You Should Know This

Before you embark on a trip around the world -- or a trip anywhere outside of North America, actually -- you should really learn to drive with a manual transmission. Automatic cars can be hard to find in a lot of places; they'll also cost you more to rent. Let me tell you a story.

Before we left in 2007 BG had driven standard exactly twice. He assured me he knew what he was doing and could also show me. (I had shifted from first to second, once, in my ex-boyfriend's parents' pickup truck.) On our first day off from SANCCOB in Cape Town, we decided to rent a car and drive down to Cape Point. We chose a manual transmission to save money.

We were living in a guest house situated in the suburbs, so the neighbourhood was quiet and peaceful, a perfect place to brush up on driving skills. The first problem was that the car rental company, which normally delivered the cars, had us come to the office in downtown Cape Town instead. "Are you SURE you can do this?" I asked BG again. "Yes" was what I heard over and over.

Once the car was in our hands, BG got in the driver's seat. He adjusted the mirrors and seat meticulously. He shifted into first and we cruised slowly (downhill) down the street to a stop sign; we turned right onto Long Street (perhaps THE busiest street in downtown Cape Town) and came to a stop at a red light. At rush hour.

So apparently there was a 0.005% incline at this light, because at this point we found ourselves in a difficult situation. Every single time BG tried to get the car in motion again it stalled. Then it would roll backwards and he would slam his foot on the brake. The light changed three times. I sat completely paralyzed and unable to help, as he grew more and more flustered. People behind us were very angry. A kind taxi driver on a break approached us and offered to help. BG declined at first, but after three more stalled attempts sheepishly called him over. "I was wondering if you could help me... (playing it cool, not admitting he has no effing clue what he's doing)... I'm not used to this rental car and I can't seem to find first gear." Mr. Nice Taxi Driver Man tried to direct from his place on the street, but it didn't help. People were honking and yelling. Finally BG said, "You know what, maybe you can just drive us back to the rental place and we'll get an automatic." "No, no," the driver insisted, "I can show you how to drive this car. It will take 5 minutes. Very easy." So he got in the driver's seat and whipped around the corner to a quiet parking lot. "Here, get in and drive, I will show you how and then you will be fine." BG got into the driver's seat. I took a seat on the lawn with my book and waited.

It all happened so quickly. BG started the car and shifted into reverse. Then he let out the clutch and gunned the engine hard... and hit the tree that was right behind him. There was a loud crash followed by an awful silence. Then the instructor said, "Shit. These trees are not supposed to be here anyway, in these parking lots." BG said, "I think you'd better drive us back to the rental place." This time, he agreed.

In the end, we actually had to learn to drive standard because the truck we had hired to drive through Southern Africa was standard. We ended up taking lessons -- each of us spent two hours in the car with a cute medical student/driving instructor named Hannes, and he taught us how to do it all. It wasn't hard, actually, and grew to be an almost enjoyable experience. By the time we had to drive the truck, we were pros.

If you could learn how to do this before you leave, it would be good. However, I'm glad that we didn't, because it's given me my favourite story of all time -- the one where BG backs into a tree. Ah, sweet vengeance.

It Figures

If you've been following our adventures you know that we've been more or less all around the world going through countries like India, Nepal, and Botswana, where things are, shall we say, slightly less organized than they might be at home.

Now we're in beautiful Switzerland, where the mountains tower above villages and towns with cobblestone streets. The wooden shutters on the houses have little hearts cut out of them, and the church bells ring on Sunday mornings. If fairy tales were ever to come true, they would all happen here. The trains run, appropriately, like Swiss watches, and I suspect that even the horse-and-buggies that clip-clop through the early morning mist are always on time.

Wouldn't you know it: our luggage is lost, a first on this trip. Swissport and their baggage tracing office "sincerely regrets the inconvenience caused by this baggage irregularity" and is "doing [their] best to recover [our] baggage, and will deliver it upon arrival."

One bag showed up yesterday; unfortunately, it's the one full of teabags, home made chili sauce hotter than anything ever previously made, safari animal pasta (do not even ASK), and other insanity. The other two bags, the ones with our actual clothes in them, are still AWOL. One is apparently going to arrive sometime today. The other one is... somewhere.

I hope it's my backpack that's on its way. I have a good feeling about this! Anyway, in the meantime, we've gone shopping courtesy of Swissport and our travel insurance. Yay for insurance, and yay for boots!

