We didn’t expect to settle in as comfortably as we did. Especially upon arrival: tired and irritable from a 12-hour bus trip from Laos, we quickly planted ourselves in a basic, dropped-tiled, fluorescent-lit budget room in the PP backpacker strip known as Lakeside, and immediately we were taken aback by the area’s seediness: as we headed out to find dinner that night, not-so-subtle whispers offering weed and assorted drugs just the other side of the gateway seemed to sidle up to us from the shadows of every roadside tuk-tuk. Realizing that this would get really old really quickly, we set out the next morning in search of a budget option in a less opiate-laced place.

But instead of settling on an alternate budget option, we somehow ended up in a not-so-budget, brand-new, two bedroom luxury riverside apartment that sparkled and shined sort of like this:

with a view from our large private terrace that looked something like this:

Oops. But also, YAY! And in the YAY! spirit we immediately celebrated our infrugality by hosting a terrace-top housewarming party with our old friends Max and Kris, who were in town for a few days, and our new friend Rachel, whom we met on the bus from Laos. (Rachel had to catch the several hour bus to Siem Reap at something like 7:00 the next morning. The party broke up at something like 3:30 am (???). Sorry Rachel!)

After recovering from the housewarming festivities, we turned our attentions to setting up a proper expat life: we descended upon the buzzing markets in our neighborhood to haggle for fresh veggies and dairy (where I learned to steer clear of the fertilized eggs, i.e. eggs with mostly-formed chicks nestled inside), and we hit up the French market and deli on Street 278, aka Expat street, and stocked our kitchen full of freshly butchered meats and imported cheeses. And, to tone down the damage from our frequent feasts on bacon-wrapped tenderloin, we lined ourselves up monthly memberships at the super glitzy megagym, The Place, which offered us yoga, step aerobics and toning classes and a gazillion brand-spanking-new machines. Remarkably, I even showed up for twice-weekly 6 am personal training sessions with the excellent and fun Swedish fitness queen turned personal trainer, Maria Alhberg (http://www.mariaahlberg.se/) (Hi Maria!).

And the final step in setting up our proper expat life? Adopting a pet. Our Phnom Penh pet was R. Kelly, the Friendly Bathroom Roach. He was a fairly large cockroach, colored a warm, dirty Mekong brown, and he showed up most nights somewhere on our bathroom floor to alternately terrify and delight us with his stealthy, scurrying antics. (He wasn´t as welcome a pet when he became overly confident and ventured into Jill´s bedroom.)

Our next task: learning to navigate the streets. Which was really a process of un-learning every traffic rule we´d previously obeyed. Look both ways before you cross the street?? Nope. Yield to oncoming traffic?? Not if you plan to get anywhere anytime soon.

In PP there´s only one traffic rule: Go and Don´t Hit Anything. Or rather, Go and Don´t Get Hit, depending on who you ask. This rule indiscriminately applies to cars, tuk-tuks, motorbikes, pedestrians, chickens, diesel engines, balloon-chasing children and terrified tourists who idle away dozens of confused and insecure curbside minutes as they await a never-arriving break in the zipping and sidewinding traffic.

And so quickly enough, we learned the Go and Don´t Get Hit technique: like the tenacious little amphibian from my favorite 80s video game, we had to hop, sprint, duck and tumble our way across the various “lanes” of speeding motor vehicles that careened, loomed and slithered and threatened our squashing from every possible direction. And amazingly, it somehow worked, every time.

How the motorbikes are able to manage this precarious dance remains a mystery. Motorbikes in Phnom Penh (or motos, to those in the know) are loaded up and bogged down with every imaginable configuration of people and possessions, such as:

Driver, two women, two children, one baby.
Driver, three monks.
Driver, two men, five foot row of inverted chickens hanging from pole.
Driver, two women, ten speed bike.
Driver, full sized mattress.
Driver, several chopped-up trees.
Driver, large adult male, whole roast pig.
Driver, me, Jill.
And even Driver, entire contents of kitchen, like so:

Thankfully no one in Phnom Penh ever wears a helmet, so at least the poor little motorbikes are spared that additional burden.

Our various means of traversing the city proved to be among the highlights of our time in Cambodia – deciphering the kinetic confusion of Phnom Penh street life easily provides a month´s worth of non-stop entertainment. Overloaded motos, neon-splashed tuk-tuks, street-side slow-aerobics sessions and never-ending badmitton tournaments (it seems PP’ers LOVE badmitton), pick-up trucks full of monks on the move, women selling featherless baby bird corpses and mismatched shoes….and it just so happens that the playground for this cacophonous mess is accented by the gorgeous, highly ornate Cambodian royal architecture and traced casually by the mighty Mekong. Sensory overload, to be sure.

Phnom Penh street life didn´t always leave us wide-eyed and giggling, though. Notwithstanding its expat conveniences, Phnom Penh is the heart of a developing nation with a very recent, very troubled past (if there ever was a hell, it was run by Pol Pot), and even the most willfully blind tourist can´t ignore its economic realities. Our apartment was on Sisowath Quay, a street that is jammed-packed full of tourist-geared bars and restaurants and just as many tourist-geared street kids. These grade-school-aged kids are typically very cute and very smart, and they can fast talk several dollars out of unsuspecting tourists (aka me and Jill?) before he or she (um, Jill or I?) masters the exchange rate. After talking to some local friends, Jill and I learned not to buy what these kids were selling (postcards, books, newspapers, assorted Khmer bric-a-brac), because, despite their promises to the contrary, they most likely are NOT in school, and the money is most likely NOT going to them – often it´s going to a sort of pimp for street children who holds kids as human property and forces them to do this work.

There are various reputable NGOs that are geared toward helping Cambodia´s street children, and they provide a reliable means for well-intentioned travelers to provide meaningful help to these highly sympathetic kids. One of the best meals we had in PP was at a restaurant called Friends, which is a culinary and hospitality training restaurant run for and by former street children (those kids sure know how to cook up a curry!). The restaurant is one of the many endeavors of Mith Samlanh (www.mithsamlanh.org), an organization that runs health, education and training programs for Phnom Penh street children.

Unfortunately, walking past begging mothers with their naked infants splayed out belly-down on the dirty concrete is easier said than done. And on the sidewalks of Sisowath Quay, this sort of desperate poverty is all too common. Also a little too common for my taste were the frequent sightings of sixty-year-old men walking hand in hand with teenaged Cambodian girls. Bars all around our neighborhood catered to this dirty old man/young dude crowd (Candy Bar; 69 Bar; Cathouse; Up and Down – promising beautiful girls and one lady boy!), and after several weeks of grimacing and suppressing an internal riot at each sex tourism sighting, I found myself very very late on Halloween night, dressed as Pat Benatar´s Backup Dancer #14, chasing a wrinkled, cackling old man out of the bar and down the street and hurling obscenities and idle threats his way as he swept a lovely sixteen-year-old girl onto his motorbike and off to his hotel room for the night. Probably not the most effective way to wage war with the seedy underworld of Cambodian sex tourism.

Thankfully there are organizations like AFESIP (Acting for Women in Distressing Situations), the incredible anti-human trafficking organization for which we did pro bono legal work while in PP (read about their work at www.afesip.org), that are a bit more effective in the fight against sex slavery. AFESIP was founded by Somaly Mam (www.somaly.org), a Cambodian woman who was sold into sex slavery as a young girl, and who, since her escape several years later, has devoted (and in the process risked) her life helping girls and women who are similarly forced into prostitution. AFESIP´s mission is to rescue girls and women from sex slavery and provide them with housing, health care, education and skills training in order to reintegrate them into their communities. Jill and I visited AFESIP´s centers for the girls in both Siem Reap and Phnom Penh, and they were full of bright and lovely girls (and their children) who were very excited to show us their fashion and beauty handiwork. Of course, we fell in love with the babies.

Through AFESIP Jill and I were able to meet Somaly Mam , which was a big highlight for us in Cambodia (she´s an international celebrity now, read about her at http://www.time.com/time/specials/packages/article/0,28804,1894410_1894289_1894268,00.html). And through AFESIP, I accompanied a huge cadre (including the very intimidating chief) of the Cambodian National Police during the raid of brothel full of sweet and lovely 13- to 18-year-old girls. Whoa. Scary. Crazy. Highlight.

