Sixty-thousand miles

Ike & Tina, home safe!

2008-03-02T17:11:00.000-08:00

R.I.P. Sony CyberShot

2008-03-01T19:02:00.000-08:00

The timing is perfect. Weirdly perfect, in fact--our camera finally died on us, five days after getting home.

As some of you know, our camera got a little taste of Mediterranean saltwater last October, and since then we've had it on an informal "death watch", waiting to see when corrosion would get the best of it. We'd noticed a gradual decline in picture quality over the past few months--it became more and more difficult to get things like focus and exposure correct. We found ourselves taking multiple shots of a subject, hoping at least one would be sharp and in focus.

Finally back home, it gave up completely. We're not able to shoot much of anything anymore--notice Jacqueline's hand:

So long li'l CyberShot, you served us well :-(

Gung hee fat choy

2008-02-26T21:13:00.000-08:00

Hello everybody, we made it home in one piece.

We were just in time to check out the Chinese New Year festivities (I like to imagine it as our Homecoming Parade;-) and it was a good reintroduction to the city. Strangely giddy, we stood out in the freezing rain in Union Square, waving and clapping at the floats going by; marching bands were dressed in giant rain ponchos and even the big dragons were covered in clear plastic bags for protection. We worked our way over to the Buddha bar on Grant St and drank Anchor Steam as firecrackers blew up right outside the door. Ahh, home.

For the most part SF looks pretty much like we left it. The past six months have raced by, and in many ways it feels like we've barely been gone. Some people have asked us if we've gained any great insights or been changed by the trip.... um, well, yes and no (sorry to be so cryptic) ...I think those kinds of topics are far less interesting on a blog than they are over drinks, over the phone late at night or at some kind of dinner party... So, maybe later:-)

We're slowly adjusting to life at home...we've been going through piles of mail, reactivating cellphones and subscriptions, and getting ourselves reaquainted with the contents of our closets, cupboards and drawers. It's a pleasure wearing our "real" clothes again, and not the same REI/quickdry/tourist gear over and over. It might sound odd, but we're very happy to be cooking our own food in our own kitchen again. Oh yeah and doing our own laundry in our own building is pretty satisfying too.

We're not quite done with the blog yet; I'll be posting photos from Argentina and Ecuador soon, maybe some additional ones from Chile and New Zealand (I was also thinking of writing a post or two about the logistics of the trip, fill in some blanks, we'll see..)

Polynesian tango

2008-02-17T23:01:00.001-08:00

Every February Easter Island hosts the Tapati Festival, consisting of numerous Polynesian cultural performances and competitions. It's Easter Island's single biggest tourist draw (en route, we noticed the festival schedule and brochure were placed in our airline seat pockets). Luckily we had made our hotel reservations last July: almost every room on the island was booked for the month.

Competitions (surfing, turtle races etc) were held during the day, but in keeping with Hanga Roa's semi-nocturnal lifestyle, dances and performances didn't take place until well after 10pm. I fought my latenight exhaustion and wandered down to the fairgrounds on two separate nights. The main stage was decked out in classic Polynesian kitch (and anyone who knows me, knows I'm a complete sucker for Polynesian kitch). Looking very Ferdinand & Imelda Marcos, the two emcees arrived with great fanfare. Imelda was decked out in a glowing chartreuse mumu and feather boa; Ferdinand wore a classic tropical combo of white slacks/hawaiian shirt with a massive feather headdress. Throughout the night they addressed the exuberant crowd first in Rapanui, then in Spanish. A few cursory sentences in English were offered to those of us gringos in attendance.

It was impressive seeing dozens of people on stage, drumming clapping and stomping, performing variations of the Hakka in perfect synchronization. It was also interesting seeing the degree to which South American music had influenced the local culture: the island-wide tango competition(!) was a big deal to the locals. The dancers' moves were formal/traditional tango, and though the music's tempo and rhythm were perfect for the tango-dancing couples, the instrumentation (guitar etc) was explicitly Hawaiian. Islanders had also adopted the bandoneon; this accordion-like instrument gave a strange zydeco feel to many of the dances and musical numbers.

Relaxed in the middle of nowhere

2008-02-17T09:56:00.001-08:00

The flight from Santiago to Easter Island takes a little over four-and-a-half hours. Compared to the many long-hauls we've been on lately, it didn't seem like much time at all: eat, nap, watch a movie, and we're there. No problem. It was easy for me to imagine Easter Island somewhere right off the coast of Chile, the same way Hawaii is always shown just west of Tijuana on US maps. But it turns out Rapa Nui is a long way from South America--it’s halfway to Tahiti, and it’s supposedly the most remote inhabited island in the world.

The first impressions we got were of a pristine, primitive Hawaii. LanChile is the island's sole carrier, and it only operates a twice-weekly flight (as a stopping point between Tahiti and Santiago); the airport is all of two large rooms, including the open-air baggage claim. The tourist industry, such as it is, is pretty low profile. Though there's a luxury hotel somewhere on the island, every other hotel is of the informal family-owned variety (ten rooms or less, eat breakfast & socialize with the owners in their kitchen, etc).

Our small hotel was owned by a Rapanui woman and her Australian husband. I mentioned to them how I felt like I was in a Polynesian time capsule; they told me they have many Hawaiian visitors who believe Easter Island closely resembles the pre-WW II, pre-statehood Hawaii.

The Rapanui language, similar to both Hawaiian and Maori, is in common usage and seems to be preferred to Spanish (both Rapanui and Spanish are official languages). Most streets here are potholed dirt roads; walls and fences are made of lava rock; corrugated metal roofs are red with rust and obscured by giant palm tree leaves. Chickens and horses wander the streets (we saw a few near-accidents between cars and horses); the horses are relaxed and obviously well cared-for; everyone knows which animal belongs to which ranch so nobody seems to bother locking them up.

The island’s only town, Hanga Roa, shuts down during the late afternoon heat (they've happily adopted Chile’s "siesta schedule") but comes alive later with bustling cafes and restaurants, busy till way after midnight. The monumental moai heads are everywhere, in various states of decay or restoration. They're an incredible & intimidating sight, an unexpected presence as you come around a corner or over a hill. But they soon become strangely comforting and familiar, like benevolent sentries looking out over the island. Each one takes on it's own personality; they're endearing mascots to the locals.

Valparaíso

2008-02-11T10:18:00.000-08:00

Flickr won't play nice with me today, so instead of a slideshow I'm just posting some photos directly--

Valparaíso is an unofficial "sister city" to San Francisco. Since it was one of the last stops for boats on the way to SF during the gold rush, the two cities had extensive social & economic ties; many Chileans ended up in SF (several old prominent bay area families have Chilean roots), and likewise quite a few Americans & Europeans ended up in Valparaíso. There are almost as many German & Irish surnames here as there are Spanish ones.

There are also some very obvious physical similarities; we often felt like we were strolling some of the seedier parts of the Mission or Potrero Hill. Foggy and overcast (at least while we were there), Valparaíso's hills are a jumble of victorian homes, corrugated metal lean-tos, stray cats and scrub grass. Like SF, Valparaíso has a high concentration of design studios, art galleries & hip restaurants; in lieu of cable cars, there are many rickety & crumbling funiculars that take people up and down the steep inclines.

Needless to say, we felt right at home.

Where the hell am I ?

2008-02-03T09:13:00.000-08:00

The travel-related vertigo is starting to kick in. Immediately after arriving at our Santiago hotel, we both fell down on top of the bed covers, exhausted from our long flight. I was woken from a DEEP sleep by a knock on the door (turn-down service or mini-bar inventory or something, I never figured it out); in my semi-conscious state I stumbled off of the bed and toward the door; for a few seconds I was convinced I was still in New Zealand and I couldn't figure out why I was being spoken to in Spanish.

Slideshow: Franz Josef & Fox Glaciers

2008-02-01T18:41:00.000-08:00

For larger photos click here; no captions as yet.

We took a helicopter tour over Franz Josef Glacier & Mount Cook; we landed on top of Fox Glacier long enough to have a quick snowball fight.

The pilot couldn't resist showing off with some reckless dives and turns around the mountain sides. We were happy to learn that our helicopter can bank at a 50-degree angle without losing power or control:-)

R.I.P. Sir Edmund

2008-01-28T19:16:00.000-08:00

Edmund Hillary passed away the day before our arrival in Auckland. Here in NZ flags have been at half mast; notes and flowers have been collecting in front of the various Hillary statues and portraits that dot the country; newspapers are filled with reflective anecdotes about his life.

We were in Queenstown the day of his funeral; on television we watched the Auckland procession and ceremonies that included large Nepali and Maori contingents.

Hillary was knighted by Queen Elizabeth (apparently it was one of the first things she did upon ascending the throne), and there were some ruffled feathers in the NZ press (to put it nicely) when it was found out the royal family had no plans to send any representatives to the funeral.

Sydney food

2008-01-27T05:08:00.000-08:00

Our best meal of the entire trip, hands down: a place called Est. Maybe the best meal we’ve had in the past year, even.

Sydney is considered a culinary rival to SF, and we arrived armed with a list of restaurants, cafés, patisseries, delis, bakeries and takeouts that had all received glowing reviews from the press or recommendations from fellow visitors. The list didn’t prove very helpful though. Turns out that Sydney pretty much shuts down in January, and almost every single place on our list was closed for the month. After a few fruitless cab rides and metro trips, we learned to call ahead.

Sydney is home to some of the nicest McDonalds I’ve ever seen. They almost look... upmarket(!?) Modern & spacious with a pseudo Jonathan Adler design aesthetic; faux leather and woodgrain. One downtown branch had pillars, chandeliers and a cathedral ceiling. Oh, and they’re all pristine. After India, it was a strange thrill to actually see employees wiping down tables and mopping floors. Ahh, beautiful.

The perfect city

2008-01-26T03:43:00.000-08:00

A Sydney cabbie asked us where we were from. "San Francisco? Our twin city!" he remarked at our answer.

Sydney and SF are often compared to one another; both are scenic coastal towns with similar cultural and culinary scenes (and iconic bridges, of course). I’m not sure this is entirely fair to Sydney: At its heart, San Francisco is still a shabby frontier town, no matter how expensive it gets or how respectable it pretends to be. Sydney, on the other hand, is strangely perfect. The city is safe, clean, modern and sprawling, with pleasant contemporary architecture, good infrastructure, and determinedly cheerful inhabitants. It’s scorching hot in the summer (that would be January), and there’s an almost complete lack of graffiti or panhandlers. It’s Scottsdale with a harbor.

Sydney is pretty quiet for a city of four million--most businesses and retail outlets close up around 5pm. Sydneysiders, though, treat themselves to one night a week to stay out 'late': stores are open till 9pm on Thursdays.

I can’t offhand think of two cities that are more different from each other than Mumbai and Sydney; Jacqueline and I experienced some real culture shock in flying directly from the former to the latter. In Sydney we were thrilled with the novelty of being able to drink tap water and eat food without getting violently ill, and relieved at the general ease of life here. But the calm and cleanliness and efficiency of Sydney seem…well, colorless. And empty. I felt like an ingrate for not appreciating it or embracing it.

Technology

2008-01-20T15:10:00.000-08:00

Outside of Jodhpur, our bus stopped for a roadside bathroom break. Several of us walked over to a nearby water wheel. The elderly farmer proudly showed us the elaborate pulley system that hoisted water buckets out of a deep well, powered by an ox that moved the wheel. To irrigate his crops, the farmer spent hours a day riding his ox around in circles. His wife and family washed clothes on the rocks nearby. I was impressed with the inventiveness of the system, even as I pondered how it can take so much time and effort to do something as basic as retrieving water.

I turned around and noticed Jacqueline talking to a young boy, maybe about 10 or 12 years old. My headphones were on his ears, and he was staring at the iPod in Jacqueline’s hands. She was smiling, showing him how the controls worked, playing music and showing videos on the small screen. His jaw was slack and his eyes were transfixed; he looked disbelievingly at Jacqueline. Afterwards on the bus we wondered if the boy would tell all his friends about the strange spaceship that had landed on his family’s farm.

Slideshow: Waitomo caves

2008-01-20T13:29:00.000-08:00

To see the full-size slideshow with captions, click here.

In the news...

2008-01-09T08:06:00.000-08:00

...Madonna and family have been closely following our footsteps through Rajasthan and Mumbai (Though it looks like they're enjoying much nicer accommodations).

Slideshow: Jaisalmer to Mumbai

2008-01-09T04:26:00.000-08:00

Click here to see photos full-size with captions.

Notes on "Most Disturbing"

2008-01-09T04:04:00.000-08:00

Peter, one of our travel-mates, was sitting in our room late at night. He was relating a story to Jacqueline about a legless man with shoes on his hands, pulling himself through the street. I was fumbling with the laptop, half-asleep and only half listening; I absent-mindedly asked "Was he naked??" Waves of confused laughter from the two of them. I’m not sure exactly why I assumed the guy was naked, but it seemed plausible to me. We then talked about how India sharpens one’s sense of the sick and absurd. It got to be a common question people in our group asked each other: "What’s the most disturbing thing you saw today?"

