March 31, 2020 by trs

Uncertainty Reigns on the Rift’s Edge

Malawi lies at the southwest edge of Africa’s Great Rift Valley – and it’s this that led me to title this post this way.

It has been an interesting year. And I do not just mean what we have seen so far from the 2020 calendar year, I mean the last 365 days. A year ago we here in Malawi were preparing for the country’s tripartite elections in May. It was a busy time, but as the political officer at the Embassy (and a first-time political officer), it was also exciting. Elections are a political officer’s bread and butter. I was lapping it up.

The lead up to the elections was exciting, as was polling day itself, and the immediate days afterward. I worked extra hours, dug into the politics, analyzed the results, and wrote reports. After nearly two years in the country, I felt I really understood the situation, the players, and it was all culminating in this election. The elections had shaped my tour since I arrived in August 2017, and I thought I would head off on my mid-tour home leave and return to a post-election environment with newly elected representatives and a new focus for my second consecutive Malawi tour.

Tear gas wafts in front of the U.S. Embassy in June 2019 (photo from Nyasa Times)

But that was not to be. The hotly contested election resulted in a court challenge of the presidential election results. And demonstrations. First by the opposition parties who alleged the misconduct by the electoral commission, and then by human rights activists. During the summer, the police deployed tear gas multiple times in the vicinity of the U.S. Embassy (the main opposition party’s headquarters is next door). At the end of his first week on the job, my summer intern and I were caught outside the Embassy while at a meeting during another tear gas display. On another day I could hear from my office the thwoop thwoop thwoop of the canisters being repeatedly deployed. Estimates were some 90 canisters fired in an hour. I never felt in danger, but things were definitely not normal.

IMG_E1876 — My own terrible iPhone zoom photo of a military escorted demo heading my way (and after taking the photo, I turned around)

By August the court case had begun. But it dragged through the fall. The end of every multi-week session announcing the next. The human rights activists continued their demonstrations, though the military joined with them to provide security and there was less use of tear gas. There were other demonstrations too, by truck drivers, by teachers, by civil servants. Then on February 3, the Constitutional Court (a five-High Court judge panel convened especially to hear and decide on the presidential election nullification case) released its decision. It was a day of suspense — with the lead justice reading out the 500-page decision on the radio over the course of ten hours. And at the end he announced the landmark judgment for the opposition parties; only the second time on the African continent that a court had overturned an election.

It was exhilarating. The country was electrified. There were news articles around the world on this historic decision. But it was short-lived. Because now there are to be new elections and here we are back where we were a year ago. Only the stakes seem higher. February felt like a really long month, approximately six weeks long.

Enter: Coronavirus.

CDC COVID-19 world map outbreak March 28 Malawi — The CDC map of countries with confirmed cases as of 12:00 March 30

As of today, March 31, 2020, there are no confirmed cases of COVID-19 in Malawi. As I have been thinking about writing this over the past week, I have experienced a sense of apprehension that as soon as I might write that down, it would cease to be true, a case would be confirmed. But most of us in the diplomatic community and the government of Malawi are operating under the assumption that there are cases here, we just do not definitively know it.

The Africa Report Africa Risk for COVID-19

It might seem odd that Malawi seems to stand alone, that with over 170 countries and territories affected, it sits there, a greyed out area in a sea of teal. But Malawi is not only at the edge of the Great Rift but also is sort of the end of the line. Malawi is not a transit country (I mean sure, for economic migrants, yes, but for international travel, no); it is not a major tourist destination, not even really a minor one. It is off the beaten track. It is landlocked and even connections to its neighboring countries are relatively limited. I found this really neat graphic online that demonstrates Africa’s risk in terms of individual countries’ connectivity with China. But it might as well be connectivity to really anywhere in terms of Malawi. There are only a handful of international flights a day, and connections only to South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Tanzania, Kenya, Mozambique, and Ethiopia.

So, this relative isolation has contributed to how I have perceived the pandemic. While so many of us around the globe have labeled this experience surreal, I have felt both affected and oddly detached. I have watched the panic buying, the press conferences, the number tallies from a distance. We have had meetings (many, many, many, meetings) at the Embassy, beginning in February and increasing in frequency in March. Especially as the news around the globe worsened, as cases crept closer to home. As the measures were slowly put in place. My boss voluntarily self-quarantined for two weeks beginning in early March after returning from a European country that the government of Malawi had just designated as a country of concern. From last week my daughter’s international school went entirely to distance learning — the decision made a week or two before the President announced on March 20 that all schools in the country would close – and the Embassy has gone to Team Office / Team Telework. One week one team may be in the office (though they do not have to be) while the other solely teleworks, then the next week the teams switch, and to quote one of my favorite poets, Kipling, “never the twain shall meet.” Well, except in Zoom meetings.

Last week I was Team Office and still spent much of my time at the Embassy. Not only as the political officer but also the Acting Consular Officer, because our primary consular officer opted to return to the U.S. for health and safety reasons while the option remained open. I went home each day for lunch, an option I rarely take, so that I could also log my daughter on for her daily Google Meet session with her teacher and classmates. The homeschooling was rough for sure, more akin to co-dependent torture than learning, but I felt useful and efficient at work. This week I am on Team Telework and it is only day two but it is like everything has fallen apart. Well, homeschooling is on the upswing and work is, um, on the opposite trajectory.

I do not quite know how to describe how I am feeling; I am sure I am not alone in this. I am not worried about the virus for myself or my daughter. And while I am working with my family to put into place measures to make my elderly parents safer, I am not all that worried about my friends or family. I expect that some might find this callous. Although I can be an emotional person, I feel I am approaching this situation more as a pragmatist. I think it may be due to my experience in Singapore during SARS. Singapore handled that pandemic well and is by all reports doing the same this time around.

I know COVID-19 is not SARS. I felt I needed to say that. But there are some similarities.

Handwashing station – similar to what most places I frequent have set up

Not that I personally handled the time during SARS in Singapore all that well. It was not an easy time. While I sent back some thoughts to friends and family (summarized in my two blog posts on the time), I went back to look at my journals for the time period and found nothing at all written in them over a 2.5 month period. That in and of itself is telling. It is rare for me to go for more than a week without writing. What I do remember is that at first the situation was novel, even exciting, but over time it really began to drag on myself and my friends. I even sought out counseling.

There are concerns about the virus coming to Malawi. As one of the poorest countries in the world, the health system is already incredibly limited, and would likely quickly be overwhelmed by a pandemic. Also, social distancing is just not something that fits well with the culture and customs here. Malawians are very social. They enjoy group meetings, family gatherings, attending church or mosque. In the few walks that I have taken around my neighborhood, I still see Malawians greeting one another touching hands, walking closely together. And the reality of poverty is that people live, travel, and work together in very close quarters.

And yet I think I am doing better this time around for a number of reasons. Perhaps it is because I am here in Malawi, with our relative isolation and delayed case confirmation, but also because I have my incredibly lush and calming yard full of birdsong. Also, I have meaningful work that keeps me busy, I have been meditating almost daily for over two years, and I am here with my daughter, and everything is better with her.

These feelings are valid as of today. Things will continue to be uncertain for the foreseeable future. If COVID-19 follows a trajectory similar to SARS, then it is likely peaking, but will continue well into June. July 2 is currently the date for the “fresh” (as all the papers here like to call it) presidential election. My daughter and I are opting to shelter in place here in Malawi, our home, and though it will not be easy, I expect us to be fine. Despite all of the uncertainty and challenges my friends and I faced in Singapore during SARS, it did pass, and those feelings faded. So, I know that this too shall pass.

March 8, 2020 by trs

That Weekend We Tried to be “Normal”

Due to a Malawian Tuesday holiday, C’s school gave the kids a mini-break, a four-day weekend. When we have gone out of town on long weekends here, we have tended to go to someplace on Lake Malawi. We head out to Senga Bay or Monkey Bay. We have also been to Mangochi and Nkhata Bay. We have also been to the Zomba plateau, Ntchisi Forest, or to the tea plantation area of the south. But getting to these places we have long, somewhat boring drives, on crappy Malawian roads, with little change to the scenery. I have often enjoyed these drives and found beauty in them. But I really wanted something different than Malawi.

On other vacations, we tend to go to far-flung locales like northern Finland or Zanzibar and I fill our days with sightseeing and/or activities. That isn’t what I wanted either. What I wanted was a change of scenery, but also low-key. I wanted us to be able to do things we cannot do in Malawi, the things that I imagine the average middle-class family in America or Europe or likewise does in a given week. I wanted convenience.

I opted for a quick trip to Johannesburg. Just staying in a hotel near a mall with a movie theater. That seemed so “normal.” And yet, not at all normal with our every day in Malawi. The normal, but not normal, which, in my opinion, just about sums C and I up.

And wouldn’t you know it, by the time the weekend rolled around, things seemed all the less normal. There is the political uncertainty in Malawi, with the country’s High Court deciding to nullify the results of last year’s presidential elections and ordering a new poll. I am the political officer and this is my bread and butter, but we were all entering an unprecedented political situation, not only in Malawi but on the African continent. And then there is coronavirus pandemic, which has led to another global health emergency, widespread panic, but also necessary Embassy planning sessions. With all this going on I was mentally exhausted. I craved normalcy all the more.

There are only 2 statues in Malawi and neither are this big

The flight to Johannesburg was normal enough. Three and a half hours with a short stop in Malawi’s southern city of Blantyre. Long, ridiculous lines at immigration greeted us in Johannesburg. I sure hope that is not how they normally do business, but I suppose it is normal enough. Yes, there were individuals with high-tech thermometers, that looked more like a radar gun used by police to check speed, scanning everyone’s forehead but few travelers wearing medical face masks (the first confirmed coronavirus case in South Africa was the day we flew back). Once through all the arrival rigamarole we grabbed some snacks and a taxi and headed to our hotel in Sandton City, our home away from home for the long weekend.

Our first stop then was the Sandton City mall, right off of Nelson Mandela Square, the site of a gigantic statue of the hero himself. There are no shopping malls in Malawi. Well, there is the covered shopping center on the outskirts of Lilongwe (“the biggest mall in Malawi!”). It’s made up of perhaps a dozen stores – anchored by two supermarket chains, which are a shadow of their South African cousins, a few restaurants, a salon, a pharmacy, a dentist office, a bank, the Malawian version of a dollar store, a shoe store, a South African children’s clothing chain, a barber’s, and one or two other stores I have never actually seen anyone in. It might be named “Gateway Mall” but using the word doesn’t make it so. On the other hand Sandton City Mall has around 300 stores!

We ate a late lunch in a South African family sit-down restaurant. The only similar restaurant I know of in Malawi is Wimpy — and there are only two of those in the whole country. Then we did something really quite ordinary for many families in a lot of countries – we saw a movie at the theater. C and I really enjoy going to the movies and we did so regularly in Shanghai. But in Malawi there are no movie theaters.

