Travel siggren

Author: Kristen Haynes

  • Into Namibia

    Into Namibia

    I find it kind of embarrassing that in our six years of travel, we’ve just skirted Africa (ten days in the northern corner of Morocco barely counts). Instead we’ve dabbled in other continents and explored our own hemisphere, but mostly have just felt snug in the confines of Europe. With new cultures to be reached within hours of each other yet familiarity strung throughout, it’s an easy place to feel comfortable yet challenged.But in this, our declared Year Of Adventure, and in what I feel like is a massive upswing in my thirst for travel, I decided that now is the time to wade into Africa. When we knew we had six weeks to spare between hiking the Faroe Islands and an upcoming housesit in New Zealand, I began to subtly persuade Pete by showing images of Namibia’s fire orange sand, Zanzibar’s stark white beaches, and more. It worked.

    Barely. And even the first few days into our trip to Namibia via South Africa, I wasn’t entirely sure if he was on the same page. He was exhausted from our recent travels and maybe even questioning if his travel interest had peaked in the Faroes (really, those islands are that amazing).

    He was also worried about our business. In anticipation of sketchy internet connections we put off two new clients and loaded our assistant up with everything we could think of (just hoping that she wouldn’t hate us and quit in the middle of it). I was determined that for the first time in a very long time – we were going to focus on travel being purely fun again.

    But I knew I might have to force him to relax and just enjoy it. (That’s the spirit, right?) I laid on my optimism with a thickness like he had never seen before.

    You are a tourist by Death Cab for Cutie blared out of our stereo as we loaded up our truck and pulled out of the capital city of Windhoek on a bright Monday.

    When there’s a burning in your heart
    An endless yearning in your heart
    Build it bigger than the sun
    Let it grow, let it grow
    When there’s a burning in your heart
    Don’t be alarmed

    Now I just needed Namibia (our 50th country!) to deliver.

    From Windhoek to the coastal city of Swakopmund we cruised on luxurious tarmac, enjoying it while we could, knowing that 85% of roads in the country are unpaved. But as always, in every new country, we were still hesitant and nervous. Pete firmly held the steering wheel with both hands and eased onto the highway, testing the temperament of the traffic. As a complete and total surprise, we would learn over our two weeks in the country that the drivers in Namibia might just be the most courteous we have ever encountered. Once we began to feel that, Pete’s fingers were soon drumming the steering wheel in time to the music. After many miles of easy cruising over dry land with the odd tree or bush fracturing the view of pale grass surrounding us, we were surprised over a small rise in the road by six or eight baboons on either edge. Pete braked on the busy highway but I urged him not to slow too much, knowing that baboons can be mean as hell if given the opportunity.

    We passed them quickly, but not before noticing the two babies in the group, and I tilted the rearview mirror to watch them fade away. I was then bouncing in my seat, arms waving.

    “YAY! WE SAW BABOONS! WE’RE IN AFRICA!”

    Pete was all smiles and I knew then that myself and Africa would win.

    After many miles of easy cruising, we were surprised over a small rise in the road by six or eight small baboons on either edge.

    Namibia did its part. While some would balk at the long driving days in between attractions, Pete was happiest behind the wheel, humming to the music, absorbing the changing scenery as it rolled by, and stopping whenever the urge to capture a scene overcame him. It was easier to travel in than expected but also more costly. I insisted that the latter didn’t matter.

    I would not stop until Pete succumbed to travel happiness with my frantic enthusiasm, but in all honesty, it didn’t take long for him to be as swept up as I was. The baboons helped, as would the random giraffes, the meerkats, the wild Oryx who were as delicious as they were winsome, the Skeleton Coast sunsets, and the overwhelming warmth of the citizens.

    It was all new and different and stimulating. And in a way, I’m glad we saved Africa until now.

    how to do it

    Many people choose to rent a camper for driving in Namibia, but instead we rented a 4X4 truck and stayed in hotels and guesthouses along the way. Given that most of any journey in Namibia is not on tarmac and you can go hours without seeing another soul, choice of vehicle and service provider needs to be carefully considered. Asco Car Hire in Windhoek gave us a small discount on a rental for the trip, but regardless of that we were thrilled to employ their services. Their operations and staff were top notch – we felt their sincere concern for our safety and well-being on the road, and the vehicle was in excellent condition.

  • Contrasts of Morocco

    Contrasts of Morocco

    We scrambled over loose rocks and up a gentle slope, a chill breeze cut through us despite the hot Moroccan sun cooking from above. Below we saw a fox bounding over sand and around palm trees, having obviously been spooked out of the shade of a rocky overhang as we climbed above his head.

    On the smooth top of the hill, and as we settled into the picnic lunch we had picked up at the last town, we admired the variety of views around us.

    The bright orange sands of the Sahara could be seen in the distance, and beyond them the cliffs that struck the border between Morocco and Algeria. Towering mosque minarets were speckled throughout the countryside, surrounded by the small populations they were built for. Encased in the rock at our feet were innumerable fossils, some protruding from the stone. In the far distance were the snow-capped Atlas Mountains we had driven through the previous day.

    “From here, it’s like seeing a Moroccan Salad,”

    our guide Hmad said.

    We were constantly moved by the contrasts that Morocco provided. Where else can you see desert and snow capped mountains in one eyeful? Home to the only ski resort in Africa, the white High Atlas Mountains were constantly in view on our long first day of driving, and provided for a variety of distinctive landscapes. Each turn on the windy roads through them brought a new color and almost an entirely new environment. Often, red soil shone bright in the sun, other vistas offered only brown, and sometimes luscious green foliage blanketed the valleys. Clumped Berber villages, plentiful along sparse rivers, were the only stable fixture with their consistent red buildings and array of traditional Kasbahs.

    We saw staggering gorges…

    And we stopped at Ait Benhaddou, a Unesco World Heritage Site seen in many famous movies like Gladiator and Lawrence of Arabia. Lo and behold, look at what can surprisingly be seen in the distance…

    Contrasts were also easily seen in the habitations and people as we ventured further south. Away from the chaos of the cities, life got simpler, and we found more people robed in traditional clothing. We drove through numerous small, walled villages called Ksars built in close proximity to each other. Constructed of mud and dating back to the 12th century, a continuous wall encircles the interior buildings, raised to protect inhabitants from attacking neighbors. Kids, who were typically indifferent to us in the cities but were intrigued by our presence in the south, often waved from their perch on the side of roads where they watched the world roll by. They squealed when Hmad teased them by slightly swerving in their direction. “They would have thrown rocks at me in other parts of the country,” he said with a reassuring smile.

