopped at quite a few sights for a final taste of Balinese culture. The first stop was Denpasar, the island's biggest city, where I went to a Barong and Kris dance. This performance depicts the eternal fight between good and evil, and like all Balinese dance, emphasized elaborate costumes. There were a series of short stops in the craft villages in the Ubud area before lunch. I learned about the process of making batik fabrics in Batubulan, examined the intricacies of silver jewelry in Celuk, and witnessed some impressively detailed wood carving in Mas. After lunch, I visited the ninth-century Goa Gajah (Elephant Cave) and its associated bathing temple, excavated only sixty years ago.

Goa Gajah (Elephant Cave) near Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

Bathing temple figures at Goa Gajah (Elephant Cave) near Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

It was a little over an hour on winding roads to the sprawling Mother Temple of Besakih, nestled at the base of Mount Agung. This huge temple complex is one of the most popular tourist sites in Bali, and as such, I had to contend with numerous scams designed to rip off tourists. There was a roadblock many miles before the temple where I had to purchase a ticket, and the ticket checkpoint and parking lot were half a mile below the temple, necessitating motorbike transport up the steep road to the temple. The man at the ticket counter tried to suggest that I pay around 20 euros for the required guide, but I ended up paying 3 dollars. Unlike every other temple I've visited in Bali, Besakih does not provide sarongs, so I had to rent one for an outrageous price (well, $1.50, but that's outrageous for Bali). I used the toilet next to the ticket counter, and when I exited, a woman sitting next to the door demanded 5,000 rupiah (50 cents), even though the typical price should have been more like 1,000 rupiah. Of course, there was no sign indicating the price, so I had to pay what she asked. In retrospect, I should have just put 1,000 rupiah in the jar and walked away. Once I navigated through all the scams, the temple complex itself was actually quite impressive. The complex had a terraced design that climbed the slope of the volcano, and numerous towers jutted into the misty sky. Some of the temples date back as far as the eighth century, and the black lava stone used for construction originated from the bowels of Mount Agung itself.

The Mother Temple of Besakih sprawls up the slopes of Mount Agung in eastern Bali, Indonesia.

Rice terraces at Bukit Jambul, Bali, Indonesia

On the way down from Basakih Temple, we stopped at Bukit Jambul to view the rice terraces, which were picturesque but not as impressive as the extensive landscape of terraces at Jatiluwih. The next stop was the Court of Justice and its moat, part of the Klungkung Palace. Klungkung was the most important kingdom in Bali from the seventeenth century to the early twentieth century. Outside of Klungkung, I visited Pura Goa Lawah (Bat Cave Temple), which features a natural cavern containing hundreds of fruit bats. Since there was still a bit of daylight left, I asked my driver how much it would be to extend the trip all the way to Amed further up the east coast. He suggested $5, and I haggled the price down to $3. This seemed a bit too good to be true, as Amed was an hour and a half away. Even though the driver was looking at a map, he clearly wasn't familiar with Amed, and when we finally arrived (after stopping for directions many times), he was disappointed that he had agreed on such a low price. I've been ripped off so many times that it's only fair to come across some good fortune every once in a while. It all evens out in the end.

I stayed in a bungalow across from the beach, and the water smelled of sulfur, a constant reminder of Bali's volcanic nature. Even with ear plugs, it was difficult to sleep that night because of the incessant crowing of roosters. It was my ignorant impression that roosters crow at sunrise, but it turns out that the avian insomniacs crow all night long.

Today, I hired transport to Tulamben further up the coast, where a fabulous World War II shipwreck rested just off the coast. It was supposed to be the best diving and snorkeling site in Bali, so I rented a snorkel and mask and splashed into the waves. Unfortunately, the rough water was churning up so much black sand that the water was too murky to see anything. The beach was composed of large, water-worn lava stones that swirled in the crashing surf. I only stayed fifteen minutes before I decided to give up and head back to Amed. The drive back was more interesting than the snorkeling: we passed one of Bali's famous ritualistic cremation processions, featuring traditional music and dress. A dried black lava flow originating from a conical volcano emptied into the sea. In Amed, the water was a little calmer and slightly clearer, and the black sand beach was softer. Still, I only saw a few fish and bits of coral. I swam out further, but it was just a murky turquoise void. I gave up on snorkeling and relaxed in my room the rest of the day.

Rice Terraces / Temple by the Sea

2010-06-11T23:30:00.018-04:00

Day 131: Kuta, Bali, Indonesia

This morning, my driver picked me up at 9:30, and we drove an hour north to Mengwi to visit the royal temple of Taman Ayun, built in the seventeenth century. Then it was off to the rice terraces at Jatiluwih. Although these are considered the most picturesque rice terraces in Bali, Jatiluwih is fairly remote, and my driver had to ask a few people on the side of the road how to get there. I truly saw the "real" Bali as we passed rural lanes and children flying kites in the green fields. It took an hour to reach Jatiluwih, and I ate lunch at a restaurant overlooking the terraces. My excellent meal of Balinese baked chicken included locally-grown brown rice. After lunch, I walked through the terraces and enjoyed the stunning hilly landscape. The fertile smell of manure filled the country air.

Rice terraces at Jatiluwih in central Bali, Indonesia

From centrally-located Jatiluwih, it was an hour to the much-visited sixteenth-century Tanah Lot temple on the coast. Tanah Lot is probably the most famous temple in Bali, as it occupies a stunning location on a rocky outcropping by the sea. The most popular time to visit the temple is sunset, and I had a few hours to kill. I walked around the beach below the cliffs of Tanah Lot – like many temples in Bali, only worshippers are allowed to enter. I walked over to a row of cafés overlooking the coastline, and I relaxed on a terrace with a cold avocado juice. Then I strolled along the coast, from a posh golf course at the eastern end to some smaller temples to the west of Tanah Lot. A spectacular natural stone arch bridge over the water led to a picturesque little temple that jutted out into the sea. As sunset approached, I walked back over to the golf course, which seemed to have the best view of Tanah Lot. I climbed from the golf course down to the beach and slowly approached the temple as the sun set. As the tide started to come in, I had to walk closer to the cliffs that rose above the beach. When the temple was completely silhouetted against the darkening sky, I walked back to my vehicle, having spent a thorough and relaxing four hours at Tanah Lot.

Sunset at Tanah Lot temple, Bali, Indonesia

It was an hour before we reached Kuta, and I liked my driver well enough, so I booked another tour with him for tomorrow. This time, it would be a one-way trip towards the east coast of Bali; this would be my last night in Kuta. Tonight was the opening of the World Cup in South Africa, which I suppose is an exciting event to experience in a vibrant tourist hub like Kuta. I walked over to one of my favorite restaurants, where I ate dinner as I watched the opening ceremony on their big screen. I felt almost a bit "homesick" for South Africa and thought about some of my friends who are still there. I wish I could have stayed in South Africa longer so I could enjoy this exciting and defining moment for one of my favorite countries. After I finished my meal, I moved over to the bar to get a better view of the screen. It started growing crowded as the time for the first match grew closer. A couple of guys sat down next to me. One was Canadian and the other British, and they teach English in the large city of Bandung on Java. I enjoyed a Bintang with them while I asked them about living in Indonesia. Suddenly, the restaurant lost reception and the crowd booed. Apparently it was too expensive to pay for the broadcast, but it's not wise to scrimp on something as important as the opening of the World Cup. We, along with other patrons, left for the more vibrant Legian Street. Even though it was within walking distance, I jumped on a motorbike with an Austrian tourist who was going with us. We watched the match for a while in a bar, but the guys I was with were more interested in drinking than watching the game, and they left for a cheaper bar that wasn't broadcasting the World Cup. I stayed for a while longer, but the match seemed really slow, and I had to wake up early. I walked back to my guesthouse, bombarded by the sound of the horns at the World Cup echoing throughout a packed Legian Street as almost every bar and restaurant broadcast it simultaneously.

Ulu Watu by Motorbike

2010-06-10T22:30:00.003-04:00

Day 130: Kuta, Bali, Indonesia

Luhur temple perches on a seaside cliff at Ulu Watu in southern Bali, Indonesia.

This morning, no tours were available, but a guy at the agency, Rey, offered to take me to Luhur temple at Ulu Watu on his motorbike for a much cheaper price than the air-conditioned van trips. We left at 3:30 so I could watch the sunset at the eleventh-century clifftop temple. It was a 45-minute white-knuckle ride on the back of Rey's motorbike. We dodged in and out of traffic, zooming into the oncoming lane to pass vehicles that were going slightly slower. When we slowed down in heavy traffic, the front tire of Rey's bike was mere inches from the back tire of the bike in front of us. We passed trucks so close that I could have touched them, and I had to make sure my knees weren't sticking out where they could hit another vehicle. I felt like I could have fallen off at any time, and I gripped tightly to the handles placed awkwardly behind my seat. I tried to relax, knowing that everyone in Bali drives like this, but it was quite a nerve-racking ride at times. We went up a steep hill at one point; I tried to adjust to keep from falling off the back of the motorbike, and I lost one of my flip-flops. I've been looking for an excuse to get a new pair anyway, as the cheap pair I've been wearing since Namibia are getting quite worn.

When we finally arrived at Ulu Watu, I told Rey I had lost a flip-flop and asked him if there were any vendors where I could buy a new pair. He nodded, and I proceeded barefoot with Rey to the ticket booth. I figured there would be vendors inside the temple area, as there have been at other attractions in Bali. We walked all around the temple complex – up and down stone stairs, along rough pathways next to the seaside cliffs - and I asked Rey quite a few times if I could please go buy some flip-flops now! After a while, Rey finally realized the situation, and he took me out of the temple complex to a nearby row of vendors, where I finally bought a new pair of flip-flops for my now filthy, tender feet. I don't know if he just didn't understand what I was saying – most Balinese speak quite broken English – but I would have thought that my plight would be obvious with me standing barefoot, holding one flip-flop, and asking where I could buy a new pair.

With my feet now enjoying the protection of my new pair of flip-flops, we went back into the temple area. Annoying, cheeky macaque monkeys were roaming the place, and we had to watch to make sure they didn't try to take anything from us. We saw one nab a girl's earring, and numerous people warned me to protect my glasses from the thieving monkeys. It's one thing to walk around barefoot, but I certainly didn't want to ride on a motorbike all the way back to Kuta blind. Although I didn't have any food in my backpack, at one point I was going down a large flight of stone steps, and a macaque bared its teeth and pounced onto my back from the wall next to the stairway. I ran at top speed down the steps and the monkey dropped off. As much of a nuisance as these animals are, tourists for some reason love to risk their earrings and have their pictures taken with the vile creatures. Vendors sell nuts and bananas at the entrance to the temple, and it seemed to me that the practice of feeding the macaques just exacerbates the problem. However, I soon found out otherwise: Rey bought a pack of nuts and threw one at a monkey whenever one seemed about to jump on us. It was a useful diversion tactic. One massive, fierce-looking macaque cornered us as we walked down a wooded pathway. Rey just chucked the whole bag at the beast, and we ran. Locals and tourists seem to be equally cautious of the macaques; they sport a mean set of fangs and are ruthless in their attempt to obtain food.

At sunset, I made my way to the clifftop theater at Ulu Watu, where I enjoyed one of the Kecak dances for which Bali is famous. This dance is the interpretation of a story from the Ramayana, a Hindu epic. The strange chanting was hypnotic, the costumes were elaborate and beautiful, and the fiery finale was spectacular, but it was difficult to follow the story with little to no knowledge of the Ramayana. But for the performance alone, it was definitely worth seeing.

A masked performer dodges flames during a Kecak dance at Ulu Watu in southern Bali, Indonesia.