Among many Cambodian highlights. Phnom Penh nightlife (Magic Sponge, hi Eran! Riverhouse Lounge – where Jill loved her some bad Katy Pery tunes on a regular basis. Talkin´to a Stranger – dumb name, great bar, super awesome bartender, excellent popcorn and perfect gin and tonics.). Expat dancing awesomeness (Hi Arielle and the Cambodia Daily crew!).

Weekend beach trips to the stunning tropical beach paradise called Otres in Sihanoukville. The mind-blowing incredibleness of the temples of Siem Reap and the buried jungle treasures at the dilapidated temple Bang Mealea. And the people – friendly, funny, cheerful, welcoming, and perhaps the cutest kids on the entire planet.

One little month for this big, beautiful place definitely wasn´t enough.

Much love!

Heather and Jill

In early November, after Heather and I finished our month-long stint volunteering and living it up expat-style in Phnom Penh, Cambodia we decided to completely switch gears by heading to the coast of Vietnam for some fun in the sun.

Our destination: Mui Ne. AKA kitesurfing central in Southeast Asia. It was my goal, after approximately eight hours of lessons, to successfully attach a board to my feet, harness myself to a ten meter inflatable power kite and eventually use said apparatus to propel myself through the surf (and not to accidentally fly to Indonesia in the process). Heather, probably wisely, decided to forego this one of my adventures du jour and instead observe the circus act (with occasional mocking laughter) from the comfort and relative safety of a cushy beach lounger.

Anyway.

Besides the kites, we weren´t quite sure what to expect from Mui Ne (the Lonely Planet kind of glosses over the destination) so we had originally planned to spend only a few short days there. [Side note: we had decided to forego a longer visit to Vietnam in favor of more time in Laos at the suggestion of a number of acquaintances who had recently traveled to the region. In retrospect we think this was probably a huge mistake-- Laos is lovely but neither of us completely adored it.] Vietnam on the other hand… Both of us fell instantly and madly in love with the little slice of heaven on the coast known as Mui Ne… Enough so that on the morning of our planned departure instead of boarding the bus that was honking its horn impatiently outside our guest house, we groggily and hurriedly phoned our travel agent, two airlines and the bus company, shelled out extraordinary amounts of money to cancel, change and/or re-book tickets, cancelled our week in Tokyo and successfully extended our time in paradise by a mere three extra days. So worth it. In total we spent nine amazing days soaking up the rays, (attempting to) fly kites on the beach and enjoying the insanely high hot boy quotient as much as possible before having to jet to Peru to hike the Inca Trail. Such is life.

So what is so great about Mui Ne, you ask?

Exhibit I: The breezy, sunny, perfect beach.

White sand. Beautiful warm turquoise water. Waves lapping at our feet. Hundreds of gorgeous colorful kites flying gracefully over the water (and sometimes not so gracefully dive-bombing precariously close to our sunbathing heads)… And perhaps more importantly, hundreds of equally gorgeous boys attached to said kites.

Exhibit II: SANKARA. Restaurant. Bar. Kite school. Our home. Our love. Most perfect beach hangout ever.

Soon after our arrival we stumbled upon this oasis of perfection and the crew at Sankara instantly became our community. We happily spent 90% of our time lounging by the beautiful infinity pool, sunbathing on the beach with cocktails in hand, devouring delicious meals (often breakfast, lunch AND dinner) under the restaurant´s flowing white curtains, drinking too many Russian beers with the kite crew (all of us waiting impatiently for the wind to pick up) and enjoying cocktails at the illuminated beach bar or stumbling down to the raucous nightclub not-so-cleverly named DJ Station and dancing the night away with the amazing cast of characters who frequent Sankara.

EXHIBIT III: The Crew. xoxo

The lovely Ms. Helenita owns the divine Sankara, Greg is its cute chef and resident entertainer and the gorgeous Steve and Luna own and run Sankara Kitesurfing Academy (hi all!). Steve was my kite instructor, which meant we met at the kite school each morning around 10:00, possibly had a brief lesson on the beach, ordered iced coffees with the rest of the instructors and students, realized by mid-day the wind wasn´t going to cooperate, switched to beer and settled in for an afternoon in the sun.

Our crew also included Evelein the lovely and precocious 19-year old Dutch world traveler, Tony the cute British kite devotee, Shane (aka Silver Fox), the very handsome entymologist-turned-firefighter-turned-kite instructor from British Columbia and, last but not least, “Punk Paul”, the hot and very charming UK teacher/skateboarder/fellow beach bum.

Heather and I had a whirlwind romance with Sankara and Mui Ne… and possibly a boy or two… and will absolutely definitely without a doubt return some day (SOON) to continue the affair.

We spent our last night in Mui Ne with all of our partners in crime sharing several bottles of wine, enormous steaks, yummy sea scallop and truffle risotto and the Sankara specialty… an absolutely orgasmic cheesy potato gratin (sounds like perfect beach fare, right?) and then engaging in a raucous round of Jagermeister-fueled farewell minigolf (you lose, you shoot).

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

Missing Mui Ne.

Love and kisses,
J & H

As it turns out, we discovered a mutual love for an adventure sport involving steep cliffs, finger-breaking handholds, ropes, bolts, tight harnesses, and LOTS of sweaty, sore muscle goodness.

Our new obsession:

The rock climbing in Vang Vieng is supposed to be some of the most challenging in Southeast Asia… but, really, when have we ever started small? We signed up for a course with Green Discovery (www.greendiscoverylaos.com/climbing/vv.html) and after a day of rest and rehabilitation following our tubing escapades, we woke up early in the morning and set off by tuk tuk to climb and conquer the local limestone. Since it’s rainy season and the “beginner” routes are not sheltered from rain and hence too slippery to climb, we started off on an intermediate section (climbable year-round because the limestone forms overhangs at the top of the karst that block the rain and keep the rock faces dry). To reach the rocks, we first had to climb up a wet, slippery jungle path near the riverbank, which provided some very close calls with certain creepy crawly wildlife species. Heather valiently took the lead and cleared our path of the slimy, slithery creatures which will not be named but which may or may not cause me to be overcome with shaking, hyperventilating, crying and HIGHLY embarassing panic.

Once we reached our destination we suited up and wasted no time in getting started. Our instructor taught us basic knots, handholds and climbing methods in about seven minutes flat before sending us scurrying up our first route. I volunteered to go first after learning to belay our instructor on his lead climb– a free climb to secure the rope through the anchor at the top of the face. From the very first handhold I was in love with rock climbing. Turns out I’m also really good at it. Heather too, despite her previously mentioned fear of heights. I initially had some doubts despite her enthusiasm, given the Bloukrans Bridge anxiety attack, but she eventually overcame her fears and climbed like a pro.

The routes in Southeast Asia are graded using the French rating system, which is slowly becoming the international standard. The French system takes into account the overall difficulty of the moves and the length of the climb. Grades range between 1 (very easy) and 10 (absolutely insane). The numerical grades are subdivided by adding a letter (a, b or c) and, in some instances, a plus sign. Because we started out on the intermediate rock, our first climb was rated 5a. Our final climb, 6b+. This is not how most people begin their rock climbing careers but, like I said, we’re not ones to ease into things. At the end of the day we were hot, tired, sore and energized. Enough so that we decided to do a full day of kayaking the next day, followed by a trip further north through the mountains to Luang Prabang, more rock climbing and a two-day hike in the jungles of northern Laos.

The narrow road to Luang Prabang meanders over and through stunning mountains and around sharp, terrifying curves and we (or rather Heather, since I had opted for Xanax) experienced gorgeous views of lush, expansive green valleys and fluffy cloud-drenched peaks. I was initially less than excited about spending time in Luang Prabang, having been looking forward to exploring the landscapes of central Laos, but I ended up enjoying the lovely French-influenced town on the banks of the Mekong. Backpackers and affluent holidaymakers alike flock here to enjoy the laid-back atmosphere, great food and beautiful architecture, which blends Lao traditions with structures built by European colonizers in the 19th and 20th centuries.