From these conversations comes this unofficial, still-being-compiled list of some of the more unsettling things we’ve seen in India. They’re not in any particular order, and perhaps I’ll be adding to the list as I remember more.

- - - - - -

On the express train from Delhi to Agra, a cross-eyed & legless boy dragged himself down the aisle, tugging on peoples’ sleeves, asking for spare change and collecting the garbage/recyclables from our back seat pockets.

- - - - - -

In Delhi, as we sat on a tuk-tuk momentarily idling at a busy roundabout, a man hobbled up to us, dodging traffic, wincing in pain, naked except for a turban and loincloth. His loincloth, however, was pushed completely aside by the giant brown beach ball he tenderly balanced between his legs as he shuffled--he had scrotal elephantiasis(!!), something I had always thought was mere urban legend. The beach ball dangled down about mid-calf, and seemed in danger of hitting neighboring vehicles. "Money for medicine! Money for medicine!" he pleaded to us in a gravelly Tom Waits voice. We knew we were witness to something unique when even our tuk-tuk driver recoiled from the sight--he seemed genuinely spooked, and tore us out of our gridlock as soon as he saw the slightest opening in the traffic.

- - - - - -

In Bombay, stopped at an intersection, a handless beggar put his forearm stump through our cab window and asked for some rupees. Another day, at another intersection, a young man completely covered in blistered burned scar flesh (face, chest, and arms; he barely looked human)--leaned into our cab and asked for money (yes, I suppose I should know by now to keep my window rolled up, but it gets so hot). It had been mentioned to us several times that families sometimes deform their children on purpose—set them on fire, cut out their tongues, etc—to increase their "earning power" as beggars.

- - - - - -

Beyond that, there are the more common deformities we noticed: missing arms or legs, people with strangely “reversed” knee joints who walk around on all fours like dogs or horses. There are countless people with disabilities that seem treatable: basic limps, cleft palettes, cataracts... Evelyn (a longtime resident of Mozambique) shook her head: "It’s amazing. It’s like home; people die from completely stupid things like toothaches."

- - - - - -

In the muddy, open-sewered streets of Jaisalmer, feral pigs engaged in violent turf-wars with feral dogs. When walking, we tried to give them a wide berth. Some of our travel-mates saw a puppy shaken to death in the jaws of a big mamma-pig; this was what had set off the last round of animal violence & retribution near our hotel.

- - - - - -

Also in Jaisalmer, whenever walking back and forth between our hotel and the internet café next door, a rabid dog with hip dysplasia excitedly stumbled/wobbled after us with his mouth full of foamy saliva. We would throw rocks at him to keep him at bay.

Slideshow: Jaipur to the Thar Desert

2008-01-09T04:01:00.000-08:00

Click here to see larger pictures and captions.

Bollywood best!

2008-01-07T05:24:00.000-08:00

In India, people take movies very seriously. A rainy afternoon in Varanasi, a group of us piled into several tuk-tuks and went to the local multiplex. Jacqueline was already at the box office when I caught up with her, and a young Indian man was pleading with her not to see Om Shanti Om. "No, no, don’t do it-! It’s boring-! You have to see Aaja Nachle instead-! It will blow your mind-! Please!! It is amazing, it’s the best movie I’ve ever seen-!"

We saw Om Shanti Om anyways, as planned. It’s a brilliantly sentimental, color-saturated musical comedy/romance/ghost story/Bollywood satire/revenge tale that involves karma and reincarnation as plot points, and it’s one of the most popular Bollywood films to come out in decades. It’s entirely in Hindi (except for a few smatterings of English) and though there were no subtitles, it didn’t really matter. We were hooked.

Life in India is difficult, of course, and Bollywood films are pure escapism: beautiful musical numbers, elaborately choreographed dance sequences, over-the-top acting, incredible cinematography and set design. Imagine Pedro Almodovar, Quentin Tarantino & Andrew Lloyd Webber collaborating together on an MGM musical. It’s easy to see how cinema is so interwoven into life here. Dance moves are emulated; movie dialogue and song lyrics are taken to heart and often find their way into everyday conversation.

We ended up seeing Aaja Nachle too, a week later when we were in Jaipur. A paper-thin plot, but it was great anyways: after many years, the protagonist (a successful NYC dance instructor) returns to her small Indian hometown to save her old dance school from the bulldozers. We went to the 7pm showing at the giant mid-century theater that is a bit of a Jaipur landmark. The venue was a crucial part of the interactive experience: the crowd whistled and clapped at the previews; howled and cheered at the heroine; jeered and hissed at the bad guys; clapped and sang along with the musical numbers. As the credits rolled, people spontaneously clapped, waved and danced in the aisles. As the lights started coming up, a large group of laughing, dancing teens were amazed to see the group of white people a few rows behind them. They wanted to know how we liked the movie, and all cheered "Bollywood best!!! Bollywood best!!" when we gave them the thumbs-up.

The layover

2008-01-07T04:55:00.000-08:00

From Udaipur, it was going to take us two days by train and bus through Gujarat to get to Mumbai. We decided to just book a cheap flight and enjoy the extra time in Mumbai rather than suffer through more transport headaches. Our flight was cheap because it involved a layover in Delhi. Our first leg was late in landing and we were worried about missing our connection; the flight attendant smiled and told us not to worry, she was sure our connecting flight would most certainly be late in departing.

Arriving in Delhi, we found ourselves in a crowd, staring disbelieving at the giant television screens in the terminal. Benazir Bhutto had just been assassinated, and we had never experienced an airport so eerily quiet. It had happened only 30 minutes prior to our landing, and the details were still scarce and contradictory. People stood with jaws open, hands on foreheads, whispering to companions or fumbling with cell phones. I saw one middle-aged man close to tears.

Most of our group was still in Rajasthan, close to the Pakistan border, preparing for the train the next morning (India put its border states on high alert, canceling cross-border traffic, and though everyone in our group eventually made it to Mumbai, at the time we wondered if they would be stranded). We spent our time wondering what was going to happen here on the subcontinent over the next few days, months, years.

I'm not sure what I can compare the experience to; but its unsettling to see something like this up close when you feel like an outsider.

Slideshow: Delhi and Agra

2008-01-02T02:44:00.000-08:00

For larger photos with captions, click here.

Our last night in India

2008-01-01T06:25:00.000-08:00

I woke up from a strangely pleasant dream--a mishmash of dancing horses, Rajasthanis with turbans and giant mustaches, office cubicles, laptops, fluorescent lights, and cool breezes over open water. I felt completely relaxed; I was in such a deep sleep it took me a few moments to figure out I was on my back in a toilet stall in a Bombay bar. My shins were up against the toilet; my head was nestled under the small sink. I slowly stood up and took several deep breaths. Two cockroaches and some cigarette butts on the floor. After a couple seconds sewer water started to back up and gurgle through a floor drain and pool around the toilet--I felt pretty lucky to have woken up before I got soaked. I felt pretty lucky I hadn’t cracked my head on the sink.

I had started feeling vaguely queasy earlier that afternoon, but wasn’t especially concerned (hey, it’s India, after all...pepto bismol has been our best friend here). Jacqueline and I took a taxi to the bar; we were excited to meet up again with the rest of our group for one last farewell dinner. It was a shabby Edwardian-style tavern, a dark-wood and wicker and ceiling fan sort of place; imagine the Cheers bar after several years of neglect. It was packed and sweaty. Our group had taken over the small back room; we were chatting, just ordering drinks and food when Jacqueline noticed I was looking pale. I excused myself, and pushed through the crowd. The stench of the bathroom helped accelerate the process--hands braced on the wall, I stood over the toilet and hurled repeatedly. I have a fuzzy recollection of wiping my face with tissue, and that’s about it.

After my little nap, I opened the sliding door and wobbled out of the stall; two Indian guys at the urinals looked at me wide-eyed. I looked at myself in the mirror; a few vomit spatters on my dress shirt, and enough sweat on my face and neck to look like I was slathered in baby oil. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped myself off.

I returned to our table, feeling weirdly energized. “How long was I gone for?” I got to whisper to Jacqueline. “I just passed out in the bathroom. But I feel good now.” Jacqueline suggested we leave, but I wanted to stay.

We remained for another 30 minutes before my adrenaline wore off and the smell of the just-arrived tandoori and daal started my stomach gurgling again. I was flattered that two of our travel companions insisted on hugging me goodbye, even after I said "You’re kidding!! I’ve just been on the bathroom floor!"

It wasn’t until we got back to our hotel that we noticed the dark bruise that stretched across my ribs on my right side. I was up most the night and following morning, half-feverish, sitting on the toilet and clutching the trash can. Over the course of the night I slowly discovered other painful areas I must have hit when I fell—my tailbone, left hip, left ear, left temple and eye socket...the end of three weeks in India, what better way to make an exit?

Slideshow: Varanasi

2008-01-01T00:39:00.000-08:00

Click here for captions and larger pictures.

From Nepal to India...and back

2007-12-31T10:05:00.000-08:00

Jacqueline and I just passed a milestone--one of those rite-of-passage things vaguely like getting a drivers license or having your first legal beer. Yes, that’s right, we were deported for the first time, and it was also our first experience in bribing immigration officers. We feel very grown up now.

The short version is something like this: our Nepal visas expired. They made us leave. They walked us over the border to India. All our stuff was still in Nepal. We paid off a few people, on both the Indian side and Nepali side, to be able to cross back over into Nepal.

The longer version requires an explanation about Nepal visas. There are two types: a free "temporary" visa for those people staying three nights or less, and a $50 "extended" visa for those people staying longer. Upon our return to the Kathmandu airport from Tibet, we got the free visa. We were only staying three nights before leaving with our tour group for India. We met up with our people, and on the third day we started our trip down to the Nepal/India border. Abhi, our group organizer, informed us we would be staying overnight in Bharahiya, on the Nepal side, before crossing over the next morning. We were a little concerned--our understanding was that we’d be staying on the Indian side of the border that night. The extra night in Nepal meant overstaying our visas. No problem, he told us, it happens all the time. People decide to stay longer, and they just pay up for the extended visa. We can take care of it at Immigration when we get to Bharahiya. OK, great. But then, to our alarm, we looked closely at our passports and noticed too late that immigration in Kathmandu had written the wrong expiration dates on our visas--they had mistakenly given us two days instead of three. We had already overstayed our visas and didn’t even know it. We were a little nervous--we suddenly had two potential complications--but Abhi assured us again that it wouldn’t be a problem.

After checking in to our seedy border-town hotel in the afternoon, we went to Nepal immigration, a small compound right at the border. We explained our situation to an official; we showed her our passports, the date on our Lhasa/Kathmandu boarding passes; and inquired about extending/upgrading our visas. The conversation was circular, with many of the same exchanges repeated several times, but in essence it went like this:

“No, no. We can’t do that here, only in Kathmandu. This is expired, you have to leave right now.”

“Can’t you extend it!?”

“No extend. You have to leave now. You can’t stay. You go to India now.”

“uh…ok. We’ll walk over to India. We’ll get a stamp and come right back, yes?”

“No. You can’t come back the same day you leave. 24 hours minimum. Maybe you come back to Nepal tomorrow.”

“We can’t do that. We’re with a group of people. We leave with them tomorrow. All our stuff is in our hotel here. Why can’t we extend?”

“No you have to go now. You can’t stay here. You go now.”

Nepali guards escorted us to the large Indian flag twenty yards from the compound. Assorted pedestrians, rickshaws, trucks, and livestock inched their way along the dusty dirt road that connected the two countries. We tried to convince ourselves we could sort everything out on the other side. We walked past the Indian sentries into Sounali’s main street, a wide dirt road choked with trucks, carts, cows, feral dogs and taxis. Food stalls and endless rows of small shops lined either side; car horns, touts, beggars and rickshaw riders all competed for our attention. Indian immigration was hard to spot, hidden amidst the tightly packed buildings and all the miscellaneous storefront merchandise. Almost 100 yards down the road, a small sign pointed to the crumbling building and an open-air porch/overhang right at the road edge; a large wooden table sat under the eaves; three large middle-aged mustachioed men leaned back on rickety chairs.

We put on our cheerful faces and handed over our passports.
“Where’s your luggage?” they asked suspiciously.
“Oh...no luggage. Quick trip.”
Still suspicious. “How quick?”
We had to explain ourselves. We have to do this to renew our Nepal visas, we said. We’re going right back. But we’ll see you tomorrow morning when we return with our group.

"You can’t enter India and leave same day. You have to stay here; you go back tomorrow."

"Ah, yes, that’s our problem, we have to go back today..." We explained again, as simply and as cheerfully and as deferentially as we could. They offered us seats at their table. Again they told us we had to stay 24 hours. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, the men nodded and listened, still suspicious, still sizing us up, studying our visas. We were in a strange no-man’s land between borders; officially departed from Nepal but not admitted into India. We didn’t really exist. We pondered all our luggage locked up in our room across the border, the possibility of finding lodging in Sounali for the night, and wondered how we would get word to Abhi to let him know what was going on.

