Madagascar: Into the Rainforest and… Other Stuff

Day One: The Bus

On Sunday, after our “free day” in Antananarivo, our tour of Madagascar officially began. Our first bus ride of the tour wouldn’t be as long as some, but getting out of Tana would be a repeat of the traffic snarls we’d enjoyed on the previous day. The bus itself was fine as buses go: There were 20-ish seats for the 15 of us, and cracking the windows open provided plenty of air.

The main problem was the seatbelts, which I’m convinced were engineered by someone who’d never actually seen a seatbelt before, but had only had them described second-hand. For one thing, they were way too short, which didn’t seem to be a problem for most of our tour group, but was a challenge for my big, fat American ass. The belts didn’t actually go across the waist—instead, they straddled your crotch as tightly as they could. However, the main problem was the buckle itself: Unlike in Western vehicles, where the clamp for the seatbelt is right beside your hip, these were much lower—about halfway down the side of the seat cushion and buried so deep the strap almost wouldn’t reach. Every time I got in or out of a seat, I had to fight with one of these bastards for two minutes just to get the damn thing to click shut.

But I have to say, seatbelts were a necessity—not because we might get into a wreck, but because once you’re out of the city, the roads in Madagascar are barely roads at all. I’m sure they were wonderful back when they were paved (however many centuries ago that was), but today, they’re mostly collections of giant potholes with little slivers of road in between. Over the next two weeks, there would be times when our average speed maxed at 15mph, with the kind of violent back and forth rocking I’d normally expect on the open ocean in bad weather.

Our first destination was Andasibe, home to the Analamazaotra Nature Reserve east of Tana. We arrived at the little resort village nearby in plenty of time to settle into our cabins and stretch our legs for the first of two hikes: one from 2-4 p.m. (in daylight) in the Andasibe Mitsinjo forest, and the other a 6 p.m. night walk in the nature reserve. It was a bright, sunny day, and perfect for a walk in the woods, so we put on our bug repellent and sunscreen, got our cameras ready, and bused down the road to the Andasibe Mitsinjo Forest.

A word on our cameras: Ever since Iceland, we’ve traveled with a Canon Rebel T3 for zoom shots, wide shots, low-light shots, high-speed shots, and panoramics, while Lea also packs her lightweight, waterproof Olympus Tough TG-6 for easy point-and-shoot shots, anything with lots of color (which the Olympus handles better than the Canon), and, of course, underwater photography.

For this trip, the Olympus was still in fine shape, but our Canon bit the dust on Lea’s trip to Namibia, where its light sensor gave up the ghost. However, we came to Madagascar for wildlife shots, most of which would not be close at hand and would require a really fast shutter. Therefore, shortly before leaving for Madagascar, we bought a refurbished Canon EOS R7. This is the mirrorless equivalent of our old Rebel, but with years of upgraded camera design and software. Most importantly, with the help of an adapter, all our old lenses fit the new camera, including the all-important telephoto lens.

That lens was the only way to catch a goddamn lemur in the forest. Unlike at the Lemurs’ Park, where they’re all conveniently on or near the ground, the lemurs in the forest do what lemurs do—they hide in the topmost layer of the canopy. On this walk, I was able to photograph one brown lemur from what felt like two or three football fields away, while the rest of the two-hour hike introduced us to various plants, spiders, and chameleons. It also opened my eyes to exactly how much up-and-down marching we’d be doing for the next two weeks. On this day, I still had the energy to keep up, but (spoiler alert) that would change sooner than I’d hoped.

I hiked uphill for an hour for this shot. This bastard clearly had the evolutionary advantage.

It was even worse at night, but that was my fault, nobody else’s. When we’d bought that Rebel T3 waaay back in 2014, we made sure to take it out a night for practice so we’d know how to adjust its settings and use it in the dark. This time, I’d had no time to play with it before our trip. The R7’s controls are far more intuitive than on our old Rebel, but that does no good if you can’t see what you’re doing. While the rest of the party hiked ahead to spy on what wildlife came out in the dark, I spent most of my time fiddling with buttons, F-stops, ISOs, and exposure times while hoping not to trip on a root and break my neck (or worse, the camera). For what it’s worth, I did manage to capture several frogs and an entirely-too-cute mouse lemur for my troubles.

Day Two: Analamazaotra, Continued

We woke up bright and early Monday for an all-morning hike in the Analamazaotra Nature Reserve, which we’d only seen in the dark the night before. This walk was much more productive than the previous day hike in terms of spotting lemurs. We also saw several varieties of birds, but frankly, I wasn’t interested in those. Even when you know where they are, they’re practically impossible to see or photograph through the canopy, and to me, birds are basically cat food.

Armand identified the lemurs we spotted as common brown lemurs, indri indri lemurs, and golden sifakas. We weren’t the only tour group in the forest, so when we found the largest concentration atop a hill, we had to wind our way around several other clumps of humans while trying to keep track of which ones belonged to us. Later, we came across a pair of young sifakas as they were wrestling on the ground, completely oblivious to the invading tourist horde.

We’d eaten breakfast at our resort’s restaurant, so lunch and dinner were at the other two restaurants in the little village. The electricity was questionable, but the food was okay. The best part was the fresh-cut pineapple straight from the tree that Armand arranged for dessert after lunch. However, one of these three restaurants was going to prove the death of us (by us meaning two thirds of the tour group), but we wouldn’t learn that until the next day.

[CONTENT WARNING: Don’t read this next part on your lunch break.]

[Okay, you were warned.]

Day Three: Barf-O-Rama!

Nothing was supposed to happen Tuesday. The plan was for an all-day road trip from Andasibe back to Tana, then southwest to the town of Antsirabe. With luck, we were looking at an 8-hour ride with a stop for lunch in Tana on the way.

We weren’t lucky.

It was about an hour into the bumpy drive before we had to pull over for the first time—one of our traveling companions was ill, and needed to be ill outside the bus, if you catch my drift. And of course, this was on the side of the road: In Madagascar, gas stations with restrooms are easily two hours apart from each other, and there wasn’t time to wait.

After our sick passenger collected themselves, we got back on the road. Before stopping again. This time, it wasn’t one sick traveler, but two. And then a third. It wasn’t looking good. Food poisoning never does.

We’d never know which restaurant in Andasibe got us, but Lea’s best guess is that at least one of them was using non-potable river water for cleaning their pots and pans. Whatever the cause, more of us became ill. Lea was queasy early that morning, but luckily for her, it didn’t get any worse. Unluckily for me, I started feeling queasy too, right before we arrived at a restaurant for lunch (90 minutes later than we’d planned, thanks to all our stops).

We made a few roadside stops to buy barf bags.

I’m not someone who gets reflexively ill when I see other people throwing up, but I’ve historically been prone to other countries’ stomach bugs. That morning, I thought I was getting off easy. I might have gotten away with it too, if I’d had the brains to skip lunch.

A word about eating on the road in Madagascar: Half the time, there would be nowhere to stop so Armand would often pack a picnic. (More on those at a later date.) If there was a restaurant on our route (or, more commonly, at the end of it), he’d have us order ahead so that when we got there, we wouldn’t have to wait for our food. For today’s lunch, I’d ordered the spaghetti carbonara, not realizing what was coming.

(This is about to get very personal, so skip ahead if you’re squeamish.)

At the restaurant, I made use of the toilet. And again. And again. And again. You’d think that would have been a clue to go easy on lunch, and maybe not eat the creamy pile of lukewarm pasta they put in front of me, but no. I had faith in my Pepto (I’d taken the legal limit) and the fact that my body had just expelled what I thought was everything inside it.

I made it about a third of the way through my pasta before I realized it wasn’t going down without a fight. I opted to pause, take more Pepto, and not look at food for a while. I made use of the plumbing a couple more times, and by the time we got back on the bus, I felt stable, if a little top-heavy and sweaty.

The views outside of Tana: Picturesque, but the rainforests have been largely replaced by rice paddies.

Whatever internal stability I’d achieved lasted until our next (and final) gas stop for the day. Once I stood up, everything inside me shifted. I got in line with all the others to make use of the gas station’s one meager bathroom. While standing in line, feeling hot and gooey, I told Lea that I almost wished I would throw up just to clear everything out of my system.

Well, guess what. Wishes come true. About two minutes later, I had to cut in line, run straight to the toilet, and vomit my guts out.

I haven’t thrown up since 2005. Barfing, in general, isn’t something I do, but apparently my body had been training for this day. Others in our group had thrown up multiple times—mild and timid hacks, coughs, and retches. When I barfed, it was the barf of a practiced vocalist who knows a thing or two about diaphragm support. I practically made the bathroom stall vibrate from the force of ejecting everything I’d eaten (and maybe a few of my internal organs) all in one go. Lea assures me that people could hear me as far as the gas station’s parking lot.

Everything after that is a blur. Despite the importance of hydrating when you’re sick, I remember being scared to drink anything out of fear that it would come right back out. It wasn’t long before the sun went down and our driver was navigating the maze of potholes in the dark. We passed several other gas stations over the next few hours, but everything closes at night, so none of us had any reprieve—that final stretch to Antsirabe was an interminable hell, with some really pleasant bungalows waiting at the end. As soon as we arrived, I went straight to the bathroom, finally drank some water, and attempted (with little luck) to get some sleep.

Recovery wouldn’t be overnight, so I was going to miss out on a little the next day. Before we headed back into the wild, our trip would take us into civilization and our first real exposure to Malagasy culture. But more on that in the next installment!

Madagascar Minus One

Sherman, set the Wayback Machine for September 27, 2024. After a two-day air transit debacle, our travel krewe (Lea, KT, Melissa, and I) arrived in Madagascar for a two-week bus tour. Anticipating that we might miss one of our flights, we arranged to land in Antananarivo (hereafter referred to as “Tana”) a day early.

The gang: Melissa, Lea, and KT. I have no idea where I was at this time.

Despite the universe’s best attempts to foil us, we made it to Tana on time. The rest of our group managed to get some rest along the way, but at this point, I hadn’t slept for approximately 48 hours. At least I got to sit down with our luggage and relax under a bright, blue Madagascar sky while everyone else stocked up on cash from the airport ATM and stood in line for SIM cards.

We had no plans for “Tour Day Minus 1,” thank the Malagasy gods, except to reach our hotel and crash. Once everyone had everything they needed from the airport, we squeezed into a taxi, and off we went. (To be clear, when I say “squeezed,” I mean it: The cab wasn’t big enough for the driver, four of us, and our luggage, but we made it work by being extremely friendly.)

The ride gave us our first view of Tana. I didn’t have any expectations for the city, but I was still surprised by how hilly, winding, and crowded it was. In many ways, Tana reminded me of La Paz, Bolivia, except that Tana isn’t in a deep mountain valley. The buildings are mashed right up against each other, the narrow streets curve and twist like hiking trails, the roads are unbelievably crowded, and market stalls line the front of every building, barely leaving room for cars to pass.

A relatively clear stretch of road by our hotel.

We kept our eyes open for restaurants, taxi stands, grocery stores, and the like, trying to get the lay of the land, but it was hopeless. We just had to cross our fingers and hope that wherever we ended up, there’d be a place to get some food.
To be clear, our tour came with hotel reservations, but the tour didn’t start until the following day. Since we were early, Lea had booked a place in town to crash, and our cabbie finally found it.

Our hotel sat atop a local bar and was right next door to a karaoke club. The rooms were surprisingly spacious and reasonably clean. There was no A/C, but that was expected. There were also mosquitoes and nowhere to hang a net over the bed, so we just had to cross our fingers and hope that our malaria meds would do their thing.

Two doors down from our hotel was a French restaurant. (Though independent, Madagascar still feels like a French colony in all but name.) This wasn’t fine French cuisine, but there was a decent selection of Western-style “French” on the menu. Unfortunately, the wait staff didn’t speak a word of English or, as it turned out, French. Nevertheless, they’d nod their heads and agree with anything we said – and do nothing. Ordering, receiving, and paying for our meals was something of a challenge.

By this point, I may have already been in R.E.M. sleep and just somnambulating between the restaurant and our room. You’d think that sleep would come easy…

BUT.

BUT as soon as we were ready for bed, Tana’s very active night life went into gear. For us, this meant trying to sleep above the very loud bar directly below us and the even louder karaoke going on next door. I probably did sleep somewhere between the thump thump thump below and the hoots of laughter from all around.

Around 2 or 3 in the a.m., blessed relief arrived in the form of the neighborhood’s power going out. (Apparently, Madagascar was in a drought, and the lake that fed the hydroelectric dam was too low to maintain power 24/7.) The power outage meant that our room’s fan and my CPAP stopped working, but at least we had a few minutes of silence.

