Marty Magic Travel Blog

Bush Plane to Ruckomechi Camp on the Zambezi River

2011-11-24T18:02:00.000-08:00

Flight over Zambia

Linkuvasha Bush Airstrip

The morning’s temperature is 1 degree centigrade as we huddle around the fire circle, holding tin mugs of hot coffee, warming our extremities and waiting to depart Davison Camp. At 8:00 A.M. bundled warmly, we bump along the rutted dirt road to catch our plane. Upon arriving, Brian our guide races our vehicle along the grassy airstrip to clear the runway of a flock of ground hornbills in preparation for the incoming plane. We wait patiently, soaking in the morning sun and enjoying the solitude when our vehicle’s radio sputters to life. Our plane has been delayed an hour, so in the interim, we hop back into the vehicle and

Brian takes us on a short game drive. Returning to the Linkuvasha airstrip we watch as a small silvery speck in the sky takes the shape of a tiny bush plane and lands on the grassy runway. After brief farewells, we climb onboard the 4 seated air plane and are immediately bumping along the runway for takeoff. We are the only passengers and we catch our breath as the small plane lifts off, shudders, banks, and stabilizes. The teak and acacia forest below becomes a melody of fall colors and as we gain altitude, I see the curly grey smoke from many forest fires clouding the horizon. The landscape soon changes from sparse forest to a patchwork of monochromatic farm land and I am lulled by its monotony. Initially, our pilot busies himself with control dials and radio, and I am beginning to relax until I realize that he has begun texting on his Nokia cell phone and is paying little attention to our flight path. An hour and a half later, we land safely at the tiny airport of Kariba to refuel. John and I enter the bleak terminal to use the facilities and John gazes longingly through the closed grill of the snack stand at several ancient and certainly stale packages of cookies. The second leg of the trip takes just 30 minutes and the flight is spectacular. The ground below is sculpted by canyons and dry curving river beds and when we reach the Zambia River we fly low along the river, a maze of islands, lagoons and marshlands, studded with pods of hippos.

Zambezi River Hippos

We touch down on another barren airstrip and are met by Champion, who offloads our baggage into a Wilderness Safari land cruiser to drive us to Camp. He takes the scenic route and we are delayed by the Ruckomechi version of a traffic jam; two female elephants with their babies, foraging contentedly in the middle of the road. We are delighted to wait and watch until they move off road to forage elsewhere.

The camp is situated along the banks of the Zambezi River and when we pull in we are met by JuJu and Carl who hand us cool wet towels to wipe the dust from our faces and hands. We have missed the official lunch but two places are set in the open dining area, at the far end of a long plank table and we enjoy a late lunch of cold cuts, salads and fresh fruit. The staff hovers over us, attending to our every need but mostly, I just wish to marvel and the hundreds of hippos, inhale the river view, and refuel in peace. After lunch we are briefed on the safety regulation and escorted to our room. There are 10 tented rooms, 5 fanning out from either side of the center dining and lounge area. Ours is number 4 and we are escorted along a long raised boardwalk skirting the other bungalows to our palatial tent, overlooking a river clogged with hippopotamus. Our screened and curtained bungalow is 15 feet by 35 feet across; the bedroom and bathroom partitioned by an iron meshed wall, filled with river pebbles. I give John the first shower and begin to settle in when I hear brush crackling and look up to see an elephant walking just a few feet from the screened side of our cabin; it turns and crosses along the front of our tent. John exclaims his amazement from the shower, feeling perhaps a little more vulnerable than I do, in his state of nakedness.

Walking Safari

2011-08-27T11:24:00.000-07:00

Examining a Termite Mound

Walking Safari

Lion Footprint

John and Michael

Making Friends at Davison Camp

Day 3 – Davison Camp. Alan and Annette are departing this morning and Brian will drive them back to the park entrance, 2 ½ hours away. Our guides today are Charles and Honest and we are going on a walking safari in the company of Mary, Tom and Michael. Both guides are carrying rifles with Charles in the lead and Honest bringing up the rear. It is warmer this morning and we follow single file behind Charles, stopping frequently to examine footprints, termite mounds and animal dung. We approach a herd of Cape buffalo grazing in the distance, a lone bull standing off to the side. Apparently, Cape buffalo are quite aggressive and both guides are cautious. We get within a hundred meters of the herd when Charles motions for us to get down and gather closely around him. The intent is to look like a single large unit, not individuals. With nothing to stabilize my zoom, I take many blurry photos until instructed to lead a slow retreat to behind a distant termite mound. Returning to the vehicle, we head back to camp, stopping to watch a jackal and families of wart hogs along side of the road.

Cape Buffalo

John is good at making friends and during this afternoons rest period, he instigates a game of cards in the lounge area, including Michael, the two girls and Claire’s younger brother.

Sundowners at Hawange National Park

Wildebeests-Hawange National Park

17 year old Jade abandons her family and sits between John and me during our afternoon game drive. We are fortunate to see many giraffe as we follow the edge of the trees along side a large open plain. As 5:00 P.M. approaches, we drive out onto the plain to enjoy our late afternoon sundowners, gazing at herds of grazing wildebeests and families of giraffes browsing on the trees at the edge of the forest.

Giraffe in motion

Three Giraffes at Hawange National Park

Lions and Ray Bans

2011-08-27T09:56:00.000-07:00

Male Lion on his morning patrol

Day 2 – Davison Camp. We are awakened at 6:30 by a soft “good morning” and a gentle tap on the canvas of our tent. We dress quickly, walk to the open lounge and breakfast area and are soon holding cups of hot coffee and standing close to the large fire, warming our extremities. We focus our binoculars, in the pale morning light and see ostrich, wildebeests and Chacma Baboons drinking at the watering hole, 100 meters away. Breakfast is an array of cold and hot cereals, toast, muffins and exotic fresh fruit salad and yogurt. At 7:00 A.M. we are sitting in land cruiser with A & A and our guide Brian, setting out for the morning game drive.

Male Lion

The safari vehicles are designed with three graduated tiered rows of seats so we all have unobstructed views. The sides of the vehicle are open, and study roll bars support a canvas roof to shield us from the sun. The morning is cold and biting and we bundle ourselves in the provided wool blankets and canvas ponchos. Our first sighting is a male lion, nonchalantly patrolling the road in front of us. The sun is directly in front, making photography challenging, but I take many backlit photos. The lion is nonplused by our presence and we follow him until he veers into the “ambush grass,” wanders 20 meters away, and lies down to bask in the morning sun. John focus’s his binoculars, leans out of the vehicle slightly, and drops his Ray Ban sunglasses in the dirt below. Brian is less than pleased, since retrieving the glasses with a male lion just 20 meters off is not a healthy practice. He curses softly, drives forward and then backs up, maneuvering the vehicle off the tracks of the road, and positioning it between the lion and the fallen Ray Ban’s. With considerable drama, instructing us to keep a close eye on the lion, Brian slips out of the vehicle and retrieves the sunglasses. John feels badly about his blunder and is rather subdued for the next hour, until later in the morning, I lean out and my sunglasses fall in the tracks of the road.

Monkey Business

Tail Gate Morning Tea

Three Elephants

We will grow accustom to the camp schedule of an early morning game drive, returning for a late and elaborate brunch around 11:30 A.M; resting until 3:00 P.M, when tea is served, and heading out on the afternoon game drive at 3:30 P.M.

Eland

Dingo

Sable at Watering Hole

This afternoon, we see herds of wildebeests, impala and smaller groups of kudu and eland. I am surprised by the many varieties of antelope and we spot the lone dik dik, steenbok, common waterbuck and Cape buffalo. Shortly after 5:00 P.M. Brian drives the vehicle out onto a vast open grassy plain with a watering hole in the distance. We all climb out of the vehicle and watch a breeding herd of elephant at the watering hole beyond. Brian sets up a small table in the dusty tracks beside the land cruiser and proceeds to arrange the bar, for our late afternoon, “sundowners.” We are here for a magical 30 minutes, watching the elephants also drink in the slanted, golden afternoon sunlight until the sun dips behind the trees.

Elephants at watering hole at sunset

Marty and John -Sunset Hawange National Park

We return to camp after dark and discover that three other families have arrived at Davison camp. Mary, Tom and their 21 year old son, Michael from the U.S.A; an extended family from Victoria Falls with a pretty 17 year old daughter, Jade and a family of 4 relocating from Brazil to the U.S.A. They are French and have a pretty 15 year old daughter, Claire. Things are looking up for John and our evening meal is quite a party with the varied energy of our mixed families. Including our host and hostess and the several guides, over 20 of us share dinner and stories afterwards, as we stand around the fire sipping wine and other libations.

View of the tent cabins from the dining area

John in front of our luxury tent cabin

Arrival in South Africa

2011-08-09T22:48:00.000-07:00

Marty arrives in Johannesburg via London and takes a bicycle trip through Soweto. --posted by Art for Marty

Forty Hours en route to South Africa.

Just two days ago, Alisha, John and I were packing up my jewelry booth at the Vallejo Pirate’s Festival after a successful and spirited show.

Marty, John and Alisha at the Pirate Festival

John and I now sit in the Chicago O’Hare airport, waiting for our plane to London to depart. Our final destination, 30 hours from now is Johannesburg, South Africa.

I spend Monday in a flurry, working in my office and pass the Marty Magic baton to my husband Art and my assistant, Kat. John and I are mostly packed, but there are many last minute details to handle and we don’t pull out of our driveway until 8:30 P.M. several hours later than planned.
Art chauffeurs us to the S.F. airport and we sleep a few hours at the Holiday Inn before catching our 5:00 A.M. hotel shuttle to the airport. Our United Airline check- in and flight is easy and we doze most of the way to Chicago, but the 4 hour lay-over in Chicago is painful. The news report on the overhead television announces that Michelle Obama and her daughters are visiting South Africa this week, so we will be in good company.
We board our Chicago to London flight at 7:10 P.M. on Tuesday and after eating a tasteless, British Airway dinner, try to sleep. I manage an uncomfortable 4 hours, but John, his long body contorted awkwardly in the cramped economy seat, sleeps little.

London Tube - Mind The Gap!

John and the London Parliment Skyline

We arrive in London at 6:55 A.M, are quickly through immigration and on our way into London via the Underground. Both John and I are running on adrenaline and we easily navigate the “Tube” with just one line change, towards Westminster. An automated voice, announces each station, reminding passengers to “mind the gap.” An hour later, we arrive at Westminster station, feed our tickets into the exit turn style and climb the stairs up to street level

The spire-studded skyline of Big Ben, the parliament, and Westminster Abby welcomes us. It is a familiar sight for me, but John is duly impressed and excited to be in London, if ever so briefly. The morning is cold and gray and we cross the Thames River via the Westminster Bridge to get another view of the impressive, Westminster skyline. The London Eye, a huge Ferris wheel, offering stunning views of London on a clear day, dominates the opposite bank and we drop down along its river front promenade in search of hot coffee and breakfast, but most of the eateries and shops along this touristy stretch of river are not yet open. We cross back over the Thames via the Hungerford Bridge, walking towards Trafalgar Square and choose Garfunkel’s restaurant for breakfast. The hot and frothy cappuccinos are excellent, but the two for one English breakfast leave much to be desired. The eggs are undercooked and gelatinous, the sausage odd and the fried tomatoes slimy and cold. Leaving the restaurant, we skirt around Trafalgar Square, popping into St. Martin-in-the-Fields Cathedral. Too late, I realize that it is the Crypt Café, below the church, where my friend Alison, recommended that we eat. We cut through the Victoria Embankment Gardens, turn away from the river and within a few blocks arrive at the covered, Covent Garden market. We spend an hour wandering these shops and open air craft market and then walk towards Neal Street. John finds a skate shop of interest to him, and a few other trendy men’s boutiques. We convert pounds to dollars and are shocked by how expensive everything is. One of my favorite shops in the area is Neal’s Yard Remedies, a skin care and aromatherapy boutique. Years ago, my friend, Alison, told me about this shop and whenever I am in London, I make a point of visiting this unpretentious, natural remedy boutique. John entertains himself sniffing and testing the many samples and comments on the wonderful scents. It’s been 5 years since I have been to London and I hope that the designer jewelry shop, the Crazy Pig, is still in business. We find the shop straight away and spend 20 minutes inside, looking at the outrageous skull, alien and animal jewelry. It is a small boutique and John and I look rather road weary, but no one greets us or asks if we need help and we are the only customers and obviously very interested. Strange, and not the Marty Magic way of conducting business.

The London Eye

Courtyard of Westminster Abby

We navigate back towards Westminster, walking mostly along the Thames. It’s the height of the season and tour buses are nose to tail, parked along the street, many regurgitating hoards of young back packers onto afternoon barge tours along the Thames. Double –Decker buses are taking other tourists on city tours and for John’s sake, I wished we had time for an overall city tour, but Westminster Abby is our destination. It is starting to drizzle when we arrive at the Abby and there is a very long line waiting for entry, but also a shorter line for cash only. Happily, I ordered pounds in advance from my bank back home and within a few minutes we are inside this cathedral. (Thanks again to Alison, John has

brought his student I.D. and the entrance fee for him is 7 pounds as opposed to 18 pounds.) We collect head sets, included in the entrance fee, and dutifully push each corresponding button and make our way slowly through this remarkable cathedral. John is fascinated with the many tombs and the “trippy” gothic architecture. We are in no hurry and spend two hours, intermittently sitting to rest and to absorb the magic of the place.

When we exit it is raining hard, so instead of exploring further, we dash towards the entrance of the Underground and buy our return tickets to Heathrow. An hour later, we are at international terminal 5, with another 3 ½ hours to wait before our departure to Johannesburg. The time difference and our lack of sleep is catching up with us and we want only to board the plane and sleep; but our gate will not be announced for several hours and I am afraid that if we sit we may fall asleep and miss our plane. We eat an overpriced airport dinner and wander in a daze, the maze of glitzy airport shops. I am stupid with exhaustion and check and recheck the departure board. I have in my mind that our flight leaves at 19:10, but when our departure gate is finally posted, I pull out the boarding passes and see that the flight is at 17:10. I panic, wondering how I could have been so stupid and rush to a British Airway counter. My blood pressure soars but the calm woman behind the counter points out that the boarding passes I am holding are earlier ones, for our flight between Chicago and London. We have not missed our flight after all. Earlier today, I mentioned to John how strange it was that three of our departure flights were at 10 minutes passed the hour and two of the arrival times were 5 minutes before the hour. We finally board and with the aid of a sleeping pill each, both John and I sleep most of the way to Jo’berg.

We pass through immigration easily and are relieved to be reunited with our luggage. When we exit customs, I scan the crowd, looking for someone holding up a sign with our names. Isiac, from the Lebo-Soweto Backpackers Inn is there as promised, holding the expected sign. He is personable and informative as he drives us through the terrible rush hour traffic of Jo’berg, to Soweto. The drive takes 1 ½ hours and he chooses alternate roads to bypass the worst of the traffic. We pass through the industrial outskirts of Jo’berg, buildings painted with graffiti, streets littered with trash. This area of the city reminds me of industrial parts of L.A. and the Tenderloin section in S.F.

John at the Sowetto Backpackers Inn

We finally arrive at the Back Packer Inn, situated on a gently sloping hillside in the heart of Soweto, overlooking a sprawl of industry and humanity. The tiny inn is colorful, simple and sweet; fenced with a private raked gravel garden, several outdoor tables, pool table, dart board and a self service, honor bar with little inside it. Our small room has two lumpy twin beds and a shared bath and all is immaculately clean. Cheerful murals are painted on the bathroom walls and the communal sitting room, equipped with a small T.V. and a single computer. It is now late morning and we are hungry and order breakfast for 45 Rand, about $7.00 each. One of the female staff busies herself in the kitchen, cooking up an uninspired, but much appreciated breakfast. It’s been two days since we have been able to shower so we gather up soap, shampoo and clean clothes and walk down the hall to respective bathrooms to clean up. I lie down and try to nap because in less than two hours, we will take a 4 hour bicycle tour of Soweto.

Marty riding through Sowetto

Sowetto Scene

I choose this inn because the bicycle tour runs from here at 1:00 P.M. 3 young student doctors arrive 10 minutes late, having been caught in traffic. They are in their late 20’s or early 30’s and are doing an internship at one of the city’s largest hospitals, after which they will take their exams. Two are from England and one from Australia and I am please that John will have their company on this ride. It’s a long and difficult bicycle ride uphill before we arrive at our first stop where locals of all ages are gathered in an open dirt field. There are several broken down cars, small food stalls and a corrugated tin shack. A few people are tending fires and there is an acrid smell in the air, a combination of burning plastic, urine and beer. We are invited into the corrugated tin house to drink beer. Wooden benches line the walls of the darkened shack and four men and one woman sit with plastic tubs of beer between their feet. The cardboard cartons of Jo’Berg Beer have a warning label; “Don’t drink and walk; you may be hit and killed.” Our guide brings in a covered, round ceramic jug filled with cold home-made beer. After much explanation, he takes a drink from the jar, grunts in approval and passes the jar to John. John takes a couple of sips, sounds the expected approving “aah!” and passes the container to me. I take two swallows of the cold and bitter brew, “aah,” and gratefully pass on the container. This ritual reminds me of drinking chicha in the jungles of Ecuador with the indigenous villagers.

Sowetto Beer Drinking Shack

Sowetto Beer Warning Lable

John drinking home brewed beer

Empty Beer Cartons

Sowetto Bicycling - Marty

Sowetto Graffatti- Marty

With our guide leading our way, we bicycle between a long row of small cement houses.
Wide eyed children play in the street and swarm around us, most holding out their hands, wanting to touch ours.

We “high 5” everyone as we ride our bicycles and for me it is a challenge to stay balanced with one hand. On several occasions, a child, grabs a fast hold of my hand and offsets my balance. One of the young doctors repeatedly lifts small children into his arms, swings them around and ruffles their hair. He is playful and genuine.

Sowetto Children

Sowetto Todler and Cannabis

Sowetto Interior

Young Sowetto Man

We are invited into one of the tiny homes by a smiling young man in his early 20’s. The house is about 12 feet wide and 20 feet long, consisting of only two rooms.The front room is the kitchen area with a small table, a large jug of water and a few pots and pans. An open archway connects the front room to the back where there is a neatly made up double bed, a single chair and a table with a television. Electricity is available and a young woman sits in the corner chair watching the T.V. A bare light bulb hangs from the ceiling and thin mattress leans up against the bare wall. The young man tells us that he is one of 5 who live here and our guide explains that he is lucky, since many of these homes, house up to 7 people. The residents in this area haul water from a central water spigot behind communal cement out houses. Each toilet is assigned to a designated group of 15; they are given a key and responsible for keeping their facilities clean. John is amused to look down and see a small pot plant growing at the edge of a building. Two small children stand on either side of it, curiously looking up at him and John snaps a photo. We ride through many sections of Soweto, many with less than adequate conditions for the inhabitants and others that look quite middle to upper class.

Sowetto Memorial

Nelson Mandela House

High Five -John in Sowetto

We arrive at the Soweto museum and visit the Soweto monument to the children who were shot down in 1976 when they marched for their rights to a better education. A large spray of white flowers sits at the base of the monument, placed there by Michele Obama just yesterday. I wish that we had been here for the ceremony but we are told that the area was cordoned off; swarming with secret service personal and the bicycle tour did not run.

Young Doctors on the Sowetto Bicycle Tour

John WS in Sowetto at dusk.

We have a late lunch of Kota in a simple local restaurant. The men go around back to use the toilet and wash up under a spigot. I am shown to the inside bathroom with indoor plumbing and pretty lace curtains. We eat the traditional Kota a front gravel garden. It consists of a 2 ½” thick slice of white bread, the center torn out and stuffed full of French fries, salami, ham and a fried egg. The center piece of bread is used to sandwich it all together. As hungry as I am, I can only eat half of it.
After lunch we bicycle to the Nelson Mandela house, a modest, contemporary, single level house, now a historical land mark. A few other tourists are taking photos of the exterior and a handful of local teen age boys are hanging out. They gather around us, interested in John and the young doctors. The afternoon light is slanted and golden and I wish to take many photos, but bicycling and photography don’t mix well. We return to our back-packers inn shortly after 5:00 P.M. John watches an hour of television and I send my first e-mail home. After two nights sleeping on the plane, a full day in London and a 4 hour bicycle tour in Soweto we go to bed at 7:00 P.M; exhausted.

Johannesburg to Hawange Park, Zimbabwe

2011-07-09T19:23:00.000-07:00

June 24, 2011. Isaac picks us up promptly at 6:00 A.M. to drive us to the Joburg airport. Yesterday he told us that we must leave by 6:00 A.M. or risk hitting traffic that will take us twice as long. We arrive at 7:30 A.M; 3 ½ hours before our flight to Victoria. After checking our bags and getting our boarding passes we find an airport café for breakfast. Refueled, we head towards the security check and along the way John is amused to see a large official entrance way with an illuminated sign designating “Firearm Check-in.”