Several sandaled and dreadlocked euro-hippies passed by to get their passports stamped by the men during the course of our conversation. "Destination?" "Yeah, we go to Varanasi…." they replied in accents somewhere between German and Stoner.

As we were all sitting together at the table, one man leaned back and gave us the head-wobble. "Well, we would like to help you..."

"That’s great" Jacqueline said. "I’m sure there’s some sort of special processing fee to help speed up the paperwork?"

The processing fee was, unsurprisingly, on a "sliding scale." US Dollars preferred. The officials were happy to back-date our entry forms and stamp our exit forms. We shook hands, smiled, bowed, gave our namastes, and triumphantly walked back over into Nepal, where we paid another processing fee so as not to have our questionable documents scrutinized too closely.

Slideshow: Tibet

2007-12-31T10:01:00.000-08:00

You can click here to see the slideshow larger and with captions.

Tibet rocks!

2007-12-28T07:28:00.000-08:00

People my age might find Tibetan pop music especially interesting--there’s an odd retro eighties feel to a lot if it. Tibetans, like other Asians, have a love for sublimely bad synth-pop. However, there’s a traditional Tibetan instrument that finds its way into many contemporary songs: it’s a banjo-like instrument played in a strange galloping tempo and a twang that sounds uncannily like "Love Vigilantes"-era New Order. Combine this banjo with a synth and drum kit, add some quirky rhythms and quasi-Asian melodies, and you have songs that seem to variously conjure up New Order, The Fall, Gang of Four, Modern English... I swear I even heard a song that sounds like Dexy’s Midnite Runners.

I don’t know where to even begin tracking any of this stuff down (the language barrier makes it difficult to research), but if I ever come across any good examples, I’ll try to post them.

Tashilunphu monastery

2007-12-28T07:20:00.001-08:00

Shigatse, Tibet’s "second city", was large enough to have two things we desperately needed: a pharmacy, and a heated hotel. At the pharmacy we stocked up on supplies for Jacqueline--codeine cough syrup, Contact, ibuprofen and cough drops.

The hotel’s common areas were bone chilling (the lobby, restaurant, and hallways were separated by those clear plastic hanging "flaps" one usually finds in meat lockers) but our room had a powerful heater that we put right to work. Jacqueline took her medicine and slept away the afternoon, recuperating in heated bliss; I went alone with our guide to a nearby Buddhist monastery. In a large adobe courtyard, we queued up with a large group of pilgrims waiting for the temple to reopen (Temples are required by law to keep the same official government hours as banks or bureaucratic offices; from 1 to 3pm they are closed for lunch). Once again I found myself thinking of the American southwest. In this high-desert setting in an adobe courtyard, I was surrounded by raven-haired women with long braids and silver bracelets, wearing robes of black and turquoise, carrying babies on their backs. Men in fur-lined boots draped themselves in wool blankets with diamond shapes and swastika motifs. I don’t even know how much of it is strange anthropological coincidence, or how much of this culture was preserved in the long migration over the Bering Strait…yet another thing to look up on wikipedia at some point.

In that courtyard I became the center of attention. Most everyone in the crowd was staring at me; some people found it difficult to turn away. Children wandered up tentatively to get a closer look.

My guide leaned in and said to me quietly: “They’re pilgrims to this temple; these people are from the northeast of Tibet. Very remote. They are nomads, they look after cattle. Many of them have never seen a white person before.”

I might as well have been a circus clown the way I appeared to them, with my tangled wind-blown mop of graying brown hair, my glasses and bright white ski-jacket. As the world gets smaller, I wonder how infrequent these moments will become. I slowly shuffled through the temple shoulder to shoulder with this crowd, choking on the thick and pungent yak-butter candle fumes. I was in a time-capsule, staring in awe at the massive 3-story tall Buddha, hearing the chants. It was inspiring glimpse into an alien mindset. For most of human history people have lived like this, as herders, hunters or subsistence farmers whose sense of the supernatural was essential to their daily habits and rituals.

Afterwards I walked to another small temple nearby; a group of small children who were perhaps more familiar with foreigners surrounded me. “Hello! Bye-bye! Hello! Bye-bye!” they laughed and yelled as they hugged my legs and tugged my hands.

No credit

2007-12-28T07:20:00.000-08:00

At dinner one night I was offered yak-butter tea, the Tibetan staple. To my dismay, it tasted as foul as it sounded. I felt it was important to be polite, so I took a big sip. My cup was topped off almost immediately. I took two more big gulps, and each time it was topped off. I was feeling queasy, and I was convinced I would throw up right there at the table if I took a fourth sip. I had choked down almost an entire cup just to please my host, and yet my cup looked untouched.

"Don’t you want to try the tea?" I was asked.

Tibetan food

2007-12-28T07:19:00.000-08:00

The food we ate was generally a bland assortment of Chinese-, Indian- and Nepali-influenced dishes. Chicken gristle, bok choy, tofu, naan and curried vegetables... We didn’t have too much that was explicitly Tibetan. There’s a staple Tibetan soup that’s pretty good; it was very similar to matzo ball soup. Beyond that, it was pretty much yak meat, yak meat, and more yak meat. Sometimes curried, always tough and gamey. Mmmmm.

Accommodations (part 2?)

2007-12-28T07:18:00.000-08:00

In the town of Lhatse, we had slightly better luck with a hotel. It, too, lacked heat and insulation (and they also kept their doors wide open all night) but they had hot water nightly from 9pm to midnight. Perpetually cold and unable to shake the chill of the past two days, Jacqueline seemed to be getting worse. Her cold and cough were as bad as they’d ever been, and we were getting worried. She remained under the covers, in her winter jacket and boots. At 9pm sharp I put on the shower to its hottest setting and let the steam billow out into our room. The shower stayed on for two hours. The room never technically got "warm", but by 11pm when I went to bed, the steam had helped cut the chill a bit.

In the morning when we woke up, everything--windows, walls, mirrors, ceiling, bathtub--was covered in a thin coating of ice crystals. The steam condensation had frozen overnight.

Crossing the border

2007-12-28T06:40:00.000-08:00

Depending on weather and road conditions, it takes anywhere from 3-5 hours to drive from Kathmandu to the border town of Kodali. Though the weather was great, much of the road was unpaved, and as our little Kia 4x4 bounced, rattled and lurched its way through twisting mountain roads, I began wondering if my back would give out again. We climbed our way out of the Kathmandu valley and watched the landscape slowly change from lush greenery to a more arid mountainous terrain.

The Nepali town of Kodali and the Tibetan town of Zhangmou cling to opposite cliff-sides of a steep river gorge, and are connected by the no-man’s land of the Friendship Bridge (yes, that’s really what they call it). Long lines of semis and tankers queue up on either side. The border is closed from 5pm to 9am, and truckers who find themselves still stuck in line at 5 have to spend the night in their cabs.

About a year ago, a small group of westerners had come into Tibet and unfurled a giant Tibetan flag on a mountainside somewhere--the Chinese government was of course upset, the westerners were deported, and since then all tourists are required to have a guide/escort/sponsor to enter the "Tibet Autonomous Region". We officially left Nepal as we walked over the bridge, and our guide was to hand us over to his Tibetan counterpart once we got to Zhangmou.

Jacqueline and I were scrutinized by the soldiers at Chinese immigration, and they looked skeptically at our passports and visas. The three of us started walking to the large arch at bridge’s end, but we were met with waving arms and angry bursts of Mandarin. There was some tense back-and-forth between the soldiers and our guide (and since our guide barely spoke any Mandarin, I don’t think the discussion was very constructive). Everything seemed to be settled, and we starting walking again. More pointing, more angry exchanges. Our guide looked as baffled as we were, but he assumed they were suspicious of his credentials/paperwork.

We waited on the bridge for about an hour, looking at the mountains, and the river way below us. We were conspicuous, the only two white people anywhere in the area, and we drew many curious stares. We watched the lines of pedestrian and oxcart traffic moving back and forth--round Tibetan faces with impossibly pink cherubic cheeks; small men and women carrying huge loads, with hair and clothing that looked eerily similar to that of the Anastasi or Navajo. Replace the Red Guard with US Cavalry, and we could have been in the American southwest circa 1900.

The Chinese soldiers were young and swaggering, looking bored and frustrated to be stuck in such a remote post. They often treated the locals with impatience and annoyance: barking orders, pointing, taking pleasure in making people nervous. The soldiers spoke only Mandarin, and were mostly from rural areas far away from Tibet. We were told that it was largely intentional. The Chinese often rotated soldiers in and out of this post frequently: If anyone stayed here long enough to learn Nepali or Tibetan, there was a concern they might acquire some local attachments or sympathies.

Eventually our guide was able to talk his way past the sentries, somehow… he returned with our Tibetan guide who walked us through the arch... We were finally in-!!

Past the crowds, we climbed into the waiting land cruiser and proceeded up the steep, partially-paved switchbacks into Zhangmou. More bouncing and lurching. Jacqueline and I marveled at the 100+ semi trucks precariously lined on the narrow cliffside roads, waiting hours or days to enter Nepal. The weather that day was cold and clear, but often the roads are muddy from rain or iced over. I asked our guide “Aren’t there a lot of accidents? Do many trucks fall into the ravine?”

“Yes.”

It’s a priority of the Chinese government to build a safe modern highway from Lhasa to the Nepal border. They’re about two-thirds finished, but the last stretch (which includes the precarious cliff trail) isn’t set to be paved until the spring thaw.

All of China is on Beijing time, so by crossing over into Tibet we instantly jumped ahead about four hours. We settled for the evening in a ramshackle hotel in Zhangmou. Peeling pergo floors; exposed wires and rebar; a decade’s worth of cigarette burns on the sheets and drapes. The bathroom was perfect abattoir chic: chipped tile with a strange filmy coating and blackened grout. There was no actual 'shower stall' to speak of; the shower was a faucet in the wall by the toilet, a plastic bucket and a drain in the center of the bathroom. There are very few travelers or tourists in December, and only 2 or 3 rooms besides ours were occupied. The hot water had been turned off for the winter(!) but the hotel proprietor offered to arrange for us the use of a public bath down the road. We politely declined. Curiously there was neither a heater nor any form of insulation in the room. In fact the whole hotel had paper-thin walls, and the hotel was in the habit of leaving their front lobby door wide open, day and night. We both slept in our boots, scarves and winter jackets underneath the bed covers… we went to bed cold, woke up even colder, and were unable to shake the chill.

About 4 or 5 days earlier, Jacqueline and I had been luxuriating at the W-Walkerhill hotel in Seoul, drinking mojitos at the painfully hip hotel bar, enjoying our environs as much as possible, knowing that our accommodations throughout Tibet, Nepal and India were likely going to be rough.

Taking care of business

2007-12-08T07:11:00.000-08:00

I could probably go on at length about the beauty and remoteness of the Tibetan plateau, the exoticism of Tibetan culture, or the politics of Chinese occupation.

Maybe next post. For now, I just have this:

Our first morning in Tibet, in the town of Tingri... at the time it seemed unpleasant, but in retrospect it turned out to have been one of the nicer toilets we used:-)

(Jacqueline has a few good anecdotes that are maybe better told in a less public forum...)

In Nepal

2007-12-02T09:56:00.000-08:00

Kathmandu! At last, one of the Big Five.

The "Big Five" are what I humbly consider to be the most exotic-sounding places on earth: Kathmandu, Zanzibar, Kilimanjaro, Timbuktu, and, of course, Rangoon. (Though I have to give honorable mentions to Tangier, Istanbul and Patagonia.)

Anyways we've arrived in Kathmandu, it's incredible here, and our hotel has internet. Our hotel also put us in touch with a small tour company that goes into Tibet. We weren't sure whether we could make it happen, but it looks like we'll be going after all. Our Tibet visas came through more easily than we expected, and on a sunday no less; it turns out the tour company has good connections at the Chinese embassy;-)

Again, we're not entirely sure what our internet situation will be (we may be out of touch for a while), but here's a basic rundown of what the next month will look like for us--

Overland into Tibet Dec 3; we'll be back in Kathmandu on Dec 9 or 10. From Kathmandu, we'll be heading into India and embarking, more-or-less, on the fabled Golden Triangle (though we like to call it the Septic Circuit). We'll be traveling via land cruiser and (*gulp*) sleeper train with a few other people on a sort of shoestring travel-group-tour-suicide-pact thing.... going through Varanasi, Delhi, Agra, Pushkar... I think we'll be spending Christmas in either Jaisalmer or Jodhpur... we finish up where we started, in old Bombay (now Mumbai).

If I'm able to, I'll try to post some Hong Kong/Seoul blogs; they may be a little out of order...

Bride of Sidewinder

2007-12-02T07:16:00.000-08:00

We arranged to visit the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone) in Korea. Since we had such an early wake-up call (4:45 am), we had not planned to spend the previous night partying. We simply went downstairs to the famously hip "WooBar" at the W Seoul to have a few drinks. When Keith & I returned to our room, we discovered we still had unfettered internet access (no firewall=phone calls for free!) It was 4:15 am when we went to bed.