    That was the extremely amiable character of Hmad. With Pete and I both having no knowledge of Arabic and only a smattering of French, our interactions with locals were quite limited until we met our gracious host. My only impression of Moroccan men had been through the lewd looks and comments I received every time I ventured out. Unaccustomed to this and perhaps overly sensitive, I continuously felt uncomfortable and wary to be far from Pete.

    Hmad showed a very different side, and one that we would find again in others during our time in Morocco, such that I came to believe his positive traits to be a truer representation of character. He was most generous with his time and his knowledge, answering every stupid and ill-informed question we had. He was completely gentle in nature and had a witty sense of humor. Hmad endlessly joked with waiters, and showed repeated kindness and respect to all we encountered. When two young kids approached us at a rest stop asking for change, he instead offered them the keys to our vehicle with a shy smile that caused the youths to burst into a mess of giggles.

    And that’s one of the things we’ll remember most. Beyond the picture-perfect viewpoints we marveled at along the way, there was much more than diverse landscapes to be discovered.

  • The Draw of the Faroes

    The Draw of the Faroes

    I get this place.

    Well, as much as anyone can after a brief visit, but there are certain things that only people who come from tiny and remote corners of the world will ever understand. Like the fact that everyone knows most everyone, and thus your business is everybody’s business. Or that even though you may grow up feeling bored and isolated and ache to leave, once you do, there is sometimes a very strong draw to return to that isolation. Or, in the case of the Faroe Islands, the longing for the unspoilt beauty of these islands that are truly unique in the world.

    I completely understand the draw. The strong connection with nature, the sense of community that cannot be found in bigger centres, even certain unique flavours that cannot be get elsewhere. It is a common story to hear of Faroese who had left at one point (as most do for further education) but also believing they were bound for bigger things than what could be offered in their home archipelago. Yet years later, they just knew they had to return.

    The islands were calling them back.

    For hundreds of years, the Faroese isolation was amplified by periods of repressive Danish rule. Trading monopolies were harsh and long stood in the way of development.

    Fun fact about Denmark: the Islands still remain under the country’s realm, and the relationship has been complicated. One that saw the Dane’s attempt to stymie Faroese culture and remove their language, yet at other times provide assistance in bolstering the economy and quality of life. A majority voted for independence in the 1940s, but the referendum was shot down by the Danish government because not enough people were deemed to have participated. The desire for independence has ebbed and flowed.

    Many are wary of the loss of monetary support, but others are sure they could thrive without due to the strong fishing industry. The population has been steadily just under 50,000, although many speak about the deficit of 2,000 women (which is a lot as a percentage). Some are going abroad to find a spouse and other cultures are cautiously being welcomed, although indigenous Faroese people still sit at well over 90% of the whole.

    For newcomers, it would be a tough integration. The rough and ever-changing weather, the rugged terrain, the isolation, the unique cuisine. With a steady supply of lamb and the tradition of wind-drying it in special slotted shacks, the fermented results have been called “the taste of the Faroes”. For many, it is their taste of home. (For me, it is a taste I hope to forget.)

    But the rewards would be overwhelming for the right people. Because we can defiantly say that there is no place in the world that we’ve been to as beautiful or as beguiling.

    The island of Mykines

    And as career explorers drawn to remote areas and the stories of the people within, there are just so many to be heard here.For one, there is the small island of Koltur, where two families once lived. These families did not get along, and although they were the only two on the island, they did not speak to each other. This feud went on for so long that they could no longer remember what they were even fighting about. They have both since left, and the island is set to become a national park.

    And then there is the Patursson family who have inhabited the most important cultural centre on the islands, a farmhouse in the village of Kirkjubøur, for no less than 18 centuries.

    They are sheep farmers but over the years have also produced nationalist leaders and writers, a world-renowned artist, and the first feminist of the Faroes. They graciously open their doors to tourists, and we were so pleased to sit for tea with Johannes, the current head of family. In a room blanketed in relics and framed photographs of forefathers and mothers, he talked of changes to farming practices and carefully of his thoughts on independence. We spoke often of the word “balance” – of tourism and nature, of old ways and new. There were so many more things I wanted to ask of him, but was too shy to during our brief meeting.

    We touched on the future of his family and the farmhouse, of the interesting position for every child as they are raised there, aware of the historical and cultural significance of the unbroken family presence since 1550. But what of their own ambitions? Well, the farmhouse will stay with us for at least another 20 years while I am here, Johannes shrugged, releasing the semblance of any pressure.

    As a cavalier outsider, wooed by the adventures to be had among the 18 islands, it is easy to say that I would gladly take up such a place in history and adore the life presented. I’d savour every fleck of rugged scenery and indulge in the solitude. I’d put myself in charge of the biennial mowing of the traditional grass roof and only use goats. I’d wear nothing but chunky wool sweaters I knit myself, walk the craggy shores daily, and use the silence to finally learn how to really write. Maybe I’d even develop a taste for fermented lamb. Pete could come too.

    But that’s easy to say, harder to do. Because I get this place. It is isolated, remote, and with a terrain that is a challenge for the truest of adventurers. It will always be confronting for some yet alluring for others.

    I can already feel the islands calling me back too.

    where we stayed

    As our upcoming stories from the Faroes are a mix of all the places we visited, we present all of our accommodations here. Note that it is almost entirely possible to base yourself in the capital of Tórshavn and visit most places in day trips.

    tórshavn

    Although not quite near the center of the capital, the Hotel Føroyar is in a really great location just off the main highway, the perfect base for making day trips. The restaurant onsite was also recently voted as the best in the Nordic countries.

    gjógv

    The Gjáargarður Guesthouse is basic but very clean and comfortable (and basically the only place to stay in the area). The food served on site is also really good.

    vágar (airport)

    Basic but clean and comfortable, the Hotel Vágar right near the airport and perfect for catching early morning flights.