After the dance, it was half an hour to Jimbaran Bay. I was getting slightly more comfortable on the back of Rey's motorbike, but maybe it's just because it was dark and I couldn't see anything. At Jimbaran, I ate dinner at a seafood restaurant on the beach. My table was actually in the sand. I selected some massive king prawns and fresh snapper, and the restaurant barbecued them Balinese-style. The prawns were as big as my foot and tasted excellent, but the snapper had too many tiny bones for my taste. After my seafood feast, it was only twenty minutes back to Kuta, and I could relax knowing that I didn't have to endure any more of that motorbike. I wanted to set up a tour for tomorrow, but I tried a different tactic: I went up to a random tour vendor on Poppies Gang I, and I asked how much it would be to hire a private vehicle and driver for a whole day. I told him where I wanted to go, and he quoted me a price of $35 – not bad for a private, custom tour to locations all around the island.

Bali: Settling In

2010-06-09T22:00:00.040-04:00

Day 129: Kuta, Bali, Indonesia

Adenium flowers at the Buddhist monastery in Banjar, Bali, Indonesia

Last Monday, almost two weeks ago, I took the bus from Ubud to Kuta, the tourism center of Bali. I arranged the bus ticket with my guesthouse that morning and paid $5 for the two-hour ride. Within ten minutes of arriving in Kuta, I had wandered through the alleys off Poppies Gang I, one of the main tourist drags, and found a cheap guesthouse called Taman Ayu Bungalows. I initially booked four nights in the basic room for $8 per night, but I had no idea how long I intended to stay in Kuta. The room does not have air conditioning or hot water, but the fan keeps me sufficiently cool, and I wouldn't want anything but a cold shower in this humidity. That evening, I walked along the beach to the enormous air-conditioned Discovery Shopping Mall, where I met Deepa and Neerav, a couple who had been on part of the Oasis trip in Africa with me. They have been traveling in Southeast Asia for the past couple of months, and I happened to catch them in Bali only a day before they flew home. It was a lot of fun to hang out with them again thousands of miles away from Africa, and we stayed out late talking about our travels. They are moving from the UK to Australia in a few months, and I hope to meet up with them again for New Years in Sydney.

I spent the next eight days getting to know Kuta and catching up on my blog. Near my guesthouse is Poppies Gang I - not to be confused with nearby Poppies Gang II. It is a crowded, narrow street filled to the brim with motorbikes that breeze within inches of your arm, hawkers selling massages or transport, souvenir stalls with Bintang beer t-shirts and flip-flops, and hard-partying Australian beach bums who have traveled to Bali for the cheap Bintang and good surf. Not my scene - but I discovered quiet sanctuaries in some of the cozy restaurants along the alley. I became a regular at a Cuban restaurant called Havana Club. They have free wireless internet, so I would sometimes stay there from lunch through dinner writing my blog, going through my photos, and chatting with friends and family. I tried quite a few of the restaurants along Poppies Gang I, enjoying avocado juice, chicken satay, nasi goreng, and free wi-fi for days on end. One day, I made the long, sandy trek along the crowded beachfront back to Discovery Shopping Mall, where I enjoyed the air-conditioning in Starbucks for an afternoon. My Frappuccino was as expensive as lunch and dinner combined at some of my new favorite cheap restaurants, so I retreated back to the more affordable area around Poppies Gang I. I also ventured out a few times to Legian Street, the main busy road through the city. It is lined with bars, nightclubs, and surf shops; drunk partiers prowl the street every evening. This is where two simultaneous nightclub bombings occurred in 2002, and there is a large memorial in the middle of Legian Street to commemorate the terrorist attacks.

I have been extending my cheap stay at Taman Ayu Bungalows, and by yesterday, I finally caught up with my blog and photos from Africa and was ready to start exploring more of Bali. There are hundreds of tour operators with street stalls in Kuta, but I initially had a bit of trouble booking a tour. Even though these tours are package deals with set itineraries, they are in private vans rather than large buses. The problem was that every one of the tour operators seemed to require a minimum of two people for a trip. I had to wait until someone else was interested in a particular tour before I could go. I visited one agency, marked the trips that interested me, and later in the day went back to see if any tours had become available. I had a lucky break: this morning, I left for my first tour.

One of the guys from the tour agency picked me up at eight o'clock from my guesthouse. I rode on the back of his motorbike to the van, which couldn't fit into the narrow alley where I was staying. We drove to a hotel and picked up the other tourist, a French guy who had been traveling in Australia and stopped in Bali on his way home. We drove north for two hours until we reached the picturesque Ulun Danu Bratan temple on an island in Lake Bratan. It was teeming with mostly Asian tourists, including a large Balinese school group - a stark contrast to the tranquil setting depicted on postcards, but not surprising on this heavily touristed island.

Ulun Danu Bratan temple appears to float in Lake Bratan near Candikuning, Bali, Indonesia.

Miniature Borobudur at the Buddhist monastery in Banjar, Bali, Indonesia

It took about half an hour to reach Gitgit Waterfall, stopping along the way to see macaque monkeys in the forest along the road. There was a quaint moss-covered stone temple near the falls. We drove through Bali's second largest city of Singaraja on the way to the beach town of Lovina, where we had lunch at a restaurant that sits right beside the water. After lunch, we proceeded to the nearby village of Banjar, where we visited some hot springs that have been tamed into a recreational pool with stone fountains and statues. The milky green water smelled of sulfur. Next, we visited the largest Buddhist monastery in Bali, which features a smaller version of Java's famous Borobudur temple complex.

Gitgit Waterfall, Bali, Indonesia

Fountain at the hot springs in Banjar, Bali, Indonesia

Buddha statue at the Buddhist monastery in Banjar, Bali, Indonesia

It was three hours across the island back to Kuta, and a torrential, foggy downpour obscured the rice terraces and mountainous center of Bali into a misty suggestion of gray landscapes. In Kuta, I went back to the tour agency to see if any tours had opened up for tomorrow. None had, and they told me to check again in the morning. Luckily, I have no definite plan for how long I am staying in Kuta, and I've grown accustomed to this sort of last-minute arrangement that seems to be so common in less developed countries.

The Steamy Tropical Paradise of Bali

2010-05-30T22:00:00.028-04:00

Day 119: Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

My flight to Bali this past Monday went smoothly and quickly. In the Johannesburg airport, I bought my bible for the next few months, Lonely Planet's Southeast Asia on a Shoestring, and I spent most of my flight researching Indonesia. I've never been able to sleep well on planes, so I figured I would make good use of my time. Every once in a while, I glanced at our real-time path on the screen in front of me. We crossed over Madagascar and the vast Indian Ocean, and before I knew it, we were over Sumatra and it was early on Tuesday morning. I had a layover in Kuala Lumpur, where I took advantage of the airport's free wi-fi and caught up on email. When I landed in Bali, I had to get an Indonesian visa. I headed to the payment counter, but they would only accept cash. I had used up the last of my U.S. dollars months ago, and I obviously didn't have any Indonesia rupiah, as my plane had just arrived. It must be a common conundrum, as the woman at the payment counter told me to give my passport to an immigration officer, who would hold onto it while I withdrew money from the ATM. I had to cross back through immigration, where I could finally pay for my visa and get my passport stamped. If this is such a common problem, wouldn't it be easier to put the ATM before immigration?

When I walked out of the air-conditioned airport, the stifling, sticky heat almost took my breath away. Maybe it was a shock because I had just come from the South African winter, but I think it may be the most humid climate I've ever experienced. The temperature wasn't terribly hot, but I was sweating from pores that I don't think have ever sweated before. My task was to find a taxi. I walked past the endless gauntlet of hawkers asking me if I needed transport – taxis directly outside airports are always expensive. I continued past the parking lot and into the street. I haggled with a few taxi drivers, but the price was still too much. I finally chose a minibus packed with school children. It wasn't the most comfortable-looking vehicle, but it was the cheapest ride I could find – about half the price of the taxis in front of the airport terminal. The open windows (and door!) of the minibus let in a breeze, which alleviated the sweltering humidity. As we made stop after stop through Kuta and the main city of Denpasar, children hopped on and off the vehicle, some hanging out of the open door as we rode through the crowded streets. An old woman in a traditional conical hat stepped onto the bus, and she placed a large basket of fruit on the floor. An older boy started a conversation with me, but his English was very basic, and we both ended up repeating the same things over and over, trying to forge a basic human bond by smiling and nodding. I don't think he ever understood my answers to his questions; I felt like we were having two totally different conversations. Still, it was much more interesting to travel with the locals than in an air-conditioned private taxi.

We passed through manic streets lined with narrow canals, ornate Hindu temples, a rainbow of colorful hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and countless small shops. The road was packed with thousands of loud motorbikes, taxis, and schoolgirls on bicycles. Some of the ubiquitous motorbikes were even driven by boys and girls not more than twelve years old. The smell of exhaust, incense, and Indonesian noodle dishes swirled through the air. The passengers departed the minibus one by one, and soon I was the only one left. I was traveling all the way to the town of Ubud, an hour and a half away. The frantic streets of Denpasar slowly thinned out, and I began to see glimpses of rice terraces between the ever-sparser buildings lining the road. Soon, there were larger rice terraces punctuated by patches of jungle.

Stone statue, Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

We arrived in Ubud, and the driver dropped me off at what he said was my guesthouse (cheap hotel). There was no sign for Jati Home Stay, but he seemed sure that this was the place and even pointed in the direction of reception. I gathered my bags, and he drove off. Unsurprisingly, this was not Jati Home Stay. I asked several people to make sure, and they all consistently pointed in the same direction down the road. I fastened my big pack on my back, threw my daypack over my shoulder, and started walking along the narrow, buckled sidewalk. Ubud is considered the center of Balinese culture, and art galleries, shops, bohemian cafés, and temples lined the road. I finally spotted the sign for Jati Home Stay after half an hour, and I was pouring sweat in an embarrassing amount when I wandered along the narrow walled passage into the compound. Inside was a temple, an artist studio, a laundry facility, and a small canal-like pond surrounding the outdoor reception area. Cued by the flip-flops lining the mat, I slipped off my shoes and stepped onto the covered patio. I received my key and walked up the nearby steps to my basic room. I dropped my bags on the floor and immediately took a long, cold shower. When I was refreshed, I opened the curtains – there was a quaint view of a small rice paddy in the back of the compound.

I relaxed the rest of the afternoon until dinnertime, when I ventured out onto the main street in front of my guesthouse to browse the numerous restaurants. I decided on a restaurant and sat down at a table on the street-front patio. As motorbikes whizzed past, I dined on a generous portion of excellent chicken curry that was only $2. The spicy meal made me sweat even more in the sweltering night, but a banana dessert with honey and ice cream cooled me down. Not having slept for well over 30 hours – since Sunday night in Johannesburg – I crashed for a dreamless 12 hours in my nice, soft bed. The tiny ants that infested the room tickled my arms and legs, but I was so tired that I couldn't care less.

A cozy restaurant in Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

I spent the next five days in Ubud relaxing and catching up on my blog entries and photos from Africa. I was in dire need of some down time since every single day for the past four months has been packed with activities. I've been enjoying the great Indonesian food at the cheap restaurants here: satay chicken, nasi goreng (Indonesian fried rice), mie goreng (fried noodles). I've had some excellent chai tea, and my new favorite dessert is bubur injin, a sweet Balinese black rice pudding. The black sludge may not look very appetizing, but it tastes incredible. I've become immune to the ubiquitous offers of "transport?" that guys with motorbikes constantly shout when I walk down the street. I wake up every morning to the sound of sweeping right outside the thin walls of my room. The Balinese seem quite obsessed with having clean walkways, which certainly isn't a bad thing.