This is a good time for me to point out two important things; first, that we left Canada with only two backpacks, and have traveled for the whole 14 months with only these two backpacks. Only in Mauritius did we decide to increase our volume and carry another bag. After all, it's allowed, and there was so much good stuff to take home (see above) that it just made sense. The second point (which BG specifically requested -- nay, demanded -- mentioned) is that the bags were not lost in Switzerland. They were lost in Africa (we think), and the repercussions are only being felt in Switzerland now.

Keep your fingers crossed for us; otherwise, we might be having to buy some of that really nice and very practical Swiss underwear I was talking about before.

Feel the Excitement

For the past three weeks we've been chilling out here in Mauritius, fulfilling our goal of "being" more than "seeing" or "doing". We've spent lots of time on the beach, the patio, the spa, the couch, the chaise lounge. However, it recently occurred to us that we're leaving in less than a week, meaning that we realized that there was a whole bunch of STUFF that we hadn't done yet -- meaning that every single day for the next five days is scheduled to the max. (This means we're doing one thing a day, usually in the afternoon for a few hours, but for us, this is a seriously packed schedule. How will we ever return to a full-time work routine?)

Yesterday we had our first-time-ever water skiing lessons. One of my awesome cousins organized a lesson with his instructor, and we spent our afternoon on the beautiful beach at the Trou au Biches Hotel, here in the north. We took turns at the skis, and BG was delighted to discover that water skiing is, like, totally easy, man, and almost exactly like snow skiing except for the sun and water and the fact that you're wearing a swim suit and life jacket instead of 24 layers of polar fleece. This means that he aced the lesson, and didn't even have to use the beginner bar or short rope, but went straight to the advanced long rope and skimmed along the waves without even getting his hair wet.



On the other hand, Catherine and I had a bit more of a struggle. Kenny, our instructor, took one look at us and recommended that we start with the beginner bar instead of the rope, so that we could get used to the feel of skis and so he could shout instructions to us as we learned. Getting up was the hardest part. My feet kept getting crossed with the skis, just like in snow skiing. I ended up on my stomach with my feet behind me and also above me, just like in snow skiing. My knees felt all funny, just like snow skiing.

I guess it really is just like snow skiing after all. I forgot how bad I was at snow skiing.

Anyway, once up, the skiing was fine. Kenny made us do squats while moving at 1000 km/h, or whatever speed we were going at. I graduated to the long rope by my third pass, and finally got to feel the exhilaration (and terror!) of skimming on top of the waves while standing.

The skiing had to come to an end after about an hour because we were way too tired to do any more -- three weeks of sitting on your butt will do that to you! We opted to have Kenny take us out for a spin on a couple of inner tubes -- Catherine sat, firmly wedged and solo, in one tube, and BG and I lay on our stomachs on the second and held on for dear life. We ended up on our sides, on our backs, on our stomachs. We went airborne, we got soaked. We screamed a lot; I'm sure we ruined the tranquility of the day for the poor tourists relaxing on the beach.



***I interrupt this post to tell you a story. I went tubing with a friend once. Said friend and I held onto the inner tube, our legs and torsos in the water. At one point, the driver accelerated so hard that her bikini bottoms were whisked off of her body and down to the bottom of the lake, never to return. We went back to shore with a life jacket over her bare butt. I have a fear of tubing for this reason. I'm happy to report this didn't happen to us yesterday.***

We finally returned to shore, breathless and excited, but also slightly thankful to be alive.

Today we'll hike the tallest mountain in Mauritius, the Black River Peak. It's a staggering peak at 837 m, and I'm nervous, as I am every time I climb a mountain.

One more week. One more week. I wish it didn't have to ever end.

The One and Only

Africa was good... but...

Mauritius is way better.

When we're not basking in our own private infinity pool or sunning ourselves on the beaches at Ile aux Cerfs, we've been out on excursions all over the island. We've seen Chamarel and the seven-coloured sands, Trou au Cerfs volcanic crater, and Le Caudan Waterfront in Port Louis. Yesterday's excursion, however, was THE day trip to top all day trips, as we were invited by my cousin's friend to spend a day with her at the Saint Geran Hotel, part of the One and Only chain of hotels and one of the top 100 resorts in the world.