Even with a half-hour of sleep, the DMZ was too beguiling to blow off, so: on with our warm clothes, into a cab, and onward to the USO office in Seoul. Boarding the military bus in 40 degree weather was enough to keep us awake. We napped through part of the ride there and were rewarded with hours of faux danger as we peered into North Korean territory.

The North Korean soldiers were intimidating. We understood we were to be careful making any hand gestures-- pointing could be construed as "American tourists condemning North Korea", laughing or smiling meant "the American tourists support North Korea's honorable mission" etc. We were told stories of the North Korean government using candid photos of DMZ tourists for their propaganda machine. I wondered if having continuously adjusted my sunglasses on my nose constituted a North Korean "salute"; perhaps I'll see my photo on "Drudge Report" sometime soon.

The next morning, as I awoke, I had a horrible sore throat and plenty of congestion. It was my turn to fall ill. Loaded up on decongestants and cold medicine I trooped on, meeting up with two of our South Korean friends for lunch. The very next day we had 16 hours of transport time getting to Mumbai. Let's just say it was an unpleasant flight. (I ate chicken in Hong Kong, but I certainly didn't play with them!) I thought bird flu was a very unlikely diagnosis, and thankfully didn't get tagged by immigration.

The next day was spent in bed, feverish in Mumbai, watching CSI: NY re-runs and ordering room-service. Keith procured a much-needed bottle of codeine cough syrup (Indian pharmacies actually do deliveries-- and the bottle cost less than US $2). I didn't think Inida would kick my a** so early in the trip!

Checking in

2007-11-28T05:30:00.000-08:00

Hi folks, we're in Seoul right now, preparing for our flight to Mumbai. We'll be in India & Nepal for the next four weeks, and I'm not counting on having much in the way of internet access.... you may hear relatively little from us, but we'll see. Hopefully at some point I'll have a chance to put up some more posts related to South Africa, Hong Kong & Seoul.

Slideshow: Hong Kong

2007-11-25T20:29:00.000-08:00

See captions & larger versions of these photos, click here.

HK Names

2007-11-25T20:26:00.000-08:00

Many people here have English names in addition to their Chinese ones, but what's great is how many names seem to have been inspired by old British civil servants, or are just taken from the Bible.

Here are some I pulled from the Sunday paper--

Enoch Yiu
Agnes Lam
Cameron Dueck
Minnie Chan
Ambrose Leung
Chester Yung
Josephine Ma
and my favorite: Fanny Fung

(And then there's my HK doctor-- Dr. Paco Lee. I never asked him where the "Paco" came from...)

Return of the Sidewinder

2007-11-25T20:25:00.000-08:00

So, I threw out my back on safari. I feel pretty old.

Hours and hours of bouncing around rough trails in the back of a land rover laid the groundwork... the ATVs didn’t help much either. I think it was finally triggered by a sustained gallop as we were riding horses in the bush; I suddenly discovered I couldn’t walk anymore.

It was otherwise one of the highlights of the week: zebra herds were generally indifferent to us when we were on horseback, and we could get close enough to feel like we were strolling among them. We got uncomfortably close to a Rhino too (ack).

I made Jacqueline go on the last couple game drives without me; I could barely even shuffle around the tent without help. At the campsite we all laughed at the jokes about the ranger having to put me down, or about the lions picking off the weakest and slowest of the herd, etc etc. Some fellow guests kindly offered me their spare voltaren (ahh...) which held me for a couple days out in the wilderness, until we could get to some stronger meds in Hong Kong.

Three days later, at the Johannesburg airport, Jacqueline had me placed in a wheelchair, and I got to experience the novelty of "special needs preboarding"-- I would have felt vaguely self-conscious, if not for the voltaren... I had people pushing me through special doors and gates, and cutting to the front of various lines...I've never gone through immigration & security so effortlessly.

I've been seasick in Cape Town and paralyzed on safari. We still laugh remembering the Johannesburg couple's remarks to us at the Italian laundromat: "Yeah, Africa's not for sissies-!"

Benoni rocks!

2007-11-25T20:23:00.001-08:00

We had booked two nights at a lodge in Johannesburg, one night on the way to our safari camp, and one night one the way back. It was just what we wanted-- a decent (and cheap) place right by the airport. Technically, though, it wasn't in Johannesburg, it was in a suburb called Benoni.

If it happened to come up in conversation that we were staying in Benoni (or were on our way there) we got some interesting responses. Sometimes we'd get a tactful "Benoni? Huh. Are you staying with family or friends or something?" More often we'd get a "What the hell are you doing there?" or a suppressed laugh.

Benoni looks a little like Phoenix: mostly wide boulevards, strip malls and ranch-style homes. It's widely regarded as being "Nowhere". In fact, paradoxically, its so "Nowhere" it actually has become "Somewhere": Benoni is in that category of places like Staten Island, or Hoboken, or San Fernando or Peoria.... bland places that people become strangely sentimental about simply because they're such easy targets. They're famous for being unknown. It cements your status as, say, a local San Franciscan if you can roll your eyes at mention of Oakland.

Campari had a South African ad campaign that relied on a classic double-take: "Where did you taste your first Campari cocktail... Sorrento... Milan... Monaco.... Benoni-!??"

Charlize Theron (who grew up in Benoni) recently made a toungue-in-cheek soundbite/station identifier for a local Johannesburg radio station-- "Hi this is Charlize Theron, you're listening to [K-whatever] and I just want to say BENONI ROCKS!!" The spot was a big hit.

Slideshow: Shark diving

2007-11-25T20:23:00.000-08:00

Only five pics in this set. Click here for larger photos and captions.

How to clear a diving cage

2007-11-22T20:52:00.000-08:00

It's a perfectly stupid idea: take a boat out into choppy waters with chilling antarctic currents (waters known as "shark alley"), climb into an underwater metal cage hanging off the side of the boat, throw some tuna heads & entrails into the water, and wait to see some sharks up close. It may be stupid, but shark diving is big business, and its something many, many tourists do when visiting South Africa.

A cold overcast morning in Gansbaai, about 2 hours southeast of Cape Town, Jacqueline and I got on one of those boats. There were about 15 of us total on board. The boat was rocking quite a bit: it took a good amount of coordination to put on our cold, damp, ill-fitting wetsuits, and a couple of the passengers succumbed to seasickness early on (Our captain advised us to please vomit off the starboard side, so as to not splash onto the divers in the cage). It was hard not to ponder things like: "is this really the stupidest thing I've ever done? Or just somewhere in the top ten?"

Almost right away, from the deck, we were witness to two different sharks thrashing as they chased the tuna parts. A large shark tail smacked the side of the boat, sending a wave of water over Jacqueline just as she finished with her wetsuit. We all began yelling and laughing; I'm not sure whether it was out of excitement or nervousness.

The cage fit 5 people at a time; we would all rotate in and out of the cage through the day. After some exciting early encounters, things calmed down a bit. Visibility in the water was poor, and by the time Jacqueline and I had our various turns in the cage, most of the cool Discovery-channel type action had diminished. I had been in the cage about 20 minutes, and I was still feeling vaguely nauseous from all the rocking. I swallowed a wave of salt water while trying to adjust my mask, and that sealed it for me. I barely managed a weak "uh, I think I should get out now..." before blowing chunks right in the cage. Somewhere in my temporary delirium I heard a woman's voice "ewww, that guy threw up...I'm getting out!!" I soon had the whole cage to myself. Ahhh, a little elbow room at last (the woman had been sitting in a stew of cloudy water, seal crap and rancid tuna guts... I find it funny that it was my puke that finally pushed her over the edge).

When I climbed back on board, it occurred to me how bad the rocking was-- people were leaning over the starboard rails, or curled up in corners... of the 15, nine of us had vomited at some point. Jacqueline was one of the lucky few who didn't. The 4-man boat crew did their best not to smirk at all of us.

Tasteless side note-- this is a strange observation, but as I was sitting back, watching and hearing the suffering (and trying not to do any more myself) it was odd seeing how differently the men and women reacted-- most of the men wretched continuously, over and over; they were almost incapacitated by their own never-ending convulsions. Most of the women, however, were like cats-- a quick *BARF* and then they were fine, normal until the next "episode"...

Slideshow: on safari

2007-11-22T20:51:00.000-08:00

Here are some photos from the Mabula game reserve and the Kwafubesi campsite (about 2-3 hours north of Johannesburg, up towards the Botswana border).

To see the slideshow larger, and with descriptive captions, click here.

Slideshow: The Cape

2007-11-14T12:15:00.000-08:00

Go here to see the slideshow full-size (no captions yet).

Cape Town

2007-11-14T08:40:00.000-08:00

There's a directional marker at Cape Point, the kind that has about 20 arrow-shaped signs designating the distance & direction of various other cities. I noticed that almost every place--Buenos Aires, Sydney, New York, Paris, Shanghai, San Francisco etc--seemed equally remote... Cape Town is far away no matter where you are. We were chatting with a French businessman who laughed: "Yes, it really feels like the end of the road here!"

Geographically, this is as far away from home as we've ever been, and we're surprised that it feels so familiar. The city, the weather, the landscape, the harbor... it's very west coast: San Diego or San Francisco, with maybe a little Seattle thrown in for good measure. We've visited picturesque towns along the coast here that easily conjure up Half Moon Bay, Mendocino or Monterey. Vineyards and whale-watchers everywhere!

There are parts of Cape Town proper that somehow, strangely, remind me of Honolulu... maybe its the matronly black women strolling in their brightly-colored mumus... the quaint little churches framed by palm trees... the cinderblock schoolhouses... the neighborhoods that slope their way up the foothills of the mountains... the sudden rain showers that are quickly replaced by sunshine... the low clouds that obscure the top of Table Mountain... and of course there's the familiar presence of surf shops and sushi restaurants.

Jacqueline and I have been joking: "So... when does Africa start?"

It's achingly beautiful here, but I don't mean to paint some naive picture of the place-- We've seen the shanty towns, we know to be cautious, and we've been lucky enough to spend time with people and have long discussions about the local politics etc... but Capetonians will readily admit they're living in a first-world island.

Food notes

2007-11-14T08:20:00.000-08:00

Pleasant surprise:
1) Ostrich jerky (aka ostrich "biltong") is very good.

2) The sushi here is excellent. In fact, Cape Town has an incredible concentration of sushi restaurants-- it's pretty much the local cuisine. There's so much good food here I'm anticipating putting back the weight I lost in Egypt and Italy.

Disappointment:
Our first morning in Cape Town, sleep-deprived and jetlagged, I ordered a bloody mary and got a glass of steak sauce on the rocks. A few days later--at another establishment but still a little gun shy--I ordered one again. It was...better, I guess...but that's not saying much. I'm through with bloody marys for a while.

When in Essaouira....

2007-11-14T08:03:00.000-08:00

1) Pay attention to cactus. It hurts when you walk into one.

2) Careful where you put your hands. Seagull crap is pretty much invisible when it's on white stucco.

English lessons

2007-11-14T07:33:00.000-08:00

1) A little kid started following us through the narrow streets one night as we were walking home to our riad. He was asking us for change, alternately in Arabic and French. He eventually became frustrated with my condescending smile and my repeated "No...no money, sorry..." and blurted out an emphatic "fuck you man!!" before running away. Jacqueline and I glanced at each other and laughed--there was something tentative about the way he said it, like he had just learned it and didn't really trust that it would work, or that he was even saying it right.

2) Another night, we were walking through the outdoor food stalls in the Djemaa el Fna; one of the young-ish menu-wielding vendors called out to us: "try our food it's finger licking good!!" We giggled but kept walking. Seeing our reaction he launched into every bit of English he could conjure: "Seeyoulateralligator!! Afterawhilecrocodile!! "Iscreamyouscreamweallscreamforicecream!! Dingoes ate my baby!!!" At that last one we completely cracked up, and had to ask him: "Where did you LEARN that!!??" He said he had an older sister who lived in Melbourne.

Slideshow: Marrakech

2007-11-14T06:28:00.000-08:00

Click here for the flickr slideshow with captions.

SA update

2007-11-02T12:28:00.000-07:00

Hi everybody, we're in South Africa. We haven't posted lately; we had limited web access in Morocco, and spotty connections so far here in Cape Town. I'm hoping to add some more Morocco items (SA too) in the coming week...

Slideshow: Essaouira

2007-10-30T15:43:00.000-07:00

Click here for larger pics and captions.

Inevitable complications

2007-10-30T05:02:00.000-07:00

Our flight to Marrakech was canceled, sort of. Though the flight number remained, the departure time, the date and even the airport had changed at the last minute (Departing a day later from Milan Bergamo instead of Milan Malpensa). Oops.

This all happened the day before we were supposed to leave, and we were faced with a choice: 1) stay in Milan an extra day, try to find an available room somewhere, and eat the cost of the Marrakech riad we had booked. 2) Try to get a flight to Marrakech for the very next day, and eat the cost of our other plane ticket.