  • The Portuguese Sandwich – It’s Not All About the Francesinha

    The Portuguese Sandwich – It’s Not All About the Francesinha

    So goes our nomadic lifestyle cycle – travel like mad, settle and work, travel like mad – that after our almost three-week road trip around New Zealand, we found ourselves in desperate need of a settle and work segment. With two weeks to spare in Europe before returning to North America, we finally turned our attention to a country that we’ve always longed for but never ventured to: Portugal. We had lofty plans to work hard/play hard but found the work taking over. We made it out to explore only a couple of times and never strayed very far. (For goodness sake, we didn’t even take a port tour in Porto.) Pete managed to carve out a few photo walks, but I often only emerged from behind my laptop to eat.

    Porto – the city where we hoped to find the best sandwich

    We are not food bloggers or critics, and when I say that a pork cheek tasted like a well-spiced hot dog, that is as far as my culinary descriptive skills go. As such, we rarely search for a story about food in a new place, but in Porto, a food story found us.

    We learned that it was all about SANDWICHES!

    Where to Find the Best Portuguese Sandwich in Porto

    “Just eat the damn sandwich,” Pete said as I sat snarling at the plate in front of me. We were a few days into our stay and all of my cravings for mountainous plates of grilled veggies were going unsatisfied. After three weeks of camping food, I was in dire need. But restaurant menus were lined with carbs and meat, and the salads were uninspired. Pete had clearly grown tired of my complaining and barked to just eat what was in front of me.

    It was a dinner plate heaping with everything I didn’t need: a pile of shoestring french fries cascaded over a rather sorry and simple-looking sandwich. On its way home, it had gotten a bit squished; the streaky brown steak could be seen spilling out one side, melted cheese another. The aroma, however, had me salivating. After popping a couple of perfectly soft but outwardly crispy fries in my mouth, I managed to get a handle on the sandwich underneath. I shot Pete one last snarl and then took a bite.

    Please excuse my language (remember, I’m not a food blogger, so descriptive words fail me), but it was the best f***ing sandwich I’ve ever eaten.

    It was simple: marinated steak grilled to a perfect pink on a soft floury bun with aioli and melted cheese. Every bite melted away on my tongue in a burst of delicate spices. And each was followed by a low guttural moan of pure pleasure. (Sorry, is that TMI? Probably. But it’s the truth.)

    This wasn’t an anomaly in Portugal as we soon found out that sandwiches are the specialty. From then on, there was less growling about the calories being consumed as we instead decided to embrace it. Sandwiches became our quest. We would work all day and venture out to discover Portugal’s second-biggest city via sandwich shops. (We’d worry about the few extra pounds later.)

    And this is what we found.

    Dona Maria Pregaria

    Dona Maria Pregaria shall henceforth be known as the producer of all the guttural moans (the photo of two sandwiches near the top is the culprit). Order its namesake (the Dona Maria sandwich) to experience all of the goodness. It’s marinated medium-rare grilled steak served on a soft bun topped with aioli and melted cheese. Pete would try a couple of others, but none would compare.

    Conga

    They don’t look the most appetizing, but the secret to Conga’s famous bifana sandwich is the sauce. It’s all seasoned pork, all bread, and then a savoury, juicy sauce that soaks in. It should be eaten immediately while hot and the crust on the bread still has some crunch. And, for only two euros each on takeout, this is an insanely valued and memorable meal.

    And not surprisingly, insanely delicious bifanas can also be found in Lisbon.

    Flor des Congregados

    Close to Conga and a little more upscale, this restaurant also offers the bifana, but it is not quite as good as Conga (despite the fact that there is also a thin slice of tasty ham included). But if you are in the mood for a pork cheek that tastes like a well-spiced hot dog, this is also where you can find it.

    Francesinha at Cafe Ceuta

    This would be the day that we would try the Francesinha. Afraid we would have a post-meal heart attack, we fasted for the morning in anticipation of trying it. The Francesinha is a famous Portuguese sandwich and a monstrous thing to boot. It’s also known as the mother of all Porto sandwiches. When eating it, it should be approached with caution. It contains cured ham, two different kinds of sausage and steak slapped between thick sliced bread, then smothered in melted cheese. We’re not done yet. It’s then served in a thick tomato and beer sauce.

    Each restaurant has its own secret sauce, and each person’s preference for sauce varies. We found this one tasty, if a bit excruciating overall. The verdict: Well, we finished every last bite and walked out of the restaurant to tell the tale. Truth be told, it would probably be the last Francesinha I would eat, but I’m glad I had the chance to try it.

    The best thing about our stop at Cafe Ceuta was the staff who enthusiastically spoke about the history of the sandwich in the city. Actually, that can be said about many restaurant staff we met on our quest – so many were very excited to talk about their food.

    Sins Sandwich

    The name says it all, right? Although this one had spinach in it (there’s the veggies we were looking for!), this is actually Pete’s sandwich and I went with the goat cheese burger instead. Mistake.

    Stick with the sandwich.

  • This is Tanzania

    This is Tanzania

    Tanzania is color.

    It’s houses of orange clay with rusty tin roofs. Emerald grass curling over the roadside and being severed by a machete as we pass. It’s brightly painted murals that splash across colourful storefronts.

    It’s women in boldly printed khanga, perfectly balancing baskets, buckets, bowls, or bags on their heads. It’s only women that carry things in this way, so we were told, if men were to do so it would be an abomination. In northern Tanzania, it’s the layers of beads and sparking silver of the semi-nomadic Maasai people that catch our attention. The clothing varies, although all of dazzling hues, but it is clear that a deep red is widely favoured.

    Tanzania is savoury.

    Stews, stews, and more stews. Beef stew, banana stew, served up over fresh rice and all of delicate flavours to sooth the more spicy salads which often occupy the same plate. It’s an abundance of carbs, a little bit of meat, and plenty of fresh vegetables.

    It’s fresh banana beer, served in a large plastic glass that is shared by everyone. In the town of Mto Wa Mbu, we passed it around inside a small grass hut that was barely tall enough to stand in and with just enough seats for our dozen. The beer was yeasty and bitter, but we both still declared it tasty, preferring it to the banana wine which also made the rounds. Without being bottled and made of only three ingredients, the beer lasts only a few days before another batch is made. The alcohol content is barely registrable (at about 2%), but it is the ultimate social lubricator. It is shared between elders of the Chagga tribe when negotiating marriages, and it is poured onto graves of ancestors to welcome luck in the new year and deposit bad luck from the past.

    Tanzania is wild and alluring.

    We had morning coffee within sight of a tower of giraffes, after a night of hearing hyenas howl around camp. We caught the end of the zebra migration and were mesmerized by the erratic black and white stripes, numbering in the thousands, that stretched into the open field around us as far as we could see.

