travel

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Why Not Waikiki? (Home Leave Phase Two)

So I began the second part of my home leave fresh. Er, well, not quite. My fasciitis in my left heel was acting up, my ulcerative colitis was active, I’d developed a chest cold with an unfortunate cough, and it seemed I had sunburned my lips somewhere during my drive. (I blame Texas) Yet, knowing I would not be driving every other day and the cats would not be joining as they would be enjoying the rest of their summer sniffing breezes on window sills at my aunt and uncle’s house, I WAS feeling fresher despite the ailments.

So less than four days after returning to Virginia, C and I boarded a plane for Honolulu. The ten hour flight flew by.

Just kidding.

Three hours into the ten hour flight I was again wondering what my state of mind had been as I plotted this trip. I am sure the lure of the islands played some part. Blessed with very fair freckled skin and reddish hair, I am no beach bunny, and would never have expected a love affair with Hawaii to develop. Yet I have visited the State (and four of the islands) at least seven times, including living on Oahu for 6 months while working as a Research Assistant on Asia Pacific security at the Pacific Forum CSIS in 2004. So, it made sense, in fact it felt imperative I visit this summer with C. And hey, it’s Hawaii, so why not?

I had decided on Oahu, and much more specifically Waikiki, for our trip as I had read it is the most toddler friendly place on the islands. There is the zoo and aquarium right in Waikiki and of course the beach. A hotel with a pool would round out our busy schedule. Though many sites will tell one the “must sees” with a toddler include the Dole Plantation and Sea Life Park and that both are “near” Waikiki, they most certainly are not, especially without a car. I had no intention of renting a car and either renting or dragging along a child seat just to visit these places. And a quick search of bus schedules informed me a ride to either attraction would be a “quick” hour and a half. ONE WAY! I have been to both attractions before and C is too young to know she is missing anything. So it was easy to knock those off the list. On this trip I was going to keep things simple.

We landed just after 1pm Honolulu time. So it’s maybe 5 or 6 hours behind what my body thought it might be (I cannot be sure what time my body was operating on after out drive) It’s after 3 by the time we are checked in and nearly 9 in my head. I woke at 5:30 am and did not sleep at all on the plane, so I’m sleepy. I’m wondering again if this was a good plan.

I stock up on some food items at the ABC Store downstairs. Then C starts jumping up and down yelling “Beach! Beach! Beach!” so though it feels like nearly midnight I take her. Watching her enthusiastically testing the sand with her toes and screaming with delight when the surf approaches and catches her and I know this was a great decision. I love Hawaii.

We wake up at 2:30 am and eat and shower and then head to the beach for sunrise. Once again the pure joy and enthusiasm with which my daughter greets the beach is affirmation that we are where we should be. As the sun rises in the overcast sky and the iconic shape of Diamond Head reveals itself, I think if we do nothing else all week but rise for sunset and play on the beach, it is enough. I find this almost startling as I am not one who finds relaxing easy.

We make it to four sunrises and two sunsets, and in my opinion, that’s pretty darn good. I take C to the aquarium and the zoo and the children’s museum. I take her over to the Hilton, too, to see the penguins and flamingos only to discover all the penguins have been sent to Baltimore and the flamingos are just gone. C does not know what she is missing and is delighted with the ducks, turtles, and carp. Five years ago if you had asked me if a one week trip to Oahu would have included the aquarium, zoo, and children’s museum I would have laughed.

I also manage to work out five mornings. FIVE! I book C into the Japanese-run daycare at the Sheraton, just 5 minutes walk from our hotel. It’s a pricey at $25 per hour with a two hour minimum, but it is SO worth it. C does not want to leave at the end of day one and cannot take her shoes off fast enough to play on subsequent days. And me? I feel a tad guilty leaving her, a plump of pride that she takes to it so easily, and a rush of excitement that I will have TWO WHOLE HOURS to myself. In those five days I manage 60 minutes cycling, 110 minutes elliptical, and a total of 14 miles running. And most days I pick C up, she’s slumped over in her stroller asleep before I can get her back to our hotel. Hello nap time! I manage to start and finish THREE books.

Additionally, an upside to being the older single mom with a young toddler staying in Waikiki is that we are not approached by a single tour our timeshare person. I actually start to get a bit suspicious that we are not stopped even once. We must not fit the timeshare target demographic and I know we do not fit the luau, catamaran cruise, submarine, Pearl Harbor, helicopter, or round island bus tour type either. I have done all those things in Hawaii before, including the timeshare tours, so it’s quite refreshing!

With the warm air, cool trade winds, glorious sunrises and sunsets, quality time with C as well as time to myself…we have reached near-Nirvana levels.