See that photo? We sat in those chairs. Actually, that's where our One and Only experience began, as we were escorted to these comfortable seats to await the arrival of our hosts. They had been expecting us, and greeted us with wet chilled towels to refresh ourselves with. Then we were led to our ocean-view suite to freshen up... and also to peruse the price list, which nearly gave us a heart attack; rack rates for Le Saint Geran START at 1100 Euros per person, per night.

Don't worry if you're single. You get a 25% discount on the room.

Our morning was spent on the chaise-lounges on the white sand beach behind the hotel. We gazed at the crystal clear waters of the Indian Ocean, and were pestered by relentless salesmen hawking their wares: kaftans, pareos, beaded necklaces, and illegally obtained and illegal-to-export-to-your-home-country seashells the size of shoe boxes. All of our needs, whims, wishes, and random thoughts were attended to; luckily, there weren't many in our blissed out states.

Actually, our afternoon was spent in much the same fashion, after a gorgeous lunch of sushi, fresh salads, and gourmet pastries and desserts (of which BG had... wait for it... four.) I do have to admit feeling a bit of awkwardness during lunch while returning to the table from the buffet line (an activity which I repeated, embarrassingly, four times.) I wasn't allowed to carry my own plate of food. Rather, an attentive staff member was waiting, and insisted on carrying my lunch to the table for me. Clearly they thought it would be too heavy for me to lift.

All in all, another great day in Paradise.

A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu (pardon the lack of accents)

I'm walking down the streets of Port Louis, staring intently at the ground to avoid tripping on the uneven cobblestones. At the same time, pedestrians in front of me stop to examine the wares for sale on the sidewalk -- cotton shirts, plastic kitchenware, nail clippers. I turn to avoid them. To the left of me is the central market. I can hear the vendors inside advertising their wares: "Bananas! Lychees! Eggplants, peppers, lettuce! Madame, some mangoes for you?" The sweet scent of ripe fruit mixes with the muskiness of the Indian spices they're selling. It's a familiar, comforting fragrance.

I turn the corner and cross the street, dodging the cars and motorcycles that come careening through the intersection. I come to a certain storefront and go inside. A wiry middle-aged man of Chinese descent is wrapping a set of spanners for his customer. He nods to me in greeting, his head bent over the desk. I squeeze past, being careful not to upset the piles of industrial machinery that surround me. The pleasant-looking woman at the back, his wife, writes a receipt for the purchase, makes a copy with carbon paper. The wrenches are wrapped efficiently in wrinkly brown paper, the package sealed with ancient cellophane tape. The purchaser hands two folded notes over the desk to the lady, who puts the money in the top drawer of her sagging desk. Next to her, comfortably seated in an old wicker chair, I put my hands out, palms up, for her to give me the money. My beloved aunt looks at me, laughs, pats my arm. I could be six; I could be thirty (one.) It feels like nothing has changed here since I was a child.

Parts of Mauritius are glossy and fancy; the capital of Port Louis is being remade and revamped. No matter how bright and shiny it may become in the future, this is how Mauritius will always be for me -- and I wouldn't have it any other way.

You're Full of It

What, you ask, have we been keeping ourselves occupied with lately?

Let's just say we're making up for five weeks of bush cuisine. I'm not knocking my own skills, but there's only so much you can do with a can of beans and a package of noodles.



Our first day, we ate lunch on the beach -- the deliciously familiar taste of roti and yummy fried Indian treats were all the better as we watched the aquamarine waters of the Indian Ocean kiss the white sands.





We're in French pastry heaven here! One of the must-do stops on our list was a bakery we last visited in 2003, when BG ate SIX pastries pretty much straight out of the oven. I'm happy to report that he matched his record this time, with Catherine taking the silver medal with four. Tarts bursting with fresh sweet banana custard and pastry shells full of sweet almond paste were devoured next to my favourites, Napolitaine cookies -- melt-in-your-mouth shortbread dipped in pink icing.



Actually, some of the best and most memorable meals are those eaten with family. This weekend we were treated to two dinners with family, and both were incredible. Being away from home for almost 15 months now has been great, but coming to Mauritius and spending time with family members has been a bit of a homecoming for all of us. On a personal note, sharing some of the tastes of my childhood with everyone has been the most nostalgic, familiar experience of all -- it ranks right up there with some of the "Big Sights" of 2008.

Breathe and Stop

After 13 months of backpacking around and moving every night, dozing on buses and striding through markets, changing diapers or feeding penguins, scrubbing mats or cooking a bush dinner via LED light, and lately, setting up camp with scorpions and elephants raiding our camp (and one deciding to have a snack next to the open-air shower I was using), we landed in Mauritius for a well-deserved break.