I've been updating my blog from a nearby internet café that has cheap wi-fi. One evening, I walked into the place after dinner, and the wi-fi was not working. I asked the girl at the counter if there was another internet café nearby. She smiled and nodded, but she didn't elaborate. I asked her where the other internet café was located, and she just shrugged, smiling politely the entire time. As in Africa, people here in Indonesia don't like to give a negative answer to any question, so they usually reply "yes" even if they don't understand the question.

A macaque monkey eats a snack in the Mandala Wisata Wenara Wana ("Monkey Forest") in Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

Thursday, I walked to the nearby Mandala Wisata Wenara Wana, a jungle with a few temples and other holy places hidden among the trees. The hundreds of cheeky macaque monkeys living there give the place its better-known name of "Monkey Forest". Vendors sell bananas to tourists brave enough to feed the monkeys, but in my opinion this just makes their thieving behavior worse. One tourist walked in, pulled out a banana, and was practically mauled by six monkeys that actually jumped on his back. They will snatch anything shiny or dangling too – earrings, sunglasses, dresses. It puzzles me that many of these tourists want their picture with the monkeys, but yet they are terrified of the creatures and end up looking incredibly awkward and scared in their photos. Some people end up losing jewelry or other things to the monkeys, but they are asking for it if they stand right beside a monkey with their back to the animal.

I had enough of the sneaky monkeys, so I walked out to the main street of Ubud, where I started browsing around a market. It started pouring down rain – as it has been periodically since I've been in Bali – so I ducked underneath a covered portion of the market and was stranded there for a while before the rain let up a bit. It was still raining, though, and luckily I was prepared to walk in the downpour – a lesson I learned the hard way in Africa.

A torrential downpour soaks a market in Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

I put on my poncho, wrapped a plastic bag around my backpack, and trudged through the soggy streets back to my guesthouse. Unfortunately, ankle-deep muddy water was rushing across the road just outside the market. I walked carefully through the flood, making sure not to slip on the slick tile of the sidewalk underneath the running water. I had a cut on my foot, and I disinfected it as soon as I got back to my room – who knows where that filthy water was coming from?

Friday night, I awoke to a scratching sound about two o'clock in the morning. I scoured the room trying to identify the source of the noise, leery of what I might find. I finally discovered that the sound was coming from behind the rattan wardrobe, so I carefully pulled it away from the wall, stepped back, and waited for something to crawl out. Nothing did, so I pulled it out some more and waited again. Nothing. I leaned my head against the wall to look behind the piece of furniture, and a huge rat poked its head out from a ledge on the back of the wardrobe. All of a sudden, the rodent jumped down and ran towards me along the wall. Startled, I screamed, probably waking my neighbors. By this point, I was wide awake. I turned on all the lights and searched the room for the rat. I saw it scurry along the wall once again, but I couldn't find it under any of the furniture after a thorough search, so I assumed that it must have left the room through a crack. I soon gave up the search and tried to sleep, hoping that the rodent wouldn't find its way onto my bed if it was still in the room.

The next morning, I checked out of Jati Home Stay. Not because of the rat – I think camping in Africa must have hardened me to vermin – but because they were booked solid. I had been extending my stay day-to-day because I didn't know how long I wanted to remain in Ubud. I walked a block down the street, found another guesthouse, and booked a room within 10 minutes – for a cheaper rate than Jati. It's so easy to find a cheap place to stay in Bali that there is really no reason to book ahead. This new place was $12 per night. It had a few geckos crawling on the walls, but they eat mosquitoes and other insects, so I don't mind the cute lizards. There was also some loud construction work right outside the room, but earplugs solved that problem.

Tomorrow, I'm leaving Ubud and heading down to Kuta, Bali's main tourist hub, to see some friends that traveled with me on the Oasis trip in Africa. Although I've enjoyed the tranquil setting of Ubud, I suppose it's time for me to explore another corner of Bali.

Farewell, Africa

2010-05-24T13:00:00.035-04:00

Day 113: Johannesburg, South Africa

Friday afternoon, we stopped for a shopping break in the town of Hazyview on our way to Blyde River Canyon. The popular Panorama Route through the canyon features several impressive viewpoints, and what could be more impressive than one called God's Window? We arrived there in the late afternoon after a long and winding drive through mountainous terrain. From the viewpoint, a vast and majestic landscape spread out into the hazy distance. Bright red flowers embellished the sheer rock walls of the cliffs on either side of us. The valley below was flanked by gently curving mountains rising to pink-tinged tips illuminated by the setting sun. We climbed a pathway from the viewpoint and arrived in small patch of rainforest that was a lush collage of dense ferns, tangled vines, and crimson flowers.

Sunset at God's Window along the Panorama Route, Blyde River Canyon, Drakensberg, South Africa

We had a late start leaving Kruger, so we would have to return to the other viewpoints the next day. After sunset, we sped for what seemed like a never-ending two and a half hours along dark, curving roads down from the mountains. At eight o'clock, we finally arrived at Ilkley Game Ranch, where we stayed in the bungalows – with comfortable beds and nice showers! Dinner was provided at the ranch in the form of a traditional dance performance by members of a local Shangaan tribe. These dancers showed amazing endurance as they danced for almost two solid hours while we enjoyed dinner. As an appetizer, we had beef biltong, and this was much nicer than the shrink-wrapped biltong bought in stores. It was more akin to Italian carpaccio. Next, we tried a traditional Shangaan starter. A bucket of chicken heads and feet was passed around; I reached into the bucket and pulled out a chicken foot. I cautiously bit into it, but the meat was almost non-existent, and the claws and bones of course were inedible, at least to me. For the main course, we enjoyed some of the South African dishes we had become accustomed to eating: pap (maize meal porridge) and boerewors (sausage).

Saturday was the last day of the trip and was an extremely long day. In the morning, we drove to the nearby Moholoholo Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre, where we listened to an inspiring talk by one of the guides about the true issues of wildlife conservation. He described how international efforts to "save the elephants" or "save the rhinos" unintentionally cause harm to many lesser-known species. The habitat is what really needs to be saved. Although everyone loves elephants, he explained, the large creatures are also destructive, and too many of them in a confined area destroy the habitat of smaller animals, leading those creatures to become endangered. Conservation groups have protested against culling elephants and other star animals, and as a result, the ecosystems in some parks such as Kruger have become unbalanced. Although leopards are difficult to spot, they are abundant in Kruger. The solitary cats are fiercely territorial, and as more leopards are born, there is less land for each cat to claim for its territory. Some leopards therefore leave Kruger and invade local farmland, where they are shot by farmers because the predators represent a direct threat to their livestock and livelihood. The "circle of life" in Africa can never recover on its own. As we humans have encroached on the habitats of wild animals and set up game reserves to protect them, we must attempt to maintain the balance ourselves within these parks, even if this means culling hundreds of one species to save another.

Honey badger in Moholoholo Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre, Limpopo Province, South Africa

After the interesting and eye-opening talk, we toured some of the animals kept in the park. These are mostly wild animals who have been trapped, injured, poisoned, or electrocuted in power lines. Moholoholo rehabilitates some of these animals and releases them back into the wild. But the center also keeps some of the injured animals to use as educational tools to spread the word about issues facing wild animals in Africa. We were able to pet one of the park's cheetahs, hold some of the birds of prey, see some extremely rare wild dogs, and watch the guide hand-feed – through a chain-link fence – a massive lion and a stunningly beautiful leopard. We also visited an enclosure containing honey badgers, possibly the most vicious creatures in Africa. These badgers attack the genitalia of animals, causing them to bleed to death, and they instill fear even in the king of beasts. The guide told us that the badgers recently escaped, and the center's huge male lion was cowering up on a rock, fearing for its life.

Wild dog in Moholoholo Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre, Limpopo Province, South Africa

Leopard in Moholoholo Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre, Limpopo Province, South Africa

From the rehabilitation center, it was an hour and a half back to Blyde River Canyon, where we had been the evening before. This time, we visited two viewpoints. The first is known as the Three Rondavels, and it features an incredible view of a river gorge and some strange round rock formations adorning the crest of the canyon. We ate lunch here and then visited Bourke's Luck Potholes, a series of cascades.

The Three Rondavels along the Panorama Route, Blyde River Canyon, Drakensberg, South Africa

From Blyde River Canyon, it was an agonizing six hours further to Johannesburg, and we arrived about 9 p.m. The truck dropped passengers off at several hotels and the airport, and it was sad saying farewell to so many people in such a short timespan. I stayed on the truck until the last stop, Mufasa Backpackers, where the Nomad crew also stays. Like many people, I have heard the horror stories about the rampant violent crime in Johannesburg, one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Even out in the middle of nowhere, in the suburb of Benoni, there are abundant precautions against robberies. All the houses on the street, including the hostel, look like they were lifted straight out of Baghdad's Green Zone. These fortresses are surrounded by high prison-like walls and iron gates topped by large coils of barbed wire. In addition, angled electric fencing runs along the tops of the walls, and when the gate to the hostel opened to let the truck in, I felt like I was entering Jurassic Park.

Housing in the township of Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa

Yesterday, my last full day in Africa, I toured the infamous urban area of Soweto, the largest township in South Africa. The name refers to South Western Townships, and several million people call Soweto home. It took well over an hour to get halfway across the city, where I met my guide at the Apartheid Museum; from there, it was a short drive into the township. There are actually upper and middle-class sections of Soweto, and the large houses in the richer section look more inviting than the fortresses in the Johannesburg suburbs. The people of the township live like a family, and crime here is relatively low compared to the rest of Johannesburg. We drove past Desmond Tutu's modest house, as well as the house in which Nelson Mandela lived when he was arrested. We also visited the Hector Pieterson Museum, which vividly describes the history behind the Soweto Uprising of June 16, 1976 – one of the pivotal events of the apartheid resistance movement. Students, some only elementary school children, marched against the requirement imposed by the apartheid government that Afrikaans replace English as the language of instruction in schools. Hector Pieterson was a 12-year-old boy who was killed by a stray bullet shot by over-zealous police; he was only one of over five hundred who died during the riots. The next stop was Regina Mundi Catholic Church, where students sought refuge from unrestrained police during the uprising. Bullet holes can still be seen in the ceiling and the stained glass windows.

A depiction of Madonna and Child in Regina Mundi Catholic Church in the township of Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa

A stained glass window depicting Nelson Mandela in Regina Mundi Catholic Church in the township of Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa

Our final stop was the informal settlement of Motsoaledi, consisting of a dirt road lined with barbed wire fencing and corrugated metal shacks. Many of the residents in the poorer sections of Soweto do not have electricity, and they use communal toilets and water taps.

A woman stands near a barbed wire fence in Motsoaledi in the township of Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa.

After a freezing cold night in the hostel, I walked from Mufasa Backpackers to the nearby post office to ship some souvenirs home, and I left my sleeping bag, blanket, gloves, and other items with the hostel to give to charity. I headed to the airport, leaving Johannesburg and South Africa just as anticipation for the upcoming World Cup reaches fever pitch.

On this, my one hundredth day in Africa, I bid farewell to this stunning continent of timeless landscapes, abundant wildlife, and fascinating cultures – indeed, the birthplace of mankind – and look ahead to new adventures in Asia. Africa, you will be deeply missed.

Kruger: A Grand Finale of African Wildlife

2010-05-21T13:00:00.041-04:00

Day 110: Kruger National Park, South Africa

Wednesday, we left Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary in the morning and drove past the Swazi capital of Mbabane on the way to Pigg's Peak in the north of the country. We had a last chance to buy some Swazi crafts, and then we drove half an hour to the border, where we said farewell to Swaziland and entered South Africa yet again. From the border, it was a short drive to Malelane at the edge of South Africa's star attraction, the world-class Kruger National Park. We stocked up on food and drinks at the supermarket and crossed the gate into the park, where we would spend the next two nights. We arrived at the Berg en Dal Rest Camp in the early afternoon, where we guarded our lunch from the cheeky vervet monkeys who like to sneak off with anything they can get their thieving hands on. We kept a close eye on them as they sat like vultures on top of the truck.

