Day 264: Selcuk to Istanbul

We debated whether or not going to Izmir was worth it… and then we heard from our friends Josh and Leanne (remember them? Our friends from our Tanzanian safari a few months ago) that they had just arrived in Istanbul and would be there for a few days.

Meeting up with new friends is just as good as meeting up with old friends. We decided to skip Izmir and headed back to Istanbul to not only stay/visit with our friends, Juliet and Daniel, but to hang out with Josh, Leanne, and their friend Margarita. We are lucky, lucky ducks.

Unfortunately, heading back to Istanbul meant another 12-hour bus across the country.  

It should have been 9 hours, but as we’ve found to be the case in Turkey- the drivers enjoy their breaks, and they enjoy them often. We stopped a lot. Often for 30-40 minutes. We reminded each other we’ve survived worse and focused on the positives: We each had our own seat all to ourselves. Our seats reclined! Multiple stops meant multiple opportunities to go to the bathroom. The bathroom was not on the side of the road in front of fellow passengers. There were even doors and tissue within the stalls! And snacks to be purchased along the way did not consist of burnt birds on a stick.

I know you’re jealous of how low my expectations have become.

Our bus dropped us off across town from where Juliet and Daniel live. We didn’t get in until nearly midnight. Walking into their apartment felt like walking into my apartment in Seoul after a week or two out of the country. It felt like home, or as close as home has felt since this trip began.

Day 216: Vilanculos to Tofo

I know you’re jealous of all of this super fun transportation we’ve been taking lately… Too bad this image doesn’t even do the twenty+ people crammed into the mini-van justice en route from Vilanculos to Tofo.

We arrived towards the evening thinking that Tofo is a vacation spot for South Africans… and that there would be plenty of options for hostels and guesthouses and restaurants. Per usual, when we assumed something, we were totally wrong. One recommended place was booked. Another looked to be a forty minute walk down the beach- a walk we didn’t want to do with our bags.

We ended up getting an entire house to ourselves just off the beach. Had some fried calamari for dinner and called it a night.

Day 213: Nampula to Vilanculos

Instead of having you suffer through another bus ride like we did, the above video is of Vilanculos- once we got there…

We rolled up to the bus by one in the morning, by the time we figured out our seats, I was once again in the middle of Andrew and a Mozambican woman, this time with an adorable two year old (I’m guessing) on her lap. He had big eyes and was incredibly intrigued by my presence next to him. Whenever I wasn’t looking, his little fingers would dance across my arm. As soon as I would look down to him, even with a big smile, he would withdraw his hand, but continue looking up at me with big eyes, wondering what I was going to do next. As I couldn’t exactly move, I didn’t do much, except sometimes tickle him, which didn’t seem to phase him.

After 14 hours, they got off the bus and I got excited to share our seat with one other person, instead of two. I should have known better. A young man made his way through with a backpack three times the size of the two year old who had just left. My heart sank. By hour 18 – and no, I’m not even exaggerating – I was beyond uncomfortable. Sitting in an upright seat, with zero legroom, and maybe two bathroom breaks the entire journey puts economy seating on American Airlines into perspective.

By hour 19 – we were dropped off. It was in the middle of nowhere. We had specifically asked, even had the lady at the hostel write in Portuguese, “Will we get dropped off IN Vilanculos?” for us. They told us, “Yes. Vilanculos.” But, no. This was not Vilanculos. Instead, it was a dirt four way intersection. No lights. No waiting taxis. No cars whatsoever. Twenty minutes away from Vilanculos.

“Bus at four!” One of the men said as he retrieved our bags for us. He pointed to the opposite side of the road and told us to wait for cars. It was roughly nine in the evening. Four in the morning was seven hours away.

We started making our way to the road we needed to go down, thinking we were on the right side of the road. Three cars turned off and headed towards where we wanted to go. Andrew ran after them, trying to flay them down in the dark. It didn’t work. We went to the opposite side of the road and waited some more. And then some drunk shadows seemed to appear out of nowhere and I got nervous. So nervous, I turned off our flashlight as to not draw attention to myself being a woman. So nervous, I held onto my Nalgene just in case I would need to use it to hit someone in the head with. I figured I could take at least one skinny drunk man down if I had to. I glanced down and saw Andrew had his keys in hand and had put the can of bug spray in his pocket. I smiled. Not a bad idea, I thought!

The drunk men stood across the road from us for awhile, tried chasing down a car, and then seemed to give up on the idea of getting to Vilanculos that night. They argued about which way to go, and then slunk back to where they came from.

Andrew and I made our way under a streetlight down the street, hoping that a car passing by would see that we weren’t from here and we weren’t drunk. This didn’t work. But, it did attract the attention of a kind young mother with a baby tied to her back. She came up to us and in Portugese, told us what time the bus was coming and motioned to her house along the road to sleep in until then. While I was overwhelmed by her kindness, Andrew wasn’t keen on sleeping on a dirt floor for seven hours after our latest nineteen hour bus adventure.