We calculated that we stood to loose pretty much the same amount of money whatever we ended up choosing. We had already booked a riad, and were going to be charged for it whether we stayed there or not. Also, there was the issue of finding a place to stay in Milan for an extra night—there were several big conferences going on in the city that week, and most places were booked. The afternoon was spent web surfing on internet connections that didn't work, making calls on phones with spotty connections, trying to get emails printed out on non-functioning printers, enlisting help from concierges that seemed as lost as we were, and contacting an airline that wouldn't accept our credit card-- but wouldn't take our cash either (I'm no financial whiz, but I think that's a poorly thought-out business model).

After what seemed like hours of comic mishaps, Jacqueline found what seemed like the last available room in the city, in a small hotel a few metro stops away. So ultimately we got an extra day in Milan, and were able to see parts of the city we weren't able to while we were busy scrambling...

A late night in Palais el Badii

2007-10-21T10:18:00.000-07:00

One night last summer Keith came home from work with the news: Puro Beach (the lounge/beach club we enjoyed in Mallorca a while back) was sponsoring an Arabian Nights-themed bash in Marrakech in October. A number of cool DJs and musicians were expected to perform outdoors in the ruins of Palais el Badii. "How about we time our arrival in Morocco with Puro?" Keith asked.

Medieval ruins under the stars, desert breezes, music, drink, food, Eurotrash, and of course, Bryan Ferry! How could we miss this?

We got to Morocco a day late because of an unusual flight change. Not only did our flight time change last minute, but so did the day, and even the actual airport. We lost most of a day in Milan trying to either get another flight (700 Euros!) or find lodging in Milan. We decided to just stay the extra day in Milan, resigning ourselves to eating the cost of our first riad in Marrakech.

Up at 3:45am to catch our flight, we waited in the cold morning air at the train station to get the airport shuttle. At the Milan Bergamo airport we started to get a flavor of Morocco: Robed women with tattooed faces (three vertical lines running from the bottom lip to the chins), hennaed hands & feet stood with us in line, along with their many small children. Men were wearing traditional hooded jellabas, looking very Darth Maul (sp?) from Star Wars.

We took a taxi to the medina, where we were to meet someone to walk us to our riad. A crippled luggage porter with a wheeled cart appeared. He brought our bags the rest of the way, and we hurried to keep pace with him, weaving through narrow muddy alleys, staying clear of the various bikes, motor scooters, feral cats, and hanging sides of lamb that were covered in flies(“Remind me not to have the lamb” I said).

They served us a delicious lunch at the riad, made from scratch. It took almost 2 hours to prepare; they took our order and then went out to buy all the ingredients. After this amazing meal (and two bottles of wine) we went to our room and crashed. Waking up cranky 3 hours later, the last thing I wanted to do was get ready to go to an all-night rave.

Around 9pm we wandered over to the Palais el Badii. Camels and Moroccan musicians lined the route into the castle. Lanterns and rugs were laid end to end along the path—-an Arabian red carpet. In the low lying areas of the ruins, fields of hurricane lanterns were lit, giving the grounds an exotic glow. Fire pits with aromatic woods and multiple “lounging areas” of pillows and torches were set up for the VIP crowd (unfortunately that wasn’t us—- we got the General Admission tickets).

It looked as if the venue could have accommodated two thousand, but less than half that number were in attendance. To make up for the anemic crowd, the organizers temporarily opened the front stage area to everyone. When Bryan Ferry eventually came on stage, it felt like we were at a small concert, right up near the stage, with no crowds, and no pushing our way through. Our target was in sight! I had a mission-- a Bryan Ferry autograph was my intended souvenir of the evening, even though it meant sneaking into the VIP area.

It took a little work, and there were a few setbacks, but after befriending a few of the Morroccan security guards, twisting our wristbands inside out (from cheapseats-purple to VIP-white) and using a little creative smalltalk, we were in. Keith and I triumphantly surveyed the scene, ready to enjoy all the free food and cocktails. We strolled by torchlight among the tall beautiful VIPs, pretending to belong. Bryan Ferry & entourage were lounging around as we suspected. We chatted up members of his band, and I even spoke with the charming Mr Ferry for a while. Mission accomplished:

…and on our Wallpaper book, no less. How perfect is that!?

(Heather if you’re reading this, we know you’re a big fan... we have something for you as well; keep an eye on your mailbox;-)

Laundry in Siena

2007-10-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

One of the drawbacks to traveling light—-and having only a few changes of clothes—-is that we find ourselves doing laundry fairly frequently. Small things we’ll do in the hotel sink, but we need a real washer for the big stuff. In Siena one morning we dragged our bag onto the city bus and went to a Laundromat just off Il Campo. Even though it can be a nuisance, it’s become almost therapeutic to do laundry. It’s a bit of a break from travel stresses to spend time in a vaguely familiar environment, take care of some necessary chores, and enjoy a feeling of accomplishment and control... as long as you have clean socks and underwear, everything else seems a little more manageable.

I like the contrast of coming from narrow medieval streets into a modern Laundromat. Outside are cobblestones and Palio banners; inside I zone out as our clothes spin, and an Italian-dubbed "A-Team" rerun plays on a giant TV above the washers.*

While loading our machines we met a couple from Johannesburg who were traveling through Italy for several weeks, with their toddler in tow (the kid was in remarkably good spirits for being dragged to a boring laundromat). The time went quickly as we talked about (what else) travel... once they had spent six months in South America, and they had friends who had done RTW trips similar to ours. It's been helpful trading stories & advice-- it seems to happen often now; like we've gained entry into some unknown fraternity of world travelers (or masochists). We got some good advice about South Africa, and an open invitation for drinks when we reach Johannesburg next month.

Their best piece of information? A restaurant they happened upon the night before, just a block away. After finishing our laundry we went there for lunch. It was a tiny, family-run place with maybe only 6 tables. The burly old father rattled off the menu very quickly in Italian, so our choices were limited to what we could understand over the din of the room. It turned out to be easily the best meal we've had so far in Italy... we rolled out of there drowsy and stuffed full of ossobuco, hand-nade pasta and chianti....aahhh...

* (Other old shows the Italians love: MacGyver, and Magnum PI. Both great fun to watch dubbed in Italian. It's watching Magnum PI that reminds me how much I look like Higgins in all my stupid hi-tech fast-drying pseudo-safari REI travel clothes)

Slideshow: Assisi

2007-10-21T10:12:00.000-07:00

Assisi is an impressive sight, with medieval walls and turrets spilling down a massive hillside. The taxi ride from the train station—-a steep uphill approach into the city--reinforces the drama of the city skyline. St Francis’ popularity is the town’s lifeblood, and Assisi is often filled with religious pilgrims. Stores are chock full of St Francis paintings, keychains, statuettes, rosary beads, clocks, lighters... pretty much any kind of souvenir you can think of, it’s there, and it has the name or image of St Francis on it.

The evening we arrived, a large group of about three dozen young Spanish teens had descended on the Piazza del Comune. They were part of some youth mission, dressed in matching clothes reminiscent of cub scout uniforms (yellow bandana around the neck, powder-blue shirt, navy shorts, black socks). They were strolling through the streets, sitting in doorways and on fountains. Some of the boys strummed guitars and sang Spanish campfire songs while the girls swayed and clapped and sang along. We saw two of the middle-aged scout leaders, wearing the same uniforms as the teens, lounging in a nearby café drinking espresso and chatting up the locals.

Thanks to the approaching storm clouds, sunset over the city was surreal. I felt like I was looking at an old renaissance painting of the city rather than the city itself. It was one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve seen, and I found it difficult to look away. Afterwards, as it got dark, those same storm clouds hovered ominously for a couple hours before the rain and lightning started. I ended up taking photos mostly of the approaching storm. I don’t know if the pictures can really do justice to the beauty of the sky at dusk, but take a look for yourself...

See larger photos Here.

The few, the proud

2007-10-21T08:49:00.001-07:00

Let's all pause and reflect on the beauty of the Fiat 500...

Finding something familiar

2007-10-21T08:45:00.000-07:00

In Milan, the streetcars are a distinctive orange and grey. Most of them were built prior to World War One, and are still in service. San Franciscans will recognize them right away, as there are several Milanese streetcars on the F Line Market St/Embarcadero. SF has restored many old cars from around the world and put them into circulation, including those donated by Milan.

It was strangely comforting to see them chugging along in their "native habitat"...

Anisette hijinks

2007-10-11T15:10:00.001-07:00

Strolling down the idyllic streets of Orvieto, we came upon the most beautiful of little shops selling Anise candies. Anxious for just one or two, we went inside and met the nicest girl whose family owned the shop. As we expressed our interest in some candy, she promptly brought out delicious homemade anise cookies for us to sample, plus samples of her father’s home-made Anisette which they sell to area restaurants. So impressed were we by the Anisette (not to mention the almond liqueur samples, the anise candy samples, the chocolate samples and the many shots of the various grappas her father makes in the bathtub or something), we were perfectly inclined to make a reckless decision: "Let's get a bottle of Anisette and ship it home!" We bought it along with a cube of marzipan, some amaretto cookies, and a pound of sugared anise cookies. We promptly brought it back to our hotel for shipment at the local Mailboxes Etc. in the morning... what could go wrong?

As we woke early to ship before catching our train to Assisi, we traipsed down to MBE to enquire about shipping. “Is it alcohol?” the clerk asked. “Yes it is Anisette.” we said excitedly. “I can only ship in quantities of 6, 12, 24, 48, etc.” “You can’t ship a single bottle?” “No. Your government won’t allow it. FDA.”

Unsure as to the logic of this particular practice, but more confused as to why someone would lie about such a silly rule ("is he joking?"), we were faced with a traumatic decision. We didn't have time to get a "second opinion" from the local post office. Because we’re traveling for so long, we have absolutely no space in our tiny tiny bags. We made a promise not to buy any souvenirs unless we were willing to ship them home. There were only two choices: carry the bottle onward (a major pain with three train transfers ahead of us that day), or leave it in Orvieto. A third option presented itself: pour most of our precious liquid in an empty water bottle (safer for transport) and leave the remainder as a gift to our hotel. We asked our hotel if we could use their kitchen sink and... viola!

It took less than two days for us to go through (almost) a bottle of anisette on the train. (Our CODE WORDS: “Can I have some more water please?”)

It may be twenty years before I can eat black licorice again.

Italian food puzzles

2007-10-11T09:42:00.000-07:00

Garlic: We've been in Italy for two weeks now; we've eaten a variety of meals in a variety of cities & towns north and south, and it recently occurred to us that we have yet to even smell garlic anywhere, let alone taste it. Is this unusual? Has there been some kind of moratorium placed on its use? Is garlic just an "immigrant" thing?

Gelato: I've had some gelato here too, of course, and I'm still not sure what supposedly makes it different than ice cream. Sure, the flavors are more clever (Pineapple, Nutella, Tiramisu etc), but it all seems to taste pretty much like...well...ice cream.

Teen fashion

2007-10-11T09:06:00.000-07:00

Its understood that Italians are pretty fashion-conscious. Many teenagers here are painfully hip; it's the boys especially that are unusual to American observers, with their artfully teased & gelled hair, pierced ears, and clothing that would invite a severe ass-kicking in any American high school.

On the subway we watched a group of rowdy teens interacting; the tough alpha male of the group was wearing a Burberry-pattern baseball cap, a matching Burberry-pattern belt, hip-hugger jeans and a skin-tight pink t-shirt covered with rhinestones. (No, I didn't get a photo, sorry :-)

Slideshow: The Cinqueterre

2007-10-10T14:09:00.000-07:00

You can see these larger on flickr.

Italian trains

2007-10-10T13:04:00.000-07:00

The complete Italian train schedule looks like a miniature phone book, it's 500+ pages of detailed charts, maps and symbols and is available at most newsstands for 4.50 Euros. It was intimidating at first, but we quickly figured out how to decipher most of the various codes and icons. We've gotten pretty good at moving around by train. There are the usual idiosyncrasies (Among other things, we discovered i festivi (holidays) sometimes means "holidays" but sometimes it just arbitrarily means "weekends"). Beyond that, though, we're very impressed with how efficient the train system is here. It's an incredibly large and sophisticated network that has thousands of arrivals and departures planned down to the minute over hundreds of stations and hubs. And, many small-town stations only have one or two tracks, which I assume requires an additional amount of coordination to manage the flow.

Slideshow: Pompeii

2007-10-10T12:30:00.000-07:00

From Sorrento, we've worked our way up through Orvieto, Assisi and Siena... right now we're in the Cinqueterre. Internet access has been infrequent but we have a couple posts coming soon... in the meantime, here are some of our photos from Pompeii:

See them full-size on flickr.

Slideshow: Capri

2007-10-04T12:05:00.000-07:00

No pics from inside the Blue Grotto, sorry :-)

Click here to see the photos full-size.

Book recommendation

2007-10-04T11:52:00.000-07:00

In Egypt, Samar recommended to us a novel-- The Yacoubian Building by Alaa al Aswany. Jacqueline was completely absorbed by it while we were in Egypt, and I'm just starting it now. It's a very popular, very controversial novel that paints contemporary Cairo in a bleak light. The movie version (recently released) will have to go on our Netflix queue when we get back.