We split up into two groups for our activities in Kruger. That first night at Berg en Dal, I went on a sunset game drive. The vehicle was one of the nicest safari trucks I've been on, and it was equipped with spotlights that passengers could shine into the bush to look for animals hiding in the darkness. We did not stop for the park's ubiquitous impala, but before the sun had even set, we made our first major sighting: a huge male lion lounging by the side of the road. We photographed him as darkness crept closer, and then we drove off to look for more wildlife, spotting several scrub hares bounding through the grass and across the road. It was soon pitch black, and I switched on the spotlight that sat next to my seat, looking for any reflecting glint of eyes in the darkness. One of the passengers yelled at the driver to stop. He had spotted the reflection of a single eye high above the ground: it was an elephant silently walking through the forest. It was difficult to photograph animals only by the illumination of the spotlights, but it was a rare and fascinating experience to be able to view wildlife at night.

What happened next was a quickly fading dream of mine since I arrived in Africa over three months ago. With only two days of game drives left, I had almost given up all hope of seeing a leopard, the most elusive of Africa's "Big Five". The Big Five is traditionally defined as the most dangerous game to hunt on foot, although nowadays most people photograph these animals rather than kill them. These five dangerous animals are the elephant, rhinoceros, buffalo, lion, and leopard. For a fleeting moment, the vehicle's headlights illuminated the hind end of a leopard as it crossed the road and stealthily vanished into the dense trees on the other side. I had finally seen the last member of the Big Five, that beautiful and ever reclusive spotted cat.

Our game drive was not over yet, however. As we drove on, we stumbled upon an impressive group of six lionesses and three absolutely adorable cubs on the side of the road. The cubs played, tumbling over one another just like domestic housecats. Minutes after we left the group of lions, we spotted yet another member of the Big Five: a rhinoceros. We had now seen four of the Big Five in the course of two hours!

Lionesses and cub at night near Berg en Dal in Kruger National Park, South Africa

The next morning, we went on a game walk similar to the one I had done in Matobo National Park in Zimbabwe. The guides were incredibly knowledgeable and informative, and they described the behavior of rhinos in detail as we tracked a group of them. We stumbled upon a large pile of dung that marks the territory of a dominant male. If another male rhino walks into this area and leaves a pile of dung away from the edge of the big pile, he is showing respect to the dominant male. If the outsider instead leaves his dung directly in the large pile, this is a direct challenge to the dominant male rhino, and the two will fight when they meet. We did not find any rhinos before breakfast, so we scrambled to the top of a koppe (rocky hill) to eat and survey the area. We spotted four white rhinos in the distance, so we climbed down and headed towards them. We eventually found them, but they stayed further away from us than the rhinos in Matobo.

We headed back to the campsite at Berg en Dal, where we met the Nomad truck and departed for Skukuza, a major center in the park. On the way, we saw an elephant, numerous types of antelope, and a red-throated Southern ground-hornbill. Then we came to a jam of vehicles stopped in the road: two cheetahs were reclining by a nearby watering hole. It is even rarer to spot cheetahs in the wild than leopards, so we couldn't believe our luck!

Southern ground-hornbill in Kruger National Park, South Africa

Cheetah in Kruger National Park, South Africa

We ate lunch in Skukuza and then continued on to Satara, our campsite for the night. We had already seen quite a few rare animals in Kruger, but our lucky streak continued, and we were actually treated to a "dancing" baby elephant! The calf was disturbed by our truck and was trying to act big; it actually charged us and lifted its trunk straight into the air, sounding a deafening trumpet that was quite impressive for such a small elephant. It retreated to the comfort of its mother, who was standing further back from the road among the trees, but on the way, the cute elephant became tangled in some low brush and "moon-walked" backwards to try to free itself. After clumsily crossing its legs and stumbling around for a while, the calf finally danced itself free from the tangle and stood next to its mother. If elephants can look embarrassed, this one surely did.

Young elephant in Kruger National Park, South Africa

As we made our way towards Satara, we saw a zoo's worth of animals, including impala, kudu, wildebeest, giraffes, baboons, vultures, lions, and – finally – buffalo. This buffalo sighting finished off our Big Five within one day of being in Kruger, quite a rare feat, and one that I had not accomplished in over three months of game viewing in Africa.

At Satara, I left with half the group at 8 p.m. to go on a night game drive. We saw some unique animals that I had not seen before, including a porcupine and a small cat called a gennet. We also spent some time with a clan of spotted hyenas, including an adorable cub. One of the hyenas was chewing on a bone: hyenas crush and eat bones and horns with powerful jaws and specialized teeth, and their dung is white from all the bone they consume.

Lioness in Kruger National Park, South Africa

We finished our drive at ten o'clock, ate a quick dinner back at the campsite, and were in bed by 11:30. We had to rise at four o'clock this morning to meet our vehicle at 4:45 for another game drive. As dawn broke, we came across three lionesses who were hungrily eyeing a group of nearby impala. One of the lionesses even stood up slowly and assumed a stealthy stalking position, but she would not attack because it was daylight. Lions rely on the element of surprise in tackling prey, and these impala were definitely aware of the danger nearby. They crossed the road near the lions methodically in small groups. Before each group crossed, an impala would give a loud barking sound as a warning reminder. As long as there were no stragglers, the impala were safe.

Vulture in Kruger National Park, South Africa

We returned to the campsite to meet the truck and make our way out of Kruger. But our luck had not run out yet. On the way out of the park, we saw impala, waterbuck, wildebeest, zebra, buffalo, warthogs, giraffes, baboons, elephants, ostriches, an African fish eagle, and an African Scops owl. We also saw a large group of imposing vultures feasting on a carcass. These huge birds have a wingspan of almost eight feet and are at their most impressive when swooping overhead. Then, the grand finale: our driver slammed on the brakes and pointed out a rare sight on the side of the road. A massive Mozambique spitting cobra was reared up in an alert position with its hood flared out. When the snake relaxed, its hood flattened imperceptibly against its sleek body, and the serpent slithered gracefully into the long grass. To make the sighting even more entertaining, a mongoose that had been watching the cobra crawled into the grass after the snake, sheepishly looking around as if it didn't want to share such a huge meal.

African Scops owl at Skukuza in Kruger National Park, South Africa

Mozambique spitting cobra in Kruger National Park, South Africa

The Tiny Country of Swaziland

2010-05-18T21:00:00.040-04:00

Day 107: Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary, Swaziland

Yesterday we awoke at 4:00 AM and sleepily rode an hour in an open jeep with the freezing cold wind blasting us from all sides. Blankets were provided for the drive, but it was still very uncomfortable. We arrived at Hluhluwe-Umfolozi Game Reserve when it was just getting light, and we had a brief toilet break at the visitor center before our game drive. There was a covered patio area in front of the doors to the toilets, and bats were darting throughout the space. They were lightning fast, and I just ducked and ran to the door. When I was finished, I opened the door to leave and a bat almost flew in my face. I darted back out again and walked over to the jeep. The first animal we saw on the game drive was a white rhinoceros, the first one I've seen since Matobo National Park in Zimbabwe over six weeks ago. As the morning sun thawed us out, we saw giraffes, warthogs, impala, wildebeest, nyala, kudu, and quite a few zebras.

Two zebras nuzzling, Hluhluwe-Umfolozi Game Reserve, South Africa

Zebras, Hluhluwe-Umfolozi Game Reserve, South Africa

After the game drive in Hluhluwe-Umfolozi, we met the Nomad truck in the town of Mtubatuba and proceeded to a traditional Zulu village called DumaZulu. It was really touristy, and the villagers were obviously just actors, but it was still an educational facsimile of a real village. We learned about the language, crafts, and social system of the Zulu. Married women cover themselves with a beaded black garment and wear a red hat, while unmarried girls wear only beads to cover themselves. We met the fortune teller, who identifies herself by covering her face in red clay. She reads fortunes by throwing bones on the ground and interpreting the patterns. After walking through the village, we ended up in an outdoor theater area where we watched a Zulu dance, similar to the one we saw the night before in St. Lucia.

Married Zulu woman in DumaZulu Traditional Village in Hluhluwe, South Africa

Fortune teller in DumaZulu Traditional Village in Hluhluwe, South Africa

Nyala, Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary, Swaziland

From the village, it was slightly over an hour to the Swaziland border, and the crossing was quick. Swaziland is a tiny country enclosed on three sides by South Africa and bordered by Mozambique in the east. The entire country is about the size of Connecticut and Rhode Island combined. Three hours after crossing the border, we arrived at our campsite in Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary. There are no predators in the park, and nyala and impala wander freely into the campsite. When I went to the bathroom block from my tent that night, I walked right through a group of eleven impala.

This morning, we went on a game walk through the park. We saw a few zebra and the various common types of antelope we've seen a thousand times, such as impala, blesbok, and wildebeest. We came to some mud pits near the large lake, and we had to cross via slippery logs that had been laid across the sludge. At the lake, we saw a hippo and a few crocodiles sunning themselves on the banks.

In the afternoon, we went on a tour of a nearby village. The girls from our group had to wear sarong-like garments featuring an image of the Swazi king to show respect. The older woman who was the village's chief told us, through a translator, about their way of life. She showed us how they weave baskets using gourds as molds, balance large jugs on their heads, and crush maize into flour using a grindstone. The girls from our group joined the girls from the village in a dance, and then us guys had to join the boys in a dance. Before we left, some of the women sold us curios handcrafted in the village. At the end of our visit, all the children performed a farewell dance for us. This Swazi village is an authentic, functioning place and therefore much more fascinating than the Zulu village near St. Lucia that was developed for tourists.

A girl holds gourds in a village in Swaziland.

Children dance in a village in Swaziland.

Back at Mlilwane, I spent the rest of the afternoon photographing some of the colorful spiders that could be found throughout the campsite. After dinner, we watched a series of Swazi dance performances by some local dance troupes. These dancers had a greater variety of moves than the Zulu dancers in South Africa, who seemed to just stomp as hard as possible. Afterward, we sat in a trance around the fire, which has become the camping equivalent of a television.

Spiny orb-weaver spider, Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary, Swaziland

The Drakensberg and Zululand

2010-05-16T20:00:00.028-04:00

Day 105: iSimangaliso Wetland Park, South Africa

Thursday we drove two hours from Malealea to the border crossing at Lesotho's capital city of Maseru. Two hours into south Africa, we stopped for lunch in the scenic Golden Gate National Park and enjoyed a picturesque view of the mountains. We continued to drive past ever-heightening mountains until we arrived at the campsite lodge in the Drakensberg. In the distance rose the imposing silhouette of the Drakensberg Amphitheatre, a curving sheer rock wall three miles long and up to 4,000 feet high. The bar and lounge in this campsite was probably the best I've seen in Africa. There was a jacuzzi in the bar, a rock climbing wall next to it, and a sauna in the adjacent room. The upstairs had a TV lounge and library. We spent the evening trying to tackle the difficult route from one side of the U-shaped climbing wall to the other.

Bushmen paintings in Royal Natal National Park, uKhahlamba / Drakensberg Park, South Africa

The next day, we drove into the nearby Royal Natal National Park, part of the uKhahlamba / Drakensberg Park World Heritage Site, where we did a series of hikes throughout the day. The first hike was an hour long: we climbed a hillside to an overhanging cliff that protected a group of 800-year-old Bushmen paintings. The Bushmen civilization has existed in the Drakensberg for at least 40,000 years. High up in the sedimentary rock that formed the cliff were some starfish fossils, indicating that this high elevation was under the sea millions of years ago.