In Luang Prabang we enjoyed leisurely walks, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of this charming little town. We had several fantastic meals, including BBQ fish and vegetable buffet (50 cents!) at the local market and a fantastic Friday night Lao celebration feast at Tamarind (www.tamarindlaos.com), the highlight of which was a whole fish marinated in local herbs, stuffed with lemongrass and steamed in banana leaves. The town also hosts a surprising number of wine bars, ice cream parlors and Mac-filled internet cafes. The handicraft night market is expansive and busy, with vendors selling homemade quilts, clothing, arts and crafts. Fortunately for our livers, the town shuts down completely at 11 PM (as in lights out, guest house doors locked, backpackers report directly to bed). The one exception is the annual Festival of Lights, which happened to be taking place during our brief stay in town.

The Festival of Lights celebrates the end of Buddhist lent and is marked by a procession of elaborate and intricate paper boats, each constructed by a different village, school or temple and lit by hundreds of candles. The boats are huge– usually about two to three meters long– and decorated with fresh flowers, banana leaves and some even with impressive mechanical accoutrements. Each is carried down the main street by a team of men from the relevant locality and accompanied by large groups of singing, dancing, costumed women and children. Revelers gather to watch the procession and follow the boats to the riverbank where they are set off down the Mekong (before or after some tense firefighting exercises are performed in and around the highly flamable vessels). Small foam-based flower arrangements containing small candles and sticks of incense are offered for purchase on every street corner. Heather and I each bought one and were advised to make a wish before sending them, along with thousands of other twinkling lights, down the Mekong (as the beautiful little trinket floats away, with it are supposed to go all of your troubles). The festival is an occasion for the entire town, young and old, local and tourist, to party in the streets and continuously set off multitudes of frighteningly loud fireworks (contributiing to about a dozen heart attacks and potentially permanent ear damage). By the end of the night the air was thick with smoke and sulfur. The entire evening was magical and exciting and entirely unexpected.

Another highlight of our time in northern Laos was our two-day trek and village stay. We chose to book our trek through Tiger Trail Outdoor Adventures (www.laos-adventures.com), mainly because the company supports the “Fair Trek” initiative by engaging in sustainable tourism, eco-friendly adventures and even donating a portion of its profits to local villagers. On the first morning of our trek our guide introduced us to the numerous resident giant millipedes (terrifying and gross but basically harmless, unless you have a slithering insect phobia, AHEM) and nonchalantly advised us to keep an eye out for scorpions (yikes!) and king cobras (double yikes!), both of which are common on the trails. Lovely. Despite our fears we set off into the dense, mountainous, jungle terrain. Two hours in and I have never been so hot and sticky in my entire life. It felt like I was swimming in my clothes. The sun beat down through a cloudless sky, the humidity was something like 739 percent, and the trail? The trail was virtually nonexistent. Our guide walked a meter or so in front of us, hacking his way through vines and bamboo with his field knife. Even when there was an opening in the plant life, he still made sure to loudly announce our arrival to the resident wildlife, luckily ensuring that we did not run into any friendly or not-so-friendly king cobras along the way. When questioned about the dangers of snake encounters, our knowledgable guide advised us quite succinctly that king cobras “usually… never” bite people but if they do, the bite is “sometimes… always” fatal (surprisingly, this did little to calm our nerves). I did, however, narrowly avoiding stepping on a large scorpion, get attacked by a mess of giant red stinging ants and, several times, get whipped in the face by sneaky low-hanging vines. Given my tendency to clumbsiness, I call this a success.

After seven hours of intense hiking (and a few stops at small villages along the way to play with and take photos of the always-excited local children), we made it to a quiet little Hmong village where we would be spending the night. There we met an American couple, Michelle and Peter, who had also braved the jungle (and who, unlike us, had not been so lucky as to avoid an encounter with a king cobra). After possibly the most appreciated showers of our lives and a yummy local dinner, the four of us were exhausted and ready for bed before sundown… but the villagers had alternate plans for us. They were excited to offer us some of their homemade lao-lao whiskey (mmm… smells like lighter fluid, feels like fire), turn the volume up on some local tunes, and begin the welcome party. The adorable village kids were in high spirits, dancing around our table, smiling and laughing despite (or maybe because of?) or inabilty to communicate… maybe also because of our grimaces upon throwing back a shot of the local firewater. As the evening progressed they would also gain extraordinary pleasure by torturing us with enormous insects and laughing when we screamed, hopped onto chairs and hid behind Pete for protection (thanks Pete!) when the random praying mantis came flying in our direction.

After a too short night’s sleep (the resident roosters very impolitely woke us at 3:30 AM), we packed our bags, bid our new friends adieu and headed off in the direction of a massive and spectacular waterfall called Tad Sae. Tad Sae features several levels of bleached white limestone worn smooth by centuries of rushing water, forming numerous crystal blue pools. It looked like something out of an animated fantasy wonderland of gorgeousness. The water was shockingly cold, but we couldn’t resist diving in to celebrate the end of our hot, muggy, itchy, scary and wonderful jungle trek.

Another day of rock climbing followed (!!!)… and then we decided to test our luck with Mother Nature by heading to the southernmost part of Laos. Our destination: the island of Don Det in a region known as 4000 Islands. Our goal: to rent a stilted bamboo bungalow with a balcony over the river and plant our bikini-clad butts firmly in a couple of hammocks for a few days before we were expected to arrive in Phnom Penh to start working. Success! Turns out the flooding had mostly subsided, the rains had (mostly) cleared and the bungalows and hammocks were plentiful. Our balcony connected with those of a British couple and an Aussie dude (hi Nic!), all three of whom were perfect neighbors and equally devoted to mastering the fine art of hammock-swinging. None of us minded that the island has no electricity except by generator in the evenings, no indoor plumbing and no hot water. A few cold Beerlaos, a good book and pack of cards was enough to keep us all happy for several days.

Don Det was a beautiful, relaxing, breezy and perfect end to our time in Laos, a land of ups and downs, insanity and serenity, smiling children, a few monkeys, constant sunshine, nonstop adventures and (as promised, Moms and Dads) lots of detox and relaxation.

Next up: Phnom Penh.

xoxoxo,
Jill & Heather

But then we headed north to Vang Vieng and things went haywire. Rapidly.

I blame this on the Canadians (because “haywire” can’t possibly be our fault). We met Vancouver’s Maxwell and Kristoffer (Hi Max and Kris!) a couple of hours after our arrival in this small town, which is located a few hours north of the capital city on the jaw-droppingly beautiful Nam Song River. Not that we noticed much of its beauty on our first day … instead, upon finishing our delicious lunch at Aussie Bar, we accepted an invitation to join the Canadians’ table just across the way, and for the next several hours our attentions were entirely consumed by the intense Apples-to-Apples and Shithead playing, bad joke telling (fsssshhhhhh!) and tequila-shooting with the Canadians along with a long-traveling German named Sebastian, a tall, buff British birthday boy wearing a flouncy, polka-dotted, waist-high blouse with lacy red trim (some sort of birthday tradition that was never clearly explained), and some bare-chested, well-tanned Danes, all of whom would become our intermittent companions over the next few days.

Vang Vieng is spread out along the banks of the river, which meanders alongside lush, foliage-covered limestone karsts bursting dramatically through swirls of steamy tropical air as they stretch hundreds of vertical meters into the sky. It is peppered with crystal-clear turquoise lagoons that spill out of cool, dark caves, which conspire to echo the sounds of the many rowers chanting in unison as they make their way across the river. This adds up to a town that is chock-full of tempting outdoor activities, including kayaking, spelunking and some of southeast Asia’s best rock climbing, all in, on and under some of the most outrageously gorgeous scenery we’ve ever come across.

