Right this second I'm sitting in Shokolat in Kigali, or rather lying in Shokolat in Kigali, as I am essentially stretched out horizontal on this incredibly comfortable couch. Jane is sitting/lying next to me and we are happily ignoring each other while soaking up fast internet. Shokolat is our new favorite place because they have high-speed internet and they don't kick you off after an hour, like damned Bourbon, which is now the scourge of our souls. Shokolat has a cozy feel, complete with a large library of books in English, and they sell chocolate chip cookies that may or may not be warm.
John just walked in and said "I no longer have a kettle" the way some people might say "I am no longer married to Marie". He went to the Chinese shop and they wouldn't give him a new kettle but refused to relinquish his old one once he had given it to them, saying that they will try to fix it and give it back to him "maybe on Monday". The shop owner gave him a paper with a number on it and a lot of handwriting in Chinese and then shooed him away. Pretty standard.
Things in Rwanda have been a little tumultuous since the start of the second term, and everyone from the WorldTeach group seems to be having bit of a tough reentry into teaching and Rwandan life in general. For me, things were pretty tame; the worst of it was when my iPod, hotplate, and computer power cable all broke in the same week, and I got sick, and my roommates thieved so many of my things that I started locking my kitchen and hiding my radio, leading to a cold war in the house that still has not lifted. One of my best friends here, Susan, undoubtedly has the worst return to school. She had gone back to the US for the break, so readjusting to Rwanda was rough, but she also had to contend with roommates from hell, an incredibly apathetic student body, and a remote placement in town with zero resources. As a result, she decided last week to leave WorldTeach, but thankfully to stay in Rwanda. We were all having a hard enough time to inspire my Field Director to host a contest where we all had to come up with our best strategies for fighting foreign-living frustration. The contest winners were meant to be announced at a WorldTeach-funded party in Kigali this weekend, but then our faithful FD contracted a bad case of malaria and is currently out for the count (but doing better every day, thankfully). Long story short: Blargh!
In spite of the hiccups, I think things are starting to look up here in the big RW. I've been teaching computer science, creative performance, and English this trimester, and having much more fun with that lineup than I was with entrepreneurship. The kiddos are CRAZY for computers; even stuff that we might consider boring, like formatting Word documents or creating Excel spreadsheets, is apparently great fun for them, and I'm having all kinds of cheesy teacher moments, when I show a kid how to do something and their eyes light up. We just started playwriting in creative performance (thanks to the breakdown of my iPod), and I've been trying to get the students to write about their favorite quotes, songs, photographs, and memories to get them talking about what motivates them so they can figure out what to write plays about. This has been going surprisingly well, and I can't wait to see some of their performances in a couple weeks.
In an effort to become less computer-dependent, I went up to a quiet part of the school last night with a great view of the surrounding hills and watched the stars come out. It was fantastic. One frustrating thing about this country is that there are people everywhere all the time, so even on a long walk or in the house, it's really hard to find a quiet moment to yourself. The part of the school I watched the stars from is where the new dorms are being built; I don't think the students are moving in till next year and the workers all leave at the end of the school day, so maybe I'll spend more evenings there, soaking up the calm.
Not much else to report at the moment. Time seems to be moving along pretty quickly for now; hard to believe that we've got just eight more weeks of teaching for this term, then exams, then break...! Right now, I'm looking forward to our midservice conference in a couple weeks, the World Cup in June (not a diehard soccer fan by any means, but I am surely a fan of mass hysteria), a quick visit from Jason in July, and then a monthlong romp through southern Africa with Morgan! Thanks to WT friends, support from home, plantains, epic books, friendly cafe owners, sharp students, The Avett Brothers, starry nights, and BBC Focus on Africa with Hassan Aruni, I think the day-to-day in Shyorongi should be pretty swell until then :)
Friday, May 14, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
searching for the loch ness monster
We are still here at Monachyle Mhor hotel. As spring issues idle promises to put leaves back on the trees and the warmer weather lets us keep our door open to the world, lambs begin to fill the paddocks, rumors of sheep dog puppies down the road can be heard, and daffodils come and go, we continue to balance work and play and plan our trip south. Of course things don’t really seem to change here at Monachyle; if it weren’t for our regular days off giving us reference points in time, I’d swear time was standing still. On our last three off days we have climbed stob binnien, road tripped to the north in search of the loch ness monster, ticked a few things off our gear list, and cycled from here to Killin and back. We have 12 days 5 hours and 7 minutes until we finish work here.
I will miss this place and I won’t miss this place. The solitude is a blessing and a curse. I cannot put in words nor capture in photos the beauty of this place. I love sitting here in my room with the door open staring out at he mountains on my doorstep towering above the green fields and trees, watching the trees gently sway as the wind moves through them, the sound of the wind and the feel of the wind while hearing lambs and birds, watching the birds play, as the constant shhh of the river reminds me of that beautiful feeling I had once and I could happily close my eyes and dream with the door open. Yet while it is beautiful and we have a great group of people working here, we are so few that when one of us has time off nobody else does. It would be really fun, and good for everyone, if all the staff could get out and do something together. But we are always working. That being said nicki and I do get time off together and being out here affords us ample opportunity for outdoor exploration.
From the summit of stob binnien, at about 1165 meters, we were looking down on all the mountains surrounding the hotel. (The mountains which normally tower above us) It felt like we were on top of
So we took a trip up to Inverness and Loch Ness, kind of searching for the monster but also wanting to see 
This wave can only have been caused by a monster
Can loch ness support large aquatic life?
Nicki tries to lure nessy...
On the way up we drove past aviemore and the Cairngorms national park. The Cairngorms are large and mountainous wilderness area a few hours north of our hotel. Aviemore, on the west side of the park, is home to 
I love waking up in the mountains. We drove up to the base of the ski field just to have a look. Inverness is a nice medium sized Scottish town.
It was also on this day that we put a picnic in a blanket on a stick and found a spot on the beach of the black isle north of
We leave in two weeks. Just booked our train yesterday from
Friday, April 16, 2010
Run
The running starts slowly, slowly and painfully. Joints ache, bones ache. Tired muscles, sore from yesterday, not used to running. Not breathing heavy yet, not in the first steps, but soon because lungs are tired too. Trot, trot, step, step, step, across the dusty lot in front of the mods, down and up through the empty dry drainage ditch, slight turn onto one of the streets that leads from the middle of Camp Bastion to the perimeter. To the right are the enlisted dorms, tents, with shitty air conditioning and external bathroom trailers. The bathrooms in the mods are small, but at least they're proper and clean, and we each get our own room. To the left is the JFH(A), Joint Helicopter Forces (Afghanistan) operations center run by the British. Good that they let us be here to help, good that they let us fly from Bastion and work side by side. Past that some more trailers and tents, not much I know. Neat blocks of trailers and tents, trailers and tents everywhere. And dust.
Try to think of a song to play in my head while I run. Sometimes Lil' Wayne, sometimes Pirates of the Carribbean, sometimes Pink Floyd, sometimes Dragonball Z. No need for an iPod, screwing with the armband, earbuds uncomfortable, tracks coming on I don't like. I can listen to anything I can remember.