The Drakensberg Amphitheatre in Royal Natal National Park, uKhahlamba / Drakensberg Park, South Africa

The Cascades in Royal Natal National Park, uKhahlamba / Drakensberg Park, South Africa

The destination of the second hike was the Cascades, and the easy trail had a view of the Drakensberg Amphitheatre to one side. Hidden somewhere in the shadows of this towering bluff was Tugela Falls, the second highest waterfall on Earth after Venezuela's Angel Falls. The sheer cliffs on either side of Tugela drop 3,000 feet to the ground. Unfortunately, we would not see the waterfall because it requires an eight-hour hike to get there. It only took half an hour to get to the Cascades, a beautiful series of drops ending in a deep pool in the middle of the forest. As we sat on the rocks with our feet in the cold water, some baboons appeared at the top of the falls and started making their way down towards us. I didn't even have time to put on my shoes before we retreated to safety – baboons have no fear of people and can be quite dangerous if you have food. I didn't have food in my pack, but some of the others did. The baboons stayed away from us, but they cornered two older women who were picnicking on the rocks. Eventually they scattered and left the women alone.

We got back to the truck after a short hike through the forest, and lunch was ready and waiting for us. After eating our sandwiches, we embarked on a long afternoon hike to Sunday Falls. We crossed vast fields of tall grass that blanketed the hilly landscape and had scenic views of the majestic mountains in the distance. We saw a few antelopes in the distance, and one woman saw a small snake slithering into the grass as we passed. After an hour, we reached the waterfall, which flowed into a lush forested gorge cutting between two grassy hills. It was impossible to get to the bottom of the gorge to see the falls from below, and the view from the top was uninspiring. We took a break by the stream at the top of the waterfall and then commenced the hour-long hike back to the truck.

Yesterday, it was three and a half hours to Durban, South Africa's third largest city and the busiest port in all of Africa. Durban sits on the Indian Ocean and is normally a great beach location, but it was pouring down rain when we arrived. Most of us spent the afternoon relaxing around the hostel – there is not much to do in the city anyway. The rain let up by dinnertime, and we went out to a seafood restaurant as a farewell dinner for the two passengers who were ending their trip in Durban.

This morning, we picked up eight new passengers, which increased our group size to fifteen. There are seven of us who have been on the trip since Cape Town. The new passengers also diversified the make-up of our mostly Dutch group: we gained an American girl, a British guy, a Canadian guy, a German girl, a Kiwi couple, and two more Dutch guys. We drove three hours to St. Lucia, also on the coast, where we embarked on a game cruise after lunch at the campsite. The cruise was on Lake St. Lucia within the World Heritage Site of iSimangaliso Wetland Park. We saw quite a few Nile crocodiles, a variety of birds, and tons of hippos.

Nile crocodile, iSimangaliso Wetland Park, South Africa

Hippos, iSimangaliso Wetland Park, South Africa

After the cruise, we returned to the campsite and watched a Zulu dance around the fire. The moves were extremely powerful – the dancers lifted their legs high into the air and then slammed their feet onto the ground as hard as they could. I could feel the vibrations through the hard earth from twenty feet away. After the dance, we ate dinner and went straight to bed; we have to rise very early tomorrow morning for a game drive.

The Remote Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho

2010-05-12T21:00:00.061-04:00

Day 101: Malealea, Lesotho

Yesterday, we drove six hours to the border of Lesotho (pronounced li-soo-too), an independent kingdom the size of Belgium completely surrounded by South Africa. In the early nineteenth century, the king Moshoeshoe was successful at repeatedly defending his mountaintop villages from the forces of Shaka Zulu, the Dutch, and the British. Ultimately, Lesotho ended up becoming a sovereign nation. When we crossed the border, the contrast with South Africa was obvious: the level of development reminded me of Rwanda. Shabby shops constructed of corrugated metal lined the road as we drove through Mafeteng, one of the largest cities in Lesotho. We climbed through the picturesque mountains for about an hour before coming to the Gates of Paradise Pass, which features a commanding view of the scenic countryside. These peaks are part of the Drakensberg, the highest mountain range in Southern Africa. In fact, Lesotho is the highest country in the world – the entire kingdom lies above 1,400 meters (4,593 feet). The lonely shepherds leading their flocks through the rugged terrain wore patterned blankets to guard against the cold. Between the crisp air, the undulating landscape, and Lesotho's history of fiercely guarding its unique culture against South Africa, the mountain kingdom seemed like an African version of Tibet.

A herd of sheep cross a dirt road on the Gates of Paradise Pass in Lesotho.

It was only twenty minutes down from the pass to the tiny town of Malealea, where we would stay for two nights. The campsite had closed down the camping area for the winter, so we were able to stay in their bungalows for free. I dropped my bags off in the room and walked over to the nearby lounge while Chad cooked dinner in the adjacent kitchen. Many of the places we have stayed on the Nomad tour have nice indoor lounges with fireplaces, cushy couches and chairs, and electrical outlets for charging laptops and camera batteries. Although Lesotho wasn't as cold as we were expecting, it was still nice to warm up by the fire.

In the morning, I opened the door to the small bungalow I shared with Wesley, and sunlight illuminated the dark room. There on the corner of my bed crawled a gigantic caterpillar with long, feathery, stinging hairs. Luckily it never made it up to the bare skin around my face or neck during the night. A girl on the Oasis trip was stung by a caterpillar on her neck while she slept in her tent, and it caused a painful, swollen rash.

After breakfast, we went on a tour of the village of Malealea. We visited the small local general store to buy some candy to give to children at the school we were visiting later. We learned about home-made beer-brewing techniques, tried the local tea, and visited a sheep kraal (corral).

Farmland at sunset, Malealea, Lesotho

A shepherd walks along a dirt path in Malealea, Lesotho.

Huts in Malealea, Lesotho

After two hours, we arrived at the school. All the houses and other buildings in the village are spread out, and there are few roads – we walked through crop terraces to get to the school. We met some of the teachers and students, and the school administrator told us about the hardships faced by the school. Some of the students wore uniforms. Many did not. Uniforms are a major expense for families in this poor region. Students become bilingual at an early age because classes are taught in both English and Sesotho, the language of Lesotho. In fact, Lesotho has one of the highest literacy rates in Africa. We left just as the children began to eat their lunch of maize meal porridge provided by the school. Our last stop on the way back was at a preschool, where the children performed a dance for us, and the teachers joined in. The people of Lesotho are called Basotho, and they are among the friendliest I have encountered in Africa.

A teacher stands outside a preschool in Malealea, Lesotho.

A female student smiles in a classroom in Malealea, Lesotho.

A male student stands outside a school in Malealea, Lesotho.

A classroom in Malealea, Lesotho

After lunch, I set out on a long hike through the surrounding landscape. Most of the group chose to do the trek on horseback, but I rode a horse in Zimbabwe, and I also wanted to focus on taking photographs. We walked for ages from the hilltop where Malealea sits down into a river valley. The river at the bottom is unique – in certain areas, it runs completely through a channel of solid rock that has been worn into smooth, wave-like shapes by the flowing water. We had to cross the river numerous times as it snaked back and forth through the steep walls of the mountains, and each crossing was more treacherous than the last. We balanced on slippery rocks, jumping from one to another across the fast-flowing water. The river was not deep, but none of us wanted to get wet. It probably would have been easier to just wade barefoot to the other side. We finally made it to the waterfall, where we met the others who came on horseback. We admired the sheltered pool and the mossy rock walls while we refueled on cereal bars, and then we trekked back along the river and up the hillside to Malealea.

A waterfall near Malealea, Lesotho

Tsitsikamma / An Enchanting Mountain Town

2010-05-10T21:00:00.062-04:00

Day 99: Hogsback, South Africa

Friday we drove from our campsite in Stormsrivier into nearby Tsitsikamma National Park, which stretches along the scenic and rugged coastline. We started hiking along the rocky shore, where massive, powerful waves thundered with huge explosions of spray and foam. The surf was among the most intense I've ever seen, and the breakers crashed into the rocky outcroppings with such force that sprays of water shot far into the air and the water near the shore turned into a churning cauldron of sand and foam. We continued walking through coastal forest trails, spotting a small antelope hiding among the trees. The forest opened up into another stretch of rugged coastline. The landscape here consists of shards of jagged rock jutting into the air at a 45 degree angle. There were no flat footholds: walking here required balancing on the angled edge of these rocks. After a couple of hours, we reached a waterfall cascading into a sheltered pool that empties into the sea.

Waves crash along the rocky coastline of Tsitsikamma National Park, South Africa.

Lush plant life thrives in Tsitsikamma National Park, South Africa.

On the return hike, we ended up splitting into a few smaller groups. I walked with two of the Dutch women, and we decided to take a pathway leading up and over a hill, avoiding the treacherous sharp rocks. After ascending an endless series of logs that served as steps up the mountain, we began to wonder if we would ever descend again. We had been hiking for too long to turn back, so we trudged along into the thickening woods. As we neared the top, sunbeams illuminated the forest floor, and the ubiquitous chirping of frogs and insects surrounded us in all directions. Unseen creatures scurried into the underbrush as we passed. Luckily, we did not encounter any snakes or other dangerous animals – leopards live in this area – but one of the other groups did run across a deadly puff adder basking on the rocks near the shore. We finally came to a paved road that eventually led back to the truck after a serpentine route down the mountain. I hungrily devoured the sliced meat, cucumber, and tomato sandwiches that have become our staple lunch. After lunch, we set off for another hike, this one much easier and shorter. We walked along a paved pathway, descending to a suspension bridge that crosses the mouth of the Storms River where it empties into the ocean.

The temperature plummeted into the evening, and that second night at the campsite in Stormsrivier was the coldest yet. I cinched my hoodie around my face and crawled deep into my sleeping bag. I stuffed my pillow inside, drew the sleeping bag over my head, and curled up in a fetal position, shivering from the cold. Eventually, my body heat warmed the inside of the sleeping bag, and I was able to rest for a little while, only to be woken up again by dogs barking incessantly throughout the night. In the morning, I could see my breath inside the tent, and I dreaded crawling out of my sleeping bag. A corner of my pillow that was left outside my warm cocoon felt like it had been in a freezer. I unzipped the tent and stepped out into the bracing cold. Wesley and I wanted to collapse our tent as soon as possible so we could warm up with some tea, but the metal tent poles were like ice. We had to warm our numb fingers by the gas stove before we could disassemble the poles.

As we rode toward Jeffreys Bay, the sun shone through the windows of the truck and thawed us out. Jeffreys Bay, affectionately called J-Bay, is one of the top surfing destinations in the world, and surf shops crowded the main street. As Chad had warned us that the temperatures would be even colder in the high elevations in Lesotho and the Drakensberg, we spent our time in Jeffreys Bay buying blankets, gloves, and hot water bottles at the mall.

A kudu in Addo Elephant National Park, South Africa

It was another two hours to Addo Elephant National Park, where we proceeded straight into a game drive in the Nomad truck. We saw the usual wildlife – kudu, warthogs, ostriches, an elephant in the distance – but we also saw eland, a large and graceful antelope, for the first time. One of the stranger animals that is fiercely protected in Addo is the flightless dung beetle. We saw a few of these insects rolling balls of dung in the middle of the road, and signs warn vehicles to watch for them to avoid running them over.

We camped for the night in Addo – yet another cold one – and then proceeded to Port Elizabeth yesterday morning. As we approached the city, the bay appeared as a calm turquoise sliver on the horizon. We dropped three people off in Port Elizabeth, decreasing our group to an intimate nine passengers. We continued another two hours and took a short break in the quaint university town of Grahamstown, where I enjoyed a lime shake at a fast-food restaurant. We had lunch at the side of the road by the Great Fish River and then drove the two-hour home stretch to Hogsback. As we climbed in elevation toward our destination, dry brush and thorny acacia trees gave way to lush, dark forests blanketing the hillsides of the Amatole Mountains. There was a majestic view of the surrounding countryside as we made the final ascent to the town.