We asked if she had a phone and assured her that we would pay for the time we used. She obliged and we called the hostel and had a car come. An extraordinarily overpriced car came to pick us up and we were whisked away from the dark dirt intersection towards the beach. We grabbed some bottles of water, went directly to our bunk-beds, and crashed.

Day 209: Nampula

We thought we were leaving Nampula that night, so we planned our day accordingly. Andrew checked on reputable bus companies while I went out to collect eggs and bread with our new friends Eben and Annelies to prepare for breakfast. (We were all pretty elated over the kitchen at our disposal in the emptied out guesthouse that morning.) We hadn’t planned on running into the spider and had to document it en route to the bakery.

Andrew discovered that the reputable bus company we heard also had comfortable seats was closed for the month. Of course. So we went back to the bus station to see what other companies were operating. He tested out seats. We were assured there wouldn’t be anyone standing in the aisle, reserved two seats, and then took out a ridiculous amount (the most, I should add, that we’ve had to pay for any bus ride on this trip, even when we’ve crossed multiple borders) of money to pay for our seats. And finally, what was the most fun part of the day, we modeled some STD necklaces for Annelies.

Yes, as in venereal disease themed necklaces. I picked “Herpes.” How, you might be wondering did this come about? Well…

Eben had originally introduced Annelies to us as a sculptor. She had gaped at her husband.

“Sculptor? That’s a new one!” She teased him and then explained that she is a contemporary jewelry designer. I was intrigued, wondering what exactly what kind of jewelry a contemporary artist makes. (Spoiler alert: Awesome jewelry. That’s what kind of jewelry she makes.) I told her I was a photographer and that I dabble in a little contemporary art myself and we immediately exchanged images of our work. I was in heaven. I think she was too, because she bemoaned the fact that we were leaving in the middle of the night and we wouldn’t get to talk some more.

She asked us if we would model some pieces for her before we left and we agreed. We shrugged when we found out what exactly the pieces were. I try to help other artists with their work as often as I can. I know what it’s like trying to get models or participants for a project. It can be hard. So I think of it as artist karma or something like that… I also think I’ve rubbed off on Andrew, because he generally plays along.

Unfortunately getting money for our bus tickets took forever, and we were losing light by the time we got back to model. We tried nonetheless, and then slipped into our bunk beds to try to get an hour or two of sleep before our taxi came to collect us around one in the morning.

I tried to edit photos below Andrew tossing and turning on the bunk above, until eventually he climbed down, worried about his leg. He hadn’t told me it had been hurting that afternoon. Immediately, I began to worry and insisted we stay and go to the doctor. He worried. Not about his leg, but about the expensive bus tickets we wouldn’t be able to use. I asked him what he would do if it were me. He assured me that was different. I rolled my eyes and waited. Eventually, he acquiesced and we agreed to stay in Nampula and go to the clinic tomorrow.

Annelies was overjoyed.

(I wasn’t overjoyed Andrew’s leg was now hurting, but I was glad we were going to a doctor, and yea, ok, I would get to hang out with Annelies and Eben some more!)

Day 208: Mozambique Island to Nampula

From Mozambique Island to Nampula, it was only supposed to take 2 1/2 to 3 hours. It took us 8. EIGHT HOURS. The owner of the guesthouse we stayed at on Moz Island told us “Don’t worrry! Take your time! Stay for breakfast, relax, you’ll be fine! Once you get to the bus station in Nampula, there will be plenty of buses to choose from to go down to Vilanculos!”

He. was. wrong.

So wrong it hurt. So wrong that it reminds me to get on TripAdvisor just to tell him how absolutely wrong he was about a. taking our time to leave in the morning. b. not taking very long to get to Nampula. c. “plenty of buses” my @#$! No. No. NO. He was all wrong. The only thing he was right about was recommending “Ruby’s” for us to stay at once we realized there was no way we were going to stay at the only other option in town with prison bars circling the entrance to what you would have to assume is where drug deals go bad, women wake up in compromising situations, and creepy crawlies reside. Yes, we’re on a budget. No, you couldn’t pay me to sleep there. No.

Let’s start with our farewell to our lovely host on the island, shall we? After our ‘thank you’s, we walked down towards the bridge to catch the chapa to Nampula. We had to wait twenty minutes or so for it to fill up. No big deal. Standard. I had a seat (on my backpack), I didn’t mind.