South down the side of the dusty road to the edge of the base, and now a decision. Wind from east to west today so I turn left, into the wind for the beginning and the end of the run. Not bad now and sprints on the back stretch will be easy, but the last leg will be hard. That's fine. Sprints today so I'll be tired anyway. Left across the road and stay on the left side, between the ditch and the cars and trucks. They kick up dust when they come by, dry dust that's hard to breathe but harder to escape. Crosswind is best for the dust while running, into the wind is next best. Bad, but it goes by quickly - breathe in from down low and out to the front. Past the Base HQ and cross the road that leads out the main gate, dodging slow cars, wave of thanks for getting in their way.
Muscles less sore now, still running slow to warm up but the breathing's coming along too. At the end of the block turn north again, down the most boring stretch. Fences on either side, contractors and construction on the left, and helicopter flightline on the right. All the British squadrons first and then we're down at the end, the small compound of a few tents that makes up our home. Not there yet though - not the longest leg of the run here but it seems it for the fences, and today it's where the sprints start too. First one nice and easy, start out slow, make the strides longer bit by bit, build about halfway to a full sprint and stay there for just a moment, then slowly back down and trot some more. Nice and easy, no hurry, just to get used to the idea.
Two more sprints on this stretch, both closer to a full sprint but not quite there yet. Hold it for a little longer, and fast on the third past our squadron. Feet starting to feel lighter, listen to the chorus in my head, all stretched and loose and fast. Slow down again, trot some more. More dust, more ditches, more fences and trailers and trucks. Some days I run free, down and up every ditch, over walls and shipping containers, flowing across everything, but not today. Trot to the end and turn west, out along the long stretch down the backside of the base. Today is about speed.
On my right is a long wall, nothing on the other side but the dump where they burn the garbage. On the left is all construction and logistics, building materials, cement plants, watter bottling, contractor housing. Trailers and tents, down the stretch. Glance at the fence to the left, pick a start for the first sprint, pick something to sprint to. One hundred yards will do, but more or less will do also. This dent in the fence to that culvert there, perfect. Go.
This one's a real sprint, and now I'm light and fast and strong. Two long strides to get going, and then I'm flying with the wind. Twenty yards, forty. Fling the feet into each stride, breathe deep and fast, use the arms and the stomach and the chest and the back, move the legs faster and faster. Can barely feel the ground. Thirty yards to go, twenty, ten. Stay on the gas all the way to the end, nearly there, don't quit early, don't quit, stay fast on the toes, faster faster faster, done! Then relax and skip along as I slow down. Breathing hard but not tired, eager for more. Pick some part of the fence to jog to, let the music calm down and trot along. Recovery comes fast, breathing slows, heart slows. Muscles not sore anymore, ready for another right now but that's not the way to go, rest is important too. Be glad for the rest, be thankful. Plenty of sprints still ahead.
More trucks and cars go by, and with the wind is the worst. They kick up dust all along the stretch, and all of it will blow by me. Hard to breathe, hard to see. But, wave to the drivers anyway. Get a smile and a wave back, that British soldier there, that Pakistani contractor across the road, that gang of local workers. Wave and smile, it goes a long way. Always use the right hand - the left can be an offense here - but I still think the smile counts more.
Next few sprints are great, flying every time. Get to the start and launch, sprint hard, light and fast, letting the vision blur, listening to the song in my head. Blur of speed, to the end, slow down again. Hundred yards sprint, hundred yards rest, hundred yards sprint, hundred yards rest. Sprint to this trailer, rest to that ditch. Sprint past that truck, rest to that next street. Sprint, rest, sprint, rest, all the way down the stretch.
I finish the sprint and my lungs are bursting, muscles shaky from the effort. Breathe, breathe, keep the trot going, now the corner's only fifty yards, thirty yards. Round the corner to head south, feel the loss of the wind at my back. This is a good stretch, south down the west end of the base. Gravel processing plant on the right, otherwise looks much like the rest of the base but somehow neater, prettier dirt roads, better looking trailers and tents. Plus it's well away from the exit, so nobody ever comes down here. No foot traffic, no convoys, no contractors. Cement wall, cement guard towers, dusty road, fences, ditches. Peaceful.
Tell myself a couple of easy sprints are deserved here, then ignore myself and run them hard. Each one feels like the last now, two miles in, have to find the energy to keep going. Pick an end for each sprint and then burn trying to get there, broken and out of gas each time, scraping across the finish line. Each rest too short, shaky and gasping, heart pounding. Try and slow it down, try and rest, get ready for the next sprint. Start point's coming, ten yards, five. Maybe rest longer, can't sprint again yet. A few more and you're done, you wimp, sprint again now. Now! Struggle to find some music, struggle to find some air, stagger to the next rest. Four or five sprints down the stretch, each one an eternity of effort and pain.
Round the last corner, back east to the starting road. I tell myself I can rest here, then tell myself I can rest later. Every day the same, not sure how this lie still works on myself, but I sprint anyway. Quarter-mile stretch, and I rest then sprint then rest then sprint again. Second one's long, all the way to the road. Somehow ignore the pain and fly, full speed, past the point of breathing, past the point of seeing, fifty yards, a hundred yards. To that road, wait, to that truck, no, to the end of that fence. Two hundred yards, two-fifty. No more music now, just one long scream, push, push, rage, muscle, heart, feet, dust, bases, trailers, tents, helicopters, convoys, walls, fences, roads, lights, soldiers, guns, fire, war, blood. Run.
The road back to the mods goes the same as always, a slow build, back with the music, some words of wisdom echoing in my mind. After the sprints the build is easy - no reason I can quit now. Great strides by the end, down the road, across the dirt lot to the mods. Finish the same every day, gasping and exhausted, find some water, stretch, try to cool down, try to get some air. Soon it's shower and off to work. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I'll decide it's not worth it, maybe tomorrow I'll take a day off. Maybe tomorrow it'll still be worth it though - maybe tomorrow I'll run again.
Try to think of a song to play in my head while I run. Sometimes Lil' Wayne, sometimes Pirates of the Carribbean, sometimes Pink Floyd, sometimes Dragonball Z. No need for an iPod, screwing with the armband, earbuds uncomfortable, tracks coming on I don't like. I can listen to anything I can remember.
South down the side of the dusty road to the edge of the base, and now a decision. Wind from east to west today so I turn left, into the wind for the beginning and the end of the run. Not bad now and sprints on the back stretch will be easy, but the last leg will be hard. That's fine. Sprints today so I'll be tired anyway. Left across the road and stay on the left side, between the ditch and the cars and trucks. They kick up dust when they come by, dry dust that's hard to breathe but harder to escape. Crosswind is best for the dust while running, into the wind is next best. Bad, but it goes by quickly - breathe in from down low and out to the front. Past the Base HQ and cross the road that leads out the main gate, dodging slow cars, wave of thanks for getting in their way.
