September 23, 2018 by trs

Summer 2003 Adventures in Turkey, Borneo, and Denmark Part Two: Central and Southeast Anatolia

The second installment of my travelogue from the past.

From Istanbul I took the overnight bus to Cappadocia. There is apparently a rule in Turkey that a man cannot sit next to a woman he does not know. Given my Istanbul tea and carpet experiences I certainly understood, but I imagine this rule often ends up creating some hilarity as it did with me. On the bus a man sat down next to me. When the bus captain noticed he went in search of a suitable candidate to switch with him. I was the only foreigner on the bus. He found an old woman in the front of the bus, and convinced her, VERY reluctantly to switch with the guy. As I watched the woman muttering her way towards me with a gait that suggested a walk to the electric chair, I was not feeling so enthusiastic either. Especially as she reminded me of the witch from Hansel and Gretel and I expected her to want to put me in the cookie oven too, her obvious disgust at having to sit next to me plain as day on her pasty face. Then her daughter, who looked remarkably like the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz, came back and in a grumpy sort of passion drama dragged her poor mother back to the front of the bus, leaving the seat next to me empty and much confusion as the whole bus keenly observed the unfolding events. No one wanted to sit next to me.

5278870-R1-023-10 After much discussion in the front of the bus a young woman with her child came to sit with me. When I saw them coming, I thought oh good, oh wait, no, not TWO! But yes. It seems quite common to save money by buying one seat for mother and child, even when the child is 10 years old, as was in this case. But they turned out to be quiet seat mates. The problem instead were the two women seated behind me, with their two children, probably 5 or 6 years old, on their laps. They complained bitterly about me putting my seat back because they had children and they would be unable to sleep. As if it is my fault they bought two seats for four people! So, the kids kicked my chair, I think at the instigation of the mothers, while they pretended to scold them. But I did not relent. I was boxed in, but no way was I going to sleep at 90 degrees on an overnight bus if I could put my seat back.

My favorite part of Turkey is Cappadocia. One may find Greek ruins in a number of places, and beautiful beaches crowded with holiday goers are even more aplenty, but Cappadocia, is really a one of a kind place. In all the countries I have been, I have not been anywhere else quite like it. Some places of the American Midwest might come close to it, but not quite. The Midwest in my mind has hues of red, but Cappadocia is all white and cream and dusty. The bizarre rock formations created over eons by water and wind are not to be found in the American midwest. Top that off with underground Christian cities and cave dwellings and churches and you are starting to realize the wonders of Cappadocia. Smack dab in the middle of Turkey, it seems to rise, or rather fall, from the Earth suddenly from the highway. First you are looking out a bus window at flat plains and farmland, suddenly there is a volcano in the distance, snow covered, and then the Earth seems to fall into valleys and cliffs and fairy chimneys and desert brush. Then you have reached Cappadocia.

Ballooning over Goreme

Strangely this is all I wrote about Cappadocia, this favorite location. I stayed in a cave hotel, my room built into the rock face, the floor covered in thick Turkish carpets, a low table for tea. For the first and last time, I had a small radio with me and I can remember catching BBC World broadcasts in my cozy cave room. I took a tour around the area. I took my first hot air balloon ride and succumbed to the charms of my hot air balloon pilot, remaining in Cappadocia several extra days with him. I took tours of the area during the day or walked the town and shopped and hung out with the pilot when his work day finished. But he wanted to give up traveling, my upcoming return to graduate school, and move to Turkey. That was not to my liking.

From Cappadocia I joined a three-day tour further east. We stopped at Maras where Turkey’s famous ice cream originates; it is a sticky hard concoction of heavy goat cream with the consistency of frozen cream cheese, hard enough that it had to be cut with a fork and knife, but soft enough to melt lazily in one’s mouth. And on top was sprinkled shaved green pistachio. It was delicious and yet there was something I did not quite like about it. I think it might have been how very heavy it was. Like a rock it lay in my stomach, its overly cold temperature gave me those chilly ice cream headaches down my spine.

We headed to the 7,000-foot-high Mount Nemrut, where the enigmatic stone heads of King Antiochus’ ruined temple dedicated to himself stands. We stayed in Kahta for the night, waking up at 2:30 am to leave the hotel by 3 am, to arrive at the summit for sunrise. The sunrise was a small disappointment as it just popped up suddenly from behind the mountains where it had been hiding. At least the sun did pierce the bitter cold of a mountain morning. There was little temple left, but its ruinous state made those pieces still relatively intact all the more amazing. It is indeed a beautiful location, fuzzy brown grass covered hills rolling all around and not much civilization in sight, except for all us tourists crawling all over the mountain. King Antiochus, created a cult of personality around himself, claiming that he was both a descendant of King Darius of Persia and Alexander the Great of Macedonia, thus manufacturing himself a perfect lineage of East and West. We were also able to see a fantastic stone relief of this king’s father shaking hands with Heracles, at Antiochus’ father’s tomb, over the entrance in beautiful Greek the inscription could still read almost as clear as day. It was amazing.

Sunrise on Mt. Nemrut

It was a whirlwind day with Nemrut mountain and then Ataturk Dam, then on to Sanliurfa, a biblical town, perhaps one of the oldest towns in the world. Historical/ biblical sites are all around the town with the legendary pool of sacred fish perhaps the one with the most draw. King Nimrod attempted to cast Abraham into a fire but the fire turned to water and the wood to fish. The fish remain, hundreds of them. They are holy fish, it is said if someone eats them they will be blinded. So, they are fat and happy fish. Sanliurfa is a place of pilgrimage for many people, especially from Syria and Iran.

Lastly, we visited the bee hive houses of Harran, an ancient commercial center just 16 kilometers north of the Syrian border. The architectural style of these adobe homes has remained unchanged for about 3,000 years. The dark brown clay houses with thin chimneys, which lend them the bee hive name, are cool inside, that was especially good since it was broiling outside. There was also a ruined fortress through which some local children guided me and two Turkish sisters. We were supposed to stay for the sunset there, but for some reason the guide made the decision to head back to Urfa early. This was actually only one of many, many changes the guide kept making, and it was actually starting to wear on my nerves.

The sacred pool of Sanliurfa

My tour guide, old enough to be my father, maybe even a grandfather, took a “special” liking to me. Probably as I was a single woman traveling on my own, but that is a poor excuse for his behavior. On the first evening when we arrived in Kahta he tells me it would be better if we would share a room. What? I mean, why? He tells me that the three Turkish sisters and one daughter will have a room, as will the other two Turkish sisters and the Dutch couple, that leaves me, the driver, him, and the Japanese guy. Uh, yeah. So where does this lead me to think that Mr. Guide and I should be sharing a room? I ask him why he doesn’t share with the driver. He says the driver will not be coming with us to Nemrut in the early morning and he doesn’t want to wake him, so he needs his own room. Uh, right. So why ask me and not the Japanese guy? I tell the guide I just don’t think it is a good idea, I really should have my own room (after all I did pay for it you jerk!). I was really upset by this lack of professionalism and the fact I had two more days with this guy. And no one else on the tour seemed to have noticed these advances.

The second night he asks if I would like to walk to Abraham’s pool with him. I tell him I am tired. He tells me it will take just 10 minutes to get there, maybe 30 minutes total round trip. I again say I am tired; he insists it is something special to see at night. I think, “Why should I not see this lovely place at night with the pool backlit and all the families strolling alongside it because of this guy? When will I be in Urfa again?” I agree to go for a little while. The pool is lovely in the evening. The lit arches of the 800-year old Halilur Rahman Mosque reflect in the waters. But on the way back to the hotel he tries to hold my hand. Creep! I sort of freeze up and my hand goes limp and cold. He drops my hand, and continues showing me some special things about the city on the way back, a mosque, the special way the balconies are built, but now I don’t care, I only want to get back to the hotel. We should have had a half day to explore Urfa on our own, but we didn’t, because he changed the schedule.

No incidents on the way back to Istanbul, but now I am bristling. It is a real shame that such a lovely trip had to be ruined because this guy. Not only the harassment, but he did not stick to the original itinerary so he could rush back and meet another tour group. Still, I wanted to get back. I had a 10 pm night bus to Olympos to catch.

September 16, 2018 by trs

Summer 2003 Adventures in Turkey, Borneo, and Denmark Part One: The Istanbul Tea-Tour

In the summer of 2003, after completing my MA degree in Singapore and before returning to the second year of my other Master’s program in Monterey, CA, I took off on a seven-week adventure through Turkey and Denmark, with a side excursion to Borneo, because if you are visiting places that are nowhere near each other, why not just throw in another completely random destination? I had initially planned to travel for at least a month in China, but the SARS epidemic and the Singapore government response (required deposit to pay for 10-day quarantine after return from travel to a SARS-affected country), forced me to find another country or countries to visit.

View from Galata Tower

Immediately after arriving in Istanbul I was in for a surprise. A visa on arrival for Americans cost $100. I did not have that kind of US cash on me, so I had to take out money from an ATM. The woman at the visa counter told me the charge in Turkish Lira would be 160 million. In my rather jet-lagged blur state I was like, uh, what? Did you say 160 million? At the ATM I counted the zeros multiple times as I did not want to take out $1000. All around me other nationalities are paying $20 and the like. The upside is I am an instant millionaire.