It was tough to leave. Yet the oversold flight we volunteered to get off of and the $400 flight certificates and the upgrade to first I received in return made up for it just a tad.

On to the next phase.

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Am I Still on this Crazy Drive? (Home Leave Phase One Part Two)

Day 7 of my travel from post / home leave began with a drive from Natchitoches, Louisiana to Jackson, Mississippi. I think I made a very wise choice in changing my route from the original seven hour drive to Orange Beach, Alabama to the four hour drive to Jackson. Again, I am shaking my head. What was I thinking? Within minutes of starting the drive the cats were mewing again and after an hour on the road my sweet little toddler was asking “hotel?” There goes my mother of the year award.

Yet even for me four hours on the road felt too long. Good thing I at least knew this would happen and started scheduling in more than one night at each stop for us all to recharge. The drive along some back roads and then I-20 to Jackson had little to occupy my attention with the exception of the unanticipated bear crossing sign (bears? In Mississippi? I would never have thought!) and driving over the Mississippi River. I tried to point out the river to C, but at 2 ½ she cannot see much out the window and just does not get excited about things like the fourth largest river in the world. Gosh, I remember taking a cross-country Amtrak trip from Pittsburgh to Los Angeles with my mom, an aunt and cousin, and two sisters when I was eleven years old. Crossing the Mississippi, going through a tunnel in the Rockies, and the 30-minute stop in Albuquerque to wash the train, were the major highlights.

I so wanted to stop at Vicksburg, Mississippi to at least see the National Military Park. After all, this is what home leave is for, right? It is not just to reacquaint ourselves with our country but to see and learn more of its amazing history and culture. I am seeing a lot of the highway system, which to be honest, is certainly part of our society and customs—our love of the automobile and being on the open road. Right? Or so I tell myself as I pass by exits with enticing signage of things I would like to stop and see but just cannot do so with the cats or even with C.

To be honest I also hate having the junky car – the one with the visible piles of crap on the front and back seats. As the daughter of pack rat parents, whose habits extend to their cars, I have tried very hard to keep my car clean and stuff-free. However, it simply was unobtainable for this trip. Oh, how I envy those childless, pet-less, single people driving out of Juarez in their SUVs… I know, I know. I am the one who adopted my two kitties from the mean streets of Jakarta and brought them to Juarez. I am the one who had the adorable child. I am the one who bought the high re-sale value nondescript Honda Civic… No one forced me.

We make good time to Jackson. No sooner have I checked into the hotel and unpacked the car, when I turn around and take C to the Mississippi Children’s Museum, where we spend THREE hours having a blast. This is hands down one of the best children’s museums I have been to and we have now been to them in Indianapolis, Boston, Santa Fe, and Houston. Though both of those in Houston and Boston made Forbes’ top 12 best children’s museums in the US, I think they may have made a mistake not including this one in Jackson. I am reinstated to the Mother of the Year award competition.

Day 8 is another of those days when I miss out on historical sites that tug at my brain strings. Both the Old Capitol Museum and the Eudora Welty home call out to me. Though there is no way C will remain patient through a by-guided-tour-only visit to Welty’s home, the Old Capitol Museum might be a possibility. Except it is a Monday and both places are closed so the decision is made. I briefly flirt with the idea of making an early morning dash to the Old Capitol on Tuesday before returning to en-cage the cats and hit the road, but realize this is another of my delirious moments and let it go. Instead I take my daughter to the Natural Science Museum, where we still enjoy an hour and a half of fun, and then we finally have some pool time at the hotel and I wisely wash a load of laundry.

Day 9 began with the knowledge that Cat One and Cat Two had each chosen a separate mattress base to hide in. Yet the evening before, as I snuggled in bed with my daughter, I felt incredibly blessed to have this time to spend with her. It’s like one extended sleepover. So I pick up those mattress bases and shake out those kitties with the best attitude I can muster. I choose to see it as my morning workout. Also, although the drive was longer, I did rather enjoy it. I was thinking wow, our highway system really is extraordinary.

I drive to Albertville, Alabama. I wanted to stop at Gadsden, Alabama to visit the Noccalula Falls Park, which I had found on a list of top ten places to visit in Alabama. Unfortunately, there were no hotels in Gadsden available (that accept pets) so Albertville was the closest I could get. Though tired when I arrived at the hotel at 3:00, I mustered the energy after unpacking the car and getting the cats settled to get C and I back in the car and drive back to Noccalula. I was glad I did. The falls and the park are quite nice and my daughter had a great time on the little train and at the petting zoo.