This was no ordinary theater though — the movie (Sonic the Hedgehog) was shown in a kids theater complete with colorful bean bag chairs and a slide. The popcorn though was not all that normal, at least not compared to U.S. cinemas, instead of melted butter you could top off with there was powdered butter. And not a napkin to be found.

On our second day we woke to a rainy Sunday. C looked out our hotel room window at the uninspiring view of half of the neighboring building and a nondescript six lane road. But what she saw was instead was wondrous. “Mom,” she exclaimed, “look at that! I wish we lived here and every day we could look out on that road. There is no road like that in Malawi.” And she is right. There are only a handful of roads in Malawi’s three main cities (Lilongwe, Blantyre, and Mzuzu) that are four lane, and those only span a few kilometers at best.

Off we headed to the Sci-Bono Discovery Center, an interactive children’s STEM museum located in a former power station. Wow, this place is cool. When we headed first to a water exhibit on loan from the U.S.’ Smithsonian Museum and there was no one there but us, I worried the museum might not capture C’s attention. Thankfully, I was wrong. We ended up spending four hours there – taking in the planetarium show, filling a small hot air balloon and watching it soar up the four stories to the ceiling, using various displays to learn about circuits and voltage to create electric charges, learning interesting animal facts, trying out PlayStation interactive golf and tennis games, and of course sprinting up the climbing wall. I have taken C to children’s museums across the U.S. and in many places around the world, but there are none in Malawi. In fact, there is only a handful of museums in the whole country – we have been to three and only one was worth a visit.

We spent the afternoon back at the Sandton City Mall having another late lunch (Hard Rock Cafe) and then C picked out her LEGO characters, which I bet would be hers *if* she made it to the top of the rock climbing wall. Despite her fear, she made short work of that wall to get those toys, so I had to deliver. We then had a quite evening just hanging out in the room.

For our last day the plan was to head to the Montecasino bird gardens, but we woke to more rain and a weather prediction that it would last all day. However, Montecasino also had a indoor shopping area and best of all — an arcade. There are few things C likes more than playing a bunch of ticket-producing games and trading in those tickets for cheap toys. I might have to admit I rather enjoy it all myself. So, I went all out. I bought hundreds of tokens and we played for HOURS. Claw games, skee ball, video games, wheel spins, games where we tossed basketballs, bean bags, or ping pong balls to see how many we could get into a receptacle or knock over some pins in a period of time. All in the name of maniacal, obsessive fun so we could get enough tickets to get the prized stuffed lion that had C’s name on it from the moment we walked in. It might not seem like much, and may even seem a waste of time and money on vacation, but we had so much fun. And there is nothing like it in Malawi. (Thank goodness, or I would be broke, our hands would be calloused, and we would have even more stuffed animals than we already have).

Then we wandered the covered mall of Montecasino, which, with its faux cobblestone lanes and ceiling painted and lit like the sky, reminded me much of the Grand Canal Shoppes at the Venetian in Las Vegas. We had our choice of 30 restaurants and 10 fast food joints for lunch. I am not sure there are 40 restaurants in all of Lilongwe. C and I frequent about eight. We had (yet another late) lunch at a Mexican (Mexican!!) restaurant and then called it a day.

Heading back the next day was hard for me; I could have used another night or two in Johannesburg. We hadn’t visited a department store or gone to an amusement park or even a decent playground. But once home I thought our weekend away had, at least temporarily, restored me. It might not be that normal to fly to another country to try to do “normal” things. And honestly, these normal activities we did felt extraordinary because we do not do them all the time. Many people in developed countries take it for granted that they will have wide pothole-free roads to drive on, nice sidewalks to walk on, well-stocked supermarkets to shop in, and entertainment and shopping complexes to go to, and it just isn’t that way for many in the developing world. Don’t get me wrong — I know we have it good. With our privilege, C and I straddle these worlds, living (very well) in one, and with the means and opportunity to travel to another. The “normal” things we (I) miss are not normal at all for the vast majority of Malawians. They are not even that normal for my daughter who has spent most of her eight years overseas.

It’s really something to think about — and as I begin to contemplate where we might head next after Malawi I wonder how well we would do somewhere with all these amenities and conveniences that we often do without? How would we handle being more normal?

March 3, 2020 by trs

Uruguay via Buenos Aires 2005 Part 3

The final part of my week-long mini sojourn to Uruguay and Buenos Aires.

It took almost as long to get into Buenos Aires from Tigre on the bus as it took to leisurely motor along the delta from Carmelo, Uruguay. The traffic was awful and it was growing dark. I also felt a little sick because all I had had for lunch were nine small saltine crackers, two marshmallow chocolates, a mini candy bar I had left from United’s lounge in Chicago, and some water.

Once let down in the center of Buenos Aires, I determined I should take the subway to the neighborhood of San Telmo to find the hostel. I found a subway entrance and simply followed the crowd. I grew a little nervous when I realized I had reached the platform and was without a ticket; I had seen no ticket counter, no turnstiles. It was 80 degrees above ground in Buenos Aires that day, in early winter, yet the air conditioning (if there ever is any) in the underground was turned off, and with the crowds, the temperature was even warmer. The platform was already full when myself and my large backpack pushed our way into a small corner near the entrance and a shop, but people just kept coming and coming and coming. Soon it was like a sauna, and no trains arrived. In broken Spanish I asked the woman next to me where the ticket counters were and she pointed upstairs, but you could not even see upstairs anymore with the still-arriving mobs. She asked how I managed to get downstairs without a ticket, but I honestly had no clue. I saw no place to buy one and simply followed the crowd. She said it would not be a problem. I felt trapped because I saw no easy way to force my way up through that crowd. And still no trains arrived. I asked the woman how much a taxi might cost to my destination and she told me four or five pesos (about $1.50-$2.00). What? How much is the subway? Seventy centavos. Well if the taxi was only a few dollars I would much prefer to take it than suffer the rising heat of the train-less underground. But you can walk, she says, it is only 15 blocks! How wonderful to hear that someone would think that walking 15 blocks was very doable and easy! In many places the common response to a destination 15 blocks away would be that it was far too distant to walk. Another young man offered to go upstairs as well and show me where I could catch a bus; he said the subway workers were on strike. And so we shoved our way up the stalled escalator, past all the people still unknowingly descending into the tunnel.

Upstairs the air felt refreshingly cool so I decided to walk. I made it to the hostel to check in just in time for the storm to break. It was about 8 PM and I was starving, but when I tried to go outside I was soaked within five minutes even though I carried an umbrella. I went back inside the hostel and took a shower. By the time I was finished the torrential rain was over. I walked the ten blocks to the Plaza Dorengo where I found a small, dark, smoky cafe with windows open onto the plaza and a guitarist singing traditional songs. Though I had been reluctant at first to eat where there might be loud music, prefering to be somewhere quiet, I stayed almost two hours savoring my salad with Roquefort cheese and empañada along with the sounds of lonely, romantic ballads. I thought, now, my holiday is turning around.

Except the weather was not up to cooperating. It was overcast as I stepped out the next day to head to the posh side of Buenos Aires. to visit the Cemeterio de la Recoleta – where the crème de la crème are buried in grand, ornate tombs. It was lightly raining when I reached the gates of the cemetery but it seemed appropriate weather for the location. The Recoleta Cemetery is like a small city for the weathly, powerful, and connected deceased. A small park and a posh shopping center with very upscale furniture stores and chic eateries, including the Hard Rock Cafe Buenos Aires abut the high walls. Inside there is a grand entrance with statues and wide streets leading off from a sort of central square. Friendly cats – no wonder they have the reputation of being associated with death – leisurely stroll around the lanes, lie on the steps to the mausoleums, leap from the tomb rooftops, dart into open, un-cared for tombs, and give guided tours. Well, for at least 20 minutes I was tailed by one particular cat until we caught sight of a rival furry tour guide, and then she took off. I am here in a large part to see the tomb of Eva Peron. I followed an English tour I heard was heading for her tomb, though had I wandered around by myself it would probably not have proved difficult to find as there was a large crowd standing in front of it. Her tomb, regardless of the controversy surrounding her life and still her legacy in death, is a pilgrimage site. I paced nearby until the crowd left and then as the rain fell steadily harder, was able to get a close up look. I tried to peer into the tomb, but to be honest I had a small feeling that if even the slightest movement might happen anywhere near me I would probably scream. As Evita was embalmed, a uncommon practice in Argentina, I thought perhaps the body might be more on display. I know that sounds rather morbid, but the entire cemetery appeared to revel in grotesque, over-the-top demonstrations.

It begins to rain quite hard and I discover that the batteries on my camera have died and the spare pair I thought I had are actually dead too. So, I decide to go and have lunch and see about buying some new batteries. It stops raining after some time and about 1 1/2 hours later I return to the cemetery, but it starts raining again! My umbrella makes it still bearable, so I did not mind too much. I was impressed with the excellent drainage system the cemetery seems to have – probably better than many of the neighborhoods for the living.

As I walk back towards the Subway I realize it is 3:30 PM and there are supposed to be tours in English at Casa Rosada (the Pink House), the Presidential Palace, only at 5 PM on Fridays. I feel lucky that I just happened to think of this and head off. I arrive at the palace around 4:20 PM. There is a fence around the front perimeter; people are going inside but they must pass muster with the guard there. I go up and explain I am there for the tour. He tells me to come back Monday. I explain that I am there for the ENGLISH tour on Fridays. He tells me they have been suspended and waves me away. Once again foiled. What is it about this trip?? I walk around the Palace and it suddenly begins to rain very hard. I pull out my umbrella and dash across the street to a government building with a large roofed entrance way. I make my way to Avenida Florida, the shopping street, which is so much livelier than on my first day only five days before. I find a tourist information office and go in to ask about Tango shows. I also ask them why the English tours of the Casa Rosada have been canceled. They look at me puzzled and say they have not been cancelled – they are every Friday at 4 PM. I briefly imagine myself running back through the rain just to give that guard a piece of my mind – typical developing country guard/police bullshit to just tell people things are closed, cancelled, or never existed. But I’m am no longer really that upset by these things, it just happens when you travel. Had I more time, I would just return another day. Its just I had only this one opportunity.

But I lucked out at last; I found a Tango show in San Telmo. They offered a five course meal and a 1 hour and 45 minute Tango show for US$55. At this point during this ever-frustrating holiday, I expected the food to be overcooked, the service to be bad, and the show a disappointment. But, it was all wonderful. I had the next to best seat in the house, the food was delicious, and the show of Tango music, song, and dance was incredible. It was the perfect final evening of my holiday. The next day my flight left at 7:40 pm and so I needed to leave the hostel for the airport at 5. I slept in, showered, and headed off once again to Avenida Florida for some shopping. I bought two CDs of Tango music, some Patagonian chocolate, and a winter coat – just $40 for a coat that would cost at least three times that in the U.S. I had a final meal of Argentine beef – a fast food place in the Galleria food court that did burgers, steak, sausages, and chicken to order on the grill right in front of the customer. Not your usual fast food place!