Fire Arm Check In

South African Airlines

Victoria Falls Airport

Our flight to Victoria boards at 10:15 A.M. and we dutifully line up at gate 20A, hand over our boarding passes and board a bus that takes us out onto the tarmac where our plane waits. The bus regurgitates its load of passengers and we swarm up a rolling double wide metal stair case, show the stewardess our boarding stubs and enter the plane single file. A passenger ahead, finds someone in her seat and calls back to the stewardess to ask if this is the plane to Victoria? It is not. Our entire bus load has been delivered to the wrong plane. There are a few moments of pandemonium as all of us process this information and push back down the rolling metal staircase. We board another bus and are eventually deposited at the correct plane. The two hour plane flight to Victoria is otherwise uneventful and passes quickly. Upon arrival, John and I need double entry visas to enter Zimbabwe, which proves to be to our advantage time wise, since the line for these is much shorter than the single entry visas. We pay our $45 each and are quickly through immigration and met by a Wilderness Safari guide for our drive to Davidson Camp. We are escorted to a 12 passenger mini-van for the first 3 ½ hour, leg of the journey. We travel a steady, 100 kilometers an hour along a two lane highway passing small family compounds of round mud brick houses with reed and thatched roofs. Our driver tells us that the soil on these farms is not good and that this land was recently taken away from the white farmers and given back to the local people. (If I understand correctly, this upheaval happened 6 or 7 years ago.) It is late afternoon and many children are walking along the side of the roadway, returning from school and wearing either red or blue school uniforms. Our driver tells us that most children walk 10 kilometers each day to attend school and that the schools are expensive, costing upwards of $50 each month. He has two children of his own and tells us that it is difficult and expensive to send them to school.

We are stopped at several checkpoints and our driver’s credentials are checked and a toll paid. We learn that mining is a major industry and see coal mines in the distance and flat-topped slag mountains, and when we come to a major town our diver takes the scenic loop. He tells us that this city has 150,000 inhabitants but I do not see a city, only a small town with a bank, several tiny markets but there are nearly 20 churches of various Christian denominations side by side on a stretch of the road leading into the town.

Arriving at Davison Camp – Linkwasha Concession, Hwange, Zimbabwe. June 24-27, 2011. We finally arrive at the main entrance to park, use the simple facilities and switch vehicles. The excitement in John’s eyes is catching and we climb into an open sided Land cruiser and begin our safari. Bully is our driver and Dixon rides shotgun….literally. It is after 4:30 P.M. and the drive to the camp will be another 2.5 hours along dirt roads. Although we are in the national park the Davidson camp is in its own concession. The temperature is dipping rapidly and the wind chill in our open vehicle is biting. We bundle up and wrap ourselves in the provided blankets. Much of the drive is on a hard packed road paralleling the railroad tracks, the demarcation between park and public land. We spot a variety of antelope, mostly impalas, families of wart hogs, giraffes and zebras in the distance. As interesting as all this is, we are cold and very hungry and anxious to arrive at camp. Some 30 minutes from Davison, a family of elephants is blocking the road. We forget our physical discomforts and watch this group for some time. Our vehicle is about 30 feet away and the elephants are keenly aware of us and the bull elephant flaps his ears, sways, snorts and takes several warning steps in our direction. The group soon turns their attention back to foraging the trees lining the road and 20 minutes later, they wander off, allowing us to pass, but this close encounter of the elephant kind is the perfect start to our Zimbabwe adventure.

Road to Hawange National Park

Elephant Welcome

We pull into Davison camp after dark; Andre and Flores welcome us, assist me down from the land rover, and hand us each a hot wet towel to wipe the grime from our faces. A large, welcoming, fire is burning in front of the open air dining-lounge area and there is a lighted watering hole beyond. We drink a small welcoming “sherry” as we fill out indemnity forms and passport information. Andres walks us along a dirt pathway to tent cabin number 4. The semi-permanent tent is erected on a wood platform with support corner beams; it is spacious, with meshed siding on three sides and canvas siding that rolls down for privacy. The en-suite bathroom is a single step up behind the bedroom area, but they have confused our reservations and assigned us a double bed, decorated with leaves and branches, arranged in the shape of a heart. Our luggage will be moved to another tent during dinner, but we are given a few minutes to clean up here and now. One of the safety rules is that guests may not walk alone between the tents and the lounge areas at night, so I request that an armed guide return in 20 minutes to escort us back to the central area. Dinner is served at 8:00 P.M, after Alan and Annette, a couple my age, return from their game drive with their guide Brian. Not surprisingly, they are from California and we enjoy an excellent dinner with them and our host and hostess, the camp managers. The nighttime temperature has dropped to below 1 degree centigrade and after dinner, we stand close to the fire, storing up heat before taking the escorted walk back to our unheated tent cabin. We did not expect that it would be so cold in Africa and we have been wearing our long underwear continually, so we take off our outer wear and slip quickly under the covers. John lets out a joyful exclamation when his feet discover a hot water bottle tucked between the sheets. We both giggle with pleasure, hugging our new best friend and drift off into a cozy sleep.

From Calder to Arcimboldo

2010-10-07T21:30:00.001-07:00

(My first post has mysteriously disappeared.) Nevertheless, Art and I had a marvelous time back East. We attended the Maryland Renaissance Fair on Pirates weekend, and spent two full days exploring and being inspired by the museums and the art that Washington D.C. serves up on golden platters. Calder has always been a favorite of ours, but on this trip we discovered the very "trippy" paintings of 15th century Giuseppe Arcimboldo. 15th century art blended with surrealism. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giuseppe_Arcimboldo

Good Times at the Maryland Renaissance Festival

2010-09-29T18:57:00.000-07:00

Each year, I travel to Annapolis Maryland to meet with my collectors at the Maryland Renaissance Festival. I have had a booth at this fair for nearly 25 years and have built up quite a following. The event is held for 9 weekends each year. Art and I attended last weekend which was "Pirates" weekend. A good time was had by all! There are sill 4 more weekends remaining and the show is great fun! The fair continues weekends only from October 2-3 through October 23-24.

Daintree River

2010-08-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

At 5:45 A.M. there is a knock on our cabin door. I quickly plug in the hot water pot to mix our instant coffee and set the table with cereal bowls and pour orange juice before waking John. We eat our uninspired breakfast sleepily and are in the car at 6:15 to drive to the jetty. It is a gray and drizzly morning, the weather less than promising for our nature river adventure. There are several families waiting at the jetty and an Asian family of 5 departs with another naturalist before us. I have read many reviews before choosing Chris for our river guide and one other family of 4 is booked on our small tour. I surmise that Chris' enthusiasm is to make up for the poor weather and ultimately for the lack of crocodiles. He supplies us with suburb binoculars and points out many birds which are of extreme interest to the other family. John and I are more into reptiles, and I do my best to show enthusiasm over the many king fishers and water birds that are out foraging in this grey dawn.

John and I have glided quietly on many jungle rivers in early light and today's excursion is not rating high on the list but I am genuinely excited to spot several frog mouth owls, huddled together and looking more like dead wood than birds. John looses interest early on, and I glance over to see his eyes drooping and nudge him back into consciousness. It rains lightly and we pull our waterproof jackets closer. There is a break in the weather around the next bend in the river and then more rain. The micro climate is interesting. Sadly, we see no river crocodiles, and have had more than our fill of birds. We understand that we have gambled with the weather and that the crocodiles will not show themselves before the sun. Chris has been a knowledgeable guide and we are not dissatisfied, only slightly disappointed. We pay our $55 apiece and begin our drive up to Cape Tribulation.

Hartley's Crocodile Adventure

2010-07-30T19:31:00.000-07:00

I have reserved a rental car for our two day trip up the coast from Cairns to Daintree and onto Cape Tribulation. The rental car lot is just a three block walk from our hotel and we are quickly on the road. Driving on the left side of the road is easier the second time around and little navigation is required since our route is straight north following Highway 1. It is less than a two hour drive to Daintree where we have reservations for the night so we have a leisurely day ahead. John shuffles through tourist pamphlets and tells me that he would like to go to Hartley's Crocodile Adventure Park. I tell him that it will probably be "lame," but that I am game! An hour later we pull into Hartley's parking lot, pay the $32.00 adult and $16.00 child entry fee and begin our crocodile adventure. We have tickets for the 2:00 P.M. river boat adventure and there are many other "shows" throughout the day. We spend the first hour walking the nature trails; observing lagoons filled with crocodiles, rocky enclosures of monitor lizards and bearded dragons, ponds with black swans and exotic waterbirds and an artificial enclosure of sleepy koala bears. The highlight for me is the "cassowary trail" and I fall in love with these exotic prehistoric birds. John tells me that they can eviscerate us with a swipe of their velociraptor like claws and I have no doubt. They are large and their claws are wicked; just like a velociraptor and with a fierce beak and a large horn upon their head. Their indigo blue and turquoise head feathers contrast with the long drooping blood red waddles and their iridescent black plumage shimmers. Beady eyes dart back and forth and they chortle and emit a deep vibration that sounds like a sub woofer. John is exceptionally good at reproducing sounds and he chortles back and soon the cassowaries and John are deep in conversation. I am not sure if the little girl watching is more fascinated by the cassowary or by John.

When we entered the park we were "warned" that going on the crocodile farm tour could be offensive to some people. I am offended by crocodile purses and shoes, but John reminds me that I eat meat and that these reptiles are farmed and not poached from the wild. We go on the tour and I take it in stride. The crocodiles here have a 3 year life span, much of it spent in the dark where they are quickly fattened and they spend their short life nose to nose with hundreds of mutually doomed crocodiles. Their environment is sterile and free from sharp objects, lest their valuable hide be damaged. The tour is interesting and enlightening.

It's time for our 2:00 P.M. crocodile river adventure and we cruise a loop in the river while the tired and venerable captain threads chicken heads onto a string, extending the delicacies out on a bamboo pole for the river crocodiles to jump for and devour. The crocodiles preform as expected and those of us on board applaud and take the expected photos. We race from this adventure onto the venomous snake show and then onto the crocodile wrestling show. A trainer in his mid 50's, who should know better, wades into the water and provokes an enormous crocodile. We hold our breath as the trainer takes risk after risk, baiting the crocodile with large chunks of meat and stepping out of harms way at the last second. The show is well choreographed and no blood is spilled but my blood pressure rises. We have spent nearly 5 hours here, but I insist on revisiting the cassowaries before we leave and John chortles his final goodbyes.

It is an hour further to Daintree and we pull into the tiny village at dusk. I ask directions to the Kenadon Home-stay cabins; we drive around the next bend and the woman mowing the enormous lawn, is expecting us. There are a half dozen cabins, all on stilts and facing out to the pastoral valley beyond where cows graze placidly. Ours is a sterile pre-fab cabin with a queen bed and three bunk beds. I take possession of the queen bed and John throws his belongings onto the bottom bunk. All is immaculate and I find milk, orange juice, bread and butter within the small refrigerator. Coffee and tea sit beside the electric water pot. We will be able to eat breakfast before our early morning departure on the Daintree River.

We leave our cabin and walk back towards the village to locate the Daintree River jetty where we will meet for our nature tour at 6:30 A.M. tomorrow morning. We find it easily and watch a family fishing off of the jetty. The young boy catches a river eel and we visit with the parents and an old man, tying up his boat. Multiple warning signs are posted prohibiting swimming unless one wishes to be a crocodiles dinner. It is dark when we walk from the jetty into town and the brush along side the road is alive with toads. John thinks they are frogs, but I flash back to Costa Rica and I instantly know that they are cane toads. John has a marvelous skirmish in the leaves trying to catch a toad on our way to dinner.

There is just one restaurant in the village and it adjoins the general store. The menu is minimal but we both enjoy the fried fish and chips.

Cairns at Leisure

2010-07-30T16:36:00.000-07:00

It's a 15 minute walk from our hotel into the heart of the tourist district of Cairns and we have little on our agenda. The day is warm and slightly overcast and we eat lunch at an outdoor cafe on the corner of the center square. The giant fig tree dominates the square; it's "Little Shop of Horror's" tendrils and roots, creeping over the cement wall upon which people are sitting and enjoying the shade. We are not good shoppers, but poke into the many tourist shops and buy a few T-shirts for John and as gifts. The shops end and we cross over a busy boulevard and enter the park adjoining the beach. There are many interconnected swimming pools just inland from the beach and hundreds of people frolic in the shallow water or sunbathe on the adjoining sand or grass. We walk down to the harbor and drool over the incredible yachts in the slips and loop back around into town. We stroll past a drive through liquor store; amusing, and enter an air-conditioned mall. A fashion show is in progress and teen age girls are waking an improvised runway, modeling outfits that I surmise, they have put together. I am not impressed and feel embarrassed for the girls as they are ranked by the crowds applause.

On our walk back to our hotel, we pass other immense fig trees and I stop to take photos of the roots and tendrils. Another couple is taking photos, their cameras pointed high up towards the branches. I have been so focused on the bases of the trees that I have not looked up. There are thousands of flying foxes hanging like ripe fruits from the branches. We saw coveys of similar bats in the mangroves of Flores Island in Indonesia. I surmise that these Australian fruit bats are a foot to a foot and a half in length. The couple cautions us to watch out for bat guano missiles.

Back at our hotel, I do laundry and we have a reasonably good dinner at the hotel restaurant.

Lizard Island

2010-07-28T17:56:00.000-07:00

We are anchored off of Lizard Island and the half moon beach beacons. It's time to leave our Spirit of Freedom dive boat and we divide into two groups, board the Zodiacs and motor to shore. It is a wet landing and we step barefoot from the boat into the water and wade a few steps to shore. Several years back, friends of ours spent a week camping on Lizard Island. They were flown in with all their supplies and enjoyed an idillic stay, snorkeling, hiking and relaxing. There is also a resort on the island where all inclusive prices start at $1500 per day per couple. The campers are not allowed on the resort premises and we will not trespass on resort property today.

As wonderful as the diving was, the equipment was cumbersome and claustrophobic and I enjoy the freedom of walking barefoot along the beach, fine white sand crunching between my toes. The morning is sunny and warm and we take tourist photos beside the Lizard Island Park sign and then follow Mossy inland along the boardwalk. The boardwalk meanders through the mangroves, the trees supported by spider like roots vanishing into sludgy brackish water. All is lush and quiet except for bird songs. We leave the mangroves and take an steep hike up to a view point stopping along the way to watch for lizards and to dine on lemon ants. Mossy demonstrates the technique and asks who would like to try one? Surprisingly, all the Japanese women are quick to volunteer and each in turn bites into the fat torso of an ant. John, not to be outdone, also bites off the torso to taste the lemony "nectar." I am not inclined to try this since I feel empathy for the ants and cannot imagine biting a living something in half. Everyone who eat an ant make a sour face and confers that the taste is bitter, if not lemony. The view from the top overlooks the resort and the bay with a few yachts anchored offshore.

We walk back down towards the beach in the direction of the airstrip. It is late morning and the day is heating up and we are lucky to see one of the Monitor Lizards that this island is known for. It is nearly three feet long and just off to the side of the trail. We are told that these lizards carry a bacteria in their saliva similar to that of the Komodo dragon and that if bitten, one must seek treatment or risk serious infection. John and I doubt the truth of this information and just want to catch and cuddle one.

We wait for our plane in the shady open air "terminal" alongside the airstrip. 30 minutes later, two small planes land, carrying the 20 passengers that will board the Spirit of Freedom for the next leg of it's dive journey. John and I have been advised to sit on the right hand side of the plane and we are second in line to board. The plane will accommodate 12, but there are only 8 of us on board and John and I find seats in the second row on the right side of the plane. The return flight takes two hours and we fly low along the barrier reef. The aerial view is breathtaking; intoxicating turquoise water so transparent and clear that one can see the intricate patterns of the coral below the surface. Where the reef is shallow, ribbons of waves break and tiny islands dot the ocean scape. John is exhausted and his eyes close in spite of the beauty below. I lean over him, absorbing the view and taking many jiggly photos.

Good Bye Spirit of Freedom

2010-07-28T16:19:00.000-07:00

The morning is a flurry of activity as we all prepare to depart the Spirit of Freedom. John and I have had a marvelous time, but I am ready to put my feet on dry land and I am looking forward to hiking on Lizard Island. After breakfast we all meet on the sun deck for group photos and to say good bye to the crew.

Minke Whales

2010-07-20T21:50:00.000-07:00

The morning starts off very much the same as yesterday with a 6:30 A.M. wake up call and a cold breakfast in the dining room. During the night we have motored to Pixie Pinnacle and it is here that I will make my deep water dive for my advanced certification. I am feeling more confident than yesterday and with Lozza at my side, we descend slowly to 90 feet and kneel on the sandy bottom. She pulls out a piece of fruit and writes "What is this?" on her writing board? Yesterday, during my buoyancy test, she had me swimming and balancing apples and I guess that the piece of fruit is an apple? She slices it open with her dive knife and I see that it is actually a tomato. Next she pulls an egg out of her vest and cracks it open and I am surprised to see the yoke and egg white float intact. Lozza bats at the floating mass several times and the egg white continues to hold its shape around the yoke. She gives it a hard whack and it breaks apart and small fish come in to feed on the particles. Except for the distortion of colors and shapes, I feel little difference between this 90 foot dive and the 50' to 70' dives that I did yesterday.

We ascend 30 feet and swim slowly around the pinnacle. Lozza points out camouflaged fish that I would otherwise miss. We see anemones caressing clown fish and stag horn corral with tiny angel fish swimming within the protection of the coral branches. Dozens of garden eels poke their heads from the sand, swaying in the current. There are multitudes of colorful reef fish and a sea snake makes its appearance. Incredible.

We surface and enjoy a hot breakfast while the boat motors to Two Towers. This is where we hope to see the Minke whales. For 6 weeks each year, the Minkes come to the warm waters of the barrier reef to breed and to have their calves. Mossy gives us our instructions for this dive site; we suit up, take the giant step off the back of the boat and descend. Lozza has other required duties during this dive so John and I team up with Mossy as a dive trio and we descend and swim towards the two pinnacles. We spiral around the coral encrusted pinnacle, winding slowly up, absorbing the beauty all around. After exploring both pinnacles, we return to the mooring line where we have been instructed to "hang" and wait for the Minke whales to come to us. Apparently, the Minke whales like the sound of the engine of the boat and are curious about the divers and often come to investigate. 20 of us, hang on the mooring line and wait. We are staggered, holding the mooring line, 20 to 30 feet below the surface and beneath the boat. All I can see is open blue water and the odd fish that has ventured up from the coral below. Many minutes pass and I check my dive calculator to determine my remaining air. I estimate that I have at least 15 more minutes remaining and wait impatiently, peering off into the empty blue. Mossy taps my shoulder and I look in the direction that he is pointing and see a mere shadow of what might be a whale. Several minutes later and perhaps 30 feet away another whale glides past . There is no mistaking this for a shadow and our excitement escalates. Over the next 5 to 10 minutes we see other whales, or perhaps the same one circling the boat? Soon, two whales come into view, but they keep their distance; and then another whale appears and swims beneath us, less than 15 feet away. My remaining air has reached the 50 bar mark and I must begin my ascent, but I know that I will be designing a Minke Whale charm in the near future.

I have worked up an appetite and eat heartily from the lunch buffet; hot mushroom soup, an array of cold salads and a chicken rice pasta. Immediately after lunch I move to a far corner to read my dive manuel and fill out the chapter tests. This is feeling more like work than a vacation, but I am no longer anxious about the diving. As I read, the boat is motoring onto Rod's Rock, our next dive location.

We will have the ultimate Minke experience at Rod's Rock, but as we go through our pre-dive check, John shows me his dive computer and we note that his tank is not completely topped off. I ask John if we should ask the support team to refill his tank but John dismisses me. We descend with our separate buddies; me with Lozza and John with Craig, an experience diver from Kodiak Alaska. We all begin with the usual exploration of the site, following Mossy's pre-dive instructions, poking into crevices and admiring the abundance of marine life. Each dive is more incredible than the last, partially because I am more relaxed and confident and able to focus less on the mechanics of staying alive, and more on the wondrous surroundings. After exploring Rod's Rock we all gather at the mooring line again to "hang" and wait for the Minke whales. I scan the line trying to pick out John from the many other divers; yellow flippers, black wet suit, crew cut? I don't see him, but try to relax certain that he is safe with his dive partner. A whale appears from one direction; a minute passes and another two whales emerge from the abyss and glide below us. There is a tap on my shoulder and I turn to see John. My heart wells with relieve and joy; we are together and will share this incredible whale encounter. John points to his dive computer and I see that he is entering the red zone. We look at my gauge and I have plenty of air; considerably more than I will need. He mimes that he would like to use my reserve air so that he can stay down and watch the whales. Naturally, I offer my emergency regulator to him, delighted that I have air to spare and that we may share this very safe time together, holding onto the mooring line, just 30 feet below the surface. No sooner does John have my emergency regulator in his mouth, than Mossy, taps him on his shoulder and motions him to release the regulator. I was hopeful that this would be allowed, but am not surprised at the restriction. After all, the reserve air is to be there in case of an emergency, and although our conditions toad were relatively safe, I understand the protocol. John's computer dial moves into the red, but he stays down several minutes longer and watches as several whales swim within 10 feet of us. He reluctantly surfaces.

After we are all on deck, John tells me that he continues to watch the whales from the surface; taking huge breaths and plunging down, snorkel style.

Our fourth and final dive for the day is a drift dive. This is a dive that I must complete for my certification. We suit up and it is a challenge to step from the back of our dive boat into the rubber zodiac while wearing the heavy dive equipment. With considerable assistance, I manage to board and not capsize the smaller boat. The zodiac takes us up current to the dive site where we begin our dive.There are 6 divers in each zodiac; three on each side and we are to flip backwards over the edge of the zodiac to enter the water. At the count of three, all three divers on one side, must enter the water in unison. If one hesitates for even a second, the other divers will be bobbing to the surface and a collision of dive tanks may happen. Lozza asks me how I feel about the upcoming exercise? I tell her and my other dive companions that doing this is just about the last thing that I want to do; but that I will do it. Someone counts to three and I call out to HAULT! A minute later, one of the support team, Clara, moves to sit beside me and tells me that she will push me backwards at the count of three. I am apprehensive but grateful that the action is now out of my control. I hear the countdown and I am pushed over backwards. It feels no different from the giant step off the back of the boat and I surface in unison with the other two divers from my side of the boat.