Day 10. Oh man, here I am driving again. This time from Albertville to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. This time the four plus hour drive feels a little harder – easier enough to diagnose since I had not had a day of rest. I really notice the greenery surrounding the highways. It has been green for days, but it particularly strikes me today. After living in the desert for two years, though I found it beautiful, I also often felt starved for color, especially green. It is otherwise an unremarkable drive until I hit sudden and grindingly slow traffic just miles from our destination. We have arrived at one of the most popular summer destinations in the East, what seems like a cross between Ocean City (without the beach or boardwalk) and Las Vegas (without the strip clogged with pedestrians carrying gallon sized alcoholic beverages). I am informed by friends on Facebook I have reached a hub in the “Redneck Riviera.”

I am a HUGE fan of aquariums and have probably visited 50 or so all over the world. I had thought I would visit the following day, but I found out Ripley’s Aquarium of the Smokies is open until 9 or 10 pm during the summer. So, although tired, I do rally after a rest at the hotel and take my daughter over to Gatlinburg to see the fish. She is thrilled; yelling “Fish! Fish!” in the car.

Day 11. We head to Ober Gaitlinburg, the mountain-top playground accessibly by a large tramway or a curvy road. The day is all about C. I buy tickets for unlimited rides on the Carousel and other kiddy rides, which she takes very, very seriously. Seventeen times total on the rides as well as at least half an hour on the playground! I am so exhausted when we get back that I take a nap as well.

And then I received a rather extraordinary message from C’s paternal grandmother. She tells me that her and her husband happen to be in Sevierville, just down the road, for a wedding this weekend. I immediately message her back and ask if they have had dinner and want to get together. This is so amazing. I kept my route home close hold because I knew it could change – and it did. I also had no idea her paternal grandparents would be in this area. We only met them in person once, last summer. They let me know they are up for dinner and text me the restaurant, which also coincidentally happens to be one right behind our hotel! It was a really nice dinner and my heart felt so full seeing C and her grandparents interact with one another.

Day 12. The plan for this day was “Mommy’s Day” since the day before was all about C. I wanted to visit the Old Mill and also take an auto tour of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. A friend had recommended the Cades Cove loop drive. It sounded lovely. Yet by afternoon everything from all the days of driving and sightseeing caught up with me. C fell asleep in the car as we drove to the Great Smoky Mountains visitor center on the road to Cades Cove. The parking lot at the Visitor’s Center was swarmed. As I parked the car in the extension of the extension lot I just could not muster the energy to get out of the car, rouse C from her seat and carry her leaden 28 pounds in my arms to get information. Though I wanted very much to see the park, I wanted a nap far, far more. The nap won.

I reminded myself yet again this is a drive. This is a trip to get us, the cats, and a bunch of stuff from Point A to Point B with some rest time and maybe, just maybe, a chance to see and do some things other than driving along the way. I had more than succeeded on this score. We were able to see the Old Mill and C’s grandparents again that evening for about an hour.

Day 13. Eight hours in the car to finally arrive in Winchester, Virginia to stay with my aunt and uncle for a few days. Finally, staying in a home and not a hotel. Though we still have 50 more miles to arrive at our actual home leave destination but I consider the drive done.

Total Drive: Six States. Eight Stops. 2,221 Miles. $246.67 in gas. One audio book finished. One Kindle book started. No one threw up in the car. Phase One of Home Leave 2014 completed. Success!

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Me, Two Cats, and a Toddler (Home Leave 2014, Phase One)

I think I might be crazy. In the last few months of my posting in Juarez, when I would envision myself getting on to I-10 East and just going, this was not quite how I fantasized it would be. In my imagination I did not have two mewing cats in the back seat, the car was not crammed full of my poorly organized stuff, and I was neither worrying my toddler was going to throw up nor singing “Old MacDonald” for the umpteenth time.

Home Leave, it’s an amazing and strange gift. Straight from the Foreign Affairs Manual (FAM), home leave is a Congress-mandated leave “to ensure that employees who live abroad for an extended period undergo reorientation and re-exposure in the United States on a regular basis.” Basically, it is an opportunity to be reacquainted with the country we serve. We earn 15 days of Home Leave per year and one has to serve at least 18 months overseas in order to use it. The minimum amount of Home Leave is 20 days, the maximum 45, and that does not include weekends. There are other regulations associated with it, but that is the gist of it. And yes, we are still receiving our paycheck while on Home Leave. Pretty sweet, huh? All you have to do is sign up for worldwide availability (the willingness to be posted to any country in the world we have a mission) and move every 2-3 years.