Then the karaoke club turned on their generator, and the party recommenced. No sleep for the wicked, nor the world-weary traveler.

What I probably looked like at this point

Day Zero: Lemurs

If I were to say we woke up Saturday morning, I’d mean that we simply stopped pretending to sleep. We went back to the French place for breakfast, this time forewarned by experience about the language barrier. Here’s an interesting after-effect I’ve noticed from the year Lea and I spent in South America: Any time I try to talk to someone who doesn’t speak English, I reflexively default to whatever Spanish I remember, even if I know damn well that the other person doesn’t speak it. I guess this is my personal version of the age-old trope of people talking really loud as if that’ll make their language more intelligible.

Anyway, the manager of our hotel (a helpful guy named… Morris? Maurice?) arranged an all-day cab to drive us around. And where did we want to go? To see lemurs, of course! Our tour promised lemurs aplenty, but those would all be in the wild, and though Lea and I have had fairly good luck with wildlife in the past, we knew not to count on it. Plus, just outside of Tana, there’s the Lemurs’ Park, a botanical reserve where rescued lemurs are nursed back to health. They have over eight different varieties, most of whom have become acclimated to humans—at least well enough to get close and take photos.

Here they are:

The lemurs aren’t kept in cages or pens; instead, the park’s natural boundaries and loads of easy food keep them close. There are also tortoises and several of Madagascar’s omnipresent chameleons. (Chameleon fatigue would set in fairly quickly on our tour, but as of Saturday, it hadn’t happened yet.)

The first one’s a novelty. The excitement wears off quick.

In short: We can’t recommend Tana’s Lemurs’ Park highly enough. If you want to come to Madagascar for the lemurs, but aren’t prepared for some hard, hard travel, here’s my suggested itinerary:

1. Arrive on a flight that lands early in the morning.
2. Take a taxi to the Lemurs’ Park.
3. Go back to the airport and fly out in the evening.

But enough about the lemurs. Let’s talk about the traffic.

As we saw the day before, Tana’s streets aren’t designed with heavy traffic in mind, but heavy traffic is what they have. Part of the problem is that the streets are so narrow that passing isn’t usually an option. Also, most of the cars are very old and not in the best repair. So, if one car breaks down, everyone stops. Our 22 km trip to Lemurs’ Park took at least two hours, and most of that was simply crossing from one side of Tana to the other. At times, our driver simply turned the car off, and we got out and stretched our legs while waiting for traffic to start moving again. It was the same on the way back—the streets grew narrower and curvier as we made our way to the Au Bois Vert Hotel to meet the rest of our traveling companions.

The national soft drink of Madagascar—and all that kept me going at times.

In the interest of protecting the innocent, I’m not going to use anyone’s real names, even though I could easily look everyone up on our group Whatsapp chat. The tour was arranged by Explore! and you can book one just like it here. We four were the only Americans; the rest were a collection of Brits, Australians, and New Zealanders. There were twelve of us, plus our drivers and our guide, Armand. That night, we introduced ourselves, talked about why we travel, and waited on dinner. Our rooms were resort-style spacious, but a little lacking in mosquito protection, so we hung up our net, crawled into bed, and got an actual night’s sleep before the official start to our grand adventure.

Next time: “What goes down must come up.”

Bland Like Belgium

Regular readers of The Escape Hatch may have noticed that Jared and I travel a lot, to a lot of places. However, to date, there is only a single European country with a blog entry. After 20 years of Jared indulging me in traveling to places much cheaper and more exotic than Western Europe, we decided on a trip to Belgium because our friend KT has spent the last three summers teaching in Lille, France. Jared was his typical, understated self (for instance, he didn’t do a happy dance about traveling to Europe instead of a hot, uncomfortable, and/or intestinal parasite-infested country), but I’m sure that inside he was relieved and excited. Plus, spending time with KT and Melissa, our frequent travel companions, is something we both look forward to.

As I started researching places to see and things to do, I found many descriptions about how different the French and Dutch-influenced portions of the country are, with rambling discussions on why it’s necessary to visit both parts of the country to get a true feel for the place. Reading through the many cities recommended in both areas, though, I quickly realized that while Belgium has a plethora of interesting and quirky museums, the primary activities other travelers were the most enthusiastic about were walking around cities looking at architecture or going hiking. There was also a lot of talk about how cities in different areas were very similar, “but here’s the one reason you should go to this city instead of that city.” For instance, Bruges and Ghent are almost identical, but you should go to Bruges over Ghent for whatever reason. This didn’t excite me about our trip, but I dutifully compiled a list of things to do around the country. Then I sat back to wait until it was time to leave.

The flight to Belgium went very well compared to many other international transits we’ve experienced (see Jared’s article “I Hate Travel”), making for a pleasant start to our vacation. Until. You guessed it—because it’s Jared and me, something had to happen.

When we got to the airport in Brussels, we needed to catch a train the Ghent. There was a train on the tracks as we came down the steps to the platform, and Jared was quick enough to jump on. I was close behind him, but Melissa got caught up on the stairs. I was looking at Jared on the train and Melissa on the stairs, trying to decide whether to board, when the doors snapped shut and the train pulled out. Not exactly what we were hoping for, but also not a huge deal because train service in Belgium is frequent, and we could take the next train to Ghent.

As we were waiting, we started talking with a friendly woman on the platform about Brussels and got some great tips on things to do. Boarding the next train, we thought we were back on track, until we pulled into a station in Brussels—and suddenly everyone got up and left. The lady we’d been speaking with told us the train was out of service, and we’d need to catch a different one to Ghent. Luckily, she was taking the same train, so we followed her to the next platform. As we were waiting, Jared texted me that his train had also kicked everyone off, this time in the ass end of nowhere, because there were animals on the track ahead.

Over the next 20 minutes, he received conflicting and unclear directions from multiple people about whether any more trains would run that night, whether he needed to return to Brussels to catch a different line to Ghent, or whether he was about to pay for a really freaking expensive rideshare. Melissa and I were watching the board as our train racked up delay after delay, ultimately arriving almost 15 minutes late. We climbed on to finish our trip, and luckily, Jared managed to get on a train headed to Ghent via a different route. Finally, we all arrived within 5 minutes of each other. We grabbed fast-food pasta at the station and a rideshare to our rental house, where KT had already checked in. We ate some dinner and called it a night.

The next day, we took the train to Bruges. The weather was a tad warm, but we felt the walk from the train station was more than worth the effort once we got to the torture museum. We’ve been to torture museums in several countries, and this one had a collection equal to any other we’ve visited. Afterward, we walked around the main square looking at the architecture, and had a very overpriced, mediocre lunch at a restaurant whose most memorable trait was the collection of creepy dolls hanging from the ceiling, a sight I could have gone my whole life without seeing.

Now you have also seen the creepy dolls hanging from the ceiling

We’d planned to spend a full day in Ghent, and I’m glad we did. Of the two cities, I really wish we’d skipped Bruges and spent more time in Ghent. The Gravensteen Castle has a well-done, dramatized audio tour with sound effects and very dry humor that made it much more interesting and engaging than most audio tours I’ve taken—especially the description of the beheadings and other goings-on in certain parts of the structure.

Wall hanging illustrating the skewering of multiple people as described in the audio tour of Gravensteen Castle

We grabbed waffles because they’re 30% of the food sold in Belgium (with fries and chocolate making up the remaining 60%), then meandered to the famous Graffiti Alley. Some of the art was beautiful, and in keeping with our strange ability to stumble into engagement photos and weddings, we happened upon an engagement photo session where the couple let us take their picture. We continued meandering around the city, enjoying a pleasantly bland and relaxing day before heading to our rental house for dinner.

Jared and I have a knack for stumbling into engagement photo shoots and weddings

Melissa took one for the team and agreed to be our rental car driver so we could visit some of the areas that are more difficult to access by train. Our first destination was Ypres, where battle trenches and other structures from WWI have been excavated. Luckily, it hadn’t rained and we were able to go down in the trenches, then visit the Flanders WWI museum. They have an impressive collection of artifacts and maps, discussions, and video recreations of the battles in the area. After the museum and lunch (more fries, because they’re inescapable), we headed to what ultimately was my favorite place – the Trollentoren in Boom. Thomas Dambo has been building large, wooden trolls around the world since 2014, and the six located in De Shorre Park were beautiful, as was the forest hike to see them all. KT and I were especially taken with the one called Little Nora, as she collects rocks!

Nora the Rock Collector. Obviously our favorite of all the trolls in Trollentoren

The following day, we continued our exploration in the Walloon region, with geology a high priority. We visited the Durbuy anticline, which is surrounded by a nice park with seating so people can spend time properly appreciating this spectacular example of structural geology. Next, we visited the Grottes de Remouchamps, one of three sets of caves in the region that have rivers large enough for boats. After walking through the caves, the return trip was on the river itself, with a guide providing info on the geology and hydrology of the system.

Durbuy anticline, a fantastic example of structural geology in the Walloon region of Belgium

Our final destination for the day was the small village of Dinant, home to incredible geologic structures, beautiful painted houses on both sides of the river, and the birthplace of Adolphe Sax, inventor of the saxophone. Sadly, we arrived too late in the day to visit the monastery located on top of the cliffs, but we were able to look at the painted houses, the display of saxophones on the river bridge, and enjoyed what was easily our best meal in Belgium (mostly ignoring the ever-present fries).

Our only other snag during our Belgium visit occurred with the rental car. It turns out that many of the gas stations in the country are unmanned and require you to choose an amount to pay up front rather than using the US system of inserting your credit card for authorization and then charging for whatever gas you pump. This presents a few problems, first and foremost—how are we supposed to know the amount of gas to purchase for a rental car? We don’t know how much it needs, let alone in liters, and for some reason, US credit cards are almost impossible to use at these stations. We went through every credit card that all four of us were carrying and finally resorted to paying with cash (the pumps have the equivalent of a vending machine slot for money). However, we overestimated by almost $30 how much gas the car needed, and of course, there’s no refund! We complain about companies ripping us off in the US, but gas station owners in Belgium have found the best tourist rip-off ever with this system.

The next stop on our trip was Brussels, Belgium’s capital. Hostels and hotels are very expensive, so we’d booked a very tiny apartment with a bedroom and a sofa bed. The apartment barely contained all of us, but it was cheap. When I’m booking a trip, “cheap” almost always wins over comfort, and in this case, being close to a bus stop and the Midi train station made up for the cramped quarters.

We started our time in Brussels by visiting the Royal Museum of Fine Arts, which houses a huge collection of old masters, including Rubens (my favorite). We then headed for what is apparently a very famous sandwich shop (Tonton Garby) and proceeded to wait in line for two hours. If you’re a big fan of cheese on bread, it’s probably worth the wait, and several people in line told us they had come multiple times. While the price was decent and the guy certainly knows a lot about cheese, I can’t say it’s an experience I would care to repeat.

It did fortify us enough to continue walking around the city, and to visit the Museum Garderobe Mannekin Pis. When your city’s most famous attractions are the Smurfs and a statue of a pissing child, maybe that’s an indication that you need to up your tourist game. The Garderobe museum was worth the visit, though, as they have on display many of the outfits that the statue has been gifted by various heads of state over the years, with Elvis being my favorite. We followed this with a trip to the Museum of Erotics and Mythology, a small but well-curated collection of erotica from around the world.

After more walking and a snack that didn’t involve fries or waffles, we got on the bus, where we saw something completely unexpected – the current president of the Brussels Order of the Moustache. His facial hair was, in fact, quite impressive and warranted a picture based solely on the amount of time we spent discussing it.

On our final day in Brussels, it was time to get serious about seeing our last sights and shopping for gifts. We made our way to the Laeken Cemetery in the northern suburbs, where there are interesting crypts above ground, a set of crypts below ground, and most impressively, an original cast of “The Thinker” by Auguste Rodin. Though the trip required taking multiple buses, it was worth it to see the statue and the crypts.

Original cast of Rodin’s “The Thinker” in the Laeken Cemetery outside of Brussels

Following our cemetery visit, we headed to the Comic Art Museum, advertised as housing art related to Belgian originals TinTin and the Smurfs. While the TinTin and Smurfs-related items were few, the history and comic art displayed in the museum was impressive, AND they had postcards of Mannekin Pis in the form of a Smurf for the win.