We descend to 58' and catch the drift current. We are a group of four; myself, Lozza, John and Cliff. We drift effortlessly along the edge of a reef with all the wonders of this environment scrolling past us. The current is slow and it is easy to slow our progression when something of interest catches our eye. The stag horn coral is plentiful and I am again enthralled by the miniature angel fish taking refuge within the protective branches. Colorful reef fish are abundant, but again, the clown fish caressing the anemones catch my eye. It is no wonder that Disney choose this endearing fish to be a star in one of his movies.

One of the requirement for my dive certification is to release the emergency "sausage." As our drift dive nears its finish, Lozza motions us into cove apart from the current and we kneel on the sandy bottom. She shows me how to fill the orange dive balloon with air from my regulator. As intended, it pops to the surface, and if this were a true emergency, would signal for help. I take a final swim around a large stag horn coral swarming with miniature angel fish; say my goodbyes to this underwater wonderland and reluctantly surface.

Tonight is our last night onboard and after hot showers we all meet on the top deck for a barbecue. It is a balmy evening and we are moored off of Lizard Island. We lost a few guests due to sea sickness, but those of us still standing have a common shared experience and the conversation flows freely. The wine also flows freely, since there will be no diving in the morning. I am cheered, toasted and presented with my advanced dive certification card. (with reminders that I must turn in my final chapter reviews in the morning.)

When the night air cools, we descend to the inside dining room for more festivities and games. Lozza has been a wonderful dive instructor and I want to give her a piece of my jewelry. I pull her aside and as subtly as possible, spread a collection of my sterling silver ocean charms upon the table. She is delighted and chooses the spread tentacle octopus neckpiece. John is absorbed in a game of Mexican Train with 6 or 7 other passengers and the Japanese group is also celebrating at an adjoining table. One of the Japanese women comes over to take a peek at my jewelry and asks the price of my angler fish with a pearl? She wants to purchase it and her friend wants another one exactly like it. Happily, I am wearing a second one and unhook it from my neck for her friend to purchase.

The celebratory evening is a wonderful closure to a remarkable dive experience.

The Cod Hole

2010-07-20T08:40:00.001-07:00

A cheerful voice announces that it is 6:30 A.M. and I am quickly upstairs for the first breakfast. I down a cup of coffee and eat some yogurt and fruit. We will be served a hot breakfast later, after our first morning dive. At 7:00 A.M. we are all on the dive deck and Mossy explain the logistics of our Cod Hole dive. I have seen the photos of the giant Potato Cod online and I am looking forward to meeting them eye to eye. My advanced dive classes will start this afternoon and until then I am Mossy's dive buddy. I swim behind him around large coral stacks, richly encrusted with thousands of species of pristine coral and teeming with life. I feel extremely privileged to be having this fish eye view of this underwater wonderland but it is a visual overload and I can't absorb or comprehend all that I am seeing. We reach an open sandy bottom area where several large Potato Cod are "hanging" out. They are not as enormous as I expected; but they are wonderful, weighing several hundred pounds each, spotted and with grumpy personable faces.

After a full hot breakfast we are ready for our second dive of the day. This dive is also at the Cod Hole, but this time Mossy will feed the cod and we are instructed to swim in conga line fashion, one diver after the other, until we reach the site. When we reach the site we will sit in a large circle on the sandy bottom and wait for Mossy. So as not to excite the cod prematurely, he will come a few minutes later with the large metal box containing the fish food. Mossy will not be my dive buddy on this dive; and in retrospect, regrettably, I really didn't have a dive buddy since we were all to swim in a continuous line, following one another and to stay together in the circle. On this dive, I again have difficulty submerging and by the time I manage to get below the surface most of the divers are well ahead of me. I struggle to catch up but continue to have difficulty adjusting my buoyancy and fall further behind. I feel panicky and my accelerated breathing makes me especially buoyant and I continue to rise towards the surface. Just when I am certain that I will have to abort the dive, a diver swims up behind me, grabs my hand and pulls me back down. I am relieved and grateful to see that it is John and he guides me into the circle of divers waiting on the sandy bottom. John holds my hand tightly and the woman on my other side grasps my other hand. It is challenging to stay kneeling in one position, made all the more difficult since both of my hands are constrained and I feel like an unbalanced buoyant top. We have been cautioned not to wave our fingers around, lest the cod or the snapper take a bite of our extremities.

When Mossy swims into the center of the circle, the Potato Cod gather excitedly. They know that food is inside the box. Mossy reaches in, pulls out a tidbit of food and releases a morsel in front of each one of us. The enormous cod come within inches of each of our masks to swallow the food, so we have a remarkable, fish eye view of these amazing fish. I wonder how old these huge fish are; how many years it has taken them to grow to these proportions? I will think twice before ordering fish and chips, and only when I am certain that the fishing is sustainable.

We have another elaborate buffet lunch and afterwards, Lozza pulls me aside to discuss the dives that I must complete for my advanced certification. As amazing as the Cod feed was, I remember the panicky feelings I had, left behind on our conga line swim. I am almost in tears and want to forego my advanced dive certification but she is patient and encouraging and ultimately, I am too embarrassed to call it off. I visualize three days from now, still being alive and having completed the certification and I imagine that John will be proud of me. Before I know it, we are suiting up again and I take the dreaded giant step off the back of the boat and submerge, to learn buoyancy control. Lozza teaches me how to regulate my buoyancy simply by inhaling and exhaling. 60 feet below surface, she has me swimming through hula hoops with breath control. When sign language fails, we communicate via a small white board and I soon grasp the techniques necessary to keep myself at at consistent depth.

The 4th dive of the day is to learn navigation via the compass. I am not confident that I can preform these skills on dry ground, in bright light and with reading glasses; but I somehow manage to swim 10 meters in one direction, set my compass and return to the same spot. Again, using the compass she has me swim 10 meters, adjust 90 degrees, and repeat this until I have navigated a square and have returned to my starting point. I suspect that she cut me a little slack, but I pass and she cheers me on!

Diving is exhausting. Simply suiting up with all the cumbersome equipment is exercise enough and I have literally been swimming through hoops today. We must complete one more dive today, a night dive, and I am not looking forward to it. Lozza informs me that I must stay below for 20 minutes and preform some simple tasks. I agree, but request that we surface after the 20 minutes. I expect the dive to be frightening but flood lights from the boat illuminate a vast area over the rear of the boat. We descend via the mooring line with our torches aglow. Since my buoyancy dive class, I feel that I have turned a corner and I have much more confidence and a better sense of my equipment. I am surprised at all that I can see and quickly adjust to the magic of the night. There are animals out tonight that are not out during the day. Lozza shines her light into crevices; illuminating unusual creatures at every turn. Earlier today, I was overwhelmed by the visual intensity of the reef; but at night, one can focus on each crevice individually. We see eels, scorpion fish, giant clams and sleeping white tipped reef sharks. After 20 minutes, Lozza leads me back to the mooring line and we ascend. In retrospect, it was the most magical of dives and I wish that I had stayed below until my air was depleted. John ascends 20 minutes later with tales of mystery, imagination and carnage. The night dive was also his favorite and he tells me that wherever he directed his torch, an otherwise camouflaged fish would become a target of prey.

I have completed 5 dives today and I feel empowered and exhausted. Except for the family with the two daughters, most everyone is at dinner tonight and over their sea sickness. One of the daughters was so ill and dehydrated that the family was motored to Lizard Island in the afternoon and flown back to Cairns. Dinner is incredible; and I don't think that my perception is only due to my exertion. We dine on Alaskan salmon, curried rice noodles and bock choy. I am grateful that the fish on tonights menu is not cod.

The Spirit of Freedom

2010-07-18T16:26:00.000-07:00

The Spirit of Freedom van picks us up at our hotel promptly at 11:05 A.M. It is a short drive to the Cairns dock where we board the Spirit of Freedom dive boat. The boat is lovely; 122 feet long, beautifully maintained and accommodates up to 24 passengers in 11 cabins. We have a brief orientation and meet the 11 crew members onboard; all with specific duties to make our three night dive experience pleasant and rewarding. We meet our fellow passengers, half of whom are Japanese and speak little English. Also among the passengers is one family with two teen age girls, age 17 and 19. John immediately introduces himself to the girls and although they are somewhat shy, I have no doubt that John will win them over by the end of the trip. John and I are in separate state rooms, each of us sharing a quad room. I bunk with 2 of the Japanese woman, the third Japanese woman apparently unable to make the cruise. John shares a room with three other men; one Canadian, one Japanese and one from the Netherlands.

A gourmet buffet lunch is served as we motor north towards our first dive site. Lunch is an array of cold salads, a huge platter of plump shrimp and a hot chicken curry with rice. All is delicious, but I refrain from overeating since the ocean is a bit rough and I know that I have two dives ahead. I have committed to taking my advanced dive certification on this trip. It has been nearly two years since I earned my PADI certification and I have not had the opportunity to dive since. My rational is that by taking the advanced certification, I will get personal attention and feel more secure during the dives. Lozza is my instructor and after lunch we go over the dive manual, discuss the upcoming dives and she assigns me reading and homework. Lozza is a pretty and dynamic woman in her mid 30's and I like her immediately. Over the next several days, she will patiently instruct, encourage and push me through the certification process. Thank you Lozza!

By 3:30 P.M. we arrive at our first dive site and "Mossy" heads the orientation on the dive deck. I surmise that he is in his mid 30's; witty, personable and commanding. We are each assigned a bench station where we will store our gear and behind which our tanks and B.C.D.’s are secured. John and I are renting most of our equipment and it is on this first test dive that our equipment is assigned, wet suits fitted, weight belts adjusted, etc. Once everyones equipment is assigned and sorted, we suit up for our first dive. The equipment is cumbersome, the tank extremely heavy and I am very anxious. I maneuver carefully down the rear steps of the boat, put my regulator into my mouth, hold my mask in place and take the dreaded long step off the back of boat. All goes relatives well; air flows through my BCD as promised and my mask doesn't fog or leak, but submerging is problematic and I have difficultly deflating my BCD and getting below the surface. Mossy is both John's and my dive buddy and once I am below the surface, I relax and I swim happily along side of Mossy, secure it the thought that should something go awry, he will be able to assist me. John is completely comfortable in this wonderland of lush coral and brilliant fish. There will be a second dive at this same spot at 6:00 P.M. John tells me that he doesn't want to be my dive buddy and I agree whole heartedly. I want him to be buddies with an experienced diver and not be dependent on me for his safety. John goes on the 6:00 P.M. dive and I take a hot shower and read over my dive manuel. It is nearly dark when he surfaces and I am waiting anxiously on deck when John finishes his second dive.

As soon as everyone is onboard; and there is a strict protocol to insure that no one is left behind in "open water," the boat pulls up anchor and begins motoring north. We will motor all night and the majority of our dives will be at the edge of the ribbon reef, off shore of Lizard Island. The seas are a little rocky and several of the guests are looking green. The two girls have disappeared below and we learn that the older girl is very sea sick. Mossy passes around sea sick tablets, encouraging those still standing to take them. John and I are not usually prone to sea sickness, but we split a precautionary two tablet dose and enjoy our dinner. Thick and tender steaks, mashed potatoes and salad are on the menu. I am a little disappointed that only a third of the passengers are well enough to eat dinner tonight. John would have enjoyed playing card games with the girls, but many of the passengers are sick in their cabins or filling the bio degradable paper bags with vomit and chumming the fish at the back of the boat.

Transition - Desert Outback to Coral Reef

2010-07-18T13:43:00.000-07:00

After nearly two weeks of winter weather, we are thrilled with the balmy weather in Cairns. John literally dances down the steps from the plane and across the blacktop of the Cairns airport. The air is warm and humid and promises tropical adventure. It is only a $20 taxi ride from the airport to the Discovery Cairns Hotel and we are deposited at our hotel within minutes. Our reservations are in order and we quickly put our luggage into our room and head into town. We have shed our sweaters and jackets and with a spring in our steps, walk the 15 minutes to the heart of the tourist district. A gigantic fig tree graces the center square, it's roots climbing up and over the walled cement enclosure that presumably confines it. Couples sit upon the wall, enjoying the magic of the evening. It is 8:30 on a Sunday evening, but the shops in this area are still open and we poke into several and purchase an appliqued, cut out, butterfly blouse to take back for Alisha. We choose an outdoor cafe for dinner; invitingly ambient and adjacent to the art museum. We dine on their raised outdoor patio, enjoying excellent food. At 9:00 P.M. the shops start to close and the parade of people diminishes as we finish our late night dinner.

Laid Back in Alice

2010-07-13T20:09:00.000-07:00

We’ve had an intense several days so a leisurely morning is most welcome. At 9:00 A.M. I tiptoe down to the dining room and find it closing, but am able to scrounge a cup of coffee and I sit and write. I wake John at 11:00 A.M. and we arrange for a taxi to take us to the Desert Park Museum; a $20 taxi ride as well as a $20 entrance fee. There are no local busses and we must wait an hour for our taxi.

We have heard good things about the Desert Park Museum, but are disappointed. We stroll the designated walkways, dutifully reading the information signage with as much enthusiasm as we can muster. The kangaroos are even lethargic, hopping away only when John steps a little too close for their comfort. We watch the park’s 20 minute information film, a very amateuristic overview that leaves us more confused than informed. To give some credit, the nocturnal house is well presented and we spend an hour viewing the dimly illuminated habitats in search of spiniflex mice and other illusive and endangered rodents. Their reptile exhibit is within the nocturnal house and included in their collection is a habitat housing 3 thorny devil lizards. We are happy to have a second, more leisurely opportunity to watch these amazing camouflaged armored lizards. We end our visit at the bird show, watching birds of prey soar in from the sidelines, snatching tidbits of meat mid air.

This is the weekend for the annual Alice Spring Show, which is equivalent to a county fair. We catch a return shuttle from the Desert Park Museum and request to be dropped off at the “Show.” It is exactly 5:00 P.M. when we enter the gates and we are delighted that admission is free after five. The exhibit halls are beginning to close but we have time to spend 30 minutes wandering through local exhibits of photography, needlework, and baking. Another hall houses the vendors and nonprofit booths. John and I both halt at a table where a magazine is open to a marine iguana article. The title of the article is “Imps of Darkness.” It takes us a moment to grasp that all the pamphlets on this table are about Creationism and we gather up a pile of brochures answering questions about natural selection, continental drift and “How did Noah fit all the animals onto his arc?” We read these later and find them well written, thought provoking and somewhat amusing.

The exhibit halls close and John and I wander outside to the carnival. There is an excited energy in the air as dusk descends and the bright lights of the amusement rides flash and twirl. This is a big weekend for the locals of Alice Springs and the young people are out in droves. There are groups of both white and Aboriginal youths, and the air is thick with the aroma of sweat mingled with cotton candy, corn dogs and popcorn. One can quickly loose $5.00 at any number of arcade games and John plays one ball toss. John and I are an oddity, but John’s self confidence allows him to boogie freely to the music while a group of young Aborigines children stand by watching shyly.

An hour later, on our way out, we pass a boxing arena. A garish canvass tent is erected and a weather worn hawker stands on a wooden platform above the tent’s doorway, loud speaker in hand, beckoning the public to challenge the fighters. Also standing upon the sagging wooden platform and wearing skimpy satin yellow shorts and capes are the fighters, strutting and flexing their muscles and doing their best not to shiver in the chill of the night. John wants to watch the fights and although it may not be my thing; I understand that he boxes at home and that this is important to him. It is long past dark and very cold and the hawker is doing an excellent job of gathering a crowd. I wish for the selection of challengers to be quick, but this is a carnival and the hyped up selection takes over an hour. 6 fighters are matched with 6 local challengers and the tent doors open. There is a frenzy of excitement and John and I go with the flow of bodies, pay our $15.00 each and find a place to watch, standing in the red dirt, at the edge of the ring. There are slightly over 100 spectators and all of us get a prime viewing position. There are 6 fights, 3 rounds each and John is enthusiastic and cheers the contenders on. The next hour passes slowly for me; but no one is seriously hurt or terribly humiliated and after the show, we exit the tent and head off to find a taxi back to our hotel. John pleads with me, asking to stay for the second fight and be a challenger, but I insist that we return to town. The traffic exiting the show grounds is bumper to bumper and there are no taxis in sight. I eventually spot one pulling out of a parking space and negotiate a flat rate. As it turns out, our taxi driver was off duty, also watching the fight, so our fare is an unexpected bonus for him. He drops us at the Bo Jangles Saloon, a colorful eating establishment and pub. I treat John to a steak and I order the less expensive vegetarian lasagna; not the best choice in a Town like Alice. John’s steak is excellent the wood burning stove, adjacent to our table, takes the chill off of me.

We have another leisurely day to spend in Alice Springs; more time than we wish for. Our flight to Cairns is not until 5:30 P.M. After checking out of the hotel we walk the 15 minutes into town and enjoy flat white coffees and egg, cheese and bacon sandwiches at the Red Dog Café. It is Sunday and their version of a craft market stretches several blocks along the main promenade. Knitted pot holders, commercial jewelry, soaps, scarves and the scarce, artist made product, are for sale. The day is overcast with a slight drizzle and I am happy that I don’t have a booth here. I believe that if I did, I might blow the shoppers out of the water, but John tells me I would just get robbed. I know that when I travel, I am usually disappointed in the lack of quality souvenirs to purchase. There are virtually no good quality sterling silver or gold, kangaroo, camel, platypus or thorny devil charms for sale in the entire town. One sees a smattering of poorly designed and hollow charms, but nothing that a well heeled traveler would want to take home as a memento. I have no desire to live in Alice Springs, but I believe that I could fill a much needed niche here.

With time to kill, John and I walk into a market in search of lemon myrtle spice. It takes two markets to locate it, but we leave with a small, $9.00 tin in our possession. It’s now time to catch the shuttle to the airport for our 5:30 P.M. flight to Cairns.

Way Out Back Safari - Day 3; Watarrka to Alice Springs

2010-07-13T19:35:00.000-07:00

We have the luxury of sleeping in until 7:00. The coffee is passable and while the men eat cold cereal and toast; Elizabeth wraps leftover chicken and veggies in foil and places the packets in the fire. She and I enjoy these leftovers for breakfast and are well fortified for our climb up through Watarrka, (Kings Canyon.)

The King Canyon trek is 7 kilometers and the initial climb is termed “heart attack hill.” I make the climb easily with a slow and steady pace. The rain has cleared during the night and the morning is sunny and mild. We hike through the towering, red rock canyon walls, pass through gaps and crevices and traverse open plateaus. The vistas are breathtaking, as is the hike, demanding many up’s and down’s along the way. K7After reaching the top plateau, we descend a wooden stairway, several hundred meters down into a canyon oasis lush with palms and a flowing creek. Following the boardwalk path, we reach a large swimming hole, rest upon the rocks and enjoy a snack of chocolate chip biscuits. John edges crab like around the sheer ledge of the swimming hole, sure footed and testing his climbing skills. I consider the possibility that he may slip and fall into the icy water; but know that this would only result in his embarrassment, not in injury, and I watch with pride and amusement.

Our out back adventure ends tonight and we have over 350 kilometers left to travel. Before starting the long drive back to Alice Springs, we stop for lunch and “fire up the Barbie.” “Mystery bags” and hamburgers are on this noon’s menu. I pass on the “mystery bags,” (sausages,) opting for an open faced cheese-burger piled high with grilled onions, peppers, and tomatoes.

Much of the trip back is in 4 wheel drive, along a well graded dirt road, a wide scar of red slicing through the sparse landscape. Australian oak trees and coolabah thrive in this flat, dry land. These oak trees look nothing like our California oaks; the young ones, narrow and torpedo shaped, have roots that shoot straight down many meters in search of ground water. Having reached water, the trees grow round in maturity. Low grasses and shrubs blanket the burnt orange landscape, the brush a varying pallet of dusty green, teal and olive. Tony spots a flock of black cockatoos in the distance and maneuvers our land cruiser and trailer up and over the raised dirt shoulder, navigating around the brush for us to get a closer look. The flock is absorbed in foraging for seeds on the ground and we get quite close. When they take flight, to the safety of a coolabahs grove, their tail feathers flair and we glimpse a brilliant splash of red.

Our final stop is at Jim’s place, another cattle station where we have the dubious honor of meeting, ________, the singing dingo. ______ is now in old, bad tempered and retired. We are warned to keep our distance. With our trip close to an end, I ask Elizabeth and David the appropriate amount to tip our guide, Tony. They inform me that tipping is not expected or appropriate and that he might feel embarrassed. If I wish to give him anything, they suggest a bottle of wine or small gift. I have brought a few sterling silver charms along with me and I discretely pull out a bearded dragon on a chain and tuck it in my pocket.

We arrive back at our Alice Springs hotel at 6:30 P.M. John and I are the first to be dropped at our hotel, All Season’s Oasis’. Our two bags are quickly off loaded and we say our awkward goodbyes. I thank Tony and hand him the silver bearded dragon charm. He looks a little confused, but I explain that I have made it and his features soften and he gives me a hug.