After this initial shock I have found Istanbul to be really wonderful. I visited Topkapi Palace, the home of the Ottoman Sultans and family. The Harem was perhaps the most interesting. The location is spectacular, at the edge of the Golden Horn, part of the European side of Istanbul but also on the Bosphorus. Simply breathtaking. I also went to see Hagia Sofia; to say it is an architectural wonder does not do it justice. The Blue Mosque was also on my list. It stands just across a park from Hagia Sofia, the two buildings facing off against each other, both beautiful. The Blue Mosque is perhaps most beautiful at night. I also went across the Golden Horn to the other part of European Istanbul and visited the newer palace of the Sultans, where Kemal Ataturk died in 1937. Also, a visit to the Galata Tower. On my second day I did take a one-and-a-half-hour boat trip down the Bosphorus and stayed awake for most of it. I was having such jet lag and it hit worst at 3 in the afternoon when the trip started. Then the lovely sunshine and I was fighting to keep my eyes open. But I saw enough to be impressed. Maybe someday I will move to Istanbul…

5278900-R1-055-26 I meant to visit the Grand Bazaar and a hamman (Turkish bath) but I never got to either because each day I had to pass the Carpet Man Gauntlet. Seriously. I have not met any Turkish women but I have made lots of Turkish male “friends.”

As I stepped out of the Basilica cistern I was approached by a man asking me to visit his travel agency, where I was served apple tea, flattered, and cajoled into looking at tour options. After I made it out of the travel agency with promises to be back that night to pick up a sample itinerary, I made it only a few steps before being invited into a carpet shop. My first of many. So many. Here they served me apple tea and then Turkish tea. After more half-hearted carpet sales, flattery, and inappropriate questions I headed out to the palace As soon as I left the palace and on my way to the Blue Mosque though I was again waylaid. Tea in another shop. An offer for dinner. I hid in a nice place for dinner, but no sooner had left when a guy walking his dog stopped me. He told me to come with him for some tea. I said no. He said he just needed a friend and he would be heartbroken if I left on my own. Well, I left. A second or two later another guy stops me by telling me I dropped some money. Just kidding he says, but where are you from? As I hurry away he is calling out something about having tea together…But of course my single status cannot remain for long and I am stopped by Murat (who also sells carpets) and he asks me to, you guessed it, tea, but I tell him I am going to the sound and light show. Of course, he says he will join me. I do not argue. It seems futile.

5278900-R1-045-21 The second day was about the same. I have drunk more tea, seen more carpet shops, and been invited more places than ever before. At one carpet shop two guys bought me a kebab lunch and a taxi driver gave me a free ride. He kept driving alongside me as I walked up a hill toward my destination. I said again and again I would walk. He asked again and again to drive me. Eventually I relent and sure enough he drove me to my destination. I declined to join him for tea.

I would be remiss not to tell the story that I have regaled many of my friends. The strangest of the carpet store adventures. Perhaps one of the strangest of my travel tales. It started out normal enough, being asked in to “just look” at some carpets and to sit and have some tea. I made myself clear – I had no interest in buying a carpet, could not afford one and did not have a home to put one in. I had a cup of tea and made small talk. I was invited to the second floor of the carpet shop, where there were even more carpets laid out in piles and on the walls, but there was also a sunlit corner sitting area. There we sat for yet more tea. And then, and I have no recollection exactly how this bizarre event came about, I found myself sitting with the store owner massaging a lotion on my face! It makes me laugh every time I think about it. I think he said he had some wonderful Turkish moisturizer and would I like to try it? It smelled like lemon pledge. I sat for a few seconds, my eyes closed, the sun streaming in, the slow rhythmic circles on my face…when my eyes flew open and I thought, what in the world?!… I stood and hurried down the stairs and out onto the street.

I feel a little strange writing all of this now. Two things come to mind – one is a tweet the State Department sent out about safety overseas. It read: “Not a 10 in the U.S? Then not a 10 overseas.” They caught a lot of flack over it and quickly deleted it. But it really is so true and something that people traveling overseas should really think about. When I was traveling in Turkey I was still relatively young, in shape, attractive. Yet the attention I received was really abnormal. I was suspicious from the first but entertained some of it because it IS flattering, and also it became very obvious that the only way to avoid a barrage of unwanted attention was to accept the company of one person for a period of time. The lesser of two evils. The second thing that comes to mind is while this was perhaps an odd reversal of what may happen to men when traveling and hanging out in particular venues, it was also an extension of how many men feel they are perfectly free to insert themselves into women’s space. I could not be left alone. And I accepted at first out of politeness – a courtesy I certainly did not need to extend to any of these strange men – and then out of sheer exhaustion. I genuinely loved the city of Istanbul. The history, architecture, culture. And yet these interactions took up my time and while I took them in stride and found both the humor and the story in it, I wonder how different my trip would have been had I been able to just sightsee without these interruptions?

September 5, 2018 by trs

Restoration on the Lower Lake

Beautiful early morning view of Lake Malawi from Sunbird Nkopola

It was a long summer.

I mean, weeks and weeks and weeks of covering for other positions empty during a transition gap, different duties due to a dearth in staff, and the unexpected because it was summer and we were short staffed and by Murphy’s Law this meant an uptick in political, economic, and consular activities. It is one thing to anticipate it, but another to live it. Do not get me wrong–I am not lamenting the work, much was quite interesting–but I was envious scrolling through the photos from weeks-long Home Leave or vacations of friends. I might have had a wee bit of uncharitable, or rather undiplomatic, thoughts when a colleague told me in mid-August how he was so ready for a vacation, six weeks after returning from a month off in June. It took a great deal of my diplomatic training to just smile and say “I hear you!” and not trip or shove him. Diplomacy is such an amazing art.

It will still be six more busy weeks before C and I take off on a much deserved out-of-Malawi mommy-daughter holiday, but I decided that at least for the Labor Day weekend we would get out of Lilongwe, tackling some place on my Malawi bucket list.

Lake Malawi is the third largest lake in Africa and is sometimes called the “Calendar Lake” as it is approximately 365 miles long and 52 miles wide. On the western shore of Lake Malawi, about ten miles north from where the lake ends, narrowing drastically as it flows into the Shire River (pronounced Sheer-ray), lies the small lakeside town of Nkopola. This was our destination for the weekend.

The road through the high hills

Malawi is surprisingly hilly (surprising to folks like myself who prior to arriving had little knowledge of African geography). The country sits at the southern end of the East African Rift; the north and central western portions of the country an undulating series of hills rising and falling between 2,000 and 5,000 feet above sea-level. I decided instead of heading east and then south, we would first head south on the M1 and then just past Dedza, which skirts the Mozambican border, turn to bisect a high hill range towards the banks of the lower lake.

I had heard the road would bend and curve, yet I was still unprepared for the serpentine twists that with each turn would reveal yet another stunning view of the stark, yet beautiful, countryside. Little traffic (there was more foot traffic than vehicles) meant I could stop on the road now and again for a few moments to snap a photo or simply gaze in happy astonishment at the vista before me. C too gasped occasionally from the back seat. This road took only about 40 minutes of the three and a half hour drive, but it stands out in my mind.

Rooms built against the rock face

We arrived at the hotel just at lunch time and happily checked in, finding we had been assigned one of the unique rooms built into the face of rocky outcrop fronting the beach. The rooms themselves were nothing to right home about. There was a decent queen sized bed, a nondescript desk, and a too large chair that would not push under the desk enough to allow easy passage between the bed and desk. Outside our window a large cactus obscured almost all view of the beach. But you could hear the waves, see the bright sunlight glinting off the cacti thorns and a brilliant blue sky between cactus spines, and C breathed in deep and declared the air to be fresh and clean.

The room may not have been all that, but the lush hotel landscaping, particularly on the side of the grounds where are room was located (the other side were ground level rooms and rondavals with much less greenery) certainly made up for it. Hungry we headed to lunch. The tasteless interpretations brought to us left so much to be desired, but it being hot and beachy, we had little appetite anyway. C just wanted to get her swimsuit on and enjoy the water. Pool, lake, whatever. We headed to the pool where C quickly made friends (it helps to bring diving fish toys and a giant inflatable sea turtle on which at least four kids can ride), and I enjoyed a book. I felt inexplicably angry about the lunch service, but I could feel the tension beginning to melt away.

The pathway to our room

We had a quiet evening. By that I mean we did little but hang out in our room watching a Marvel movie on the television and dining on the half decent version of room service pizza. However, a large conference of Malawian auditors rocked on late into the evening, the thumbing music from their venue reaching even to our location at nearly the furthest room away. Still we slept well.

After breakfast on Sunday we drove the twenty or so minutes to the township of Mangochi. Once called Fort Johnston during colonial days, it was originally established in the 1890s as a defense post on the Shire as it flows from Lake Malawi and as a deterrent to the Yao slave traders. Today there are few traces of this colonial past. We stopped to look at the Queen Victoria Memorial Clock Tower built in 1901, its dilapidated clock face almost entirely missing, and a cannon from the Gwendolen, the Mangochi-built British gunboat and the largest ship to patrol Lake Malawi. It took almost as long for me to write that sentence as it took to circle the clock tower and read its historical markers.

Despite its condition, the fact it remains standing and its placement at the edge of town and ahead of a bridge over the Shire, make it worth at least a cursory visit

C and I then headed over to the Lake Malawi Museum. I only know of three museums in all of Malawi and I have been to “museums” in developing countries before, so I had set the bar appropriately low despite the surprisingly high marks on Google Reviews (six reviews giving it an average of 3.8 stars out of 5). As we approached the single story ranch style building, which resembled a cross between a warehouse and a home, a sad metal playground consisting of a slide and the cross bars of a swingset without the swings in the yard to the right, it was not immediately clear it was open or operational. The wide concrete slab in the yard likely a parking lot for cars that never come. But two individuals, a thin older man and woman, sat on the porch next to the open door, giving more the impression of squatters than museum curators. As I read the entrance fee of 500 Malawian Kwacha (USD 70 cents) and tried to hand over the money to cover both C and I, the man informed me in garbled English that the museum, though technically open, had no electricity. I said that was fine, we would still go inside, figuring some windows would still provide some light. But there were no windows and the darkness inside was near complete. Not wanting to miss out on one of the major attractions of Mangochi, I asked the man if he had a light. He pulled out a small torch and I lit up the flashlight on my phone and together we made our way through the tiny museum, past sad dioramas of Malawian wildlife, a replica of the deck of the Gwendolen, and a pathetic aquarium. Well, if it had had fish it would have been poor, but the four small tanks empty of water and life did not even rate it the name “aquarium.”