This was essentially the only Smurf in the Comic Arts Museum

Following the comic strip museum, it was time to hit up Belgium’s most famous tourist attraction—chocolate shops. Belgium is known worldwide as the home of Lindt and Godiva, but we wanted to try some of the more exclusive local shops that were each known for different varieties. This required visits to Leonidas for white chocolate, Galler for dark chocolate, one random place that had something that looked like haystacks, and finally to Godiva because we had to know how it compared to the US version. They were all delicious, but the standouts were the dark chocolates from Galler and the lemon white chocolate from Leonidas.

Gigantic box of delectable chocolates from Galler

And that was it—our pleasantly bland trip to Belgium. Regular readers of this blog will be astounded to know that it’s possible for Jared and me to take a trip with no strikes, no riots, no natural disasters, and fairly minimal hassle, but it does happen every decade or so! Keep following The Escape Hatch to hear about two other recent trips that were definitely neither bland nor completely pleasant.

I Hate Travel

Well, ladies and gents, assuming you’ve clicked on my clickbait title, welcome back to The Escape Hatch! As of this writing, it’s over two years since I’ve contributed to my own travel blog, and that article was a year overdue. Lea painted a pretty clear picture of our trip to Aruba in 2022, then described the beauty of her 2023 trip to Namibia in exquisite detail—a trip that I sat out.

How come?

There are reasons, of course. One was that going to Namibia was going to mean traveling rough—camping in the wild and sleeping on the ground, of which I am no longer a fan. Another was that after visiting Morocco, Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia, Zimbabwe, and Zanzibar, I felt I’d had my fill of Africa. (Spoiler Alert: Africa wasn’t done with me yet, but more on that later.) But still, another reason I’m leery of any trip overseas is what I’m here to talk about today. In not so many words:

I hate travel.

Specifically, I hate air travel.

Even more specifically: I don’t mind flying, but I fucking hate airports.

I hate the lines. I hate the process. I hate the way airlines board you onto planes with no logic or thought to where people are seated. I hate that everyone tries to cram all their luggage into overhead compartments because the airlines nickel and dime us on things like checked baggage.

I hate the overblown security theater we’ve all had to endure since 9/11. (Seriously, the vast majority of the public is no longer wearing masks, even though Covid hasn’t gone away, and yet—we still have to take off our shoes because one dumbass two decades ago thought he could blow up his sneakers?)

Sure, you can pay for TSA Pre-Check, and that’s great if you’re flying a domestic airline that puts that information on your ticket. However, even that’s not the blessing it used to be, since everyone in the US has it now, making the TSA lines just as long as any other. And God forbid you have an early morning flight and the TSA lines aren’t open yet.

But all that’s generic whining. Let’s get nitty-gritty. Just so I don’t ramble on forever, I’ll restrict my diatribe to post-2020 air travel.

Cancun

Getting to Mexico was a breeze (I assume, because I don’t remember). Getting home was panic-inducing. Our all-inclusive resort package included a shuttle to return us to the airport two hours before departure.

It should have been three.

On a busy travel day, the Cancun airport is somewhere between a giant punk-rock mosh pit and an all-out riot. The crowding is unbelievable, it’s hard to tell where the lines are supposed to be, and while they’re herding you through all of that, there’s an exit form you’re supposed to fill out—one that, once completed, no one will ask for. Wayfinding is an absolute mess, and it took us so long to navigate the maze, get checked into our flight, and drop off our bags, that our airplane started boarding while we were still going through security. Forget sitting down or grabbing a snack—we had to run to catch our plane, and just as I was about to board, I got “randomly” pulled aside for an extra-special security check and rummage through my carry-on (and jacket, and shoes, and belt, et cetera). The rest of our party boarded unscathed, but I was nearly the last person on the plane, and I didn’t even have time to tie my shoes.

Ah, the good old days… when we had a surprise 24 hour layover in Guatemala City because our plane needed “parts.”

And now, a commercial:

Though I previously bemoaned the declining value of TSA Pre-Check, I’m now going to tout the value of Global Entry. GET IT. Lea and I had already signed up, so when we landed in Atlanta, all we had to do was show our face to a kiosk, let our AI overlords identify us, and stroll past immigration to pick up our luggage. Melissa, who was traveling with us, had to wait in the interminable “welcome back, show us your papers” line. She applied for Global Entry then and there. If you’re a US citizen traveling abroad, it saves you a lot of headache coming back, and it doesn’t matter one single bit if the airline has your entry number or not.

Global Entry saved us on our next flight home, which had plenty of other headaches to spare.

The easiest time we ever had getting on a plane was to fly over an active volcano in Iceland.

Aruba

As with Cancun, flying to Aruba was easy—a simple, direct four-hour flight from Atlanta. Coming back, that four-hour flight blossomed into a 10-hour odyssey. Here’s how:

Step 1: The Aruba airport assigns you a time to arrive at the airport based on your departure.

Our flight back was at 3:00, so our allotted time to arrive was between 11:00 and 12:00. Aruba’s airport isn’t large by any means, so I thought the extra time might be due to the large number of flights to accommodate, and possibly Covid safety precautions (this was 2022, after all). I was partly right, but I didn’t anticipate the scale of the ridiculousness before us.

Step 2: Arrive at the airport and get in line outside.

This isn’t the line to check in for your flight. No, this is the line to wait to get in line to check into your flight and drop off your luggage. As I said before, the airport isn’t large and the departures terminal isn’t designed for a giant scrum of exiting travelers, so we stood there to wait… and wait and wait and wait… for our chance to go inside and get in line again.

Step 3: Check in and drop off luggage.

OK, simple, right? We thought so. It was only 100°F outside, so the air-conditioned queue indoors was vastly preferable, no matter that it was still as slow as any other airport line. Maybe an hour after our arrival at the airport, we got our boarding passes, turned in our bags, and headed off for some leisurely duty-free shopping with the time we had left. Right? Wrong.

Step 4: Get in line for security

This was no surprise, except that the line from luggage drop-off to the security checkpoint was outdoors. The actual airport terminal in Aruba is a separate building from where you check in, and the security line was just as backed up as at any other airport in the world. At least they had the grace to put a cover over the walkway for some shade.

Step 5: Get in line again for US Customs and Immigration.

Say what? You heard me right. Aruba (like Toronto) is one of those airports where you go through US immigration before getting on the plane as opposed to doing so when you land in the States. The full scale of the clusterbomb this creates became clear after we went from the check-in counter to a short walk outside to the departures area. Once we were back indoors, there was another interminable, unmoving line winding between all the shops and restaurants—US-bound travelers who weren’t duty free shopping because no one could afford to lose their place in the queue.

Luckily, Lea and I have Global Entry (see above). We didn’t know this was a benefit here until after standing in line for 10-20 minutes, when an airport staff member came walking down the line shouting for Global Entry people to follow her and skip ahead. This we did, and merrily followed our guide to… (duhn duhn duhn) …a baggage claim room where we had to find and collect the bags we’d already checked for the flight. We scanned our faces at the Global Entry kiosk, then got in line again for US customs. Global Entry saved us from the previous line, but not this one, and it was slow.

(Side note: We’ve always been slightly fuzzy about what you actually have to declare when coming back into the country. If all you bought were gifts and a little booze, all of which was less than $100 in value, do you have to bother declaring it at all? The answer is yes, as the angry, bitter US customs agent informed us when he chewed us out. Dude, you live and work in Aruba. Chill and have a daquiri.)

Step 6: Drop off your luggage again and go through security again.

Full security theater rules still apply. After the State Department deigned to let us leave Aruba, we got back in line to essentially repeat Steps 2 and 3 in a different part of the airport. We’d been in line for so long already that the clock was ticking on making our flight—even though we’d arrived 4 hours before departure. If we hadn’t had Global Entry, we’re not sure we would have made it at all.

To recap: At the Aruba airport, you get in line to get in line to get in line to get in line to get in line to get in line. As it was, we had just enough time to grab airport hot dogs and snacks before our flight and an easy haul back to Atlanta—and home.

Whoever came up with this has definitely been through the Aruba airport.

BUT WAIT… THERE’S MORE!

We finally landed in Atlanta, and since we’d already done the immigration song and dance, our flight landed at the T-Gates, which (for those not familiar with Atlanta’s airport) are the ones that let out directly into the domestic baggage claim area. Great!

But hold on… We waited and waited for our luggage to appear, and lo and behold, it never did. When we checked with the baggage claim people, we learned that even though our plane had landed at the domestic terminal and our luggage had already been cleared through customs, we’d arrived on an international flight, so our bags had been sent to the international terminal.

For reference: Atlanta’s airport (affectionately known as the Hartsfield Latoya Jackson Intergalactic Spaceport and Nail Emporium) is huge. So huge, in fact, that bussing from the domestic to the international terminal, finding our bags, and bussing back was easily an hour’s round trip. Tack on a 40-minute train ride home, and coming back from the Caribbean took over twice as long as the actual flight.

Traveler’s Note: The madness in Aruba’s airport is mirrored in Toronto, home of my least favorite airport in the world, but I’ll save my rant about that pile of broken hockey pucks when and if I ever get around to writing about our trip to Vienna. However, now’s the time to regale you with the prolonged panic attack that was our recent transit to Madagascar.

Destination: Atanan… Antnana… Anatana… That place in Madagascar

Atlanta to Antananarivo

Madagascar isn’t a place where you’d want to rent a car and drive yourself around (more on that in articles to come), so we booked a two-week tour with our regular travel buddies KT and Melissa. We signed up for the tour itself months in advance, but we didn’t book our flight right away. Lea watched the air fare fluctuate for months, and once the price was low-ish, we booked tickets for the four of us through Ethiopian Air.

Our route across the planet had two layovers, one at Dulles in DC and one in Addis Ababa. Our stop in Dulles was scheduled for three hours, so we weren’t too worried about that one but we’d only have 90 minutes in Addis Ababa, which is plenty of time for the travel gods to smite you. Therefore, we booked a flight that would arrive in Madagascar a day early so that if we missed a connection, we could catch up on the following day.

(Fun tidbit: After we bought our tickets, Ethiopian tried to change our return flight so that we’d stay in Madagascar for an extra day. We said “no thanks” and chose a same-day flight that was six hours longer than what we originally booked.)

To sum up: we booked a tour, booked our flights, and reserved a hotel room for our first night in Antananarivo (Madagascar’s capital, which I’ll henceforth refer to as “Tana” because even the locals don’t like saying all of that). Everything was arranged, so there was nothing to worry about except getting to the airport on time. Right?

Of course not, hence this write-up.

Melissa, Lea, & KT: Miraculously all in one place.

September 25, 2024: The posse comes together.

Our plan was for all four of us to get to the airport at 2:40am on the 26^th for our 5:40 flight to Dulles. Melissa drove from Nashville in a rental that we could drop off at the airport, obviating the need to find an Uber in the wee morning hours when Atlanta’s trains don’t run. KT was scheduled to fly in from Tampa, BUT Hurricane Helene was making a beeline for her house. She considered switching to an earlier flight in case the Tampa airport shut down, but wound up keeping her original schedule to land in Atlanta at 5:00. However, her flight had a two-hour tarmac delay, bringing her to Atlanta much later than expected. It wasn’t until around 9:00pm that she finally got to our house.

Meanwhile, Ethiopian Air wouldn’t let us check into our flight online. Our first leg (ATL to IAD) was on United, but we couldn’t check in with them either since our tickets were booked through Ethiopian. Out of paranoia (and remembering the Aruba homecoming fiasco), I called United to ask if we were supposed to fly out of Atlanta’s international or domestic terminal. United’s customer service said that since we’d booked an international flight, we should check in with Ethiopian on the international side.

This was wrong.

10:30 p.m.: United tells us that our flight has been delayed.

Hurricane Helene and an unrelated front passing through the eastern US had messed up everybody’s flight schedule, and the crew for our plane hadn’t had enough rest as mandated by the FAA. I don’t mind flying with a non-groggy crew, but our first leg had now been pushed back by three hours, cutting our layover in Dulles to 30 minutes. Thanks to the delay, we now didn’t have to be at the airport until 6:00am. The others took this as a sign to get some sleep, but I chose to stay up all night, knowing I was already too stressed for shut-eye.

6:00 a.m.: Melissa and I drop KT and Lea at the International with all our luggage.

We take the car back to the rental return, then hitch a ride on the tram to Domestic to catch the bus back to International. However, right as we’re hopping on the bus, Lea calls and tells us that the bastards at United were a bunch of no-good liars. (My words, not hers.) There was no check-in desk for Ethiopian, so we had to ask at the domestic United counter to see if that was where we should be. We did, and learned that yes, we had to check in at Domestic for our international flight. However, United wouldn’t print the boarding passes for our following legs on Ethiopian Air so we’d have to get those in DC.