Just as I start heading back to the subway (to go to the hostel to catch the taxi to the airport) I notice a large crowd down one of the streets. I notice this because as I am crossing a three lane road I notice a few people standing in the middle of the road staring. I think at first these two guys must have a death wish or something, and then I turn and see down the Avenida toward the obelisk (which resembles the Washington Monument) a large crowd of people. Ooooh, a protest I think! I immediately think of my Aunt C who tells me when in a foreign country and you see a large crowd of people like that one should go AWAY from it. So, of course, I walk towards it, and I am glad I did. It turned out not to be a protest but a gaucho, or cowboy, festival. The roads were roped off and sand was placed down on one of the lanes. There were men and boys in traditional gaucho gear – ponchos, pañuelos (scarfs), flat topped, wide-brimmed felt hats, white dress shirts, bombacha trousers with matching jackets, and boots – astride their equally-decorative horses. Stereotypically perhaps, many of them smoking. Riders were galloping down the sand covered lane. I had to get going, but I took 10 minutes out to watch and take some pictures before heading toward the metro. Again, I felt lucky to have come upon this. Although I was disappointed that I was unable to stay longer, it was enough to have seen it at all.

I then arrived at the closest metro and found it closed! Would these unfortunate events never end? But now used to this, I quickly pulled out my Buenos Aires map and found the next subway stop. It was open and all was well. I made my flight with no problem and it was with a smile that I said goodbye to South America for now.

February 29, 2020 by trs

Uruguay via Buenos Aires 2005 Part 2

My unexpected trip to Uruguay in May 2005 continues as I leave the capital Montevideo, which I found oddly deserted and subdued, and head toward the summer playground of Punta del Este, but in winter, and the UNESCO World Heritage town of Colonia del Sacramento.

Punta del Este 1 — Punta del Este marina – the one beautiful moment there

Punta del Este, the international jet set summer playground, was my next destination. I figured I might at least be able to afford to stay there in winter, when in summer it would be booked out months in advance and too pricey for my wallet. Since it is supposed to be such a popular vacation spot, I imagined beautiful white beaches and a lovely town with quaint attractive buildings. Two and half hours away by bus and I was about to be terribly disappointed.

[From my diary:] This morning as I headed out of my Montevideo hostel to Punta del Este I could sense a change as I might be heading for adventure. The bus terminal was modern and I had no problem buying the ticket or finding the bus. We departed and arrived on time. As we drove, the sun came out and I had high hopes it would remain so. But here I am not in Punta del Este and it is overcast, the sky almost uniformly white.

I found the hostel fairly easily (well, after many wrong turns and bad directions) and then set out have a walk around the town and some lunch. I walked down the deserted main street, again feeling things weren’t quite right. The town might be like any resort/beach town in the off seasons, think Ocean City, Maryland or Kitty Hawk, North Carolina in winter. Very, very quiet. Though Punta is supposed to be glitzy and expensive and trendy, I saw only old, worn out cars parked along the streets. I had some less than fabulous pasta at a small cafe and then headed back to the hostel to get some guidance. The girl in charge of the hostel was out and a man came downstairs. He told me he didn’t work there but he’d been there for months and maybe he could help me. My guess is that he was Uruguayan or Argentine though his English was almost accent-less. I asked, “What is there to do here?” “Sweetheart,” he said, “there isn’t anything to do here.” I was amused at his “sweetheart” address to me. It came off sounding rather cheesy and awkward, like he was just trying out its effect on foreign women. He proceeded to tell me that I should have come with a friend or a boyfriend (thanks for making me feel alone buddy) and that he was there with “his girl” and they would be watching a video that night, maybe I might join them? He pointed out to a beachfront from through the hostel front window. “See that beach,” he says, “in the summer it is so crowded with people you can’t see the sand.” I said that having a beach that crowded would not necessarily be a boon to everyone. I asked about Cabo Polonia, where there are sand dunes and the country’s second largest sea lion colony. Oh, don’t go there, he tells me. Because it will be absolutely dead, there will be nothing to do. “In the summer,” he says, “it is beautiful. They have a naked beach and you can drink and smoke anything you want. You can do anything you want there.” Uh, we clearly have different ideas about what is “beautiful” and “fun.” I wanted to see sand dunes and sea lions and enjoy stark natural beauty, not a bunch of drunk, stoned, naked people. Such a shame to miss all that, I know.

I decided to just walk around the point. It was sunny and not too cold and the walk was so much prettier than the Rambla. Here at Punta and nearby Maldonado are where many wealthy Argentines keep large summer homes. The walk reminded me very much of the walks along the ocean at Monterey, California for the climate and the architecture. Each house was pretty and unique. There was also a small port from where, in summer, boats head out to Isla Gorriti and Isla de Los Lobos, and in the winter the fishermen were selling fresh fish. Sea lions swam around the colorful boats. Around the point I slowly walked, with only a hopeful stalker bicyclist aiming to ruin it. He biked past me several times. At one point I must have made the mistake of saying “hola” while smiling. He biked on ahead and then parked and got off to sit on the stone wall. As I passed he smiled at me and patted the wall next to him. Forget it buddy I said (okay I really said I don’t speak Spanish and he indicated that he didn’t care by shrugging his shoulders) and I walked on. Around to the sculpture “El Mano” or as it is known in English, the Hand in the Sand – what appears to be five fingers of a giant hand, either reaching out of the sand or the last gesture of someone sinking away. I thought it reminded me of the Planet of the Apes and the Statue of Liberty sticking out of the sand at the end. I wanted a picture of me by one of the fingers, but there was no one else around.

Back at the hostel I have my dinner and watch a movie with Sweetheart’s girl. I hit the sack early because I planned to leave Punta del Este as early as possible.

[From my diary:] My hope was to make the 7 AM bus to Colonia, but I slept long and woke up just five minutes to. I had to settle for the 8:45 AM, which would get me to Colonia at 2:30 PM. The bus ride was uneventful, I slept in shifts. The sky cleared, then darkened, then cleared again.

I arrived at Colonia del Sacramento, the oldest town in Uruguay. Founded in 1680 near the confluence of the Rio Uruguay and the Rio de la Plata by the Portuguese and later ceded to the Spanish, Colonia as it is known is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Though it too seemed lost it time, it seemed more appropriate for it to be so. I am not sure which time Colonia is supposed to be lost in, but it was by far my favorite place in Uruguay. The weather was beautiful – when I arrived I first changed into a lighter weight long-sleeved shirt and my fleece and returned almost immediately to take off the fleece. It was sunny and warm – around 70 degrees despite the leafless sycamore trees with their fallen dried orange leaves littering the streets as evidence of the early winter season. There were actually some other tourists in Colonia, most probably on a day tour from Buenos Aires – located just across the river, 45 minutes away by fast ferry. I liked the no pressure strolling around the cobblestone streets – some of them of very roughly hewn stone without much attempt at placing them closely and smoothly together – looking into shops. No one pounced on me as soon as I entered the stores. No high-pressure salesmanship. I was almost disappointed. In Asia I would have been lured, even pulled, in from the street and drawn into haggling for items I had no desire to buy. But in Uruguay, the lack of customer interest or even customers at all seemed unimportant. There was something aggravating and yet also pleasant in this lackadaisical approach to sales and life. Things were unhurried and in Colonia it felt so very appropriate – with the eclectic mix of Portuguese and Spanish colonial and early 20th century with hints of the 21st – there did not appear any desire to rush the town into the modern era. There were horse drawn carriages, 1920s and 1930s vintage cars, along with what I would guess to be early 50s vehicles. A 2005 model would have been the outlier, not the norm.

I strolled for several hours through the streets, climbing up the lighthouse and along the ruined walls of an old fort, to finally stopping for an early dinner at a small restaurant with a view of the sunset over the Rio. I was the only diner and I sat outside in the warm air enjoying the view and a steak. The only disturbances were a dog that wished to share in my meal who was shooed away by the two waitresses who sat glumly across the street on the curb watching over me, and a poorly dressed old man who sold me two band-aids for five pesos.

It seemed almost too calm and relaxing. Why wasn’t I more pleased that the dogs were not attacking me? That the band-aid seller was not more persistent and aggressive? This holiday seemed unlike so many I have taken.

Back at the hostel I was savoring the last few pages of the book I had brought. I had tried to ration the pages – I had not expected to have much time to read, and certainly not to finish the book. I should have brought two or three books with all the time I had on hand. Mostly I had spent the time I could have been reading in another favorite hobby of mine – sleeping. I slept on the plane, on the boat to Montevideo, on the buses to Punta del Este and Colonia. And still I could go to sleep early at night. It was as if I was making up for all the less than adequate sleep for the past few months – and still with all that sleeping, I could not stave off the end of the book. Three days left and a long flight back and I was finished. But just then the woman sharing the dormitory came in. I explained that I was leaving Colonia the next day but was debating between the 9:15 am ferry to Buenos Aires or to spend another quiet day in the town and take the 5:15 pm; however, having just finished off my only reading material I was inclined to leave in the morning. She told me I should take the way back via Carmelo and Tigre. I had no idea to what she was referring, and she told me there is a slower boat leaving from a town about an hour’s bus ride north of Colonia. The boat would wind its way through the Parana River Delta and arrive in the suburban town of Tigre, from where I could then take a bus or train into Buenos Aires. The idea of a more adventurous and less conventional way to return to Argentina appealed to me.

And so the next day at 11:30 I took the bus north to the small river town of Carmelo. I had about an hour to walk the town and buy provisions for the boat. Again, it was beautiful weather, so although I circled the same 10 blocks at least twice and I did not find anything of particular interest in Carmelo, I felt rather excited to be there. The boat ride was again uneventful and relaxing, but this time I felt content because I could look out the windows at the brown river and the life along the delta. I could step out onto the back of the boat and feel the sun and wind on my face. It felt delicious, almost undeserved. Within two hours we pulled up at the dock in Tigre and those heading onto Buenos Aires boarded the company bus.

February 23, 2020 by trs

Uruguay via Buenos Aires 2005 Part 1

In 2005 I was working in Washington, D.C. in my first post-graduate school job. I had only been working for a few months and really wanted a holiday, but had not banked a lot of money or time off. I also love me a random, new, out of the way destination, but somewhere I could cover a fair amount within a short period of time. And for some reason, I honed in on Uruguay. I do not remember why only I had not been there before, I had found a flight, and there was enough, but not too much, for me to see in a week. This trip was most certainly something out of the ordinary. Yet this was 15 years ago and I am surprised by how little I recall of the trip, not the beauty of Colonia del Sacramento or the travel challenges I ran into that led me to originally call this email story “A Series of Unfortunate Events.”