As I handed over the money and thanked our torchbearer, and turned to leave, I mentioned to C it had been a waste of time. She however insisted we go back inside one more time! She said she had not seen enough of the boat deck, though I noted given how dark it was, it was hard to see anything at all. She was adamant so we had a second visit. C gave the museum 5 stars; I give it 1/2 a star, due in a large part for the amusing adventure of going through it in the dark.

Beach view from the rockface stairs (the monkey on the roof also enjoying the scene)

Not relishing another poor lunch at the Sunbird, we had lunch at another nearby resort and then stopped at a wide expanse of dirt where dozens of goats were lazing about. C dubbed it “Goatland” and boasted that she would easily catch a baby goat and implied we would then toss said goat into our car in and add to our growing menagerie. Though I made it clear we would not be making off with some villager’s goat, I am glad C is not as good at goat catching as she proclaimed. We then spent several hours on the beach – C playing in the surf and in the sand, with myself again reading a book.

The following morning I felt completely refreshed. I took some time to just breath in the lake air and listen to the soothing sounds of the lake waves and the twitters of morning birds. The restorative powers of a beach, nature, rhythmic swells, felt almost overwhelmingly strong. Once again I felt surprised how even a few days of a change of scenery could do so much for my spirit. C and I snuggled for a bit; how I love sharing these moments and places with her. Then we packed up for the trip home. Even the drive made me happy.

August 4, 2018 by trs

Intro to Lilongwe

Not much to see here folks

Here I am, nearly a year living in Lilongwe and only now beginning to write an introduction to Malawi’s capital city. Yet it is just recently that I began to truly transition from Lilongwe being just a place I have moved to for work to a place where I live. I am not a local; I am not a long-time expatriate. Nor am I a mere tourist. But I only wander so far; I have my routines. So this is my introduction to Lilongwe.

The Bingu International Conference Center and the President Walmont hotel, both Chinese-built modern marvels in Lilongwe

Malawi’s capital city is not particularly large, its population hovers around a million, yet the city is spread out with few buildings taller than two stories. The tallest building in the city, I think the whole country, is the twelve story President Walmont hotel, located in the City Center. Well, that is somewhat a misnomer. Lilongwe’s core is divided by the Lilongwe nature sanctuary/forest reserve. One one side the older part of the city, where the old town is located, on the other, newer side you find City Center, Capital Hill, most Embassies, including that of the U.S., and areas where most expats live. The city is literally divided into Areas — all with numbers, a few go by names. But its a patchwork with Area 10, 11, and 12 adjacent to one another but also next to Area 43. Area 40 sits next to Area 13, 16 and 19 (and make up much of City Center). We live in Area 10 and my daughter’s school is in Area 3, but they are across town from one another, 20 minutes by car on a good traffic day, nearly an hour on a bad one. Confused? Often so am I. Sometimes I do not know why I bother to ask someone where they live because if they say some place other than Area 10, 11, 12, or 43, I would be hard pressed to know where they are talking about.

A jacaranda-lined road in Area 10

Staring out the window of the airplane as we descended into Kamuzu International Airport, I strained to see signs of the city that would become my new home. I could make out only a few buildings scattered among faded green brush and burnt orange earth. Soon afterwards as we bounced along the two lane tarmac to town I wondered aloud the whereabouts of the city. Having already driven a good 20 minutes I had yet to see signs of a capital. That day it never really materialized as we turned off the M1 into Area 12, then Area 10 to my new residence, located in the relatively leafy, well-to do zone. Our homes, with high brick walls, often topped with a profusion of barbed wires, and guarded by dogs or security personnel or both, do not necessarily scream “foreigner,” as there are locals and local government buildings scattered throughout these residential locations, but they most certainly project privilege. Yet even those first days and weeks driving from home to the Embassy or to Old Chipiku, one of the most expat-oriented supermarkets, Lilongwe seemed remarkably unoccupied, provincial. Only after more time did I expand my driving radius, finding there are in fact crowded, congested parts of the city, yet they remain outside of my usual stomping grounds.

The monument to Malawi’s first president, President for Life Hastings Kamuzu Banda. Now you have seen it. You’re welcome.

There are not many tourist sites in Lilongwe. Normally when I arrive in a new place, I like to hit the ground running and do some sightseeing as soon as possible. Certainly in Shanghai, my bucket list was long and I had no time to waste. Here, I focused more on just getting myself and C settled as a read of my guidebook weeks before had already informed me the touring would take little time. There is the Lilongwe Wildlife Center, which will give visitors a one hour tour of the facility, though there are not many animals there, especially after their two lions passed away. They have one of the nicest playgrounds in the city and a pretty good restaurant/cafe. Sometimes they have concerts and show movies under the stars. I expect many people might be disappointed by a visit, especially if they have already joined a safari, which is unlikely if they have made the trek to Africa. But the center is still very much worth a visit as they are a major player in animal conservation in the country.

Visiting the King’s African Rifles monument

Guidebooks also list the Kamuzu Banda memorial, the WWI / King’s African Rifles monument, and for lack of much else to add, the Parliament building. The mausoleum of the country’s first president is wedged between Umodzi Park, with the Chinese-built President Walmont hotel and Convention Center and the Chinese-built Parliament building. I do not know anything on Banda’s thoughts on the Chinese other than the Chinese Embassy assisted some of his political rivals to flee to Tanzania, thus with that he might not enjoy his final resting place. But it is a quiet and pleasant place to spend 15 to 20 minutes unless Parliament is in session as then the grounds swarm with ruling party supporters. Banda’s statue also graces the plaza in front of the WWI / King’s African Rifles clock tower, located not far from the Parliament. Here you have a good chance of someone with some keys letting you inside to climb maybe 300 stairs to near the top landing where one has to switch to a narrow metal ladder hanging over the terrifying gap all the way to the cement floor below. Our “guide” pushed my then-5 year old daughter up to the final landing and it scared the beejeezus out of me. I insisted he get her down and she stand flesh against the wall on the stairs. My heart pounded as I climbed up myself. The one dingy window on that landing is set too high up for my 5’5″ self to look out so I took pictures holding my camera high above my head and hoping for the best.

The view from the top floor of the President Walmont Hotel

Our lives in Lilongwe are quiet. Weekends are generally spent at home, puttering about our yard. We head to the Lilongwe Wildlife Center to recycle, stop by Old Chipiku for groceries, maybe get a mani-pedi up the street or head to my boss’ house to use the pool. As one of the Marine Security Guards told me just before his departure — “Lilongwe is a nice enough place to live but if you are between the ages of 17 and 30 it is on the boring side. There isn’t anything to do.” Good thing C and I fall outside that age range and thus for us Lilongwe is pretty okay.

One of my favorite things about Lilongwe are the advertisements on the trees

July 23, 2018 by trs

Faces of Malawi: Fruit Sellers

Seventy percent of Malawians live below the international poverty line of $1.90 per person a day. Therefore for the vast majority of the population, life is hard every single day. I do not understand those who say those who are poor are so because they are lazy. Here I meet so many people who work really, really hard yet find themselves just keeping their and their families’ heads above water.

Located in Area 4, close to the center of the oldest part of Lilongwe, is the “Old” Chipiku supermarket. It is called the “old” one to differentiate it from the newer one found in the center of the Old Town. It’s chaotic parking lot is half dirt and half chewed up asphalt. At the far end of the parking lot are a few large trees where the fruit sellers have set up their makeshift selling center. They are not the only fruit sellers in town of course, there are plenty of corners and parking lots where fruit sellers may congregate, but I have found the largest concentration to be at the Old Chipiku.

These are young guys. They range in age from 20 to 32, and most of them have sold fruit the majority of their adult lives, some even starting as children. They work from 6 AM to 6 PM, seven days a week. They have little to no time for hobbies. Most live in either Area 36, the outer part of Lilongwe proper or in Bunda, rural Lilongwe. It costs between 500 and 1000 Malawian Kwacha (MWK) (68 cents to $1.37) one way for them to get from home to work. They live with their mothers, their wives and children, or on their own; none of the wives work. Housing costs range from free to 8000 MWK ($11.00) a month. Each week they clear on average 5000-6000 MWK ($6.85 – $8.22). So although these young men work twelve hour days, 84 hour weeks, they live below the international poverty line. They do not dream big, they just want to live a bit better, have more stability, and regular income.

We talked in English although the majority do not speak it well, just enough to make a sale with English speaking customers. Those who could understand and speak better assisted with Chichewa-English translation.

Steven

Steven is 22 years old. He lives with his mother in rural Lilongwe. One of five children, he has been selling fruit since 12 years of age, for ten whole years. Basically since he left primary school. When asked about his hobbies, he was at first very confused as he doesn’t have much free time with twelve hour days and an hour commute each way. Pressed, he revealed he enjoys playing football (soccer). If he could do anything else for a profession, he would like to be a mechanic.

Leonard

Though he looks older, Leonard is only 21 years old. Not only that but he is married with two children, one six years of age, the other, one. He usually sells papaya, but when it is not in season he works on his mother’s farm; she grows groundnuts (the groundnut production in Malawi happens to be dominated by female-headed households). One of seven children, with three brothers and three sisters, his parents could not afford his school fees, so he only finished two years of secondary school. He also enjoys playing football in his little free time and would also like to be a mechanic.