We crossed the bridge and unloaded/reloaded and made our way towards Nampula. Twenty minutes later, we stopped. Turned around. Headed back towards the bridge. There, we waited for twenty minutes. Drove for a few minutes back, turned around, waited back at the bridge for another twenty minutes. No explanation given. Not even in Portugese. Give me chickens. Give me babies and children sitting in between my legs while I try to maintain balance standing in the back of a pick-up truck flying over countless potholes in the road. Sure. I can do that. It’s Africa. But to drive in circles, without windows that open, to sit and wait in the midday African sun… This is when I start to agree with everyone who thinks I must be crazy for not only choosing to do this, but dragging Andrew along with me, who, by the way, at this point was getting his knees bashed in by the seat in front of him and his foot was swollen. again. for reasons we still weren’t sure of after the accident…

We stop every several hundred meters to drop someone off, pick someone up. Our driver clearly could care less that he was driving a couple dozen people around. He would get out at the mandatory police checks, chat up the officers, get a drink… have a snack… He stopped at one point, climbed out of the van, and all of the men followed him and disappeared.

“It’s prayer time.” Andrew told me. The women and children, myself, and Andrew waited for thirty minutes in the chapa.

Then we had to change chapas. The first chapa charged us for our bags, something that only happens when you don’t know any better and can’t speak Portugese to argue. I got mad at Andrew for paying. It was maybe $1.00 total. But I was furious at the thought that we were being taken advantage of because we were foreign. Maybe we weren’t. But we hadn’t been charged for our bags in any of the other chapas OR buses we had taken in Mozambique, and after the four hour drive when it should have been less than two, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. Andrew was. He usually is. Half the time this infuriates me, especially in situations like this. I mean, how dare he be so calm and level-headed when the situation clearly does not deserve such a mature attitude!

I just read the previous paragraph to him. He responded, “Make sure you write that I don’t think we were being scammed.”

The next chapa pulled up and it was almost full, except for two seats- one in front and one behind the front passenger seat. Andrew climbed in front, and I got in the back. I thought we were ready to go and then our previous driver (the annoying one, from our first chapa) came up and pointed to the space in between the front seats and the row where my legs, and three other passengers’ legs were squeezed into a three seat row were. He counted in Portugese, explaining to our new driver could fit three, four more people there.

I debated springing out of my seat to tackle him down onto the pavement below. A man (medium build) and then a mother with a baby tied to her back and child (maybe six years old) climbed in. Facing us. It was tight. Eight people, technically sitting in a space designed for three.Not counting the man collecting money, standing in the row to open and close the door for those getting in and out of the chapa along the way. I cursed myself for thinking that previous bus and/or chapa rides were the worst. Because, I should have known… they can (and will) always get worse.

The chapa left the parking lot only to pull over shortly after. An older woman climbed into the front with Andrew. I thought we were in the clear, and then the chapa pulled over again. The mother (with the two young children) sitting, facing me protested. She pointed out her six year old, asking where he would go. The newest passenger would hold him. It was decided. He climbed in. He tried to put his legs in between mine. I shook my head. I had reached my limit. There was no where for my legs to go and I wasn’t about to attempt to make room for someone else’s legs to go in between them. He pointed again to my legs, stepping on my toes the entire time. I shook my head again. He gave up, but still managed to squeeze in between me and the poor girl next to me. It was the worst chapa ride for me yet.

The medium sized man got out and I heaved a sigh of relief thinking the last hour or so of the trip would lead to feeling my legs again. That thought went out the window when another mother with a baby strapped to her back got in. Ten. Ten people in a row for three. I gritted my teeth and willed my knees to work if/when I could stand again.

Around dusk, we arrived at “the station.” It was little more than a dirt parking lot littered with garbage and random buses and chapas parked or idling waiting for their journey to begin. I fell out of the chapa and immediately we tried scouting out which bus could take us to Vilanculos. We found one, it left at three in the morning. We walked across the street with our backpacks to check out the guesthouse there. We decided we simply couldn’t stay there and grabbed a taxi to take us to the hostel/guesthouse that was recommended to us. Our driver had never heard of it before. He pulled over and asked for directions. The locals had never heard of it before. We were frantic. And then I just told our driver to go in the direction we were told it was in, because surely there had to be something there, right? Luckily, I spotted it.

I ducked in. It was expensive. I mean, for a dorm bed, it was expensive. I tried to ask if we could just hang out on the porch until two in the morning, when we had planned on taking the next bus down to Vilanculos. We couldn’t. I asked if we could get a discount, as we were only going to be there for less than six hours. We couldn’t do that, either. By this time, Andrew was nervous I had been gone for so long. He started shouting outside of the bushes/gate dividing the guesthouse from the street. I ran out. It suddenly all seemed so ridiculous. We were so stressed out. I had already gotten upset with him over $1.00. A DOLLAR. His foot was swollen. I didn’t want to pay $20.00 for less than six hours in a bunk-bed… We were tired, it was going to be another 12-18 hours on a bus to Vilanculos…

“I think we should just stay the night, we’ll figure it out in the morning. None of this stress is worth it.” I told him. He agreed. readily. We checked in, put our bags down, got Andrew a beer and sat down to take a deep breath.