Montevideo Why would I want to go to Uruguay? This was the question posed to me by just about everyone to whom I mentioned my trip. Why not go to Argentina? they asked. Well as just about everyone knows I like to take holidays that are a little different. I do not necessarily want to go to someplace that everyone else is going. However, looking up some statistics, I came across a website that said that Uruguay receives more international tourists than Argentina, Brazil, and Chile. This actually left me rather puzzled. Really? Where were they hiding? But I think I may know how this happens, if you count every Argentine that goes over for a weekend of shopping, then Uruguay may indeed have more “tourists.” I’d be willing to bet that 80-90% of tourists to Uruguay are Argentine or Brazilian, another 10% are the international jet set and celebrities a la Naomi Campbell, Leonardo di Caprio, and Claudia Schiffer that descend on glitzy Punta del Este in the summer.

But those realizations came later.

On a Friday afternoon, I began my unexpected holiday to Uruguay. I had little expectations really, I just wanted to get away, but the excitement was building. And quickly it was dashed. Despite the existence of a direct flight, I had found a cheaper option through Chicago. Unfortunately, this did not work out in my favor. The flight was delayed out of Reagan National and, due to storms, also delayed landing in Chicago. As we circled Chicago O’Hare, my overnight flight to Buenos Aires took off. There was chaos in Chicago, many stranded passengers, and it took time to finally speak with customer service only to learn the next flight was 24 hours later. I spent the first day of my vacation holed up in an airport voucher hotel dining at various O’Hare airport restaurants.

Montevideo 3 — Montevideo shopping street with a view of the old city gate leading to Plaza Independencia

I have to revise my plan. I am dejected. I think maybe I do not even bother going to Uruguay, because I am flying into Buenos Aires my plan is to take the boat to Montevideo. I have no idea when the boats to Montevideo depart. We touch down a little early at 10 am. I think noon would be a good time to have a boat and I figure I might be able to race across town on a bus and get to the boat in time. But I figured wrong. The boat leaves at 11:30 in the morning. I find this out around 10:45 in the morning when airport information informs me they tell me it will take 40 minutes to get into the city… The next boat is at 3:30 pm. I am momentarily stunned that my “plan” ( i.e. that was to have no plan) is not working. Usually, I am very lucky when I travel. This does not feel particularly lucky. I concede defeat and book the bus. I arrive at the port around noon.

My “plan” also included not acquiring any Argentine money; I figured I would just purchase the bus and boat tickets with a credit card and speed ahead to Uruguay. But unfortunately, now I had three hours to kill in Buenos Aires. In the boat terminal, there were neither open money changers nor left luggage facilities. Very traveler-unfriendly. I buy my ticket and ask if I can leave my bag at the travel office. They say no but tell me to try at the information desk. They also say no and tell me to try at the check-in counter. He also says no. But I am tired of hearing no, so I go back to the travel office and put on my sad traveler face and one of the guys goes over and bullies the check-in guy to let me leave my bag. One little triumph. A minor fortunate event. I have two hours before I have to come back for boarding. It is overcast and a Sunday. It was as if I had flown into a Stalinist state during the Cold War. There are not many people out and they are huddled in their coats, the shops seem half-empty on Avenida Florida, supposedly Buenos Aires’ main shopping street. I change US$10 so I can pay for lunch. I sit reading my book until it is almost time to return to the boat. It has started to rain. I am not in a particularly good mood, but then I think I am in for some adventure with the 2 1/2 hour boat ride ahead of me.

Instead, the boat journey takes 3 1/2 hours and it is completely uneventful. It is so overcast outside all we see is white from the windows. No view. It grows dark while the boat putters on. I fall asleep for two hours. When we finally arrive in Montevideo it is dark, around 7 pm, and it is raining. I am one of the first ones off the boat only to have to wait for what seems a ridiculous amount of time for the luggage to come out and for everyone to file through the bottleneck through the x-ray machine. There is no money changing places. I am puzzled by this seemingly key tourist service lacking. If it had been daylight – when I thought I would arrive – I would have walked some way from the port, but the guidebook says to definitely NOT walk in the port area after dark. Suddenly, I am standing with two German guys who are going to a hostel. I become one of their group. I don’t know how it happened, I think a woman offering tourist information lumps us together. That is fine because they seem to know where they are going. There is a huge line waiting for taxis and no taxis to be seen. The German guys suggest we walk away from the crowd and we hail a taxi just entering the port. We pile in together and our driver proclaims we are lucky to hail his taxi because he says not so many Uruguayans speak English. The Germans have an address. We arrive at a building with no sign and buzz the doorbell. It turns out to be a little retro hostel called Red Hostel. Walls painted red, a small living room of sorts in front of the service counter. Sofas, bean bags, a lit fireplace, low lights, and three computer terminals. I get a dorm bed; there are only two other girls in the room and they are not there at the moment. I never do meet them.

The next day I decide to head out into Montevideo, heading first for the Ciudad Viejo or Old Town. I’m looking forward to the cobblestone streets and colonial architecture. I decide to walk the whole way, a few dozen blocks is not too much for marathon-walking me! But first I must finally get some money and pay for the hostel. Walking down the main street, I think Avenida 7 Julio, I notice that nothing particularly stands out. The stores are nondescript and actually many are not even open although it is by now 9 or 10 am on a Monday morning. This is the capital of the country, where at least half of the 3.5 million Uruguayans reside, and yet there is very little bustle. There are people on the sidewalks, there are cars and buses, but it just does not feel right to me. I come across the main square, Plaza de Independencia. There is a large statue of Artigas, the Uruguayan independence hero, upon a horse. The Plaza is almost empty. A line of colorfully dressed school children is having a tour. Two other tourists stop to take a picture. I decide to follow the kids. We pass through the old gate to the city. I take a picture. We are then on the main pedestrian shopping street but again it seems oddly deserted. I feel as if I am transported back to Tallin in Estonia where years ago I also stepped off a boat from Helsinki to arrive in a town with a pretty central old town but surrounded by depressing Soviet-era buildings and boulevards and although the weather is nice, the people seem braced, huddled, unfriendly. Except, this time I am in the Old Town of Montevideo and this one is not nearly as nice at Tallin. There is a lot of construction, but it does not feel industrious. Does this make sense? I have the feeling that I am in a town that was long ago abandoned and people are now only beginning to return and rebuild their lives.

Montevideo 2 — School kids pass by Artigas statue on Independence Square

At the port, I decided that although it is just before noon, I might as well have lunch to give myself something to do. And this is supposed to be the place to have lunch and not dinner because it is not safe here after dark. It is not particularly cold, but the warm fire in the restaurant feels nice. [From my diary:] So far my impression of Montevideo is not too favorable. Thre are plenty of people living on the street, in doorways, in parks. There is a dejected feel here. Actually, the restaurant where I am eating is quite nice – a roaring fire to grill meats and vegetables. Lots of wood and brick, warm, dark colors. It feels very nice in here. If only the music were not U.S. eighties hits. That seems off, but again hardly surprising that the soundtrack to this trip (in the taxi, in the hostel, in the restaurant, in the shops) is American music. I order Lomo or filet mignon. I am in Uruguay after all and beef is the national dish. Both Uruguay and Argentina are known for their beef, the ranches, and gaucho (cowboy) culture. The steak is wonderful and I begin to cheer up. This was all I needed, a good meal and now I can sightsee happily. I go into the old market which is full of small restaurants with bar stools around large grills. Meat, meat, meat hanging everywhere, cooking. It smells wonderful. I imagine the heat from the grills might be too much in summer, but it is just right now. I head out and decide to go to the National Museum.

After a few confusing turns, I find one of the four buildings of the National Museum and go inside. It seems nice enough but seems a strange collection. There are no English explanations, but really there seem to be few explanations at all, even in Spanish. There is a room of what I guess is of early man in South America. Maps of the migration across the Bering Strait and through North and Central and South American. A life-size version of an early indigenous man. Some pottery and bones. Another set of rooms have paintings from the colonial periods and early independence. One room is dedicated to Artigas the hero. But a “room” might be misleading as it was really a small alcove with a bust, a painting, and a mural with his words. And strangely there was also another room with modern black and white photographs pasted onto three-sided cards on a table in the center of the room with a CD of new age music which seemed to alternate baby cries with erotic moans and heavy bass. I have no idea what that room was supposed to signify.

I went in search of another of the four buildings only to find it padlocked shut with no sign indicating anything whatsoever about the reason for this. Okay, fine. I decide to take a walk along the Rambla, the road along the other side of the peninsula. The guidebook said that this was a pleasant walk and one traveler had described it as the highlight of their trip to Montevideo. That person was clearly drunk, drugged or had had an even rougher start to holiday than I had. As I crossed the four-lane highway I had to be extra careful of the Monday afternoon traffic, barely making it across when the one car came barreling down the road towards me. Again I wondered if there had been an evacuation of the city and me and only a few other souls were unaware of this. It was sunny and the sea/river was a bit rough. It usually cheers me to see the water but the ugly high rises in the distance just did not do much to lift my mood. I was beginning to feel sleepy and decided to just return to the hostel for a nap.

That evening I went out for a free performance of tango being offered at the Montevideo Cultural Center. I found the building just in time and found a seat in a small crowded room. It was like a small chapel in an old school, narrow, with pew-like seating. Again even though I was in a room full of people, I felt as if we were lost in time, in a forgotten era. I sat and waited for the singing and dancing to begin. I sat there for 30 minutes and it never did start. There was an announcer who brought two guys onto the small stage and they sat behind an old grand piano and chatted. Occasionally the audience clapped and I joined in. It was like watching a radio talk show. I started to wonder if I had, in fact, wandered in on a town hall meeting and the tango was going on somewhere else in the building. I thought to ask the guy next to me, but then the game would be up – I would be found out to be a phony, having just sat through 30 minutes of dialogue I could not understand. I just got up and left.

Back at the hostel, I watched a movie with other guests while I planned my escape from Montevideo the following day. My favorite part of Montevideo was NOT the Rambla, but instead two other things – my first exposure to the children’s school uniforms, which seem a cross between a lab coat and a painter’s smock: knee-length white lightweight polyester coats with large pockets, buttoned in front, with pleats on the girls’ uniform, topped by a large blue bow at the neck. Add a black French beret on their heads and they would have looked the part of the quintessential French painter.