Willard

Willard is 32 years old, married with two children. He has been selling fruit for 17 years! Willard has a certain aggressive, but charming, method to approaching customers. It must work as among the fruit sellers interviewed, he reported the highest weekly profit – 20,000 MWK ($27.40). In his free time he not only plays football but also makes wood furniture. If he had the money he would like to become a driver and build his own home.

Ishmael

Ishmael is 25 years old and has been selling fruit for 12 years. Originally from Mangochi, he lives in Area 36 with his younger brother. He is still single because, he says, he is just not ready to settle down. He too enjoys playing football, but if he were to have another job, he would like to be a “big businessman,” though the type of business does not really matter to him.

Ibrahim

Also from Mangochi, Ibrahim is 28 years old and has spent the past seven years selling fruit. He was the only Muslim among those interviewed, which matches the approximate 15% of the population who identify as Muslim. He is single and lives alone in Area 36. He only finished primary school, but has dreams of being a mini bus driver.

Saidi

Saidi is 30 years old, married with two children. He is fairly new to fruit selling, having only been doing it for three years. Previously he grew cotton on his own plot in Mangochi. In Malawi, cotton is primarily grown by smallholders in the south of the country, but the industry had not been doing well the past few years. He wishes he could be a freelance mechanic — he wants to take work when available and set his own hours but have better pay. In his free time he plays “draft” or draught, the British word for checkers.

Zachias

Zachias is a 28 year old from Zomba. He only finished primary school. Previously working as a manual laborer, he has only been selling fruit for three years. He is married with three children. They live together in a single small apartment, what they all referred to as “boys quarters,” with one bed for 2,500 MWK ($3.42) a month.

Onesmo

Onesmo is 25 years old and has been selling fruit for five years. He is originally from Zomba, in south-central Malawi. He is married with two children. Like the majority of the fruit sellers he only finished primary school because his parents could no longer afford the school fees. (Although free primary education – through the first eight years – was introduced in Malawi in 1994, but secondary schools charge fees). If he had the chance to do anything else, he would like to be a mechanic. He said he had no hobbies other than praying.

Levy

Levy is 31 years old. He seemed the most serious and educated of the group. Born in Chiradzulu, in the south-west of Malawi, he nearly finished high school when his parents both died in quick succession from an illness he would not name. With four brothers and three sisters, he had to make a living somehow and packed up his bags and came to Lilongwe. That was 11 years ago and he has been selling fruit ever since, now supporting his wife and two children. He would really like to sell a durable good. Selling fruits is inconsistent, they spoil quickly and there is no guarantee each day how much will sell. Cell phones seem like a safe bet for him. In his free time he enjoys playing “draft.”

Francis

*Francis is 31 years old. He is married with two children. Unlike many of the other sellers, he has only been in Lilongwe for three years, and only selling fruit for a year and a half. Previously, he sold hardware but changed to fruit because he makes more. Before Lilongwe, he was one of Malawi’s many smallholder maize farmers. In 2015 periods of drought and then severe flooding led to a sharp decline in maize production. He would also like to be a driver so he could earn more. Since he has a history of steadily moving into better paying jobs, of all the men I interviewed I believe Francis just might get there. Francis is the reason I wanted to do this photo-story series. He is my go-to fruit guy. He always has a smile on my face. The day I went to visit the fruit sellers for photos and interviews, Francis had left early to return to Mulanje to bury his mother.

During the interviews the atmosphere was jovial. These men were eager to share their stories and have their photos taken. They joked and laughed and their spirit was infectious. But later I felt a sense of anger and sadness overcome me. The stories so depressingly similar, the dreams so simple, yet deceptively so as they are, for the most part, unobtainable. My privilege so glaringly obvious as the groceries in the back of my car cost twice their monthly take home. At 2000 MWK a pop, I had spent 16,000 MWK just on eight bottles of flavored water, what they might net over two and a half weeks. And I am very aware that my posts on Malawian life are uncomfortably juxtaposed with my vacation and travel posts–activities so far out of the reach of the average Malawian. These are but some of the faces of Malawi.

June 21, 2018 by trs

Conjuring Paris Memories

Three years ago I knew I would someday soon write this post. As a teenager I had visited Paris and then thirteen years later I returned while in graduate school. I thought it would be fitting to return yet again after another thirteen years, this time with my daughter. Though I missed the mark by three years, C and I did make it this year, and what a trip it was! So many things that could go wrong did. I could not have foreseen how either this year’s trip or this post would turn out, especially how digging into my memories would reveal some surprising similarities — it turns out that every trip to Paris has had its hiccups.

In the Latin Quarter – for some reason the only photo I have of the 1989 trip to Paris

Summer 1989. My sisters and I spent a month with my aunt and uncle in Frankfurt, Germany. This was my first time traveling overseas–the trip that would launch all the rest. For the July 4th weekend we took the train to Paris for a four day holiday. If you know Paris in summer then you know it is hot and crowded. If you know your Paris/French history, you then realize July 1989 was the 200th anniversary of the storming of the Bastille, the start of the French Revolution, and French independence. Also, the 100th anniversary of the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps not the best time to visit Paris. Yet we did.

It has been so many years but I still remember quite a few things. We stayed in a B&B on Montmartre. I noted in my journal “we trudged up steep hills and stairways, dragging our luggage…but it [the hotel] is quaint and the owner is a kindly, cheerful man whose wife will serve us breakfast to our room in the morning.” Yet that merry man and his wife later locked my sisters and I out of the hotel. They did not want to give keys to children and one evening while my aunt and uncle caught a show at the Moulin Rouge, we went to wander the artist stalls. Returning just after 8 PM we found the front door bolted tight, all the lights off. What could we do but ring the doorbell? Again and again, til finally they grudgingly let us in. We were on their sh*t list after that, but the croissants they brought in the morning were still buttery soft and delicious.

At the Arc de Triomphe we were, for some unknown reason, unable to find an underground passageway so we ran across the roundabout, all six lanes or so of traffic. Probably not our brightest idea, but it was certainly exhilarating! We then walked to the Louvre. It is not actually all that far, but at the time I thought it took forever! Temperatures were high and we were sweating; the Champs-Elyses and Jardin des Tuileries were lined with flags from across the world as many foreign leaders and tourists were in town for the 200th anniversary celebrations. I saw a Tale of Two Cities chess set in a store window along the way and wanted to buy it, fancying myself a budding chess player or at least chess set collector (neither of which was borne out). We arrived at the Louvre to find the line so long we did not even go in!

Also, although we visited the Cathedral of Notre Dame, we spent little time inside and did not go up to see the gargoyles or the view. Instead, we hung out in the park behind the cathedral feeding the pigeons. At some point, while waiting on a subway platform, we were subjected to tear gas wafting in from above. That was my first tear gas experience (I had have two more, both in Korea).

Extraordinary — 2002 but nearly the same view as 2018 (and no, I did not check my old photos before my new trip)

Fast forward to Spring 2002 when on a lark I decided Paris would be my graduate school Spring Break destination. Seeing Paris alone as a 30 year old is very different than as a 16 year old with family. I am sure that does not come as a surprise to anyone. And yet once again things did not all go as planned.

Six days was the perfect amount of time in Paris. I visited the Eiffel Tower, Versailles, the Musee d’Orsay, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Picasso Museum, the Dali Museum, the Rodin museum, Montmartre, Notre Dame, the Montparnasse and Pere Lanchaise cemeteries, the catacombs, took a river cruise and a bike tour. I think I covered just about everything.

But I was so tired when I arrived and then the airport was confusing. There were signs, but I do not think they told anybody anything. I changed money at a terrible rate with a horrible charge, and could not work the phones (although truthfully I don’t think anyone could — foreigners were staring blankly at payphones all over the airport), and was treated rudely by some guy at the tourist information counter who surely thought I must be a moron given I was unable to work the phones Welcome to France!

My visit to the Eiffel Tower, Versailles, and the Musee d’Orsay went off without a hitch. At Notre Dame I not only spent more time inside the church but even ventured to the tower. The Louvre though was a different story.

On Monday I went to the Louvre. It is a really big place. It is said that if one spent one minute before each of the art works exhibited it would take 200 days, 24 hours a day, to see it all. I arrived just after 9 AM and took a break at 12:30 for lunch in the Louvre cafe. After lunch I planned to spend another hour there and was on my way up to the 2nd floor, when a siren went off. Whir-whir-whir. Then an announcement: “All patrons should now exit the Louvre immediately. You will be notified once the security situation has returned to normal and you can return.” The elevators and escalators were shut off as well as a number of rooms sealed. [This was a year before the Da Vinci Code came out – but I saw those security doors come down] What was happening? When I reached the foyer, people were still being sold tickets and entering the museum. I asked a guard and he said he did not know what was going on but that it seemed okay to go back in. I spent another hour on the 2nd floor; there was no other announcement about the “security situation.”

3 Paris And then there was the visit to the Arc de Triomphe. As I arrived in front of the Arc and starting towards the underpass, a police caravan rode up. Two motorcycles and about five trucks of police. The police jump out, in full riot gear, with helmets and shields and such, and stand in formation on the circle facing the Arc. What is happening? I look around for snipers or a jumper or any situation that would warrant this response. Nothing. Just other tourists milling around. The underpass is closed to I walk to the other side. The police in the tunnel do not do anything to stop walkers. Turns out there was a strike of hospital personnel that day and the police were there for them. After 15 minutes the stairway to the Arc reopens and the police caravan turns on the sirens and speeds away.

A last minute trip to the Cemetery of Pere Lanchaise ended in a frantic rush. I made it to Jim Morrison’s headstone before two guards approached me to let me know they were closing. There was still 25 minutes left but they told me at 5:30 the gates were locked and they let the dogs out. I tried to find the grave of Frederic Chopin with their directions but I was too preoccupied with being locked in a cemetery at night with dogs hunting me, so I just headed for the exit. And the search for Victor Hugo’s home took far too long wandering small streets only to find out it was closed.