Muscles less sore now, still running slow to warm up but the breathing's coming along too. At the end of the block turn north again, down the most boring stretch. Fences on either side, contractors and construction on the left, and helicopter flightline on the right. All the British squadrons first and then we're down at the end, the small compound of a few tents that makes up our home. Not there yet though - not the longest leg of the run here but it seems it for the fences, and today it's where the sprints start too. First one nice and easy, start out slow, make the strides longer bit by bit, build about halfway to a full sprint and stay there for just a moment, then slowly back down and trot some more. Nice and easy, no hurry, just to get used to the idea.Two more sprints on this stretch, both closer to a full sprint but not quite there yet. Hold it for a little longer, and fast on the third past our squadron. Feet starting to feel lighter, listen to the chorus in my head, all stretched and loose and fast. Slow down again, trot some more. More dust, more ditches, more fences and trailers and trucks. Some days I run free, down and up every ditch, over walls and shipping containers, flowing across everything, but not today. Trot to the end and turn west, out along the long stretch down the backside of the base. Today is about speed.
On my right is a long wall, nothing on the other side but the dump where they burn the garbage. On the left is all construction and logistics, building materials, cement plants, watter bottling, contractor housing. Trailers and tents, down the stretch. Glance at the fence to the left, pick a start for the first sprint, pick something to sprint to. One hundred yards will do, but more or less will do also. This dent in the fence to that culvert there, perfect. Go.
This one's a real sprint, and now I'm light and fast and strong. Two long strides to get going, and then I'm flying with the wind. Twenty yards, forty. Fling the feet into each stride, breathe deep and fast, use the arms and the stomach and the chest and the back, move the legs faster and faster. Can barely feel the ground. Thirty yards to go, twenty, ten. Stay on the gas all the way to the end, nearly there, don't quit early, don't quit, stay fast on the toes, faster faster faster, done! Then relax and skip along as I slow down. Breathing hard but not tired, eager for more. Pick some part of the fence to jog to, let the music calm down and trot along. Recovery comes fast, breathing slows, heart slows. Muscles not sore anymore, ready for another right now but that's not the way to go, rest is important too. Be glad for the rest, be thankful. Plenty of sprints still ahead.
More trucks and cars go by, and with the wind is the worst. They kick up dust all along the stretch, and all of it will blow by me. Hard to breathe, hard to see. But, wave to the drivers anyway. Get a smile and a wave back, that British soldier there, that Pakistani contractor across the road, that gang of local workers. Wave and smile, it goes a long way. Always use the right hand - the left can be an offense here - but I still think the smile counts more.
Next few sprints are great, flying every time. Get to the start and launch, sprint hard, light and fast, letting the vision blur, listening to the song in my head. Blur of speed, to the end, slow down again. Hundred yards sprint, hundred yards rest, hundred yards sprint, hundred yards rest. Sprint to this trailer, rest to that ditch. Sprint past that truck, rest to that next street. Sprint, rest, sprint, rest, all the way down the stretch.
I finish the sprint and my lungs are bursting, muscles shaky from the effort. Breathe, breathe, keep the trot going, now the corner's only fifty yards, thirty yards. Round the corner to head south, feel the loss of the wind at my back. This is a good stretch, south down the west end of the base. Gravel processing plant on the right, otherwise looks much like the rest of the base but somehow neater, prettier dirt roads, better looking trailers and tents. Plus it's well away from the exit, so nobody ever comes down here. No foot traffic, no convoys, no contractors. Cement wall, cement guard towers, dusty road, fences, ditches. Peaceful.
Tell myself a couple of easy sprints are deserved here, then ignore myself and run them hard. Each one feels like the last now, two miles in, have to find the energy to keep going. Pick an end for each sprint and then burn trying to get there, broken and out of gas each time, scraping across the finish line. Each rest too short, shaky and gasping, heart pounding. Try and slow it down, try and rest, get ready for the next sprint. Start point's coming, ten yards, five. Maybe rest longer, can't sprint again yet. A few more and you're done, you wimp, sprint again now. Now! Struggle to find some music, struggle to find some air, stagger to the next rest. Four or five sprints down the stretch, each one an eternity of effort and pain.
Round the last corner, back east to the starting road. I tell myself I can rest here, then tell myself I can rest later. Every day the same, not sure how this lie still works on myself, but I sprint anyway. Quarter-mile stretch, and I rest then sprint then rest then sprint again. Second one's long, all the way to the road. Somehow ignore the pain and fly, full speed, past the point of breathing, past the point of seeing, fifty yards, a hundred yards. To that road, wait, to that truck, no, to the end of that fence. Two hundred yards, two-fifty. No more music now, just one long scream, push, push, rage, muscle, heart, feet, dust, bases, trailers, tents, helicopters, convoys, walls, fences, roads, lights, soldiers, guns, fire, war, blood. Run.
The road back to the mods goes the same as always, a slow build, back with the music, some words of wisdom echoing in my mind. After the sprints the build is easy - no reason I can quit now. Great strides by the end, down the road, across the dirt lot to the mods. Finish the same every day, gasping and exhausted, find some water, stretch, try to cool down, try to get some air. Soon it's shower and off to work. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I'll decide it's not worth it, maybe tomorrow I'll take a day off. Maybe tomorrow it'll still be worth it though - maybe tomorrow I'll run again.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
TanziZanzi Part One
Here's an unnecessarily detailed description of our Tanzibar adventure so far. Written at the wee hours of either morning or night, so please excuse any grammar mistakes, factual errors, or wildly antisocial statements. Also, sorry about the formatting; when I copy-paste from Word it goes all screwy like this and takes hours to finish, and my internet cafe session is surely timing out soon. If a family member wants to hack in and tidy this up a bit, I wouldn't be averse...otherwise, happy reading :)
Day One: Nyakarambi to Kahama
We decided to leave Nyakarambi, Kyle’s town, as early as possible on Saturday morning, since we were still harboring vague hopes of reaching Moshi that day. Kyle had heard rumors that there was a bus that left Nyakarambi at 6am, so we were showered and out the door by 5:45, loitering on the side of the road a few minutes later. Several taxi busses came by but inexplicably wouldn’t pick us up. One wanted to charge us Frw10,000 (that’s about $5 per person, or five times the normal rate) just to get to the border, at which point I stood in the
middle of the street and started ranting about literal highway robbery. Finally, at around 7am, a bus with a reasonable and compassionate driver rolled through, and we officially set off on our Tanzanian romp.
The border between Rwanda and Tanzania is marked by the Akagera River, and the bridge to cross goes right over beautiful Rusumo Falls. Kyle’s colleague, John from Uganda, tagged along to get his first look at the falls. He turned out to be a total cutup, masterfully mangling English catchphrases with just enough earnestness and charm to have us all belly laughing over our chapattis and tea, which we took on the Rwanda side of the river. After a few token photos of us and the falls, John caught the bus back home, and we submitted our passports to the visa process. We crossed into Tanzania and hiked up a somewhat mammoth hill to get to customs, and amused ourselves to no end by taunting a nearby flock of turkeys while we were waiting for the officials to decide that we wished no harm to their country. Finally, with our passports all inked up in the Tanzanian style, we asked around and found the bus to Kahama.