But the real superstar activity here — the one that travelers gossip, brag and fondly reminisce about across the entire Southeast Asia backpacker circuit — is tubing down the Nam Song River. Or should I say “tubing” down the Nam Song River. Or better still, occasionally floating for maybe a minute or two from pulsating open-air bar to pulsating open-air bar on a dubiously-inflated tractor tire, with Beerlao in hand. And despite our aforementioned healthy lifestyle intentions, that’s what we really came here to do.

The Canadians too, it seems. Hence sometime during our Aussie Bar hijinks we’d made plans to join forces the next morning for our jaunt down the river. Which became the next afternoon, due to some slow and false starts the following day as we dragged ourselves out of our respective beds and into the notorious Lao heat. (It’s the cool season here. I’d ballpark that it’s about 197 degrees outside. Celsius.) Which was postponed for yet another day, as rain descended over the town and we gave in to our grogginess and our unwillingness to move all that much. The four of us decided to take it easy that night …. which apparently meant walking across the river on the creaky, narrow, wooden-planked foot bridge that drops passers-by off into the Bucket Bar (advertising Free Buckets with Food!), ordering up a bunch of buckets (a sickeningly sweet but highly effective mixture consisting of a full pint of whiskey, a hell-a-ton of Red Bull and the complimenting soda of your choice, served up in a sandcastle-building bucket complete with about 15 straws … this is the staple “food” for many backpackers in Vang Vieng), and sinking for several lazy, swinging hours into the cozy cotton hammocks alighting the parameters of the bar’s backyard.

But the next morning (if 2 PM equals morning), Jill, Max, Kris and I were geared up and ready to go. And by 2:15 PM we were spilling out of our rickety tuk-tuk (Southeast Asia’s answer to the El Camino – a festively adorned and typically coughing, overwhelmed motorbike latched on to some sort of cage-enclosed truck bed, which in this case was stuffed full of eager tubers and topped off with several tenuously-fastened inflated tubes) and into the welcoming arms of the girl who was standing on the steps of the first bar on the tubing track extending free shots of Tiger whiskey in our direction.

That’s when the madness began. As we planted ourselves on the deck of the bar, our jaws went slack with stunned amazement as we surveyed what lie before us. Hundreds of bikini- and board short-clad revelers guzzling whiskey, Beerlao and buckets and then jumping off of the decks of the myriad bars within eyeshot and floating giddily down the river, as boys swung perilously above their heads on shoddily-constructed rope swings and zip lines before plunging dozens of flailing feet and smashing (often back, belly, or even face-first) into the water.

We’d been advised via our trusty Lonely Planet that several people die on this river each year, mainly due to a toxic combination of (1) zip lines, swings and slides patched together without fear of liability, (2) alcohol-fueled confidence, and (3) sheer stupidity. And sadly, we’d even heard a rumor that an Irish guy had died on the river just seven days before, after drunkenly catapulting himself backwards down a several meter slide with an upward trajectory at its base – he was flung off of the slide and high into the air before smashing neck first into the water, which allegedly knocked him out, causing him to drown as he was washed down the river. He was on his honeymoon.

This was a scene you’d never, ever see in the United States, or Canada, or likely even Mongolia for that matter. We were shocked and a little intimidated but above all absolutely giddy with the ridiculousness of it all, and after the Canadians took on a few of those ill-advised swings (Jill even braving one epic swing that ended with a massive bruise-rendering thigh-flop into the water– this was enough encouragement for me to pass, thanks very much), we tossed our tubes into the river and paddled our way down to the next bar.

That’s when Ma Ma Lao burst into our lives. How to describe Ma Ma Lao …..? A burly, rough-skinned, dark-browed bear of a woman who emanated a wild, angry humor and whose body was wrapped into sausage-like folds by too-tight clothing. We’d briefly come across her at the first bar when she stomped up to the buff British guy (we would run into him and the amply-bronzed Danes throughout the day) and kicked him smack-dab-smash on the leg …. apparently because he didn’t take her home a couple of days prior when she met him at a bar? (Exceptionally wise choice, buff British guy.) When we stumbled into her domain at the second bar, her face was contorted under her sweaty, furrowed brow as she arm-wrestled a victory away from a fairly well-muscled guy. She scared me immediately, and my fear only intensified as she stood in the center of the bustling deck and drew obscene images out from under her shorts and down her dense thighs with a thick, dark permanent marker. We kept our distance, but it seems there’s no keeping things from Ma Ma Lao, because a few minutes after our arrival, without any prompting or discernible justification, she marched across the deck and up to Max, grabbed a handful of curly chest hair and in one swift motion ripped it straight out from its roots, and then tossed the punished cluster of hair onto the ground and gruffly laughed as she stormed away. After recovering from the shock, Max promptly climbed up a nearby wooden ladder, swept down a zip line and flipped himself belly-side-down into the river to deaden the pain. Having finished our second round of free whiskey shots and Beerlaos, we agreed that the chest-rip was our cue to move on to the next bar and far, far away from the treacherous Ma Ma Lao.

Thirty seconds later we were pulling ourselves out of our tubes and into the third bar, which was bursting at the seams with tubers twitching and swaying to the screaming, bass-heavy music. Another free shot. Another Beerlao. More people flinging and flipping and swinging and flopping from increasingly steep zip lines into the river. Backflips off of tall wooden towers into tube-infested waters. People sweeping by in the river below and waving desperately to be tossed the ubiquitous deckside ropes that serve as lifelines in the swift high-water current. And after taking in the increasing wobbly euphoria of the sun- and whiskey-drenched masses, we set off for yet another bar.

The fourth bar. The Smile Bar. AKA the bar where everyone is absolutely brown-soaked with thick, wet mud. Due to: A Mud Tug-of-War. A dipping-pool-sized mud puddle (full of people). And the kicker: Mud Volleyball. A very very popular game of Mud Volleyball, where there are no points and everybody wins. And of course, another round of Beerlao and free Tiger shots, this time poured into our mouths directly from the bottle by a circus-worthy bottle-juggling bartender named Trent who as of that day had been tubing for 279 non-consecutive days. (The number was written on his chest in marker – we later learned that he’d only taken 14 days off during his 279-day stretch, and that his longest consecutive stretch was 70 days. He told us it almost killed him. Uh, yeah.)

And then the fifth bar. The Swing Bar. AKA the place where, if you’ve somehow escaped the messy delights of the Smile Bar, you surely cannot survive the mud-sodden Slip and Slide that constitutes the 45-degree angle walkway leading upwards toward the bar. Made even further complicated by the highly and obnoxiously intoxicated guys that tackle anyone that’s still remotely clean and hurl them down onto the muddy slope. Although remarkably, we did survive … cautiously digging our toes inches deep as we plucked our way through the careening crowd and up towards our next free shot. But (and this is no joke), we were much, much more sober than a good 85% of the tubers that day, and many of the now-smashed people that swarmed around us were doomed …. a blubbering mass of mud-caked people slipping, flopping and slithering up and down the impossible path.

Fresh Beerlao in hand, we made our way to the safety of a riverside sala. Which is where we witnessed something that in my heart of hearts I wish I’d never seen: Ma Ma Lao just meters away, greedily smashing her hands down the trousers of Dex, the Irish dude who inexplicably was returning her affections with coarse, sloppy kisses. ICK. ICK. YECK. (He had just minutes before bragged to Max that he’d “Just snogged her”. My brain can’t process this tidbit of information.)

Once again, our cue to move on. Back on our tubes and loaded up with cans of Beerlao, we decided to skip the next few bars and take on the long and often-skipped haul to the last bar on the tubing track, which we were told was about thirty minutes away. So we settled in cozily, our feet interlocking our tubes together, our heads idly hanging off the back of our tubes so we could take in the heart-stopping scenery. There was one big problem with our plan though: we didn’t know where the last bar was, and it was late, and we were alone on this last leg of the tubing track. The sky faded from blue to amber to dark to black. We floated for maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes or so, and the current greatly intensified. And soon enough, we found ourselves soaring down the river in pitch blackness, our bathing suit-clad bottoms bumping threateningly into the large, sharp rocks down below. But thankfully, a few minutes later, lights spilled out from an upcoming island, so we all decided that it was every man for himself, and we all disengaged our feet and attempted to paddle solo to the upcoming banks.