A beautiful day in Paris — one of my most absolute favorite pictures of me

What really stays in my memory though is my bicycle tour. I barely remember where we went but only that I loved seeing the city from a different angle. I had walked, and walked, and walked around the city for hours on end (Oh how I loved all that walking! I miss being in a walkable city), so a few hours on wheels was very refreshing. The weather was quite warm for March–I was in a t-shirt–and the sky sunny and clear.

I found myself on the airplane waiting on the tarmac about to head home. I sat staring out the window. And then there was this strange sound. A ticking sound. Several passengers around me could hear it. And the flight attendants were looking for something. The plane continued to sit just a little way past pushback. Tick. Tick. Tick. The flight attendants rushed down the aisle. We sat there a good 10 minutes and we began to move.

Fast forward to April 2018 and as we sat on the airplane bound for Addis Ababa listening to a deportee yelp in the back of the plane, flight attendants rushing up and down the aisles, and concerned passengers looking around and I thought of my past and present Paris trips – of the tear gas, the labor strikes, unpredictable weather, closed for renovation museums, odd airplane events, and other out of the ordinary experiences. Though heading home again, I already looked forward to the next Paris adventure and hope it will not be so long in coming.

June 4, 2018 by trs

Escape to the Cape (Town)

C jumps for joy atop Table Mountain

Cape Town. I have long wanted to visit. In 2010 I visited South Africa. I was living in Jakarta and one of my best friends was living in Luanda, so we met up in Johannesburg for ten days of Jo’burg, Pretoria, and Kruger National Park. But not Cape Town. So after years of hearing about the city that some say is their favorite in Africa, and others say is their favorite in the world, it was time to experience it for myself.

First we had to get there. Seems simple enough. Go to airport. Get on plane. Fly to South Africa. If it is just you traveling, it probably is that straightforward. If you are traveling with a minor… Nope. In 2015, South Africa instituted new laws for anyone — South African or otherwise — traveling with children under the age of 18. Along with a passport, your child(ren)’s unabridged birth certificate is now an essential travel document. This is if you are one or two parents traveling together with your kids. If you are married but not traveling together, you need to have the affidavit granting permission. And if you are a single parent you are supposed to travel with whatever document gave you that status — a divorce decree, a death certificate. My status is fairly simple; I have never been married and I am the only parent on the birth certificate. Yet that fact seemed to complicate things when traveling to South Africa with my child. The year before the American Citizen Services section in Pretoria had said I would be good with just my daughter’s birth certificate. It was time to check that.

View of Chapman’s Peak and Hout Bay from SC’s home

We rolled up to the check-in desk. I smiled at the woman. She smiled at me. I handed over our passports. Then she asked for the birth certificate and an affidavit. I handed over the BC but said I did not have an “affidavit.” The woman left the desk with the BC and huddled together with another woman. They looked at the BC. They looked at me. They looked at one another. What the what? She then returned and began typing away on the computer – not a word to me. Were we getting boarding passes or not? After some seconds that felt much, much longer, I asked. She told me the BC was sufficient. Whew. I breathed a sigh of relief. But then she stepped away again. Again some consultations with the supervisor. She returned. “I am afraid that we are going to need the affidavit. Please step aside.” Oh no! I pulled out my secret weapon–a notarized document everyone had told me was unnecessary. She looked it over, told me all was in order, and then printed out our boarding passes. Crisis averted. We were on our way!

Our flight took us to Johannesburg, where we cleared immigration (no single parent issues there), and then flew on to Cape Town. My friend from college, SC sent an Uber to pick us up. It took a wee bit of work to find him. Once in the car I joked with the driver that the parking garage at the airport is larger than most buildings in Malawi (though I expect its true). We wound through the darkened streets from the airport to SC’s home. Even in the darkness, the development compared to Malawi was obvious. At SC’s home, a smallish but beautifully appointed condo fronting the beach at Hout Bay, SC and I spent time catching up on old times and new while C and SC’s daughter M got to know one another.

Norval Foundation sculpture garden

On our first full day we puttered around in the morning in our pajamas having a long leisurely breakfast while the kids played. We took advantage of SC’s amazing view of the bay from both her yard and balcony. Then we all headed out to the Norval Foundation to meet a half dozen of SC’s mom friends and their kids for a Mother’s Day lunch. It was an interesting group, including another American Foreign Service Officer (working at the Cape Town Consulate) and another single mother.

The Norval Foundation is a just-opened (only two weeks before our visit) private museum of contemporary and South African art and sculpture garden, in addition to an incredibly beautifully designed restaurant. There we gathered for an epic luncheon lasting over three hours. Part of the reason it took so long was extremely slow service, but it was also the conversation. And while the moms talked, the kids took advantage of the garden. I regret I did not walk the whole garden or visit inside the museum!

C as a squirrel monkey playground

On Monday SC had some morning meetings and M had preschool, so I booked my very first Uber driver to take C & I to the World of Birds (and surprise, surprise, our first Uber driver was a woman from Malawi!). My initial impression of the place was not favorable. I thought we might only spent 30 minutes, maybe an hour there. But I was wrong. World of Birds may predominantly feature birds, but there are many other animals there. C particularly enjoyed seeing the guinea pigs, marmoset, servals (mostly she enjoyed that one serval took an immediate dislike to me and growled and hissed at me), and the squirrel monkeys. The last were the absolute best as visitors can go inside the enclosure, sit still, and if monkeys crawled on you, then so be it. We easily spent 30 minutes there alone. C also loved the birds. She took a liking in particular to the golden pheasant, which she immediately (and correctly) identified as Chinese.

Penguins at Boulder’s Beach

That afternoon we met up again with SC and M, and headed to Noordhoek via the stunning Chapman’s Peak drive (rated as one of the most spectacular marine drives in the world). There we enjoyed a long, late lunch while the children wore themselves out on the playground. At 4 SC headed out–she would fly to London that night on business. The girls and I returned to SC’s house for an evening of play and silliness.

Tuesday found C and I saying goodbye to M and her nanny, then Uber-ing to our hotel in the heart of Cape Town. We settled in quickly and then walked to the Victoria and Albert Waterfront. There we rode the Cape Wheel, visited the Two Oceans Aquarium, and searched for the best rocks at the Scratch Patch. These were all fun, but there were also simple pleasures we had missed in Malawi — eating at McDonald’s (please do not judge — there are none in Malawi), walking through a shopping mall, the presence of sidewalks.

View of the Peninsula from the Cape Point lighthouse

The following day we headed out on an epic tour of the Cape Peninsula. We were once again blessed with stunning weather. I had planned for weather in the region of 60-70 degrees but we were getting mid to upper 70s, even 80s. The sky a dazzling blue. While some may eschew the group bus tour, I sometimes find it provides just what we need. This tour took us to Boulder’s Beach at Simon’s Town to see the penguins and the Cape Point National Park, to include the lighthouse, funicular, and the Cape of Good Hope.

This is someplace I had long wanted to visit, but I can not even begin to describe seeing it in person, being there with my daughter. Everything was perfect. Well, not everything. There are downsides to taking a group tour after all. One being having to wait for folks who are not conscious of other peoples’ time. There was a walking tour from Cape Point to the Cape of Good Hope. The guide informed us all beforehand that the hike would require a level of fitness, i.e. those with heart, back, feet, knee, breathing or other such problems should not join. And still someone joined who should not have, and we all had to wait an extra hour for that individual to make their way to the bus. This brought us back to the city late and earned us another hour sitting in traffic.

The obligatory trip up Table Mountain was next on our agenda. Again, the day broke to reveal another absolutely beautiful day. We took the hop on hop off sightseeing bus to the Table Mountain visitor’s center. I had read of the potential long lines at the aerial cableway and could hardly believe our luck to find there was no line at all! We simply paid and walked right on. The gondola is large, it can hold 65 passengers, but it too was only half full. What magic was this? And then, the car began to rotate. No kidding. Although I had read up enough to know the aerial cableway existed, I had not known it would turn. Mind blown. And the views. Wow.

View from the cable car as it nears the top; a dassie chills out

At the top we took our time. With the temps in the 70s and us standing 3500 feet atop a near-bare stone plateau, we were in need of some popsicles. While looking out towards the southwest, with the spine of the mountains directly in front with the ocean against one slope, we caught sight of what appeared to be a large rodent of sorts on the terrace below. My daughter, being the animal lover she is, identified it as a hyrax. Turns out locals call them dassies. But dassie or hyrax they were plentiful and inquisitive, and our visit to Table Mountain turned into as much about spotting these creatures as drinking in the breathtaking views.

We continued on the sightseeing bus back to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront for lunch and then a short cruise of the harbor. We were sleepy, lulled by the warmth of the afternoon sun and frankly little else we would see that day could compare with Table Mountain, though having Thai food and frozen yogurt at the mall sure came close.

The next day C and I ventured 45 minutes out of Cape Town to the Cheetah Outreach Centre. C loves cheetahs. They are her spirit animal. In fact, she has told me for at least two years that she is half cheetah. It’s true – that she tells me that. In researching Cape Town I had found out about this place where one could not only see, but also touch cheetahs. I had not realized how far out of town it is located. I began to think it would be easier not to go, except that C would never forgive me. Though I tried to explain the distance, she looked stricken at the idea of not going. I had to make it happen. Part of the problem was that my data roaming, though on, did not work. I could order an Uber when connected to wi-fi, but otherwise could not. There is no wi-fi at the center. I thought of renting a car, but just was not keen. I thought of pre-ordering an Uber for pick-up but was not sure how long we would need and concerned that without a connection to data, I would not be notified of the pick-up car details. I took a chance though of just ordering an Uber and leaving it to fate to figure it out later. And it worked. The driver asked us how we were getting back and I took down his number and called him when we finished.