    Tanzania is twisty acacia trees that cast equally twisty shadows in the falling sun of the Serengeti. It’s blood red sand to corn fields to sunflowers to rough side streets lined with shops. It’s stark white sand beaches and the industrious locals who work them – with men fishing or selling tours, women and children collecting seaweed for sale to Japan. It’s the tough job of guarding a field against elephants, tending to a nightly fire made smoky with green grass to deter them.

    It is the maddening tease of the highest mountain in Africa, Mount Kilimanjaro, who showed only her faint outline before disappearing into the clouds for two days. It’s the tiny man in rubber sandals named Fred who has summited the mountain 200 times. With clients it can take up to ten days, on his own, he insists he could be up and down in two.

    Tanzania offers a satisfying spectrum of adventure and comfort. It is anything you want it to be.

    Tanzania is an adjustment.

    It’s poor internet. It’s a perpetual cover of dust on everything and the smell of burning garbage. It’s that guy who ripped us off on the purchase of our local phone card. It’s learning about sensible laws against abhorrent customs (like that of female genital mutilation) that frustratingly go unenforced.

    But it is also a place to find inspiration. Surrounded by more tribalist neighbours, Tanzania is a strong nation. Tanzania is full of selfless people doing NGO work – like the radiant Floreen at the Amani Children’s Home – tending to the basic needs of dozens of local children, including their broken hearts. Tales abound of families who can’t sustain them, or of AIDS leaving them without one entirely. At Amani, they have a chance to build a life.

    It’s a country that I want to wrap my arms around and smother with my love.

    Because Tanzania has a luminous spirit.

    It is art based in reality. It is many carvings of baboons because they steal all the bananas in the village. It is a popular and symbolic totem, representing the socialist environment that encourages Tanzanians to take care of each other.

    You are very welcome here, we were enthusiastically greeted by every single person we meet. Kids waved, jumped, and yelled Hello! Hello! as we passed.

    Of all the countries we have visited, Tanzania is one of the most disadvantaged, but also one with exalted hospitality. And that’s what we will remember most.

    how to do it

    This is a snapshot of our time in beautiful Tanzania thanks to our Intrepid Travel “Road to Zanzibar” tour. We began in Nairobi, Kenya and ended on the northern beaches of Zanzibar.In between we spent a couple of mind-blowing days camping in the Serengeti, played with chameleons in the Usambara mountains, and so much more. When we weren’t enjoying meals made in the homes of locals (one of the great things about Intrepid tours is their commitment to local experiences and sustainable tourism), we were being spoiled with our very creative cook. We were very well taken care of by our attentive guide, safe at all times, and thoroughly enjoyed all of our company on this small tour.

    As we are pretty staunchly independent travelers who haven’t done a group tour in years, this was a different experience for us!

  • Where the Wild Things Are

    Where the Wild Things Are

    “There is language going on out there – the language of the wild. Roars, snorts, trumpets, squeals, whoops, and chirps all have meaning derived over eons of expression. We have yet to become fluent in the language – and music – of the wild.” ~ Boyd Norton, Serengeti: The Eternal Beginning

    I dozed in and out of sleep. Part excitement, part worry, part trying to distinguish between the snoring from the tent next to us and the vocal hyenas that were circling camp.

    “Did you hear THAT?” I shook Pete by his shoulder. We would learn later that it was a hyena calling for reinforcements, recognizing that predators were nearby. In the morning, as we drank coffee in sight of a tower of giraffes, others recalled hearing lions roar. Somehow we had miraculously slept through that and I was deeply disappointed.

    I wanted to hear it all. I wanted lions circling and sniffing our tents, I wanted to actually shudder with the fear of having them too close.

    I wanted lions circling and sniffing our tents, I wanted to actually shudder with the fear of having them too close.

    The large size of our tent and vehicle that we drove for three days through the Ngorongoro Crater and the Serengeti National Park meant that we would be safe as long as we were in them. Stray, and we could become prey. That meant being confined for long days on bumpy roads, and not drinking anything after the early evening so that I wouldn’t have to rise in the middle of the night to visit the bathroom a good distance away. If I had to, instructions were to flash a light in all directions in the dark around me. If the light reflected on a set of eyes, then retreat to the tent.As much as I wanted to feel a real part of the Serengeti, I’m not stupid. I kept my bladder in check and the tent fully zipped until the sun broke the horizon. I settled for instead trying to blindly identify the noises that raged on around me.

    Such was our three days in this, one of the wildest environments that may exist on the planet. Where we were forced into our cages of tent and jeep in order to survey our environment. This was so unlike any of our previous animal experiences, where it was always the other way around.

    And we couldn’t get enough.

    If the light reflected on a set of eyes, then retreat to the tent.

    inside ngorongoro

    If there is a more perfect microcosm of Africa on the continent, I cannot imagine. For within this deep volcanic crater that is only 20 kms across there is nearly every species we wished to encounter. The big five (lion, elephant, rhino, leopard, buffalo) are all present and almost every other animal that screams Africa, save for giraffes and some antelope, given that their spindly legs make it difficult to navigate the steep crater rim.

    They’re all right there. Drive just a few minutes in order to encounter a few new animals. Water buffalo were the first we saw, their giant dark frames easy to spot from a distance. Then zebras (or zebbies as our guide Isaya adorably called them), a massive congress of baboons grooming each other, lazy hippos rolling in marshy waters, and then onto one of the main attractions.

    “Can you smell that?” Isaya teased, grinning from ear to ear. There was no odour but he knew what was coming – around a corner and at a bend in a small river, a pride of lions spread out lazily along its edge. We fussed and squealed until we found a good spot to park among the other vehicles. Camera shutters snapped furiously and we gasped every time one moved ever so slightly.

    If there is a more perfect microcosm of Africa on the continent, I cannot imagine.

    There were 14 of them, which seemed unfathomable, having arrived with the expectation to see only one or two if we were fortunate. (We would learn later that our luck with lions was substantial – someone on our tour counted 85 overall.) We were hesitant to move on but knew we must, regulation of the crater meant that we had to be in and out in just a few hours.

    We had no time to be disappointed. We saw elephants with tusks that swept the ground, plenty of warthogs (did you know that their Disney name of Pumba actually means stupid?), and a rare black rhino off in the distance laying on its side. We waited for him to stand and even came back after lunch to see if he had moved, but in the hot afternoon he barely stirred. We moved onto more hippos, the Thomson’s gazelle (which was the favourite of our guide for their playfulness and speed), and the homely but fascinating wildebeests.