Since our United tickets were purchased through Ethiopian, they didn’t show our TSA numbers, so we had to slog through the utter madhouse of Atlanta’s regular security line. (Fun fact: ATL is by far the world’s busiest airport, and at 7:00 a.m. in the morning, it shows.) To make things even worse, every single time I’ve gone through security in Atlanta over the past several years, I swear they’ve changed the rules about what articles of clothing to take on or off and/or what to take out of your bags. This time, some guy was yelling “laptops only,” but I didn’t get that memo until after I’d removed my shoes and belt.

9:00 a.m.: Frazzled, we get on the plane.

Guess what’s for breakfast! A twenty-minute tarmac delay!

(No more time stamps from here, because from this point on, I was in a sleep-deprived fog with no concept of time and space except for the knowledge that I didn’t have enough of either.)

Because of all our compounded delays, our layover time in Dulles had shrunk to 10 minutes. In fact, our next flight started boarding before we even pulled up to the gate. What makes Dulles extra fun is that you have to go by bus from one set of gates to another. BUT, there’s no direct bus between concourses, so you have to go all the way back to the hub and find another way to your destination. Somewhere in here, Lea and I got split up from KT and Melissa—they wisely stopped to ask directions, whereas Lea and I kept following the signs. They ended up with a much shorter route, while we ended up on a train.

Once we arrived at the correct terminal, Lea and I ran to our departure gate, where Ethiopian’s staff were holding the plane for us. (There were several other people connecting through from Atlanta; otherwise they’d probably have left.) We still had to stop at the desk to print our boarding passes for the rest of the trip but somehow we managed to get ourselves on board.

(A note about flying Ethiopian: they pretend to let you pick seats online, but in practice, they ignore your selections.)

A trans-Madagascar airline. For clarity, this was *not* the airplane we took across the Atlantic.

At least our flight to Addis was on time, but Addis itself is a madhouse. After you deplane, they herd you through a security scrum even if you’re just connecting to another flight. Once through the scrum, we walked briskly to our gate, where our next flight was already boarding. From there, it was a mere four hours to Tana, which I spent sitting nowhere near the rest of our group, but annoyingly close to a smelly airplane toilet.

To sum up: Delays, delays, delays that reduced our first layover to 0 minutes, and a scrum in Addis Ababa that left no wiggle room for things like buying snacks, getting water, or even using the bathroom. Still, we made it to Tana on time, stepped out of the airport into the warm African sun, and sat down on a bench next to our bags, waiting for the adventure to begin.

Next time: Dancing lemurs! Traffic jams! Chameleons! Karaoke! Frogs! Food poisoning!

Namibia: Home of the Original Geogasm (Part 3)

Welcome back dear readers. When we left off, KT, Lisa and I were halfway through our trip around Namibia and had just arrived in the seaside resort town of Swakopmund on the Skeleton Coast. As promised, I saved the best for last!

After a nice dinner and a blissful night in an actual bed at a hotel in Swakopmund, Lisa decided to spend our free morning getting her hair highlighted, but KT and I were very focused on our goal: the Kristall Galerie, a smallish geology museum curated for Namibia’s multitude of rocks and minerals. We’d driven by it on the way to our hotel, saw the display of giant rocks outside, and were very anxious to get a closer look. We walked to the museum almost an hour before it opened, and thank goodness we did! The large specimens outside of the museum covered a host of rock types from Namibia, and we gleefully spent 45 minutes inspecting the rocks and having geogasms while shouting to each other about our finds.

One of the beautiful rock specimens outside the museum

Check out the size of these tourmalines and fluorites

Once the museum opened, we went inside for even more delights. The displays were full of beautiful geologic wonders from around the country, evoking geogasm after geogasm with each new specimen. We oohed, aahed, discussed origin environments and processes for the minerals, and in general enjoyed ourselves to the point that when we left, we both felt like we needed a cigarette and a nap.

Beautiful specimens of a quartz agate geode, pietersite (national mineral of Namibia), and rhodochrosite

While at the museum, they had mentioned there was a Roadside Geology book for Namibia, so we stopped at a local bookstore and bought the last copy on our way back to the hotel. Our long drive that day had us crossing mountain passes with many more opportunities to exclaim over the geologic wonders of the region, as well as crossing the Tropic of Capricorn.

It turned out that KT and Lisa had actually purchased the Roadside Geology book as a birthday gift for me, and what a fantastic gift it was—now, instead of speculating on what we were seeing in the roadcuts, KT and I had a detailed description and could watch for inselbergs and other items of particular geogasmic interest, making the drive much more exciting than spending hours in a dusty truck bumping over dirt and gravel roads would normally be. My excitement was compounded because we were heading for another of my “must see” destinations in the country—the Namib Sand Sea, with its incredible star dunes and the Deadvlei immortalized on Instagram.

The Namib is one of the oldest deserts on earth, formed approximately 21 million years ago. The current star dune system is estimated to have been active for the past 5 million years, composed of gigantic dunes that create a star pattern when viewed from above. Our first foray into the area was to climb Dune 45 and watch the sunrise. It wasn’t an easy hike to the top, pitched at a 30 degree angle, balancing on a crest a foot wide, climbing up 278 feet of loose sand, but definitely worth it to watch the shadows and colors change as the sun rose. Once the sun was fully up, we took the much easier hike down to eat breakfast and appreciate the beauty of the area.

Dune 45 at sunrise. People walking up the crest and standing on top give a sense of scale to this giant

Then it was on to the Deadvlei (dead marsh) that was created when a dune migrated across the Tsauchab River and cut off the floodwaters that had previously sustained the vegetation. We were herded into bumpy, open 4WD vehicles for the ride to the trailhead, then turned loose. Thank goodness it was still early because it was already hot, and we had a hilly 1.5 km hike through loose sand to actually reach the vlei. It was worth every step to stand in a desiccated valley between dunes hundreds of feet tall and look at the few live (and more dead) trees framed by the gorgeous red sands while the sun moved shadows across the faces of the dunes.

I spent a lot of time experiencing geogasms while inspecting mud cracks and other features on the clay pan and taking pictures of the dunes, trees, and sand ripples from every possible angle. When our time was up I reluctantly made the long, hot hike back through the sand, but luckily had some time to sit and admire the dunes from the parking area while watching birds and other critters go about their business.

So many mudcracks to inspect while taking photos laying on the ground for the best angle

Picture of the dunes that helped create the Deadvlei from the picnic area

Our next destination was nearly as geogasmic as the dunes: Sesriem Canyon and one of the thickest conglomerate layers I’ve ever seen, lying nonconformably over metamorphic basement rocks. KT and I scrambled around the dry river bed, happily inspecting the cobbles that were eroding out of the conglomerate and looking for the barely exposed contact with the basement rocks while also cringing a little at the large chunks of rock that had come loose from the canyon walls overhead. We were thankful there hadn’t been any rain recently to increase the possibility of a new chunk falling on us.

A small portion of one of the thickest conglomerates I’ve ever seen. Formed by erosion due to rapidly falling sea levels at the onset of an ice age

KT looking at a nonconformity of basement rock overlain by conglomerate

Next was Aus, a former prisoner of war camp. We stayed in a beautiful cabin in a very isolated portion of the property with stunning views of the surrounding rocks. We were also able to drop our laundry with the camp so we wouldn’t spend the rest of the trip stinking up the truck. After a night in the cabin, it was off to another of my must-see destinations: the ghost town of Kolmanskop (Kolmannskuppe).

Developed as a diamond mining facility in 1908, it was the location of the first X-ray machine in the southern hemisphere, a power station, school, and even a bowling alley. The town was abandoned around 1928 when a large diamond deposit was discovered in another area. Today, the buildings still stand, but the dunes are doing what dunes do and covering everything with sand. It’s a striking place to visit, and I spent a lot of time taking pictures (of course).

Inside one of the abandoned buildings slowly filling with sand at Kolmanskop

This building in Kolmanskop will eventually be covered by a dune

Just past Kolmanskop on the way to Luderitz was another geogasmic marvel – textbook perfect crescent dunes! And all of you (non-geologists) just thought sand dunes were sand dunes, but nope – there are multiple kinds and we saw all of them while traveling through the home of the original geogasm.

Textbook perfect crescent dunes located between Kolmanskop and Luderitz

The next stop, Luderitz, was superfluous in my opinion. There’s not much to the town, I don’t care about whatever Portuguese explorer stuck a cross in the ground, and the water on the beach we visited was really cold. The only saving grace was, you guessed it, more rocks! And some interesting critters on the beach, but mostly the rocks. On the way back from Luderitz we stopped to see the desert horses that live in the area. They were incredibly skinny, as one might imagine of mammals trying to live in a desert.

Folding on so many scales… Love me some migmatite! This was much more interesting than whatever Portuguese explorer yada yada #Idontcare

This lovely sandstone was visible in a small outcrop on the beach in Luderitz

Then to another must-see: the Fish River Canyon. We saw so many interesting formations along the way, including pink shales and limestones. KT and I were giddy at the prospect of seeing them, as those rocks are not normally found in shades of pink. We kept our Roadside Geology book close, following the descriptions and having mini geogasms as we headed south.

For the geogasm finale, the Fish River Canyon itself! It’s comparable to the Grand Canyon in Arizona, and though it’s somewhat smaller, it’s incredibly impressive. KT and I immediately piled out of the truck, taking our very slow and sweet time walking along the rim of the canyon, oohing and aahing and geogasming at every turn while we inspected the area. Hiking into the canyon is controlled by permit, so we only got to see it from the rim, but that didn’t diminish our awe at the beauty of the area and the geologic forces that shaped the canyon over millennia.

KT and I at the Fish River Canyon, Namibia’s equivalent to the Grand Canyon in the US

Gorgeous! And no picture can capture the awe that comes from standing on the ledge looking into the canyon

Looking farther up the canyon at one of the benches marking an historic floodplain

After several hours of delighted exploration, we got back in the truck to see another of Namibia’s endemic plant species, known as quiver trees. The trees are actually aloe plants, even though they grow in a shape like a tree, and they are quite impressive. Some are thought to be over 200 years old; we enjoyed a quick walk through the “forest” during a gorgeous sunset.

Quiver trees are aloe plants endemic to southern Namibia and northern South Africa, that grow in the shape of a tree. KT for scale

After one last night sleeping in the cold on very hard ground, we were up early to hit one last geogasm-inducing site: the Giant’s Playground. The area is an exposure of one of the biggest sills either of us has ever seen, and covered in the spheroidally weathered boulders often seen when intrusive volcanics are exposed at the surface. The regional joint sets visible in the rock only added to our wonder, and we spent a happy hour playing in the rocks before getting in the truck for our return trip to Windhoek.

Cheelo and Broniel at Giant’s Playground

There were so many interesting stacks, it was hard to know where to look

Okay, one more because it’s such a stunning place

And that, dear readers, is a quick summary of Namibia: Home of the Original Geogasm. Namibia is a beautiful country with lovely people and many marvelous plants and animals. But for geologists, life is a field trip—and this field trip was the most geogasmic I’ve ever taken.

P.S.

For those interested in things other than rocks, here’s a partial list of the wildlife we encountered on our trip. We tried to write it all down, but honestly, we were much more interested in adding geologic wonders to our trophy list than birds.

Dik dik	Waterbok	Egyptian ducks
Hydrax	Wildebeest	Vival birds
Oryx	Wild hare	White pelican
Impala	Hartbeest	White flamingos
Ostrich	Wild boar	Pink flamingos
Hippo	Mongoose	Peacock
Zebra	Termites	Guinea fowl
Lion	Giraffe	Weavers
Hyena	Fur Seals	Cape starlings
Jackel	Wild horses	Gray warbler
Elephant	Beetles	Pied crows
Rhino	Ants	Parakeets
Tembox	Vulture	Cormorants
Springbok	Secretary bird

Namibia: Home of the Original Geogasm (Part 2)

Welcome back, Escape Hatch Fans! When we left off last time, Lisa, KT and I had arrived in Namibia and were just beginning our actual adventure. We’ll pick up with the trip on the first full day, after we finished assembling our tents and got the first inkling of the… quirks… of one particular travel companion.

After putting up our tents at the Mount Etjo campground, we went on our first game drive in the reserve. Since it was a fenced and managed area, we saw lots of animals, including elephants, rhinos, and a hippo. We also went to an observation area where the reserve feeds the lions. I’m not sure how I feel about this—it wasn’t enough food for a whole lion meal, so the feeding doesn’t stop the pride from engaging in their natural hunting behavior, but it does bring up some ethical problems in that the feeding teaches the lions there’s at least some food if they show up after dark in a certain spot with floodlights and lots of flash photography.