As we boarded the bus, Loren got a text message from a savvy coworker telling him that the bridge to Kahama was “broken” and that we would be better off taking another route to Moshi. We asked our bus driver about the broken bridge, and he gave us the standard battle cry of the
muzungu-weary: “No problem.” By this time, we had given up hope of reaching Moshi that day due to our late start and our breakfast with John at the falls, so we decided to stick with our Kahama plans and find out what a broken bridge looked like. The dalla dalla (taxi bus) we were on was crowded, and Meghan had about half a seat to herself, but this was expected. We stopped approximately every five seconds to pick up passengers or to just heckle people on the side of the road, trying to convince them that they needed to ride our bus, so
naturally, the journey that was supposed to take three hours quickly became four, with no end in sight. Our dalla dalla pulled off the side of the road at a medium-sized town, and the driver told us that we had to get off, but we could leave all our luggage behind. Yeah, right, we thought, and put our packs on our back as we followed the rest of the passengers up the road, following someone we couldn’t see to a destination we didn’t know. After about half a mile of walking, a bus pulled up in front of us – the same one we had offboarded fifteen minutes before. Everyone piled back on, we shoved our bags back where they came from, and off we went again. Eventually, we came to a long line of trucks, busses and cars, and the dalla dalla stopped again. One of the sharper English speakers with us explained that we had reached the famed bridge, so we all had to get off again. We grabbed our bags and followed the rest of the passengers about a
quarter of a mile up to the broken bridge (it was over a tiny little
stream, but the concrete had completely caved in, and there was no way
for any vehicles to cross). We proceeded to stand around and look at
the bridge for a few minutes until someone told us that we had to go
back to our dalla dalla. We walked the quarter mile back, and gave
our tickets to a man who demanded them. Our questions about what was
going on were met with a few mildly quizzical stares, but mainly just
with total apathy. We settled down in the shade of a huge truck and
waited for instructions. After about half an hour, someone told us to
follow him back to the bridge, which we did. We then proceeded to
follow the stream of passengers as they scrambled down the bank and
forged the stream. Some, like Loren, just waded on through, but
others, like me and Meghan, tried to use the random rocks and drainage
pipes that littered the stream as stepping stones. This nearly cost
Meg her dignity as a lunatic Tanzanian jumped onto a tiny drainage
pipe that she and her giant backpack were still occupying, nearly
shoving her whole ensemble face-first into the stream and forcing her
to make a wild flying leap to the next rock. I managed to dip my toes
in some nasty black sewer mud and didn’t notice until we got onto our
new bus, which earned some glares from the local women, who somehow
manage to remain spotless in all circumstances. Our new bus was very
similar to our old one, but with slightly less padding. We bounced
into Kahama in style at just past the seven hour mark.
The dalla dalla men were extra nice to us, and took us straight to the
big bus park in Kahama. We booked our tickets for Moshi the next
morning, and then were shown to a guesthouse by the ticketing agent.
The guest house cost a little less than $4 each for the night, and had
electricity, a working tap, and beds with mattresses thick enough so
that you couldn’t feel the wooden bedframe. In other words, we were
in heaven. We dumped our stuff and then headed back to towards the
taxi park to get some dinner. Roasted corn from the side of the road
as an appetizer, followed by brochettes and chips cooked in the middle
of the town center with pineapple Fanta (pineapple! Rwanda has never
seen such exoticism) cost us less than $2. We hadn’t known what to
expect of Kahama at all, since it was a last-minute addition to our
itinerary and wasn’t in any of our guidebooks, and all of us were
totally pleasantly surprised. Just a few hundred kilometers south of
the border, Kahama showed us that Tanzania is a completely different
world than our Rwanda. There’s a casualness and a general relaxed
enjoyment of life here that we’ve certainly missed in somber, tense
Rwanda. The streets are still bustling with people after dark, and
when people call out to you, even calling you a muzungu, it’s playful
and lighthearted, rather than demanding or malicious, as I usually
feel it is in Rwanda. We talked to people easily (partly because of
their excellent English, but partly because of their demeanors as
well) and felt comfortable. After a failed attempt to find ice cream,
we trooped back to the guesthouse and crashed.
Day Two: Kahama to Moshi
The bus from Kahama to Moshi was scheduled to leave at 6am, and we had
strict instructions to arrive at the taxi park by 5:30. We left our
hotel in complete darkness, tired and already aching a bit but raring
to go. We ran into Christopher, the ticketing agent from the night
before, on the path from the guesthouse. He was a different man at
this hour of the morning, grumpy and monosyllabic, but the others at
the taxi park were full of life. We were shown to our bus, the
technicolored “Mohammed Express”, which inexplicably had the names and
photographs of every member of the Liverpool Football Club plastered
all over its sides. We had picked seats close to the back of the bus
as those generally seem to have more room, ignoring the advice from
the bus manager (every bus has a driver and a manager-type, who
handles the tickets and deals with passenger issues, of which there
are many), who said that the back would be too bumpy for us. Too
bumpy! Ha! Clearly, he thought we were regular muzungus, not ones
who had braved Rwanda for three months and knew a thing or two about
African busses. The bus took off at 6am sharp (!), and we immediately
realized that we had underestimated the manager’s intelligence. On
the unpaved city streets of Kahama, we were bucked about like jumping
beans. The Mohammed Express was the size of a Greyhound, but with
virtually no shocks or cushions to speak of, and we were sitting
directly above the rear wheel well. We finally reached the main
tarmac road, and with the exception of a few spine-rattling potholes
here and there, we settled in for a comfy ride, enjoying a beautiful
sunrise over Tanzania.
Four hours into our trek, we stopped in Singida for breakfast. I was
delighted to find that chapattis are alive and well in Tanzania, and
that the tea is decidedly different from the standard Rwandan
sugar-milk bilge. During our meal, we met Ada, a girl from a town in
Michigan near where Meghan grew up who was working in Mexico for the
National Public Health Institute and had been sent to Kigali for a few
weeks to teach some local university students to use Stata (turned out
she was working in collaboration with four Berkeley econ students who
had just finished econometrics with the same professor I had three
years ago). She had a week of vacation before heading back to Mexico,
and was using it to somewhat hectically haul across Tanzania and back.
We found an ice cream vendor on the way back to the bus and all
bought chocolate-covered cones for a dollar, happy as kids at the
circus. Heeding the bus manager’s warning that the road was no longer
paved and the ride would be heinous, I snagged a seat right at the
front of the bus. This turned out to be one of the best decisions of
my young life. I was sitting directly behind and to the left of the
driver, so I could stretch my legs out onto the odd little padded
section next to him while leaning back in my seat. The front of the
bus doesn’t feel the horrifying lack of suspension like the back does,
so I could nap and read in total comfort. It was essentially like
cruising along the Tanzanian plains in a Lay-Z-Boy. I eventually
moved my whole body down onto the padded section, so I was stretched
out front and center in the bus’s window, basking in the sun, enjoying
the scenery, loving life.