The second thing I liked was the horse-drawn garbage carts. Throughout my walk around Montevideo, I distinctly heard the clop clop clop of horse hooves on cobblestone. At night, on the wet pavement and in the semi-deserted streets, the sound romantically echoed of the past. Finally, on the second evening while heading back to the hostel I caught sight of one of them, the driver leaping off the cart to grab bags of garbage and hoist them onto the back of the cart or tie them to the sides. Even though the site of large plastic bags tied all around and piled high is not the most attractive sight, I could not help but feel a little delighted to find the source of the sounds to be something so every day as the garbage man, in the most un-everyday kind of way.

February 10, 2020 by trs

The Gift of Paris

Following our epic adventure to Lapland (here and here) with our friends CZ and Little C, I surprised my daughter C with a trip to Paris as an early Christmas gift. C loves Paris. Even before I took her on her first trip to the City of Lights, C was already enamored with France and its capital thanks to several of her favorite Disney movies set there (Aristocats, Beauty and the Beast, Ratatouille) and several episodes of the Little Einsteins.

In the Helsinki airport, I sat C down and told her I would be revealing her early Christmas present. I had made hints for days and she was giddy with excitement though confused how I had managed to hide a gift from her and why I had checked our luggage without handing over the present. I turned on my phone’s video camera and proceeded to tell her we would not actually be flying back to Malawi that day but were instead going to Paris and Disneyland! Instead of the shouts of excitement I had expected, C sat there confused and stunned. Hmmm…looked like the Mom of the Year trophy I had thought I would clinch had slipped from my fingers.

Lucky for me, as we flew across Europe C decided to forgive me for taking her to Paris and by the time we were landing she was thoroughly thrilled to be heading to Disneyland.

2 Disney Paris hotel — Disneyland Paris’ Hotel Cheyenne

The previous time we had headed to Paris in the Spring of 2018 we had also stayed a few days at Disneyland Paris. This time I opted for another one of Disneyland Paris’ hotels, the Cheyenne. Although it seemed to be the final drop off location for the Disneyland Paris Magic Shuttle from the airport, we very much liked the whimsical, Disney-touch to a wild west theme. The whole hotel complex was laid out like a western frontier town.

And we did what most people do when they go to Disney–we rode the rides, we watched the parades, we had our pictures taken with people dressed up as our favorite characters. We also do what you might expect of people in our situation — Americans who spend the majority of their time in the developed world and have just come from the frozen north — we reveled in the Christmas-y and American-ness of it all. We took full advantage of our hotel benefits, arriving early for the Extra Magic Hours and staying until closing. We got to do everything we wanted and more except for riding Crush’s Coaster, which either had lines of over an hour wait or was not running. But we just shrugged it off — we can give that a try next time we are in Paris, along with the other new attractions expected in the next few years.

2 Disney Paris in Winter — Great winter weather and Christmas themes greeted us at Disneyland Paris

After our 2.5 days at Disney it was time to head into Paris proper, and immediately we came face to face with the France outside of the Disney bubble. Like during our last visit there was yet again another transportation strike affecting the metro and RER trains. There then went my plan to take public transportation into the city so we called an Uber and enjoyed the roads with everyone else.

Once squared away in our lovely hotel near the Paris Opera, we grabbed some lunch and then took a leisurely stroll down to and through the Tuileries Garden to the Louvre. C absolutely loves to draw and had recently had a brief course in some European artists at school, so I thought she might enjoy a visit to the largest art museum in the world. I had read the best time to take younger children to the Louvre was during the evenings hours the museum offers twice a week, so Wednesday worked for us. The weather was perfect, a little cold, but not nearly as cold as Finland, and the light of late afternoon just beautiful. This was my fourth time in Paris, but I never tire of the majesty of the historic heart of this city. C loved spending time in the Louvre; we caught the highlights — the Mona Lisa, the Coronation of Napolean, the Winged Victory of Samothrace, Venus de Milo, and Egyptian antiquities — and C found a few favorite paintings of her own. I really loved seeing her make careful selections in the gift shop based on the art she most enjoyed. 4 Beautiful Paris evening

On our second day in the city, dawn broke beautifully. With the metro schedule up in the air due to the strikes, we would spend the day walking. Our first stop would be the Arc de Triomphe, a 45-minute walk from our hotel. There were no lines, something that seems almost unheard of in Paris, so we headed right up to the roof. Despite the overcast skies and some rain, the view was still spectacular, even dramatic. I felt really happy to be in Paris with my girl.

We walked on to the right bank of the Seine at the Pont de l’Alma where we got some lunch in a lovely corner restaurant. My initial plan was for us to continue on to the Eiffel Tower, but we had already done quite a lot of walking, so instead, we headed to the Bateaux Mouches for a guided river tour. This was something we had planned for last time but had been nixed due to floods rising the Seine water level too high to get under some of the bridges. It was nice to get out of the cold and sit back, relax, and enjoy floating past the beauty of historic Paris. C liked the sweets I bought her, sitting down with her toys, and occasionally looking out the windows.

Paris 10 — The T-Rex art installation at the Bateaux-Mouches pier

The weather had cleared by the time the boat returned; it was lovely for a walk. But as we headed up Rue Royale, just off of the Place de la Concorde, I caught a couple trying to steal my wallet. The sidewalk was narrow and I could sense the people behind us were walking very, very closely. I figured they wanted to pass, so I pulled C over to the building wall to let them by, and in so doing pulled my handbag, which was over my shoulder, back to my side. And it was then I noticed that the zipper on my bag was undone and my wallet half-way out. The couple–a very tall man and a petite woman, both dressed very well–immediately began to play out a ridiculous drama, pointing at shop signs in an exaggerated manner and then they ducked into the nearest store. But I walked only a little ahead of that shop and sure enough, they popped back out within 30 seconds.

There were no police around. They had not succeeded. There was little I could think to do. I rooted around in my bag and could not see anything was missing. But I felt violated nonetheless. The whole rest of the walk back I could not stop obsessing about what had just happened, what could have just happened. And trying to explain this to C – why people would do this and about my reaction. I have been many, many places in the world, at least 90 countries, and only once did someone succeed in pick-pocketing me – in China. On two other occasions, in Jakarta and Rome, someone tried but I caught them. I feel as if this is a good thing, and yet the whole situation only left a bad taste in my mouth.

Once back in the hotel room, I did not feel like going out again. But we did not like the room service menu, so I opted to head out to the supermarket around the corner. I felt irrationally fearful; I clutched my bag to my body. But just before the supermarket, I saw a family–a man, woman, and their two children–sitting on a blanket preparing to sleep for the night, and something possessed me to ask if I could buy them something. They did not speak more than a few words of English, so could not ask, but through hand signals, we worked out that the mother and the older daughter would accompany me. They moved quickly through the store, I expect fearful that if they took too long I would change my mind. When I found them in the back of the store, they had two full baskets. I could see they also were worried I would make them put something back, but I just motioned them to follow me. I paid for everything and we stepped outside. The girl thanked me and then threw her arms around my waist and hugged me fiercely. In broken English, I learned she was nine years old and they are from Syria. I had a lot of conflicting feelings, so much sadness, anger at the pickpockets and the circumstances that brought this young family to the street. These were different sides of Paris.

Paris 12 — An exquisite view from Eiffel

The next day, our last full one in Paris, we were going to try to get to the Eiffel Tower. The day started out overcast again, but the temperature was comfortable and we had a pleasant walk. About 20 minutes out I logged on to the Eiffel Tower website to buy our tickets and saw they were all sold out! Oh no! I felt bummed– the second time to the city with C and both times we did not go up the Tower. But once we arrived there, the line to buy tickets at the cashier was not long. I guess so many people now opt for the skip-the-line-admission option that it can actually be possible to sometimes just walk up, wait ten minutes, buy your tickets, and ascend.

We opted for the lift up, walk down option. Perhaps one day when C and I return we will go to the top, but I had heard the best views were really from the second level. And once again we were rewarded with a change in the weather and stunning views across Paris. I could feel the bad feelings of the day before evaporating with the sun. C was a champ, she took the 674 steps back down in stride, even after all the walking we had already done. We headed back across the river and dined in the very same establishment we had the day before, and it was just as wonderful. Then we strolled back towards the Tuileries to visit the Christmas market. I was happy to see the Roue de Paris (the Paris Ferris Wheel) that had been removed from its semi-permanent location at the Place de la Concord soon after our last visit had made a comeback in the Christmas market.

Paris 17 The market was fun, festive, and chock full of many, many goodies. C wanted to play fairground games as I have only once before let her do so. After many, many tries she finally won – a cellphone holder. Ha! And then we hopped aboard the Roue for a few spins with a different view. This time we could look over the Tuileries, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the Louvre, and the grand buildings along the Rue de Rivoli, again also with spectacular afternoon sunlight. And as we left the market to head back to our hotel a double rainbow appeared. It was a glorious end to an overall wonderful trip.

The following day we slept late and then caught a taxi to the airport (the hotel informed us that the Roissy bus to the airport would likely not run given it was a Yellow Vest protest day). It was okay. I did not want to run into anything else that might taint the memories of this trip. Because I was pretty sure C had by then much forgiven me for giving her the gift of Paris.

January 30, 2020 by trs

Going WAY North for the Winter (Part 2)

The second and final installment of our amazing trip to northern Finland in early December 2019. 2 Santa Welcome Part 2 C Rovaniemi. Fourteen months ago I had never heard of this small city located just four miles south of the Arctic Circle in Finland’s northern region of Lapland. Yet after months of planning and expectation, the name began to roll off my tongue and also come to mean grand adventure.

A confluence of events, accidents of history, turned this Arctic village into a major tourist destination. In the 1930s Rovaniemi was a good-sized trading town, a confluence for miners, loggers, and Sami reindeer herders. But during World War II, the town became a pawn between Russian and German aggression and from 1940 German forces occupied the town, building the airfield that has become Rovaniemi’s airport. As Germany’s fortunes changed, their troops’ scorched-earth tactics destroyed 90% of the city, leaving only 17 buildings standing. But in 1950 Eleanor Roosevelt made a surprise visit to survey the reconstruction efforts and the governor and mayor had a log cabin built in her honor. (And you can visit the Roosevelt Cabin today in Santa Claus Village). In 1984, the Finnish Tourism Board decided to market Lapland as the home of Santa Claus, and thus began the legend of Rovaniemi as a premier Christmas themed destination. The combination of Arctic activities and Santa Claus magic brings some 600,000 tourists a year to this city of 63,000.

2 Lauri Airbnb — The lovely Lauri guesthouse complete with unique snow characters

Initially, we dreamed of staying in one of the glass igloos, but after looking at the prices and weighing the costs against the enjoyment, we went in a different direction. We were really lucky to find a wonderful room in a highly rated Airbnb right in the center of town. Our room at Lauri, the only 19th-century log house in Rovaniemi (not one of the 17 remaining after 1944, but was relocated to the city in 1968), had nine beds–enough for all of us and five friends, but there were few options in the city when we reserved in August. Most places other than some very pricey or characterless options were already fully booked. But the manor, located in a residential neighborhood, across from a school, and only two blocks the city center, was perfect.