It wasn’t working. Paddle, paddle hard as I might, I soon lost sight of my three companions and found myself whizzing past the lonely lights on shore and into the great Nam Song unknown. But just as I screamed out “HELP!!!! I CAN’T GET TO SHORE!!! WHEERRRE ARRRRE YOUUUUUUU……?????!!!!” …. I was rescued. By a super sexy Argentinian surfer-bartender who swept me into his arms and consoled my trembling body as he carried me to his welcoming bar.

Except not really. I was rescued by a four-year-old Lao girl, who galloped through the rapids barefoot, flung me out of my tube, flipped the tube over her head, latched onto my hand and pulled me through 15 meters of balance-toppling water to safety. I felt ridiculous. Except not really, because it turns out that Jill, Kris and Max were all similarly saved.

All of this meant it was time for another free shot at our destination: the Sunset Bar. And Beerlao. And many, many more of the same, until we found ourselves singing Rolling Stones tunes at the top of our lungs, chair dancing with utter abandon, and deciding to meet up the next morning to do it all again.

Which we did, with even more enthusiasm than the day before. The first bar: drinks, swings, flips, check. The second bar: drinks, dancing, ziplines, flips, check. The third bar: drinks, dancing, and stenciled spraypainting all over our bodies, check. Fourth bar? Mud volleyball, check.

And so the day went, until we once again found ourselves the last tubers on the river, richocheting down the dark watery abyss toward the Sunset Bar, this time performing some sort of scream-hum rendition of Emotional Rescue for the benefit of all of the bankside communities. And yet again, the Sunset Bar, cajolling and headbanging to Black Sabbath, until Max fell backwards ecsatically off of his barstool onto the muddy ground below. This time, it didn’t take Ma Ma Lao to give us our cue to go.

It’s the next day now, and we’re still here in Vang Vieng (after seeing the Canadians off this morning), readying ourselves to get back on the detoxing track (seriously Moms & Dads, we mean it this time). Kayaking, rock climbing, trekking, villages, here we come. We leave it to you to believe it’s true.

Our Love from Laos,
Heather & Jill

We first arrived in Johannesburg from Dar Es Salaam, but unfortunately we didn’t have much time to explore Jo’burg, other than a giant mall (South Africans apparently LOVE malls) and a crazy b-boy bar called Groove Cafe — thanks to the crew at Diamond Diggers backpackers and their successful scheming to lure our tired frames out for a night on the town. We would have loved to more discover more of this fascinating and slightly frightening city, especially by visiting the apartheid museum and Soweto, South Africa’s most famous township. Townships are sprawling, underdeveloped shack settlements on the outskirts of most urban areas which were set up and reserved exclusively for non-whites during the apartheid era (and, sadly, are still home to huge percentages of the black population). Soweto is the site of some of the most relevant and impactful protests against apartheid, particularly the 1976 Soweto Uprising, in which thousands of students and other citizens protested the government’s policy for all schools to provide education in Afrikaans (the language of the Dutch settlers who were the main architects of apartheid) rather than in English. Several hundred people were killed during the Soweto Uprising.

Traditionally townships were notoriously crime-ridden but today, some townships like Soweto and others are rapidly developing due in part to enterprising locals who cater to the tourism trade. We had planned to return to Johannesburg for a day or two at the tail end of our South African tour, but ultimately couldn’t pull ourselves away from the sunny beaches of Durban and the South Coast (see below).

From Johannesburg we took the fancy schmancy Premier Classe train overnight to Cape Town to meet up with our friend and colleague Rossie. We arrived in Cape Town a night before him, checked into our pre-reserved suite at the ultra-luxurious Radisson Blu Waterfront and were surprised with a welcome bottle of champagne (thanks Rossie!). We got the feeling that the prim hotel staff was less than excited and possibly slightly disgusted by our dirty, overstuffed backpacks in the pristine marble lobby of their grand hotel… and after two and a half months in rural East Africa we were definitely not accustomed to plush bathrobes and balconies with views of the ocean… However, the staff turned a blind eye and we quickly acclimated to the lifestyle by popping the champagne, donning the bathrobes, emptying the mini-bar, ordering room service and having ourselves a proper “welcome back to civilization” party. For the next week we were wined, dined, pampered and spoiled.

Rossie, Heather and I indulged in numerous spa treatments and dips in the “oxygen pool”, which allegedly has the same health benefits as a full eight hours of sleep (we’re skeptical). We did some mountain biking and winery-hopping in Stellenbosch, where the Pinotage and Cape Blends may or may not have contributed to a nasty road spill by Heather (she’s still recovering from the bruises). We had delicious meals at several of the region’s best restaurants, including mouth-watering and belly-expanding short ribs with vanilla risotto in an espresso reduction (GAH) at our favorite local place, Savoy Cabbage (www.savoycabbage.co.za). We also took in the sunset over fruity cocktails in gorgeous Camps Bay and did a brisk climb up Table Mountain, where at the peak the chilly fog and thick white clouds rolled in so quickly it was surreal.

… And the biggest adventure of all: we went shark cage diving. SHARK CAGE DIVING. We were submerged in a cage. In the freezing cold ocean. In SHARK ALLEY. To look into the eyes of Great White sharks. Voluntarily.

Heather and I were both a little terrified (okay, ridiculously terrified) of being face to face with Great Whites but somehow this trip has galvanized our guts. We chose to dive with Brian McFarlane’s enterprise in Gansbaai (www.sharkcagediving.net). Brian is an insightful and funny former commercial fisherman who has caught over 30 Great Whites, some weighing more than a ton (he now regrets his actions and devotes his time to educating people about these crazy beasts). Great White sharks are the world’s largest predatory fish and can grow to over 20 feet in length but as it turns out… cue scary music… big toothy sharks… not really as terrifying as we expected. More than anything, they are beautiful, powerful, graceful creatures. They command respect. Sure they have really big jaws and a mouthful of REALLY sharp, serrated teeth, but when you’re underwater with them you’re shaking in your boots mostly because the water is frigid and not because Jaws was anything like reality. We saw over 25 sharks, one of which clamped its enormous incisors onto the bars of the cage frighteningly close to my precious fingertips — the one time I truly panicked. Ultimately we survived unscathed, we bought the DVD (obviously) and the experience was an amazing one that none of us will ever forget.

After shark cage diving we drove to Hermanus to watch the Southern Right whales playing in Walker Bay. Every year around July, hundreds of the whales arrive in Hermanus to breed. From July through October you can view dozens of them at a time frolicking in the water near the shore and we were enthralled by them for hours while enjoying a bottle of wine in the sunshine at a little bayside cafe. Afterward we bid Rossie (our very gracious host) farewell, checked into Hermanus Backpackers and quickly got back to the dirty backpacker grind. We played Apples to Apples into the night with a few fellow travelers and the cute bartenders Barry and Shaun in the comfy little bar, helped completely empty the drinks fridge, and woke up the next morning bleary-eyed and excited to begin our journey up the coast.

Our first stop was an overnight stay in Wilderness, a pretty, leafy village on the Garden Route. At Fairy Knowe backpackers lodge we took it easy, enjoyed a full night’s sleep and the next morning did a quiet little hike through the dense forest to a trickling waterfall. We rented bikes, explored the town, got soaked in a torrential downpour and just narrowly caught the Baz Bus before it pulled away and then a few hours later… we arrived in Jeffrey’s Bay. Oh my goodness, Jeffrey’s Bay. My head hurts just thinking about the 24 hour party known as Island Vibe, J-Bay’s most popular backpackers hostel and the place we chose to rest (or not) our weary heads for a night… which turned into two nights… which almost turned into three nights before we came to our senses and moved on.