Way Out Back Safari - Day 2

2010-07-13T19:17:00.000-07:00

Tony wakes us before dawn so that we will have time to break camp and drive to the overlook where we hope to watch the sunrise over Kata Tijuta. It is freezing cold and he has started a welcome fire, but with the time constraint, breakfast consists of only cold cereal and bad coffee. Sugar and milk do little to camouflage the bitter taste, but I am at least awake enough to roll up my swag. We drive 30 minutes to the overlook positioned half way between Uluru (Ayers Rock) and Kata Tijuta, (the Olgas) and follow a boardwalk path uphill to a vista point to await the sunrise. Dawn creeps in quietly and the two immense rocks change colors gradually; a spectacular sight of morphing colors and velvety shadows; purple, salmon, pink, orange and red. Visually satiated, we drive to the base of Kata Tijuta for a 7 kilometer hike through the “Valley of the Winds.” Except for the chilling cold and harsh winds in exposed gaps, this morning’s hike is my favorite. The sky is clear of clouds, adding to the chill factor, but the morning sunlight dramatizes the rock formations. John is layered in a capalini, a T-shirt, a flannel and his windproof jacket but is uncomfortably cold in spite of the exertion required for the hike. Two hours into the climb we stop at a spectacular vista and Tony dolls out granola bars and oranges, a welcome mid-morning snack. It is only now that we spot one other group of hikers. Tony has us on a strict schedule, which keeps us away from the throngs of other hikers. The hike takes us 3 ½ hours and we enjoy private breathtaking vistas.

It is 11:30 A.M. when we return to the parking area, now filled with tour busses and 4 wheel drive vehicles. We retrace our drive back through the Uluru resort area on route to tonight’s campsite. Elizabeth and I both wish for a real cup of coffee and while Tony fills the Land Cruiser with petro, we buy flat white coffees and snacks at the Uluru resort center. An hour later, we stop at Curtin Springs station and break for a picnic lunch. We team together and again make sandwiches and I wander the back sections of this immense station, admiring the farm machinery and a few loaded road trains. A road train is a long chain of flat cars, loaded and hitched together and powered by a Semi-Truck engine; an Australian phenomena.

By late afternoon, cloud bursts dampen the landscape and the sky has grown ominously grey. Tonight’s campsite will be near Kings Canyon National Park but we need more fire wood before we make camp. Tony veers off the paved road, in search of Mulga wood. He finds a suitable grove and John morphs into the Karate Kid, uprooting rotting trees with one kick and jumping on the downed branches to break them into manageable pieces. Tony loads the wood atop the trailer with cigarette in hand.

We arrive at a campground around 5:00 P.M. and all take showers before our planned drive out to our private campsite. It has rained heavily here and the ground is sodden and muddy.

After our showers, Tony expresses concern about the weather; that if it continues to rain during the night, we might not be able to drive out in the morning. Elizabeth is also concerned about the rain and Tony informs us that we may choose to stay in one of the permanent tents belonging to Connections Tour. Somewhat disappointed, but agreeable to the consensus, I agree to this solution. Connections has an empty site on the edge of the campground consisting of a half dozen small tents surrounding a screened in cooking and dining tent. John and I choose one small tent, equipped with cots and mattresses and unroll our sleeping bags. Tony starts a fire which is soon blazing and we team together to cut vegetables to duplicate last night’s vegetable stew. Tony busies himself preparing the chicken with lemon myrtle, his bottle of port close by to assist him in his culinary magic. All is cooked in cast iron pots nestled in the coals of the fire. Dinner is exceptional again; the lemon myrtle spices in the chicken a unique flavor that we all marvel at. Tony has planned a second course and after dinner, he holds a kangaroo tail over the fire, burning the hair off the hide. He then wraps the tail in foil and buries it in the coals. I surmise that he is cooking this delicacy for the benefit of John and John is politely determined to stay awake until the tail is cooked. I turn in before the sampling, but can hear their muffled talk from the confines of my tent. John comes to bed an hour later, not entirely impressed with the flavor and texture of kangaroo tail; extremely oily and sinewy.

Way Out Back Safari - Day 1

2010-07-13T19:07:00.000-07:00

The room has no alarm and I have no watch but my inner clock wakes me 15 minutes before our wake up call. We packed our gear last night and are quickly showered and dressed and waiting outside at 5:45 A.M. It is still dark with a lean bearded man, wearing a typical outback Aussie hat arrives to pick us up. I am delighted that our guide fits my stereotypical image. His face is weathered and his very long beard fades from brown to grey. He loads our one suitcase in a trailer towed behind a Toyota land cruiser and we hop onboard; John in the front seat beside Tony and I in the back seat beside David and Elizabeth; the only others on our tour. They are from Newcastle and have been “partners” for some years but just got married in Alice Springs. He is a doctor and she is a nurse and they prove to be congenial and interesting travel companions.

It is not yet dawn and we have over 500 kilometers to drive to Ayres Rock. David, Elizabeth and I chat and John naps. Our first stop is about 100 kilometers into our drive, at a camel station where we drink bad coffee and eat breakfast sandwiches. A cold dawn is just breaking and we are the first tourists to arrive at this station. Until today, I didn’t know that camels were a part of Australia’s history and are still a necessity within the Australian outback. There are literally hundreds of thousands of camels in the outback and many feral herds. Beautiful, doe eyed camels, stretch their necks through the steel paddock rails and John has his first camel experience. He too is charmed by their soft muzzles and huge inquisitive eyes and tells me that he thought that all camels were nasty tempered and spit? There are several colts in the paddock and we pat and nuzzle their soft necks and heads. Unlike the battle scarred camels in Egypt, these camels are well tended and with gentle demeanors. For $6.00 one can ride a camel and I buy two tickets and John and I circle the ring atop a camel. The camel has a double seated saddle with metal grips both front and back and we mount and are thrust forcefully forward and jerked back as our camel rises. I am delighted that John is delighted with his first camel encounter.

Our second stop is at the Mt. Ebenezer Roadhouse where we stretch our legs, drink instant coffee and use the toilet. It is obvious that Tony is a heavy smoker by his nicotine stained teeth and fingers and he takes these opportunities to smoke. We are 300 kilometers into our trip and he talks about the country as we drive. He is anxious to please and well informed about history and the environment, although his thick Aussie accent makes him difficult to understand. A hundred kilometers further on we stop at another cattle station and Tony encourages us to buy wine or beer for our two nights camping in the bush. It will be our only opportunity and he recommends the “F__ing Good Port” and purchases two bottles for himself. I buy one bottle of red wine and one of white wine from the minimal selection behind the counter, regretting that I did not purchase wine in town, certain that the prices are higher at this remote station.

Our next foray is to gather firewood for tonight’s campfire and Tony veers off the paved road and we bump along in 4 wheel drive through scrubby landscape until we come to an area with Mulga trees. John is our ”gatherer” and happily rises to the challenge, running full speed at the scraggly trees, karate kicking and uprooting them and jumping on the downed branches and breaking them into manageable sizes. Tony loads the wood atop the trailer, wrapping it securely in a canvass with one hand, while smoking a cigarette in the other.

We admire Mt. Atila from our moving vehicle, a mesa table land and the first significant rock formation of our trip. Unfortunately, the day is overcast and cold and although the rocks glow a deep red, I know that our visual experience is not as stunning as it might be if it were sunny. We enter Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park at noon and have a picnic lunch within the campground. Our trailer has two fold up sides and our food is stored in bins and coolers within. We team together to cut tomatoes and cucumbers and spread bread with butter and mustard, layering pastrami in between. Tony opens a can of pickled beets and we add them to our sandwich. Not my usual fare, but quite delicious.

Before taking a base walk or climbing the rock of Uluru, we are expected to visit the Aboriginal Cultural Center. My expectations are low, but I am very impressed with the sensitive presentation of cultural information. The center is architecturally striking, and we spiral through chambers of terracotta walls with a wooden roof; an open gap between roof and walls. Continuous word and picture graphs scroll along the top of the wall and recorded indigenous chants resonate throughout. The various creation stories are depicted along the way. We spend over an hour here but I grow anxious, wanting to walk around the rock and not just read about it. The Aborigines discourage tourists from climbing Uluru, but John wants very much to make the climb. David, Elizabeth and I want to walk the base. At 3:15 P.M. We drop John at the base of the climb and watch a steady stream of tourists ascending the immense, 875 meter high rock. I am justifiably worried, but know that John must do this. Tony tells us that soon the rock will be closed to all climbing and although Tony also discourages climbing, he understands John’s desire to do so. The first several hundred meters are without a chain grip and John sprints up this section, supplied with a large bottle of water and our last remaining nutrition bar stuffed in his backpack. We watch and I take photos from afar as John ascends the rock, sillouetted against the grey sky, just one in a stream of ants making this climb. Several hundred meters from the base, a chain grip rail is secured along the route to assist the climbers in their ascent. David, Elizabeth, Tony and I take a base walk partially around this immense rock. There are sections of the rock that have spiritual significance to the Aborigines and the path skirts widely out from these areas and photography is forbidden. The enormity of the rock is impressive and I take many photos, but each photo is a mere pixel of the vast scene. There are several cordoned off sections protecting Aboriginal rock paintings but the highlight of the hike is when we enter a gap between the rocks and come to a natural spring. A gully cuts down from cliff above and the rocks are stained with minerals deposited from eons of rainfall. We spend a serene few minutes in this magical spot.

Two hours later, we drive back around to the parking area below the climb and I am relieved to spot John trotting towards us. He got back down just a few minutes earlier and is excited to tell us about it. He sprinted up to the top, walked along the crest and rested for 30 minutes, reflecting on the vistas and talking to another young man his age. The descent was the hardest and when the two boys reached the base and the other teen goes to meet up with his father, the father is wearing a Tucson Gem and Mineral shirt; their conversations evolves from there.

We drive to a vista platform where all tours, large and small, go to watch the sunset over Uluru. There are several huge busloads, many with barbeques raging and all with glasses of champagne. These are the single day tours out of Alice Springs; 1000 kilometers round trip, returning to Alice Springs after midnight. The 5 of us walk up to the far view point; Tony opens the champagne and we stand and wait for the sunset; which is sadly disappointing on this overcast evening.

We drive to our first camp site and Tony drives around the campground giving us a lay of the site and pointing out toilets and showers. Surrounding these permanent facilities are many permanent tent campsites, all with each tour companies name on its designated area. I am disappointed until Tony drives off a ways into the bush. I have paid extra to NOT have a tent and to not be a part of a large group. Out of sight and ear shot from the permanent tent camps is the Way Out Back Safari’s campsite. It consists of a modest but permanent covered eating area, two tables and small outdoor kitchen with running water. The night is extremely cold and the first item on the agenda is to light the campfire. Tony and John soon have it blazing and Tony hauls out our swags for our bedding. They are tightly rolled canvass swags and we sit on them as we gather around the fire. We need coals to cook our dinner and as the fire burns, Tony chops root vegetables, putting them in a cast iron pot and nestling the pot in the glowing coals of the campfire. He is well into his bottle of port, but this seems to make him function more efficiently and he soon has water boiling in another pot and kangaroo meat sauce simmering. We enjoy a marvelous kangaroo pasta dinner accompanied by the most delicious roasted vegetables that I have ever eaten.

After dinner Tony demonstrates how to make up our swag beds. A swag is a heavy canvass covering protecting a modest foam mattress. We unroll our swags and slip freshly laundered sheets over the mattress. We are each provided with a sleeping bag, smelling sweetly of laundry detergent and we place these inside our canvass swags. We have enjoyed a full day and a lovely dinner and the fire is burning low. We crawl into our sleeping bags, zip our swags tightly around us and fall asleep beside fire. I wake several hours later and gaze up at a full moon and a star filled sky.

A Town Called Alice

2010-07-13T18:40:00.000-07:00

We catch a 6:30 A.M shuttle to airport for our flight from Melbourne to Alice Springs. Except for a 30 minute departure delay, our flight is uneventful and we land at 11:30 A.M. A shuttle bus waits outside the unassuming airport and I purchase two round trip tickets for $38; $20 less than the posted rate, even when I tell the aging, stocky and weathered driver that John is 17. She cackles and says that he looks more like 14 unless I just want to pay more? When possible, we sit in the front of a bus but I soon regret our seating choice as this woman chatters continuously, suggesting sightseeing excursions for us during our stay. Her demeanor sours somewhat when I tell her that we have already booked a three day “Way Out Back” camping safari. She tells me that husband leads adventure tours and I surmise that chatting up travelers on the shuttle into town is a good way of snaring clients for their business.

Our All Season’s Oasis Hotel is quite adequate except that the main pool is empty for the winter. As it turns out it will be too cold to want to swim, but I am somewhat disappointed. We drop our luggage into the room and walk the 15 minutes into town. Todd Street is the main drag with a number of outdoor cafes, several pubs, many tourist shops and a few fine art galleries showcasing Aboriginal art. There are three main blocks along the outdoor promenade and we choose the Red Dog Café for lunch. John orders a kangaroo burger and a coke and I order a quiche with salad; $34.00. His Kangaroo burger is quite good; probably a better choice for this territory than the quiche.

We stroll through the shops and galleries and I am quite impressed with much of the Aboriginal painting. The price tags are certainly impressive and the range of talent is diverse. One can buy a small un-stretched tourist quality painting for under $100, or spend anywhere between $6000 – 48,000 on some larger works by famous Aboriginal artists. We head towards the Reptile Center, passing through a park where small groups of Aborigines sit, picnicking. Most of the women are quite overweight with barrel shaped bodies and spindly legs. They wear knee length, colorful print rayon skirts and miss-matched blouses and sweaters. The men are also barrel chested with very thin legs. Their facial features are unique; flat featured, with very round cheeks and chins.

We visit the Reptile Center, a privately owned establishment with a good collection of Australian snakes and lizards. John and I immediately fall in love with the small, Thorny Devil Lizard. They are between 5”-6” long, armored with a camouflage pattern of orange, brown, black and sand; a coloring that presumably makes them invisible to predators in most desert habitats. They have a false head at the back of their necks and walk with slow contemplative steps. John reaches into the open topped enclosure and picks one up gently.

Returning to our hotel, I wash clothes and we eat an unmemorable dinner in the hotel restaurant. We will be picked up at 5:50 A.M. tomorrow morning for our three day camping safari to Ayres Rock and vicinity.

Three Days Along The Great Ocean Road - Day 3

2010-07-13T18:20:00.000-07:00

We leave our hotel at 7:45 and stop at a small non-descript café for coffee and egg and bacon sandwiches to go. I use the internet for 15 minutes, add a bottle of water to our bill and pay $28.00. The morning sun is low and blinding as I retrace our path back to Melbourne. Near Geelong, we take the turn off to Bells Beach, a famous surfing spot and watch the surfers for a few minutes.

Melbourne is less than an hour away and after filling our rental car with gas, John navigates me back to the rental car return. We get seriously lost in a distant suburb of Melbourne, but eventually find our way back to the center of town; drop our luggage off at the Citigate Hotel and return the car undamaged. We have lost an hour in our unintended detour and grab hamburgers at the nearby McDonalds and catch a taxi to the Melbourne aquarium. The aquarium is built along the promenade of the river in the heart of down town. The cityscape along the waterfront is beautiful in the afternoon light, glass and steel sky scrapers reflected in the water and suspension bridges spanning the river. John and I are aquarium connoisseurs and although this one is decent, it is not great. The exhibits are a little dark and tired; although there are some wonderfully endearing fish on display. Naturally, the angler fish is one of my favorite and I take photos of this grumpy guy wedged down in a corner of his tank. We admire the impossibly ugly stone fish and the remarkable weedy and leafy sea horses. There is an excellent penguin exhibit and we end our visit watching both king penguins and a smaller breed of very playful and curious penguins cavort on the snow of their enclosure. The smaller penguins swim, miniature torpedoes in their pool that has a viewing section so that we may watch their underwater maneuvers.

John needs a new backpack and we pick one up on the walk back to our hotel. We freshen up a bit and walk out again in search of dinner. Directly across from our hotel is the main train station and we cross through it and over a bridge to a lovely waterfront shopping and eating mall. There are many upscale restaurants and John chooses an elegant Japanese one offering a theatre menu pris fix. We are under dressed, but are graciously seated by the window overlooking the sparkling river. Our two meals are excellent and our bill is just under $60.00 It is the best meal we have eaten.

Three Days Along The Great Ocean Road - Day 2

2010-07-13T18:06:00.000-07:00

I always rise first, shower quickly and then wake John. By 7:30 A.M. we are driving towards Port Campbell in search of coffee and breakfast. The morning dawn is just breaking and I tell John to keep an eye out for wild life. We spot several kangaroos foraging for food along the roadside and then a large “mob” of them off in a distant field. We are giddy with delight and watch as they take off, bounding across the hillside. They stop at the crest of the hill, silhouetted against the ever brightening sky, watching us.

This Great Ocean Road drops down to the coast and the morning light casts a magical light on the golden cliffs and the indigo water. We arrive at the Twelve Apostle’s national park and walk along the scenic boardwalk taking photos of the freestanding rock stacks only partially lit by the morning sun. The coastline is breathtakingly beautiful and the day promises to be mostly sunny. We continue onto Port Campbell and are happy when we find an open breakfast café. The coffee is strong and the food good.

We continue the scenic drive up the coast towards Peterborough. The morning light is magical and we stop at most of the turn outs and hike short loops and pathways to viewpoints; Grotto, London Bridge, Arch Loch and Ard Gorge. I am most grateful for my new jacket and John and I bundle tightly for these chilly and windswept walks.

Grotto is as one might expect; a cave and archway hollowed away in the red sandy cliffs. Last night’s rain has coated slippery pathway with orange-red muck and it oozes into the cleats of John’s hiking boots and colors the hems of our jeans. A wooden staircase descends to the grotto and a roarshock reflection in a still pool of water, doubles our pleasure. Beyond the grotto, the surf swirls and crashes.

London Bridge is a rather new landmark, the bridge section of this tremendous arch having recently fallen into the sea, stranding a number of hikers out on the island archway. They were eventually rescued and gratefully, no one was on the connecting bridge way when it collapsed. London Bridge is reminiscent of our 4 mile beach in Santa Cruz, only more monumental. Some years down the line, this arch will collapse, adding two more “Apostles” to the Great Ocean Road.

Our final stop is at Ard Gorge and we have many loop trails to choose from. We walk the upper windswept loop with vast view expanses of the sea beyond; the boggy terrain alongside the pathway a varied pallet of green, purple and orange foliage. A trail descends some distance to the beach beyond and John chooses that fork. It is a long hike but well worth the time and effort. Instead of simply admiring the striking golden cliffs and crashing ocean; the pathway deposits us upon the cliffs just above the beach. This section of the coastline is described as “Shipwreck Coast” and for good reason. The powerful surf is frightening and I call to John to stay back from the edges of the rocks, but my voice is drowned out by the fury of the waves as he scurries over the rocks and disappears from sight. I walk along the low rock cliff, safely back from the pounding surf, saying a quiet prayer, that John will take caution and reappear shortly. I am alone and awed by the beauty and power of this impressive coastline.

We must turn back for our return drive to Melbourne but we make a second stop at the 12 Apostles to view the rock stacks in full light. I search for gas in Lavers Hill and fill my near empty tank and we eat a mediocre hamburger at a roadside bar. I am told that we will find koalas if we take the turn off onto Light House Road and drive to the tip of Cape Otway. It is 2:30 P.M. when we reach the turn off and we drive slowly down a well maintained gravel road through a lush eucalyptus forests. It is 12 kilometers to the light house but as we get near I spot a grove of eucalyptus with sparse foliage. I was instructed to look for this and I pull over and turn off the engine. Across the road and high up in a tree, I see a telltale bump resting in a forked branch. We are delighted when the bump morphs into a leaf munching koala. I point out another bump in the next tree over. Not to be outdone, John takes up the search and we walk deep into the grove and are rewarded by multitudes of koalas. Soon the sightings seem common place and we return to our car satisfied. As I pull out, a branch hangs low across the road, weighted with yet another koala. I pull over again and take close up and photos of this delightful marsupial. We drive down to the lighthouse, but the entry fee is $15.00 each and lighthouses are not our priority so we retrace our route through the eucalyptus groves and continue onto the Great Ocean Road.

20 minutes further on, we stop at Maites Rest and take the boardwalk loop trail through an ancient rain forest, lush with giant tree ferns, gnarled tree roots and hanging vines. We feel very much alone in this primordial forest in the fading light.

Our final stop is at Kennett River where I expect to find platypus at dusk, but we have been misinformed. Instead, I buy bird seed and we drive up another gravel road through eucalyptus forest trying to attract the parrots. We hear them, but are unable to entice them to fly down and eat our offerings of seed. Disappointed, we drive the final 45 minutes in the dark to Lorne in search of a room for the night. I inquire at the Lorne Resort on the outskirts fringe of town; and they offer me a severely discounted room with spa and view for $135. We don’t need luxuries tonight and I check on rates at two other motels down the street and opt for the Comfort Inn, just above the Lorne resort for $100. (All rates within Australia include both taxes and service.)The room is spacious with a picture window view into the black of the night. I make up the folding couch with fresh linens for John and we walk 3 minutes down the hill to enjoy dinner at the stylish bistro of the resort. John has fish and chips and I enjoy a warm chicken and feta salad.