I do admit it is one of the perks of the Foreign Service. Yet many of us do not actually have homes in the U.S. and for those that do, most have renters they cannot just kick out during that 1-2 month period. Me, I own no property anywhere and I have been saving up for my Home Leave for over a year. I will be traveling for almost nine weeks, which includes the six travel days I am granted for driving back from Juarez to my official Home Leave location (my sister’s home just outside of Washington, DC), and my 40 days of Home Leave. For some reason that escapes me at this time, I decided to travel the whole nine weeks rather than renting a place in one or two locations. Like my driving fantasy, this too seemed a great idea at the time I was plotting it out.

Not even to the border on the first afternoon of driving and the cats are alternating meowing with just enough pause for me to get a meow in as well. Cat one: meow. Cat two: meow. Me: meow. Repeat. This amuses me for about 30 minutes or so. After 30 minutes driving east one is still technically in El Paso, though the city and all signs of civilization (except the road and other vehicles) are gone. I am not going to deny that the desert of West Texas does have a certain kind of beauty. Yet, I still find watching that same landscape for three hours is exhausting. Instead of exhilaration upon arriving at the hotel in Fort Stockton, I just dragged myself, the two cats in their cages, my daughter, my suitcase, my daughter’s suitcase, my daughter’s four Stuffies (the elephant, the “horse” – it’s really a pink camel, the cat, and the chihuahua), the three bags of toiletries, and my handbag into the hotel. Whew.

The following morning the cats are already wise to the operation and Cat Two hides herself inside the base of the bed. Yeah. The base is hollow and some previous pet had already made a nice hole to get through the mattress base into the area between that and the floor base. Just great. I have to call the front desk and tell them so they can send someone to assist. It feels like déjà vu. Two years ago we stayed in a La Quinta in Odessa, Texas and my cat found a vent cover left off a hole in the wall. That time I had to call the front desk and the return of the cat involved a buzz saw and the bathtub in the adjacent room. This time though my daughter finds it incredible amusing to watch myself and another grown up chase my poor, terrified cat around the hotel room. Such giggles!

Thankfully Cat Two is caught and I am able to load up the car for the next drive from Fort Stockton to Seguin. Once we arrive in Seguin I am the one most ecstatic to get out of the car. To think I had initially planned on a straight shot all the way to Houston, another 2 ½ to 3 hours away. Again, I must have been delirious when I was planning this!

OK. I will not say this is awful. I love that I have this time to spend with my daughter. My aunt tells me that I am still tired because I left Juarez tired. True. But this is not the most relaxing way to spend one’s home leave…Recall it is July and we are driving across Texas and the South. I also have two cats in the car and I have been apprehensive about stopping somewhere to eat for too long to come back and find some crazed pet savior smashing in my windows. So, no, we are not stopping whenever the desire strikes, when I see a sign for a historic marker or picnic area or scenic route. I just drive on and cross my fingers this two week drive does not translate into a ten pound weight gain or a loss of my sanity.

Week one is basically done. Juarez to Fort Stockton. 1 night stop. Fort Stockton to Seguin. 1 night stop. Seguin to Houston. Two nights stop (and I took my daughter to both the Houston Zoo and the Children’s Museum. Gained mom points). Houston to Natchitoches, Louisiana. Two nights stop (Great July 4th celebration here and then I dragged my daughter to historic sites. Lost mom points.) Tomorrow we head to Jackson, Mississippi. This is a change in plans. Originally I was headed to the Alabama gulf coast beaches but the thought of the long drive, back south, is too much for me. I need to be pointed toward home.

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An Unplanned Visit to a Thai Prison, January 2002

As part of my blog I am adding edited excerpts of emails I sent on past travels.

In December 2001 and January 2002 I took the five week winter break between my first and second semesters of graduate school and headed back to Southeast Asia. I spent the first two weeks in Indonesia, on the island of Bali, with my then-Balinese boyfriend. Originally we had planned to travel together for the rest of the weeks, but soon after my arrival it was apparent the relationship was not going to last. So, we broke up and on January 1 I flew into Bangkok to begin three weeks of travel split between Cambodia and Thailand.

On January 18, 2002, I had planned to join the usual guesthouse-organized visit to an elephant camp in northern Thailand, except I woke up to late. That sleep in resulted in one of the most extraordinary unplanned activities I have ever done while on vacation. I sent this email that same day, right after visiting the prison.

I stayed up rather late last night talking with my two dormitory roommates, so I slept in this morning and gave up trying to get out to see the elephants on my own. I had breakfast and went for a short walk, but I wanted to do something. The night before one of the dormitory roommates has shown me a nice map of Chiang Mai and suggested I might want to visit the Chiang Mai Women’s Prison. I did not even know if I could get in or if I really wanted to. I wondered what I would say to get in and would I sound convincing and would they think I was a journalist.