Jeffrey’s Bay apparently has one of the best right hand point breaks in the world. Not that we would know because we were way more interested in the cold beers and hottie surfers in the Island Vibe bar than in the waves. One of our mutual goals on this trip is to learn to surf. However, for the first 24 hours we were in Jeffrey’s Bay the weather was cold and rainy and the ocean was freezing and based on our aforementioned shark cage experience, there was no part of us that wanted to don a wet suit and shiver our way through a surf lesson. So instead we planted our butts firmly on a couple of bar stools and made friends with Kim, the curly-haired Brazilian surfer running the bar (hi Kim!). At some point after a few Black Labels and shots of Jagermeister and chats with the multitudes of travelers who had recently jumped 216 meters (approximately 650 feet) off the Bloukrans Bridge — the world’s highest bungee jump — we found ourselves full of courage and curiosity and big talk. Enough so that we canceled our next Baz Bus segment, booked another night at Island Vibe and paid a 350 Rand deposit for a car to take us the next morning to the bridge. More beers (to celebrate!), more shots (more celebrating!) and then (apparently this is a common occurrence), the bartenders were naked behind the bar. That was our cue to go to bed (not, however, before we, along with the muscle-y German guy we endearingly nicknamed “Boobs”, entertained the crowd with our delightfully off-key rendition of Toto’s Africa).

The next morning before we knew what was happening we were in a car traveling two hours back on the highway to Tsitsikamma. Face Adrenalin (www.faceadrenalin.com) runs the bungee enterprise and their tagline is “Fear is momentary, regret is forever”. Similar to the motto we’ve been attempting to live by during our time in Africa (thanks to a very wise woman named Cindra): “When in Africa, if you’re not sure, say yes”. So we said yes (with slightly less gumption than we had the night before), paid for our jumps, got harnessed up and were led across a metal mesh walkway suspended beneath the huge concrete bridge span. I was excited, bouncing my way across, when I noticed the look of sheer panic in Heather’s eyes. Turns out she is absolutely petrified of heights. PETRIFIED. She had to be coached across the bridge, her white knuckles constantly grasping the railing, and she refused to look down. With each shaky step it became more obvious to me that my mission may become a solo one, but surprisingly she still seemed intent to jump. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure her fear intensified my resolve. We reached the landing and Heather allowed the bungee cord to be attached to her ankles while I sat wrapped in a blanket waiting my turn. She seemed okay at first but quickly deteriorated as she was lifted to the edge. We’d heard that a jumper may be helped (i.e. thrown) off the bridge in case of hesitation, but the guys whose necks Heather had in death grips only halfheartedly attempted to convince her that she wanted to let go, aware that she was genuinely scared to death. After about 20 minutes of cursing and trembling through panic-stricken tears she made the executive (and probably smart) decision not to jump.

Then it was my turn. After watching Heather falter at the edge, I knew not to hesitate or think too much about what I was about to do or even look down. Instead, as soon as I was hooked up and lifted to the edge, I put my arms out, smiled for the camera, and “5,4,3,2,1… Bungee!!!”… I swan dove my ass 650 feet off the Bloukrans Bridge. Wheeeeeeeeee! The free fall lasts about five seconds and it is the most amazing feeling ever. It’s nothing like the stomach-in-throat discomfort of a roller coaster, but rather it’s an utterly peaceful feeling of floating — everything seemed to move in slow motion. The only slightly awkward part was after the jump, hanging stationary at the bottom of the cord, staring at the gorge walls, and wondering when (and if) the safety guy was coming to hoist me up. As soon as he did, I wanted to go again. Of course I bought the DVD, the CD of photos and a t-shirt. Not sure anyone would believe me otherwise.

More celebrating (notice a pattern?)… then again we boarded the Baz Bus. This time our destination was Coffee Bay, a tiny village on the Wild Coast (in a region known as the Transkei). We spent two nights camping at Sugarloaf Backpackers (where the house chef, Rocco, prepared some of the best food we’ve had in Africa). The Transkei, or homelands, was an independent territory set up by the government for people of the Xhosa ethnicity and given nominal autonomy in 1963 in accordance with South Africa’s apartheid policy of separate development. Until Nelson Mandela’s election and the end of apartheid the Transkei existed as an internationally unrecognised, diplomatically isolated, politically unstable de facto one-party state (thanks Wikipedia!). In 1994 South Africa reincorporated the homelands into South Africa and today it remains a sparsely habited and very poor, though breathtakingly beautiful, region.

Coffee Bay is actually one of the larger towns on the Wild Coast and is situated on a series of rolling hills overlooking a gorgeous blue bay. The weather is consistently sunny and warm and the waves are apparently very good (but again, sadly, our surfing mission was not accomplished). Most of the homes in Coffee Bay, as in all of the Transkei, are one-room circular dwellings painted a bright turquoise that matches the sea (due to the use of a specific type of limestone paint). We took a tour of the area with a local named Silas, who took us to his home, introduced us to his family, showed us around his village, and even treated us to some homemade African beer at a neighborhood shebeen (or illegal bar). We were introduced by Silas’s sister-in-law to some of the skills essential for African women of marrying age, including grinding dried maize using two heavy stones, balancing buckets of water on our heads and playing a traditional primitive string instrument. Turns out, surprise, surprise, we are not very qualified for the position of subservient African wife and, hence, not worth many cows (the customary African dowry).

After Coffee Bay our last stop was Durban, the third largest city in South Africa and home to Trevor, one of the South African skippers we met in the Usumbara Mountains of Tanzania. Graciously, Trevor had offered to serve as our tour guide and personal chauffeur during our stay in his hometown (hi Trevor!). The beaches in and around Durban are phenomenal and though our host had offered to give us personal surf lessons, we ultimately failed for the third time due in part to crap waves and even crappier hangovers. We did, however, visit a few local bars, play a bunch of cards, eat very spicy Durban curry (mmm…) and watch scary movies and drink wine on Trevor’s couch, which was a very welcome break from being constantly on the move. We briefly visited the largest mall in the Southern Hemisphere (South Africans… Malls… I’ll never understand). And we fell in love with bunny chow, the delicious (and adorably named) local takeaway delicacy, which is a hollowed-out loaf of bread filled with curry and eaten without utensils. Messy and yummy.

The day before we were to leave South Africa (we ended up canceling the Jo’burg leg in order to spend an extra day or two near the sea), the three of us drove to a little beach house on the South Coast, settled in with cold beers, a bottle of Jameson and a view of the ocean (and more whales!), turned up the volume on the iPod speakers, busted out some epic dance moves, attempted trapeze antics from the roof beams, took turns telling really stupid jokes (What do you call a fish with no eyes? A fssssshh — Go on, say it out loud), and even had an ostrich braai (South African for BBQ… hooray!) prepared by our awesome and very cute host.

And then it was time to go. We could easily have spent the remainder of our nine month trip in Africa… In fact, we changed our flights and/or extended our time there a total of three times. We were enormously sad to leave such a beautiful continent. Africa stole our hearts and threatens also to lure us away from Brooklyn for long periods of time in the near future.

Our advice to you if you’re thinking of visiting South Africa, or Uganda or Tanzania or Rwanda, for that matter? Definitely… just say yes.

Heart-pounding hugs,
Jill & Heather

So we went rafting. 
 
About an hour later, we found ourselves ankle deep on the muddy banks of the Nile.  The horrors of the morning quickly succumbed to the terrors that lay before us as we stripped down to our bikinis, donned our supersized lifejackets and boarded a raft with our likewise-novice team.

Here’s how it went down, play-by-play:

OUR TEAM:  Tal, the adorable Israeli trapeze artist; the two Israeli girls with similar names; the Dutch guy; Jill; me.

OUR GUIDE:  Harvey, one of the several hot, buff, suntanned Aussies running the NRE show.

HARVEY’S GUIDE:  Jesse, another one of the those hot, buff, suntanned Aussies, who is here to keep Harvey in check – Harvey has only been on the Nile for a week.  And is already prone to troublemaking (i.e. taking the most dangerous routes), as we will soon find out.

WARM UP:  We learn to paddle.  We are mostly girls.  We aren’t very fast.  Actually, we suck.

Harvey tips the boat for a little real-rapids practice.  I swallow 13 gallons of Nile-river water.  I gag and choke.  Eyebrows raise re my presence here.