A café sign in Hogsback, South Africa

Hogsback markets itself as a fairy tale forest setting, and artists who base themselves in the small community produce handiwork such as statues of fairies and gnomes. J.R.R. Tolkien, author of The Lord of the Rings, was born in nearby Bloemfontein, and the ancient forest is credited as inspiration for some of the iconic settings of Middle Earth. In fact, many of the locations in Hogsback reference The Lord of the Rings, such as Rivendell Camp Site, The Ring Liquor Store, and an outdoor education center called Hobbiton. Our campsite, Away with the Fairies, features buildings labeled Bag End, Bilbo's Rest, and The Wizard's Sleeve Inn. We set up our tents in a clearing surrounded by trees, and fireflies twinkled throughout the forest as dusk fell, adding to the magical ambiance of Hogsback.

A cottage at Away with the Fairies Backpackers in Hogsback, South Africa

View of the Amatole Mountains from Away with the Fairies Backpackers in Hogsback, South Africa

Despite the higher elevation, the climate in Hogsback was more temperate than down at the chilly coast, and I enjoyed a comfortable night's sleep in the tent. We spent most of today hiking in the Tyume indigenous forest, passing streams and waterfalls, dense patches of emerald green ferns, colorful mushrooms, and a massive 800-year-old tree. The forest reminded me of the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, except for the monkeys leaping through the trees overhead. In the afternoon, we walked around the town, visiting the historic Hogsback Inn and an esoteric garden of fairy statues created by a local artist.

A fern in the Tyume indigenous forest near Hogsback, South Africa

Berries in Hogsback, South Africa

The historic 19th-century Hogsback Inn in Hogsback, South Africa

The Highest Bungee Jump in the World

2010-05-06T21:00:00.051-04:00

Day 95: Stormsrivier / Tsitsikamma forest, South Africa

This morning we realized just how cold winter in South Africa can get. We suffered bone-chilling temperatures through the night in Knysna, and the cold, damp air blowing off the nearby water seemed to penetrate straight through my sleeping bag unless I completely enclosed the opening around my face. Many of the overland trucks do not run tours during the winter in South Africa because they consider it too cold for camping. But at least the sunny days thaw us out and keep us going. After packing up our tents and warming ourselves with some steaming tea, we traveled a short distance to the Heads, the two rocky promontories that shelter Knysna's calm estuary from the open sea.

The estuary from the Heads, Knysna, South Africa

The Heads, Knysna, South Africa

Although the scenery at the Heads is stunning, with the powerful waves crashing against the imposing cliffs, I was not focused on the moment. In an hour and a half, we would arrive at Bloukrans Bridge, the highest single span arch bridge in the world and site of the highest bungee jump on Earth! At a vertigo-inducing 708 feet above a rugged gorge that opens to the Indian Ocean, this jump is almost twice the height of the jump at Victoria Falls. After a terrifying experience at Vic Falls, I vowed never to bungee jump again, but I couldn't resist the challenge of the world's highest jump. Maybe jumping out of a plane in Namibia has made me a bit more courageous, or maybe I'm just dedicated to the gung-ho philosophy I have set for myself on this world trip. I am traveling the world because I want to get the most out of my time on this planet. I want to live without regrets. I quit my stable job to go on this trip – surely I can find the courage to jump off a bridge! I've done it once, and even though I didn't like it the first time, most things in life deserve a second chance.

Standing on the edge of the platform, preparing to bungee jump from Bloukrans Bridge, South Africa

Of twelve passengers and three crew, only two of us dared to jump. Heleen, a Dutch girl who was also jumping, accompanied me to the registration office. We signed the necessary liability forms and headed to the harness-fitting area. The process at Bloukrans was much faster than the over-crowded affair at Vic Falls, which lasted most of the day – wincing as jumper after jumper plunged from that bridge only degraded any shred of fortitude I had left. At Bloukrans, I was standing on the edge of the bridge within thirty minutes of registering. The enclosed walk to that point of no return at the center of the bridge helped me to maintain my courage until the last minute; any grand, terrifying view of the gorge was obscured by the concrete supports of the bridge and the metal grating of the catwalk. The dizzying vista was not revealed until the final seconds, when I hopped to the edge of the platform, my feet bound together and tethered to the bungee cord. I gripped my toes around the cold metal edge of the platform as the intimidating depth of the chasm took my breath away. Three. Two. One. Adrenaline pumping, I bent my knees, spread my arms, and dove headfirst into the abyss, surrendering the last trace of anchoring comfort provided by that tiny metal platform.

One of the scariest things I've ever done – plunging towards the river 708 feet below Bloukrans Bridge, South Africa

Ascending to the platform after bungee jumping from Bloukrans Bridge, South Africa

I plummeted towards the Bloukrans River below at breakneck speed. The bungee cord stretched after only seconds, and I bounced back towards the bridge. For a brief moment of calm, I was weightless, and I caught a wedge-shaped glimpse of the deep blue Indian Ocean at the end of the gorge. Suddenly, I accelerated once more, the intense g-force pulling the blood to my head as the cord seemed to strain to the limit. I continued to oscillate in an ever-diminishing yo-yo pattern until I eventually equalized and came to a stop, dangling by my feet in the center of the immense gorge. I craned my neck to look up towards my feet so the blood wouldn't pool in my head. Soon, a man in a harness descended and hoisted me back up to firm footing on the bridge.

As terrifying as it was to jump at Bloukrans, I preferred it to the Vic Falls jump because I didn't twirl while suspended from the cord. Bloukrans was more about the intense yo-yo effect. In fact, the first bounce at Bloukrans is actually higher than the entire jump at Vic Falls. The initial fall is such a minuscule part of bungee jumping, as it lasts only a few seconds even from a height such as Bloukrans. This is the reason that I find skydiving to be much more enjoyable – the free-fall lasts for so long that it feels like flying rather than falling. Nevertheless, bungee jumping takes more courage than tandem skydiving. The height is more real and immediate, and it is incredibly difficult to work up the will to leap from that platform. In tandem skydiving, the instructor takes the plunge for you – you're just along for the ride. After successfully tackling the world's ultimate bungee jump, I don't feel the need to ever jump again. But I'll never say never.

It was a short distance to the campsite in Stormsrivier, and I felt drained after all the terror and excitement of the jump. In the afternoon, I embarked on a zip-line canopy tour through the ancient Tsitsikamma forest. Some of the trees there are over six hundred years old. For the second time today, I put on a harness, and we journeyed into the woods. There were ten zip-lines strung high above the ground between wooden platforms built around the massive trunks of some of the tallest trees. Any other day, I would have enjoyed zooming through the trees along these zip-lines, but jumping from that 708-foot bridge earlier had numbed my capacity to experience any thrill from these comparatively tame heights. I simply relaxed and enjoyed the tranquil forest setting. After we had crossed four or five of the lines, the wind began to pick up and the sky grew overcast. Half an hour before, there was not a cloud in the sky, so the change in weather took us by surprise. We felt a few cold raindrops that filtered through the dense canopy. We were now focused only on getting out of the forest before we had to contend with a downpour. As the wind grew stronger, the towering trees began to sway and creak, and we had to wait for a brief lull each time we prepared to glide across one of the lines. Every once in a while, we would hear a loud crack, and we had to be on the lookout for falling branches. We made it to the last zip-line just as the rain started falling, and we all quickly slid across and ran to the shelter of the waiting truck.

A zip-line canopy tour of the Tsitsikamma forest near Stormsrivier, South Africa

South Africa's Garden Route with Nomad

2010-05-05T22:00:00.055-04:00

Day 94: Knysna, South Africa

Monday morning, I checked out of The Backpack and made my way to the Cape Town headquarters of Nomad Adventure Tours, an overland tour company similar to Oasis. I had booked a 20-day tour with them from Cape Town to Johannesburg. The formalities were minimal compared to Oasis – I signed a few forms, boarded the truck with the other passengers, and we drove away from Cape Town. Most of the information about Nomad and the truck was to come at our campsite that night. There are twelve of us on the tour – seven Dutch passengers, two Swedish couples, and me. Our South African guide, Chad, told us that it is unusual for practically the whole group to be Dutch. There are a lot of Dutch tourists in South Africa because of the country's history, but usually there is a greater mix of nationalities on the Nomad tours. This group is calmer and quieter than the passengers on my last tour. Oasis has a reputation as a party truck, and a lot of my English and Aussie friends drank most evenings. As fun as the Oasis trip was, this is a nice change of pace.

The Nomad truck has a very different setup from the Oasis one, and this changes the dynamic of the trip. The Oasis truck had open sides, two rows of facing seats, and the social "beach" at the front. This layout encouraged conversation and road games, and we often had music blasting out of the truck's speakers. Oasis also has a generally more participatory nature. Two truck guards had to stay behind every time we had a shopping or lunch break in a town, and truck keys were safeguarded by two passengers at a time. The biggest difference was that rotating cook groups were responsible for food shopping, cooking group meals, and cleaning the truck in the evening.

Nomad, on the other hand, requires almost nothing of its passengers, and it is a much more luxurious trip, at least to my lowered standards of luxury. As our guide and cook, Chad prepares three meals a day for us, and the food is delicious. We have cereal and real milk – both were too expensive elsewhere in Africa to have as options on Oasis. We also have a fridge on the Nomad truck that allows us to keep milk and other perishables. Chad and our driver both keep truck keys, and it is always easy to find them if I need to get into the truck. The truck itself is designed more like a bus, with forward-facing seats, glass windows, and no special feature like the "beach". We store our luggage in open racks above the seats, which are easier to access than the under-seat lockers on Oasis, but probably less secure. Most journeys on the Nomad truck are pretty quiet, as the forward-facing seats make it difficult to talk to everyone, and we generally don't play music. Wind does not blow through the truck like it did through the open sides in the Oasis truck, so the trip is much calmer. Luckily, this being winter in South Africa, the truck doesn't get hot with its closed sides. As nice as a lot of these features are on the Nomad trip, I miss the Oasis truck – after all, it was home for two and a half months.

The first part of the Nomad tour would take us on the Garden Route, a scenic stretch of the coastline to the east of Cape Town. Our first stop after departing Cape Town was Stellenbosch, where I had been a week ago with Oasis. This time we had only a short stop – one wine tasting session. We also viewed the cheetahs at a nearby animal sanctuary. After that, it was on to our first campsite in the beautiful countryside around Swellendam. we had a leisurely evening as we waited for Chad to prepare dinner, and I organized some of my photos, something I have not had time to do in recent weeks. We also learned how to set up our tents. They are similar to the Oasis tents, but a bit larger and slightly more awkward to set up. The poles are not strung together, so it is easier to drop one while setting up the tent frame. The zippers stick, and the rain covers don't fit well. But to make up for some of these shortcomings, Nomad provides cushy mattress pads, and there are so few passengers that we can each use two if the ground is rough. As with Oasis, we share a tent with one other person, and my tent buddy is a medical student from Amsterdam named Wesley.