This hippo was dancing like nobody was watching and put on quite a show

Male and female lion at the ethically questionable nightly feeding on the Mount Etjo reserve

After the lion feeding, we went back to the tents and spent our first night camping. The ground was hard, though the sleeping pads helped more than I expected. We even got a little sprinkle of rain, but we all managed to sleep at least some.

The next morning, we were up bright and early to disassemble the tents and head to Etosha National Park, the area where most of the safaris in Namibia take place. We made another stop at a grocery store, with another delay (again, not unexpected if you’ve traveled in Africa) but some of the group, including the niña malcriada, were complete assholes to the guides about losing 30 minutes of their time on the trip. In my opinion, it was rude and completely unnecessary to be so ugly to the guides, but it was clear some of our tripmates felt differently. Yay.

Traveling from Windhoek to Etjo and Etosha, KT and I noticed there were a lot of road signs we don’t normally see in the US. I’m often delighted and amused by signs in other countries and take pictures of the ones I find of most interest. Having imparted that to KT, we spent much of the drive for the next eleven days taking pictures of road signs and road cuts whenever we weren’t shouting to each other about the awe-inspiring geology. Between these activities, I’m not sure whether the rest of the group was amused or annoyed, but we definitely had a great time.

Sample of road and other signs in Namibia

Our time in Etosha turned out to be a fruitful two days, as we saw elephants, ostriches, zebras, giraffes, many different birds, and most interesting, a pack of hyena eating a scavenged kill while a sneaky jackal darted in and out trying to get its own share of breakfast. We also saw elephants being very friendly with each other, and lots of other animals hanging out at a lighted watering hole. As you might imagine, I took tons of pictures of the elephants, only to learn a few days later that there was something wrong with my camera. It hadn’t recorded a single picture of the elephants, and the light sensor was apparently going out as well, because all of the night pictures I took came out terribly. Luckily, Lisa managed to get a great picture of the elephants using her iPhone, but my camera going out was definitely a blow to the photographs on this trip.

This sneaky jackal made sure it got breakfast along with the hyenas

Luckily Lisa caught this beautiful image on her iPhone, since our big camera decided not to record the approximately 600 pictures I took of this pair

One of the things KT and I were excited to see in the Etosha region was the large salt pan. KT figured out that there was karst underlying the pan, and springs were the source of the natural watering holes used by the animals. We saw the guides looking at some books, and upon closer inspection, it turned out they included small sections on the geology of different regions in the country. We were excited to have the information, but also disappointed with the tiny fragments on offer, forcing both of us to rely on distant memories from undergrad geology programs over 20 years ago to identify the geologic features.

In addition to pointing out the beautiful road cuts to each other, we spent hours every day hypothesizing about what we were actually seeing. Between the two of us, we seemed to figure most things out, but occasionally we were both stumped, or one of us couldn’t remember enough to confirm or deny what the other was saying. Once again, it kept us busy for hours every day while the rest of the group was probably wishing we would fall out of the truck.

I hardly ever get to see Lisa, and it’s always wonderful to spend time with her, until it’s not, because we are sisters after all!

Our suppositions and speculations were magnified at our last stop in Etosha, where we saw some type of varved rock, immediately identifiable by geologists because of the alternating dark and light banding characteristic of this type of sedimentary deposit. We spent much time on closer inspection, finally agreeing that the pattern was definitely varves from a lakebed deposit. The outcrop was beautiful, as were the moringa trees, a species endemic to this part of Namibia. We weren’t happy to see that there were hundreds of names carved into every single one. KT and I are both of the “take pictures, leave footprints” school of nature, and the damage to the trees was a sour note on an otherwise lovely experience. Why is it exactly that so many humans can’t look at something beautiful without feeling like they have to mar it to prove they were there?

Varves visible in an exposure in Etosha National Park

Every piece of this moringa tree was carved with names and initials. WHY????

Leaving Etosha the next day, we stopped at an Otjikandero Himba Village. I’m uncomfortable with this type of tourist activity, because while I like to see and experience the cultures of other countries, brown people dancing for a bunch of white tourists smacks of racist colonialism. So while I did interact with the women and children of the tribe, I’m not sharing pictures or giving more of a description here.

After the village, we went through the Etendeka Mountains and the Grootberg Pass. This, my friends, is where the geology went from interesting to geogasm. As we drove through, KT and I realized we were looking at layer upon layer of flood basalts from the Gondwanaland rifting, clearly exposed in flat-top mountains with large U-shaped valleys shouting out the glaciation that occurred after the rift.

The guides had by now realized that KT and I were geogasming about rocks, and any time the volume and speed of the conversation increased to a certain point, they would pull over to let us take pictures of whatever we were passing, because they are awesome guides. Flood basalts from the breakup of Gondwanaland are truly geogasmic, and we definitely took lots of pictures (and maybe a couple of rocks).

The northern part of Namibia is hot during the day, even during their autumn, and at the camp we took the opportunity to jump into the (frigid) pool with a few drinks to enjoy the sunset. Palmwag is also one of many darker sky places in Namibia, and we were treated to a lovely full moon after dinner.

Flood basalts visible in the walls of the valley

Gorgeous full moon over the campground in Palmwag, so bright it was light enough to walk around without a headlamp

The next morning, we got up bright and early to look at the mostly dry riverbed of our campground, which exposed the top of a flood basalt. We quickly realized that the regional joint sets were clearly and easily visible, as were scours of all sizes, evoking more geogasms. KT and I spent a wonderful hour taking pictures of rocks, discussing the fracture patterns, checking out scours for aquatic life, looking at the seed stems that had fallen off the local palm trees for which the area is named, and possibly picked up a few more rocks. After all, no self-respecting geologist is going to pass up the chance to own a piece of a flood basalt from the Gondwanaland rift.

Regional joint sets visible in a tributary to the Uniab River, with water bottle for scale

The hyphaena pertesiana, or fan palm, for which Palmwag is named

As we were leaving Palmwag, Broniel took us on a quick walk to show us a plant that could kill us. It’s probably a good thing, because it’s an interesting-looking plant, and left to my own devices, I would’ve been tempted to touch it, though probably not to eat it. Later in the morning, he pointed out another plant that’s highly toxic, proving that while Australia holds the crown for the most flora and fauna trying to kill humans, Namibia is no slouch.

Apparently even brushing against Euphorbia damarana (Damara milk bush) is bad news for humans

At this point we climbed down from the mountains, heading for the Atlantic and the true reason I’ve always wanted to visit Namibia: the Skeleton Coast. Along the way, we stopped to see another plant endemic to Namibia: a dwarf tree known as Welwitschia mirabilis, some of which are thought to be over 1,500 years old. They are indeed interesting plants, and it was well worth the stop to check them out and see the beetles that live on them.

Welwitschia mirabilis, a species of tree approximately 1′ tall that is endemic to the Skeleton Coast

Then, it was on to Skeleton Coast National Park. The coast, part of the Namib Desert, stretches for 500 km from Swakopmund to the Angola border and is famous for its wind, dense fog, pounding surf, and the skeletons of whales and ships that are probably the origin of the name. The approach to the coast is through an active dune system composed of the eroded mountains of inland areas, carried by wind and water—another geogasm! Other than the dunes and sparse, low vegetation, the area is flat and sandy with only occasional metamorphic basement rocks breaking the surface. From a geologic standpoint there are many interesting things about the Coast, and for me, it’s been one of the places I’ve dreamed of visiting for years.

Lisa and Lea at the entrance to Skeleton Coast National Park

Some of the dunes on the Skeleton Coast are vegetated with this low-growing plant

Other dunes are partially covered with the black sand generated by erosion of the flood basalts nearby, creating a lovely contrast between the dark and light sands

After driving through the dunes with only occasional glimpses of the water, the truck pulled over and Cheelo dumped us onto the beach to walk through a portion of this famous area. Finally, finally, I was here—and it was incredible. It’s very cold and windy, the surf is indeed pounding, and it’s gorgeous.

Metamorphic exposures crop up at the edge of the waves and provide a home for many types of aquatic life. Kelp bobs in the giant waves just offshore, and areas of the beach are covered in pink sand derived from rocks containing garnets. To stand in this place, taking in the splendor and feeling nature exerting her will, is an indescribable feeling. For me, it’s one that can only come from this type of experience. KT and I walked along the beach, inspecting rocks and critters, and reveled in the beauty of this barren stretch of earth while experiencing geogasms over the beach’s lovely garnet sand.

Garnet sands on the Skeleton Coast with human for scale

Close-up of gorgeous garnet sands present on the Skeleton Coast with human toes for scale

Vertically tilted formation exposed near the water line at the Skeleton Coast with human for scale

After almost an hour of joyful exploration, we reached the Benguela Eagle, one of the shipwrecks for which the Coast is rightfully famous. After some inspection and pictures, we grudgingly climbed the dune to rejoin the group for lunch overlooking the coast before getting back in the truck to visit our next destination: what may be one of the smelliest attractions in Namibia, the Cape Cross seal colony.

*Benguela Eagle* shipwreck on the Skeleton Coast with human for scale

Pieces of the *Benguela Eagle* visible from the top of a nearby dune

The Cape Cross Seal Reserve is home to over 100,000 Cape fur seals. While not as smelly as I was expecting, it was definitely odiferous and also LOUD. Seals make a lot of noise, and so many seals were loud enough that we had to raise our voices to talk over them. The seals are territorial, meaning lots of squabbles and fighting when there are so many close together. They also occasionally object to humans, and Cheelo had to encourage one to stop menacing us as we walked to the gated boardwalk overlooking the area.

Cheelo protecting us from an overzealous seal at the Cape Cross Seal Colony

After a night in the campground, we headed to the 2008 shipwreck of the Zeila. The recent nature of this site meant the boat was much more intact than the Benguela Eagle, and we spent some time watching waves crashing into the wreck. Then it was back into the truck to visit another endemic Namibian ‘plant:’ a gigantic field of lichen that survives on the water provided by the fog sweeping in from the ocean.

Tiny lichen, a symbiotic partnership of algae and fungus, with human finger for scale

From the lichen field, we journeyed through more desert dunes to our next destination, the town of Swakopmund. A small town that’s described as a beach resort by people who don’t understand what’s supposed to happen at the beach, it provided a nice break from time spent in the cold of the Skeleton Coast. It was also a reprieve from sleeping in tents, since we had one night in a hotel. We made the most of the afternoon, dropping all of our clothes at the laundry and walking around the city to change money and buy gifts. It’s obviously a colonial German city, and also obviously a tourist area, including a large craft market of Himba and locals hawking their wares. We enjoyed a pleasant afternoon complete with delicious, deep-fried brie and a springbok pie, then went to our hotel to relax and enjoy having four walls around us.

Overview of the local artisans market where Himba and other Namibian people were selling crafts

Dinner that night was at the Tug, a restaurant on the beach built around an old tug boat. This was also a farewell dinner for two of our companions who’d opted to take only a one-week tour, and thank goodness the niña malcriada was one of them. She’d remained pouty, childish, and unhelpful throughout the week, and we were all three relieved to be shot of her—her rudeness and bad attitude hanging over the group like a thundercloud, and her ass cheeks hanging out of her shorts every time she stood up. Pro tip: have some effing respect for the culture of the country you’re in, especially if that country has a dress code on the conservative side. And have some respect for the people around you who will be forced to avoid looking at your ass cheeks because you couldn’t buy shorts long enough to cover them.

The Tug restaurant in Swakopmund is a tugboat permanently anchored (sort of, apparently it’s broken loose a couple of times!)

And that, dear readers, was the end of our first week in Namibia and our stopping point for this episode. The next part of the geogasm tour is even more exciting, and here’s a sneak peek:

Namibia: Home of the Original Geogasm (Part 1)

Namibia. A beautiful, semi-arid, sparsely populated country in southwest Africa. When I told people I wanted to go, I got the normal questions about international travel in general, and African countries in particular: Where is that? Isn’t it dangerous? Why do you want to go there? I’ve wanted to visit Namibia for many years to see the Skeleton Coast in the north, Deadvlei on the central coast, the Fish River Canyon and quiver trees in the south. Researching these areas, it was immediately obvious that Namibia is a huge country (half the size of Alaska) with mostly gravel roads. Seeing everything on my list would require a lot of driving, and public transportation, always my first pick, is sparse in Namibia. While it’s a popular country for people to take pre-planned “self-drive” tour packages, I’m not really interested in changing tires or climbing up and down from a camper perched precariously on the top of a truck.