Given C’s age we were only able to take part in the adult cheetah encounter (she was too young to pet baby cheetahs, meerkat, or bat eared foxes). No matter. It is not every day you get the chance to stroke the fur of a live cheetah. Though the Uber there and back cost more than the entrance and encounter fees by double, the big smile on my daughter’s face was, as they say, priceless.

C and a squirrel have a chat

Afterwards, we headed back to town and on to the Company’s Garden. Originally set up in the 1650s to grow produce for the Dutch East India Company “refreshment station,” where ships restocked on the voyage from Europe to the East Indies, it is now a heritage park on prime real estate in the center of old Cape Town. And while the site of a beautiful historic garden is a good enough reason to visit, it is also the home to some incredibly hungry, and tame, squirrels. At the park entrance several vendors sell packages of nuts to feed the very friendly rodents. We hardly made it ten steps when a squirrel confronted us. He knew the deal. He knew we were newbies. He knew enough to try to get our attention before we even entered the formal part of the garden. Before we met his many friends. He lucked out but so did many other squirrels. I have never before in my life seen squirrels just run right up to people, climb up their leg, sit on their shoulder, and try to pry nuts from one’s hand. It was so awesome. I almost forgot that we had pet a cheetah that morning.

Guinea fowl in Kirstenbosch

For our final day, we headed to the Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden. Located on the lush Eastern slopes of Table Mountain, Kirstenbosch is touted as one of the most beautiful botanic gardens in the world. Certainly the setting is hard to beat and the dramatic backdrop reminded me of the Limahuli Gardens in Kauai. Our favorite part of the gardens was probably the tree canopy walkway, which literally snakes its way through the tree tops 12 meters off the ground, so much so that it is referred to as the “boomslang” (tree snake). Our visit coincided with our first cloudy day, yet the views were no less amazing. SC and M joined us for another long lunch at the wonderful Moyo restaurant located at Kirstenbosch.

It was not easy leaving Cape Town. It is easy to see why it is a favorite destination. I very nearly had to drag C kicking and screaming to leave. She insisted she wanted to stay. I could hardly argue; the trip had been near perfect. We hit so many of the highlights, enjoyed fabulous weather, spent time with friends, and had many, many great experiences with wildlife. The Cape has spoiled us for upcoming vacations.

April 30, 2018 by trs

The Paris Excursion

It was a trip loooooong in the planning. We had easily been talking about it for a year. I bought my plane tickets and booked my hotels six months beforehand. It was Springtime, even Easter time, in Paris after all. There was no time to waste. We both had visited Paris in the past and this was just about seeing each other and introducing the kiddos to the City of Lights. Single parent friends with a 25 year old friendship.

As the departure date grew closer, I began to have a few misgivings. The forecast indicated cooler and wetter weather than we had hoped for. And work, it was busy. Very busy. I began to think this could possibly be the worst time I could have chosen for a holiday. But it was C’s school holiday. Also, our first longish vacation since arriving in Malawi. And, as one person told me, “croissants still taste good in the cold and the rain.”

We departed on a Friday. Ethiopian Airlines from Lilongwe to Addis Ababa via Malawi’s second city Blantyre. A two hour layover in possibly one of the worst airports in the world (Bole International Airport seems to be in constant construction mode), then a seven hour flight to Paris, arriving at 6:30 AM. Yes, AM. We both had the sniffles and had developed a cough, but we were no worse for wear. After a wee bit of difficulty finding our shuttle to our hotel, we checked in before 10. CZ and Little C, who also visited us in Shanghai, were already in Paris, though at a different hotel. CZ reserved her hotel with points and had been able to redeem at the swanky Westin. Swank was too dear for me, so I booked around the corner at half the cost.

View toward Montmartre from the Roue de Paris

We met up and hit a sidewalk cafe for brunch. It was simple. Avocado toast. Fruit salad. Hot cocoa. It cost a pretty penny but there is nothing like it in Malawi. We headed then to the Tuileries where C and Little C enjoyed the carousel and trampoline park. Next, we rode the Roue de Paris, the Paris Ferris Wheel, located at Place de la Concorde. This summer the wheel will be disabled so I wanted to ride it before it is gone.

I just wanted a picture of my kid on the carousel, but that metal scaffolding in the background…

Not having tired out our 6 and nearly 4 year olds nearly enough, we hustled them on to the metro and headed over to the Eiffel Tower. We had no plans to go up but both kids wanted to see it. And the moment when they caught sight of it — fantastic! They were so taken it with it took a little convincing to get them to move along to the beautiful double-decker carousel across the street. Several rides and a snack later they were satisfied.

Next up we planned to take the one hour cruise on the River Seine with the Bateaux Parisiens. We could all use a little time off our feet and give the kids a good view of many famous landmarks. But here is where we ran into our first bit of trouble. The boats were running, but due to heavy rainfall the Seine levels were too high to take the usual route. We declined. We headed back to our hotels.

Day 2. Easter Sunday. We had been lucky to score tickets to an egg hunt and Easter festivities at the Parc Andre Citroen. We had a late start in the morning – CZ and Little C still had jet lag and C and I had overnight-flight-itis. It was also on the cold side and quite overcast. Yet the Easter event turned out to be quite a lot of fun, and all for 5 Euros. The kids took part in a super easy egg hunt and then turned in their eggs for a fabulous gift bag. They also were able to play a few free games and pick up some more toys and books. Afterwards though the plan had been to ride the hot air balloon (actually a gigantic helium balloon) that is also located in the park; however, due to high winds it was not operating. The kids were happy to play at the park’s many playgrounds but I felt a bit grumpy to miss out on something else from my Paris 2018 must-do list. We had lunch and headed over to the Paris Aquarium. At least that was on my list (because I have a passion for aquariums — I am serious).

The children play in the shadow of Notre Dame

By the third day, the sniffles C and I had acquired during our flights had turned into full on colds with hacking-up-lungs strength coughs. Instead of admiring the Moulin Rouge as we awaiting the mini train to the top of Montmartre, I headed to a pharmacy. I came all the way to Paris to go to a pharmacy… Then as I drugged myself and C and we waited for the mini train, C and Little C played on a giant sewer grate with air flowing up. One of our best 30 minutes in Paris. I kid you not.

The train ride was fun. The massive crowds of people at the top, less so. We grabbed lunch in the square. C tried chocolate mousse for the first time. Declared it delicious. No doubt about it, it was really, really good. The architecture beautiful. The artists’ works amazing. I had been to Montmartre in 1989 and 2003; I love it. Yet the low temps, light rain, pushing a stroller on cobblestone through swarms of people, and our colds were getting to us. We decided to locate the Dali Museum — CZ had read that kids actually respond well to Dali’s whimsical and quirky works of art and it would be a chance to be indoors for awhile. We found it, but wouldn’t you know it, closed for renovation! And then C had had it. She had no interests in taking the funicular, no interest in finding the carousel. Something is definitely wrong when my kid does not want to ride a carousel! CZ and Little C stayed at Montmartre and C and I made our way back to the hotel for a nap.

I expect right about now everyone is really, really jealous of our trip to Paris. Flooding, high winds, chilly temperatures, a closed museum, and taking care of a sick kid while feeling under the weather yourself. It certainly had all the hallmarks of a magical getaway. Then we learned of the transportation strike to be held over the next two days. #winning

C as Princess Anna in front of the Disneyland Paris entrance

On our fourth day luckily I was not the only tired mommy. CZ too was flagging. With the strike we were not sure of our transport options and wanted to stay close by. Lucky for us we were staying in the heart of Paris, so we walked through the Tuileries to pass the Louvre and then over to Notre Dame to show the kids the church and gargoyles. They oohed and ahhed and then made haste for the playground. Given the state of the few playgrounds in Malawi, this still made our trip to Paris worth it. Although it felt the coldest day so far, the restaurant in the Latin Quarter warmed us all right up. It was cosy, crowded, with good food, and the waiter messed up multiple things on our order. C’est la vie.

No worries. The following day we headed to one of the happiest places on Earth: Paris Disneyland.

First though we needed transport. We had had the idea to take the RER train to the Paris Disneyland station. Kids love trains. CZ and I love trains. But there was the transportation strike. Although both of us were beginning to think walking 15 minute from the hotel to the train station with 2 little kids, their strollers, and our luggage might be too much. (OK, I was still convinced we could do it though I was strongly sensing CZ thought me off my rocker on this point.) So we booked an Uber – and we rode to our Disneyland hotel in the comfort of a sleek Mercedes van. And the sky was blue! And the weather warm! C’s cough was gone! The magic of Disney?

I watched the kids so CZ could ride Space Mountain

I would like to say our 5 days at Paris Disneyland were idyllic, but any parent of a child would see right through that. Little kids passing the Rainforest Cafe gift shop, the World of Disney, and LEGO stores every single day, not to mention all the goodies in Disneyland itself, is not a recipe for contentment — well unless the parent buys many of said goods. C managed to wrangle a whole Princess Anna costume, including cloak, out of me. She wanted the boots too but I negotiated for 2 LEGO sets instead. Yeah, I have never been very good at haggling, clearly. We all just had a really good time.