Three Days Along The Great Ocean Road - Day 1

2010-07-13T17:43:00.000-07:00

I wake early and take the elevator downstairs to the lobby to type and drink coffee. Three cups and an hour and a half later, I return to our room and wake John. We pack up, leaving one of our bags at the hotel and stroll over to Degraves Street and to Café Andalae. During dinner last night we noticed their breakfast menu and their gluten free crepes and eggs Benedict draw us back. Ordering coffee is a bit confusing but we opt for “flat whites,” similar to a cappuccino but without the foam. Breakfast is excellent and somewhat expensive at $35.00.
The taxi ride to Euro Rental Car is just $8.00; not much more than the price of two trolley tickets. I am anxious about driving on the left hand side of the road and John encourages me to purchase the full coverage insurance at an additional $37.00 per day. The three day economy rental car is already $156.00 and with the $114.00 additional insurance, the total for the car is $270.00. John is my co-pilot, navigating and reminding me to stay left. The signage is good and once on the freeway I relax and cruise steadily at 100 kilometers per hour until we reach the beach on the outskirts of Geelong. The beach is flat with golden sand and surfers paddle in anticipation of a significant wave. The surf is unimpressive and we jump back into the car, driving on towards the waterfront. I park mindfully, setting the brake and turning off my headlights while John purchases a two hour parking permit from a vending machine. It is late morning and the weather is intermittent sunshine and showers as we walk along the waterfront promenade. Reflections off the wet concrete and the ocean beyond wash away the surrounding colors. A pier pavilion, recreated in a 1920 architectural style and painted white is under construction at the end of the pier. The scene is very mono chromatic and I feel as if we have stepped back into time. Due to construction, the pier is closed off so we change our direction and walk uphill towards the business district.

A glassed in pedestrian walkway spans the street, connecting two halves of a great mall. We pop into the glittering shopping mall and spend an hour window shopping. We don’t frequent malls often, so this is a novelty for us and a warm alternative to the cold and damp outside. We eat at the food court, but even here, food is pricy. Our two wraps with a soda and water are $23.00. Returning to the car, I find that it will not start yet I am certain that I turned off the headlights. I try unsuccessfully to start it several times, eventually stepping out into the light rain to ask assistance from a couple parking next to us. He patiently allows me to use his cell phone and I call the rental car company who in turn instructs me to call the emergency road service number on the back of my contract. (A free service since I have purchased total insurance coverage.) Before I can schedule the road rescue, John manages to start the car. I simply didn’t have it in park before turning on the ignition.
Our next stop is at Lorne, a small beach side town. John jumps out to explore the skate park and the trampoline park while I set out to find the bathroom. By the time I have returned, John has made friends with a younger group of local kids all riding scooters. He has taken a ride on one of their scooters and wiped out on the wet concrete. His elbow oozes blood and he has scraped and bruised his back and hip. He applies “Deep Relief” essential oils to the injuries as we continue our drive. This coastal drive has many similarities to our California coastal stretch of Hwy 1 between San Francisco and Big Sur; breathtaking vistas with countless turn outs. We pull off at many of the view points, each vista more striking than the last and all with magical rainbows; their colors bleeding dramatically into the ocean beyond. The weather today has been three quarters sunny with intermittent showers, but rainbows are the reward. At some points the road winds high above the ocean and other times it drops down to beach level. Rocky tide pools stretch far out into the water and gentle waves break on the flat spans of beach.

We stop in Apollo Bay for “flat white” coffee. From here the road winds upward and inland and we drive through groves of back lit eucalyptus trees and hillsides lush with enormous ferns. I push on wanting to reach Lavers Hill before dark but when we arrive, we find that Lavers Hill it is just a junction with only one small motel and a roadside restaurant. I ask to see a room, which although quirky, is clean and offers all that we might need on this very chilly night. I pay the $93.00 and John and I share a pizza in the restaurant. John returns to the room to watch the 12” T.V. while I sit and type in the café until it closes at 7:30 P.M.

I am determined to find the Serendip nature reserve that I have read about, but that none of the day tours include in their itineraries. I know that it is located near Lara, in the Little River area and I follow signs to Lara and ask directions at a gas station. The mechanic draws me a careful map and we are soon pulling into the reserve. It is indeed a reserve and not a zoo and there is no entrance fee. We follow the paths into a wetland area with multitudes of ducks and water birds. A “hide” is constructed over the lake so that visitors can observe without detection. We take a two kilometer trail across a dry river following a herd of emus. The kangaroos and wallabies are “caged,” but in a very large enclosure that we are allowed to enter to observe them more closely. The reserve is not exciting; but it is free and we are especially delighted with our emu encounter.
Melbourne is less than an hour away and after filling our rental car with gas, John navigates me back to the rental car return. We get seriously lost in a distant suburb of Melbourne, but eventually find our way back to the center of town; drop our luggage off at the Citigate Hotel and return the car undamaged. We have lost an hour in our unintended detour and grab hamburgers at the nearby McDonalds and catch a taxi to the Melbourne aquarium. The aquarium is built along the promenade of the river in the heart of down town. The cityscape along the waterfront is beautiful in the afternoon light, glass and steel sky scrapers reflected in the water and suspension bridges spanning the river. John and I are aquarium connoisseurs and although this one is decent, it is not great. The exhibits are a little dark and tired; although there are some wonderfully endearing fish on display. Naturally, the angler fish is one of my favorite and I take photos of this grumpy guy wedged down in a corner of his tank. We admire the impossibly ugly stone fish and the remarkable weedy and leafy sea horses. There is an excellent penguin exhibit and we end our visit watching both king penguins and a smaller breed of very playful and curious penguins cavort on the snow of their enclosure. The smaller penguins swim, miniature torpedoes in their pool that has a viewing section so that we may watch their underwater maneuvers.
John needs a new backpack and we pick one up on the walk back to our hotel. We freshen up a bit and walk out again in search of dinner. Directly across from our hotel is the main train station and we cross through it and over a bridge to a lovely waterfront shopping and eating mall. There are many upscale restaurants and John chooses an elegant Japanese one offering a theatre menu pris fix. We are under dressed, but are graciously seated by the window overlooking the sparkling river. Our two meals are excellent and it is the best meal we have eaten. [$60]

Melbourne Grafitti

2010-07-13T17:32:00.000-07:00

Magical Melbourne

2010-06-29T09:46:00.000-07:00

Magical Melbourne

We land in Melbourne at 10:30 A.M. We have lost an entire day but we both feel surprisingly good. After claiming our baggage, I assess our travel options into the city. I quickly opt for a shuttle service costing $35.00 for both of us. A tram is available for $14 per person; but I choose the more convenient option that for just a few dollars more, will deliver us to the front door of our hotel.

A dozen people are on our shuttle bus and we are the last to be deposited in front of our Citigate Hotel. We enjoy the scenic drive throughout the city. Our first impression of Melbourne is that it is much like San Francisco. Trolley criss-cross the streets and the city architecture is a mix of 18th century historic and futuristic modern with the usual blight of fast food restaurants and brand name stores. Our Euro-modern hotel is across from the main Flinders Street train station. Our reservations are in order and our room is immediately available. The online rate was just $139.00 per night including all taxes and I am delighted with the location as well as the stylish minimalist accommodations. We quickly deposit our luggage and set out to explore the city. We are hungry and the concierge advises that we walk just a block down to Degraves Street where we will be able to find something to eat. We turn into a laneway lined with charming cafes and restaurants. It is a narrow walking street with small bistro tables spilling out onto the street. Even on this overcast winter day, most of the tables are occupied. Choosing a café is difficult, but we settle on one at the end of the lane. We squeeze into a corner table adjacent to an alley, brightly painted with graffiti and murals. John orders a salami baguette and I choose vegetable lasagna. We drink only water and our bill is $17.00. A trio of jazz musicians’ play in a recessed alcove across from a row of painted dumpster. We have lost a full day in traveling and are not sure if we are eating breakfast or lunch. I have no watch and my sense of time and place is altered.

*I am told that Melbourne has more restaurants, cafes and eating establishments per capital than any other city in the world.

After lunch we meander down the laneway which morphs into a covered arcade lined with upscale boutiques. We pass a student booking agency and I arrange for a rental car so that we may drive the great ocean road tomorrow. Our next stop is to exchange money at the bank. Hours earlier, I exchanged $100 at the airport and was charged a high commission. With money in my purse, we walk a few blocks to Federation Square; an impressive public space. The multi level square has wonderful views of the surrounding city; exhibit halls, theatres, galleries and eateries. There is a remarkable central glass atrium and the surrounding buildings are built of steel and Zinc. An immense white ball floats tethered above the massive structure. It starts to drizzle.

John and I walk through China Town and purchase an inexpensive folding umbrella. John carries the umbrella gallantly above me until it breaks. It is cold and raining and I buy a waterproof, windproof jacket at an outdoor store. The jacket is an Australian brand, Gondwana, and seems well priced at $109.00. Levi jeans are priced between $95 -$125. John is already well outfitted with his hooded waterproof Patagonia jacket. We jump on the #112 trolley towards Brunswick Street and after much confusion and help from the locals, we manage to purchase our two hour return trolley tickets from the vending machine on board. Each ticket is $3.70 which seems expensive. I wonder how much a taxi for the two of us would cost? We get off at the far end of Brunswick and walk back along the colorful street lined with boutiques, cafes, restaurants and bookshops. The rain has let up and our jackets are ample protection in the intermittent drizzle. We pop into a few off beat boutiques and art galleries. It is nearly 5:00 P.M. on a Friday afternoon and I imagine that in two hours this district will be extremely lively. Not quite satiated with this hipster district, we cross over and walk back along the opposite side of the street, eventually catching the #112 trolley back to our hotel. We walk a block over, returning to charming Degraves Street in search of dinner. Tonight, the street feels very French, with its many bistros, aglow from within. Wonderful aromas fill the air and the tables in the street are beginning to fill with diners, bundled for the cold, but warmed by the overhead heaters. After reading many menus we choose Cafe Andale. All the cafes along this street serve similar fare and all are moderately expensive, but this café is as charming as the rest and the prices are 25% less than the surrounding restaurants. John orders a penne pasta and I choose their special, baked chicken, cordon bleu, with asparagus. Dinner for the two of us with a glass of wine for me and a soda for John is $60. Tax is included in the prices and tipping is not expected. We leave a few dollars extra for the service. It has been a very long day and we return to our hotel to sleep and get over our jet lag.

Flying Down Under- June 23

2010-06-28T19:15:00.000-07:00

Flying Down Under- June 23

Our flight from San Francisco to Sydney Australia is at 11:10 P.M. on Wednesday night. We leave for the Airport at 6:45 P.M. Art drives and we talk over all the details of both the trip and keeping the Marty Magic business running smoothly in my absence. Art will have much to do, but he will also enjoy 18 days at his own pace. John and I will share an adventure and we travel well together.

We arrive at the airport nearly three hours before our flight, check in easily, plod through security and after locating our gate, we choose to sit down at the Firewood Grill restaurant for a late night bite to eat. Art cooked us dinner earlier tonight, but John is hungry again. John orders penne pasta with chicken and I choose a steak shish-ka- bob with salad. The food is decent and the hour passes pleasantly.

Our Quantas plane boards on time, but it is after midnight before we are airborne. A small television screen is mounted on the back of each seat and a good selection of movies are available. John and I watch Alice in Wonderland, but the roar of the jet engines makes it difficult for me to hear the dialogue. A late night dinner is served but we eat little, more tired than hungry. I take half of a sleeping pill and drift off but John has difficulty sleeping; his long and lanky body contorted into the confines of his economy seat. John eventually falls asleep and is sleeping soundly when breakfast is served. The flight is 15 hours long and relatively painless.

We land in Sydney with a two hour layover before our flight to Melbourne. It is raining and as we exit and the pilot announces over the loud speaker; to mind the “slipperies.” We deplane to a chorus of “cheerio’s.” I am excited to be in Australia and my guard is down with our extended layover. We take time to use the restrooms and follow the signs towards international? (We are indeed international travelers.) As a seasoned traveler, I should have known that something was amiss when we are again funneled through a security check. John and I wait patiently through the inefficient line, eventually putting all of our gear through the x-ray machine. We exit into a glittering duty free shopping mall and I gravitate towards the overhead arrival and departure screen in search of our departure gate to Melbourne. It takes me just a few seconds to realize that we have taken a very wrong turn and I hail down a security personal and tell her our plight. She quickly checks our boarding passes, swipes a security card along a sealed doorway and John and I enter the correct rabbit hole into the domestic terminal.

We have missed our connecting flight by a few minutes, but are quickly assigned a flight just 30 minutes later. My stress level is high but we are soon airborne and I am grateful that we have not been charged anything extra.

Baja Road Trip

2010-06-02T21:03:00.000-07:00

With our official business in La Paz complete, I want to explore the city. We ask directions to the Old Town and the Malacon; navigate there easily and find a suitable parking space. It is a glorious day; hot but cooled by the sea breeze with a clear and blinding blue sky above and intoxicating turquoise water beyond in the bay; perfection. We wander; poke into a few shops and one charming gallery where an endearing clay monster calls to me and I adopt him. The shop keeper carefully wraps his protruding extremities in bubble wrap; I part with my $15.00 and we continue our leisurely stroll. We want to exchange a $100 American bill and stop into several banks before finding one that will accept American currency. Finally successful and hungry, we begin our search for a restaurant for lunch. For those of you who don't know our bad habits, Art and I have an extremely difficult time deciding on any restaurant. Art is always certain that a better choice is just around the corner; or we have different criteria, so we often read menu after menu before making a decision. Today is no different, but we eventually ask the advice of an inn keeper and following his directions we choose an open air restaurant along the Malacon. I think that Art and I both know that the food here will leave us disappointed but nevertheless, we order a platter of the days catch to share. We are visiting off season and there are not a lot of tourists in town; a good thing. A large soft drink truck is making it's delivery to the restaurant, blocking our ocean view and the food is disappointing. We hastily depart La Paz for our drive back towards San Jose Los Cabos.

I love road trips, especially when I am not the driver and I successfully navigate us through the maze of La Paz and back onto highway 1 heading south. When Art grows tired, I take over the driving and when we pass through El Triunfo, Art spots a road side gallery of some interest and suggests that we turn around. I make an abrupt U turn and pull off into the dirt parking area in front of a simple roadside shop. A lone man sits reading in a chair on the raised shaded porch of the shop. After brief introductions and a look around the gallery, he invites us to sit down and visit. Link is in his mid to late 60's. He has opted for Mexican citizenship and has purchased considerable property in El Triunfo where he is has built his home and is the process of constructing an inn. He has a local sweetheart. Before long, the three of us hop into our rental car to drive the short distance back into town so that he can show us his digs and to share a drink together. El Triunfo was a mining town and the smelting tower still stands, constructed by Eiffel. We walk the circle of the town in just a few minutes ending back at the local cafe, resurrected by a California man from Camarillo. Link orders a beer and Art and I share a coffee. The pastries are heavenly. We depart two hours later with regrets and drive another hour towards Los Barriles where we find a room at the Los Barriles Hotel, recommended by Link.

Art wishes to rest so I leave him napping and I walk down to the beach to enjoy the magic of the afternoon light on the water. Los Barriles is an American enclave. There is not much that is authentic here, but the evening light on the bay glows bright. A few local men fish for their catch and ostentatious American yachts are moored in the tranquil bay beyond. After an hour wandering along the beach, I return to our large, simple and clean motel room and rouse Art. We set out in search of dinner but the restaurant choices are few. I do not want to settle on the sports bar so we walk a block further down the street until we are accosted by a woman from Tahatchapi, California, who recently opened a small sushi restaurant in Barriles. She guilt trips us into eating at her establishment but happily our decision results in two of the most delicious Tempura Shrimp dinners that we have ever eaten. Her small establishment fills up with another 4 or 6 patrons and we nosh and drink heartily before walking back to our motel. Art and I take a late night dip in the hotels pool; another couple also enjoys the cool of the water on a warm Baja night.

Baja Escapade

2010-05-31T17:35:00.000-07:00

Before my summer shows begin, Art and I decide to take mini getaway to San Jose Los Cabos. Alaska Air offers inexpensive direct flights between San Francisco and San Jose leaving late morning and arriving San Jose early afternoon. We fly out on May 10th. The direct flight is just under 3 hours and we arrive shortly after 2:30 p.m. With just carry on luggage we are through customs quickly. Renting a car always makes Art nervous, but a friend has suggested U-Save car rental where we expect the rate to be $50 a day including insurance. Exiting the terminal we are bombarded by dozens of rental car shuttle drivers and taxi drivers, each one ploying for our business and promising the best rates. I intentionally did not make rental car reservations since on a previous trip we paid nearly double by reserving in advance. Overwhelmed by their aggression and with the rental car lots within view, Art and I set out walking the two long and dusty blocks until we come to U-Save car rental, sandwiched between Thrifty and Euro Car rentals as promised. We negotiate the expected rate of $50 per day including all inclusive zero deductible insurance. I sign paperwork that I can't read hoping that what I am signing is what we have been promised. With Art in the drivers seat of a small Dodge, we exit the airport and I navigate us in the direction of La Paz. We drive Highway 1 north, the old road that connects San Jose Los Cabo with La Paz. This two lane road is narrow and winding and without a graded shoulder. If one swerves off the edge a 12"-18" drop is most certain to cause an unpleasant accident. Gas tankers and trucks roar towards us at 100 kilometers an hour and "pelegrosa" curves are boldly marked with a series of yellow arrows and rows of imbedded metal road nodules. When we enter the small towns, very serious road bumps necessitate slowing to a crawl, and even at 5 kilometers an hour, they are jolting. Aside from the challenges of driving an unfamiliar road, the landscape is starkly beautiful. The desert is lush with fields of iconic saguaro cacti, bursting with orange blooms, and the montage of purple shadowed mountains morphs at every curve. The sky is a brilliant blinding blue, contrasting with the with the near white sand. We cross dozens of bridges spanning vast dry washes and as the road climbs, there are deep canyons lush with oasis of palms and small villages.

With our minds on rental cars, we neglected to change money at the airport, and foolishly we have no small bills, only three $100 bills. Finding a bank or ATM is a high priority and our first foray into a small town is unsuccessful. Further on, in La Brirreles, we find several closed banks, and one welcome ATM that magically regurgitates $100 worth of Mexican pesos.

There is an hour time difference between California and Baja and it is nearly 7:00 p.m. when we arrive at the outskirts of La Paz. We have some business to attend to in the morning and we successfully navigate to our destination. We are welcomed and shown to a guest cottage for the night. On a casual glance, the accommodations look fine, tucked behind the main house and adjoining a lovely garden. We quickly deposit our luggage in the room, close the French doors and walk next door to the restaurant within the shopping center. It is nearly 8:00 p.m. and we have no energy left to explore for an alternative dinner spot. The restaurant is tiny and the air within is still and hot. Unfortunately, the two tables outside sit in the sun and even at 8:00 P.M. the temperature is hot. We choose a table inside and order two icy margaritas. They arrive in large fluted handmade glasses and one each is enough to alter our consciousness. We relax into the Baja experience. Dinner is surprisingly good; my fish fresh and smothered with a lime salsa and the traditional Mexican platter that Art orders is good.

Returning to our guest cottage we find that there is no toilet paper or bath towels and the sheets are far from pristine. Happily, I have packed a set of clean sheets to use on our third night when we will stay in a bare bone beach cottage In Zacititos. There is an unpleasant odor along one side of the room but observing the many cats and dogs on the premises and the open, screen less windows I attribute the smell to the animals. Lulled by the margaritas and the long day, we fall asleep quickly. Several hours later, I awake to piercing cat meows. Having witnessed cats parading in and out our cottage window earlier, I assume the escalating meowing is the courting ritual between feral cats. The meowing continues and at one point I get up to investigate. The meowing immediately ceases and I return to bed and fall back into an uneasy sleep. As dawn sheds light into our room, I hear a frantic scratching coming from behind a sleeper couch against the wall. I move the couch but no cat scurries from behind and with horror, I grasp that a cat is most likely trapped within the sleeper couch. Tearing off the cushions I unfold the couch and a small flash of dark fur disappears further up into the hollow backing of the couch. I wonder when the last guests stayed in this private cottage, and how long this frightened animal, presumably kitten, has been trapped? I quickly surmise that the putrid smell I noticed last night was most likely from a deceased litter mate, and the frantic meows during the night were the anguished mother cat. I put a dish of water within the couch and leave it unfolded while we go to breakfast. I expect that with the room empty, the mother cat will rescue her kitten and nurse it back to health. Luis is our only contact here and I tell him the situation, trying to impress on him the importance that the couch must be left open. This is not a hotel, there are no maids to speak to; no one else to tell. We pack up and drive into La Paz to attend to our business.

The Crowell Siblings

2010-05-07T12:44:00.000-07:00

We visit briefly with Helen in the morning before beginning our drive back to Santa Barbara. The return drive is uneventful and we speed along California highways, arriving back in Santa Barbara in time for dinner in the formal dining room of my fathers retirement home.

The Salton Sea, Borrego Desert and Camels

2010-05-07T12:25:00.000-07:00

Our plan today is to explore parts of the shoreline along the Salton Sea, drive through the Borrego Desert and spend the night in Rancho Bernardo where my fathers sister resides. We drive along the north end of the Salton Sea, stopping now and again to admire the nothingness along the shoreline. There are abandoned liquor stores, restaurants and trailer parks, derelict and sad along this part of the shoreline. The morning is hot and dry and real estate signs announce foreclosures and houses for sale for as little as $35,000. We find a few small towns that are still surviving; one with a high school, a grocery store and a bait shop. Small, inexpensive houses dot the colorless landscape. Beach front property is readily available along the salt rimmed beach flats of "Desert Shores."