The bus manager was sitting on the steps next to me and clearly took a
shining to me because I am blond and have breasts. Once he had
established that I was 23 years old (too young for him) and already in
a relationship, he became a pretty great seatmate. He was loud and
opinionated but very funny, and he would lean out of the window at
pitstops and buy treats like cookies and guavas for me and Loren, who
had by this time joined me up front. We had protracted discussions on
the difference between Shia and Suni Muslims, the existence of God,
and, weirdly enough, Mark Wahlberg (that is, we talked about Mark
Wahlberg, not the existence of Mark Wahlberg, which was never
questioned). He was upset that I had never read the Holy Quaraan and
made me promise to find an English copy in Dar es Salaam to read on
the beach in Zanzibar. He talked about his kids and his country,
especially his hometown of Arusha, with the utmost of pride. He’s the
kind of person that I’ve been happy to meet in Africa, and just as
happy to wave goodbye to at the end of the ride and never see again.
Like our dalla dalla on the previous day, the Mohammed Express had a
tough time meeting the extremely optimistic 10-hour time limit that
its owners had placed on our trip to Moshi. We neared Arusha at
around the 12-hour mark, just as it was beginning to get dark. We
were told that the Mohammed was stopping there, and the manager would
find another bus that was going on to Moshi for us to get on. This
turned out to be more difficult than anyone had anticipated, but
finally a bus was located and we piled on with our bags. The driver
and his posse tried to get us to pay extra money for all permutations
of possible extras, like 2,000 Tsh for our bags, or a 1,500 Tsh
transfer fee, or 3,000 Tsh because it was dark. We shot down all of
these demands and sat stone-faced in our seats, clutching our bags,
until they gave up and we started moving. It was dark by this time,
and it quickly became apparent that the headlights on our new bus
weren’t really up to par. It looked as though they only had parking
lights, and both the regular headlights and the brights were out of
commission. So, in this crippled tin bus with about twenty people
standing in the narrow aisle, we crawled from Arusha to Moshi. The
journey that normally takes about 45 minutes took us two and a half
hours, and we rolled into Moshi at 9:05pm, just over fifteen hours
since we had left Kahama. We found our way to the Kilimanjaro
Backpackers’ Hotel and booked rooms for $9 each per night, ate cheese
and chicken sandwiches from the bar upstairs, and slept.
Day Three: Moshi Town
We woke up at sunrise after what might have been the best night’s
sleep I’ve ever had. The mattresses at the KBH were thick and soft,
and the thin blankets were just enough to keep us warm in the already
balmy night air. We’re in Moshi during the low low season, and I
can’t imagine being here during the “hot” half of the year. Looking
out our window, we caught our first glance of Moshi in the sunlight.
I know that this is largely because I’ve been in Rwanda for three
months, where the buildings are a little homogenous and not too easy
on the eyes, but when I caught my first glance of Moshi town in the
sunlight, I thought of Paris. Many buildings here are old and so have
a charming run-down look to them. The strong Muslim influence in this
country leads to some interesting architecture, with far more curves
and circles than I’ve been used to. Basically, Moshi feels like a
city, and my oh my I have missed the city. Our windows looked out
over a hodgepodge of balconies where people were drying laundry,
laughing and chatting, preparing breakfast, enjoying the morning. The
sunrise was beautiful.
Meghan and I poked around the hotel until we found the breakfast
spread, which consisted of coffee, tea, milk, bread, butter, jam and
watermelon. Coffee, butter and watermelon are definitely not part of
my regular food rotation nowadays, so I tucked right in and totally
enjoyed the breakfast. The top floor of the KBH overlooks Moshi’s
main street. The view is obstructed just a bit by some trees right in
front of the entrance, but these trees are teeming with tiny birds
that are hilarious to watch. They’re so jumpy that they seem like
they’re moving in stop-frame animation, ceasing to exist in one place
and then reappearing in another, rather than actually moving around.
Loren came to breakfast and told us that the hot shower in the hotel
would give us pause, so I finished up and headed to the shower room.
It is not possible to hype this shower too much. For one, it’s HOT.
As in, you turn on the hot tap, and hot water comes out, and doesn’t
stop coming out until you turn the hot tap off again. It’s also got a
constant stream of water with a wide diameter and consistent excellent
pressure. Also, the shower room is big and white and clean and has a
drain in the lowest corner, so all the water flows right on into it.
There’s a ledge to put your shampoo on, and multiple hooks on the door
for your towel and clothes. After months of “showering” in dark
cement rooms with icy buckets of water and a single hole in the floor,
trying not to get our clothes wet as we scrunched them in the driest
corner, this shower was beyond amazing. We all stayed in for about
half an hour each, reinforcing my fear that at the end of this year, I
might become a resource-gobbling inconsiderate beast, rather than the
more conscious and respectful person that I was hoping for. We’ll
see.
Loren and I set off to wander around Moshi town. It feels kind of
like a college town on the weekends; a little sleepy but happy and
relaxed, totally comfortable. There are all the usual alimentations
and fabric shops, but there was also an ice cream parlor and an animal
health clinic and lots of cool stuff being hocked on the street.
There are people all over with little medicine stands, who can whip
you up a cure for everything from malaria to back problems from their
hundreds of little bottles of brightly colored powders and seeds. I
bought a delicious, unnamed piece of food that seemed kind of like a
deep fried crumpet from a woman who had a bunch of them in a bucket.
They also sell chapatti on the street here, as if chapattis need to be
easier to access. We caught up with Kyle and Meghan and spent the
rest of the day relaxing in the town. Yummy coconut curry for lunch,
Fantas at the hotel roof with our books, a walk beyond the main strip
to find a primary school with cool murals and classrooms, all in view
of the snow-capped tip of Mt. Kilimanjaro.
For dinner, we headed to the rooftop bar of the nearby Kindoronko
Hotel, which got top marks from our friend Jane and was frankly one of
the main reasons we decided to stay in Moshi, rather than Arusha. The
view is nothing short of amazing. The sunset over the town to the
west was gorgeous, and to the north, Kilimanjaro is stretched out in
all its glory. Every cheesy cliché about this mountain seemed true.
It’s breathtaking, awe-inspiring, it’s Africa’s rooftop. We pulled
the bar’s tall, comfy chairs up to the edge of the roof facing the
mountain and enjoyed delicious local wines, beers and ciders for
equally delicious prices. I hadn’t had red wine since moving Jane
into her Nyanza house. Sitting and relaxing with good food and drink
and good friends in that perfect climate, my biggest dilemma being
whether to focus on the sunset or Kili, I was having a pretty epic
life moment. I thought of the family and friends I wished could be
there with me. I thought of eleven of you in particular, one by one,
and said a little toast to each in my head. We watched Kili till it
was out of sight, then played a nail-biter best-two-out-of-three game
of Yukka, which Loren and I won as Meghan’s alertness waned. We had
mangoes for desert, walked two doors down to our own hotel, and
climbed back into those crazy comfy beds, tipsy and happy.
Day One: Nyakarambi to Kahama
We decided to leave Nyakarambi, Kyle’s town, as early as possible on Saturday morning, since we were still harboring vague hopes of reaching Moshi that day. Kyle had heard rumors that there was a bus that left Nyakarambi at 6am, so we were showered and out the door by 5:45, loitering on the side of the road a few minutes later. Several taxi busses came by but inexplicably wouldn’t pick us up. One wanted to charge us Frw10,000 (that’s about $5 per person, or five times the normal rate) just to get to the border, at which point I stood in the
middle of the street and started ranting about literal highway robbery. Finally, at around 7am, a bus with a reasonable and compassionate driver rolled through, and we officially set off on our Tanzanian romp.