Do you know what we did today?

Nothing.

Actually, we sat and watched Barack Obama win the US presidential election (yay!), watched Gore Vidal tear a strip out of a BBC anchorman, sat near the infinity pool, went to the beach, and ate roti, ice cream, and fresh pineapple with chili.

You have no idea how happy I am to be here.

Intense Dark Brown

My skin has never been this colour.



Five days of driving around Chobe and Moremi National Parks in northern Botswana have left me bronzed like never before, even with sunscreen. We drove for hours and hours in the blazing sun, windows open because we couldn't use the air conditioning in the name of fuel economy (none in the park!) It was hot and sticky and dusty, there was sand on my lips and in my ears and grit in my teeth and my back and legs stuck to the cheap unbreathable canvas upholstery we were sitting on.

We never stopped for lunch because there was nowhere to stop. I'm sick of oranges and peanut butter sandwiches eaten en-route. I hate drinking water that's been warmed by the heat of the day; our little fridge couldn't keep up with our demands as we guzzled up to five litres each every day trying to stay hydrated. There was no point in putting on clean clothes, because they were dusty on the outside and sweaty on the inside as soon as we stepped outside the tent.

One day I burned the soles of my feet because I had chosen to wear Havaianas the day that our truck got stuck in a single-lane sand track 50km long on the way to Savute. How did we get stuck? We stopped to help a truck going in the opposite direction. How did he get stuck? He stopped to tell us that the road ahead of us was really bad.

Thanks, buddy.

We all had to push; we all had to dig; did I mention we weren't using the air conditioning?

One night by the fire, a traveler we were chatting with got stung by a scorpion. We were all, stupidly, wearing sandals. He was wearing long pants, thick socks, and hiking boots -- smart scorpion, stupid tourists. That night I tried desperately to sleep as the lions growled on one side of the tent and the elephants trumpeted on the other side. Branches snapped nearby and in the morning we followed the elephant tracks through our campsite leading towards the water. The next night our neighbours were paid a visit by a hippopotamous sauntering through their site. They took refuge on the picnic table.

We saw herds of zebra grazing, lines of impala heading for water. Hippos lazed in ponds and tried to keep cool. Crocodiles waited for their next meals. Female elephants and their babies crossed the road in front of us, and we had no choice but to wait for all of them to decide to pass. A cheetah paced around a nervous herd of impala, trying to decide which would be her next meal. Giraffes stared at us as we rolled by. A pride of lionesses and their cubs frolicked in the tall grasses next to the road, and a leopard peeked through the trees at us as we tried to get a better glance at him before he crept away. Every photo opportunity was better than the last.

We spent hours and hours driving in circles, looking for animals. We didn't see as many as we would have hoped to, considering the time we spent. But what we saw -- wow.

Wow.

The Adventure Continues

What IS this place anyway?

Five days ago we stayed at a campsite in north-western Namibia and I got to hold a Meerkat (cue "The Lion King", Timon!) The local springbok wandered through the bar and lounge, and I showered that night in the desert under the stars while a local tribe played music nearby. The next morning we visited rock paintings over 2000 years old. To stand in front of these rudimentary yet somehow sophisticated paintings that have literally survived ages was a humbling experience.

The next night we stayed at another site with an elephant watering hole. Also, with about 30 resident elephants. We stood transfixed (and upwind!) while they drank their fill, splashed about, and had dust baths. Babies nursed and the mothers broke branches from nearby trees. That day, we saw different ancient rock engravings which depicted the transformation of shamans and healers into various animals -- giraffes, springbok, cheetahs, lions.

Camping beside the Zambezi River means that we must be on the alert for roaming crocodiles and hippos, which snort and snarl all night like a band of giant, angry, aquatic pigs. Driving through the desert and countryside, we stumble upon bands of elephants foraging for lunch. Kudu and springbok bound across the streets, and warthogs trot alongside the tarmac as we speed by.

The other day we ventured to see the famous Victoria Falls. I can finally say without a doubt that I have finally seen a natural waterfall which dwarfs Niagara -- and yes, I am still a proud Canadian.

It's hot here, impossibly so. We have left Namibia for Botswana. In the last two weeks, we have seen and done more than I can possibly describe. The contrast of natural awesomeness and devastating poverty and desperation is, at times, overwhelming. My mind reels with the complexity of it all; it is impossible to comprehend, even when you find it staring you in the face.