    Not only does every animal need to be wary of the seven prides of lions present (our guide referred to the crater as the “lion’s supermarket”), but they also need to contend with the hierarchy of their own kind. And as we began our way out of the crater, our drive slowed to a crawl. Wildebeests were dancing around us.

    Or rutting, as it is more aptly called. Solitary males, trying to control large herds of females in order to improve their chances of mating, must fend off the others who threaten to steal their ladies. Several large groups milled around us while the territorial males ran back and forth, guarding against an advance.

    They sometimes came to blows. It would start with pawing the ground and snorting. Then the males would drop to their combat positions – on their knees a few feet apart, ramming their heads at the base of the horns. Never would they appear to severely injure each other, either the territorial male wouldn’t give up ground or the challenger swept past to section off a few females for his own.

    And then it would begin again, males would face off mere meters from our jeep. “It’s fight hour!” I declared, not knowing at all what I was talking about. We finally moved on to catch up with the others, but the wildebeests would continue this ritual for weeks to come.

    “It’s fight hour!” I declared, not knowing at all what I was talking about.

    onto the serengeti

    We left the crater believing that our trip had peaked, that there was no possible way Tanzania could get any better. But on our first few kilometres into the sprawling expanse of the Serengeti National Park, we were greeted by an unlikely sight. And when our guide, who does this trip regularly, took out his camera and began recording the scene in total awe, we knew we were seeing something special.

    Three male lions were stretched out just beside the road. They barely acknowledged our presence, nor the zeal of zebbies spread out around them. Further on, more lions. One male perched up on a rock a la Lion King, and another pride included one cub stretched across a dead branch. His rich fur shined in the golden hour sun.

    Before we settled into camp that night, we heard more of the language of the wild. A predator claimed their dinner (at least, that was our interpretation of the squeals heard), and then several baboons screamed bloody murder. I was sure that one must have seen their baby being eaten right in front of them to warrant such a noise, but when I asked I was told “nah, they are just noisy.”

    We ate dinner by lamplight, but not too close to the brightness, in order to avoid the giant moths that swirled around our heads. Giraffes greeted us each morning, dining on leaves from the high branches just beyond our camp. Nothing in Africa comes in size small.

    For two full days we crawled over just a tiny portion of the massive park. And after that much time spent with a few relative strangers cramped in a dusty jeep, you would think that it would be something to tire of. You would think that lion after lion after giraffe after hippo might lose their appeal. You might even think that I would have had my fill of African wildlife for awhile, especially after a large dung beetle flew into our moving jeep to hit me square in the throat, and after a blue ball monkey (real thing) snuck onto our open roof and threatened to jump onto my head before my screams turned him away. You might think that I had had enough.

    You would think wrong. And after we emerged from the park, tired, cramped, and dirty, I wasn’t alone. Our entire tour group unanimously tried to cajole the guides into just taking us back.

    But there was more of Tanzania we had yet to see.

    how to do it

    Our drives through the Ngorongoro Crater and Serengeti National Park were the most unforgettable parts of our Road to Zanzibar tour with Intrepid Travel. There are, of course, more luxurious ways to experience safaris throughout the region and Africa. But the thrill of staying in that basic camp in the middle of the park will, without a doubt, go down as one of the most memorable experiences we’ve ever had.

  • Lost in Stone Town

    Lost in Stone Town

    Many thanks to our tour mate Lucy, who after having read previous reviews of our Intrepid Travel tour, suggested that we skip the one night stay in Dar Es Salem and head straight for Zanzibar. The stay in Tanzania’s capital was only meant to break up one very long travel day, but in reality it didn’t make that much of a difference. It was a unanimous decision among our entire group, wooed by white sand and a relaxing end to our hecktic trip, to rise a little earlier and do it all in one shot. And so we landed in Stone Town with a little extra time to spare.

    It was early morning and already hot. With Dalene still lounging in bed, I quickly downed my coffee and was ready to take advantage of the golden light. The sun had already started to bake the deteriorating buildings and the rays were sneaking their way down the narrow winding streets. Kathy, another member of our tour, joined me to capture early morning Stone Town life.We stepped out from the hotel into the street and made our first random choice between left or right. This would be a common theme along our morning walk through the seemingly endless winding streets lined with locals shops, homes and cafes.

    The locals were celebrating the first day of Ramadan. Curtains were drawn in the restaurants catering to the tourists, being ever so careful not to offend anyone who was sacrificing for the month. A call to prayer echoed down the street from the nearby mosque. Kathy mentioned to me that she got a dirty look from a woman in a shop for the small slit in her ground length skirt. A couple of children curiously wandered up and wondered why I was taking a photograph of their father’s coconuts laid out for sale on the street. I proudly showed them my photo and smiles lit up their faces. In turn they asked us to take a photograph of them to which we gladly obliged.

    A motorbike whipped past and almost knocked us over. By that point, we truly had no idea where we were.We were caught up in details of the historic city. This once bustling trading centre, originally under the control of Oman, has a number of visible influences throughout the old part of the city. Its name comes from the fact that buildings in the old quarter are made from coral taken from the sea. The result is that over 75% of the buildings are in a state of deterioration, with much rubble remaining exactly where it fell. We saw bits and pieces of coral being used as goal posts on an impromptu football pitch in a courtyard.

    We came across a woman out for her morning walk with chickens being lead by homemade plastic leashes. I asked if I could capture the moment, but she wanted nothing to do with being in the frame. Instead she offered her fowl up as models. I gladly accepted her offer and caught her snickering in my peripheral view.

    It was a couple of hours in which we wandered through the maze of Stone Town, reflecting on the many influences throughout. From the rounded top Indian doors and the traditional rectangular Arabic door frames, to the intricate carvings on the doors signifying either religious or symbolic beliefs. We snuck peeks past the doors as the city began to wake up.

    It all became a blur in that short while. Our senses were over stimulated and we lost track of time and direction. Coming to a crossroads we asked a local which way it was back to our hotel. He urged us to follow him but we refused. We wanted to take our time during our return and I also didn’t believe he was steering us in the right direction. I suspected he wanted to bring us to his shop.After some time and several wrong turns, we finally made it back. Near our hotel, two small girls shyly emerged from their parent’s shop. When they returned my smile, they also asked for me to take a photo. It was my last (and most memorable) shot of the day.