Generally, when people think of Thailand, they think of the beaches and mountains, beautiful ruins and great shopping, tuk-tuks and traffic and backpackers. I doubt prisons come into many people’s minds when thinking of Thailand, though of course they are there.

So I walked down to the Chiang Mai Women’s Correctional Facility, which is located almost in the center of the four kilometer square city walls of old Chiang Mai. I walked up to the gate, which was two metal slabs of a kind of celadon green, with a small square hole that slid open for people to talk to the guards inside. It rather made me think of the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy arrives at the Emerald City. Someone inside opened the gap and asked if they could help me. I said, “I want to go inside.” They told me to wait a moment. This seemed almost too easy. After some time – the gates open to let in a truck and some Thais carrying plastic bags of food – two female khaki-uniformed guards come out to speak to me. They ask me if I want to visit the American prisoner. I say I do.

One of the guards informs me that only her parents, brother and sister are usually allowed to see her, but I stand firm. I want to visit the American prisoner. So she tells me to go across the street to the store to buy some things for her and then come in for a visit.
I walk across the street wondering what I should buy. What would this woman need? The guard told me I could buy some soap and a toothbrush and toothpaste. So I purchase these items as well as a bottle of Coke, some talcum powder and some lotion. There is not much to buy in the store and I do not know anything about this woman other than she is American. At the cashier there are some other foreigners trying to buy some things for themselves. They are confused; they do not realize this is a store for prison visitors to buy items for the prisoners. A man at the counter tries to explain this to me and when I tell him I am buying these items for a prisoner who looks surprised. I pay for my purchases and fill out a piece of paper written completely in Thai. Someone tries to help me but one of the questions is the name of the prisoner and I do not even know that. I start to write “American Prisoner” when the clerk speaks with some guards and then turns to me and says “Rebecca.” Yes, I am here to see Rebecca.

The slip is stapled to a bag and thrown into a pile. I protest. I tell them I will be visiting Rebecca and I want to bring her these items. I want to visit her! I sound so sure. Do I really? They inform me it will be delivered to her and I am directed to a small office behind the store. There I wait on plastic seats waiting with a group of Thais. A guard calls out some names and some people waiting come forward and then cross the street to the prison. I wait for my name to be called. The guard merely looks around for me and nods. I want to get my gifts I bought at the store but I am told those will be delivered at 3 pm. It is now 2:05 and visiting hours end at 2:30. I am told to cross the street. This time the green gate is opened to me. I am now inside the prison.

Inside is yet another waiting room with more plastic chairs. There are many people here, perhaps 20 or 30, even some small children. I am told to place my paper in a small wooden trough hanging on some bars. I place it there and step inside another small room where there are people standing in wait. A Thai man next to me tells me in English, “Now we wait.” From there I can see another area. One the outside are guards who are checking the plastic bags of food, writing the names of the prisoners on them, and then passing them through a small window. Beyond that is the visiting room. I can see a long row of chairs and a glass partition separating the visitors from the prisoners. There is a lot of chatter in Thai, most people appear happy. A buzzer sounds and the visitors in the visiting room stand up and file out, a new group of visitors file in. The prisoners are led out, a new group is led in. I wonder what to do. The helpful man tells me, “You will be next, in the last group.” Then a young woman comes up, she looks at me and speaks to the man. She turns to me and asks, “Are you here to see Rebecca?” I tell her I am. The man asks, “What is her relation to you?” I tell them, “just another American.” I ask them, “Do you think that strange?” “No,” the man tells me, “Rebecca will be happy. It is hard in the prison.” He tells me the woman next to him is his daughter. He tells me she used to be inside the prison and she knows Rebecca. The buzzer sounds and the man’s daughter tells me she will take me in to Rebecca.

Rebecca does not have an American accent. Her age is hard to tell. A guard outside told me she has been in prison for about 2 ½ years. I would say she is 35 or 40, but I have no way of knowing. She has reddish-brown hair cut short, and held to one side with a barrette. She sounds German but speaks English well. And yes, she is very happy to see me. She asks my name and why I am in Chiang Mai. She tells me she was born in the US, but only lived there one year, and grew up in Europe, mostly Switzerland. She is in prison because she changed money with another traveler, receiving traveler’s checks in exchange. When she tried to cash them, they were of course with another person’s signature. She tells me she tried to exchange at two places. She says her sentence was 2.5 years for the first attempt and three years for the second. When I say that sounds harsh, she tells me that actually her sentence could have been 11 years but since she plead guilty she received half the time. I am astonished. Surely, this seems wrong.