Month-a-versary

2007-10-04T11:25:00.000-07:00

We are officially at our four-week mark today. Happily, we don’t feel burnt out as we worried we might be. Most of the time when we travel, we pack every day with tons of activity, coming home exhausted. But given how long we will be gone, we have decided to approach our time with a different mindset: marathon vs. sprint. We have to pace ourselves, and intersperse ‘adventure’ days with rest days/chore days. For instance, today, instead of getting up at 5:30 to queue up for the packed tourist bus to drive down the Amalfi Coast and take the ferry back, we are hanging out in our very nice Sorrento hotel and swimming in the Mediterranean. I can’t get over the guilt, though—- the feeling that there are places that I have wanted to see for years (right down there!) and I am not going. Tomorrow, however, we have three trains and seven hours of travel time to Orvieto...so today we need to recharge. Italy is ITALY after all—we will definitely be back...

Sony CyberShot deathwatch

2007-10-04T08:51:00.000-07:00

The island of Capri is supposedly becoming hip again. It's been a luxurious vacation spot since Roman times, but it's appeal waned somewhat in the seventies, with the rise in popularity of places like Mykonos and Ibiza. Though more downmarket than it was in the fifties and sixties, it still has cache, and the beautiful people are beginning to return.

One of Capri’s most famous locales is the Blue Grotto, a large cave accessible only by rowboat from the sea. At high tide we had to lie way back in the boat as if it were a recumbent bike, in order to squeeze through the small entrance. The cave has a limestone bottom, and the water glows a bright blue from the reflected sunlight below. The effect is similar to a lit swimming pool at night; it's quite beautiful. Here are some photos I found online, and here's the Wikipedia entry.

We don't have any photos of our own, because... well, the camera and I went underwater, sort of. Yeah I know, I know, I was probably being reckless, bringing the camera on the rowboat and all. But I had a Ziploc at the ready, and my, ah, "contact" with the water was a freak accident, coming at a time I fully expected to remain dry. Just outside the opening, our rowboat guide pulled on the chain to get us inside (wave rises... wait... wave subsides, pull!) and the wake of the previous boat completely covered me (and only me). I was entirely underwater for a moment. I spit out saltwater even as I protectively clutched the wet wet camera. Jacqueline was seated in front of me, facing forward, and she hadn't noticed the wave that hit the back half of the boat. Inside the luminous cave she was in awe, whispering to me "Wow! This is amazing!"...after a minute or so she turned around to ask why I wasn't taking any pictures. I was sitting in 3 inches of water, and she was completely dry. (In fact everyone who had entered the grotto that morning was completely dry. Lucky me.)

The camera was non-functional for about 45 minutes... eventually we got it to turn on again (it had dried, perhaps). At the moment, thankfully, it's working. We've put the camera on a death watch, to see if salt corrosion might kill it in the coming days or weeks.

Given the duration of our trip, we had worried our camera might need to be replaced at some point. The logistics of getting a good (and reasonably priced) camera is tricky; overnight shipping from Amazon doesn't seem feasible, what with all our moving around (oh yeah and it would be painfully expensive too). We're not keen on buying a new one in a tourist town and paying for it in Euros. We're hoping it will last a while longer, at least until we hit Hong Kong...

Guillotine! and other amusements

2007-10-04T08:22:00.000-07:00

Usually, when we're tired, stressed, punchy, or just wandering around somewhere strange, we’ll spontaneously compose some (add-libbed) songs to pass the time. Sometimes they're based on an existing melody, sometimes we invent our own; rarely are they longer than a verse or two. Here are some sample song titles from the trip so far:

“Ramadan, Rammmaaaadaaaan”
“It gets cold in the desert” (Sung w/ a Dwight Yoakam twang)
“That’s not a pinecone”
“In the Hashemite Kingdom...of Jordan!” (also sung w/ a country twang)
“Somebody woke up angry”
“Prego is a sauce”
“Cancer kitty”
“Su-su-subito” (sung to the tune of Phil Collins’ “Susuido”)
“You don’t care but I care” (sung to the tune of: “Do You Hear What I Hear?”)
“(Teenagers are annoying) All over the world”
“There’s a sign, there’s a sign (It will tell you where to go)”

We also invented some games to play when we're bored or exhausted-- usually in line or waiting for something. Our four mainstays are "Guillotine","Hammer","Scorpion" and "Squish". They only last long enough for one of us to get hurt.

Trevi

2007-09-29T13:31:00.000-07:00

Jacqueline and I passed by Trevi Fountain during a long afternoon walk through the city. So, as expected of all tourists, we made our way into the crush of people and got out two coins to toss in. Back turned, Jacqueline made her wish and threw her euro over her shoulder, over several rows of tourists and *splash* into the fountain. My turn. I turned my back to the fountain. I hurled my coin, maybe with a little more force than I needed. Jacqueline grabbed my hand and started pulling me away-- "Let's get out of here. You just pegged someone in the head."

Roman holiday

2007-09-29T13:23:00.000-07:00

Props to Paolo, best concierge ever!

2007-09-28T13:19:00.000-07:00

We cashed in some Starwood points to stay for cheap at the otherwise very expensive Sheraton Roma, a large business hotel in southern Rome near the airport. Our first morning, we had some questions for the concierge. We wanted to know where to get subway passes, where to get a train timetable, and where we might find a laundromat, etc.

Paolo at the concierge desk answered each of our questions with an indifferent "I don't know" and would start to turn away from us until we said "wait, sorry, we have another question..." this scene repeated itself a few times. Paolo's ignorance of pretty much everything was so strange, Jacqueline actually said "I'm sorry, I thought you were the concierge. Can we speak to the concierge?" Paolo replied blankly "I am the concierge."

After about 3 more questions and 3 more "I don't knows" we gave up and Paolo strted to turn away. I had 2 euros in my hand I reflexively started to slide across the counter to him, but I caught myself ("what the hell am I doing!?") and took the money back. The best part, Paolo saw me do it :-)

Pics from the Dead Sea

2007-09-28T13:16:00.000-07:00

Slideshow: Petra

2007-09-28T12:31:00.000-07:00

Click here to see it full-size.

No surprise, Petra is absolutely stunning. When you complete your walk down the narrow, mile-long Siq (sheer rock cliffs that have been rent apart by tectonic forces), and get your first glimpse of the giant Treasury facade carved from the rose rock cliff face, it takes your breath away.

What was utterly surprising for us was the immense size of the park itself. I had always thought that Petra was simply the photogenic Treasury, but it was a bustling Nabatean city 2,000 years ago, a city that sprawled through the valley and into the surrounding cliffsides. Petra has many impressive tombs (some of the larger ones look similar to the Treasury), carved in a manner inspired by the Greco-Roman style. There are large boulevards lined with columns, a giant amphitheatre that used to sit 3,000, and a religious temple (the Monastery) located on a twisting narrow path consisting of rubble, boulders, and 800 switchback steps carved into the remaining rock. Many of the cliffside temples and buildings had been eroded from centuries of wind and rain, and had surreal Dali-esque facades that looked like they could have been partially-melted ice cream.

It was on our second day at Petra that we decided to climb the long steep path up to the Monastery. Somewhat fatigued from our previous day’s 5-hour walk in the 95 degree heat (most of the day consisted of repeated exclamations like “WOW” and “Keith, look at that!”), we had a good night’s sleep, lots of water and sunblock, and some provisions for the trail. We were continually harassed by the Bedouin donkey-riders who take tourists up and down the trail for about five Dinars. The walk was full of great vistas and photo ops, some good exercise, and repeated recitations of laa shukran (no thanks, we don’t want to ride the donkey). After a good hour’s worth of climbing, when we were almost to the top, there was a boy of about 3 years that greeted us with raspberries—not of the fruit kind, but rather the spitty kind. These, naturally were met with raspberries from me, and this one-upmanship went on for a few minutes, ending with the boy giggling madly. Keith and I reached the top soon after; we sat to admire the view, rehydrate, and dig into the fruit and cookies we brought. The boy and his slightly older brother had made it up to the top too, in order to sell trinkets to the tourists disembarking from their donkey-saddles.

I held out a cookie for the younger boy to come and eat. He ran over to us at full throttle. He had bare feet, filthy clothes, and flies over his face, looking like one of those “Would you spend 50 cents a day to feed this child?” ads—but he was so happy and full of life. He had some paper in his hand—some random computer page printout from a German tour itinerary. He held it like it was precious to him, but I thought it would be more so if Keith used some of his skills to draw on the back of the paper. Keith drew cats and dogs for him. Peals of laughter from the kid. His brother came over and we offered him cookies too. Keith asked "Ramadan? Is this OK? OK with mom?" as if kids would actually turn down a cookie in any circumstance (they happily ate our cookies without hesitation). As we started packing up to make our way back down the trail, the older boy asked us: "English?" Keith answered: "No, American". And as we started to walk away, he said "Americans...are nice" quietly, almost more to himself than to us, as if he was making a pronouncement in order to imprint it upon his memory.

Travel thrusts us into other people’s lives unexpectedly, and can leave lasting impressions. I hope the ones we leave are always as good.

Crossing (into) Jordan

2007-09-28T11:58:00.000-07:00

What a contrast to Egypt! Cleaner, with a better infrastructure and less-aggressive touts, and people here seem genuinely proud of their country and their (relative) stability, and are happy to have tourists come visit. It seems that Jordan had been a popular destination (and very busy for our taxi driver) throughout most of the 90s, but the past year or so they have suffered from tourism slowdown. Jordanians seem unsure about the reasons why (the Iraq war has already been going on for a while now, and the Middle East in general has been dicey since...well...a long time. There was a well coordinated terrorist attack on several hotels last year--some 60+ people were killed—-though several people we spoke to insisted things had slowed down prior to that). We assured our driver that with the naming of Petra as one of the "New Seven Wonders of the World", business was sure to pick up.

Jordan has been a whirlwind of car travel. With less than a week in the country, and lots of ground to cover in order to see the major sights, we have spent a lot of time in a taxi. The good news is that Jordan is a small county: it only takes about 6-7 hours or so to go from the northern border to the southern one. There's not much in the way of buses, but taxis are popular, affordable, and they travel nationwide. We got into Amman in the afternoon and took a taxi to the hotel (You can hire a taxi for the day, and cross the country for about 80 Dinars. The Jordanian Dinar is worth about 1.4 USD, similar to the Euro, so things weren’t necessarily cheap. Many people in the country are very poor.)

We’ve been madly accumulating Starwood points (from our Amex card) the past five months in anticipation of our trip. We have been trying to minimize our hotel expenses by cashing in our points, or by using a clever combination of cash and points (usually 2000-3000 points plus $45 USD for nice hotels). This scheme really delivered in Amman, where we scored a huge suite at Le Meridien for $45. Our first afternoon was spent napping, doing some minor laundry, cleaning up, checking email and bills online, and repacking (we planned to leave some luggage in Amman so we could travel light while camping in Wadi Rum). That first night in Amman we ate at Benihana—weird, yes, but after weeks of disappointing Egyptian food, we had a craving for something Asian. The meal was the best we’d had in a while. It was an interesting experience, eating at an American chain restaurant staffed entirely by Filipinos pretending to be Japanese for the sake of their Arab clientèle.

Wadi Rum

2007-09-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

Even boarding the new, clean Royal Jordanian Airlines plane in Cairo, we started to notice a difference. We spoke briefly with a fellow passenger, a Jordanian woman relieved to be going home... "How long were you in Egypt?" Jacqueline asked... "Ten days....long enough to get homesick!" She added "Jordan is beautiful, you will LOVE it here!!"

After the unrelenting heat and dust of Egypt, Jordan's cooler climate was a relief... As far as climate & topography, Amman feels more like Southern California or New Mexico than it does your stereotypical Arab desert. Amman is a modern city with tree-lined boulevards, high-rises and large suburban neighborhoods reminiscent of Beverly Hills... the strong infrastucture and relative calm of this place is impressive considering the violence that surrounds it (I'll post more on that later, hopefully).

We spent two days exploring the ruins at Petra; that'll have to wait for a later post. For now though, at least I was able to upload some pictures to flickr. Here's a slideshow of our Bedouin campout in Wadi Rum:

You can see these pics larger and with captions on flickr.

Tomorrow we fly to Rome...

Why Egypt reminds me of the 70’s

2007-09-20T08:30:00.000-07:00

No matter where we go in Egypt, I think of what it must have been like to happen upon these ruins 150 years ago. Riding camels in the desert to the pyramids, taking tea in the shade of the Sphinx—no touts, no plastic scarab beetles or fake papyrus scrolls—just you and your small group, your guide, and some cantankerous, cranky camels. You would have had more time then, time to explore; to burn the image of the temple in your mind, to ponder how many men have lived and died during the time these monuments have stood.