Regular readers of this blog know that Jared and I typically avoid long tours. Sure, we’ll take day trips to places that are inaccessible by public transportation or where there’s a benefit to having a knowledgeable guide, but group tours lasting weeks? We did it once (Morrocco) and while it wasn’t terrible, we also didn’t appreciate being on such a strict schedule and itinerary. With some reluctance, I started looking into tours of Namibia that went to all the places I wanted to see. Because of the distance between my must-see places, there weren’t many tours that went to all of them and even fewer that were affordable. In the end, I chose a tour that went the places I wanted to go, but in order to keep the cost down, I had to agree to sleep in a tent (no big deal) without an air mattress (very big deal) for two weeks.

At this point, Jared finally admitted he didn’t want to go back to Africa. No problem, my sister was willing to fly from South Sudan to meet me. Yay! With the details worked out, I was ready to book the tour for May 2022. Unfortunately, the world had other plans: the South African strain of Covid emerged, shutting down most of the countries in southern Africa. Meanwhile, my sister accepted a new job in Mogadishu, Somalia. With these two developments, I had to delay this long-awaited trip for a year until the world opened fully back up and my sister had built up some vacation time. While delaying the trip for a year was not what I wanted, it worked out that my friend KT (also a geologist) was able to come with us, and so we booked the trip for May 2023.

KT and Lisa, two of my most favorite people in the world

Having previously been to Africa, I was aware that some countries there have really big empty page requirements for passports. I’d previously checked the requirements for Namibia and counted pages in my passport to confirm I had enough. I’d also decided to take layovers in Johannesburg between the long-haul flights from and to the US. Not exactly a mistake, but when I finally booked my tickets, I checked the blank page requirements again and realized in the last week of February that I didn’t have enough pages in my passport for entry into Namibia (3 pages) and two entries into South Africa (2 pages per entry). Cue Three Stooges-style panic and rushing about to put my passport application together and mail it, along with an exorbitant fee to expedite both the processing and the shipping. Processing times for expedited service were supposedly running 5-7 weeks, and I had 9 weeks and one day before leaving. If you’ve seen the stories in the news about passport processing this year, you won’t be surprised that on April 20^th I had to call the State Department. Apparently, their processing pattern right now is “we do it when we have to,” so I received my passport the next day after 7 weeks and 4 days of dread that it wouldn’t arrive in time. Passport finally in hand, it was time to go!

My new passport, received 12 days prior to my scheduled departure date

After a very long flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg, KT and I met up at the airport. We were spending one night in Joburg before catching our next flight to Windhoek, so we wanted some South African rand to tide us over. This was when I discovered (again) that not every ATM will take every bank card, and also that I’d forgotten my PIN. Having spent most of the past three years sitting at home, there wasn’t much need to use my travel-only ATM card, and any information not used is flushed by my brain. I texted Jared and he couldn’t remember either, but luckily he was able to reset the PIN right away to let me to get cash from a different ATM.

Crisis averted, KT and I piled our luggage into the hotel shuttle. After checking in, we dropped our bags and immediately went to find dinner, as we’d both been in transit with long red-eye flights. The hotel where we were staying had a restaurant, and since we were too tired to do more than walk downstairs, we decided it was perfect. Dinner was awesome, and we had a lovely meal for a very reasonable price, including a wonderful dessert of malva (South African bread pudding). After eating, we were both ready to sleep before returning to the airport for our next flight, so straight back upstairs and into bed we went.

This combination appetizer had so much delicious food we couldn’t finish it

The next morning, we caught the shuttle back to the airport and were immediately enthralled with all the stonework on display. Southern Africa has been subject to many geologic events over Earth’s history, and the airport was a showcase of the many types of stone in the region. I guess it’s a good thing the airport is pretty, because it’s also confusing—we walked around for a good 45 minutes trying to find the correct check-in location for our flight. Bags dropped, we headed for security, then on to passport control, where the Western idea of a single queue in which each person waits until the officer to the left or the right was free was not to the left-side officer’s liking. While we waited, he repeatedly stood up and shouted “Keep moving! Left or right, make your choice and live with it!” We made our choice, had our passports stamped, and went in search of water bottle refilling stations. Which turned out to be the bathroom attendant, who filled our bottles from a hose in the janitorial closet for a small tip. Thus inspected, stamped, and refilled, we proceeded to walk what felt like six miles to our gate.

Stone panels and flooring in the Johannesburg, South Africa airport

Once in Namibia, we proceeded through a pleasantly quick immigration process and set about getting cash from an ATM. We also bought SIM cards for our phones while waiting for Lisa to arrive. The ATM gave us no grief, except that we could only take out a small amount of cash. It was enough for the SIM cards, shuttle driver tip, and dinner, so rather than making a second withdrawal, we decided to get more money later. The SIM cards, on the other hand, turned into a giant clusterf**k. The line for the only SIM card store at the airport was long, and it took forever for each customer. We were also watching for Lisa, and we knew her flight had landed already, so KT stood in the interminable line while I periodically checked if Lisa had exited immigration. Once we were finally at the head of the line, we both picked a SIM with a data package and the agents went about activating the new cards, only to find out that KT’s iPhone was locked and couldn’t accept the card. Sweaty, annoyed, unable to find our shuttle driver, and still missing Lisa, we gave up and went to the arrivals area. Apparently, our shuttle driver had been waiting for Lisa’s flight, so we were finally able to dump our heavy luggage in the van and head for our hostel.

We managed to check into our hostel with some effort before proceeding to our room and discussing dinner plans. We’d read about a local delicacy called kapana and were eager to head to the Single Quarters market in the Katutura neighborhood, which was supposedly home of the best kapana in town. However, our hostel staff wouldn’t agree to call us a taxi unless we agreed the driver would stay with us for the entire time we were in the market. This seemed unnecessary to Lisa and me, as we’ve both traveled extensively and frequented street markets all around the world. But the staff was insistent, we were hungry, and in the end they called us a driver.

On arrival, the market was relatively empty, but luckily the kapana sellers were still grilling up delicious treats. We walked through the grills, taking little samples that the cooks set out until we each found a seller we liked best. With gobs of grilled meat in our hands, our driver took us to another stall where they served fat cakes, which turned out to be some of the most delicious fried dough I’ve ever tried. Unfortunately for all of you, dear readers, we were so busy eating we forgot to take a picture, so you’ll have to use your imagination and take my word that the food was delicious.

After dinner, the driver narrated our return trip through town, pointing out landmarks and telling us the history of various areas in Windhoek. We stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few things for the start of our trip, and since we’d all been traveling for two days already, we went straight to bed.

The next morning, we were up and packed early, eagerly waiting to begin our safari. The tour started with a trip to the company office, where we met our guide (Cheelo), chef (Broniel), our fellow travelers, and had an overview of the upcoming stops for the next two weeks. Then it was into the truck and we were on our way!

Our first stop was Okanhandja Mbangura Woodcarvers Craft Market, the largest woodworking market in Namibia. Of course we all bought some things, even though it meant figuring out how to protect our purchases in luggage that would be thrown about repeatedly for the next twelve days. (It turns out that Tupperwear and dirty socks make great protection for trinkets while traveling.) The little town also had an ATM where we were able to withdraw a larger amount than the airport ATM allowed, and a Biltong shop that our guides assured us had some of the best jerky in the country. They certainly had a large selection of biltong made from local antelope-type animals, and we purchased a few to try, plus more for gifts. Lisa was especially excited about the biltong, but KT and I were less so. Neither of us is a big jerky enthusiast, and while the taste was okay, the texture—and especially the smell—were a little too much. After giving it a go, KT and I admitted defeat and gave a large package of biltong to Broniel, who was very excited about what he told us is his favorite snack.

We make a stop at a grocery store in Otjiwarongo for supplies, and after some amount of delay (not unexpected by Lisa and me but apparently unacceptable to some others in the group, more on that later) we headed to our first campsite, the Mount Etjo game reserve. Broniel and Cheelo showed us how to pitch the small but heavy canvas tents we’d be using on the trip, and we set about trying to find flat ground while avoiding the inches-long thorns on the acacia trees at the campsite.

The tents used for safaris in Namibia, and the so-not-joking thorns on an acacia tree

Lisa and I were sharing, and KT had the other single female in the group as her tentmate. Unfortunately, this pouty Italian niña malcriada turned out to be the single most unpleasant person on the trip. She had apparently never been camping before and was singularly unhelpful when it came to putting up a tent. Even after being told about camping practices like not wearing shoes inside the tent and zipping the door to keep out insects and scorpions, she was unwilling to go along. This was only the first inkling of what was to come from our traveling companion. It’s good that KT has lots of teacher skills, because that level of patience and repetition turned out to be a constant necessity.

And with that, the trip was officially underway! Tune in to The Escape Hatch next time for more of the story. Here’s a sneak peek from the next installment:

They Say it’s “One Happy Island,” But… They Never Tried to Leave

Welcome back, dear readers. When we left off, Jared and I had spent three days on Aruba, the One Happy Island, trying to find our equilibrium and make our vacation into the Kokomo mirage. Unfortunately, we were met with disappointment more often than success, and were now hoping that our remaining 4 days on the island would be Instagram-worthy tropical paradise perfection.

Day T-4: We lazed around the beach, swimming in the ocean and reading in beach chairs. The club from which we got the chairs was closed, as we’d discovered on our first dinner foray. At first, we thought the restaurant was closed for the low season, which we somewhat lamented because drinks would have been great. After some questions to the locals, however, it turned out that the restaurant had been doing something shady (we never found out exactly what) and the government was pissed off enough to fill their septic tank with sand. In Aruba, restaurants are required to have a bathroom, and filling the septic tank was the government’s way of making that impossible. During the week we were there, the club plopped one blue and one pink port-o-let into the blazing sun nearby and started serving beer, but they still hadn’t figured out how to remove the sand from the septic tank. Moral of the story: don’t piss off the Aruban government!

Having exhausted the (ISLAND EXPENSIVE) restaurants within walking distance, we decided to try out a well-reviewed Surinamese place for dinner. It required taking a $12 taxi to town (as we didn’t want to melt), but it turned out to be a great choice because it was also adjacent to a pharmacy that had hydrocortisone cream and aloe. We’d managed to get some rash and pretty bad sunburn despite our efforts to the contrary, and were in dire need of both products. After spending quite a bit of money on two tubes of medicine, we headed to the Surinamese diner. We loved everything except the almond drink, and will definitely be looking for Surinamese restaurants in the future. It was also very cheap compared to everything else, which was a definite bonus as our credit card was starting to get a little melty too.

After dinner, we decided to walk to a nearby grocery store in hopes of finding more Tuareg cookies to bring back to the US. The store, unfortunately, didn’t have any, but they did have something that I initially thought was an entire aisle of dishwasher tablets. They turned out to be some kind of Aruban Peeps, which look just as disgusting as the Peeps in the US, but thank goodness they’re gluten free because that makes all the difference when you want disgusting candy that looks like dishwasher detergent tablets.

Disappointed by the lack of Tuaregs and getting tired, it was time to catch a cab to the hotel. It was still hot and we were full from dinner, so we didn’t really want to walk the 20 minutes back. We decided to head in that general direction while we looked for a taxi, only to find out that once again we were in a residential area with no tourist infrastructure, including no freaking taxis. We ended up walking all the way to our hotel, cursing the heat and all the water we drank. We saw exactly one taxi the whole walk back, and it didn’t stop when we flagged it, leaving us almost running by the end of our trek because there aren’t public restrooms in the residential areas of Oranjestad either.

During this hell march, we saw a sign for Fookiu Vodka which I felt accurately captured the spirit of the moment:

The next morning (Day T-3) we were up bright and early for a tour of the rugged north shore. Our ride showed up, and the driver informed us we could sit in the front, middle, or back of the jacked-up Range Rover for “baby bumps, medium bumps, or added bumps.” Being old and grouchy, we chose the front. I’m glad we did, because our driver was running late and drove like a madman trying to make up time. Or so we thought, until we met up with the other vehicles in our group and went off-road. It turns out that our driver was actually quite tame in comparison to those of the other two Range Rovers.

Jacked-up Range Rovers on the northern shore

Most of the tour fell into the category of “drive-by with a brief tap on the brakes to shout some info at us,” but we did stop a couple of times. The first was at a church on top of a hill. I can’t remember what was special about it (because I don’t care) but we did get a nice picture with some cacti. The second stop was at Natural Bridge, a geologic formation that used to be a sea arch, but it collapsed in 2006. I’m not quite sure why it still qualifies as a tourist attraction, but there’s a gift shop and restaurant so I guess it’s a required economic stop, even though Baby Natural Bridge (where the driver hesitated for a moment) was much more beautiful and, more importantly, still standing.