We turn westward and follow Hwy 22 upward towards Borrego Springs. My father explains the geology of the area as we drive along the ridge road above sculpted canyons with distinct bedding. The various rust and sand colored layers of uplifted bedding are beautiful but it is nearly noon and with the sun directly overhead these dramatic hills do not photograph well. Ocitihilla cactus flank the road, flame tipped with red blossoms against the vivid blue sky. We stop at Borrego Springs for lunch in a rather charming village cafe and once again share a B.L.T. and a pile of french fries.

Continuing westward, we drop down the other side of Borrego and connect with Hwy 78. The terrain changes from desert to pine forests as we pass through Julian, a quaint tourist town bursting with antique and gift shops and eateries. Descending further, the landscape morphs to agricultural. Everything is lush and green and we drive past horse ranches, small farms and apple orchards. I imagine that I am hallucinating when I see camels in a distant field. I make an abrupt stop along the side of the road and make a U turn. It is not my imagination; there are a dozen camels grazing in a pasture. I am delighted look up and see that the street sign is Camel Dairy Lane!

We arrive at my Aunt Helen's retirement home by 4:30 P.M. She is 90 years old and is delighted to see us. The nurses comment on the family resemblance between brother and sister and my aunt beams happily. Helen usually eats her meals in her room, but my father and I take Helen into the main dining room to eat dinner together. We visit briefly after dinner with the promise to return in the morning.

Pilgrimage to Mecca

2010-05-06T22:49:00.000-07:00

We leave the Painted Canyon parking area, retracing our tracks back along the dirt road until we reach Box Canyon Road and turn in the direction of Indio. Our plans are to ferret out the adobe house that we lived in nearly 54 years ago.

In 1956, I lived with my parents in a tiny adobe cottage, adjoining a date orchard in Mecca, California. Mecca is just a few miles north of the Salton Sea, and light years away from Palm Spring which lies just 25 miles further north. My brief 5 or 6 month residency in Mecca made a significant impression on my life. I am an only child and my father was mapping this particular area of the San Andreas Fault. My parents enrolled me in the Mecca kindergarten. My sour, sharp featured teacher was crotchety; my classmates spoke no English, and I spoke no Spanish. Our classroom was utter chaos and I had no friends at school. Happily, the school day is short and at noon, my mother would pick me up and we would drive along the irrigation canal back to our tiny cottage. My father was in field all day and my mother would allow me to play outside of our adobe house. I was soon venturing further and further from our dusty front yard, ferreting out desert creatures and building nests in scraggly trees where I could hide away and day dream. When my father would return from the field, he often had a surprise for me. It was often a horned lizard or a snake tucked inside his lunch box. On one or two occasions he brought home a desert tortoise, and subsequently drilled a hole in the back flange of the tortoises shell so that we could tether our captive by a chain to the small tree outside of our cottage. The tortoises would plod endlessly around in a circle, wearing a deep rut in the dirt. I remember many hot and slow afternoons when I would lie on the ground feeding them iceberg lettuce. My father had many small clear plastic specimen boxes among his geological research equipment. To my mothers’ horror, I would occasionally "borrow" one of his plastic hinged boxes and lie and wait in the dirt for the unsuspecting scorpion. I could corral the sand colored scorpion under one half of the box and quickly snap it shut, thus capturing my new pet for careful inspection, both top and bottom. So….for those of you who ask: “Why inspires you to create the pieces that you do?” Much of who I am and what I create was nurtured by scientific parents in a desert landscape. Consider that dragons are not a far stretch from lizards…just add wings and stir your imagination.

I made one very special friend during this time; Maria. She was my age, 5 or 6 years old and lived in an outdoor encampment in the date orchard adjoining our simple adobe cottage. We didn't speak the same language, but happily played together, with Jenny Dolls on the shaded and dusty front porch of our tiny cottage. On several occasions, Marias' father would invite me to walk with him and Maria to the nearest grocery store and he would buy us popsicles. On this road trip, I found that same corner store; much changed in 54 years, but I have no doubt that it is where Maria and I ate popsicles together on scorching afternoons in 1956.

Painted Canyon

2010-05-04T22:28:00.000-07:00

It is mid afternoon when we leave the Patton museum. We drive from Chiriaco and follow Hwy 195 along Box Canyon Road descending towards Indio. We pass the canal on the flats and turn northwest along the hills and follow the road that parallels the San Andres fault zone. Rugged hills are on our right and the saltine flats are on our left.

Memories of my childhood engulf me. I remember, as a child, driving with my mother, along the irrigation canals to go to my kindergarten in Mecca. I remember exciting camping and hiking expeditions up painted canyon where the canyon walls narrowed and I could touch both sides of the canyon with my outstretched hands. The rock walls were a glorious mixture of burnt oranges and yellow ochres, swirled together like partially mixed cake batter. At one point, the canyon was so narrow and fractured and the ascent so steep that a rickety wooden ladder was nailed to the rock face to the help hikers climb to the next level of the canyon. I remember with awe, that my father would magically repair a rotted rung of the wooden ladder, making it possible for us to continue our hiking adventure. My short, little girl legs needed help to ascend steep and narrow sections of the canyon and my parents were always behind me, giving me a push up to the next level. The adventures that I experienced in Painted Canyon have significantly influenced my life and my expectations of travel and adventure to this day.

We drive two miles up the canyon along a beautifully graded gravel road. It is late afternoon and the day is overcast, so the wonderful jumble of mountains that make up this area of the San Andres fault is not optimally lit for photographs. I recall camping here, on a Girl Scout expedition, when one of my scout mates discovered a beautiful black, hairy tarantula. To the arachnids dismay, our troupe adopted it for the weekend and it went home with one of the girls to become a family pet.

I drive my father to the end of the road. There is an expansive, well graded parking area and we sit for a few minutes to gaze further up the canyon. From this point on, one must be on foot and I watch a a small group of hikers enter the mouth of the canyon.

One of General Pattons' Men

2010-05-02T21:21:00.000-07:00

The cholla cactus are not yet in bloom, but fields of them stretch for miles, backlit in the desert sunlight. My father tells me a story of when he and my mother were courting. The two of them went on a picnic in the high desert and my father picked a cholla cactus bud from the desert sand and placed it in my mothers hair as an ornament. Obviously in love, she made no objection, until it came time to remove the thorny ornament. In spite of this, or perhaps because of this, she married my father and they shared 60 years together. We drive past fields of Ocotillo cactus, beautifully exotic, their long fronds tipped with red blossoms. After meandering many of the park roads, we leave Joshua Tree and have lunch at a gasoline stop in Chiriaco on the summit along interstate 10. My father and I share a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. He enjoys a beer and I indulge in a chocolate milkshake.

After lunch we visit the Patton Museum. In 1944, during WW2, my father served under Patton as part of the 3rd army when Patton took over the land operations in Normandy. My father signs the guest book as one of Pattons' men. The museum is small and somewhat dark and while my father takes his time within the museum, I am transfixed by an exhibit of trench art; shell casings and rocket shells from WW2, intricately repoussed and engraved with designs that a most experienced metalsmith would be proud of. There is an outside section of the museum where tanks and DUKWs are on display. My father is delighted to see a DUKW; an amphibious vehicle that transitions between land and water. In 1944, my father maneuvered DUKWs on the west coast of Devon; just beyond the surf line to take wave measurments in preperation for the invasion of Normandy. I take photos of my father beside this remarkable machine.

Joshua Tree National Park

2010-05-02T20:44:00.000-07:00

After suffering through the standard motel continental breakfast of hardboiled eggs, cold cereal and bitter coffee, we drive the few miles to the entrance of Joshua Tree National Park. We retrieve maps at the visitors center and meander the park roads through fabulous jumbled granite rocks formations. It is late morning, but the light is still dramatic and golden, with contrasting shadows delineating the monumental rocks. I drive slowly and pull off frequently so that my father can enjoy the jumbled rock vistas from the comfort of the van. There are miles of trails and endless boulders and rock faces to challenge the most adventurous climber. Our morning drive together is magical.

The road we choose winds upward ending at a spectacular lookout point where we can see Palm Springs and the Salton Sea sprawled in the haze, 5,000 feet below. I park in a handicapped space and with little help, my determined father ascends the challenging pathway up to the vista. He sits at the edge of the vista, inhaling the beauty of the landscape, the San Jacinto mountains in the distance, most certainly recalling memories of earlier years, when as a professor of geology at U.C.L.A. he led field trips to this area.

Route 66

2010-04-26T17:21:00.000-07:00

Both my father and I have been looking forward to retracing the roads of our past and when we leave the cemetery to begin this three day road trip, my father happily unfolds his new crisp California map and navigates as I drive. We drive south on Hwy. 101; the morning light reflects off the haze and the horizon line between ocean and sky is indistinguishable. I am happy to be the chauffeur with no decisions to make. Just before Oxnard, I turn East on Hwy. 126. The black ribbon of road unwinds towards Fillmore and Piru eventually intersecting with Interstate 5. Heading south we pass the Magic Mountain Parkway. Two immense twisted roller coasters are starkly silhouetted against the grey sky. They look like giant erector sets, colorful and impossible mechanical contraptions. We leave the interstate and cut across through Santa Clarita catching Hwy 14 East towards Palmdale. At 65 mph, this two lane stretch of road rides like a mini roller coaster with dips and rises and my van has moments of weightlessness when the highway drops suddenly away. Our plan is to stop in Palmdale for lunch but there are only fast food restaurants along the main drag. We feel fortunate when we spy an I Hop, but the 45 minute wait on a Sunday afternoon sends us elsewhere. There is another restaurant, some distance away across the undistinguished strip mall parking lot. I set out on foot to investigate and discover that there are no customers whatsoever in this Mediterranean restaurant. This is never a good sign, but at least we won't have to wait. The young Armenian waiter is the owners son, and we have his undivided attention. Our two shish kabob lunch platters arrive quickly, are ample, flavorful but sadly overcooked.

My father takes an after lunch cat nap as I drive on towards Victorville. This stretch of road is monotonous and I pull into a Starbucks for a coffee fix to power me on. We approach Victorville from the north, cross the Mojave River and follow the historic route 66 for a brief stint. I regret that I didn’t pull over to photograph the wrought iron Route 66 sign that spanned the historic downtown street.

Years back, my fathers parents as lived in Lucerne Valley and his sister Helen, lived in Apple Valley. As we pass through this area I ask my father if he can find Helens' house? I remember celebrating many Christmases in this high desert and the house that Helen and her friend Martha lived in was designed by Neutra. If memory serves me correctly, the year was 1965 and I was around 14, when Martha had the house built. I remember then thinking it was unusual; all straight lines, lots of glass and a reflecting pool. It sat a couple of miles up a dirt (?) road and had an expansive view of the valley below. Although my father knows the general area, he doesn't remember the name of the road and with so much new construction, we miss the turn off. I would have enjoyed seeing this remarkable house and rekindling memories. Several days later, we find out, it is on High Street in Apple Valley.

We arrive in 29 Palms just after 5:00 P.M and check into our motel. There is a Marine training base in close proximity to 29 Palms and the majority of the shops along the stretch of downtown, are tattoo parlors, bars and barber shops, advertising military style hair cuts. My father and I eat an unremarkable Mexican style dinner together. The booths within the brightly lit restaurant are filled with young military families, enjoying a Sunday night dinner out.

Happy Birthday Mom

2010-04-26T16:53:00.000-07:00

Today would be my mother’s 90^th birthday and our first stop is the Santa Barbara cemetery to wish her a happy birthday and place roses at her grave. She has both an ocean and mountain view and we sit with her quietly on this blessedly beautiful Sunday morning.

Road Trip

2010-04-26T16:50:00.000-07:00

I’m on a three day road trip with my venerable father, a renowned Geologist, who has spent much of his life in the field in Southern California, mapping the San Andreas Fault and the surrounding area. At 92, my father, John C. Crowell, professor emeritus, pretends to be retired, but with Spring in the air, and a wish for us to spend time together, we arrange a road trip to Yucca Valley, Indio and the Anza Borrego Desert.

My road trip begins a day earlier when I make the drive from my home in Santa Cruz to my fathers retirement apartment in Montecito. I have made this trip many times over the past several years, and my old Toyota Van, with 160,000 miles on the odometer, knows the way. If only I could accrue frequent driving miles in the same fashion as I collect my frequent flyer miles.

I sail down Hwy. 101, the rolling hills along side the highway, a velvety green, lush from the ample rains earlier this year. New growth tips the trees and splashes of psychedelic yellow mustard paint the hillsides. The color pallet along this stretch of landscape changes with each season surprising me each time that I make the drive. I can cut 15 minutes off the drive by taking Hwy. 154 up via Cachuma lake. This part of the drive is breathtaking in the late afternoon light, a montage of purple shadowed mountains against the horizon. The fires in recent years have left much of the hillsides barren and vulnerable, but a patchwork of new growth; dusty green and muted lavender is filling in the scarred hillside. For 15 miles I have been speeding uphill. The highway levels and begins to drop down and around the next curve, is the bay; shimmering and blinding the bright afternoon light, and the city of Santa Barbara a mirage below. I merge onto Hwy.101 at the height of Saturday afternoon freeway traffic and inch through Santa Barbara, bumper to bumper, arriving in Montecito, much later than usual. I change clothes in the parking lot at Vons market and am only two minutes late when I stroll into the formal dining room at Casa Dorinda to

greet my father and his friends.

Dragon Love

2010-04-24T10:27:00.000-07:00

We have a new member to our dragon family. Several weeks back, a friend of Johns found "Munch" wandering lost in Santa Cruz. Unable to care for him properly, Munch has come to live with our two bearded dragons. Show Off and Spirit have accepted Much with few questions asked. This morning, when I checked on them, they were a happy pile of Dragon Love. Check out their beautiful scale pattern and their wonderful dragon claws.

The Dead Sea: The End of The Journey

2010-04-12T20:47:00.000-07:00

The Dead Sea is our final stop before heading to the airport in Amman. It is mid afternoon when we arrive at the resort hotel, at the edge of the Dead Sea. An elaborate buffet luncheon is waiting for us, but the Dead Sea also beacons so we must divide our time between eating and swimming. We walk down the steep incline to the beach but there is so little time to swim, that I decide not to take the plunge. I don't want to be sticky and salty for the next many hours on the plane trip back home. Stephanie is more adventurous and takes a 5 minute dip. Those in our group who do go into the water, float, bob and laugh, in the flotsam and jetsam of the sea. The high salinity makes it impossible to sink.

There is no time for showers and the bus will not wait since we all fly back home tonight. The various flights leave at different times, but we must arrive at the airport in time for the first of the departures.

We have had an early start and a long day and Stephanie and I will have a 6 hour wait in the Amman airport before boarding our plane to Paris. In Paris, we will have a 5 hour lay over. The flight between Paris and San Francisco is 13 hours. As marvelous as our adventure has been, arriving back home and having Art there to greet us is the best.

Thank you Art, for indulging my adventurous spirit and taking care of business in my absence.

Madaba; The Virgin Mary Church and the "Tile Factory"

2010-04-12T20:16:00.000-07:00

We stay up late into the night packing and our wake up call is early. We place our luggage outside our room door at 6:00 A.M and are onboard the busses by 7:00 A.M. for a full days tour, via the Dead Sea and onto the airport. This tour is not part of the Young Living tour. We have each paid an additional $100 for todays experience. It will be over 48 hours before I sleep again in a real bed. I doze until our first stop at the town of Madaba, to visit the Virgin Mary Church and our group is escorted up hill to the church. The street that we follow is lined with enticing shops and Stephanie, Sandy and I hope that we will have time on our own later to explore. The mosaic floor, a map of the biblical lands, discovered in 1896 is the treasure. Sections of the mosaic are missing and although I wish to understand the historical significance of it all, my biblical knowledge is also fragmented.

Although we have time to enjoy the church, we are unduly hurried back through town and onto the buses. We return along the same colorful street; lined with many unique shops but when I stop to admire a tasseled camel blanket, I am hurried on by the commanding voice of our tour guide. The merchant at this shop door hisses or whispers to me, and I pause to comprehend. He tells me that the the tours won't allow us to shop with the local merchants because they will not get their commission. His price for the camel blanket is extremely reasonable; a fraction of what I priced them at in Petra. I wish for time to explore the possibilities, but our group has left me far behind and regrettably, I slink away, towards the bus and onto our next destination.

Within 10 minutes our buses pull into a large parking lot and I know immediately that this "Tile Factory" is a controlled tourist shop. The cavernous shop is the size of most Costcos and after peering inside, I balk at the entering. I have an uncontrollable gut reaction which I verbalize to the stunned tour guide; exclaiming that I do not want to be here and refusing to enter. I announce that I am going to leave and go drink a Turkish coffee somewhere. A handsome Bedouin man takes my arm, offering me turkish coffee within the shop. Stephanie and Sandy are more tolerant and urge me to come with them, but I make an about face and march back into the parking lot. I pace the parking lot and walk to the gated perimeter. We are far outside the town; a two lane highway stretches in both directions. There is nothing of remote interest outside of these gates, but I leave the confines of the tile factory and walk down the country road. I am fuming! A beautiful orchard is across the highway and after looking both ways with not a car in sight, I cross over and stroll into the grove. Becoming aware of another' presence, I look behind me to see the security guard from the "Tile Shop" following me. He is congenial when he asks me where I am going and I blurt out my dissatisfaction about being here. In retrospect, I know that he did not understand my angst and anger at being held captive in this place. He walks with me into the grove, his machine gun slung casually over his shoulder. He asks me why I don't want to go into the shop and I try to explain. He proudly points to a simple walled compound beside the shop and tells me that he lives there. I imagine that as tourists we support the lifestyle that he is so proud of. I tell him that I want to drink coffee and with a glimmer of understanding, he points directly across the road to a tiny shack; a 10 x 10 wood structure with a tin roof. One lone man stands behind a counter void of goods. Immediately grasping that this is the local cafe, I practically jog back to the tourist shop; yank Stephanie away from her shopping and the cup of coffee that she balances in her hand and usher her across the road to the cafe. "My" security guard is still with me; somewhat bewildered at my actions, but still smiling. I order two Turkish coffees from the man behind the makeshift counter who asks if I want milk and sugar? These queries are mimed when he opens a tiny refrigerator, with a single can of condensed milk inside. He pours the heavy and sweet condensed liquid into both of our cups. There are no chairs or tables, but Stephanie and I take our two cups of coffee outside and sit upon rocks adjoining the cafe. The owner immediately, brings two milk crates outside, tipping them over and offering them to us for seating. Stephanie and I reposition ourselves upon the crates and proceed to drink the rich and delicious Turkish coffee.

Our extended stop here has put us behind schedule. We have been here well over an hour. Several in our group made large purchases and the powers to be allowed them as much time as needed to part with their money.

Mount Nebo and the River of Jordan

2010-04-12T19:19:00.001-07:00

Before today, the names and places of biblical history were just a fantasy. We stop to visit Mount Nebo, to pay honor to the memorial of Moses. Our buses pull into a large parking lot and we hike up the hill to the museum and the overlook. The day is mild and sunny and the view from the hilltop is hazy but a sign at the summit points to Bethlehem, Jericho and the Dead Sea. Israel is just over the horizon and all these famous destinations are just a stones throw away.

For me, the most significant stop is at the Jordan river. The campfire song, "The river of Jordan runs muddy and wide.." repeats in my head as we walk along the arid pathways beside the muddy river. 2000 years ago, the Jordan river may have been wide, but it is not today. We come to the revered section of the river where Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist. There is definitely a spiritual presence here and almost all of us take a moment to kneel and dip our hands into the water. During this two week excursion we have experienced so much; the magic of Egypt; temples, pyramids, tombs and incredible unfathomable art. We have been awed by the magnificence of Petra and the accomplishments of the Nabataean people. Today we are walking where Jesus walked.

We walk from the sacred river towards the newly erected commemorative church, its golden dome shining in the distance. The afternoon sky casts a dramatic light upon the scene. The interior of the church is quite lovely with fresco ceilings and gilded chandeliers, but its newness feels out of place in this ancient landscape. One member of our group begins singing a gospel hymn, her voice strong and reverberating within the fine acoustics of the chapel. Soon, many of us join in her song of reverence and celebration. One song morphs into another and it is only the time constraint that brings our impromptu choir to an end.

Little Petra

2010-04-05T20:18:00.000-07:00

For days, our schedule has required that we wake before dawn, but this morning, we sleep until nearly 7:00 A.M. We will visit Little Petra in the afternoon, but have the morning free and a group of us have arranged a visit to a Turkish Bath. We enjoy an elaborate buffet breakfast overlooking the rock canyons adjacent to our hotel and at 9:00 A.M. are picked up by taxis and taken to the bath. Stephanie, Sandy and I are in one of the first taxis to arrive at the baths and we are ushered downstairs into the foyer. We each pay our $30, all inclusive, for the procedure, tip, and the round trip taxi service.