It was with great sadness that our final day in France arrived and we had to say goodbye to our friends (and to Paris and all it has to offer, which is, no surprise, different from Malawi). C and I had our final dinner in Paris in the airport — at McDonald’s. Don’t judge. There is no McDs in Malawi. Then we boarded our overnight flight from Paris to Addis Ababa. We settled into our seats, preparing to start snoozing as soon as possible. We watched the safety video, the flight attendants prepared for push back…

Then someone in the back of the plane, about ten rows back, started yelling. In the first few seconds I will admit my thoughts went to terrorism — when someone in the back of the plane suddenly starts yelling “Listen up people!” once we are all buckled in, it is probably natural to think so. But as he continued his purpose became clear “Help me! I am a refugee. They are taking me back to my country and they will kill me.” He repeated this over and over and over in loud yelps. He was a handcuffed deportee being escorted by 2-3 armed French police. What was amazing — still amazing — to me is that so many other passengers inserted themselves into the drama. Passengers were verbally sparring with the police officers and the flight attendants. I am fairly sure in the US this would guarantee these passengers an escort off the plane. But in this case, it did not. Over time, other passengers came from the front of the plane to also throw in their two cents. There was definitely a camp for the deportee and a camp against. And no respect for the police or flight attendants. It took over an hour to resolve the issue — the removal of the deportee from the plane.

CZ watched the kids so I could get my hot air balloon flight at the Disney Village

Our Addis to Lilongwe flight too had a late departure. No reason given. I fell asleep soon after boarding only to wake up two hours later and find we were still on the tarmac! As soon as we landed I sent a message to my nanny/housekeeper/driver who had come to pick us up at the airport. She said she was there though not feeling very well. I tried to get C and I through immigration and baggage claim and customs as quick as possible. TJ, our nanny, waited outside. As we walked to the car, she collapsed in the parking lot. Malaria. There I am after traveling for 14 hours with C, a cart with 2 suitcases, a stroller, a backpack, still with my racking cough that doubles me over, attending to my disoriented and very ill nanny lying in the parking lot. I do not know where my car is — TJ has the keys in her hand but can barely talk or lift her head. But a bunch of good Samaritans help us out. One man runs through the parking lot with me looking for my car — my nanny had been able to whisper my license plate to him. We find it and I drive quickly to where my nanny and C wait. I had left my 6 year old and my handbag with my wallet and passport sitting on the luggage cart. Two men helped TJ into the back seat. Another put my luggage in the trunk. And yet another got C into her car seat.

My nanny went to the hospital for four days. I was diagnosed with a lower respiratory infection and stayed home from work for two days.

So wow, yeah, that was certainly not the Paris getaway I had planned. Never a dull day for sure. CZ and I cannot wait to plan our next trip!

March 8, 2018 by trs

(The Not Quite) Lake Escape

A three day weekend.

The third of the year, but as we had stayed put the first two it was time for C and I to get out of Lilongwe for a mini mommy and me vacation.

I had had some big plans. A friend from college, SC and her daughter M, now currently residing in Cape Town, were to make the flight up to visit. C was beside herself with excitement at the prospect of guests from out of town. She had on more than one occasion made it clear that she would show them to their room and she would show them around the house and yard. She warned me repeatedly that my job was to pick them up at the airport, but it was her job to show them around Panda B&B, which is what she named our house for visitors. She had taken pains to put little accents in their room – from placing two hyacinth hair clips left over from her Moana birthday on to the bed, to also putting her blue bird desk lamp on the dresser (with a blue spider web on it — I don’t know, she thought it made it homey?). For a finishing touch she placed a plush Panda with a personal welcome drawing on the pillow.

The M10?

Two days before they were to arrive SC messaged me with the bad news: due to an unexpected, and extremely important, work commitment, they had to cancel. C was devastated. Frankly, I was too. I considered even cancelling the hotel I had booked and changing to someplace closer. But I had been looking forward to going to the southern part of Lake Malawi for some time, and the deadline for cancelling without penalty had passed. So it would be Cape Maclear or bust.

Early Saturday morning we packed up the car and hit the road. I will be honest, I was a wee bit nervous. This would be only my second road trip outside of Lilongwe (with me at the wheel) and Malawian roads are not for the faint of heart. The first part was fine enough — the M1 north to the M14 east, the same route to Senga Bay we took in November. Ninety minutes out we headed south on the M5. Don’t let the names of theses highways fool you, they are two lane roads with little or no shoulder. Sealed but full of potholes and unexpected surprises around bends (a truck stopped? a herd of goats? a police checkpoint?) But the drive was pleasant enough. Then just after Mua, my GPS directed me to make a left onto the M10. And there in front of me stretched a dirt road. I checked the GPS. Yeah, I made the correct turn. So we bounced along the dirt road as it gradually narrowed. I hoped it would not end. Thankfully after a bumpy 10 miles or so we returned to tarmac.

The last 20 minutes or so, once reaching the Cape Maclear Nature Reserve (and the area of the Lake Malawi National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site), the sealed road once again fizzled out. With the exception of a few enterprising youngsters wielding hefty garden tools attempting to shake down passing motorists, it was uneventful and we soon pulled into our lodge.

Along the beach

Within a few hours I was disappointed. The lodge, despite costing a pretty penny, had no WiFi, no restaurant (both advertised online). They offered lunch — but with no menu we were told we select from a few fish or chicken dishes. Despite being only one of two apparent guests ordering lunch, or even at the lodge at all, it took more than 45 minutes to bring us the food. We had an option between Coca-Cola, Fanta Pineapple, or water to drink. The whole place looked tired and worn. We went for a walk on the beach. Not five feet from the property and I was waylaid by a man wearing a vest who said he ran boat tours. I said I just wanted to walk on the beach with my daughter. He said no problem, he could tell me about the boat trips along the way. I asked him to cut to the chase and tell me the price — I was interested in a trip out on the lake — but he would not reveal them right there and then and said he had a set price sheet he could show me. US$35 per person! I said no. We went on our way.

C had put on her swimsuit, desperate to play in the water, but this was different from where we had been at Senga Bay. The beach is hard pebbles and there is lots of glass. The village butts right up to the lake, the lodges, dive joints, and hostels in-between. Locals use the lake for everything — for their ablations, brushing teeth, washing clothes, washing dishes, fishing, and play. I saw the rusted handlebars of a bicycle in the shallows, a long pipe ran into the water and along the beach, carrying water somewhere to the village. I let her only a foot or two in. She was not happy. Neither was I.

At the hotel C swam for hours in the pool as I contemplated checking out the next day. For dinner we declined to once again order chicken or fish from the hotel and headed to Gecko’s, where a lively atmosphere, a decent singer, a mancala game, and quite possibly the best pizza in Malawi revived us. Despite the hard and somewhat lumpy mattress we both slept very well.

The center of the village

The next morning I was still mulling over whether to check out. But C saw other children in the pool and was cheered. She instantly made friends; she’s sweet and friendly and open — though our giant orca pool toy probably didn’t hurt. And I let go. I let go of the idea of “doing something” on this trip. Sitting by the pool, reading a book, watching my daughter play is doing something. Striking up a conversation with the other parents while we lazed at the pool watching our kids is also doing something. I learned they are Lebanese-Malawian and own a prominent shopping center in Lilongwe. For lunch C and I went next door to the Funky Cichlid, a backpacker dive, where I had the most disappointing spaghetti bolognaise of my life (it took 45 minutes to make and when it arrived it had spaghetti and ground beef and cheese but no sign of tomato sauce — I was told to add it from the ketchup on the table) and C hated her burger. No problem. That day I was not bothered. It was funny. We shared a KitKat instead. Then went back and took a nap. Then headed back to the pool. Dinner was at Hiccups Pub, upon recommendation of our new Lebanese-Malawi friends, where C enjoyed a chicken shawarma and flatbread and I lapped up quite possibly the best hummus in Malawi.

village children and shop

On our final morning C and I took a stroll through the village. At 7:30 in the morning it was quiet — most likely with the majority of the population long awake and on with their day, bathing or doing chores or fishing at the lake only meters away. Malawi is poor, its one of the poorest countries on Earth, and the majority of the inhabitants of the village poor as well. I do not want to sugarcoat it. I am afraid of romanticizing it in some way. Several kids in the village regularly approach foreign tourists with handwritten notes asking for donations to support their transportation to a football game in a neighboring village. There is no football game, of course, but I cannot fault them for trying. Others will pester visitors to listen to their “boy band” and charge per song — but they are surprisingly good with their makeshift instruments, covers of popular songs such as “Who Let the Dogs Out?” and “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” and some pretty great dance moves. But with the exception of some persistent (and relatively mild to other places I have been) requests to see someone’s shop or take a boat tour, the villagers were friendly, and busy going about their daily lives.

On the way back to Lilongwe we stopped at the Mua Mission, one of the oldest Catholic missions in Malawi founded in 1902, and the Kungoni Culture Center, which celebrates the cultures of the Ngoni, Yao, and Chewa tribes. Historical and cultural sites are few in Malawi, museums even fewer, so it was a bit of a treat for me to stop here. Though the museum is only three rooms, they are chock full of information and one could easily spend two hours there with the guide. Lucky for the waiting Catholic University students, C and I went in for the express 30 minute tour, though including the gift shop and walking some of the grounds, we still spent an hour here. C liked the room of Gule Wamkulu masks best. (The Gule Wamkulu is a ritual dance of the Chewa people that involves costumes and masks, some quite elaborate. The dance has been inscribed by UNESCO as an intangible cultural heritage)

Mua Mission

It was not quite the trip I had intended. I had wanted to get away, and I think I had envisioned some kind of fancy lodge that kept Malawi at bay, but instead of an escape, we got a little more up close and personal. At first it was uncomfortable, and to be honest, I am still processing it. My expectations. The reality. The natural beauty and the everyday lives. Economics. Culture. Environment. Do not get me wrong. I know a short walk on the beach and a walk through a village and a stop at a cultural center do not a deep cultural immersion make. But it was eye opening for both C and I.

We will not soon forget it. (especially as C lost her first tooth in the car on the way — a loose tooth, a bumpy road, and an apple are the ticket!) And though I declared at first I would not go back, I already expect that an untruth.