I am seeing Africa as best I can, but I cannot begin to understand it.

This is Africa II

Never before have I seen anything like this.

In Fish River Canyon, we stood awestruck at the enormousness of it all, and marvelled at the emptiness. The Grand Canyon might be bigger, but it certainly can’t beat being one of the only four people having breakfast at the viewpoint of Fish River Canyon in southern Namibia.



In Sossusvlei, we watched the sand dunes, red and orange in the blistering heat of midday, change to brown at sunset and again to gold at sunrise. The undulated ridges and waving surface contrasted with the sky, which was purple and pink at one side of the horizon, and orange and red at the other.



In Namib-Naukluft Park, the plains stretched out to the far, far mountains. We were utterly alone except for the zebras, warthogs, and ground squirrels whose home we invaded for the night.

In Walvis Bay and Swakopmund, the sand dunes touch the raging ocean, and the salty mists shroud both sleepy towns in a chilly blanket. North of here, on the Skeleton Coast, rusting shipwrecks rest in their salty, shifting graves before being swallowed by the sea.



Nomadic tribespeople walk through city parks. Baobabs and quiver trees stretch from desert sand to blue sky. A million stars twinkle against inky blackness.

I can't wait to see what else Africa has in store for us.

This is Africa

We’re a week into our Southern Africa 4x4 sojourn, and have spent a quiet day in the coastal Namibian “city” of Swakopmund recharging and relaxing. Let’s recap what’s happened so far:

Day 1: Alan and Catherine arrive in Cape Town. We are late to pick them up, but our defence is that they arrived at the airport at 5:00 am. From there we drive a bit up to Chapman’s Peak and have “THE BEST FISH AND CHIPS IN CAPE TOWN.”

Day 2: We take our guests to see our friends the penguins at SANCCOB and buy supplies for our upcoming trip. The truck we have rented arrives, and is missing the following things:

• Maps, spare key,and GPS as promised
• A working tire jack
• A usable spare tire release rod
• Four functional tires (the two in front are bubbling off of the rims, and one of the rear tires is a road tire. On an off-road vehicle.)
• A second spare tire (***this is important later.***)
• A functioning interior cabin light
• Cattle/bull bars on the front of the truck
• Extra tank for fresh drinking water
• A functioning front passenger seat belt. Luckily, the front seat slides forward and backwards, so you can adjust your seat to fit the seat belt, which does not move.
• A full tank of diesel
• A functional brake light/tail light

Day 3: We depart after running around Cape Town to pick up the new tires, GPS, and diesel which were thoughtfully left out. We spend the night alone in Garies and wonder why the night in Africa is so freaking cold.

Day 4: Enter Richtersveld National Park in northern South Africa and enjoy a terrifying 4x4 route complete with sand, big rocks, and 45 degree inclines. At our campsite, a friendly neighbour offers us a bottle of wine, two bottles of drinking water, and some firewood. We like South Africans.

Day 5: Drive to the Orange River, still in Richtersveld. It takes us five hours to drive 40 km to our campsite, which is supposedly remote and rustic, but is crawling with tourists. We choose a shaded spot next to the river, and a local family promptly drives up and sets up their tent and diesel generator next to us. We wait until they finish setting up, and then drive two sites over. We like South Africans less. Discover that the compressor for the tires doesn’t work properly and that the cigarette charger has been blown (and no, it wasn’t the fuses.)

Day 6: Cross the border into Namibia. The border is the Orange River, and we are taken across on a small pontoon. It’s the quickest border crossing I’ve ever encountered. We’re in Namibia!

Day 7: Head to Fish River Canyon and get a flat tire as soon as we pull into the campsite parking lot. Have a nice dinner.

Day 8: Wake up early to see the sunrise over the knee-buckling grandeur of Fish River Canyon. Realize it’s overcast, sleep a bit more. Also realize that the transmission in our car is dead after visiting three mechanics in the desert of Namibia. The 4x4 part of our 4x4 doesn’t work, and we have only a 4x2, which puts a serious dent in our plans.

Day 9: Drive to Sesreim, home of Sossusvlei and some of the biggest sand dunes in Africa. Visit a sand dune for sunset after waiting three hours in the hot desert for the truck company to call us back. Nearly have a heart attack trying to climb the dune, since it’s the only exercise we’ve had in a week.