It has been nearly 40 years since I enjoyed a Turkish Bath in Istanbul, as a lone back packer; where ample women with pendulous breasts and voluminous baggy underwear scraped and massaged me into cleanliness. Todays procedure is more industrial, and wearing the advised swim suit, I obediently follow directions and the three of us are ushered into the steam room. Initially, I am disoriented with all vision obliterated by the clouds of steam. I grope my way and find a seat along the wall of the marble room and within seconds am finding it difficult to breath. A fellow "steamer" invisible within the mist, suggests that by putting ones head down, breathing will be easier. I lower my head between my knees and take a welcome breath of cooler air. Although I cannot see my other steam mates, I believe that there are about 9 of us within this room and we dutifully sit and sweat for 12 - 15 minutes. During this time, groups of three or four enter and prior groups exit. It is soon our turn to rotate out and a heavy set man enters, taps our shoulders, and the three of us follow him to the outer room. He motions for us to lie down upon a raised marble slab and with some effort, I climb up onto it, slipping and sliding and positioning myself face down as instructed. The marble slab is intensely hot and wet with water. Our torturer repeatedly flings buckets of ice cold water upon us and I somewhat enjoy the contrast of the cold water against my overheated body. Some minutes later, we are instructed to turn over and cold water is again flung onto us. My body has adjusted to the intense heat of the marble slab and I am relaxing into the experience. It is doubtful if this part of the procedure lasts more than 10 minutes before we are ushered back into the steam room for another period of intense sweating. Stephanie, Sandy and I are again removed from the steam room, this time individually, and escorted into private rooms where again, we are placed upon a heated slab. By this point, my body has relaxed into jello. I am face down and the practiced masseur, with one motion, jerks my one piece swim suit down around my hips and begins intensely kneading and scraping my back. As if on a spit, I am modestly rotated until all sides of me are scrubbed clean. The procedure is somewhat painful, but my tight muscles relax and the skin scraping is cleansing. A limp 20 minutes later and after a hot shower, I am cleansed. Back within the lounge, we all drink tea and those of us who wish, may smoke a water pipe.

Shortly after lunch we board our three busses to drive to Little Petra. Had we visited Little Petra first, I would have been awe struck; but yesterdays visit into Petra; one of the wonders of the world, dwarfs Little Petra. Rooms and treasuries of all sizes are carved into the cliffs and the afternoon light casts a magical glow. Stephanie and I leave the group to hike up a rock hewn stairway; a monolithic rock formation hovers at the peak of the staircase. I want to climb down the other side of the staircase and explore the canyon beyond, but we are called back to the group and all too quickly are herded back onto the busses.

Stephanie writes: "What I found amazing about Petra (Greek word for rock), is not only the truly magnificent wonderland of the full spectrum of color but the unbelievable accomplishments of the Nabataeaens. (a Semitic tribe dating back to at least the 6th century B.C.) Our guides, who were also scholars, were able to share information that had to do with the rich history of this land and these people who possessed the ingenuity to build canals and cisterns, carved into the rock to bring water. Petra was on the Caravan route from Yemen to the ports of the Mediterranean Sea. The Caravan trade route is what we were trying to depict as a part of the documentary that Gary Young and Mary Young of Young Living Oils were producing in the filming of " The Frankincense Trail." The Nabataeaens ruled for quite a while and sculpted remarkable temples; the Treasurey building ( where the frankincense was stored) tombs, caves, stairways, monastaries, theaters; all carved out of the natural rocks in organic color. All this was created by people who I had never heard of prior to this day. Petra and Little Petra; both a most magnificent wonder of this world. It is also amazing because everywhere you look within these rocks there are sculptures; some natural and some not. It is all quite haunting……."

At 4:00 P.M. we have a mandatory group meeting in the conference room at the hotel. A few in our group will leave tonight to fly home, but the majority of us have another full day and will take a tour along the Dead Sea en-route back to the airport in Amman.

After the meeting, Stephanie, Sandy and I walk the short distance into town to shop and to eat dinner. We buy last minute souvenirs and have dinner at a local restaurant. I wish for a beer with my meal, but no alcohol is served in the town; only at the tourist hotels. My meal of skewered chicken, rice and hummus is nothing exceptional, but the mint lemonades that the three of us order are incredible. The frothy green elixir is more like a milkshake than lemonade, and my desire for a beer is quickly forgotten.

Bedouin Barbeque

2010-04-03T18:40:00.000-07:00

We have been on our own in Petra all afternoon and hurry back to the hotel to change into warm clothes for tonights Bedouin barbecue in the desert beyond. As we board the buses for the short ride to the barbecue, the sun casts a golden glow on the hillside of the modern town. Sunset descends, a dramatic splash of deep rose and purple, setting over the sculpted canyons. The night is bone chilling cold and I am grateful for the several bonfires blazing. It is not as authentic as I hoped, but the food is tasty and ample and the 108 of us heap our plates with lamb and goat skewered meat hot off a large grill. There are dishes of salad and warm pita bread and hummus. When our plates are full, we return quickly to the perimeters of the fires to warm ourselves. Soon the music begins and those brave enough to leave the warmth of the fire keep warm by dancing to the rhythm. The evening is a festive and fitting close to a remarkable day.

Details

2010-04-03T18:21:00.000-07:00

Everything about Petra is mind boggling; from the archatectual splendor of this immense city, hewn into the canyon walls, to the abstract "paintings" that nature created in the rock formations.

Carriage, Camel, Donkey or Horse?

2010-04-02T12:19:00.000-07:00

Gary Young, the CEO of Young Living Oils, gives a final empowered explanation of the history of Petra in relationship to the Frankincense trade trail. He talks nothing about the geological significance of the region and I wish that my father were here to enlighten all of us. We have the afternoon to explore on our own and we break up into our smaller social groups to explore the region. Stephanie, Sandy and I set off together, hiking further down the canyon. We explore many of the carved cliffside chambers, walk into ancient amphitheaters and take countless photographs. As renowned as this archeological site may be to the world; it is even more significant to the economy of the local Bedouins. Young Bedouin men, strikingly handsome with dark eyes outlined with Kohl, hawk hand made jewelry at "oasis" throughout the site. They all seem to possess a "Johnny Depp" magnetism but as charming as these young men may be, their "silver" jewelry is fraudulent and it pains me to see members of our group paying good money for silver plated jewelry. I observe that the "transportation" industry within this archaeological site is booming and am amused and delighted by what entrepreneurs the Bedouins are. It is an easy 3.5 mile hike into Petra, gently sloping downhill and a relatively easy return in this overcast climate, but tourists have the option of returning via donkey, camel, carriage or horse. Sandy wishes to engage some mode of transportation for the return journey and Stephanie and I are agreeable. Donkeys cluster at the far end of the trail, watched over by their Bedouin owners. After drinking turkish coffee at one of the roadside cafes, we barter for a donkey ride for our return journey, but soon learn that the 3.5 mile return trip is divided into distinctive territories. We may ride a donkey only so far. The donkey territory ends at the ancient amphitheater and from there we must hire a camel. The Camel territory goes only to the famed, architectural stronghold; the vault where the oils, and spices were stored. From there one can only ride in a carriage to travel up the narrow canyon. It is not the price for the various modes of transportation that deter us; but the complexity of it all and we return by foot enjoying the visual spenders of the area. When we emerge from the canyon, it is still nearly a mile back to our hotel and there are horses waiting. All three of us ride horses on this final leg of the journey and for $5 each are deposited at the edge of the hotel property.

Petra Unfolding

2010-03-31T21:32:00.000-07:00

With no plane to catch, our wake up call is later than usual. Last night, we arrived after dark, so it is this morning that we take in our first glimpse of our surroundings. The views from the spacious decks of our luxury hotel overlook the sculpted rock formations adjoining Petra, one of the wonders of our world. Sadly, the morning skies are grey and there is a steady drizzle of rain, but the carved and weathered canyons unfolding beyond are breathtaking and inviting exploration. I am disappointed when our hike into Petra is postponed. To pass the time, I pay $10.00 to the hotel for internet connection and manage to send e-mail for one hour. The hour passes quickly; the rain subsides and by late morning our group begins the hike from our hotel into the canyons of Petra. Ordinarily, I have a vision of what to expect; but I know little about Petra and I take each step savoring the moment and without preconception. I am a geologist daughter and the hike itself is the adventure as well as the reward. For the first half mile the landscape is an expansive canyon of weathered rock formations on either side, narrowing imperceptibly as we proceed. We walk gently downhill, stopping frequently to listen to our guide explain the terrain and the archeological significance of this remarkable area. We reach a junction where a small and dry dam protects a narrow canyon branching off from the main artery. As the canyon narrows, I am delighted by the colors of the canyon walls; folds of red, black, ochre and grey rock create an abstract painting and I wish for better light and fewer tourists in order too take my photos. I wish that this canyon to go on indefinitely; but 3/4 of a mile further on, at the final snake of the canyon, the architectural splendor of Petra unfolds. The monumental facade of a building, over 200 feet high is carved into the rose colored rock face of the canyon wall. Please don't test me on the particulars of Petras' history; but as I understand, the city flourished in the 1st century B.C. and A.D. Petra was the thriving hub of commerce and trade. Frankincense oil, gold and spices were of considerable value and were stored and traded within Petra. Caravans arrived and departed from Petra.

"The ancient city of Petra was literally carved from the sandstone cliffs of southern Jordan. There the Nabataeans built temples and tombs, houses and halls, altars and aqueducts. And they built a civilization that stood at the crossroads of the ancient Near East, a center for commerce as the spice routes and trading trails of the time all flowed through Petra. At its peak the city of Petra was home to some 20,000 Nabataeans who, in the midst of the desert, built an ingenious system of waterways to provide their city with the precious liquid."

All is utterly breathtaking and unimaginable.

The Promised Land

2010-03-27T22:19:00.000-07:00

Our wake up call is at 4:30 A.M. for our morning flight between Cairo, Egypt and Amman Jordan. Our group shuffles sleepily through the buffet breakfast and boards the bus obediently for the hour drive to the airport through rush hour traffic. The morning is a blur of waiting in lines; security checks, baggage checks, passport and ticket checks and more security checks. We eventually board the plane and surprisingly, after all the security, are allowed to take photos of our group boarding the plane. My assigned seat is in the last row, middle seat, between two young, well dressed and handsome Arab men. The flight to Amman takes close to two hours and the plane is well appointed. I am very aware of the two bodies on either side of me, and they soon acknowledge my presence. Each passenger has his/her own small T.V. screen, mounted on the back of the seat in front. When I begin to fumble with the remote control the man to my left immediately comes to my assistance. I push a few buttons to no avail and the man to my right leans over to help. I am soon connected to the movie of my choice and thank my seat mates for their assistance. Although the flight is short, I loose myself in what I am watching until a rather elaborate “snack” is served. The man to my right offers me his juice, which I decline, but in turn I offer him the pastry that I have not touched. The man on my left offers me his fruit cup which I accept and I offer him my roll and butter. If only our international relations could be as simple and civilized as this. Words cannot express how delighted I am to be squeezed between these two gracious and accommodating men and for the three of us to be connecting.

We land in Amman shortly after 1:00 P.M. After claiming our baggage, we are herded out to the waiting busses for the three hour drive to Petra. I am stunned at how bleak the landscape is; only vast expanses of hard packed dirt and sand, punctuated by electrical wires and the occasional settlement. The flat topped buildings are without paint, camouflaged within the color of the landscape. There are no trees and there is no visible human presence within these settlements.

An hour into our journey, hungry and in need of restroom facilities, we stop at a tourist restaurant and gift shop. The exterior is nearly as bland as the miles of country we have traveled, but there are clean restrooms and the cavernous store is packed full of souvenirs to sell to us tourists. We are not in Egypt anymore. The prices here are two or three times what things cost in Egypt and I spend 5 dollars on a small bag of almonds to tide me over until dinner in Petra. Our 20 minute stop extends to over an hour as our group shops. Some in our group gravitate to the adjoining cafe, ordering plates of lamb and rice, salads and hummus. The almonds quickly loose their appeal and I am soon sharing plates of lamb and hummus with Stephanie.

Eventually we are on the road again. The sun is dipping low on the horizon and I find beauty in the starkness of the landscape, the power poles and the emptiness. An hour and a half later the road snakes up and then winds down into the town of Petra. It is dark when we arrive at our 5 star resort overlooking the sculpted canyons of Petra. ( I will be amazed at the view that I wake to in the morning.) As soon as baggage is unloaded and our rooms assigned Stephanie, Sandy and I, take a taxi, the short distance back into the town. The three of us spend a delicious two hours on our own, enchanted with the brightly lit tourist shops. We are seduced into one shop in particular; by a charming Bedouin man offering us cups of Turkish coffee and a story with every Pashima scarf. He has honed his ability to capture even the most difficult prey and I am soon allowing him to wrap my head with the scarves and I am encouraging both Stephanie and Sandy to purchase one. I too leave his shop with a Pashima scarf, and for $1 we share a taxi back to the hotel and fall into our luxury beds, exhausted.

The Cairo Bazaar

2010-03-17T20:44:00.000-07:00

Backtracking to earlier in the day; two free hours between our rooftop lunch overlooking the pyramids and actually getting to enter the site, we are promised free time in a bazaar. We have had very little free time and I imagine that I am finally going to be able to step into the side streets of Cairo and loose myself in the tiny shops crammed full of incredible temptations. Von leads our satellite group of about 20 along the sidewalk towards the bazaar. She is not an employee of Young Living, nor an employee of the tour company, but as a strong woman, she has taken on a leadership role in this tour. She is confident and straight forward and I like her. I believe that she is as bewildered as I am, when the directions given her, take us up a stone stairway and into a multilevel "department" store. I have an immediate gut wrenching reaction when I enter the ground floor to see "Papyrus" paintings illuminated, gallery style along the walls of a large show room. This is not a bazaar, but a government run shop and without thinking, I vocalize my displeasure. I exclaim that I do not want to be here. Visions of being trapped in government run stores in China flash through my mind, a horror endured some years ago on a first class tour to China. I head for the door and the freedom of the sunlit street outside, but already, many of our group have been enticed towards the stairway leading to the second floor. Reluctantly, I go upstairs, my intentions simply to tell the others in my group that I am going elsewhere and will meet them later, but I am derailed when I step onto the second level. The second floor is a visual delight of inlaid boxes, jewelry and tapestries. My comrades have already gravitated to the jewelry counters and several are engaged with sales personal discussing a custom design for a cartouche pendant. I lean over the shoulders of a few of my fellow travelers, curious as to what purchase they are contemplating. As a jeweler, I know the cost of gold per gram and I expect the shop to make a reasonable profit on both labor and materials; but I am floored when the prices quoted for the jewelry is two or three times what I might charge. Things are happening quickly within this large showroom and I flit between one counter and another, trying to take in all the action. One man within our group is negotiating with a salesman over a $2000.00 dollar cartouche. Stepping forward, I graciously ask to look at the piece and tell the man that the quality of the gold and workmanship is first rate, but also that the price is exorbitant. The man immediately changes his mind about purchasing the piece and I feel badly. Perhaps it was the significance of the piece, more than the price that was of importance to my fellow traveler and I know that the sale was important to the shop; but I also know that their prices are extremely inflated. The angry eyes of the salesman follow me as I walk over to another counter where a young woman within our group is in the process of choosing another custom cartouch. I like this young woman and want to help her. My expertise is of great help to her and within a couple of minutes she is able to mindfully negotiate the price nearly in half. At this point the eyes of the establishment are all focused upon me and the previous salesman brushes by me venomonisly. I don't remember his exact words, but he hisses at me; about ruining his large sale. I am straightforward and ask if I can see where the jewelry is made? I don't think that this is a usual request but the establishment is anxious to get rid of me. After all, if I am not in the showroom, they may be able to close several sales without my interference.

Within 30 seconds, a young man is authorized to take us down to the workshop. Stephanie, the woman who is purchasing the custom cartouche and myself are led outside and down a narrow iron stairway. The stairway is an accident waiting to happen and upon our final descent we wind into a dark basement workshop. A lone man sits in a windowless room surrounded with the appropriate tools of his trade. He is 5 or 10 years older than I am, and is somewhat taken aback by our invasion. It turns out that it is his son who has escorted us downstairs and the elder jeweler quickly warms to us, taking several custom neckpieces from his safe to show us. I soon learn that the symbols for each custom cartouche are stamped, not cast and he shows me the huge press that creates the stampings. The press is archaic, 4 feet in diameter and I am immediately humbled by the authentic process that is used to create the jewelry sold above.

Pyramid Power

2010-03-14T20:14:00.000-07:00

The filming of the Frankincense Trail is complete, but with just one day remaining in Cairo, we must make another early morning departure. Our group arrives at the Cairo Museum by 8:30 A.M. and the museum courtyard is already crowded with visitors. We are briefed on the use of the head phones and enter the museum just minutes after the 9:00 A.M. opening. The museum is vast and not well lit, but our group follows our guide who speaks into her microphone which is tuned to our head phones. She guides us and explains the masterpieces within the museum. I am especially fascinated with Akhenaten's sculptures and reliefs. The elongated heads and protruding bellies of the royal family seem alien and I wonder if they might have been just that? We have less than two hours within this great museum and I am most interested in the ancient Egyptian Jewelry. I wander off from our group, still connected by the head phones, but able to immerse myself in the jewelry galleries. Recently, in San Francisco, Art, John and I visited the Tutankhamum Exhibit. I was delighted to share the magic of the pharaohs with my family; but the S.F. collection was small. Many more significant pieces are tucked into one display case in the Egyptian Museum, than were in the entire Tutankhamum exhibit in San Francisco. I am impressed and inspired in all that I see. My mind whirls; blending these ancient images with designs of my own. I wish to be a sponge, able to absorb it all during the brief visit that I have.

We depart the museum shortly after 11:00 A.M. and drive to the pyramids of Giza. Lunch is provided at a roof top restaurant overlooking the great pyramids, the Sphinx and the Mena

House Hotel. Have I mentioned that since the storm, the sky of Cairo have been blue? I finish my meal quickly and wander the restaurant taking photos of clear vistas overlooking the pyramids as well as the coffee and hookah bar, backlit in the afternoon sunlight.

After lunch our group has free time to shop at the "bazaar." This experience will require a separate blog entry, but I will now try to focus on the magic of the pyramids.

Our tour includes tickets to enter the grounds of the pyramids. It is a ZOO within the gates; thousands of visitors and hundreds of vendors, all intent on selling souvenirs to the tourists. There is no magic, only chaos as we gravitate towards the Sphinx and merge with the flow of bodies. We are bombarded on all sides by vendors hoping to sell us post cards, t-shirts or jewelry. I plow past, abandoning our group in search of solitude and sanity. The pyramid site will close at 4:00 P.M. and our group will be granted a private entry into both the kings and queens chamber after hours.

The Giza plateau, famous for its pyramids and the great Sphinx, are world renowned for their spiritual power, but the daytime scene is anything but spiritual. Shortly before our private, 4:00 P.M. entry into the King's and Queen's chamber, we untangle ourselves from the chaos of the tourist scene and hike up the road towards our meeting place. The 108 of us have been separated in the preceding hour and our smaller satellite group is directionally challenged. We arrive at the entrance to the chambers at 4:30. P.M. Two of our groups have already entered the pyramid and we wait our turn outside as dusk descends. This is not a bad thing since tonight is a full moon and the Cairo sky is crystal clear from the earlier storms. I am struck by the magic of the fading daylight and the brilliance of the luminescent moon.

We are dwarfed by the immensity of the pyramid. Each stone that makes up this immense edifice is nearly as tall as I am. Simply walking the recently erected stone walkway to the entrance of the chambers is an effort and I ponder on the impossible challenges that confronted the architects and creators of this pyramid.

Soon it is time for our small group of 30 to enter the pyramid. I am surrounded by stone; above, beside and below. We hunch over, nearly on our hands and knees, in order to ascend the the long and low shaft leading upwards into the Queen's chamber. I am told that this shaft is the length of a football field, but I think that they exaggerate. Nevertheless, I am happy when I can stand upright again and when my eyes grow accustomed to the dim lighting within the chamber. Our group backs up against the cool walls of the room. Some within the group lie down upon the floor. Initially, I choose to sit with my back against a wall, but the room is surprisingly warm with the heat and energy of so many bodies and I too lie down upon the cool floor. We know that soon the already dim lights will be turned out and that we will be in utter darkness. I wonder if I will feel anxious; trapped within tons of stone; but when the lights go out, I feel extremely relaxed in the sensory deprivation. Sadly, someones cell phone alarm goes off during this extremely intimate time within the pyramid. We all try to regain the magic, but the invisible cell phone is set on snooze alarm and it goes off again. We are within this chamber for more than 30 minutes and our group now moves upwards along another shaft to the King's chamber.

Gary Young, (C.E.O. of Young Living Essential Oils and his wife Mary,) are holding court within the King's chamber. Gary emanates a vibrant presence and Mary is an opera performer. He speaks to us and explains the history surrounding us. The acoustics within the chamber are equal to that of Notre Dame. Mary begins to sing, her voice reverberating within the walls of the stone chamber. Christian hymns from my childhood resonate within the walls and I am truly moved. Gary preforms a blessing around the King's sarcophagus and we all circle and hold hands. My emotions are mixed between the spiritual power of the ancients and the spiritual power of Christ, but I allow it to all unfold and drop into the magic of the moment.

The Children

2010-03-13T22:56:00.000-08:00

May there be peace on earth.

It's a Wrap!

2010-03-13T21:32:00.000-08:00

I am growing tired of our pre-dawn wake up calls, but we must finish filming the final scenes for the documentary today. Today's filming takes place in a different location, the "mud village" where the villagers and families will load the camel caravan and bid adeiu to their husbands and fathers. This site is up a narrow dirt road and the road is soggy from last nights rains and the lead bus gets stuck in the mud and sand and it takes 45 minutes to dig the bus out. The other two buses follow and we too get stuck in the muck. Eventually we arrive at the mud village and prepare for the days filming. We have all retained yesterdays costumes and are already dressed and ready for assignments. Gary gathers us together and explains that a smaller camel caravan will be filmed today with just 4 camel riders needed to lead the caravan out of the village. I have no visions of being a film star, simply the desire to be with a camel and miraculously, I make the cut and am one of the 4 remaining camel riders. I sit happily atop my camel, oblivious to the excitment unfolding as the village scene is filmed. Eventually, it is time for the camel caravan to ride through the village and the scene is successfully filmed on the first take.