January 6, 2018 by trs

Majete for Christmas

A pool with a view

Our Christmas was not your usual snowy yuletide affair. Though if I recall correctly, in the past twenty years I have spent only four in the U.S. and if given the choice I have a tendency to choose warmer climes over cold. Still, I do not remember a Christmas quite like this – hot and humid, yes, been there and done that, but absent the African animals.

I knew being the new colleague on the block would likely mean a shorter holiday. That I was prepared for. The requirement to stay within Malawi though threw me for a loop. Initially.

Hippo, waterbuck, and impala by the banks of the Shire

Then I realized this was a wonderful opportunity for C and I to spend some time exploring Malawi. I settled on Majete Wildlife Reserve located in Chikwawa District, in the far south-west of the country. Majete is a Malawian success story. Though established in 1955, by the 1990s the refuge had been poached to nearly nothing, with large game completely gone from the area and only a few hardy animals present, though at critically low populations. Things looked pretty bleak for the park until 1993 when African Parks, an international NGO focused on environmental conservation issues in Africa (they just appointed His Royal Highness Prince Harry as their President), working with the Government of Malawi, took over management and rehabilitation of the reserve. Today the reserve and its animals are thriving with more animals to be relocated to Majete in the next few years. It is currently the only place in Malawi where one can see the Big Five (elephant, cape buffalo, rhinoceros, lion, and leopard).

Baby yellow baboon

On Friday, December 22 C and boarded our flight from Lilongwe to Blantyre. The 40 minute flight, just twice as long as our 20 minute drive from home to the airport, was probably the shortest flight my daughter has ever taken, one of our closest getaways. C, who usually asks me how many planes we will take to our destination, was very amused that just about the time we reached our cruising altitude the pilot announced our impending landing.

At the airport we were met by a representative of Robin Pope Safaris—a big factor in visiting Majete was the opportunity to stay at their luxury lodge Mkulumadzi. We were driven the two hours from Blantyre to the reserve. We traveled through the city of Blantyre, then up into the hills, finally over a hill into Chikwawa with a breathtaking view of the valley below with the Shire (pronounced Sheer-ray) River snaking through it; then down into the valley, across the Shire, through the provincial Chikwawa capital, and to the park entrance.

The bridge to Mkulumadzi

From the reserve entrance to the lodge we spot kudu, waterbuck, impala, nyala, three elephants, several warthog and baboon. Then we arrived. Well, not really. We arrived at a parking lot. From there guests of the lodge cross a suspension bridge over the Mkulumadzi river. Once over we jump into a jeep for a short two minute ride to the lodge. This would become routine. Lodge to jeep, two minute ride, cross suspension bridge, board safari jeep. Return and do it all again in reverse.

At the lodge we are greeted curbside lodge management. A short walk down a path to the main building of the lodge and we are received with cold washcloths. C does not know what to do with it but I am grateful. The south of Malawi is warmer and our transport vehicle had no A/C. I was hot and sweaty. The kitchen prepared our lunch. We took a dip in the pool. At 3 PM the lodge served tea and at 4 PM we headed out on a game drive. C and I were the only guests the first day, which meant we had the game drive to ourselves. That was a very good thing as game drives are long. In Zambia, the four hour drives were not only long for C but also for me, especially the afternoon drives that went two hours after sunset. For our first Majete drive we were out only 2 1/2 hours but added hippopotami, crocodile, vervet monkeys, and dung beetles pushing a ball of dung across the road.

A friendly neighborhood bushbaby

Back at the lodge a bushbaby makes an appearance. She is apparently a regular, showing up a few nights a week for some peanut butter. I had never seen a bushbaby before, so this was a highlight. We have dinner. Afterwards it is 8 PM and time for bed. The morning drives begin at 6 AM. Because Malawi is so very, very dark at night, with so few lights. Because we are staying in a reserve with even less light and our chalet is separate from the main building, and we are in a nature reserve with wild animals, we must be escorted at night. Our guide has a flashlight but it barely penetrates the night, we can see only a few feet in front of us. But it is enough light for me to see the scorpion cross our path. Yikes!

Back in the chalet, the mosquito nets have been dropped around the bed and the tented wall lowered. Our chalet is lovely. It’s fancy and simple at the same time. A large room with the bed placed at the center. Sturdy walls on three sides, but the fourth is open to a deck that looks out to the Shire River. From there we actually observe hippos in the river and hear their bellowing throughout the day and night. We see both vervet monkey and baboons in the trees. A family of warthogs walks by the deck. In the bathroom the deep bathtub faces large windows; the shower too is open — though the only prying eyes that might see us are the animals. There is no A/C but instead a cooling unit. The whole vibe is relaxed and natural.

A view of our chalet

Except at night. It is all too natural and thus a little bit less relaxed. Large beetles buzz around bumping into furniture. Moths, some really quite large, fly around the room. And spiders. A daddy long legs sits by a basket in the room. He does not bother me so much. A two inch rain spider scurries across the floor towards me. There was definitely screaming involved. The spider makes no noise. After he is dispatched I find an inch long black one watching and waiting high above the sink as I brush my teeth. C and I can hardly wait to get inside the mosquito net and turn off the lights.

The following morning we are up early, but not too early. We are still the only guests and thus the game drive departs when we want to depart. We slept with the tent side down, but with only the netting and thus as soon as the sun rose the beautiful morning light filtered into the chalet as did the sounds of nature – the rushing of the rain-swollen river, the chatter of insects, lizards, monkeys and birds, and the honks and sighs of the hippos. As I stood out on the chalet deck a rustling in the underbrush revealed a family of six warthogs passing by.

C watches the warthog family from our deck

We headed out on the game drive at 7 AM instead of 6. Maybe our late start was a factor, but we saw few animals. The usual suspects – the impala, waterbuck, baboons, and warthogs – were out. We also had the opportunity to briefly see some sable and two eland, the latter the largest antelope. A massive male eland stood majestically in the middle of the road for a few long seconds before leaping into the brush, but I was not fast enough with my camera. Later, we came across a male elephant taking a mud bath. But C began to grow bored, demanding “new” animals. I wondered about this – is my child so well traveled that she is already bored by safaris? “Ugh, it’s just and elephant, mom,” she says, accompanied by an eye roll.

Back at the lodge we enjoy our second breakfast and then retire to the chalet. I read some while C plays with her toys. I lie down for a nap. C protests (she almost always seems affronted by the idea that mom might take a nap) but soon enough she is snoozing on the sofa. It is hot and humid but the breeze and the tiredness that comes from keeping an eye out for animals on a long drive lull us to a delicious sleep. We have a late lunch — its served when the guest wants anytime between noon and 2 — around 1:30. We are dining when the much anticipated family with two kids arrive. As soon as C had heard of their arrival the day before she had been eagerly looking forward to meeting them. They did not disappoint.

Shire river bend and lush rainy season foliage

A note here. The lodge is really quite the get away. It turned out they had no television, no wifi, no telephone signals. I suspected there would be no television, but the lack of wifi was a bit of a surprise. When our on game drives the adults are not only looking for the rare animals but with phones in hand are trying to catch the elusive wifi signal. Here we were already the second day, with two and a half days still stretching ahead of us, and I wondered how we would survive. Well I had brought my Kindle and my journal. For C I had two books, presents from her grandparents she opened our first day, and she also brought her new Lion Guard set of characters. Also, game driving can be tiring. There was a pool. And the lodge also had a number of board games, a few toys, and paper and colored pencils. Still, I thought I might I have booked one day/night combo too many.

Mom and baby impala

The family, two sisters with two children aged 4 and 9 (C is almost 6), joined us for the afternoon drive. Again, a good combination as we could (and did) decide to head back a bit earlier as the kids flagged in energy and enthusiasm. C was thrilled to have other children along. We saw only one new animal, the bushbuck, but otherwise the same cast of characters: impala, nyala, waterbuck, warthogs, baboons, and hippos. Though almost all of them had babies in tow as it is early summer. Yet, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit, I too was growing tired of not spotting new animals. But the weather was good, the skies, blue, the air fresh, and we were in a national park in Africa. Not too shabby.

Our third day, another game drive. Another two minute ride in the jeep. Another walk across the suspension bridge. We drive for long intervals, sometimes for as much as 20 minutes, without seeing a single animal. But we stop for a morning tea break at a viewpoint overlooking a bend in the Shire, the longest river in Malawi. It’s 402 kilometers long from Lake Malawi until it flows into the Zambezi. The greenery and blue tinged hills in the distance set off the brown fast flowing river gorged with rain; it’s beautiful.

It is Christmas Eve and we are slated for a river safari in the afternoon, but instead it pours rain heavily for hours. We nap again and it is refreshing. That day I do not mind. But Christmas Day is the same: a game drive in the morning with few animals and an afternoon downpour that scuttles the planned river safari. I have a harder time shaking it off on Christmas. Though I am not used to Christmases with friends and family, we are away from home, disconnected, and I feel a sense of melancholy. But the lodge puts together a lovely Christmas buffet lunch and includes small gifts for the kids. C happily draws pictures and plays. In late afternoon, as I return from fetching something from the chalet, the rains having finally moved on, I look up to see an incredibly beautiful late afternoon light in the sky and a rainbow. I am restored.

Elephants along the Shire

On our final morning we do manage at last to take the river safari. The river is high and swift. We see some fishing birds along the shore hunting, hippos lying low and dangerous in the water, and a family of elephants enjoying a gathering on the banks. We see the Kapichira hydropower station. It was here, at Kapichira Falls, where Dr. David Livingstone’s 1859 expedition halted, being unable to continue further up the Shire. And now there is the hydropower station, which is significant for Malawi as the country generates at least 90% of its electricity from hydropower.

Back at the lodge we have lunch and then it is time to begin the two hour drive back to Blantyre and the flight to Lilongwe. Despite the day before wanting desperately to be home, I feel now a little tug to stay. It was a great getaway for C and I; I hope one she will remember well.

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