Interesting cacti in front of a historical church on the north shore of Aruba

Apparently the waves on the north shore of Aruba are into WWE style wrestling with tourists

Our final stop was Natural Pool (Conchi), the supposed highlight of the tour. It was a very rough journey in our super-Rover, so bumpy that one of our fellow tourist’s cell phone bounced out of his pocket and into the road. (Though amazingly, once he realized it was gone, he was able to find it on the side of the road later.) Once at Natural Pool, we loped down the rock stairs for our close encounter with the north coast and its rough seas.

We were lucky that the waves were small that day. Even so, the sharp, moss-covered rocks that make up the approach to the pool were treacherous. Jared opted to stay on land, but I felt obligated to get a close look at this geologic marvel. After getting in and somehow managing to get back out of this tiny, dirty, crowded bowl, I can say—I should’ve skipped it. I suppose it’s pretty from above, and some people do jump off the rocks, but overall there was nothing really special about it. Had it been a day with high waves, I don’t think I could have gotten in and out without being lifted by a crane or seriously injured.

Waves coming through an opening at Conchi

Park staff attempting to remove the least of the hazards at the entrance to Conchi

We climbed back up the stairs for the trip home. The thing that made the whole day worthwhile was that we passed the restaurant near our hotel that had been closed earlier in the week, and it was open. We immediately decided to walk over and try it. The food was excellent, though I didn’t care for the funchi, a local delicacy of fried something similar to polenta. The dessert was even better than the dinner, a flan and a chocolate mousse cake that were both spectacular.

Jared and I don’t usually stay in all-inclusive resorts. They tend to be expensive, and they’re an obstacle to meeting people and getting a feel for the local culture. The only bad thing about not staying at an all-inclusive is that we didn’t have unlimited drinks 24 hours per day, which is a little sad during a beach vacation. While we enjoyed sitting on our beach chairs by our hotel, we wanted at least one day of unlimited drinks, so we booked a day on De Palm Island (Day T-2), a little barrier island off the south coast. It’s all inclusive, includes snorkeling and banana boats, and to compete with nearby Renaissance Island, it has a few desultory flamingos. The bus picks you up, takes you to the ferry, and you get to spend a whole day lazing around on your chair with alcohol and snorkeling.

De Palm is nice for a day of day drinking and snorkeling

De Palm Island is a very small place and there were a lot of people, but it was a nice experience overall. We met several people from around the US while we waited in line for drinks and lounged on our chairs. I spent lots of time snorkeling, seeing a few fish I hadn’t seen in other areas, and even caught an eel poking around the rocks. Jared found a different kind of eel close to the beach, where we watched it cruise around the rocks. We took pictures of the Chilean flamingos and listened to the caretaker explain that the crabs chasing the flamingos weren’t trying to hurt them, but rather were waiting for some nice, fresh flamingo poop to hit the beach so they could have lunch.

On our last full day on the island (Day T-1), we finally gave up and rented a car because there were several things we wanted to do that we couldn’t reach via walking. Our hotel had a rental car counter in the lobby, and it turns out that renting the car was the most cost-effective thing we did all week. We went to the butterfly farm on the west side of the island. We found a great crepe restaurant for breakfast, though we ate and left quickly because it was outdoors and the heat index at 9:00 am was already over 100°F. We went to the post office to get stamps for postcards and tried to visit the archaeological museum, which unfortunately was closed for renovations. We took pictures of the blue horse statues that were scattered around the tourist area, and most importantly, we visited five more grocery stores looking for Tuareg cookies and the local rum.

We totally scored, eventually finding 16 packs of cookies and two bottles of rum, as well as a 12 pack of Coco Rico soda for our friend Vikki. After a morning walking around in the inferno, quality time with our beach chairs was in order. Following a lazy afternoon and a beautiful sunset, we made the most of our car by returning to town for dinner at a wonderful little Italian restaurant which had outside seating. A good breeze made our last night more comfortable.

Aruba does have beautiful sunsets almost every night

The next morning, Day T-0, it was time to pack up. We very carefully rolled all our cookies into pairs of socks to protect them on the journey, and found room in our luggage for both bottles of rum and the 12 cans of Coco Rico. Dear friends, I can say with certainty that this is the only time in my life when I have hit the 50 pound luggage limit (24.5 kilograms!!), and had the attendant put a “Heavy” tag on my suitcase.

12 cans of Coco Rico, 2 bottles of rum, and 16 packs of Taureg cookies almost put our luggage over the weight limit

Did we like Aruba? Mostly. We enjoyed Surfside Beach and watching the planes land over the water. We saw lots of fish while snorkeling and enjoyed seeing the very different north side of this desert island. The lack of bus transportation was disappointing for a desert island that will be hit hard by climate change, but tourists in the tourist zone can walk or take the tram in that area. We got by with walking, a few taxis, and one day of a rental car. Would we go back to Aruba?

The horror story, the haunted house, the wicked twist to the plot… That’s the Aruba airport. It took what had been an okay (but not exceptional) trip and turned it into a “never again” moment that guarantees Jared and I will avoid the One Happy Island like the plague. But that’s a story for another day…

Even more bonus snorkeling pictures

The eel I found in the snorkeling area at De Palm

The eel Jared found in the swimming area at De Palm

These guys crack me up because they’re like 3D printed battleship fish

Not sure what it is but nice neon accents

Just checking to see who reads to the end lol

They Say It’s “One Happy Island,” But…

Oranjestad, Aruba – September 2022

Aruba. Jamaica. Oooh I wanna take ya…

That’s what springs to mind for most people when you say Aruba—the 1988 song “Kokomo” by the Beach Boys, eliciting dreams of umbrella drinks and coconut-scented tanning oil wafting by your nose as you lay on a perfect beach under palm trees while listening to a steel drum band. Holding hands with your lover while you walk slowly into the perfectly clear, Caribbean blue water to kiss in front of the sunset in picture-perfect fashion. The locals support and encourage this mirage, with the One Happy Island slogan festooned on everything in sight and spouted by the locals at every opportunity.

Aruba may be the perfect One Happy Island in some areas, just not where we stayed. We’d found a great deal on a hotel near the airport, and snapped it up with no more than a cursory scan of traveler reviews. We were lured by the (very) cheap price for the week, the very close proximity to Surfside Beach, the apparent array of restaurants within walking distance, and the presence of not one but two bus stops on Google maps. We reasoned that with two bus stops, a variety of nearby restaurants, and a short walk to one of the nicest beaches on the island, we’d be set for the week, spending our days lazing on the beach with drinks then catching a bus into the main part of town for cheap dinners of island delights. And thank goodness the hotel was cheap, because everything else on Aruba is ISLAND EXPENSIVE.

What is island expensive? Why would I make that kind of distinction beyond just saying that the vacation was expensive? My dear friends, if you have not spent significant time on an island in the middle of the ocean let this serve as your warning. ISLAND EXPENSIVE means whatever it is your heart desires is probably a) not located on the island, or b) costs at least 5 times more than it does on the mainland. In addition, there’s the tourist mark-up that accompanies the 5 times cost increase, meaning if you buy your heart’s desire in a store near the tourist areas, the cost is really more like 8 to 10 times more expensive than on the mainland.

This is understandable when you really think about having to put all of those things on a ship that uses lots of fuel to cross a huge water body to unload that stuff onto the island, and the fact that tourists are the main industry. Even though Jared and I know from many previous experiences about ISLAND EXPENSIVE, somehow we always manage to forget between island vacations, meaning we spent a week cringing at the cost of everything we ate, drank, or did. Seeing the cost in Aruban florins didn’t really help, because even with an exchange rate of 1.7 florins to the dollar, ISLAND EXPENSIVE is still really expensive.

Not that you need Aruban florins. Everyone we interacted with seemed to know the price of everything in dollars, and when we wanted to pay in florins, they had to pull out their phone to do the conversion. In hindsight we did not need to get florins from the ATM at the airport, but we should have brought a lot more US $1 and $5 bills. Over the last two years of sitting at home through COVID, we forgot all our travel rules and only brought twenties, except for one $10 we got at the Atlanta airport because I wanted peanut M&Ms for a snack.

Aruban florins. Used only by tourists in Aruba

But I digress. We arrived at the Aruba airport in the mid-afternoon, sailed through customs and immigration, went straight to the ATM, and were absolutely shocked at the lack of touts. It’s amazing to us that an island nation that relies on tourism for its main industry doesn’t have a hall of touts at the airport, but hats off to Aruba—nary a one grabbed us, yelled at us, blocked our way, or shoved pamphlets into our faces as we walked to the ATM and the taxi stand. I’d looked up the price of the taxi beforehand and knew it was going to be expensive, so it wasn’t unexpected when the driver charged US$18 after driving one mile from the airport to our hotel. No problem, we thought, because there were restaurants and bus stops nearby, and we wouldn’t need a taxi again until we were ready to go back to the airport.

Google Maps shows many restaurants and two bus stops near our hotel

Once we got to the hotel, it didn’t take us long to change and go out to the pool for drinks. It was very hot, so we spent the afternoon in and out of the pool while trying the resort’s stock of Venezuelan and Aruban rums. It was a nice afternoon that we thoroughly enjoyed until we were ready to head to dinner.

As I mentioned earlier, it appeared on Google maps that there were many restaurants within walking distance. We got dressed and headed out to look for a wonderful Aruban dinner to cap off our relaxing afternoon, only to realize… all of those “restaurants” were really just walk-up counters with the equivalent of hot dogs and popcorn. The focus of all of the places immediately around the hotel was definitely convenience foods and alcohol. While those things certainly have a place, they weren’t really what we wanted, so we walked toward the beach to check out some other places.

The beachside hamburger shack had small menus out that we mistook for the full menu, and not wanting fast food we passed it by. We wandered farther up the beach to two of the places that had tables in the sand, with beautiful views of the sunset to accompany the meal. One appeared closed, so we went to the other. Luckily, September is the low season, because it turns out we were at one of the most expensive restaurants on the island, one that normally requires reservations weeks in advance. But because it was the off season, we were able to get a seat on the beach and watch the sunset while enjoying an exceptional dinner and the best dessert we’d have all week. We went off to bed in a good mood, full and happy, with the intention to get up in the morning and catch the bus to the grocery store for supplies.

The next morning, we got up, got ready, and went out to try and catch a bus. We asked a couple of the staff at the hotel, only to learn to our dismay that the bus stops shown on Google maps were phantoms. Maybe they existed before the pandemic, but they definitely weren’t in use anymore. The hotel staff told us we could walk 15 minutes to a stadium farther inland to catch the bus, or walk 15 minutes down the coast to a grocery store. None too pleased, we set off into the burning heat of a clear sunny day to walk 15 minutes to the store.

It turns out that while the air temperature in Aruba tends to stay between 84-88°F year-round, the heat index can exceed 100°F. We arrived at the store completely soaked with sweat, hoping to quickly grab a few supplies and book a couple tours before hiking back. We walked around and around the tiny grocery store, looking for anything we could cobble together for breakfast and snacks, finally settling on some bread, lunchmeat, chocolate bars, and cashews, plus some soft drinks, 5 liters of water, and sports drinks to help avoid heatstroke. We decided to make one more pass to augment our snack stack, and there they were… miracle of miracles, 5 packs of Tuareg cookies peeking out like Captain Cook’s buried treasure.

We gasped and rejoiced, forgetting the heat and the missing bus, and grabbed all 5 packages to eat during the week. This was only the third time in all of our travels that we’d located these delicious coconut snacks, and with no immediate plans to return to Chile or Guatemala, we were ecstatic with our Tuareg treasure.

Leaving the store, we quickly walked up to the Renaissance Hotel to book a couple of excursions for the week. Giving in to the fact that we were carrying almost 10 liters of fluid and were about to melt, we grabbed a US$10 taxi back to our hotel where we found that the heat had melted our chocolate. Still starry-eyed about our Tuaregs, we put the chocolate in the fridge and went to the beach to cool off in the water. After a lazy afternoon on the beach, we were once more ready for dinner and hoping for a cheaper option than the beachfront restaurants.

We’d already established that the shacks facing our hotel didn’t really have dinner food, so we located a promising restaurant on Google maps farther inland and headed out… Only to arrive at the restaurant and find it was closed, even though the hours on the door indicated it should be open. Grumbling, hot, and annoyed, we walked farther inland toward what Google said was a sushi restaurant.