The border between Rwanda and Tanzania is marked by the Akagera River, and the bridge to cross goes right over beautiful Rusumo Falls. Kyle’s colleague, John from Uganda, tagged along to get his first look at the falls. He turned out to be a total cutup, masterfully mangling English catchphrases with just enough earnestness and charm to have us all belly laughing over our chapattis and tea, which we took on the Rwanda side of the river. After a few token photos of us and the falls, John caught the bus back home, and we submitted our passports to the visa process. We crossed into Tanzania and hiked up a somewhat mammoth hill to get to customs, and amused ourselves to no end by taunting a nearby flock of turkeys while we were waiting for the officials to decide that we wished no harm to their country. Finally, with our passports all inked up in the Tanzanian style, we asked around and found the bus to Kahama.
As we boarded the bus, Loren got a text message from a savvy coworker telling him that the bridge to Kahama was “broken” and that we would be better off taking another route to Moshi. We asked our bus driver about the broken bridge, and he gave us the standard battle cry of the
muzungu-weary: “No problem.” By this time, we had given up hope of reaching Moshi that day due to our late start and our breakfast with John at the falls, so we decided to stick with our Kahama plans and find out what a broken bridge looked like. The dalla dalla (taxi bus) we were on was crowded, and Meghan had about half a seat to herself, but this was expected. We stopped approximately every five seconds to pick up passengers or to just heckle people on the side of the road, trying to convince them that they needed to ride our bus, so
naturally, the journey that was supposed to take three hours quickly became four, with no end in sight. Our dalla dalla pulled off the side of the road at a medium-sized town, and the driver told us that we had to get off, but we could leave all our luggage behind. Yeah, right, we thought, and put our packs on our back as we followed the rest of the passengers up the road, following someone we couldn’t see to a destination we didn’t know. After about half a mile of walking, a bus pulled up in front of us – the same one we had offboarded fifteen minutes before. Everyone piled back on, we shoved our bags back where they came from, and off we went again. Eventually, we came to a long line of trucks, busses and cars, and the dalla dalla stopped again. One of the sharper English speakers with us explained that we had reached the famed bridge, so we all had to get off again. We grabbed our bags and followed the rest of the passengers about a
quarter of a mile up to the broken bridge (it was over a tiny little
stream, but the concrete had completely caved in, and there was no way
for any vehicles to cross). We proceeded to stand around and look at
the bridge for a few minutes until someone told us that we had to go
back to our dalla dalla. We walked the quarter mile back, and gave
our tickets to a man who demanded them. Our questions about what was
going on were met with a few mildly quizzical stares, but mainly just
with total apathy. We settled down in the shade of a huge truck and
waited for instructions. After about half an hour, someone told us to
follow him back to the bridge, which we did. We then proceeded to
follow the stream of passengers as they scrambled down the bank and
forged the stream. Some, like Loren, just waded on through, but
others, like me and Meghan, tried to use the random rocks and drainage
pipes that littered the stream as stepping stones. This nearly cost
Meg her dignity as a lunatic Tanzanian jumped onto a tiny drainage
pipe that she and her giant backpack were still occupying, nearly
shoving her whole ensemble face-first into the stream and forcing her
to make a wild flying leap to the next rock. I managed to dip my toes
in some nasty black sewer mud and didn’t notice until we got onto our
new bus, which earned some glares from the local women, who somehow
manage to remain spotless in all circumstances. Our new bus was very
similar to our old one, but with slightly less padding. We bounced
into Kahama in style at just past the seven hour mark.
The dalla dalla men were extra nice to us, and took us straight to the
big bus park in Kahama. We booked our tickets for Moshi the next
morning, and then were shown to a guesthouse by the ticketing agent.
The guest house cost a little less than $4 each for the night, and had
electricity, a working tap, and beds with mattresses thick enough so
that you couldn’t feel the wooden bedframe. In other words, we were
in heaven. We dumped our stuff and then headed back to towards the
taxi park to get some dinner. Roasted corn from the side of the road
as an appetizer, followed by brochettes and chips cooked in the middle
of the town center with pineapple Fanta (pineapple! Rwanda has never
seen such exoticism) cost us less than $2. We hadn’t known what to
expect of Kahama at all, since it was a last-minute addition to our
itinerary and wasn’t in any of our guidebooks, and all of us were
totally pleasantly surprised. Just a few hundred kilometers south of
the border, Kahama showed us that Tanzania is a completely different
world than our Rwanda. There’s a casualness and a general relaxed
enjoyment of life here that we’ve certainly missed in somber, tense
Rwanda. The streets are still bustling with people after dark, and
when people call out to you, even calling you a muzungu, it’s playful
and lighthearted, rather than demanding or malicious, as I usually
feel it is in Rwanda. We talked to people easily (partly because of
their excellent English, but partly because of their demeanors as
well) and felt comfortable. After a failed attempt to find ice cream,
we trooped back to the guesthouse and crashed.
Day Two: Kahama to Moshi
The bus from Kahama to Moshi was scheduled to leave at 6am, and we had
strict instructions to arrive at the taxi park by 5:30. We left our
hotel in complete darkness, tired and already aching a bit but raring
to go. We ran into Christopher, the ticketing agent from the night
before, on the path from the guesthouse. He was a different man at
this hour of the morning, grumpy and monosyllabic, but the others at
the taxi park were full of life. We were shown to our bus, the
technicolored “Mohammed Express”, which inexplicably had the names and
photographs of every member of the Liverpool Football Club plastered
all over its sides. We had picked seats close to the back of the bus
as those generally seem to have more room, ignoring the advice from
the bus manager (every bus has a driver and a manager-type, who
handles the tickets and deals with passenger issues, of which there
are many), who said that the back would be too bumpy for us. Too
bumpy! Ha! Clearly, he thought we were regular muzungus, not ones
who had braved Rwanda for three months and knew a thing or two about
African busses. The bus took off at 6am sharp (!), and we immediately
realized that we had underestimated the manager’s intelligence. On
the unpaved city streets of Kahama, we were bucked about like jumping
beans. The Mohammed Express was the size of a Greyhound, but with
virtually no shocks or cushions to speak of, and we were sitting
directly above the rear wheel well. We finally reached the main
tarmac road, and with the exception of a few spine-rattling potholes
here and there, we settled in for a comfy ride, enjoying a beautiful
sunrise over Tanzania.
Four hours into our trek, we stopped in Singida for breakfast. I was
delighted to find that chapattis are alive and well in Tanzania, and
that the tea is decidedly different from the standard Rwandan
sugar-milk bilge. During our meal, we met Ada, a girl from a town in
Michigan near where Meghan grew up who was working in Mexico for the
National Public Health Institute and had been sent to Kigali for a few
weeks to teach some local university students to use Stata (turned out
she was working in collaboration with four Berkeley econ students who
had just finished econometrics with the same professor I had three
years ago). She had a week of vacation before heading back to Mexico,
and was using it to somewhat hectically haul across Tanzania and back.