But there is another period of time that I keep thinking about here in Egypt. The seventies. What is it about the seventies? Well, the King Tut exhibit was traveling throughout the world—it was a big deal. Omar Sharif, one of the most famous Egyptians ever, was very dashing, and very seventies. What about the movie Cleopatra with Elizabeth Taylor? Sixties, I know, but there’s something very seventies about Liz. Remember that disco song, “Midnight at the Oasis”—disco is very seventies. Keith was just reminding me of the Steve Martin bit and the King Tut song (he’s got a few years on me). When was Steve Martin an SNL guest host all the time? I think it was the SEVENTIES. All of these Sound & Light shows have lasers. When were lasers really new? Why, the seventies of course!

And, we passed by this weird funky seventies structure while cruising the Nile; it would make a perfect hideout for some sleazy seventies Bond villain!

Egyptian snacks

2007-09-20T05:53:00.000-07:00

Pleasant surprise: Chicken-flavored potato chips are really good.

Disappointment: Cumin-flavored pretzels taste just like regular pretzels.

Also I should note that every Egyptian wine-- red, rose, or white-- tastes like cooking sherry (and the beer is a little underwhelming here too. Not a big nation of drinkers).

Esna

2007-09-20T05:42:00.000-07:00

One of the stranger moments on the trip so far: it’s our second day of three on our brilliantly tacky monster-sized Nile cruiser, and we have to queue up among six other tourist boats to use the lock on our way to Luxor. It’s Ramadan, it’s dusk, we’re temporarily tied up to the dock at Esna, and most of us are sitting around on the top deck, looking right over at the street scenes of Esna, watching goats, mule-carts, and scooters pass by, watching ourselves being watched from the streets and crumbling buildings. The call to prayer emanates from three different mosques that seem equidistant from us; they are each staggered by a few seconds, so the sound loudly reverberates over us, ghostly as the sun sets. In a brilliant Fellini-esque juxtaposition, three young Asian women (possibly Korean?) are loudly laughing, shrieking and splashing in the pool, oblivious in the special way Asian tourists can be, taking snapshots of each other, and noticing the call to prayer only long enough to laugh and mockingly imitate the muezzin’s intonations.

I would stare at the giggling water-nymphs, and look back at the crumbling buildings on the shore, imagining robed men on the rooftops, assembling rocket launchers to rain fire down upon all of us disrespectful infidels.

It is just a river in Egypt!

2007-09-20T05:34:00.000-07:00

We are in the midst of the second of two cruise experiences in Egypt. Currently, we have been herded on a Nile ship (the Crown Emperor) that is like a low-budget, floating, shabby Vegas hotel—- a Vegas hotel that is close to four mosques during Ramadan (I am listening to four independent call to prayers right now, each one started at a slightly different time, so there is a weird echo and discordance to the whole affair). We also happen to be one of the few Americans on this particular ship, which isn’t necessarily bad, but due to the high concentration of Japanese, Taiwanese, and Germans on board, we feel strangely isolated. The upside is that the female taiwanese tourists have no problem with floating in the pool while loudly making fun of the call to prayer (by imitating the warbling ‘Allah Ackbarrrrrrrrrrrrrr’). Inappropriate? Yes. Amusing given the piousness of Muslim men and the overall treatment of women in this part of the world? Yes.

Cruising on the Nile in modern times has absolutely NONE of the romanticized experiences that one would expect. Green and blue Astroturf lines the top deck, a crush of bodies (our boat, one of the largest, is designed to accommodate approximately 250 people) wait expectantly at the dining room doors until the gates are opened, and then, like cattle, rush to get plates and heap tasteless (and questionably prepared?) buffet food on top.

I have taken to quietly moo-ing in line while waiting for the unsatisfying feeding frenzy to commence. Keith and I actually skipped two meals in order to regain an appetite, just to have it satisfied by the weight of the food, and not the taste.

One can look past the Astroturf to see the banks of the Nile streaming slowly past. Fisherman in traditional feluccas cast their nets, laughing children jump into the Nile, white and gray ibises land in marshy areas here and there. There are brave souls in rowboats that try to cross the water-freeway that is the Nile, (like a high stakes, waterlogged Frogger). These risk-takers are discouraged, but not thwarted, by the blaring horns of the cruise ships that chug three abreast down the river. Gone are the quiet days of gliding in small vessels, accompanied by thoughtful and well-read folks who self-selected based on the tremendous expense of visiting a place like Egypt. Now, Egypt is the low-budget travelers dream come true—lots of bland meals, guided excursions, and favorable exchange rates make North Africa the Mexico of Europe.

Perhaps this typical Egyptian-tourist experience would not have been so depressing if we had done the Nile before our Lake Nasser trip. The M.S.Eugenie is a revelation as compared to those “other” cruises, not only in regards to the size of the ship, but specifically because of the isolation experienced cruising the world’s largest artificial lake.

We began in Aswan, (the site of the great dam, constructed to stop the predictable seasonal flooding of the Nile banks) and continued for four days down to our final destination, Abu Simbel, the great temple of Ramses II. Each room had a private deck with chairs, allowing us both privacy and utility, (we spent an entire morning washing clothes out in our tiny sink, and conveniently used the light housing on the deck ceiling to support hangers with drippy shirts and the like).

We passed two boats in four days. It was hot—really hot. Like when you have been cooking a chicken in the oven for an hour, and stick your face in to baste it--hot. But we had an air-conditioned room a foot away, and found it easy to hose off in the shower, run outside to the deck, and let the evaporation cool us. Days of cruising were interspersed with quick (1.5 to 2 hour) excursions to shore, where we clamored into the 30-seater motor boat that dangled from the stern, jumped off onto shore, and saw a large sampling of the various UNESCO salvaged (i.e. saved from the dam-generated flood waters) Nubian temples. We saw scorpions, poisonous snakes, and alligators—none in the wild, but kept in empty water bottles by the local Bedouin in order to extract some baksheesh (cash in the form of a tip) from the tourists, in exchange for a picture with the fear-inducing specimens.

On the third day, we approached Abu Simbel, from the water. As we got closer, everyone scampered around the deck, free cocktails were passed about (non-alcoholic, of course, for this is predominantly a Muslim country), and to really cater to the audience, Carmina Burana (a la “The Omen”) blasted from the loudspeakers as these massive figures came into view...

Pedestrians

2007-09-19T16:08:00.000-07:00

Upon successfully crossing a wide boulevard in Alexandria, I'm inspired to post a brief Adam Sachs passage about Cairo pedestrians--
"...In Stockholm, they look both ways, judge the distance and speed of the approaching Volvos, and formulate a rational decision about when it is safe to cross. In Madrid, they look with disdain and cross with bravado, taking back what some bastard would deny them. In Cairo, they look inside the onrushing cars to read the soul of the drivers. They wade into traffic as though it were a refreshing mountain stream. They are drawn to brush against and bond with the swerving, swarming tons of steel the way people at aquatic theme parks are drawn to brush against and bond with the trained dolphins...."

Pictures Coming-honest

2007-09-19T08:05:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone-we have had non-existent internet service due to our boat trips. Right now we are sitting in an internet cafe in Luxor to check on things-expect lots of content in the next few days-as long as we have internet access in Jordan-we have been taking tons of pictures and writting as well. Miss you and we love reading your comments-thanks.

40

2007-09-12T11:55:00.000-07:00

...hmmm, not bad as far as birthdays go. Admired Ramses' dessicated corpse in the Egyptian Museum Mummy Room; contemplated Tutankhamun's coffin nails; walked barefoot through the Muhammad Ali Mosque; stared at the Cairo skyline from the Citadel walls; sat in the Ben Ezra Synagogue; drank turkish coffee, socialized and smoked water pipes in the Souq.

We'll hopefully post something a little more detailed later. We didn't have much in the way of web connections in Cairo... we're in Alexandria at the moment; Jacqueline's doing much better with her cold but I think we're still a little ragged from the time change etc...Thanks everyone, for your posted comments & well-wishes!

Arabic translation

2007-09-12T11:02:00.000-07:00

We’ve been picking up some rudimentary Arabic—nothing that impressive, just your basic pleasantries like thank you (shokran), please (min fadlak), sorry (aasef), hello (as-salaam alaykum), okay (mashi), let’s go! (yalabina!)…

Laa shokran (no thanks) is proving the most useful phrase to know, given the large number of touts that descend upon us at any tourist site. Samar told us to use halas!! ("end it!") if someone is especially pushy, but we haven’t had to drop the h-bomb yet.

Most of our practicing, though, involves numbers. Western numerals are, technically, of Arabic origin, but they look different enough in Arabic to be confusing. The trickier ones are 3 (actually 4) and 0 (actually 5). Zeros are designated by a dot. Samar and our driver have been happily quizzing us, competing to see how quickly we can read off license plates, receipts, phone numbers etc.

Getting around in a strange place

2007-09-11T08:14:00.000-07:00

We generally like to avoid group tours—I’m always the guy who wanders off or tries to duck out of things—but traveling within Egypt is very difficult for outsiders if you’re not at least affiliated with some guide or company. The many tour companies and guides here are heavily regulated by the government. The government has been concerned about tourist safety since a number of terrorist attacks occurred on tourist sites in the nineties; they try to put on a show of monitoring and tracking visitors, offering security guards, escorts and endless rows of metal detectors (We’re convinced very few of these metal detectors actually work, and to be honest, teenagers with automatic weapons and ill-fitting uniforms don’t exactly inspire confidence).

We hooked up with a tour company recommended to us by Travel Betty (thanks Tracy!) called Egypt 7000. Happily, we aren’t in any ‘group’ situation, Egypt 7000 have been driving us around and helping us with scheduling, reservations and logistics… Mohammed (more on him later) met us at the airport, made sure we checked in to our hotel, and has been great making sure we don’t get lost among Cairo’s teeming streets. It’s quite a relief to have their help; otherwise we’d completely exhaust ourselves, and we don’t want to burn out so early in the trip…

Mena House

2007-09-11T07:57:00.000-07:00

For our first few nights in Cairo we arranged to stay at Mena House; we wanted to see the famous old Giza hotel in the shadow of the pyramids. It’s been an iconic Egyptian destination since the 19th century, and is evocative of the days of the ‘grand tour’. It’s been the location of a variety of political summits, the romantic backdrop to several old films, and has hosted plenty of people over the years, from Winston Churchill to Barbara Bush. The hotel itself has been pretty well preserved and modernized. It’s tacky in a charming sort of way, ornate with gilt and marble; it has a strong institutional scent of soap, jasmine and cigarette smoke that reminds us of Turkey.

Culturally, Egypt may be the most “foreign” place we’ve been. Turkey is practically Greek by comparison, and we’ve always been reasonably comfortable in our various travels to places like China, Japan, Thailand & Cambodia—Asia feels familiar to us after years of living, working and socializing in a predominantly Asian city like San Francisco.

London misc

2007-09-08T13:06:00.000-07:00

We ate lunch a the Borough Market, a popular artisan-food farmers market held fridays and saturdays... a great way to spend an afternoon.

Also did the obligatory Tower of London visit and said hi to the ravens. We learned the origin of the famed British "V" flip off. It's an old threat-- simply a display of your bow fingers... who knew?

Keep left

2007-09-08T10:43:00.000-07:00

Most of the streets here have explicit directions written on the curb. Cities don't spend time and resources on that sort of thing "just to be nice"-- I'm sure there have been many many pedestrian accidents.

Crossing streets in London is completely couterintuitive, and each time I do it I look the wrong way despite the written directions. I end up looking wildly everywhere-- right, left, up in the sky, down to the pavement-- expecting danger from all directions. I think some of this is exacerbated by the nature of the streets here too; there are very few straightforward intersections. Most streets merge, curve, peel off, join again, change from one-way to two-way and back again. It's possible even Londoners get disoriented once in a while. I'd never try to drive a car here.

The Amazing Race

2007-09-08T08:13:00.000-07:00

London. First off, let me say we feel relaxed and right at home amongst so many pale doughy people.

So, about a month ago I skimmed an Economist article ("The Hell That is Heathrow") about all the various logistical and customer-service problems plaguing both Heathrow and British Airways. I assumed it was mostly hyperbole, so we were a little unprepared for the hot, crowded 2-hour wait to shuffle through customs & passport control. As we eventualy made our way closer in line, we noticed a "Disease Control" section where various passengers had been pulled aside. Feeling a bit paranoid after an hour in the bleak Orwellian queue, we half-wondered if maybe Jacqueline's coughing would get us quarantined. We figured I would do all the talking to customs so as to not blow Jacqueline's "cover" (Jacqueline ended up doing a lot of the talking anyway, and of course her cold didn't matter at all).

From Heathrow, we took the underground straight to Kensington for the US embassy. The prerecorded female voice in the train announced, in a perfectly formal crisp British accent: "this is the Piccadilly line, service to Cockfosters" ...this was after each stop, so she must have said it at least eight times, and every time she said it I started laughing (okay, okay, "cockfosters" probably sounds funnier than it reads). I may be turning forty, but my juvenile sense of humor keeps me young.

We had a narrow window of opportunity to get extra pages for our passports. The embassy only takes walk-ins until noon; this was our only chance to get it done before flying to Cairo on the 9th. Because our plane was delayed an hour, and because customs took so long, we had barely 20 minutes to find the embassy once we got off the train near Hyde Park. We scrambled to find a cab.

