Go Go Lightly!

We had really wholesome intentions for our trip through Laos. After our tipsy collisions with South Africa’s rugged coast and a somewhat raucous night out in Bangkok clinking Tiger beers and cocktails to the off-tone tunes of a Thai heavy metal cover band, Jill and I both swore that we’d devote our time here to cultural exploration, exercise and, most importantly, temporary vice eradication (i.e. detox). And we started out on the right foot … we spent each of our two days in Laos’ lovely capital, Vientiane, ambling down its charmingly French-influenced avenues, taking in its striking Buddhist monuments, and (shockingly) enduring grueling three-hour workouts at Laos’ only Western-style megagym, where all-day access to its multiple floors full of sparkling new machines and its enormous, chemical-blue pool and adjacent hot tub runs the weary traveler a whopping $6 (complete with a complimentary one-hour Lao massage).

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

South Africa is beautiful… Stunningly beautiful. And fun… Dangerously fun. And so full of adventure and adrenaline that we made the last minute decision to extend our time there by two weeks and travel from Cape Town up through the Western Cape, the Garden Route and the Wild Coast to Durban via the hop on-hop off backpacker Baz Bus (www.bazbus.com — an adventure in itself).

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

Seven early morning hours on a rickety, congested, diesel-fueled bus — that’s what it takes to reach Lushoto, a colorful little German-influenced town nestled cozily in the center of Tanzania’s Usambara Mountains. 
 
And so we wake up to our taxi driver’s anxious phone call, 5:50 AM, Sunday morning.  We were supposed to be up much earlier so we could reconstruct our deconstructed backpacks, but (don’t be shocked!) we’ve slept through our 5:30 AM alarm due to a boisterous and too-late night out in Dar es Salaam doing African line dances to bad R&B covers amongst the locals and the ex-pats boozily mingling at Sweet Eazy.   Sleep in our eyes, toothbrushes dangling from our mouths, we clambor about the room in our haste to leave, surmising that our bleary-eyed state means that we’re probably in for a very long and unpleasant ride.
 
But little do we know what comforts lie before us!  Arriving with what is apparently plenty of time to spare, we slide into our row on the voluminous bus and expand confidently across the three seats.  I slip my pillow (aka multi-purpose puffy vest) under my neck, sink back into my sweatshirt to ward off the slight morning chill and prepare for a restful ride.  When it is sufficiently occuppied (but fortunately far from full) the bus departs, and Jill and I take turns drifting in and out of sleep as the bus veers us skyward into the mountains.
 
These comforts aren’t to be taken for granted though – they usually don’t last.  This time, no exception.  Because a few hours later, I am jolted awake by a searing pain scrambling inside my right temple.  I lean forward and plaster my cheek against the seat in front of me hoping for some cooling relief.  But it’s hot now – very hot – and my cheek slides slickly up and down the plastic seat cover, lubricated by my accumulating perspiration.  Unappeased, I lift my head and survey the now heavily-populated bus.  A rolling mass of heads wrapped in brightly-colored kangas peeks out from above the seat tops.  Silhouettes of women with babies slung low on their backs fill the aisles.  A man in a cream-colored  taqiyah and matching poly-blend dishdasha now sits thigh to thigh on my left, jovially eyeing Jill and me and seemingly discussing our very conspicuous Mzungu-ness with his friends in the row to our front (we are the only Mzungu on the bus). 
 
Time passes and dehydration grows (the choice: pain in the head due to absence of frequent water replenishment, or pain in the swishing belly due to absence of bathroom breaks).  Roads become more treacherous and inclined.  Jill fidgits nervously, more bug-eyed and pale with every cliff-skimming corner.  But the signs pointing onward to Lushoto are becoming more frequent, and, renewed by this optimism, I decide to strike up a conversation with my new travel companion.  I grab the Lonely Planet out of Jill’s bag, flip to the basic Swahili section and turn confidently toward the man at my side.
 
“Hii ni barabara kwenda Lushoto?” (translation: “Is this the road to Lushoto?”).  The man flashes a big white-toothed smile at me, nods cautiously, and proceeds to openly gossip about me to his friends.  Jill looks at me quizzically. 
 
“What did you say?”
 
“I asked him if this is the road to Lushoto.”  Mocking laughter follows.  Which is deserved.  Of COURSE this is the road to Lushoto.  The bus has DAR – LUSHOTO written in huge block letters on it’s windshield.  There are signs that say “LUSHOTO” with arrows pointing straight ahead cropping up along the side of the road every five minutes.  And there’s only one road.  The road we’re on.  Stupid question.
 