She has been in prison two years and seven months; she has two years and eleven months to go. She lives in a cell with 150 other women. She tells me the hardest thing is the loss of privacy, but that things are better now as she used to be in a cell with 250 women. She tells me most of the women in the prison are in there on drug-related charges and most are hill tribe women who do not understand as opium is a common cash crop for their tribes. Rebecca tells me that before the sentences for these women were not too long but now they are often for life or even the death penalty. In comparison, Rebecca’s sentence seems light.

She does not tell me any of this angrily or sadly, but matter-of-factly, and even with a slight smile. She has smile lines around her eyes and I wonder how many are from before prison. She admits that she wrong to have done what she did and appears to accept her punishment. I let her talk. She tells me she is glad to talk to someone. Although she has learned Thai, she is currently the only foreigner in the prison. She jokes, “I have been here 2 ½ years and they haven’t managed to catch another foreigner.” The buzzer sounds. She asks me how long I am in Chiang Mai and I tell her I leave tomorrow. I feel sorry to say it, if I were staying another day I could buy her a few more things. She tells me she very much enjoyed our ten minutes and thanks me for coming. She tells me my visit will make her weekend much brighter. I am embarrassed I did not get her more things or that my visit, from a total stranger, could mean that much to her. When she rises, she presses her hands to the glass and I press mine opposite hers. She waves goodbye enthusiastically. I wave in return.

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A Blast from My Travel Past

Just days ago I received a LinkedIn invite from someone I met a long time ago.  It was a very pleasant surprise to have communication again with A, who I met while backpacking in Romania in 2000.  It brought me back to that time, when I was in the midst of an 11 month solo backpacking trip through Europe and Asia, long before I was a mom, when the Foreign Service, even my graduate degree, was just a twinkle in my eye.

I do not have any email stories from that time in my life.  I know I sent some, but the Internet was a much newer thing, and anything I sent during that time is lost to cyberspace.  Romania was sort of a turning point in my trip, most certainly when I look back at the people I met there and in the weeks just after.  I had already been on the road for 3 months.  Beginning in Helsinki, Finland, I had made my way through the Baltics, to Poland, Slovakia, the Czech Republic, Bavaria, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia, and Hungary to arrive in Romania.  I was getting tired.  I nearly missed a train change at the Hungarian-Romanian border when the train stopped somewhere around midnight and I noticed I was alone.  I was wide-awake as I had been primed to fear strangers coming onto the train to rob me or gas me and do me harm.  I stepped off the train and noticed there was another train on an adjacent platform idling its engine, while my own train engine was already growing cold.  There were a few men, wearing dark clothes, moving like shadows around the train yard, lit only by a few poor lights.  I asked them if they spoke English.  They did not, and only laughed.  Somehow, I do not remember how, I figured out the other train was the one I need to be one and I changed, grateful then for the other passengers.

Once on the right train and with the morning coming and more passengers, I allowed myself to sleep.  And so I missed my stop at Sighisoara and ended up disembarking at Brasov.  In Brasov, I was harassed by two bus ticketing thugs, who muscled me off a bus and then demanded money and my passport when I did not comply.   Because it was midday I defied them, arguing with them, telling them with bravado I did not feel that if they wanted money from me I would be happy to accompany them to the nearest police station.  I only escaped when I jabbed my finger unexpectedly into the chest of one of the men, yelled “leave me alone!” and turned and ran as fast as I could for several blocks.  I lost them.

Then on my final day in Bucharest I was attacked by dogs.  No kidding.  I was walking along, minding my own business, headed for the Palace of the Parliament, the world’s second largest public building (after the Pentagon), when out of nowhere four dogs appear and surround me.   They are barking and jumping and nipping at me.  A woman leans out of a nearby window on the third or fourth floor to yell.  I think she is telling me to be quiet and not the dogs.  Maybe I am screaming?  The dogs start tearing at my clothes.   I know one dog had my left hand in its mouth.  Another was pulling at my pants behind my left knee.  A third was pulling at my right pant leg at my ankle.  I have never been able to remember what the fourth dog was doing.  A man approaches and holds off the dogs and tells me to run.  I assume he told me in Romanian, but in my head I heard English and I took off like a shot.  I ran across a large street, I’m not sure how many lanes, and the dogs did not pursue.  I catch a glimpse of myself in a tinted bank window and I look like a crazy person.  My hair is a mess, my fast red and tear splotched, my pants torn.  I collect myself and limp a few more blocks to the Palace of the Parliament.  There I first request a ticket for the next tour and then a first aid kit if they have one.