We — myself, my daughter C, my best friend CZ and her son Little C — first arrived in Rovaniemi at 7:15 AM after traveling on the overnight Santa Express train from Helsinki. Traveling about ten minutes in a Santa-endorsed taxi, we were deposited at the Lauri guesthouse around eight in the morning. The hosts had given us a code that allowed us to store our luggage until we could check in later that day, and then there we were tired and hungry and a wee bit cold with children who could not pay attention because there was SNOW everywhere. We herded the kids to the one restaurant we knew would be open, a place in the nearby shopping mall. The walk took probably three times longer than it should have as C and Little C had to climb up, jump in, or touch every bit of snow along the way.

2 Part 2 J — Though always cold, the temps fluctuated during our week. Negative zero though?

Our first day would be low key as we were all a bit knackered. Little C and I were both suffering from colds – he fell asleep in CZ’s lap and I felt as though I were still rocking to the rhythms of the train. We stayed put til 10 AM when we could make our way over to the Pilke Science Center. I would not have thought a museum on forestry and sustainable logging would be that intriguing, but the center is really well set up and kid-friendly. We easily spent a few hours here. Then we all headed back to our Airbnb to check-in and relax. CZ and I alternated time with the kids in the room so one of us could go out, do some shopping, and be child-free.

Day two was all about Santa Claus. Right after getting out of the taxi at the Santa Claus Village we made a beeline for Father Christmas’ office where we would have an opportunity to meet The Man himself. Though we waited about 20 minutes, this was not nearly as long as we expected and frankly, Santa was awesome. He is not your suburban mall Santa in a cheap red suit, but a more authentic working Santa with shirt sleeves and a traditional knitted vest and snow-covered elfish-like boots, comfy colorful socks, and a waist-length beard. He was engaging and though many were waiting to see him, we each got a bit of personal time with him. I love that he engaged the parents too.

Santa Claus Village 1 — Left: the ice bar at Snowman’s World; Center: Arctic Circle marker & thermometer; Right: Santa Claus’ Office, the blue light also marks the Arctic Circle

We explored a bit around Santa’s office (i.e. the gift shop — don’t think for one second that I am some super-parent who is able to bypass such places), crossed and re-crossed the Arctic Circle, and then we had lunch at the Three Elves restaurant, where I willingly tried a bit of CZ’s reindeer burger (much to C’s chagrin). The next stop was Snowman World (which is created of ice and snow every year), where we enjoyed some beverages at the ice bar, some snow tubing, and admired the ice sculptures. Then we spent some time at the Elf’s Farm Yard petting zoo to meet a few reindeer resting after flying school, feed some very furry and ornery goats, then roasted marshmallows over a fire in the Arctic version of a teepee, and C and Little C joined some other kids in sledding down a small hill. At about 4:30 PM we called it quits. That might seem early, but the sun had already set three hours before and we had been out and about in the cold for over six hours. And we needed to rest up for our next adventure…

Dog-sledding! Although visiting Santa was a key focus of the trip, something very special for the kids, dogsledding was the top activity on CZ and my Rovaniemi to-do lists. Driving a sleigh pulled by adorable and excited dogs across the snow was CZ’s and my ultimate bucket list activity on this ultimate bucket list vacation. We were as excited, if not more, than the kids. Ok, I am 100% positive we were more excited, we could especially see this as we changed into the tour organization- provided sleigh gear. C and Little C were not so keen on the ski suit, hats, socks, and boots that turned them into stiff-armed and legged zombie-like marshmallows. But once outside getting our dog-sled driving instruction in front of hundreds of uber-excited huskies, the kids too perked up.

2 Dog sledding — Left: look, so easy! Right: That blob of winter wear at the helm is me!

As the tour operator led us to our sleighs, the excitement of the dogs was palpable. The dogs were barking keenly; they were jumping, leaping, straining against their harnesses, lots of tongues lolling and tails wagging. They could hardly wait to get going. These incredible dogs – Alaskan Huskies – can four together pull 150 kilos weight, average 10-14 kilometers per hour, and often run about 150 kilometers a day. To fuel this incredible energy, the dogs consume about 10,000 calories a day!! Sitting around is not in their nature. The most important part of our dog-sled driving training was the use of the brake!

CZ and I alternated our time driving the sled, 30 minutes each. It was exhilarating. The temperature on our dog-sled day was below freezing with snow flurries. As we slid our way through the forest and then out onto an open field, small, hard snow pelted my face, the only exposed part of my body. It kinda hurt and yet I could not wipe the ridiculous grin from my face. On several occasions, I laughed out loud with joy I could not contain. My 30 minutes felt like it was up in a split second and I didn’t want to give up the driving seat. This was hands down one of the best activities I have ever done in my life.

We had already learned that being cold can be tiring. It turns out driving a dog sled is also exhausting. So the combination meant that we were not keen on doing much else. We ate at a Japanese restaurant (none of these in Malawi!) for lunch and then the kids played in the snow in the city center. That evening CZ took both kids to a baking class in a traditional Finnish home while I hung out in the room watching Finnish television.

The following day we joined a tour to the Ranua Wildlife Park, an Arctic Zoo (and second northernmost zoo in the world), located an hour south of Rovaniemi. There were some cool Arctic animals there from the Arctic fox to the polar bear, the wolverine to the grey wolf, and a nice wooden walkway through the exhibits. I had never been to a wildlife park of this kind and I knew that this was something C and I would enjoy, but, to be honest, it was not quite as magical as I had hoped. I think in part as we were on a tour, and although we hung back from the group and walked at our own pace, we still were herded on and off the bus and through the disappointing buffet lunch. And Little C was definitely not so keen on the zoo and wanted to make sure we all felt his displeasure.

That evening C and I tried to have an evening of pseudo-normalcy, to do things we are unable to do in Malawi. We planned to eat dinner at McDonald’s (once the northernmost franchise in the world, now the second most northern) and then go and see a movie. CZ and Little C do not partake of McD’s and Little C will not sit through a movie, so this was to be a mother-daughter outing. Unfortunately, the only age-appropriate movie was a universally panned movie about a dog, but C loves dogs so I was up for it. I had checked carefully that the film would be in English, but once there the ticket seller informed us that they had previously shown the English version but no one had come, so now it was in Finnish, and that was a no-go. But we did get our McD fix.

On Friday, our last full day in Rovaniemi, we returned to Santa Claus Village to get in a few more wintry activities. We took two sleighs pulled by reindeer – the kids in one and the adults in another (fifteen minutes to ourselves, hooray!). Although just a 1000 meter-ride through the village, the route slipping quietly along a path bounded by snow-covered silver birch trees was enchanting. I am not sure how the kids felt — they had indicated that the reindeer were too slow to their liking — but CZ and I would have been happy to be pulled along quite a bit longer.

To satisfy the kids’ need for speed, we headed next to the snowmobile park where children could take a spin around a track on their own. I expect for some parents it might seem crazy to let kids do this, but I expect the Finns know a thing or two about winter sports from an early age. The man running the course asked each child if they had driven a snowmobile before (many had!) and if they did not, he gave them some quick instruction on a model nearby. Both our kids kept their speeds moderate and reported the experience as top-notch.

After lunch we then headed over to Santa Park, a few kilometers away. While Santa Village is mostly outdoors and free to visit (you just pay for the experiences), Santa Park is entirely indoors. In fact, it is all underground. Surprisingly, the place was not crowded at all (the website had indicated popular times and days with large groups, so we planned our visit outside those times), and we had good seats for Elf School (where incredibly in-character performers took us through a fun activity), almost no wait for the miniature train ride, close to the stage view for a short acrobatic play, and waited all of five minutes to see Santa. It was not my favorite place in Rovaniemi, but it was enjoyable and a nice to be indoors for a change.

2 Fox Northern Lights — Arktikum’s interpretation of Fox’s Fire

Our final day, Saturday, was a partial day as we would return to Helsinki on the overnight train departing Rovaniemi at 6 PM. Funnily enough, friends of mine with whom I served with in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico and are now in Romania had booked a trip to Rovaniemi arriving by train the day we left, and even more improbably, had reserved at the same Airbnb! So when they arrived in town SP and their two kids came to relax in our room while RP went to pick up their rental car. All the kids seemed to instantly bond and I had a chance to catch up a little. After they headed off for the day we did our final packing, stored our luggage, and then headed out for Mexican food (Another thing we really cannot get in Malawi and honestly I did not expect in northern Finland). We then spent a few hours at the Arktikum, a museum dedicated to exploring and sharing the nature, culture, and history of northern regions. C, Little C, and I grabbed the kids activity book at the front desk and headed off into the museum while CZ checked out the Christmas market in the lobby. I had to move a bit quicker through the exhibits with two kids keen on completing their activity than I would on my own, but the center is impressive and even displays on Arctic animals, the northern lights, and, surprisingly, northern bog biodiversity caught their attention. My favorite part was the northern light simulator. Well, it was more like sitting in a planetarium and watching a movie on the formation of the aurora borealis and legends surrounding the phenomenon. In Finnish, the name for the Northern Lights is “revontulet,” which means “fox fire” and is derived from a Sámi story of a magical fox running across the snow-covered fells whose tail would emit sparks of light. My daughter loves foxes, they are her new favorite animal, and I thought she would enjoy seeing the lights based on this tale. Unfortunately, during our visit there was only one night of even middling chance to see the lights, the night after our epic dog sledding, and all of us were just too tired (it required being out in the cold until at least midnight). But the Artikum’s display kind of made up for it.

That night on the return train I marveled how this small city of 63,000 inhabitants, not only had risen from the ashes of war but had also ingeniously crafted a niche tourism industry. I also could not help but think how the small city had more restaurants, cultural activities, and entertainment venues than the nearly 1 million strong Malawi capital. It’s an unfair comparison, I know, given Rovaniemi’s location in developed Northern Europe, but the thought came to me nonetheless. However, I have to say once back in Helsinki for one more day, and being able to peel off a few layers of clothes (I wore three pairs of pants in Lapland – a pair of long underwear, then a pair of heavy leggings, then a pair of ski pants!!) and even more so to when I returned to the lush green warmth of Malawi in the rainy season, that I while glad for the opportunity to experience northern Finland in winter, I was also glad to be home.

January 20, 2020 by trs

Going WAY North for the Winter (Part 1)

Part 1 0 About 14 months ago, while chatting online with one of my best friends CZ, she happened to mention her interest in taking her son Little C to Rovaniemi, the small city in northern Finland, in the region of Lapland, known as the Official Hometown of Santa Claus, around Christmas. She had just read an article about it. Funny thing is, I had also just read a similar article and had stayed up late researching the possibilities just the night before. We went back and forth a few times – excitedly discussing the possibilities, sending one another links to possible activities and lodging – but then it fell out of our conversation. Lapland seemed really far away, further away than just time and distance. Nonetheless, the seeds of this adventure were planted.