Undeterred, I press on.  “Lushoto hospitali iko wapi?”  (translation: “Where is the Lushoto hospital?”).  The man nods again (curling his eyebrows into a question mark), points straight ahead and continues his gossip. 
 
A brief pause, and then I loudly announce:  “Nina mzio wa nyuki!!!”  (translation:  “I am allergic to bees!!!:)
 
Now the man and his friends seem a bit concerned.  It’s likely they think that I’m on an mysterious, ill-advised several-hour mission from the relatively modern Dar to the backwoods Lushoto hospital to attend to a recent, life-threatening bee sting.  To assuage them, I quickly follow with: “Nahitaji fundi!!”  (translation: “I need a mechanic!!)”
 
This is met with great enthusiasm, as the man points furiously at his friend and proclaims “He is Fundi!  He is Fundi!  Yes!  Yes!  Fundi!”  Hands are slapped mid-air, laughter envelops the knowing nods and we all sink back into our seats with a collective “ahhhhhh…..”, satisfied for the remainder of the trip because we’ve accomplished something.
 
We spend a restful two days in Lushoto, hiking up to Irente Farm for a scrumptuous picnic lunch (homemade cheese/butter/yoghurt/herbed cottage cheese/rye bread/passion fruit juice = yummm), and playing ruthless rounds of Shithead (an apparently universally known drinking/card game) with a couple of strapping South African skippers who are passing through town on their way to Moshi.  Then we set off on a two-day climb up and down mountains, through teeny Muslim villages, past damp, fertile pines and under dense tropical rainforest (with every twitching stick we jump and wonder: Puff Adder?  Boomslang?  Green mamba?  Why aren’t the strapping South African skippers here?  If there’s ever a time for a piggyback ride, it’s now).  After a quick sleep in a quaint hillside convent (we’re probably not the most appropriate guests), we finish with a hike up to the lovely tip-top mountain village of Mtae.
 

 

 
This multi-day sport-fest is aided, though, by a two-hour bus trip from Lukozi to the convent, which is likely the most ridiculous, impossible ride of our trip so far.  People crammed so tightly that there’s only space on the floor for three of my ten toes.  Four and a half people for every three seats.  Jill’s bent 90 degrees forward at the waist, a child’s head enclosed in the inverse curve of her belly.  I’m waiting for the goats to board, and preparing to duck from any low-flying chickens.  We careen past plummeting mountain faces at angles that can only be acheived on two wheels.  I think Jill might vomit.  For comfort, she amuses herself by introducing African school children to the wonders of a Le Tigre video on her iPod.   And in the meantime, I find myself falling even more in love with this place. 
 

 
3:45 AM.  It’s now Thursday morning.  We wake to a sound that’s most likely being made by a too-happy bugler escaped from the circus asylum.  The bus horn?   We are running late for the bus back to Lushoto.  Dear lord who picks this schedule?
 

 
We board what looks like the Porno Party Bus…..lipstick red plastic seats framed by a thick black shag rug somehow fastened (via stapling?) to the ceiling.  I look around for strobing blacklights but only see our headlamps and those of the six other Mzungu on board.  The bus is ready to depart, and the horn screams its lunatic song again.  Calling all clowns! 
 
I’m sleepy.  The horn rises again.  Off to clown college!  Tiny men in red and white suspenders climb off of stilts and in through the windows.  A woman bathed in turquoise sequins rides down the aisle on a well-coiffed tiger.  Jill pulls herself up out of her seat and performs acrobatic swirls on the luggage rack.  I’m violently thrust forward by some sort of road/bus-underside collision.  Eyes now wide open, Jill’s right beside me.  No tigers, no satin-clad men dancing in colorful circles.  Circus antics cancelled by reality. 
 
The “road” is really a series of pockmarks and dips punctuated by the occassional motor-crushing canyon.  The seats vibrate violently – I think this bus could have a second career as an anti-cellulite treatment for the fifties housewife (Benson & Hedges on lips, bon-bons on lap, let the seats jiggle your sins away!).  I discover what the shag carpeting is for when my headlamp grazes the ceiling during a particularly dramatic pothole-induced crash.  It’s padding for my protection!  Seatbelts unnecessary!
 
Which I guess works, because we make it back, safe and sound in Lushoto, and begin preparing for tomorrow’s bus trip to the coast.  We just can’t get enough.