Limestone formations in the Cango Caves near Oudtshoorn, South Africa

Yesterday, we drove about four hours from Swellendam to the Cango Caves near Oudtshoorn. We took a guided tour through some of the impressive chambers of the cave system with their intricate rock formations. Next, we headed to the nearby Cango Ostrich Show Farm, where we learned some interesting facts about the massive birds and had the opportunity to try riding one. Ostriches are easily capable of killing a human – that huge claw on their foot can split a person down the middle just like a velociraptor. To keep an ostrich calm while mounting, a jockey places a bag over the bird's head. Ostriches may be potentially dangerous, but they aren't very intelligent: the bird thinks that if it can't see you through the bag, then you can't see it, so it remains calm and still. Two jockeys helped me climb onto the ostrich from a raised platform. They told me to squeeze my legs around the chest of the bird, hold on to its wings, and lean back. The bag was lifted from the ostrich's head, and the bird backed out from the mounting platform and ran frantically around the corral, while the two jockeys ran alongside the bird. After a few laps around the corral, one of the jockeys told me to just slide of the bird's back, and each jockey caught me by one of my arms. Some of the people who rode the ostrich before me thought the experience was terrifying, but I didn't find it that scary or uncomfortable. I held on tight to the wings and squeezed with my legs, and I never felt like I was going to fall off. In fact, I think I prefer riding an ostrich to riding a horse – at least you don't have quite as far to fall if anything goes wrong. After riding an ostrich, I bought some ostrich biltong in the shop. Biltong is a traditional South African snack of cured meat similar to beef jerky. Biltong is available in many varieties – regular beef, springbok, kudu, even crocodile. The ostrich biltong was quite tasty and was better than the rubbery ostrich meat I had tried in Zimbabwe.

Riding an ostrich at the Cango Ostrich Farm near Oudtshoorn, South Africa

We camped in Oudtshoorn last night and left this morning to drive to Knysna on the coast. Along the way, we stopped at the picturesque Outeniqua Pass to admire the wrinkled landscape tumbling down towards the Indian Ocean.

A signpost at the waterfront in Knysna, South Africa

When we arrived in Knysna, we set up our tents and had some time to walk around the town. I enjoyed an ice cream down at the waterfront and studied a large sign with arrows indicating the distance to cities around the world – it made me realize just how far away from home I really was! After a while, we boarded a boat for a sunset cruise around the large estuary. It was a nice, relaxing ride with a pleasant view of the two large headlands, know simply as the Heads, that serve as the gateway to the open ocean beyond.

We returned to our campsite after dark, ate one of Chad's scrumptious meals, and avoided the damp cold by warming ourselves by the campfire. As we were eating, Chad noticed a spider near the fire – it was a venomous black button spider, known in the rest of the world as a black widow. After dinner, I retired to my tent and tried to keep out the cold and any spiders by bundling up tight in my warm sleeping bag.

Robben Island and Farewell to Cape Town

2010-05-02T22:00:00.023-04:00

Day 91: Cape Town, South Africa

This morning, Amy and I made our way down to the waterfront to visit the Two Oceans Aquarium. We arrived just when it opened, so there were no crowds to deal with. There was a penguin exhibit and a decent shark exhibit that featured ragged-tooth sharks. No great whites though. They're all in the ocean just steps away: South Africa is the great white shark capital of the world. I had to leave after an hour to catch a ferry to Robben Island, and Amy remained at the aquarium.

As the ferry embarked from Cape Town, I was treated to an incredible view of the city and Table Mountain towering in the background. Once on Robben Island, we boarded a bus and saw sights such as the leper graveyard, the school, and a few churches. We also toured the small, fenced-in complex where Robert Mangaliso Sobukwe was kept in solitary confinement for six years. Sobukwe founded the Pan Africanist Congress, and the apartheid government saw him as one of the most dangerous political threats. Our final stop was the infamous prison that housed hundreds of political prisoners during apartheid, including Nelson Mandela. The cells in the prison are tiny, and the conditions were abysmal during its operation.

Table Mountain and the city of Cape Town from the ferry to Robben Island, South Africa

Prison on Robben Island, Cape Town, South Africa

When I returned to the waterfront in Cape Town, I ate lunch in the large shopping center and then went to the movie theater to see Alice in Wonderland – although I'm normally a fan of Tim Burton, I thought it was quite disappointing. Back at the hostel, I checked my email and discovered that Beth and Jess, who were both staying in Hout Bay, wanted to meet me and Amy for dinner. We hastily ordered a cab and left for Hout Bay. Luckily cabs are cheap here, as it takes thirty minutes to get from Cape Town to Hout Bay. After dinner at a seafood restaurant by the marina, I said goodbye to Beth and Jess and returned to Cape Town with Amy. This is my last night here – I meet my Nomad tour tomorrow morning. Cape Town has been incredible, and I can definitely rank it as one of my favorite places. The restaurants are top-notch, there is plenty to see and do, and the physical setting is stunning. Farewell, Cape Town.

Table Mountain and the city of Cape Town from Robben Island, South Africa

The Cape Peninsula

2010-05-01T21:00:00.050-04:00

Day 90: Cape Town, South Africa

This morning, I said farewell to a few more Oasis people as they departed Cape Town, and I left with a girl named Chiaki for a tour we had booked to some of the sites around the Cape Peninsula to the south of the city. We boarded the bus and in half an hour we arrived in Hout Bay on the western coast. Some of the passengers boarded a ferry to a nearby island to view a seal colony, but since we had both seen the massive colony at Cape Cross in Namibia, we decided to stay behind and walk along the waterfront. Fishing boats crowded the harbor, their tall masts dwarfed by the sheer cliffs on the other side of the small bay. I spent an hour photographing some of the fascinating colors and details of the boats, some of them dilapidated and painted with vivid streaks of rust.

Boats in the harbor of Hout Bay on the Cape Peninsula near Cape Town, South Africa

Rust drips down the side of a boat, Hout Bay, Cape Peninsula, South Africa.

A chain and tangles of barbed wire create shadows on a rusty boat, Hout Bay, Cape Peninsula, South Africa.

When the bus departed again, we drove up Chapman's Peak Drive to those high cliffs that towered over the calm water. At the edge of the bay, a majestic promontory known as the Sentinel loomed over a boat as it skirted the rugged shore.

Seen from Chapman's Peak Drive, the Sentinel looms over Hout Bay on the Cape Peninsula near Cape Town, South Africa.

Crossing the Cape Peninsula to the eastern coast, we arrived at Boulders Bay in about an hour. The attraction here is the colony of adorable African penguins on picturesque Foxy Beach.

African penguins on Foxy Beach in Boulders Bay on the Cape Peninsula, South Africa

Our final stop of the tour was twenty minutes to the south – the Cape of Good Hope. We hopped on bicycles and rode along the roads past the beautifully rugged terrain. At times, the powerful wind that plagues the Cape hindered our progress. We made it to the visitor center, where we ate lunch before continuing to the Cape of Good Hope itself. As we approached the coastline, the gusts of wind intensified even more, and the waves crashed with great force on the jagged rocks. This is the most southwestern point in Africa – it used to be considered the southern tip of the continent, but with the development of better mapping techniques, Cape Agulhas a bit further to the east was found to extend further south. For an hour, we hiked along the rocky coastline around Cape Point and admired small sections of beach sheltered from the wind by soaring cliffs.

Braving wind gusts on a cliff at the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa

Standing by the sign at the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa

A dassie at the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa

Ostriches along the rocky coastline near the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa

From the Cape of Good Hope, it took just over an hour to get back to Cape Town, where I said farewell to Chiaki as she left for the airport. It was now only me and one other girl, Amy, remaining in Cape Town. We went out to a nearby Thai restaurant for dinner, and then I relaxed the rest of the evening.

A Day Around Cape Town

2010-04-30T20:00:00.044-04:00

Day 89: Cape Town, South Africa

The Castle of Good Hope in Cape Town, South Africa

This morning, I said a sad farewell to Tom and Jude as they went their separate ways. I spent the day touring various sites around Cape Town with four girls who had joined the trip in Victoria Falls. First, we visited the District Six Museum, which tells the fascinating but depressing story of the forced eviction of 60,000 of the area's minority residents during apartheid. Then we walked over to the Castle of Good Hope, a star-shaped fort built in the seventeenth century by the Dutch East India Company. The fort served a variety of purposes over the centuries and is the oldest building in South Africa. We watched the changing of the guard and the ceremonial firing of the cannon, a ritual that takes place at noon every day.

African masks for sale at a curio market in Greenmarket Square, Cape Town, South Africa

In the afternoon, we browsed the stalls at the large outdoor curio market in Greenmarket Square, where vendors sold souvenirs such as wooden masks, bracelets, and animal figures crafted of stone, wood, and beads. Many of these curios are the same as those I've seen throughout Africa, but they are often several times the price as they are likely imported from countries like Malawi or Tanzania. Although they are more expensive, I found most of the curios sold in South Africa to be of better quality than the cheaper wares sold by vendors in other countries, where it can take some time to sift through the junk to find a well-crafted souvenir.

A blanket of cloud known as "The Tablecloth" flows off Table Mountain behind The Backpack hostel in Cape Town, South Africa.

Finally, we headed to Kirstenbosch Gardens, part of a UNESCO World Heritage site that includes all the flora exclusive to the Cape region with its unique climate. Kirstenbosch Gardens is nestled against Table Mountain, which developed a thick blanket of cloud as we continued east towards the gardens. The climate can vary significantly depending on which side of the mountain you are on. The cloud layer that commonly floats just on the top of Table Mountain is know by locals as the "tablecloth", and it flows off the flat top of the mountain like a massive waterfall, dissipating halfway down. We walked around the gardens for a while, hiking along some of the trails that are lined with large patches of red or purple flowers. When the light faded, we caught a cab back to the hostel and enjoyed another fantastic dinner at one of the nearby restaurants.

The Most Beautiful City in the World

2010-04-29T22:00:00.042-04:00

Day 88: Cape Town, South Africa

Around mid-morning on Tuesday, Nix drove Tom, Jude, and me to Cape Town in her rental car. Nix left the Oasis trip back in Victoria Falls, but she lives in Johannesburg and had flown to Cape Town so she could meet us in Stellenbosch. With our arrival in Cape Town, the total mileage for the entire 73-day Oasis trip came to 8,700 miles since we first left Nairobi back on February 15. We met back up with the Oasis truck at a hostel in Cape Town called The Backpack. The Backpack is ranked as the best hostel in Africa according to Hostelworld.com, and it is indeed very nice. Like almost everywhere in Cape Town, it has a grand view of Table Mountain rising high above the city. There is a picturesque patio courtyard adjacent to the bar, and bulletin boards contain information about every activity you could want to do in the Cape area.

After sorting our stuff out, Tom and I decided to go for a walk to get to know the city. We strolled all the way down to the V&A Waterfront, a rather touristy area packed with fantastic restaurants, luxurious shopping centers, a movie theater, and attractions such as the Two Oceans Aquarium and the gateway to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned. It felt great to be finished with camping for a while, and I used the opportunity to recharge – I went to a salon for a haircut, bought some new clothes, and enjoyed the majestic view of the Cape Town skyline nestled up against Table Mountain.

Cape Town and Table Mountain from the V&A Waterfront, South Africa

The V&A Waterfront in Cape Town, South Africa

Seen from the V&A Waterfront, the skyline of Cape Town, South Africa is dwarfed by Table Mountain.

Back at the hostel, we met up with some more people and went out to dinner at an amazing Asian restaurant, where I devoured a scrumptious sushi feast. Afterward, only one other guy, Ben, was up for seeing a movie, so we walked to find a nearby theater. The one a few blocks away was closed, so the only option was to go down to the huge theater at the waterfront. We started walking, cautious of Cape Town's notorious crime rate, but soon hopped in a cab when things began to look too dark and dodgy. We arrived just as the movie was beginning – we saw Clash of the Titans, and it was probably the worst movie I've ever seen. After the movie, we took a cab back to the hostel, and I crashed in a nice, soft bed.