The farther we walked, the more we realized we were in a very residential area. There was the occasional car on the street as people came home from work, but mostly it was dark and deserted. After passing a couple more restaurants that were closed, we happened upon a hamburger stand and, not willing to risk additional walking in the heat to find out if the sushi restaurant was open, we decided hamburgers were a great idea. We also got some of the local soft drinks, in my case a Tropical Cherry, that were really pretty good. Yet another delicious drink that Coca-Cola serves the rest of the world while punishing the US with fart-flavored tonic water and Dr. Pepper.

Tropical Cherry soft drink. Infinitely better than most of the Coca Cola products available in the US

We woke the next morning and quickly got ready for a snorkeling tour we’d booked to Baby Beach and Mangel Alto. It turned out that we were the only ones on the tour, and we had a great morning looking at many kinds of fish we hadn’t previously seen. The currents in both locations were a little tougher than we’re used to, but our guide was wonderful and had a very keen eye for wildlife. He found trumpet fish, an octopus, and an eel among other things, pointing them out so we could take pictures. After a wonderful time on our tour, we headed over to the beach shack for lunch and were pleasantly surprised to find they had an extensive menu that included delicious chicken satay. We spent the rest of the afternoon on our lounge chairs with the occasional dip into the water to cool off, since the heat index remained stubbornly over 100°F. We also quickly realized that the beach was at the end of the airport runway, and we could watch the planes land over the water (which was rather entertaining and resulted in the occasional whiff of jet fuel on the breeze).

Airplane coming in for landing over Surfside Beach

After a pleasant morning and afternoon, we headed to the only overwater restaurant on the island, which was supposed to have food on par with the beach restaurant where we ate our first night. Alas, the overwater restaurant was somewhat mediocre in both food and service, while somehow still costing the equivalent of a small country’s annual GDP. Somewhat disappointed, we schlepped back to the hotel and collapsed in the AC while grumbling about the drag racing on the road outside our room and the thumpy club music next door. Almost halfway through our trip, we were beginning to realize that even though we love tropical beaches with umbrella drinks and snorkeling, we weren’t meshing well with the One Happy Island.

Dinner at the overwater restaurant near Surfside Beach

With 4 more days on the island, would we be able to find our way and create the perfect mirage invoked by the Beach Boys? Join us in our next installment of The Escape Hatch to find out!

Bonus snorkeling pictures

We saw a lot of sea life on our snorkeling trip. Here are a few of the denizens of the deep (well actually shallow) that we encountered.

This shoal of squid were following us around while we snorkeled at Baby Beach

There were many different kinds of parrot fish at both locations. This one is a rainbow parrotfish

Blue tang are all over the Caribbean, and were plentiful at Baby Beach and Mangel Alto

A flounder that was almost invisible except it kept giving itself away by moving its eyes

Bonus parrotfish, this one may be a stoplight parrotfish but who really knows

Not sure what kind of fish but they show up all over the Caribbean

Surgeon fish, another common Caribbean species

Yellowtail snapper. These show up even when no other fish are visible for miles

Some type of wrasse, possibly a slippery dick. I didn’t ask and they weren’t telling

These are hard to see because they blend in so well

Foureye butterfly fish next to a brain coral

At Last, Resort

Travel in the Time of COVID – Part 2

Previously: Our first vacation after coming home from South America was supposed to have been a resort stay in Cancun. Then the never-ending pandemic for which some of us are still wearing masks two-and-a-half years later (ahem) kicked in, and we put off our plans for as long as we safely could. We started going stir crazy. We dipped our toes back into travel with short trips to New York and Tampa. (Read it here.) Then the day finally came when we had to go abroad or go nuts, so Lea, our friend Melissa, and I were off to Mexico.

(But first… mea culpa. The events in this article took place a full year ago, I wrote it all down a month later, then I’ve sat on it for nearly a year. In that time, I’ve been distracted by finishing another novel and starting a job as a writer for Shortform, but that hardly excuses my new heights of procrastination. Anyway, back to the story in progress…)

Cancun, October 2021

Here’s the thing about resorts. You can book a stay for a very low price that comes with food, drinks, and airfare included. The catch is that they’ll want to sell you more. This is the dreaded “time-share sales pitch.” Sometimes it’s brutal; sometimes it’s benign. You just need to be prepared to spend part of your vacation having people try to sell you even more vacations. When you’ve been cooped up in a house for two years, even more vacations can sound very tempting.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After landing in Cancun, dashing through customs, and extracting some pesos from the ATM, we faced our first gauntlet. Between baggage claim and the exit is a hall of rental car, taxi, and tour excursion companies, with some degree of overlap between them. But oh no, the staff don’t meekly wait behind their counters; they’ll step directly in your face and grab you if they can.

In years past, I remember running through this scrum to escape from the vendors as fast as I could, but this time I didn’t feel the salesmen-induced panic that’s overcome me before. Maybe it’s because we had a specific group we were looking for—people in blue flowery shirts—that helped me avoid making eye contact and triggering my primal “run from the lions” instinct.

The Blue Flowery Shirt People were stationed at waypoints every fifty feet to help direct us to the shuttles conveniently located at the absolute far end of the ground transport lot. Once there, we were welcomed (and sales-pitched excursions to) while waiting on our actual van. We said “no thanks” several dozen times and were finally hurried along. Our room at the resort wasn’t ready yet, but not to worry—we’d planned for that and packed shorts in our carry-ons so we could sit by the pool and start drinking right away.

The promise of THIS makes many things possible.

However, before that, we had another “welcome” to sit through. This wasn’t a normal sales pitch, exactly—it was a sales pitch for a sales pitch. The rep gave us drinks, told us about the resort, and offered to schedule a tour the next day. (“Not a time share, I promise!” he said.) In return for a 90-minute presentation about this particular chain of hotels, we’d get a bottle of tequila and 2-for-1 massages.

We said, “Sure, why the hell not?”

For the rest of the day, we sat by the lovely adults-only pool and drank ourselves silly. Masks were required indoors but not outside, so we crossed fingers that we wouldn’t regret going face-naked in public. (This was between waves of Delta and Omicron.) Lea did the math on our beverage intake and calculated that if each of us drank at least eleven free cocktails per day, we’d have paid for the trip in alcohol consumption alone.

I swear we’re not drunkards. This only happens in all-inclusive resorts. The first time we’d gone all-inclusive like this was in Negril, Jamaica, 2007. Before that, I’d never been a drinker at all, but Negril began my love affair with rum, from which I’ve now branched out to tequila, whiskey, and vodka. Thank you, Caribbean! I never knew what I was missing.

Ah, sunrise over the… Wait, why are we up this early?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah: the sales pitch.

The “90-minute presentation” took two and a half hours. To be fair, it wasn’t exactly a time share. The pitch was for a membership to the resort, with access to others all around the world. Instead of hotel rooms, members are given beachside suites anywhere in their network, with a small added fee if the resort is all-inclusive. The math was tempting when looked at as a cost-per-year basis. My eyebrows were definitely tingling at the view from the guest suite’s seaside balcony. Had the membership been an annual subscription, I think we would have considered it. The words “yes, please” tasted very good, and I hadn’t even had my first cocktail yet.

However, a subscription wasn’t what they were selling. Instead, they offered a 25-year membership, paid for up front as if buying a car (financed for two years). Once we said “No, that’s not going to work,” they kept coming back with more spins on the offer—try this portion, try our travel agency, use the membership every other year. But resort travel isn’t our style. We may do it once every five or ten years, but it doesn’t leave room to explore the way we like.

Still, after two and a half hours of being marketed to, I damn sure made off with that free bottle of tequila.

The next day we went snorkeling, something I hadn’t done since staying on Isla Fuerte in 2019. (In South America, Lea snorkeled more than I did—see also: Morro de São Paolo). On this trip, the swim was invigorating (a polite way of saying “holy crap, what a current”), but the views were certainly worth it.

The first site was a shipwreck, and unlike others we’ve seen, this one still looked like a boat. The second dive was over an undersea art installation (see above), and it was here that I suffered a wardrobe malfunction (one of my flippers broke loose, so with only one remaining I had a really fun time not swimming in circles). At the third spot, we snorkeled over a wide bed of grass that was a haven for turtles. We found one, whom the whole tour group stalked as it went about its little turtle business. Though our snorkel excursion took us off the resort, we never left the clutches of the Cancun tourist industry.

This poor guy couldn’t just eat his grass in peace.

So on the day after that, we got on the bus.

This was more in line with how we travel, and to be honest, I was nervous as hell. Google Maps doesn’t track Cancun’s bus routes, and though Moovit does, it’s pretty inaccurate (as we’d find out). We’d ridden Cancun’s buses before, so we weren’t in completely unexplored territory, but it still felt like stepping back into the unknown.

The market they normally direct tourists to is Mercado 28, so of course our destination was Mercado 23, where Cancun’s actual residents shop and eat. Nevertheless, many of the stalls sell tourist merchandise and, because ‘tis the season, Día de los Muertos paraphernalia. The “Ruta 1” bus from the hotel strip doesn’t go all the way there, but if you hop off at the McDonald’s on Avenida Tulum, it’s only a five-block walk.

And walking is the way to go. There are several streets that lead to Mercado 23, but why anyone would drive is beyond me. Traffic was deadlocked all around the market, and I couldn’t begin to guess where anyone thought they were going to park. The market itself was crowded and hopping, so we wandered all through it, bought souvenirs, and inhaled the smell of fresh tacos (we’d be back). Mercado 23 doesn’t take very long to explore, but woe betide any tourist who thinks they’re going to make it out without buying something. Can’t be done.

In case you need to make absolutely sure everyone knows you went to Cancun.

Where to go next? A graveyard, obviously! (Note for new readers: Lea and I go see dead people.) On our last time to Cancun, we visited a tiny cemetery on Isla Mujeres, but this time we searched for one in the city. The closest we found was the Municipal Panteón, but I grew leery when I realized that we’d have to take a mini-bus, which I’ve always found to be cramped, bumpy, and untrustworthy. (Looking at you, Lima.) Moovit showed the routes but not the cemetery itself, so I looked up the address in Google and off we went.

Of course, we ended up in the wrong place. After riding to where we thought the address should be and finding nothing but a string of auto repair shops, Google confirmed we’d overshot by a mile. Thankfully, the second ride didn’t take too long, but the cemetery was a little disappointing. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it’s the most poorly-kept cemetery we’ve seen in our travels. It appeared to have reached maximum capacity in the 90s, and no one had tended to the graves in a while. Some had even cracked open, and human remains were clearly visible. Apologies for the lack of photographic evidence, but taking pictures of someone’s skull in the dirt felt grisly and inappropriate.

After leaving, we waited and waited and waited for a minibus heading our direction. The first one we spotted with the right route number passed us by without stopping. The next one did stop, but the driver kicked us out well short of where Moovit said it would go, requiring us to hoof it back to Mercado 23. (Because tacos.)

The taco stall we found was the emptiest in the market; at that moment, Lea and I were its only customers. But dios mio, the tacos were good. Our server also brought us a mystery drink that looked like old milk. Being us, we said “Why not?” It turned out to be horchata —sweetened rice milk with a hint of cinnamon. We liked it enough that we bought a second bottle to have the barkeep at our resort mix with rum.

While we waited in the heat for the bus back to the hotel, my legs sore and shirt sweaty, Lea said to me, “See? You know you missed this.” Well… maybe? I think it helped that an ice-cold swimming pool was waiting for us, a luxury we’ve rarely had in other parts of the world.

Home sweet home, bright enough to see from orbit.

With only two days left, it was time to find out if fate would let us come home or if we’d be stuck for an extended stay abroad. To return to the US, we’d need a negative COVID test within 72 hours of our flight. The State Department didn’t specify which type of test was required, so we chose the rapid test—not the most accurate, but in case of a false positive, we’d have time to test again before departure. In case of a positive positive, Lea and I had lugged our work computers all the way to Mexico while dreading what a two-week quarantine room service bill would look like.

Thankfully, our tests were negative. While we’d been as careful re: COVID as we could, I attribute our continued good health to the Inverse Corollary of Murphy’s Law—any negative occurrence that you actually prepare for will not be the thing that goes wrong.

(Please note: I’m not a doctor, but I only play one on TV.)

(Second note: If you understood that reference, you’re old.)

We spent the rest of our days sitting by the pool, grazing on buffets, and getting up early to take pictures of the sunrise. And thus our time in Cancun came to a close.

The transit home was a full three-ring circus. But that, my friends, is another story…