    Turns out that the local was right, by the way, and I felt embarrassed for my earlier suspicion. He definitely would have gotten us back to our hotel in less time.

    But then I also would have missed this moment.

  • Paragliding for Chickens

    Paragliding for Chickens

    I was given just enough time to get panicky about paragliding, but not enough time to refuse.

    We reviewed our itinerary just a few days before we left for Maui, and while I didn’t quite say “no” to the concept of running off a mountain when it was first suggested months prior, I was hesitant. Those that have been reading this blog from the very beginning may remember our frightful excursion in Argentina.

    That time where we watched as one man chickened out last minute, and then saw a solo jumper actually fall from the sky.

    Also, at that point in our travels, my Spanish wasn’t good enough to inquire about the things that made me so nervous about the flight – like that damn beeping from the contraption that measured wind speed and other things. Throughout the flight, I thought that the rapid increase in tone meant we were in trouble, when it actually just indicated when we were in strong thermals (a good thing).

    I was the last one off the mountain that time, and the first to land. (I’m sure my tandem guide could sense my nervousness.) And as we landed, I said emphatically: Never. Again.

    But then came the certain passage of time and its miraculous ability to dull feelings and fade memories.

    I couldn’t look down on the way up.

    My eyes fixed forward for the long drive up the slopes of Haleakala with a dramatic series of sharp switchbacks. The talk in the van was focused on what had happened just a day prior, where a solo jumper had somehow got tangled in tall trees on the slope just after take-off. He dangled for an hour until being rescued by helicopter.

    “Driving a wing is like driving a car,” our guide Dexter said incredulously, “it’s very easy to avoid the trees.” Without knowing the details to the story, it seemed hard for him to believe.

    Dexter had such a calm and smooth way of talking that I believed every word out of his mouth (which is a vital quality to have when escorting people off a mountain). Soon only some nylon and string would keep gravity from hurtling my vulnerable self into the ground – so I hung on his every soothing word.

    My courage continued to rise as the van rolled to a stop. Unlike that time in Argentina where the jumping-off point gave way to a cliff-face, this slope was gentle, the view before us lush and inviting. We weren’t surrounded by scores of other nervous first-timers, and we got to watch a man jump solo for the very first time. I was encouraged by the gentle coaching of Dexter and the ecstatic hoots and hollers as the graduated new-jumper soared through the air and controlled his own movements through the sky. I couldn’t imagine a greater freedom.

    Well, hell. I wanted that. My nervousness had turned to sheer excitement.

    But Pete would go first.

    Looking Up

    And on my lift-off seconds later, it felt so effortless and, quite literally, uplifting. So relaxed I was in this irrational act of running off a slope that I required Dexter’s urging (yet calm) insistence to get going. “Run faster, please!”

    The air whooshed.

    After a quick detour to spot the wing still caught in the tree from the accident the day before, we went back to just enjoying the freedom of flight and the view before us. It was hazy, a bit, with the clouds far enough away not to be troubling but to slightly dull the kaleidoscope of blues and greens before us. I looked down to watch Pete’s progress, and saw him spin at a sharp angle, turning and turning while descending.

    “I DO NOT want to do that,” I insisted to Dexter, as he explained they were enjoying a spiral dive.

    “We don’t have to,” he said, “I really just want you to have a good time.”

    It had been less than ten minutes the ground, far quicker than the preparation and drive to the top. But I was ready to do it all over again right there – Dexter had done the impossible for me and made the experience no frightful than an elevator ride.

    (He might even be able to talk me into a spiral dive next time….)

    how to do it

    We highly recommend both Dexter and Paul (Pete’s tandem guide) from Proflyght Paragliding for an excellent flight tailored to your level of chickeness. 🙂

  • Lessons from a Canoe on the Bowron Lakes

    Lessons from a Canoe on the Bowron Lakes

    “You’re going to think I’m weird, but I want to go look at that patch of grass,” Dave said. We were in the middle of Bowron Lakes Provincial Park on the last of our four-day canoe trip, with crisp bluebird skies that contrasted the snowy peaks overhead. Their angles reflected off of the sparkling water just under our boat. Dave steered us off course, the other canoe anchored by Dave’s friend Stan would soon swerve right to follow us. Maybe Stan would question our sudden diversion, but probably not. I expected that Dave’s long-time friend may be accustomed to his impulse to explore every corner. I had only spent a few days with him, but I was not surprised by it either.

    And I did not think he was weird at all. I wanted to look at that patch of grass, too.

    It was reed canary grass. Some consider it invasive, it can be toxic to animals, and it would never have caught my eye had Dave not honed in on it. In his 20 years of paddling the Bowron, Dave had never seen it anywhere else in the park except for this one unique spot. It grows to seven feet tall and is used by some farmers as a rich agricultural grass on very wet soils, hence its new home on the flood line of the lake. As we glided past it on the canoe, an up-close review confirmed Dave’s suspicion of its being. From there, we gradually pointed back on course. My gaze returned from the water level to the soaring peaks around me, but smiling from this timely lesson on perspective that our guides Dave, his wife Cheryl, and their friend Stan, repeatedly taught us on this trip.

    It’s easy to marvel at mountain peaks. Igniting admiration at the micro level takes a bit more work.

    There was no better place to learn this than on a popular canoe circuit at the end of the season when poking around every corner could be done so undisturbed.

    Our Experience of Canoeing the Bowron Lakes

    The Bowron Lakes Circuit is a series of 12 lakes and rivers, a 116 km chain that is almost entirely connected in a perfect square, save for a few sections where short portages are required. Nestled among the Cariboo Mountains, it naturally became a route that draws avid self-propelled boat enthusiasts worldwide. A limited number of paddlers can start the circuit each day during the busier summer months to keep it manageable. By the time we began, at the very edge of the higher season, and considering that snow was in the forecast, we almost had it entirely to ourselves. In the first two days, we only encountered seven other people. We shared campsites with no one.

    We completed roughly half of the circuit and returned within four days (most people do the whole circuit in about a week). The paddling was thankfully smoother than predicted. Due to an unfavourable forecast, we were anticipating hours where we would have to bear down and “get through it.” Cirrus clouds sometimes spread their long fingers across the sky during our journey, causing worry about weather set to roll, but we remained largely dry and warm after the first misty morning. On the last day, we woke up to tiny patterns of drizzle on our tent, but that was the worst of it. The sun broke through and dappled the mountains before breakfast, and the water was as still as it was on day one.