Yesterday, Nix and I set out to look for a bakery in Cape Town while Tom took Jude skydiving north of Cape Town. Today is Jude's birthday, and the three of us wanted to get her a custom birthday cake. We found a cute place called Charly's Bakery that makes some of the most attractive cakes I've ever seen. After ordering the cake, Nix and I drove to Bloubergstrand on the coast north of Cape Town. We met up with Tom and Jude at a seafood restaurant called The Blowfish after they were done with their skydive. The place sat next to the beach and was filled with light from large picture windows. There was a stunning view across Table Bay to Table Mountain and Cape Town. The menu offered smoked crocodile sushi, so I had to give it a try. The Blowfish contributed to the abundance of world-class food we have enjoyed in Cape Town so far.

Smoked crocodile sushi at The Blowfish restaurant in Bloubergstrand, Cape Town, South Africa

Seen from the beach at Bloubergstrand, Table Mountain looms over Cape Town, South Africa.

Yesterday evening, a group of us walked from the hostel to nearby Long Street, the major center for the fantastic nightlife of Cape Town. We went to a few bars, one of which had free drinks from eleven to midnight. At midnight, we sang Happy Birthday to Jude and then piled in some cabs to a club near the waterfront. After a short night's sleep, we got up this morning to finish preparations for Jude's birthday. Tom took her shopping while Nix and I picked up the cake from Charly's Bakery. We barely had enough time to decorate the courtyard at The Backpack with balloons and party paraphernalia before Tom walked in the gate with Jude. She was thrilled with the custom cake – it looked wonderful and tasted even better!

This afternoon, a small group of us took the aerial cableway to the top of Table Mountain. The cable cars are circular, and the floors rotate 360 degrees during the ascent up the sheer cliffs, creating a disorienting feeling. From the top, the view of the whole of Cape Town is awe-inspiring. On the opposite edge of the mountain, the imposing coastal cliffs stretch south towards the Cape of Good Hope. Rock hyraxes, known here as dassies, lounged like sentinels on the rocky cliffs jutting out towards the ocean. As the sun set over the vast waters of the Atlantic, the buildings in Cape Town glowed pink and orange. As darkness fell, the millions of city lights twinkled in the crisp air.

Standing high above the city on Table Mountain, Cape Town, South Africa

Table Mountain cliffs, Cape Town, South Africa

Seen from Table Mountain, the city of Cape Town, South Africa glows at sunset.

Seen from Table Mountain, the city lights of Cape Town, South Africa illuminate the night.

Wine, Wine, and More Wine

2010-04-27T10:30:00.063-04:00

Day 86: Stellenbosch, South Africa

Thursday night in Sesriem, Namibia was a cold and windy one – all night, sand blew in through the canvas of the tent, and I tucked my head inside my sleeping bag for shelter. Friday morning we got off to an early start, leaving at 6:00 for one of the largest canyons in the world, Fish River Canyon in the far south of Namibia. It took us over ten hours on dusty roads to reach the canyon, stopping briefly in the tiny town of Helmeringhausen and again for lunch on the side of the road. It was such a long drive day that we only had about an hour at the canyon before sunset, so we did a short hike along the rim. We were prepared for our last bush camp of the trip, but Carol surprised us, and we instead pulled into a nice campsite called Cañon Roadhouse. Needless to say, we were a bit too excited, given that we were still sleeping in tents! There was a great restaurant at the campsite that was designed like an old western American roadside diner, except with German instead of American vintage memorabilia. The food was not American diner food either, but it was fantastic – I had butternut soup, chicken schnitzel with pineapple sauce, and pavlova for dessert.

Sitting on the edge of Fish River Canyon, Namibia

Fish River Canyon, Namibia

A quiver tree, or kokerboom (Aloe dichotoma), at Fish River Canyon, Namibia

We suffered yet another chilly night, but awoke Saturday excited as children on Christmas morning: we were finally crossing the border into South Africa today! It was our final destination, and those of us on the Oasis truck since the very beginning – Tom, Jude, Beth, and myself – had been anticipating it for ten weeks. It took us three hours to get there, and we were greeted by a proper border crossing that had actual printed signs and even x-ray machines. Granted, they don't always x-ray bags at the border, but South Africa is stepping up security because of the upcoming World Cup. An hour later, we were finally in South Africa and on our way through the vast Northern Cape province toward Cape Town. We stopped in the town of Springbok for lunch at KFC and arrived at the Highlanders campsite near Trawal at 6:30. We set up our tents for the last time on a beautiful flat patch of soft grass, and then we made our way to the bar for dinner and wine tasting. South Africa is internationally famous for its wines that are produced around the Cape region, and it was fitting to be introduced to some of it on our very first night in the country. We tasted two whites, two reds, a rosé, a sparkling wine, and a specialty of Highlanders, their African Ruby Vermouth. My favorite was the Pinotage, a red wine unique to South Africa. It is a special cross between Pinot noir and Hermitage (Cinsaut) grapes that was specifically bred to thrive in African soil.

Vineyard in the Western Cape, South Africa

Sunday we drove past postcard-beautiful vineyards nestled against craggy mountains as we made our way to Stellenbosch, a university town in the Cape Winelands that is the epicenter of the South African wine industry. We arrived in the early afternoon, which gave us enough time to stroll the streets of this picturesque little town brimming with Cape Dutch style architecture. We ate lunch at Mugg & Bean, a South African restaurant chain influenced by American coffee shops. We sat outside and enjoyed the crisp autumn weather while we ate – the atmosphere is reminiscent of a New England college town, except the students here speak mostly Afrikaans. In fact, the University of Stellenbosch is one of the last universities left in South Africa that offers a curriculum in Afrikaans.

Yesterday a group of us left mid-morning for an extended wine tasting tour around the region, visiting four wineries. Our first stop was Simonsig, where we started our tour by visiting the wine production facilities and learning how different types of wine are made. We then made our way to an outside patio area where we tasted five wines produced at Simonsig. With each wine, the glass was filled about one to two finger widths. Spitting is rude – that would be a waste of good wine!

The next winery was Fairview, where I tried six wines. This time, there were a few separate wine bars where you could make your own selections. The best part about Fairview was the fantastic cheese bar, which I visited a couple of times in between my wine tasting.

Wine bottles at Fairview wine & cheese estate, Stellenbosh, South Africa

Wine production equipment at Fairview wine & cheese estate, Stellenbosh, South Africa

After eleven wines in the morning, I was feeling good, and it was off to the charming town of Franschhoek for lunch. I enjoyed bobotie – a popular South African minced meat curry dish originating from the Dutch East India Company colonies in Indonesia – and a glass of red wine, of course. After lunch we visited two more wineries – Dieu Donné and Boschendal – where I tasted another eleven wines. After tasting 23 wines today – drinking the equivalent of one and a half bottles – I slept most of the way back to Stellenbosch, where we were dropped off at our appropriately named hostel, Stumble Inn. Even though I drank a lot more than I'm used to, I didn't feel too drunk since the wine tasting was spread out over the course of the day.

The Cape Dutch style manor house, built in 1812, at Boschendal wine estate near Franschhoek, South Africa

Smoking a Cuban cigar at Cubana in Stellenbosch, South Africa

I took a break at the hostel for a little while, and then Tom, Jude, and a few others convinced me to go bar hopping. After a couple of drinks, we made our way to a trendy-looking Cuban joint called Cubana, where I couldn't pass up the opportunity to try a genuine Cuban cigar, which is illegal in the United States due to the embargo against Cuba. I knew it would be disgusting, but if I was ever going to try a cigar, I figured it should be a Cuban. I never really got the hang of the technique for smoking it, and soon we ordered a shisha, also known as a hooka. This is a Middle Eastern water pipe where the smoke from flavored tobacco is filtered through water and smoked through an attached hose. I tried smoking a shisha for the first time in Egypt and thought it was smooth and actually enjoyable, unlike cigarettes or cigars.

After Cubana, we ordered take-away from KFC and ate at an upper-level patio at another bar, where we enjoyed a few more drinks. As the evening wore on, the music pumping from a club below began to get louder as the place packed full of Afrikaner university students. Inside, seizure-inducing strobe lights illuminated the dancing crowd in stop-motion flashes. I stayed at the club until about four in the morning, when it was still packed with people. I didn't drink in those last few hours, and I must have sobered up before going to bed. Miraculously, I don't have a hangover this morning. I don't think I've ever before consumed as much alcohol in one day as I did yesterday, but it was a blast. Being one of the last days with the fantastic friends I've made on this adventure with Oasis, it's a day I'll never forget.

Sand, Sand, and More Sand

2010-04-22T20:00:00.065-04:00

Day 81: Sesriem / Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia

We had an early start today, leaving Swakopmund at 6:00 and driving seven hours into the vast Namib-Naukluft National Park in the middle of the Namib Desert – this is the oldest desert on Earth and home to some of its highest sand dunes. On the way, we stopped at the Tropic of Capricorn, thus having driven through the entire southern half of the tropics since leaving the equator in Uganda. We also stopped at Solitaire, a fitting name for this dusty roadside stop decorated with abandoned antique cars – it feels like a place that could be on Route 66 in the States. As we neared Sossusvlei, sand and dust blew in through the open sides of the truck, coating everything in a thin pale layer. My hair felt thick with sand, and the floor of the truck was yellow-white with gritty grime that had mixed with the mud tracked in from our shoes.

CAPTION

We ate lunch in the park and then jumped into the back of a truck that would take us to Sossusvlei, a famous dry clay pan featured on many of the glossy travel brochures of Namibia. One fast, bumpy, terrifying ride later we arrived at our destination. Our guide was a very informative local who knows everything there is to know about the Namib Desert. He told us a geological history of the area, explaining how the winds shape the dunes. The intense orange color of the dunes is due to their age: over time, iron in the sand oxidizes and turns the dunes a rusty color. Our guide demonstrated this high iron content by sifting a magnet through the sand and pulling away clumps of iron. He showed us unique methods for finding water, and he identified which critters could kill you and which ones you could eat. As we painstakingly trudged through the soft sand, we ruined the perfect wind-shaped ripples with our shoes.

Sand dunes at Sossusvlei in Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia

Sand dune at Sossusvlei in Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia

Ripples in the sand at Sossusvlei in Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia

The Dead Vlei in Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia

We eventually began to climb one of the dunes, and at the top was a haunting and desolate view of the Dead Vlei. This is another white clay pan populated only by the remnants of dead acacia trees. Long ago, the nearby Tsauchab River flooded, creating a lush area for acacia trees to thrive. As the climate grew drier, the advancing dunes cut off all access to water, and the trees died. The sun-scorched skeletons of these trees are thought to be 900 years old, and the bone-dry climate has prevented the wood from decomposing. The Dead Vlei is three quarters of a mile across, but from a distance it looks like it could be crossed on foot in five minutes. Scale is deceiving in this land of crystal-clear air and proportion-warping sand dunes.

Sun-scorched skeletons of acacia trees, possibly 900 years old, in the Dead Vlei in Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia

Two dead acacia trees are dwarfed by the sand dunes surrounding the Dead Vlei in Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia.

A dead acacia tree is silhouetted by the sun in the Dead Vlei in Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia.

After our tour of the Dead Vlei, we returned to the truck and journeyed to Dune 45, which rises to a height of 550 feet. The idea was to climb the dune and watch the sunset from the top. Yet again, my perspective of the sheer size of the dune was skewed, as it did not seem very high at all. As I started climbing up the crest of the dune, each step grew more difficult as I labored through the thick, soft sand. The further I climbed, the larger the dune seemed to grow. I finally made it to the peak, where the razor-sharp spine of the dune snaked downward and off into the distance. After the sun sank below the horizon, I descended the dune – this was a much easier task, as I could almost slip-slide my way back down in the loose sand. Finally, we made the short, dark drive to our campsite at the nearby town of Sesriem.

Barely-visible climbers ascend Dune 45 at sunset, Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia

The crest of Dune 45 at sunset, Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia

Sitting on top of Dune 45 at sunset, Namib-Naukluft National Park, Namibia