CLASS 5 RUN #1: BUJAGALI FALLS:  After breezing through a few small-scale rapids, we approach our first serious task of the day – two successive falls (WATERFALLS) crashing into frenzied foaming white water and cringe-inducing rocks.  We saw this one from the shore yesterday, and we’re nervous, to say the least.  But luckily, boats rarely tip on this run, and neither does ours or any other of the four rafts out with us on the river.  There is one isolated tipping incident though – or maybe it’s more of a fly-and-splatter – somewhere during the second fall, I’m sent sailing out of the boat and I disappear into the water.  Swallow 12 more gallons of water.  Gag and choke.   Team growing increasingly wary re my abilities.

This, we learn, is the easiest Class 5 run of the day.

CLASS 5 RUN #2: SILVERBACK:  As we approach what sounds like a jet engine roaring beneath the surface of the river, Jesse casually informs that we’re about to raft one of the largest and wildest raftable rapids in the world.  Jill’s psyched, wants to flip the raft on purpose.  I’m thinking of taking up religion.  The run has a series of four very large funneling waves.  The point is AT VERY LEAST to make it over the first wave, so as to avoid breathless underwater body surfing for the entire several dozen meter rapid. 

FAIL.

(This is Harvey’s fault.)

CLASS 4 RUN #1: 50/50: So named because rafts flip over 50% of the time.  We don’t flip.  Skills massively improving, clearly.

INTERMISSION: Beautiful, reflecting flat pools, which lure one in for a lazy swim, notwithstanding its serious infestation of crocodiles, bilharzia (an illness-inducing swimming bacteria) and long skinny slithering green snakes.  Jill swims jacketless; I sit on the side of the boat, clutching my life jacket and nervously eating my pineapple.  

CLASS 5 RUN #3: OVERTIME: As the kayakers that have been accompanying us down the river so far today pull themselves out of the river to avoid the upcoming rapid, our fears intensify.  Even Jill is tightening her jacket straps and t-gripping her paddle for dear life.  This rapid is a vertical plunge over and into bone-cracking rocks, and there is one rule: DON’T FLIP THE BOAT. 

Luckily, this time we comply.  Although we do go over backwards.  Seeing is overrated.

CLASS 4 RUN #2: BUBUGA:  After taking the last run like serious professionals, Jill’s getting more confident.  The next run appears slightly less terrifying, so, at Jesse’s request, Jill decides to join him in jumping out of the raft at the top and riding the rapid freestyle.  I politely yet firmly decline.  I like the boat.

FINAL CLASS 5 RUN: THE BAD PLACE (and for me, bonus Class 4 run at The Other Place):  The name is no exaggeration – this is indeed a very, very bad place.   The night before we viewed a video of this run, which featured one very unfortunate raft that was trapped for what seemed like several very long minutes in this cyclone of a rapid – all of its former crew flung mercilessly from its sides and sucked into its vortex, save one lone survivor, who clung to its ropes in terror as the surf crushed the boat repeatedly.  The rule here: AVOID THE BAD PLACE AT ALL COSTS.

As we hurl forward into this potential catastrophe, Jill’s confidence is shattered.  I’m convulsing with panic.  There’s nothing we can do but paddle as if our lives depend on it (which we’re sure they do), in hopes of narrowly avoiding the very worst.

And miraculously, the worst is avoided – our now-superhuman paddling powers surprise even our guides as we skirt around the parameters of the rapid’s core.  But alas, as we high-five and self-congratulate, Harvey bellows at us to start paddling again – PADDLE RIGHT!  PADDLE LEFT!  HARD PADDLE RIGHT!!!  Of course we obey, although now we find ourselves heading curiously BACK toward The Bad Place.  Why, Harvey? Why? Why? Why?

Because Harvey is crazy.  And so we plunge, and heave left, and rip forward, and heave right, and after slamming face-first into a massive swell of white, the boat tumbles backwards, and everybody is sent flying out of the boat and into the crashing waters.

Or so we think.   When our heads emerge from the water (mine bobbing beneath flailing arms as I’m torn down the surf into The Other Place), we discover our boat, floating gracefully downstream, with Tal, Harvey and Jesse safely seated inside.  They think we jumped.  We disagree.  We know the truth.

THE AFTERPARTY:  Tequila shots ensue. Romance blossoms. DVDs are viewed (and the day’s mysteries are solved).  Ceiling beams are climbed.  Naked. (Not by us.)  Details are forgotten.

For those of you who would like a little visual aid to confirm the foregoing, check out the video below from youtube.  However, if you’d like a video of a rat in labor, we’ll leave that to you to find for yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_RlTSwTy-8

Don’t believe we did it?  We’ve got the DVD to prove it.  Can’t wait to watch it with you…

Much love from the bruised, battered and burned –

Heather and Jill

HEATHER:
Perhaps our version of Uganda so far has been a bit idyllic; we’re in a relatively safe part of the country, but Cherie – who’s just arrived from the east, where she’s volunteering at a primary school – just told us about a smattering of murders that are happening in her district, allegedly by rebels.  Popular knowledge is that the big rebels (i.e. Lords Resistance Army) are safely tucked away in the north, but stories of random and frequent murders in areas six hours east highlight the realities of the region.  Luckily for Cherie (and others she’s working with), they have a security guard who stoically guards the area with a bow and arrow.   Hmmmmmmm……… 

But don’t worry parents!  We ARE safely tucked away in a peaceful place called Kabale, where the biggest worry is (potentially glue-sniffing?) town crazies who want to bestow their unintelligible but I’m sure infinitely wise musings upon the visiting Mzungos.  We will be sure to pass along this wisdom as soon as we’re able to dicipher.

DAN:
here we are, sat across from one another, smiling and sharing stories – only in Uganda could there be this collection of the finest people. We have the opportunity to mix with individuals that in modern life you wouldn’t have the time to. This is the main aspect of Africa and Uganda in particular -time, you have a lot of it. You have the chance to meet locals and other travellers, and befriend them – when in western city life do you have the time to achieve this? For this and the beauty i have seen (in the landscape and the people), I thank Uganda and the good friends I have met within it. 

CHERIE:
The more I travel around Uganda, the more I realise how rural and Ugandan my volunteer experience is…I am based at a boarding primary school in a tiny village in Rakai district, where there is no electricity or running water in the entire area, where we have a security guard to protect the children from being stolen for witchcraft child sacrifice [ED: this was a headline story in Uganda's daily paper today], and our second and newest guard is actually a soldier (who are apparently the worst of the worst in Uganda) and he is to protect our newly donated solar panels from being stolen, and also to protect us from the thugs (rumoured to be rebels) that are currently terrorising our district…but it really isn’t as bad as it sounds. On the bus across Uganda today I was blown away by how friendly and nice every single person on the bus was. Sleeping children were passed from person to person around the bus, everyone shared the food they’d bought through the window, and everyone became friends with the person they were sitting or standing next to.  This does not happen on buses in the western world…people come first in this part of the world, and I hope that they do not lose this as Uganda ‘develops’…

LINDSEY:
The people of this country are the most beautiful! The Ugandans we work with are so welcoming, funny and full of life. However, it’s great to meet people from all over the world who share being in Uganda. Life is good in this country…with lack of material possessions and want for anything people are so happy! Its an amazing place to experience, great to be humbled and alot of fun along with it. I’ve had too many beers now to write properly…but come to Africa and live life as its meant to be lived!!

NICK:
I’m now getting into my last week teaching in Uganda and there’s a lot that I’m learning about the way things work in schools over here…

The first is that the system here is very narrow – kids are taught a bare minimum of what the Western world thinks they should know. In our workshop about planet earth, the kids had no idea what the sea was! The kids here also struggle with being creative, an essential part of growing up and flourishing into your own person. In a newspaper workshop, we had 35 kids write a story about football. They see what each other are doing and conform, uniformly. However, there are glimmers of hope – one child, the youngest in the class wrote a story about child sacrifice – a breath of fresh air amongst the football tales. This was one of the moments that makes you realise some of what we are doing IS making a difference…some kids are learning to think for themselves outside the box and as a creative person myself it is a very satisfying experience.