Last July during our Home Leave, we visited CZ in North Carolina, and our conversation again turned to the topic of winter vacation in Lapland. And this time, the planning came fast and furious. I messaged my colleague in Malawi to ask if he were okay with my taking leave in early December. Although likely a wee bit annoyed I was asking about it in July, he agreed. CZ and I arranged our flights – she with points, me with miles – and then a week later, with each of us in different locations, we logged on to the Finnish railway website to simultaneously purchase our Santa Express overnight train tickets (in adjacent compartments). In August, I happened to find a great place to stay on Airbnb; I messaged CZ while she was out shopping, and that afternoon (evening for me) we had our lodging. Holy moly – we were heading to Lapland in December! Nothing would stop us now (unless my new boss denied my leave – but thankfully that did not happen).

Once back in Lilongwe, with all the primary logistics worked out, I settled back into my Malawi routine. Actually, work was really busy, nothing felt routine, and thoughts of heading north for the winter were pushed to the back of my mind. Around October though, it began to dawn on me what I had done. We were going to the Arctic Circle in WINTER. What had I been thinking?? I may have grown up in the U.S state of Virginia and spent a few years working in Washington, D.C., so I had, of course, experienced some cold weather, but for much of my adult life I have largely followed what I term my “winter avoidance strategy.” I have lived in Indonesia, Singapore, Hawaii, California, the Philippines, and now Malawi: in places where it is rarely, if ever, cold. Even in Ciudad Juarez and Shanghai snow was rare. In the winter, my modus operandi is to head south, to tropical climes. I bought a condo in Florida for goodness sakes. Yet, here I was willingly preparing to head somewhere guaranteed to be quite cold, and where literally the sun would not shine, or rather never rise above the horizon in the dead of winter.

Arrival in modern developed Finland

I needed to be more prepared! I looked up websites about what to wear in Lapland in winter and either purchased the necessary gear (thick, non-cotton socks, ski gloves, ski jackets, ski pants, long underwear, waterproof winter boots, fleece hats) or CZ, who skis, would bring to loan us. Given our location and mail situation, I needed to purchase items by late October for guaranteed delivery before we departed on December 7. There could be no returns. CZ and I scoured the Internet for activity ideas and, being the planners we are, started a day-by-day itinerary for our trip. To get C excited about our overnight journey on the Santa Express, I bought the movie The Polar Express and hosted a movie-watching party for (21!) kids in our Embassy community.

And then there was nothing really more to do but wait for the day to come.

Except freak out.

Because this vacation was one in which I was putting myself WAY out of my comfort zone. If it wasn’t the freezing temperatures then it might be the 2 1/2 hours of daylight (or rather the 21 1/2 hours of darkness) that would get to me. I would bear all of this to take my child to see Santa Claus before Christmas, to possibly secure myself the Mother of the Year trophy. Or die trying.

Right: Helsinki around 2:30 PM from the steps of the Cathedral overlooking the Christmas market; Left: Downtown Helsinki around 5 PM

On December 7 we began our journey. Any travel from sub-Saharan Africa to Europe is tricky. From the less-visited Malawi to Helsinki trickier still. And then throw in the random routing from my “free” ticket and you get our Lilongwe-Addis-Istanbul-Helsinki routing. It wasn’t pretty, but we landed in Helsinki around 11 AM on December 8, excited as we could be.

We changed from our travel clothes to our Helsinki in winter clothes, then caught the train to the city center. Along the way, C marveled at the sights from the train window. What caught her eye first and foremost? Orderly, pothole-free, multi-lane roads and functioning traffic lights! (“Mom, look! Look at these roads! Imagine if Malawi had roads like this?! Look at the lights, they are working!!”) Even the train and the train station were delights. We stashed our luggage in the left luggage lockers at the station, then got some lunch. While there CZ and Little C, who had arrived in Helsinki two days before, met us.

We had a few hours to kill before our 18:49 departure on the Santa Express from Helsinki to Rovaniemi, so we headed first to the Christmas market located in the square below the city’s iconic Cathedral. We browsed the quaint Christmas booths, bought hot Gluhwein and hot cocoa, and sipped our drinks in heated outdoor seating booths. It was cold, but not THAT cold. And it was after all a novelty for C and myself to be wearing winter jackets, to have our noses twitch in the chilly air. The atmosphere was festive and lively and we were with our best friends. Even the sun setting at 3:15 in the afternoon was novel and amusing.

From the market, we headed over a few blocks to the Children’s Town at the Helsinki City Museum to let the kids burn off some energy before the train. With the early morning arrival in Rovaniemi, we wanted the kids to be ready for bed shortly after boarding. The museum did its trick. We stayed til the 5 PM closing, then walked back to CZ’s hotel, gathered up her luggage, and returned to the train station.

C’s and my compartment on the Santa Express

How do I even begin to describe the Santa Express? I used to backpack quite a bit in my 20s and early 30s and spent many a time on long train journeys in Europe and Asia. I was nostalgic for the feel of riding the rails and excited to be sharing this experience with C and our friends. CZ and I had each booked a two bunk sleeping compartment with en suite bathroom for the 12 1/2 hour journey. The compartments were tiny but well equipped. We had a small chair, table, two bunks with an alarm clock and charging stations, and could shift one wall in the tiny bathroom to reveal a shower. So clever! Scandanavian efficiency at its best.

We boarded as efficiently as one can with large suitcases and small children in a foreign country (i.e. not elegant), got our things quickly into the compartments, and then headed down to the dining car so we could park ourselves at a table. Our plan worked beautifully. We had the first choice of tables and no line at the restaurant counter service and could keep the kids and ourselves busy until bedtime. By 9 PM we were ready to turn in.

I so want to be able to say that I slept like a baby, lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the train as it slipped north. The berth mattress was not uncomfortable; we were not cold beneath the provided comfortor. The train’s rhythmic swaying and muffled clickety-clack were comforting. But I had a cold I had picked up in Addis Ababa where I had been the week before on a business trip and coughed enough to keep me awake, and I could hear poor Little C, also with a cold, coughing on his side of our thin shared wall. C insisted she needed to sleep with me and we were wedged together in one berth. Not terrible mind you, but I had very little space to maneuver. And though we had few stops en route, I awoke each time with the squealing of brakes then lurching re-start with the train whistle. Not altogether unpleasant sounds, but unfamiliar and I am not as sound a sleeper as C.

We woke around 6:30 to prepare for the 7:15 arrival at Rovaniemi. We changed into our “really cold weather” clothes, packed up our bags, and pulled up the compartment blinds. Outside it was dark, and yet not the sort of black night that descends upon Malawi. Perhaps it was the 3/4 sized moon (waxing gibbous) reflecting brightly off the snow-covered ground, but certainly, there were electric lights on the train and from the stations and towns we passed that also contributed to the relative brightness. There was definitely a lot of snow on the ground. Ice encrusted our compartment window. We had traveled through the night to awaken in a true winter wonderland. We were here!

Arrival at the snow and ice-encrusted Rovaniemi

We readied to disembark and then, well, things happened. Things that happen to moms when traveling with kids. In the final shuddering of the train as it braked into Rovaniemi station, Little C, sitting in the upper bunk, lost the contents of his stomach. CZ managed a record-breaking speedy clean-up and final gathering of belongings, and we all flung ourselves gracelessly off the train. C and Little C speeding like bullets aimed themselves directly at the biggest piles of snow. CZ and I circled the wagons so to speak, gathering our belongings to do the necessary arrival checks. CZ noticed Little C was in the snow sans his hat and a quick search of her bags indicated it had not made it off the train. Back onto the train, she emerged a minute later victorious, only to find her phone was then missing. I pulled off my gloves and fumbled to locate my phone with newly-installed European SIM card, turn it on, and then call her phone. Back into the train she went, once again returning triumphant. Whew!

Santa, or his spies, are everywhere in Rovaniemi

C and Little C, oblivious to the whole drama, continued to frolic in the snow. Though we were both a wee bit rattled at the close call and thanked our lucky stars the train stopped for 20 minutes at Rovaniemi before heading to its final destination, CZ and I congratulated ourselves in making it this far. We were the last people standing on the snowy platform so we corralled the kids and began trudging towards the station to flag a taxi to our lodging.

December 28, 2019 by trs

Giving Thanks with Visitors

The Pumulani staff preparing the dhow for the sunset cruise

Within inner circles of the Foreign Service, one of the much-discussed downsides of the lifestyle is the lack of friends and family willing to visit us overseas. Even those who find themselves in a fairly fantastic post – say Paris or Hong Kong – may find that not quite as many folks from home who promise to visit do. And for those of us serving in those not-quite-so-garden locales, our attempts to lure visitors (“look at this fabulous guest room just waiting for your arrival”) go far more ignored than grasped.

I never expected to have people knocking down my virtual door or blowing up my inbox, clamoring to visit us in Malawi. To be honest, until I started to look at potential places to bid for my third assignment, I had never heard of the country. And it is in Africa. Although the continent has a rapidly growing tourism market (the second fastest-growing market in 2018), it still captures a small part of the tourism pie. In 2018, 67 million tourists visited Africa. Compare that to the 90 million that visited France alone. The top visited African destinations were places like South Africa, Zimbabwe, Mauritius, Morocco, Tunisia, and Kenya. And most of these tourists are not Americans who tend to stick to Western Europe and the Caribbean – of the top 39 overseas places Americans visited in 2017 only two African nations made the list – South Africa and Morocco – at place #36 and #39 respectively.

So bottom line, there are not many people who would come more than halfway around the world to visit us in a small, relatively unknown developing country. But I do have those few. D&D are two of those people. They have visited me in Indonesia and Mexico (both before my blogging days), they had plans to visit me in China (until an unexpected medical evacuation caused that cancellation), and C and I visited them in San Francisco during Home Leave a few years ago.

The downstairs in our lux Latitude 13 room.

DO1 and I went to college together many years ago; he was my big brother in our service fraternity. He loves traveling and visiting UNESCO World Heritage Sites around the world and has no qualms about traveling WAY out of his way to see them. His partner, DO2 (yes, they have the same first name and their last names start with the same letter), may not love traveling quite so much but is a really good sport. It was no surprise that DO1 contacted me in the summer about visiting Malawi for Thanksgiving, in conjunction with a trip to South Africa.

On Thanksgiving Thursday I picked up D&D at the airport and we headed to the Italian restaurant around the corner from my home for lunch. I also took them for a little spin around Lilongwe to see all the sites — that really and truly is a short drive. Once C was home from school, we all headed out to Latitude 13, an upscale boutique hotel not far from my home. C and I have often eaten at Latitude’s restaurant and I have long wanted to stay overnight there. After all, when Rihanna visited Malawi, she stayed there. So, you know, if it is good enough for Rihanna, it is definitely good enough for me.