We found an ice cream vendor on the way back to the bus and all
bought chocolate-covered cones for a dollar, happy as kids at the
circus. Heeding the bus manager’s warning that the road was no longer
paved and the ride would be heinous, I snagged a seat right at the
front of the bus. This turned out to be one of the best decisions of
my young life. I was sitting directly behind and to the left of the
driver, so I could stretch my legs out onto the odd little padded
section next to him while leaning back in my seat. The front of the
bus doesn’t feel the horrifying lack of suspension like the back does,
so I could nap and read in total comfort. It was essentially like
cruising along the Tanzanian plains in a Lay-Z-Boy. I eventually
moved my whole body down onto the padded section, so I was stretched
out front and center in the bus’s window, basking in the sun, enjoying
the scenery, loving life.
The bus manager was sitting on the steps next to me and clearly took a
shining to me because I am blond and have breasts. Once he had
established that I was 23 years old (too young for him) and already in
a relationship, he became a pretty great seatmate. He was loud and
opinionated but very funny, and he would lean out of the window at
pitstops and buy treats like cookies and guavas for me and Loren, who
had by this time joined me up front. We had protracted discussions on
the difference between Shia and Suni Muslims, the existence of God,
and, weirdly enough, Mark Wahlberg (that is, we talked about Mark
Wahlberg, not the existence of Mark Wahlberg, which was never
questioned). He was upset that I had never read the Holy Quaraan and
made me promise to find an English copy in Dar es Salaam to read on
the beach in Zanzibar. He talked about his kids and his country,
especially his hometown of Arusha, with the utmost of pride. He’s the
kind of person that I’ve been happy to meet in Africa, and just as
happy to wave goodbye to at the end of the ride and never see again.
Like our dalla dalla on the previous day, the Mohammed Express had a
tough time meeting the extremely optimistic 10-hour time limit that
its owners had placed on our trip to Moshi. We neared Arusha at
around the 12-hour mark, just as it was beginning to get dark. We
were told that the Mohammed was stopping there, and the manager would
find another bus that was going on to Moshi for us to get on. This
turned out to be more difficult than anyone had anticipated, but
finally a bus was located and we piled on with our bags. The driver
and his posse tried to get us to pay extra money for all permutations
of possible extras, like 2,000 Tsh for our bags, or a 1,500 Tsh
transfer fee, or 3,000 Tsh because it was dark. We shot down all of
these demands and sat stone-faced in our seats, clutching our bags,
until they gave up and we started moving. It was dark by this time,
and it quickly became apparent that the headlights on our new bus
weren’t really up to par. It looked as though they only had parking
lights, and both the regular headlights and the brights were out of
commission. So, in this crippled tin bus with about twenty people
standing in the narrow aisle, we crawled from Arusha to Moshi. The
journey that normally takes about 45 minutes took us two and a half
hours, and we rolled into Moshi at 9:05pm, just over fifteen hours
since we had left Kahama. We found our way to the Kilimanjaro
Backpackers’ Hotel and booked rooms for $9 each per night, ate cheese
and chicken sandwiches from the bar upstairs, and slept.
Day Three: Moshi Town
We woke up at sunrise after what might have been the best night’s
sleep I’ve ever had. The mattresses at the KBH were thick and soft,
and the thin blankets were just enough to keep us warm in the already
balmy night air. We’re in Moshi during the low low season, and I
can’t imagine being here during the “hot” half of the year. Looking
out our window, we caught our first glance of Moshi in the sunlight.
I know that this is largely because I’ve been in Rwanda for three
months, where the buildings are a little homogenous and not too easy
on the eyes, but when I caught my first glance of Moshi town in the
sunlight, I thought of Paris. Many buildings here are old and so have
a charming run-down look to them. The strong Muslim influence in this
country leads to some interesting architecture, with far more curves
and circles than I’ve been used to. Basically, Moshi feels like a
city, and my oh my I have missed the city. Our windows looked out
over a hodgepodge of balconies where people were drying laundry,
laughing and chatting, preparing breakfast, enjoying the morning. The
sunrise was beautiful.
Meghan and I poked around the hotel until we found the breakfast
spread, which consisted of coffee, tea, milk, bread, butter, jam and
watermelon. Coffee, butter and watermelon are definitely not part of
my regular food rotation nowadays, so I tucked right in and totally
enjoyed the breakfast. The top floor of the KBH overlooks Moshi’s
main street. The view is obstructed just a bit by some trees right in
front of the entrance, but these trees are teeming with tiny birds
that are hilarious to watch. They’re so jumpy that they seem like
they’re moving in stop-frame animation, ceasing to exist in one place
and then reappearing in another, rather than actually moving around.
Loren came to breakfast and told us that the hot shower in the hotel
would give us pause, so I finished up and headed to the shower room.
It is not possible to hype this shower too much. For one, it’s HOT.
As in, you turn on the hot tap, and hot water comes out, and doesn’t
stop coming out until you turn the hot tap off again. It’s also got a
constant stream of water with a wide diameter and consistent excellent
pressure. Also, the shower room is big and white and clean and has a
drain in the lowest corner, so all the water flows right on into it.
There’s a ledge to put your shampoo on, and multiple hooks on the door
for your towel and clothes. After months of “showering” in dark
cement rooms with icy buckets of water and a single hole in the floor,
trying not to get our clothes wet as we scrunched them in the driest
corner, this shower was beyond amazing. We all stayed in for about
half an hour each, reinforcing my fear that at the end of this year, I
might become a resource-gobbling inconsiderate beast, rather than the
more conscious and respectful person that I was hoping for. We’ll
see.
Loren and I set off to wander around Moshi town. It feels kind of
like a college town on the weekends; a little sleepy but happy and
relaxed, totally comfortable. There are all the usual alimentations
and fabric shops, but there was also an ice cream parlor and an animal
health clinic and lots of cool stuff being hocked on the street.
There are people all over with little medicine stands, who can whip
you up a cure for everything from malaria to back problems from their
hundreds of little bottles of brightly colored powders and seeds. I
bought a delicious, unnamed piece of food that seemed kind of like a
deep fried crumpet from a woman who had a bunch of them in a bucket.
They also sell chapatti on the street here, as if chapattis need to be
easier to access. We caught up with Kyle and Meghan and spent the
rest of the day relaxing in the town. Yummy coconut curry for lunch,
Fantas at the hotel roof with our books, a walk beyond the main strip
to find a primary school with cool murals and classrooms, all in view
of the snow-capped tip of Mt. Kilimanjaro.
For dinner, we headed to the rooftop bar of the nearby Kindoronko
Hotel, which got top marks from our friend Jane and was frankly one of
the main reasons we decided to stay in Moshi, rather than Arusha. The
view is nothing short of amazing. The sunset over the town to the
west was gorgeous, and to the north, Kilimanjaro is stretched out in
all its glory. Every cheesy cliché about this mountain seemed true.