    What may be surprising to readers (as it was to us) is that while the stunning scenery was all we expected, with snowy peaked mountains and brilliant fall foliage elevating this pocket of our country into one of the most impressive we’ve ever experienced, it wasn’t the grandeur that made this trip most memorable. It was the grass, for starters. Not that it was particularly beautiful as far as grass goes, but our interest was definitely piqued. How did it get there?

    We were both surprised that we cared about it at all. Or about the schmoos. The crew implored us to stop on one beach where an abundance of flat and donut-shaped stones with a curious name lay scattered all along the mucked surface. Their origin is entirely unknown, but we were fascinated by them nonetheless, showing off those we found that were bigger or more perfectly rounded.

    Schmoos!
    More Schmoos!

    And we even found ourselves looking at poop with a whole new sense of wonder. Ever on the lookout for wildlife, we followed in Cheryl’s footsteps as she discerned the origins of all we found (moose, caribou, bear?) and approximately how long each pile had been left behind. The closest we got was to a grizzly who had clearly just feasted on berries nearby and dropped his scat on a beach about an hour before we rested there for lunch. None of us strayed far from the bear spray that noon hour as we devoured the meal Cheryl had prepared for our journey.

    At that point, we were hardly fazed by any such thing. The details, even of feces, endeared us to the experience more than we ever imagined. Credit for that goes to our circuit companions, who had us inspecting what was at our feet as much as what soared over our heads.

    Both Pete and I looked at everything in a brand-new way. We eagerly pulled our canoes over to walk through mossy forests that likely saw very few footprints. We analyzed everything on a tiny level. “It’s amazing what can happen in a square inch,” Dave said. He and I were both crouched and inspecting the forest floor. We had taken a break to stretch our legs and climbed over tree limbs and rocks to find ourselves inspecting flowers, mosses, and mushrooms. “There’s a tree trying to grow through here,” he said, pointing to a tiny sprig, “There are three different types of moss and a small stone poking out. If this were on a grand scale, we would stand in awe of it,” Dave said. It made me think of grand natural wonders like the California Redwoods or New Brunswick’s Hopewell Rocks, with tourists flocking and pushing their way to the front for a photo. And there we were, peacefully huddled with wonders in front of our noses, inhaling the still and earthy aroma.

    We were at our own Redwoods and Rocks. We just needed to use our imagination.

    The lessons never ended. Dave, Cheryl, and Stan felt like fast friends, imparting wisdom that can only be found by slowing down, enjoying single moments as much as single inches. In our own rush of the world and to see those sights known for imparting awe, they taught us instead how to find it all around us. When Dave wasn’t identifying grasses, he was patiently teaching us the ways of the canoe – J stroke, sweep stroke, draw stroke – the crew patiently let Pete and I steer and zigzag as we tried to leave our kayak instincts behind and figure out how much we could correct the boats without overcorrecting. Cheryl relayed camp, and cooking tricks (tomato soup made with coconut milk!), and Stan made sure we missed nothing else on shore.

    One day, we did what might be the most Canadian thing possible: we tied up our canoes to have lunch in an actual moose bed while loons called out frequently nearby. On another shore, Stan pointed out a dark, gangly moose as it rested in the sun. We traipsed kilometres through wild blueberry bushes (stopping to sample often, of course) to the large rushing Cariboo waterfall, the sound of which was the most jarring we experienced in our four days.

    By night, with nothing else to distract us (besides Pete making us pose for photos), we sat around the campfire, calling out answers to crossword puzzles.

    For all of our craving of new on grand scales, here we were, with three new friends who taught us to find a similar result within a smaller radius, and so much more. The three of them constantly map new trails up and down area mountains with boots or skis. Dave himself has been on over 200 trips into the park – he has re-discovered trails, camping sites, and historic locations that were otherwise long forgotten, connecting him further to what others consider just a place to paddle. Dave and Cheryl have even created new community events that bring new experiences to themselves and anyone else lucky enough to know about them. They admit that their desire to travel beyond their home has diminished. There’s just too much yet to do here.

    Dozens of kilometres paddled later, with sore arms and backs, with clothes and bodies grungy from four days of outdoor living, and with camera cards full of grass and scat photos, we left regrettably, still wanting to do more too.

    How We Experienced Canoeing the Bowron Lakes

    Sure, we could have planned it all ourselves and ventured out on our own to experience the Bowron Lakes. But we opted for a guided experience. Let the pros take care of the logistics so we could savour everything else the circuit offered. And we’re so happy we did so.

    Dave and Cheryl run Whitegold Adventures and offer excursions year-round into the Bowron Lakes via hiking boots, skis, or canoes. While the Bowron Lakes Provincial Park is accessible without a guide, we are sure it would have been less compelling or rewarding. They also have accommodations, the Mountain Thyme Getaway and a restaurant (Bear’s Paw Cafe). We frequented both, enjoying the quirky comfort of the house and Cheryl’s delicious recipes at the cafe. Both are iconic in their small town of Wells and not to be missed!

  • Our Most Memorable Nova Scotia Experiences

    Our Most Memorable Nova Scotia Experiences

    With a cumulative six weeks spent in Nova Scotia over three different trips in the last six years, we’re bold enough to suggest that we might be expert-level tourists of this island province. In fact, beyond our home of Alberta, we’ve spent more time exploring this province than any other.

    Purposefully, we’ve driven almost the entire span of it, and we’ve taken several roads more than once. There are some experiences we’ve sadly missed out on due to inopportune weather, but we never struggled to find something else spectacular to do, and we have no doubt that we’ll get back to do all that we want at another time.

    And we expect to be able to publish another “most memorable experiences” post in the future – even with all that we did, there is much more on our to-do list, and we’re eager to get to it when it is safe to travel again. But here’s a summary to get us started!

    eating dragon’s breath cheese

    Those who know us well should NOT be surprised that eating cheese has made the list of best experiences in Nova Scotia, but the fact that this experience actually tops our list should be a solid indication of just how good it is.