When I try to visualize myself visiting a sophisticated, cosmopolitan city like London, I like to imagine myself relaxed, strolling confidently, wearing tailored clothes and a worldly smirk... the reality of it is, we perfectly re-enacted a scene from "The Amazing Race", sweating and fleece-clad, lumbering awkwardly from the weight of the backpacks & rolling luggage, waving down cabs... "We need to get to the US embassy!! Now!", "Will you take the fare or not?", "Can you get us to the embassy? Please, we're in a hurry!"

Long story short, we got to the embassy just in time, got our pages, and then took a cab over to our hotel. We celebrated with a steak sandwich and a bottle of wine, mmmmmmm... more London posts (and some London pics) coming later...

-k

The fun's just starting

2007-09-08T07:50:00.000-07:00

On the second leg of our SF -> London flight, barely 15 minutes out of Chicago, a 60-something Indian gentleman seated near us got up to use the lavatory. Jacqueline followed; she was next to enter the lavatory after him, and she was taken aback by the disturbingly large amounts of spittle and stomach bile spattered over the sink, mirror and toilet seat. We're not exactly sure what happened in there, but the gentleman seemed otherwise very happy and healthy the rest of the flight.

We're treating this as the first of many great bathroom anecdotes we'll accumulate on the trip-!

18 hours until take off

2007-09-05T14:58:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow at 9:30AM we will be taking off for Chicago, our layover on the way to London.

There are a lot of strange emotions that are washing over us today... mostly panic (Did I pre-pay that bill? Do we have enough cash? Do we have copies of our passports?).

Unfortunately, one of us (Jacqueline) is sick, which will make the 20+ hours of plane travel a real treat. Our first priority once we land at Heathrow is to go to the US Embassy, and get additional pages for our passports. We didn't want to do it here-- given the huge processing backlog in the US, we didn't trust that we'd get our passports back in time for the trip.

We have reading materials, some protein bars for the plane, and everything we think we will need. All that is left is a last-minute Walgreens run and some house cleaning (vacuuming, bathroom etc). We have hope that internet access abroad can assist us with any administrative tasks we may have forgotten.

It is daunting to leave a city you love for unknown discomforts.

Can someone remind us why we are doing this?

Oh yeah--to see the world, and to start to feel human again. The older we get, the more each day becomes a flash--one day closer to the next meeting, the next presentation, the next deadline. We're looking forward to just "experiencing" life for a while.

It's like when you were five and every day in the yard was a delight and promised a new discovery. Here's to feeling that way again. Stay tuned...

-j

San Francisco

2007-09-02T13:57:00.000-07:00

In the past, after returning from other trips abroad, San Francisco would seem newly exotic to me, like I was seeing it in a different context as a foreigner or outsider.

The experience now seems to be happening in reverse. We've lived in the city almost all our adult lives, and we feel pretty rooted here. Jacqueline and I half-joke about feeling homesick before we even leave, but there's some vague truth to that. When you know you're leaving for a long time, everything starts to feel a little different. I find myself looking differently at things, noticing details a little more, trying to take it all in... the quality of light and shadow on buildings and on the water; the salt air; the hills; the sights, smells and sounds; the places we like to eat; the neighborhoods we walk through; the conversations we overhear (in Cantonese or Russian as often as English sometimes).

And of course since it's August it seems that half of Italy is here on their vacation; I enjoy watching them wander around with their maps, completely lost but still quite happy about it.

I don't think I'm wistful about leaving so much as anxious about everything we need to do...we've been running around trying to get everything organized.... mail, bills, insurance, laundry, visas, tickets.... *ack* we're trying not to freak out too much.

'bye SF, see y'all in February.

Security for Ike & Tina

2007-09-02T10:58:00.000-07:00

Ike and Tina need protection in some of our more exotic locations (Ike and Tina are our backpacks; the previous post will explain the moniker).

Some of our plans include circumstances one might call "sketchy". Egyptian overnight train? Sketchy. Indian train? Sketchy (and pretty gross from what I have heard--stained sheets in the sleeping berths, families of las cucarachas).

Traveling with an ultra-light laptop and an 80G iPod increases our awareness about the possibility of theft, and after doing a bit of research, we found this cool product called PacSafe. This steel mesh webbing fits over the entire pack, and the cable can be locked around a stationary object. We're thinking hotel room sink pipes and train-seat posts, although I am sure we will find all sorts of things to secure our bags to... helpfully, the PacSafe website shows the product cabled to a stripper pole... very handy for a stay in Bangkok perhaps.

Travel Gear

2007-09-01T11:21:00.000-07:00

Last night we packed up everything to get us through six months of travel. It was a little scary. It's no small feat finding and packing the right clothes for temperature and travel extremes, as our trip takes us from late summer in Egypt to winter in the Himalayas--and then onward still, to summer in Australia.

Our first task (and a popular discussion topic on other RTW blogs): "the backpack". Do we get backpacks with a frame, or without? What about wheels? I don't at all consider myself a "backpacker" type of person, though I may inevitably have to become one during the course of our adventure.

After a long day at REI, and an afternoon at the North Face on Union Square, we picked out what we think is a great solution, a combination backpack/roller luggage. This Eagle Creek bag is is a wheeled carry-on, but you can hide the telescoping handle away, unzip the back panel, and pull out all those backpack/waist strap/chest strap things and run from the police if you need to (OK, maybe just run for a train). It's only 22", so it's allowed as carry-on for most airlines. We compared it with other brands-- it's the lightest, most durable model with the most cubic inches of packing space: a whopping 3900!

Here are some pictures of our travel companions. We nicknamed them Ike & Tina because we know they're going to get the crap beat out of them during the trip!

The plan, so far

2007-08-21T17:09:00.000-07:00

I know we've told quite a few people already about the RTW tickets, our schedule and the logistics of the trip; here are some more specifics...

Different airlines offer different types of RTW tickets (it's always "round the world"; everyone likes to drop that first 'a'). We bought our tickets from the One World alliance, which consists of American Airlines plus its partners (British Airways, Qantas, Cathay Pacific etc). Some airline partnerships have a precise RTW mileage-based fee system, but we liked One World because you can choose up to twenty stops for a fixed price--kind of an all-you-can-eat-buffet model; it's a pretty good deal.

There are some basic guidelines: travel needs to be more-or-less in one direction (no backtracking unless its within the same region, ie "Europe" or "Asia"). You have to cross both Atlantic and Pacific oceans. You have to return to your starting point, arriving the opposite direction from which you left. You have up to one year to complete your trip.

As far as restrictions go, there are limits to how many stops you can make in any one region or hemisphere; the details of it are a little boring, so I won't get into it.

You'll see a few odd zig-zags in our itinerary (listed below). Mostly this is due to airline hubs and flight availability, though some of the more arcane RTW restrictions add to the confusion.

For example, let's say we're in Cairo. If we want to go somewhere else on the African continent (like Cape Town), we have to go through London. Heathrow and British Airways have made London an improbable African/middle-eastern hub.

Similarly, getting from South Africa to India involves a layover... in Hong Kong.

With these tickets, there's an additional charge (something like $100 or $150) for each destination or leg we change, but there's no charge for changing our flights to the same destination: if we decide we want to stay longer in 'city A', we can push back our flight to 'city B' without any penalties.

With that in mind, our trip is mostly-- but not entirely-- planned out. Our main city-to-city framework has been set, even though we might change some actual travel dates/flights while we're on the road. In this framework there's still a lot of "in-between" time within a city or country that's open ended. Every new place we arrive by plane, we've made sure to have rooms reserved the first couple nights, so we can relax a bit and get our bearings. But it's unrealistic for us to plan out every detail or every day of a 5-6 month trip, we'd make ourselves crazy trying. We're already buried under mountains of travel guides as it is; we accept that a certain amount of improvisation is unavoidable. *gulp*

So here's our schedule as it stands now--

San Francisco -> London (for a few days layover)

London -> Cairo
We'll be here-- during Ramadan no less-- for my 40th birthday. We'll also be checking out Alexandria and most of the tried-and-true Nile river tourist circuit.

Cairo -> Amman
We'll be hitting the tourist sites in Jordan too-- Petra, Wadi Rum etc.

Amman -> London
This is one of those odd stops I mentioned earlier; we pass through London again on our way to Cape Town. So, we decided to stretch out our layover: during our month "in London" we're taking advantage of those super budget Euro-shuttle flights to go to both Italy and Morocco.

London -> Rome
Once in Rome, we'll work our way up to Milan via train.

Milan -> Marrakech
Call us superficial, but we timed Marrakech to coincide with an awesome eurotrash DJ lounge party in the Medina. Jacqueline is determined to get her picture taken with Bryan Ferry!

Morocco, like Italy, is only partially planned. Essaouira and the Atlas Mountains are definite maybes. We need to be back in London by Oct 30 for our big flight to Cape Town.

Marrakech -> London

London -> Cape Town

Cape Town -> Johannesburg
We're in the process of arranging some kind of safari excursion; maybe a stay in Kruger Nat'l Park.

Johannesburg -> Hong Kong

Hong Kong -> Seoul
So far it looks like we'll be spending Thanksgiving in South Korea.

Seoul -> Mumbai
Mumbai is a sort of home-base for us in December. From here we're heading north directly to Kathmandu, and then working our way back down through India (where we'll be for Christmas).

Mumbai -> Kathmandu
Flying in to Kathmandu the beginning of December. We're hoping for a Tibetan side-trip here somewhere... the Chinese are skittish about letting people into Tibet without a tour group, and the information we're getting over the phone and online tends to be contradictory. We know we'll have better luck trying to arrange something once we're in Kathmandu.

From Nepal, we'll eventually make our way overland back down to Mumbai, in order to catch a new year's eve flight to Sydney.

Mumbai -> Sydney
We have some time planned in Sydney, but beyond that there's still a lot of Australia we haven't figured out yet.

Sydney -> Auckland
Ditto for NZ: we have a couple days in Auckland, but we're still making arrangements for everything else. (I'd love to see some All-Blacks rugby; I haven't checked their season schedule yet)

Auckland -> Santiago
Chile's a little unplanned so far.

Santiago -> Easter Island (Rapa Nui)
(Rapa Nui sounds so much cooler than "Easter Island", doesn't it?) We'll be there for the start of their big Tapati festival at the beginning of February.

Easter Island -> Buenos Aires
Our last stop, in one of the coolest cities in the world. We love BA, we honeymooned there, we have friends there... it seemed the perfect place to start our transition back to the US.

Buenos Aires -> Dallas -> San Francisco
Getting home mid/late February. Whew.

-k

An ode to Yoyo's

2007-08-19T20:18:00.000-07:00

Time to say goodbye to my second home :-(

Among Financial District/Jackson Square lunch-goers, Yoyo's is famous (notorious?) for their cheap sushi and udon.

Because I am so very cheap, and because Yoyo's is right next door to my office, well... let's just say that Lydia and Joseph know me pretty well. At work, I pretty much live off Red Bull & Chicken Teriyaki... (I know. I'm not proud)

Initial post, Sixty-thousand miles

2007-07-19T20:19:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone, the blog is here! We've finally decided upon a blog name. We investigated different variations of Jet Lag, Jetlagged, Jet Set, Round the World, etc... all taken. (I Hate My Job, no surprise, was also taken).

So here we go with the epic Sixty-thousand miles: it has a nice ring to it, and it's roughly equivalent to the frequent-flyer miles we'll accumulate (our "actual" distance will be closer to ninety-thousand, but we have some mysterious frequent-flyer restrictions on Royal Jordanian and Cathay Pacific).

This week we got both our Egyptian and Jordanian visas, and if their consulates in San Francisco are any indication of the inner workings of these countries, we're in for some interesting times. The Egyptian consulate is housed in a beautiful but crumbling mansion in Pacific Heights, furnished with items that look to be from an old swap meet. I found myself staring at the draperies tied back with string. Adding to the ambiance was the smell of moldy carpeting, the sound of a very heated argument in Arabic, and the inescapable scent of the woman next to us, whom I call Poo-Lady (I don't mean the bear that likes honey).

We were braced for trouble after reading about long waits and abysmal service, but in fact the staff was quite courteous and our passports were returned to us quickly, complete with Arabic script and ornate stamps.

The Jordanian consulate was less exotic, but plenty efficient. It's actually one of those strange "honorary" consuls that's run out of a private business office, where there's some other kind of accounting or retail or notary work going on, and the whole "diplomatic thing" seems to be happening on the side, as if it were a businessman's favor for a foreign buddy.

So we drove to the Mission district where the consulate's located. Lucking out with time on the meter across the street, we raced up the elevator to the fourth floor and offered up our passports, forms, money order and less-than-flattering passport photos. Within fifteen minutes we had another visa, much like before, decorated with Arabic script, wet ink, and fancy stamps.

We're concerned we may run out of passport pages (more on that later)... next, on to the airport to get our revised round-the-world (RTW) tickets!

-J