Day 10: Wake up ridiculously early to see the sunrise over Sossusvlei. We can’t drive there ourselves, since our 4x4 is now a 4x2. Wait for a shuttle to take us to the dunes for sunrise, which never shows. Instead, we watch the sun rise over the outhouses in the Namibian Desert, five kilometres from Sossusvlei. The shuttle shows up 40 minutes after sunrise, and we get on it. Temporary replacement arrives from truck rental company, and is much smaller than our original truck. Has no jumper cables or proper stove, but two dining tables. We shove everything into it and move on.

Day 11: Enter the Namib-Nakluft Park for more 4x4ing, since we now have a 4x4. We camp for the night at a lovely site patrolled by gigantic baboons.

Day 12: Fail to complete 4x4 trail as we’d hoped, since the new truck lacks the suspension and power to go over the rocks. Leave the park and stop for lunch in Solitaire, where we run over a piece of barbed wire and get a second flat. Luckily this new truck has two spares. The apple pie in Solitaire is really good. Spend the night at a very remote site in Namib-Nakluft Park, where we are visited by warthogs and zebras, who clearly don’t mind that we haven’t had showers.

Day 13: Drive to Walvis Bay, realize there’s nothing there. Drive on to Swakopmund, a neat little Germanicized (?) town along the coast, and camp at a lovely site where we have get to park on grass for the first time ever and have our own private bathroom. We are ecstatic until the fog and mist and chilly wind move in. Sealing the rooftop tents up tightly for warmth means I wake up at 4:00 am with chilly condensation water dripping onto my face and neck, Chinese water-torture style.

Day 14: Have a relaxing day off in Swakopmund, only to find that since it’s Sunday, half of the shops, restaurants, cafes, and pubs we wanted to visit are closed. Find out that the guy we’ve been dealing with at the truck rental company has gone on vacation for a week and left no instructions for anyone. Then find out that since it’s the weekend, the truck hasn’t even been looked at and won’t be done for at least three days, meaning delivery in Swakopmund, as originally planned, will not be happening.

We’re out of here tomorrow. Onwards and upwards!

p.s. Photos? Pfft. Are you kidding? This is Africa.

That Sweet Smell

This is an African Penguin.



(photo courtesy of Wikipedia)

We're one week into this whole penguin thing and it's definitely on the upswing. In fact, I am ready to admit that I'm having a ton of fun! We are successfully handling the birds, and have settled comfortably into the routine of feed-tube-scrub-scrub-feed-tube-scrub. Scrub. I haven't gotten any more bites (if you don't count the one on my shoulder and the one on my arm, as they're both my own stupid fault.) And I've discovered a new favourite thing, which is spraying the birds down with the hose after every meal, to remove the oils from the fish they've just devoured. They love the hose, and lean forward into the spray, closing their eyes and tilting their heads back and flapping their flippers in (my imagined) ecstacy. Sometimes I do it randomly in the middle of the day for good reason at all, just because they are so darn cute.

SANCCOB is currently caring for under a hundred penguins, which is a good thing for a number of reasons. It means we're not being run ragged, and it means that the colonies of penguins on the coast and surrounding islands are healthy and that there have been no oil spills or dumps along the coast. In 2000, there was an oil spill of epic proportions off the coast of South Africa, when an oil tanker called The Treasure ran aground. During the days following this disaster, SANCCOB cleaned and cared for 16,000 oiled penguins, while another 1,100 chicks were cared for elsewhere. In total, an estimated 40,000 birds were moved from the contaminated area, oiled or not, and saved from indisputable suffering and death.

It's absolutely boggling.

It's also inspiring, and is one more reason I bounce out of bed early every morning, totally thrilled to be doing this work.

They're Cute. They Waddle. They Bite.

We are three days into our six week volunteer stint at SANCCOB in Cape Town. SANCCOB does very important work, namely rescuing and rehabilitating injured, oiled, or otherwise weakened African penguins and returning them to the wild whenever possible. In cases where the birds are permanently injured and would be unable to fend for themselves, they are introduced as permanent residents at the centre, and spend their days being hand fed sardines and swimming in the pool... it's a good life.

There is a basic triage system set up at SANCCOB; at admission, the birds are assessed and placed in different groups according to their strength and the severity of any injuries. Oiled birds are separated and get cleaned after a few days of rehydration and feeding. Very weak or sick birds get special care in the ICU; from there, they move into different groups where they get hand-fed fluids, medications, and fish. They have to rebuild their swimming endurance with forced swims of increasing duration, and once they can swim happily for an hour and are in all respects healthy and strong, they are released back into the wild.