    We rolled into That Dutchman’s Cheese Farm just before the lunch hour – so that we weren’t exactly famished but our hunger was beginning to peak. The storeroom is small but stuffed with a large variety of cheese and other fun souvenirs. We had one singular thought in mind though: to find the famed Dragon’s Breath blue cheese and make it our meal. Pete picked out sausage to accompany it, and I grabbed a box of crackers. At the till I asked for a small cooler pack as I was sure that we wouldn’t finish the black bell of cheese (as they call it). The lady nearly laughed at me, and rightly so. We stepped outside to enjoy it at their garden picnic table, cracked the top of the bell, and on the first whiff of its delicately spiced aroma, we were hooked. Once we started eating it, we couldn’t stop.

    (For future visitors: the shop will give you a refund on the cooler pack if you don’t end up using it.)

    Yeah, we ate all that!

    Lumberjack Training

    There’s been some forced career-pivoting going on in the past year going on in this past pandemic year. We were not immune to that ourselves, with tourism being the hardest-hit industry, but we’ve been diversified enough to make it through this far. And if it wasn’t working out…well, we always had our lumberjack training to fall back on.

    Granted, we have a lot more work to do to match the expertise of Darren Hudson of Wild Axe Productions, but he was also the perfect person to begin our journey. He’s a 5-time lumberjack world champion and also a helluva nice guy. He offers summer camps for kids, and an exciting day-long experience for tourists. It was certainly one of the quirkier things we’ve done in our travels, and thus super memorable. (Especially because I bested Pete in an impromptu axe-throwing contest.)

    Exploring Taylor Head Provincial Park

    Nova Scotia boasts 20 stunning provincial parks, and in our extensive travels to the province, we’ve been to a good number of them. However, nothing stands out as emphatically as our time at Taylor Head along the Eastern Shore.

    I cannot think of any other hike we’ve ever done where 4 kilometers of easy trail turned into an over-two-hour expedition. We had arrived late in the afternoon, just as several others were leaving, and were grateful for empty paths and the soft light of the descending sun. We picked berries, stopped for so many photos, and took our time on a cobbled shoreline. We returned another day to linger on its white sand beach, captivated by the skills of a wind-surfer in an otherwise sublimely peaceful setting. Being on the eastern shore means it is less visited than other parks in the province, but certainly no less beautiful.

    Tidal Bore Rafting

    Seeing the highest tides in the world roll in is one thing…but riding on top of them is quite another. And that is the unique opportunity that presents itself near the small town of Maitland, where the leading edge of the tide pushes itself up the Bay of Fundy, creating natural rapids as it goes.

    Golfing Cabot Links

    To be honest, we both kinda suck at golf. But that doesn’t stop us from swinging the clubs whenever we can – the appeal of a few casual hours outdoors outweighs the embarrassment at our incompetence. So when the opportunity arose to take a turn on Cabot Links, that was an easy yes.

    Did we feel worthy of this experience? Not really, but perched on cliffs towering over a mile of sandy beach in Cape Breton, the course is famous and frequented by hot-shots from all over the world. It was not an opportunity to turn down, and especially because of Pete’s par on hole 6, it will be an experience that is forever remembered.

    Hiking and More Hiking

    The more miles we put under our hiking boots, the more attached we become to a place. And we did our fair share of trekking in Nova Scotia! The province offers so much variety in terrain and scenic views that comparisons are impossible for us to pick just one experience.

    We loved the forested Liscomb River Trail that led to a small suspension bridge overlooking a waterfall. Eatonville Trail in Cape Chignecto Provincial Park was a wonderful consolation for the fact that our kayak tour was canceled that day; we stumbled into the park and onto that trail which included a detour to a secluded beach that we had all to ourselves.

    And finally, the Skyline Trail on Cape Breton Island was certainly a memorable one, and not just for the sensational ocean views, but for the personal challenge it presented.

    Eating all the Lobster Rolls

    I’m not a seafood eater (I KNOW!) so I asked Pete about his favourite of this Nova Scotia staple, and like hikes, he couldn’t pick just one. I asked Pete how many lobster rolls he ate in Nova Scotia and he couldn’t tell me that either. Suffice to say, he tried a lot and by his estimation, it was never about the search for the best anyway. Sampling the variations on offer across the province is a divine experience itself. Why limit yourself to just returning for the subjective “best” when you can move on and try as many as possible?

    Maybe not such a good philosophy for love, Pete contends (he’d better say that!), but with lobster rolls, he stands by it.

    Driving Cabot Trail

    This is hailed as one of the most scenic drives in the world, and for good reason. (Especially if you drive the western side during the evening golden hour – which we highly recommend – to see the contours of the road in drenched in that soft light.)

    It is likely, if you afford yourself a good amount of time on Cape Breton Island (another thing we highly recommend!), that you will drive at least portions of the trail several times. Remind yourself in advance that efficiency is not the goal here – getting from start to finish is only made better by taking every side trip that your itinerary will allow. Don’t miss White Point Harbour if you can help it; and save time for stopping at such places as the Wreck Cove General Store for their legendary lobster sandwiches. Plan for dinner at the scenic Rusty Anchor, and also don’t miss the live music at the Red Shoe Pub.

    Give yourself a whole week there if you can! You will not be disappointed.

    Visiting the Tusket Islands

    Being land-locked Albertans, maritime culture is not something that we ever truly understood (nor will we likely ever), but a trip out to the Tusket Islands gave us an impressive glimpse.

    This archipelago of 200 islands south of Nova Scotia once served an important purpose. None are permanently inhabited, but they once were used as a layover for fishermen to cut down on commute time during peak fishing season. Now that fishing grounds are much farther offshore, the saved commute time is less significant, and the shanties constructed to house the fishermen now serve as summer homes. The docks are used for storage of lobster traps.

    A trip to the islands, lead by legit lobster fishermen, is a historic journey to a remote part of the province that few people see. Topping it off with full Nova Scotian hospitality (music and food are included, of course!) and some epic fishing stories makes for a sensational and unique experience.

    Canoeing in Keji

    Kejimkujik National Park is actually split into two spots – the seaside location has some of the most brilliant beaches in Nova Scotia, but in all honesty, we’ll take the woodsy setting in the middle of the province on most any given day.

    The lake by the same name is large and speckled with islands harbouring idyllic camping spots (one of the best places to go camping in Nova Scotia, without doubt). We cruised around the islands on canoe, so eager to park and make camp for a few days! The water was mirror-smooth, and our mid-week visit in fall meant that we had the whole place to ourselves.

    It is always our goal to find such silent spots for solace (we’re selfish like that).