It is after the tour I head back to the hostel.  I start every time I see a dog.  And there were a lot of dogs.  According to the “Welcome to Bucharest” brochure I find at the front desk of the hostel upon my return, the approximate population of Bucharest is 3 million people and 2 million dogs.  The brochure explains that the dogs have become wild and rabies shots are required if bitten.  I think about whether I would have wanted to know this information before my incident, and cannot make up my mind.  What I do know is that my plan to depart Romania that evening on the night train to Bulgaria seems too much for me to take on.

It is at this point I meet A.  He is backpacking for a few months through Europe while on leave from a teaching job in the UK.  He tells me he is traveling to Bulgaria the next day and I can tag along with him instead of leaving that night.  I feel so relieved.   (especially as on the way to dinner that night with another hostel-mate, we watch a dog attack another person in the street)

And wouldn’t you know it.  As we try to leave the next day we are confronted by a fake policeman at the Bucharest train station.  As soon as we enter the station he approaches and requests to see our passports.  We hand them over.  He gives an exaggerated sigh and tells us that unfortunately our permission to remain in the country has expired and we will have to pay a fine.  We have had enough of these poor attempts at bilking tourists and we grab our passports back, tell him to shove off, and continue on our way.   Yet our trials with Romania are not complete.  At the Romanian-Bulgarian border a fake border officer boards the train and tries one last shakedown.  We almost fall for it until A notices the officer’s badge is flimsy, like a Cracker Jack sheriff badge toy, and hanging off his nondescript khaki uniform at an odd angle.  Minutes later the real guys come through and it is obvious our first guy is an imposter.

I travel with A for 5 days.  We visit Veliko Tarnova and Sofia and the Rila Monastery.  In Veliko Tarnova I search the Internet for information on rabies and grow a little concerned that my days are numbered.  A agrees to monitor my progress and let me know if I start frothing at the mouth.  He goes with me to the US Embassy in Sofia as I make inquiries with the Embassy doctor about my possible rabies vaccination plan.

After Sofia we parted ways.  I headed on to Macedonia and A went back to the UK.  He and his girlfriend were preparing for a visit to Iran, a country Australians could visit, though Americans could not.  His girlfriend was having an abaya made to wear while they traveled.  A and I kept in contact for a long while.  After his trip to Iran and the end of his contract in the UK, he made a plan to return to Australia entirely without flying.  He traveled by train across Russia to Beijing, south to Vietnam, then by bus through Southeast Asia to Singapore, then by boat through Indonesia to Bali.  It was only on Bali when he learned he had missed the boat to Australia and the next would be awhile when he finally hopped on a plane.  He joined Australia’s version of the Foreign Service and served in Vanuatu, then Afghanistan, when we lost tough.  Until now, when returning to Australia after 3 ½ years in Pakistan, on the recommendation of a friend he joined LinkedIn.

It’s hard to believe it has been nearly 14 years since we met in a hostel in Bucharest.  Those days in Romania do not seem that long ago.

by

Adventure to Tangier May 2002

As part of my blog I am adding edited excerpts of emails I sent on past travels. 

In May and June 2002 I backpacked solo for 4 weeks in Spain and 2 in Portugal.  In Granada, I met up with my Monterey, CA roommate, P, who was in Spain for language study, and we decided to make an impromptu trip to Gibraltar and then across to Tangier, Morocco.  What I remember most about Gibraltar was I had the best gorgonzola pasta I have ever had anywhere in a lovely outdoor cafe.  Strange that I remember that more than the Rock and the monkeys.  At the time of posting, this one day trip to Morocco is my only trip to the country and given all the things to see in the country I do not really consider myself having visited Morocco.  Tangier is like many border towns;   the city is more about getting elsewhere than staying put.  It is a gateway to Europe for many from all over Africa.  I did not like Tangier, something I very rarely say about a place.  But it was certainly an adventure.  

In Gibraltar, my friend P and I discover there is just one boat to Tangier a week, and that it departs on Fridays at 6 pm.  Well lo and behold it was a Friday around 3 pm.  So the information people give us a map and directions to the ticket office.  I was thinking we could just take a bus to the center of town, find the office, buy ours tickets, quickly take the funicular to the top of the Rock of Gibraltar, then back down, then hop on the boat and viola, we are in Tangier!  Unfortunately, few things work out like that.

It took us maybe 30 minutes to find the ticket office as we kept walking past it because the sign wasn’t very noticeable.  We go in and ask about the boat and they are all very friendly, but they inform us the boat is broken, but we can instead leave on Tuesday!  What would we do in Gibraltar all that time?  So, we ask if they have boats leaving from Algeciras in Spain and they say they do and give us a schedule.  We thank them and leave.