It’s breathtaking, awe-inspiring, it’s Africa’s rooftop. We pulled
the bar’s tall, comfy chairs up to the edge of the roof facing the
mountain and enjoyed delicious local wines, beers and ciders for
equally delicious prices. I hadn’t had red wine since moving Jane
into her Nyanza house. Sitting and relaxing with good food and drink
and good friends in that perfect climate, my biggest dilemma being
whether to focus on the sunset or Kili, I was having a pretty epic
life moment. I thought of the family and friends I wished could be
there with me. I thought of eleven of you in particular, one by one,
and said a little toast to each in my head. We watched Kili till it
was out of sight, then played a nail-biter best-two-out-of-three game
of Yukka, which Loren and I won as Meghan’s alertness waned. We had
mangoes for desert, walked two doors down to our own hotel, and
climbed back into those crazy comfy beds, tipsy and happy.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Jamie’s compassion
Last night there was a sheep stuck in the cattle grid. Dark, cold, snow on the ground and in the sky, we carefully made our way down the drive through the slush towards our abode and there it was, this docile and benign mound of wool just stuck there like some insane gatekeeper standing out in a blizzard to greet the midnight arrivals. We almost didn’t see it. Indeed we would have walked right past, were it not for its instinctive (and rather short lived) attempt to avoid us, which of course was thwarted by the circumstances. Can’t just leave it there. It could freeze, or get run over. So I went back up to the hotel to enlist some good men to help me help the sheep. After talking the situation over with the kitchen staff and realizing that none of us had ever handled a sheep, in walks Jamie (the new trial manager from New Zealand).
Jamie, I said. You’re from New Zealand, have you ever handled a sheep?
Yes. Why? He replied suspiciously. (No doubt my question reminded him of an unrelated matter I had mentioned to him earlier, wherein as a prank I had planned to acquire a sheep and put it in someone’s bedroom.)
There’s a sheep stuck in the cattle grid, I said.
That was all I had to say, he was out the door, didn’t even bring his jacket. And there’s Jamie standing at the end of the drive in a snow storm in his white shirt and tie lifting this sheep out of the cattle grid. An image forever burned into my mind. The night we learned of Jamie’s compassion towards animals.
The weather in this country is so incredibly changeable. Arctic winds from the north have brought freezing temperatures and snow back to us. We are being told these conditions should last for about a week. It has been snowing here for three days, before that the rain hadn’t stopped in almost 3 weeks.
The poor weather conditions are becoming increasingly more bothersome as we look to prepare for our cycle trip. Our aim is to get as much riding in as possible on our days off, but in this weather it is difficult. Weather aside though, we have been slowly collecting all the gear we need and planning the logistics for the beginning of the trip. We have bought a pair of new touring bikes off the internet; if all goes to plan they should be arriving in the next day or two. Also, we bought some regional maps covering the north of France to get an idea in our minds of the start of our route. They cover all the way from Dieppe and the Normandy coast down to the Loire valley. Nicki is pretty excited about cycling through the Loire. And, sort of by accident, it looks like we might be cycling along the D-day coast on the anniversary of D-day. So we’ve marked these maps up mostly with campsite locations to get us started and as we head further south we will buy maps and plan as we go.
The list of stuff we still need:
Panniers
Cycle gloves
Water bottles / holders
Cycle shorts
Tools / spares
Sunglasses
A repair kit for my thermarest
Dry bags
Travel pillow
Extra sarong
Extra bike lights
Extra loud bike horn?
We are thinking of leaving here around the 20th of May (ish), then doing some touring in Scotland before we head south. The tricky thing there is that a lot of our camping stuff is down in Brighton, and we have a few things up here we wouldn’t want to carry on the bikes. This means trying to fit an extra trip to Brighton in sometime in the next month. Also, there is an area of Scotland called Wester Ross. It lies in the far North West corner of Scotland, and comprises some of the most rugged and remote terrain in the UK. I would love to go there before we leave
Jamie, I said. You’re from New Zealand, have you ever handled a sheep?
Yes. Why? He replied suspiciously. (No doubt my question reminded him of an unrelated matter I had mentioned to him earlier, wherein as a prank I had planned to acquire a sheep and put it in someone’s bedroom.)
There’s a sheep stuck in the cattle grid, I said.
That was all I had to say, he was out the door, didn’t even bring his jacket. And there’s Jamie standing at the end of the drive in a snow storm in his white shirt and tie lifting this sheep out of the cattle grid. An image forever burned into my mind. The night we learned of Jamie’s compassion towards animals.
The weather in this country is so incredibly changeable. Arctic winds from the north have brought freezing temperatures and snow back to us. We are being told these conditions should last for about a week. It has been snowing here for three days, before that the rain hadn’t stopped in almost 3 weeks.
The poor weather conditions are becoming increasingly more bothersome as we look to prepare for our cycle trip. Our aim is to get as much riding in as possible on our days off, but in this weather it is difficult. Weather aside though, we have been slowly collecting all the gear we need and planning the logistics for the beginning of the trip. We have bought a pair of new touring bikes off the internet; if all goes to plan they should be arriving in the next day or two. Also, we bought some regional maps covering the north of France to get an idea in our minds of the start of our route. They cover all the way from Dieppe and the Normandy coast down to the Loire valley. Nicki is pretty excited about cycling through the Loire. And, sort of by accident, it looks like we might be cycling along the D-day coast on the anniversary of D-day. So we’ve marked these maps up mostly with campsite locations to get us started and as we head further south we will buy maps and plan as we go.
The list of stuff we still need:
Panniers
Cycle gloves
Water bottles / holders
Cycle shorts
Tools / spares
Sunglasses
A repair kit for my thermarest
Dry bags
Travel pillow
Extra sarong
Extra bike lights
Extra loud bike horn?
We are thinking of leaving here around the 20th of May (ish), then doing some touring in Scotland before we head south. The tricky thing there is that a lot of our camping stuff is down in Brighton, and we have a few things up here we wouldn’t want to carry on the bikes. This means trying to fit an extra trip to Brighton in sometime in the next month. Also, there is an area of Scotland called Wester Ross. It lies in the far North West corner of Scotland, and comprises some of the most rugged and remote terrain in the UK. I would love to go there before we leave
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Contest
Greetings everyone from neverneverstan, the land of I can't tell you anything. Eventually I'm sure I'll be able to mention again where I really am but I'm playing it cool for the time being just to be sure. Things are going well here, wherever here is, I get to do stuff, and there's uhm, people, and things, and the people do stuff too, and it all might be really interesting or it might be really boring. Can't really say. Anyway.
Thanks to sister for planting the seed for this idea: The one-time-only Opsec Censorship Blog Mad-Lib contest is now underway! The rules are simple - all you have to do is take one of my previous blog posts and replace all the occurrences with your own ideas and send it back to me. This is completely no-holds-barred, any theme, content, subject matter, and/or language is acceptable. Entries will be judged by me, solely on the basis of how entertaining I find them. If I decide your submission is the best you'll not only get your entry posted in the blog, you'll also receive one of the following: A free dinner date at an awesome restaurant (if you're female) or a free night of drinking at an establishment of your choosing (if you're not). I'll be accepting entries until whenever I lose track of time and stop, so don't miss out - send your submission via email as soon as you can!
Hope to hear from everyone soon, bye for now!
Thanks to sister for planting the seed for this idea: The one-time-only Opsec Censorship Blog Mad-Lib contest is now underway! The rules are simple - all you have to do is take one of my previous blog posts and replace all the
Hope to hear from everyone soon, bye for now!
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