Before and after, I wander the site, taking photos behind the scene. Gary has "employeed" may of the local children and dozens of children dance and play, on and off camera. An elaborate noon meal is prepared for us and the medieval feast is set on outdoor tables, both chairs and tables draped with golden cloths. Todays lunch is not a buffet, but is served to us and for most, the portions are too large and wasteful. Those of us who can't consume the massive amounts of food, band togther and take plates of food out to the children.

Gary had planned to film a campfire scene at the caravan encampment last night, but the storm blew in and we had to evacuate. The night time scene still needs to be filmed and we are bused over to the tent encampment. Many of the tents were destroyed in last nights storm, but the caravan encampment set has been repaired as best as possible and we prepare for the final shoot; a campfire scene at sunset. It is only the men who are in the final evening caravan camp scene, (and remember, I have switched genders.) Although we are all exhausted, we light the camp fires, wander on and off camera to tend our horses and camels and mingle and talk about our day over the ritual cup of tea..... as the camera rolls.

Camel Caravan Part 2

2010-03-12T22:04:00.000-08:00

We shoot the caravan scene after lunch. I am happy to be atop a camel and not one of the many who are leading the camels for miles in the sand. There are three camera men and Gary and his crew shout instructions, but the sand dune setting is vast and the sound dissipates and there is much confusion about what to do. I simply sit atop my camel, enjoying the birds eye view of the filming and bonding with my camel. There are several takes and retakes of the caravan scene, and a scene where the caravan is attacked by bandits. This scene involves half of the horses with Bedouin riders, charging down from atop a sand dune, swords flailing to attack the horse guards of our caravan. I am amazed that no one is injured in this scene, and after several takes, Gary is satisfied. It is late afternoon and the weather is changing quickly. Black storm clouds are coming in fast and lightning flashes in the distance over the pyramids. The final shoot for the day is to be the caravan silhouetted atop the ridge of a sand dune at sunset. Our caravan proceeds slowly up to the highest ridge as the storm moves closer. As we ascend the steep ridge the saddle on one of the camels slips off the back end of the camel and the rider lies stunned in the sand. The air is charged with electricity and I ponder on the fact that those of us atop the camels are the highest point of the landscape. The crew below us is soon shouting for us to hurry and come back to camp, but those on foot can only walk so fast in the sand and I watch the lightening storm with wonder and excitement. We are no sooner back down in the encampment when the storm hits with gusts of blinding sand. I wrap my head scarf around my face and stumble towards the dining tent, all but obliterated from view by the intensity of the sand storm. The dining tent must be over 100 feet long and the canvas sides flap and snap in the wind. The electricity goes on and off and I position myself near an exit flap, since I fear that the tent may go down and don't want to be trapped inside. People shout for men to hold up and reset the center poles of the enormous tent and electrical bulbs sway above us. The wind and rain continue to pound us and I worry that the tent will collapse and we will be electrocuted when all goes down. After about 20 minutes the storm lessens and half of us are instructed to line up for the catered dinner; a lovely feast of roasted vegetables, hummus, skewered lamb and chicken and an array of desserts. We are the first group to get our food and I wolf down my dinner as the storm grows again in its intensity. The next few minutes are a blur, but the tent is going down and it is time to evacuate. It is dark outside and the storm is raging as we run through the sand to the waiting busses. The busses are a long way off but they have turned on their headlights and we gravitated to the beacons of their lights and are soon safely inside. It is nearly 10:00 P.M. when we arrive back at the hotel, some of our group still without dinner. We have another early morning wake up call to finish the filming, if there is a set to return to.

Stephanies' Recollections

2010-03-12T08:05:00.000-08:00

Hi,.....I'm back!!!

I just returned from a trip to the middle east a few days ago. We visited Cairo & Luxor, Egypt; and Ammon, Jordan. I participated as an extra in the filming of a documentary called The Frankincense Trail with the Young Living Oil Group that I introduced you to long ago.

We had privileged access as well as Initiations in some of the most sacred Temples and Pyramids. I rode, led and had my own Camel for a day and loved him! Fortunately my Camel's name was Casanova and he certainly lived up to his name. I was just sooooo happy he liked me! One day our set had 85 camels and many pure bred, feisty Arabian Stallions. The vistas, visions, and experiences were as outrageous as the weather there.

One night as we were finishing the filming of the Caravan scene, with the camels and horses way out on the dunes, with the pyramids in the distance and our tents awaiting us for a Bedouin Feast; an electrical storm came blowing in. It swept in, against the changing colors of the day shifting into night that could have been straight out of a horror movie. While it started slowly, it was soon raging, the bolts of lightening surrounding us and energetically charging the pyramids and those of us within the access of the grid. It was said to be the 1st time in 500 years that a meteorological event of this magnitude had occurred there. When we got back to the tents (we had many tents and sets established in this area) and in the mist of blowing sands and crackling, electrically charged skies, we began to dine in elegance in spite of the weather. The feast was beyond EXOTIC! A whole roasted Lamb, Buffalo Sausages, stuffed and pickled veggies of too many varieties to mention, many versions of our vegetarian favorites such as authentic hummus, and yogurt dips, spreads, sauces, fresh pita and breads, exotic fruits and sauces, Fish dishes, Chicken, ....on and on with exotic deserts still to contend with. The storm did not let up; the lights were going on and off and then it became inevitable that we had to evacuate. Evacuate we did just in time....our tents and sets were blown apart. The next day when we came back to the location, which was 1 1/2 hr to 2 hr bus ride (for which we had armed guards as escorts that accompanied us throughout our travels), there were just remnants what had been our tent site.

Well...I suggest if you wish to know more about this journey, that you view the blog and the photos of my friend and traveling companion, Marty Magic . She is doing a truly amazing and beautiful job on this! My mind has been scrambling to put our adventure in order, and trying to recollect the order of how everything progressed, and here you have it. Elegantly documented, photographs that National Geographic would hunger for, and personalized with the loving, living spirit of a true adventurer! I am more than impressed. I'm hooked and can't wait to read more myself and I was there. I can't thank Marty enough for helping me to realize how authentic our experience truly has been. I feel that while this is her personal account, it is well worth sharing and if I can create some extra time to add my own insights, it would add yet another dimension.

Well there's a glimpse into my adventures and it's nice to be home sweet home, yet many challenges are waiting for me here as well.

Love, Peace, Blessings, & with special appreciation to those of you who truly inspired me to go-go-go!!!
Stephanie

Camel Caravan Part 1

2010-03-11T21:46:00.000-08:00

We have a 4:30 A.M. wake up call so that we can be on the film location early. Our buses depart the hotel at 6:00 A.M. and drive the the hour and a half to the film location. I am delighted that during the night, the camels and horses have arrived! There are 85 camels and 35 Arabian horses on site and we learn that some of the camel drivers have traveled several days to arrive at this destination. Several nights ago, during one of our group meetings, I documented that I had "moderate horse experience" on a paper that was passed around our group. The horses on site today are young and spirited; the stallions not gelded and I fear that these horses are more than I can handle safely. Gary gathers us together and chooses the horse riders first. Many of the experienced riders chosen are women, who will need to dress as men since it was only men who rode in the caravans. I am near the front of the circle and when Gary asks who feels competent to ride a camel? My hand is instantly up and I am one of the 8 chosen. I too will dress as a man for the caravan scene and I head for the costuming tent where I will be outfitted. Numerous tents are in place to accommodate the costuming, the makeup, the changing rooms for both men and women plus one extremely large tent erected to accommodate all of us for our meals. It is utter chaos as 108 of us cram into the costuming tent to choose appropriate costumes. The horsemen/women, and the camel rider costumes are all the same; black polyester "Ninja Pajamas" and I am soon dressed in my unflattering costume with time to wander the film location. I gravitate towards the camel encampment and am approached by several young men, asking if I want a ride on one of their camels? I try to explain that I am to be one of the chosen camel riders, but they don't understand and within moments, I am positioned atop a camel and ordered to lean backwards. I am thrust forward as my camel rises, unfolding its awkward legs and I am grateful that I have not been thrown to the ground. I am in bliss; all of my senses delighted. Visually, the scene is exotic, 85 camels adorned with colorful tasseled blankets and tended by Bedoin camel drivers. The scent of the camels connects with a nostalgic part of my brain; my youth and time spent around horses and stables. I stroke the neck of my camel and am surprised that the grain of the hair upon its neck faces upwards, not downwards like a horse. The camels in the encampment snort and chew their cud and deposit rivers of pee into the sand below. I could not be happier.

Eventually, everyone is costumed but it is nearly noon. A elaborate catered lunch is provided within the magic of the main tent; over 100 feet long and decorated within by colorful tapestries The meal is mindfully catered and we all enjoy roasted lamb, skewer chicken, grilled vegetables and an array of sweets to culminate the meal. We are all in costumes and I feel transformed into the character that I will soon portray.

At lunch, we are given the script for the caravan scene and it is now time to film the re-enactment of the Frankinscence Trail. The caravan of 85 camels will ride along the sand dunes, guarded by the horse guards. Between each of the 8 camel riders is a string of 8 camels, laden with goods. Each camel is led by one of our group and as the day wears on, I am grateful that I sit atop a camel and am not leading one and trudging through the sand.

Close Encounters on the Sand Dunes

2010-03-10T22:25:00.000-08:00

The 108 of us on this tour are all distributors or users of Young Living Essential Oils. The focus of this tour, as far as Young Living Oils is concerned, is to create a documentary-infomercial about the frankincense oil trade route. This afternoon, our three busses depart from the Zoser Hotel to drive to the film location. Cairo traffic is terrible and although the distance is not far, it is a 1 1/2 hour drive out to the desert location for the filming. We drive for miles, along a canal, polluted with garbage and the occasional dead donkey or camel, bloated and decomposing in the murky water. Groves of palm trees line the banks of the canal and sheep and goat herders prod their livestock along the embankment. Eventually we arrive at one of the two film locations; a mud village which is so authentic that initially, I assume that it is. The second location is a caravan tent encampment, inviting and exotic and I wish that I could spend the night here, under the stars, sheltered in the protective circle and warmed by imaginary camp fires. Gary Young divides the 108 of us into groups and assigns us roles for tomorrows filming.

Three pyramids are silhouetted in the distance against the hazy sky and the sun casts long shadows on the sand. We have not yet been called to board the busses and a few of us are still out on the sand dunes above the tent encampment. Seemingly from nowhere, a magical influx of children and young men appear. They are curious about us and we about them; young boys on foot and with bicycles and older boys with cell phones and rhythm. There are times of the day that allow magic to happen and this is one of those times. The older boys sing and dance and we clap to their rhythm, celebrating this golden moment at the end of the day together.

Internet Cafe Adventure

2010-03-09T21:12:00.000-08:00

We leave Luxor very early in the morning and are checked into our Cairo Hotel by noon. The Zoser Hotel is another lovely 5 star bubble, but it is in the outskirts of Cairo, with 6 lanes of traffic separating us from the local neighborhood. We have two hours to eat lunch and settle in but I am determined to explore the vicinity and I need to send e-mail home. It is not the $10 per hour charge at the hotels' business center that deters me, but a longing to immerse myself in the back streets of the neighborhood, that propels me out of the hotel in search of an internet cafe. An armed security guard stands sentry outside the hotel and I ask him where I might find an internet cafe? He in turn ask a waiting taxi driver and I learn that there is one just two blocks away. I start to jog happily down the stairs but my freedom is abruptly halted by the guard who firmly takes my arm and descends the stairway with me. I am taken aback when he holds up his hand to halt the onrush of traffic and escorts me across the 6 lanes of traffic. The guard steers me by one arm, his machine gun hanging loosely off his other shoulder. Cars rush past us, swerving and braking as necessary in the afternoon rush of Cairo traffic. After successfully crossing the 6 lanes of traffic, I thank him, expecting him to return to his position in front of the hotel. His response is curt and he informs me that he will escort me to my destination. We walk the two blocks together in an awkward silence and I am relieved when we round the corner and see the internet cafe. His intent is to wait for me, but I tell him that I will be a long time and I hand him 10 Egyptian pounds, approximately $2.00. Satisfied, he leaves me in the dimly lit cafe. There are no more than 10 ancient computers positioned against the walls and several young men sit at dusty computers, playing games and surfing the internet. I log onto hotmail and miraculously I am online in seconds. I am delighted to have mail from home and my fingers fly across the keyboard in response. I feel comfortable here, more so than if I were in the sterile business center at the hotel. I may be in the middle east, but this internet cafe feels no different from the ones in the Galapagos, Costa Rica or Mexico. The man, working at the computer beside me, is writing an e-mail in English. He politely asks me how to spell several words and I hope that I give him the correct spelling. An hour passes quickly and I must go because our bus is to leave shortly. I rise, pay my 80 cents and begin to leave but the clerk stops me, indicating that he will call for an escort to take me back to the hotel. I wave him off, telling him that I don't need an escort and sprint out of the door and down the street. It is a delightful street, aligned with the small shops consistent with a real neighborhood. I know that I stand out, American tourist that I am, but people smile and I smile back and I throughly enjoy my two blocks of freedom. My great concern is how to cross back over the 6 lanes of traffic to our hotel. There are no crosswalks within sight, but two women, dressed in black abayas and burkas are positioned at the curb, about to make their treacherous journey across to the other side. I sidle up beside them and step off the curb when they do. I surmise that they are mother and daughter; the younger of the two women in her late 20's. She turns to me, smiles and tells me not to be afraid. I feel as if I am playing "Frogger." We somehow avoid collision with the oncoming traffic and are safely half way across, standing on the medium. Three more lanes to go! I am surprised and delighted when the young woman takes my hand and guides me across the remaining three lanes of traffic. It is encounters such as this, that reinforce my determination to break away from the pack.

Late Night Carriage Ride

2010-03-08T22:02:00.000-08:00

Although we fly to Cairo at an ungodly hour tomorrow morning, we have yet to take a carriage ride around the streets of Luxor. Our hotel is on a back street, adjacent an outdoor cafe, and we have seen off duty carriages parked while their drivers partake of a coffee and play some sort of a board game. It is 9:30 P.M. when we wander over to a lone horse and carriage. A sports game of some sort is blaring on the small T.V. and the men at the cafe are absorbed with it. We speak with one man, disinterested and obviously not the driver of the carriage. We walk away, disappointed when moments later, Mohammad catches up with us, only too willing to forego the game on T.V. and make us his game for the evening. We negotiate a 30 minute carriage ride for $13.00 and try to pay him the money. He waves his hands and tells us "later, later!" We climb aboard the back seat and he maneuvers the carriage along the pot holed surface of the side street onto the main avenue that runs adjacent to the Nile River. The reassuring clip clop of the horses' hooves upon the pavement is nostalgic and we relax into being the tourists that we are. We pass the Luxor Temple, aglow with lights, then veer down an urban throughway. Although it is nearly 10:00 P.M. the shops are still open and I wish that there had been a free afternoon to explore the city. Mohamed turns off of the main drag and within a few blocks we are maneuvering the narrow streets of the local market place. The small shops are packed full of merchandise. Shoes and kitchenware spill onto the street and colorful abayas are strung high across the narrow street. We trot past bakeries, fruit and vegetable stands, spice shops and tiny cafes. The pungent aroma from the food vendors fills the air. I take jiggly and blurred photos from our moving carriage, hoping to capture the energy and magic of the moment. My friend Stephanie is certified in traditional Chinese medicine and nutrition. The many herb and spice shops we pass are of interest to her and she asks Mohammed about them. Before long he stops the carriage, helps us down and escorts us into a tiny shop crammed floor to ceiling with jars and baskets of spices and herbs. I am unfamiliar with many of the items that Stephanie requests but I remember her asking for hibiscus flowers, saffron and vanilla. The merchant weighs out her various requests, sealing each item in a plastic bag, eventually disclosing the total of her bill. Although I am not knowledgeable about the value of these items, the price seems excessive and Stephanie negotiates a lesser amount. Everyone satisfied we return to the carriage, and I realize that we have been on this ride much longer than the 30 minutes that we negotiated. I assume that Mohammad will now take us directly back to our hotel, but he mentions food for the horse and we veer down another side street where there is a wagon laden with horse fodder. Mohammad loads 5 or 6 bales into the front of the carriage; feeds some to his horse and continues on. I sense that it must be past 11:00 P.M. and again assume that Mohammad is taking us back to our hotel, but we have made many twists and turns throughout the evening and I am disoriented. Recognizing some landmarks, I feel assured that we are heading back, but he makes another turn away from our hotel. We have told him several times that we need to get up early in the morning and I'm not sure if I say something, or just think it; but he asks if we are ready to go home. Within a few more turns we are back in front of our hotel and it is now time to pay up. It is 11:30 P.M. and we have been naive in believing that the drawn out carriage ride was simply time getting away from us all. We offer him what we believe is a generous amount; considerably more than what we agreed upon, but he rejects it; seemingly offended. He asks if we enjoyed the ride? We agree that evening has been delightful and ante up another $10.00. I don't have change and he takes my bill; the equivalent of $20.00 and stuffs it into the pocket of his robe. He fusses with the horse, expecting that I will forget about the change due me, but I am insistent and eventually he hands me the change. Stephanie and I return to our hotel, exhausted and exhilarated from the evening. We have only a few hours to sleep before our flight to Cairo in the morning.

Karnak Temple

2010-03-08T07:44:00.000-08:00

We have visited many temples over the past two days and they are beginning to blend together. Karnak however, is impressive and glorious in both its scale and it's complexity. The temple has been restored and hundreds of immense columns stand in what was the great hall. In times past, these columns supported the roof and are richly decorated with carved relief. It is cool within the great hall, the columns sheltering us from the sun and their mass absorbing the heat of the day. I try to pay attention to our guide, but my mind and eyes wander to the perimeter of the temple where clusters of palms trees grow, silhouetted against the clear blue sky, mini oasis surrounding this ancient temple.

Dendara Temple

2010-03-07T05:26:00.000-08:00

The 4:00 A.M. wake up call is earlier than I wish. I make it downstairs by 4:30, gulp a cup of weak coffee and board the bus. Our convoy of three busses stops at a checkpoint on the outskirts of Luxor to wait for our police escort. Two police cars accompany our busses on the two hour drive, north, to Dendara Temple. We arrive at the temple just minutes after sunrise and well before any other tour groups. The official who is to grant us this private, early morning entry has not yet arrived and Gary Young, gives us an emotional accounting of the temples' significant history. Mary, Joseph and Jesus took refuge in the temples' crypt when Jesus was three years old and Harrods army was pursuing them. The high priestess removed the capstone from the crypt and hid the holy family within. The temple was attacked and pillaged and the priestesses killed. Two weeks later, the Holy family emerged safely from hiding and Jesus fulfilled his prophecy.

It is just our group to enter the temple site and the morning light imparts a golden glow on the impressive facade. There is magic in the morning and the 4:00 A.M. wake up call is a small price to pay for this private visitation. We divide into our three groups to explore this vast temple and the two other groups vanish into the immense halls and dark sanctuary of the main temple. We begin our visit at the Temple of Isis, a small and richly decorated chapel at the south end of the temple grounds. Our group gathers within pressing up against the cool walls, ornately decorated with bas relief carvings and hieroglyphics. I am surprised that we are allowed to touch the carving upon the wall, but there are no restrictions and I run my fingers along the groves of the hieroglyphics and images. Some in our group begin to chant, hands raised towards the ceiling where sunlight streams in from small windows, dimly illuminating the patterns upon the walls. Others lie prone on the floor, or sit meditatively. The acoustics resonate with the vibrations of the chanting and I too sense an immense energy resonating from this sacred space.

We spend nearly 30 minutes within the Temple of Isis, eventually moving on and into the main temple of Hathor, where Hathor supposedly gave birth to Horus's child. Immense, Hathor-headed columns rise 50 or 60 feet above us, supporting the temple roof. The intricately carved columns and reliefs were once vividly painted and still retain much of their color. We enter a dark sanctuary and snake up a long, narrow, stone corridor, richly embellished with reliefs and leading to the roof top. The corridor maze winds back upon itself several times, eventually opening onto several chambers where sacred rituals were preformed. An astrological ceiling is within one of these chambers; an intricately carved relief of the constellations, coated an iridescent black with centuries of soot from candles and ritual fires. I am fascinated and intrigued by the surroundings, but I feel a dark presence within these corridors and rooms. We exit onto the rooftop with a 380 degree view of the surroundings. It is nearly 9:00 A.M; the early morning glow of sunrise is gone and I see other tourists entering the temple grounds.

Our group has been granted a private visitation to the crypt where the Holy Family took refuge. Only 7 people at a time are allowed entry down into the narrow crypt. Gary Young has been within the crypt since we arrived, speaking to each group of 7 individually. The immense stone capstone has been removed from the floor and our group of 7 are helped down the narrow stairway and passageway into the crypt below. There are two wings to the crypt; each wing about 15 feet long and only 4 or 5 feet wide. Gary stands in one wing and gathers the 7 of us closely together to tell us the history of this sacred space. As a Christian, I am deeply moved by the spirit of the place and try to imagine what it might have been like for the Holy Family, to hide in this small crypt for nearly two weeks.

Back on the busses, we return to Luxor for an early lunch. We will visit Karnak Temple this afternoon.