I had visions of cuddling up to adorable, waddling penguins, offering them fish as they accepted them -- gently -- from my hands. Instead, I find myself sneaking up to the brood, arms and hands covered in protected neoprene. They snap at my fingers and arms, sometimes my knees and toes, but I'm wearing oilskins and rubber boots, so it doesn't hurt too much. Suddenly I snatch one (there is definitely a technique here) and take it over to be given fluids, or fish, or pills. It. is. terrifying. My heart pounds each time I go for a bird.

I am being terrorized by a three-kilogram penguin. I now think I know where they got that old moniker, the Jackass Penguin.

When not chasing and/or herding penguins, we are scrubbing stuff. Or washing stuff. Or disinfecting stuff. One hundred-plus penguins make a lot of poop, and it's got to go somewhere, right?

Latte Love

I spent a very fun day behind the counter at Epic Espresso here in Perth, learning the ins and outs of the art of barista-ing. Epic Espresso has been voted Best Coffee in Perth on more than a few occasions, and our instructors are both celebrated "latte art" award winners, so I was in the best of hands. They're so serious about coffee that each shot of espresso is watched intently as it's extracted, and is stopped at the precise moment that the coffee texture and colour changes. And they do refer to them as extractions -- it's not just a drink, it's not just a coffee. It's an experience.

I learned about choosing the best beans, storing them, and making the most velvety, luxurious espresso from them. Then I learned how to steam really, really good milk to make decadent espresso drinks like lattes, flat whites, and cappuccinos. This also means that I finally learned the differences between all of these drinks. (It wasn't as complicated as I originally thought.)

It was pretty daunting at first, what with all the talk about the perfect grind, the perfect dosage and tamp of the grounds, and the perfect stream. It only got worse when we moved onto the milk preparation, discussing and practicing our milk stretching and milk rolling with the steam wand, and finally moving into pouring absolutely gorgeous drinks, so pretty that it would be a shame to drink them.



(images from Epic Espresso)

Did I mention that I got to use an espresso machine more expensive than an economy car? Did I mention that we used at least 40 litres of single-origin, semi-organic local milk in learning to pour these delectable treats?

A great day -- I'll never look at coffee the same way, and the secret world of the sexy barista just became a little less mysterious.

See Val Climb

The West Coast of Australia is, in some ways, very different from the East Coast, which is warm and sunny and... populated. West Australia, or double-you-ay as it's known here, is the largest state of Australia, but is the least populated. Of the two million people that live here, three quarters are in Perth, the capital, which is by the way the most remote capital city in Australia. It's actually closer to Jakarta, Indonesia, than it is to Sydney.

We took advantage of this and drove south to a sleepy, quiet town called Walpole, which isn't really anything much to look at. However, it's a pretty busy (relatively speaking, of course) tourist destination because of its proximity to the Valley of the Giants -- a grove of very, very old and very large Tingle Trees (a type of Eucalyptus). Here, we walked the Valley of the Giants Treetop Walk, a metal scaffolding 40m in the sky, and took in the views.



While in Walpole, we did a whole lot of nothing, seeing that there's very little TO do. We did enjoy our time at the Tingle All Over YHA Hostel there. It's run by a delightful woman named Peggy, and she made sure that our our stay was pleasant all around, with mattresses and linen more fitted to a five-star hotel than a budget backpacker's hostel. It may have helped that we were pretty much the only guests there, but the kitchen was empty and clean, and we had the run of the place. We enjoyed our time there so much that the one night we planned to spend there somehow became three.

Down amongst the tall trees, we also felt it necessary to climb this: the Dave Evans Bicentennial Tree.



See the pegs on the trunk of the tree? We climbed those. See the leaves way, way up there? We were up there -- 75m above the ground, swaying in the breeze. The view was phenomenal, the journey down beyond terrifying. I almost feel like a bungy jump would have been less insane.

Almost.

Why We're Bad Teachers

The first order of business in our Secondary 1-6 English class today was to explain this T-shirt:



In Pattaya, it's not the "Sex instructor" part of the shirt that's offensive; it's the idea that it would be a free lesson that does it.

This was in the pile of t-shirts that was given to the teenagers today. I think someone should do a better job of "editing" the donations in the future.