Just out the door P thinks we should ask how early before departure we should check in, so we return to ask.  When we explain we want to leave the next day, the guy scowls at us and tells us in an exasperated way that the boats are broken.  Seems the whole fleet is indisposed!  We ask about other boats and the guy gets indignant telling us they ONLY know about the schedules for THEIR boats.  <sigh>

We decide to leave the next morning and get a hotel in Gibraltar for the night because we have wasted so much time finding out about these broken boats.  We find a nice place, put our things down and head to the funicular but are waylaid by a very friendly local offering a tour of the Rock.  It appears his tour only cost three euros more than trying to go up ourselves and since things are spread out up on the rock, it would save us time.  We agree and are soon whisked into our very own van with our loquacious guide.  He keeps saying things like “girls” and “love” and the like to address us.  He talked a mile a minute, but I found overall it was a good tour, we learned a lot about Gibraltar (such as it was most likely an island before, because good ‘ole Chris Columbus said when he sailed by it, it was on the LEFT, meaning he sailed between the rock and Spain) and saw the Pillars of Hercules, part of the caves dug by chisel and dynamite when Spain tried to take Gibraltar during some historical juncture, and of course the monkeys.

The guide said we could have our photos taken with the monkeys on our shoulders.  I start to protest when suddenly a 30 pound monkey jumps on me and the guide orders P to get my camera and take my photo!  And before P knew it she too had a monkey friend and I was trying to take her picture.  However, as I was taking her picture I dropped something, leaned down to get it and another monkey was on me.  Ah, the amazing fun on top of the Rock!

The next morning we were up early and out of the hotel at 7 am to catch a bus to the border. Unfortunately, we discovered the buses did not start running until 8:30 am, so it being Gibraltar, and not a particularly large place, we started walking.  Once across the border and back in Spain, we caught a cab to Algeciras.  We made it to the terminal at 8:15, we think just in time to catch the 8:30 fast ferry, except no one wants to give us a straight answer.  We kept being told to go to this one counter to get the fast ferry, only to be told at that counter the ferry is broken.  So, we are sent to another window where we are told that it is now too late to make the 8:30 ferry.  So we pay for the 9:30 slow boat.  We change money, get some refreshments, and head up to the departure lounge.

The ferry is nothing special.  It plods along slowly, taking 2.5 hours to Tangier.  But when we arrive in Tangier and go down the gangplank, we discover we need an immigration stamp which was given on the boat, 15 minutes before we docked.  It was the garbled message reminiscent of drive thru windows made about 20-30 minutes before we docked.  We were not alone back in the ship awaiting the return of the police; there were maybe 40 of us.  We had to wait maybe another 45 minutes for the immigration police officer to return and get us all stamped, and then we were finally allowed to enter Tangier.

We made it through the gauntlet of “official tour guides” and taxi drivers, probably only because most of the boat had gotten off earlier and the majority of the mob had grown tired of waiting.  We had a humorous conversation with two port policemen about how to walk up to the medina.  It was only maybe a 10 minute walk, but they thought we should take a cab.  We found some accommodation for only 50 dirhams a night ($5).  A “helpful” Moroccan (I think “enterprising” is a better word) showed us to a Moroccan restaurant.  He insisted it was not touristy.  But the waiter very confidently, in good English explained the three course meal.  It turned out that the meal cost $12 per person.  We seriously doubted many locals frequented that place at that price.  So we found bread for 1 dirham and a coconut for 3 dirhams and we were fine.  We discovered our hotel room did not have a bathroom, and the only toilet was on the first floor, a rather smelly squatting affair.  But, we figured, ok, it was for only one night.

We explored the Medina for about an hour.  Then, we explored the new town and were rewarded with a McDonalds: cheap, recognizable food, a lovely view over the town, and nice toilets!  Yippee! (especially for the toilets)  We found an English cemetery.  We went back to the hotel.  After all the trouble to get to Tangier we were rather at a loss of what to do now that we were there.  An hour before the last call to prayer, the women and children came out into the streets, and so did we.  We got ice cream and explored the streets more and watched more people.  Then back to the hotel and more people watching from our balcony, then an early bed, because we wanted to catch the very first ferry out the next morning.  (Both of us we had already had our fill of Tangier).

Of course when we arrived at the ferry terminal the next morning, the first ferry, at 8:30, had been cancelled, and we had to take the 9:30!  We needed that one, because Moroccan time is 2 hours before Spanish time, so it was 11:30 in Spain when we left Morocco, and after a 2.5 hour trip, it was 2 pm in Spain.  My bus to Cordoba left at 3, P’s back to Granada at 4.  Somehow, by some miracle we both made our buses and I was off to Cordoba.