Early on Friday morning, we started our three and a half-hour drive to the beautiful resort of Pumulani, located within the Lake Malawi National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Last year, we also spent Thanksgiving at Pumulani. We had such a great time there before, it made perfect sense to return. And D&D would have the amazing opportunity to enjoy the long stretches of Malawi road along the way. I mean that tongue in cheek as it is really not that exciting. It’s rather amazing for a country that is so densely populated that one can drive for miles with little signs of civilization.

views from the room — The views from our room

Our rooms at Pumulani were as stunning as the last time. Pumulani is built up a rocky hillside along the lakeshore. There are ten villas set from at various levels — one at the beach level, and then at various stages up the hillside — there are 150 wooden steps from the beach up to the main lodge. Previously, C and I stayed at the upper level, with a bush view. This time, by my request, we stayed at a villa at the mid-level, where I had heard rock hyraxes were sometimes spotted. We also had a lake view. D&D were in a villa a little way down the boardwalk, a level below us.

While standing on our balcony, overlooking Pumulani’s small dock on the lake, a movement in the brush caught my eye. A good-sized monitor lizard, a little over two feet in length, skidded hurridly down an embankment. And then, giving chase, a rock hyrax! I could not believe it. The hyrax lept into the branches of a tree and settled in for a little rest. Upon looking around, I noticed not one, not two, but three hyraxes sitting in the trees. Wow! On our last trip, we had not seen a single one, and now here they were hanging around our villa. Soon enough, vervet monkeys ran across the roof of our villa, then leaped into the trees.

We enjoyed lunch together on the dining patio at the main lodge overlooking the upper pool, the dock, and with a tremendous view of the lake. It was hot. Very, very hot. Although the sky was clear, rain was in the air, and thus so were the lake flies. So while Pumulani food is very good, and the view and company were perfect, the swarming flies marred the otherwise lovely meal. The heat and insects, full stomachs and exhaustion from the road trip, drove us each to our rooms and the lake beach for some relaxation. The storm rolled in, guaranteeing there would be no late afternoon dhow sail on the lake, but the stormy skies were nonetheless atmospheric and cooled the temperatures to something more bearable.

I kept a respectable distance from the lake waters abutting the Pumulani beach. On our last visit, while C played by the lakeshore and I lazed in a swing chair, a Pumulani staff member approached my daughter and told her to stay away from the lake as a crocodile was nearby. This time we asked about the crocodiles and were told, “oh, its only the one and we haven’t seen him in oh, two or three…days.”

Some of the wildlife at Pumulani: monitor lizard, rock hyrax, samango monkey

Unfortunately that evening I came down with a stomach bug. I could barely drag myself up the 100-some steps to the dining area, and once there, I could not stand the thought of food. Nor the idea of still sharing my meal with the hundreds, no thousands, of bugs teeming around the few lights. I called it an early night, leaving D&D to the mercy of the insects, and arranged for food to be delivered to our room for C.

The next morning I was good as new, thank goodness. D&D headed out on a hike and kayak tour after breakfast, but I could not get C to agree. With a recently busy work schedule and an upcoming training trip to Addis Ababa, I was fine with taking it easy. It helped that we had been to Pumulani before. C and I watched the rock hyraxes from our balcony and then headed to the pool to cool off. I noticed another guest taking some photos with a serious lens and following the direction noticed a baboon in a tree. I started to head down to the room to get my better camera when the trees around us began rustling and a baboon burst out next to the pool. It eyed us, especially my daughter, and made as though it might jump in the pool with her, and then it reached down to cup a few handfuls of pool water before leaping back into the brush.

We all had lunch together again but then D1 headed off for a snorkeling adventure. He was going to make sure he did Lake Malawi right – not just spending time by the lake, but also on the lake (kayaking) and in the lake (snorkeling). I have heard a saying since coming to this country that if you haven’t been to the lake, you have not really been to Malawi. Although D&D would have only a few days in the country they were making sure to really check the Malawi box. The rest of us lazy, fair-skinned folks continued doing our best to enjoy the relaxing pleasures of Pumulani.

We were incredibly lucky that the rain stayed away so that we could go out on the dhow. we piled into the wooden sailing boat along with a family of four and headed out onto the water. I was thrilled that we once again were able to see a hippo – in fact we saw two – enjoying the waters of Lake Malawi (at a safe distance from our vessel). More rain was on the way so we could not stay out as long as usual, but again, the impending storm turned the sky incredible colors for one of, if not the most spectacular sunset I have seen in Malawi. Normally, sunsets here seem quick: a round red ball of flame just above the horizon that burns bright for five minutes before suddenly dropping away. This time the sun took its time, sliding languorously down, and even after hiding away for the evening, the sky changed colors for the longest time. sunsets We had one last dinner and breakfast together before beginning our slightly stressful race against time to get D&D to the airport for the first flight on the way back to California.

I understand that many of my friends and family cannot make such a trip for various reasons. And therefore I share a lot of photos of our home, our activities, and our lives in Malawi on social media, but little can compare with an in-person visit. It was a short visit but I am so thankful that I have friends like D&D who are willing to come more than halfway around the world to see us.

November 18, 2019 by trs

Road Tripping in Malawi

Road Sign 1 Americans’ love affair with the car is no secret. In reality, Western Europeans have more cars per person than Americans, but Americans drive their cars for just about anything – short trips, long trips, and everything in between. And when Americans go on long trips, they might be just as likely to pack up the car as to get on a plane. Americans (in general) love a good road trip.

Although I have spent a good portion of my adult life (between September 1995 and September 2011) without owning a car, I still very much appreciate a good drive. In my Foreign Service career, I have not done much driving at Post. In Ciudad Juarez, we could only drive in a limited area around the city and into the United States, and I did not own a vehicle in Shanghai. Malawi has been an “interesting” opportunity to get back on the road.

Most of my driving life in Malawi is within a small area, maybe five square miles, if that. It’s a seven-minute drive from my home to the Embassy and most other trips are to and from friends’ homes and a few supermarkets and restaurants. But every so often we get out of town, and with nearly two years under my belt in Malawi, I have taken a road trip or two or ten. And driving here is unlike any other place I have driven.

Some Malawian roads I have driven

Malawi may be one of the most densely populated countries in Africa, but when on the road between cities and towns, it can feel as if you are in the middle of nowhere. Its not just the lack of population — there can certainly be those times when it seems there is no one else around — but even when there are villages it is just those villages, a cluster of small homes, probably the majority just a single room. They might be mud or brick with thatch or corrugated iron roofs, but except in the larger trading centers, the homes, maybe a school, is it. You will not see road lights or electricity poles. There are few if any road signs. You will only rarely see billboards by the side of the road — only as you might approach a major center. Playing “I spy” is a futile exercise.

There will be no fast-food restaurants if any restaurants at all. Few stores. Even petrol stations are in short supply. On the 4+ hour drive on the M1, the country’s main artery linking the capital Lilongwe with the business capital of Blantyre, there are perhaps only two or three places to stop for gas. You should always fill up when you can, because there may not be another opportunity for some distance. The same goes for restrooms.

Cows The paved roads, even the main ones, are predominantly two lanes, one in each direction. Maybe there will be a painted center line, maybe not. Maybe there will be a shoulder, though usually not. Most often the sides of the road are jagged, as though a large monster that eats asphalt has bitten huge chunks off the edges. There are many potholes. Near villages, there will be cyclists, and it seems almost a given that as your car approaches they will begin to weave haphazardly, adding an extra challenge to an already difficult drive. There are also often goats or cattle alongside the road — the cattle are usually accompanied by children or young men, the goats are often unattended and maybe a wee bit suicidal, or at least not phased by traffic at all. However, if you hit someone’s livestock, be prepared to pay up.

The speed limit is generally 80-90 kph (50-55 mph) on the roads outside urban/market areas and 50 kph (30 mph) within. Yet, in my experience, you either get those who drive a maddening 20 kph below or a scary 20-30 kph above. It’s the excessive speeds which are particularly worrying — according to the World Health Organization, sub-Saharan Africa has some of the highest rates of vehicle accident fatalities per 100,000 people in the world, and Malawi ranks as one of the higher among southern African countries.

License and registration, please

To force people to at least occasionally slow down, the police set up roadblocks. The Malawi police are basically a static force; they are hampered by their shoestring budget and a limited number of vehicles. Thus they are not hiding around bends or behind trees in their police cars or motorcycles ready for the hot pursuit of lawbreakers. Instead, they set up roadblocks, some quite rudimentary, to at least temporarily halt travel and conduct vehicle inspections. My diplomatic-plated car is rarely stopped, and on the very few occasions it’s happened, I have been waved through quickly. Not that I am doing anything wrong mind you. I drive the speed limit, my tires are in good shape, I have a license and insurance, and I carry the required-by-law equipment. I have a feeling I might be in the minority.

Safety First!

On any given day you will likely encounter some creative interpretation of traffic regulations. There are no official taxis and buses are few and far between (largely cross border routes); the primary means of travel for the commuter is on foot, bicycle (including bicycle taxis), or the ubiquitous mini-buses, which can be used for intracity or intercity transportation. These small vans are notorious for being overcrowded with people and packages, in poor condition, often with inadequate tires or brakes, and often driven at excessive speeds. Besides the mini-buses, Malawians come up with some resourceful methods to transport goods and people via the roads. If I weren’t so concerned about how their ingenuity impacts my ability to safely get from Point A to Point B, I would be pretty impressed. But I have also read enough articles about, and even come across, what happens when vehicles drive too fast on Malawian roads.

Uh-oh!

I remember something a friend once said about driving here — how much it takes out of you because you cannot ever really relax. This is not the place where you can put the car on cruise control and zone out. One has to keep on one’s toes, as you never know what will be around the next bend. Maybe there is a disabled vehicle, cordoned off not with the required-by-law warning triangles but leafy branches. Or a police checkpoint. Or perhaps there might be a bunch of uniform-clad school children lollygagging on the road’s edge. Or a bunch of goats. You might come across someone selling dried fish or gunny sacks of illegal charcoal. Or perhaps someone selling roasted field mice on a stick — a popular delicacy during the dry cool season. Or you might run across masked young men or boys dressed in makeshift costumes of torn clothes, strips of fabric, burlap sacks, and straw, heading to a performance. These are the Gule Wamkulu, or ritual spiritual dancers of the Chewa tribe, the dance inscribed as a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage. Or maybe you come around a curve to face a stunning vista. Driving in Malawi is not for the faint-hearted, but it sure does keep things interesting.

Furry fried field mice anyone? Or maybe hang with Gule Wamkulu spirits?

The Wanderlust Diaries

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Author: trs