The Experiencing

We're still on an "Experience the Real India" kick, and once we arrived in the beautiful, ethereal, magical lakeside town of Udaipur, we decided to settle in and experience away! BG had his first in-depth Indian experience at the barber shop. It's been nearly two months since his last haircut, and he was beginning to resemble a fuzzy light bulb, so off he went. First we tried to find a shop that was pretty well-populated. Then we decided that he would pay no more than $5 for a cut, and with that in mind we marched into the shop ready to bargain hard.

The barber quoted less than $1 for a haircut. Sheepish (in hairstyle and in manner), BG sat in the chair and had a towel draped over his shoulders so the styling session could begin!

I was lucky to be present during this momentous occasion and sat at the back of the packed barber shop, observing. I had the camera ready for any shenanigans that might occur! There were many men in the barber shop. After a few minutes of observation I had an insight to the fabulous mustaches that many Indian men sport -- they all have professional shaves all the time. There are barber shops on every corner in every town we've been to. They're always full. In this particular shop, men were having face massages, shaves, and face masks -- Indian men have facials. One older gentleman sat to the side, a peel-off mask plastered to his skin. After a few minutes, one of the barbers (are they estheticians?)peeled it off for him, revealing apparently new, smooth, fresh skin. Men were having facial scrubs, having fancy creams applied, having their mustaches trimmed, having their hair dyed. I felt like I was looking through the window into a secret, Indian-masculine world that I'd never known existed.

We found out that a shave cost the equivalent of $0.50, so BG agreed to his first professional straight-blade shave. Then he agreed to a facial massage. And some cream. However, he did reject the peel-off facial mask, much to my dismay.

Hilariously, the barbershop owner offered to shave my face for free.

The next Indian experience was mine. I attended a cooking class! It was held at the home of the family that owns the hotel we stayed at in Udaipur, and was run by the owner's sister-in-law. (That's the first thing. The entire family lives under one roof!)There were three of us in class, and we sat on low stools in the family kitchen while our friendly and talented teacher, Kamu, taught us how to make an astounding array of dishes:

Palak Paneer (spinach and unfermented cheese)
Paneer Pakoda (fried cheese things)
Masala chai (Indian milk tea)
Chapati (bread)
Paneer parantha (bread stuffed with cheese... so we like cheese!)
Aubergine and tomato curry
Halwa (dessert)
Vegetable raita (yogurt sauce)
Vegetable biryani (rice)
(I think I may be missing something.)

The lesson was great; we learned to make sauces from scratch instead of from a jar. We learned that you CAN make bread dough with your hands and not with a Kitchen Aid. I also learned that you can turn out a great meal with nine courses in the span of a couple of hours with two gas burners, one wok, one pressure cooker, and one spoon -- no need for an industrial kitchen with professional All-Clad cookware and a Sub-Zero fridge.

These kinds of life lessons are really worth learning.

The city of Udaipur is one of those beautiful places that is normally seen on TV. The beautiful Lake Palace Hotel is set in the centre of the lake that the town edges on all sides; at sunset, it glows pink and as darkness falls it glows as though lit from within by candles. The Monsoon Palace rests delicately on top of a nearby hill. The city palace also glows softly as darkness falls. The view from Sunset Point was amazing, even though the romanticism was marred only slightly by the hip-hop music emanating from the "musical fountain".

One Udaipur must-do is watching "Octopussy" over dinner. This James Bond classic is a campy, ridiculous, cheesy Roger Moore-ism set in Udaipur, and is played every. single. night in Udaipur at almost every. single. rooftop. restaurant. in the city. We managed to catch it once, and amidst my eye rolls and groans, I had to admit that there was something special about seeing the Lake Palace on the screen, and then looking out past the TV and seeing it right there in front of me.

The most recent Indian experience that we're recovering from is a long-haul bus ride. We have had three long bus rides here -- two during the day, and one at night when we had what's called a "sleeper compartment" -- a flat bunk on the second "level" of the bus, one that we rolled around like a couple of bowling pins on an ice rink. Today's bus ride brought us up/down a whole new level, though. We had seats, but there were also people stuffed into the sleeper compartments above us and standing in the aisles (and sitting on stools they'd brought themselves.) Indian pop music played loudly, incessantly, the whole time.

Next: Sleeper train to Mumbai, T-90 minutes and counting. Wish us luck; updates will hopefully follow!