All of us volunteers are a very small part of a massive scale of project. Although what we do is very hard to see results in, it is a great feeling to know that what we are doing is making some difference to some kid’s lives. Volunteers often expect to come here and change these kids and while this may not happen, in the long term the projects here are making a difference and hopefully will continue to change the lives of some of the children in Uganda.

JILL:
Some guy tried to sell us a baby last night. That was the first time I came face to face, or at least recognized, the reality of East Africa. We have visited local villagers in the hills on the border of Rwanda and we’ve read about the poverty and we’ve definitely experienced it as tourists (hopefully respectfully). But mostly we’ve been welcomed and treated as honored guests. When we took the time to venture out of our comfort zone we encountered things we have only read about. People drive trucks hundreds of miles through Africa stopping perhaps for a simple local meal and maybe a glance at the sole TV set up in a box on the street. We are so lucky to be sitting here in the Nest with friends, having conversations and listening to music and considering moving to the pub across the street. So we have deal with mice, mosquitos and dust. We don’t live with the kind of insane poverty that would provoke someone to considering selling their child. Yikes. Uganda is life-changing. Beautiful, lively, sad, crazy, life-changing. For sure.

MUNIRA:
If you want to SEE Africa … stay here for two weeks … If you want to BREATHE her … two months are enough … If you want to FEEL the real thing … do you know what I mean ????
Nice to meet you two … untypical amercian lawyers.

Group blog is complete, and we’re heading across the street for a little matching and mixing as promised. I (Heather) was once told by a documentary filmmaker who had spent a lot of time filming in East Africa that here you’ll find both the very best and the very worst in people. For the most part so far (baby seller aside) it’s been the very best. Story to be continued…

Love and hugs,
Jill & Heather

We awoke at 4:30 AM Saturday morning and clamored about our room packing our day packs with bottled water and chocolate bars, attempting to shake off a few too many Nile Specials a la Friday night in the Nest (a cozy open-air, cushion-filled gathering space on the rooftop terrace of our hostel).  Our friend Moses had somehow worked his local magic last week to secure permits for us to join a group of eight others on a gorilla tracking adventure in Bwindi Inpenetrable National Park.  Very lucky for us, given that the others in our group had likely obtained their permits six months or more in advance, which is the norm.  We don’t ask questions.

Moses had also offered to drive us the approximately two hours to Bwindi starting at 5 AM.  He is really an amazingly helpful and nice guy and we are forever grateful for his generosity (hi Moses!).  As a result of the aforementioned Friday evening beers we mostly slept while Moses drove, whistling along to Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton on the tape deck (and we rely on each other… uh huh…) and when we weren’t sleeping we were feigning sleep to avoid glancing out the window to the cliffside abyss not two feet from our left tires.  The roads in Uganda are mostly unpaved, often winding perilously along mountainsides with little to no barrier separating terrified tourist from certain death.  Luckily Moses is a careful driver and we made it safe and sound to the Uganda Wildlife Authority base camp in the eastern part of Bwindi NP.  Almost half of the approximately 700 critically endangered mountain gorillas left in the world call Uganda’s Bwindi National Park home.

We were to spend the day tracking the Rushegura gorilla family.  At 8 AM the trek began innocently enough as our group (plus porters to carry the lazy European’s day packs) followed our guide Christopher down a well worn path surrounded by lush greenery.  A small group of trackers had set out at dawn to locate and follow the Rusheguras and help guide us to them via walkie talkie communications.  The park is enormous and we were warned that it may take anywhere from 15 minutes to over 8 hours to find the gorillas. The real adventure started as we turned off the path and began to descend into the forest– suddenly instead of following a trail we were climbing over fallen trees, scrambling up steep slopes and weaving our way through dense vegetation, including masses of tangled vines and poisonous stinging plants, with the help of a machete (Heather can explain in detail why it is ill advised to accidentally sit on said stinging plants). As a side note, we had luckily gotten some practice hiking and climbing the week before (when we did an 11 mile, 9 hour, 2500 meter climb in the hills surrounding beautiful Lake Bunyoni) as well as the previous evening when an ordinary business meeting with Edirisa’s Ugandan counsel turned into a pitch-black nighttime trek to a village in a remote valley inaccessible by car to serve legal papers on a fugitive headmaster who had embezzled several million shillings from a local school (a story for another time).

About 2.5 hours into our hike/climb/scramble Christopher turned to us and signaled to be silent.  A loud, gutteral roar confirmed that we had, in fact, found the gorillas.  There are no words to describe the first time you make eye contact with a massive, beautiful, gentle silverback gorilla.  We were frozen, awestruck. He sat about ten feet from us munching on a stalk of bamboo until deciding to move down further into the forest in search of the others in his family.  He led us first to two more silverbacks, two blackbacks and one juvenile male.  We moved quietly and slowly about their territory, stopping to gaze through the trees or shoot a photo or two.  At one point the juvenile ran past our guide and swatted him on the arm.   Christopher laughed and explained that this act was not aggressive at all– just like human kids,young  gorillas love to play.  That makes sense when you consider that gorillas share over 97% of their biological makeup with people.
 
Gorillas live in tight knit family groups containing between ten and 30 members.  The Rushegura family has 11 members (including two females and two babies).  We found the women and children a few meters uphill being guarded closely by the dominant silverback.  As we approached the five of them the male suddenly charged our group while beating his chest aggressively, baring his (very long, very sharp) teeth and roaring loudly.  We got the sense that this one wasn’t playing.  He stopped about five feet from us, dug his black-clawed hands into a fallen tree stump that tenuously separated man from beast and hostilely stared us down with his intense black eyes for what felt like an eternity.  Clinging to one another (as if that could help), neither of us moved a muscle or even breathed for about two minutes until the gorilla slowly backed away and Christopher warned sternly that it was now time to stop following the gorillas and to head back to  base camp.  It is rare for habituated gorillas to confront humans aggressively and it is unclear what provoked that particular silverback.  He may have had a fight with the other silverbacks in the family and been driven from the group (in which case he may have been attempting bravado in order to convince the females of his continuing dominance). Whatever the reason, it was a truly heartstopping experience that neither of us will ever forget.  It took us over two hours to make our way out of the dense vegetation and back to headquarters, giving us time to reflect on our experience and recover from the minor heart attack.
 
Note that gorilla tracking is severely expensive (it was certainly not in our $50 per day budget), physically challenging and perhaps psychotic (stalking wild gorillas?!?!  Really?!?!) but we think it is worth every penny, hassle, sore muscle, stinging backside and heart attack.  It may also be viewed as dangerous.  Only certain family groups in each park are habituated to human contact and there is the risk that you will encounter some of the truly “wild” mountain gorillas.  It was also in Bwindi National Park in 1999 that eight tourists were kidnapped and subsequently murdered by rebels.  However there is now a significant army presence within the park and it is generally considered safe, although this isn’t necessarily true in nearby DR Congo which, along with Rwanda, hosts the world’s other remaining mountain gorillas.  In DRC it’s a bit easier to secure a permit to track the gorillas, but also more likely that you’ll have an unwelcome encounter with militant rebel gangs that call the Parc National de Virungas home).  To ensure our safety, each tracking group is accompanied by an AK-47-wielding bodyguard (AK-47?  No biggie). 
 
We are happy to report that poaching has been stopped in Bwindi and the Uganda Wildlife Authority undertakes huge conservation efforts to protect the endangered gorillas (the Rushegura family bred a new infant in June 2008!).  Finally, note that the demand for tracking permits each year greatly exceeds the supply, so book well in advance (up to one year) unless you have a secret, magical local Ugandan friend to pull some strings…

We still can’t get over the most insane and amazing experience of our lives.  Video coming soon!

Hearts,
J&H

Last week we lived at a beautiful commune on Lake Bunyoni called The Heart.  Yes, a commune.  It had no electricity or hot water, but when our clothes got too dirty we were able to purchase a delightful tribal skirt from the local craftwomen.  Heather has been sporting a bandana around her head and while we have not yet succumbed to Jesus sandals, our hiking shoes and zip-away trekking pants are the height of backpacker fashion.

Love and miss you from dusty, sweaty, lovely Uganda.

Jill & Heather