“You guys look like you guys have been dealing with AFRICA today…” Or something like that (I can’t remember exactly), another guest at the hostel said.

“Yea, what gave it away?” I said, quite wryly. He (Eben was his name) chuckled and we told him about our day. He shook his head knowingly and told us about fleeing Mozambique Island by way of an expensive taxi to go directly to a hospital because he was having an allergic reaction on the island.

“I think we saw you at one of the cafes on the island!”Annelies, his wife mentioned.

“Did you have braids?” I asked, remembering her, mostly for her hair. Not many white girls traveling through Africa had braids like she was sporting…

“YES!” She laughed and cracked a Predator joke and I knew we would be friends.

We ended up being in the same dorm room, just the four of us, and stayed up too late chatting (Andrew and I somewhat deliriously, I’m sure) about our travels before falling asleep happy to be in a bed for longer than six hours and to have met another wonderful couple along the way.

Day 203: Pemba

We woke up not nearly as rested as we wanted to be, but then we were assured the buffet breakfast was included and we thought ok… maaaybe Russell’s Place isn’t so bad… Turned out, “included” meant that Yes, they could include it in our bill. Wasn’t that sweet of them? Andrew held his ground and we didn’t end up paying for the breakfast that almost (but not quite) made up for the smell of garbage all night.

We walked down to the beach, but it was too hot to stay out in the sun, let alone swim, so we played cards at a café there, and made our way back when the sun started going down. We had planned on staying at the lodge until two in the morning, but that was before we discovered Russell’s Place’s recommended taxi driver was going to charge us nearly four times the amount we paid during the day to drive us to the station at night. When one of the managers suggested we leave around eleven and go home with the wait-staff, we were told it would be free. We showed up to the bus “station” and crawled in between two other young men who were trying to sleep on the tarp covering the concrete stoop.

Again, around two thirty, we were able to board the bus before driving around town for two hours collecting passengers until it was over capacity and there was a sufficient amount of people standing in the aisle.

Day 202: The day our bus got stuck in mud

3 AM. Seriously. That’s what time our bus was scheduled to leave Mocimboa da Praia. When we rolled up to the bus around quarter to, we weren’t exactly surprised to see many passengers had shown up even before we did and were fast asleep. By the time the bus left the “station” it was going on four in the morning. Because it seemed to be less than half full, we picked a row of three seats with hopes of being the only two sitting in the row so Andrew would have enough leg-room. Big Mistake. HUGE. Because we spent the next hour driving around town picking up more… and more… and more passengers. By five o’clock in the morning, a woman who defied every stereotype of hunger and famine that all of the commercials about Africa had represented when I was younger had taken over half of our row. Andrew’s legs were in the aisle amid the standing passengers and I was trying to will my squished self back to sleep.

And then, not twenty minutes later, we woke up to our bus slipping, gears grinding, and then the engine giving up. This day was now going to be known as the day our bus got stuck in mud. Apparently the buses leave so early to avoid the heat. Not quite dawn, we were told we would have to wait for the sun to come up and dry the mud.

So, we waited. Half of the bus unloaded and Andrew and I climbed into some vacant rows and fell asleep for an hour or so. The sun came up. There was a pile of trucks behind us. One bus was stuck ahead of us. Barefoot men pushing bikes loaded down with coal cruised past us all.

At one point a group of men, some in their late thirties, (I’m guessing) some in their early teens came down the road holding shovels and machetes above their heads. They were riled up, shouting, waving their weapons of choice around, circling the bus. The few others who had stayed on the bus didn’t seem to be phased, one older gentleman even rolled his eyes over the spectacle. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure what to make of it at all. I did what anyone else (clearly out of her comfort zone) would do: I slipped my backpack under my legs and leaned back against my seat pretending I was bored out of my mind.

I’d like to think this tactic worked, for there was no harm done, but really, I kinda doubt they were going to harm anyone. I think they were just all worked up thinking they could dig an enormous bus out of the mud. Once they realized they couldn’t, they slinked back to wherever they came from.

We were eventually pulled out by a Caterpillar tractor and made our way down to Pemba. It was crowded. There were at least twenty people (probably more) standing in the aisle of the bus. A random group of six men appeared out of nowhere asking for a ride on our bus. The men, we guessed a mix of North African, possibly Arabic, and Indian said that they lost all of their things and were having trouble bartering with the driver getting onto the bus. At one point, they asked Andrew for $50.00 to get on the bus and said they would pay him back when we got to Pemba. Andrew relayed this to me, thinking we didn’t have enough cash on hand.

“I have it.” I told Andrew, and then added with a slight smirk, “That’s what they get when they don’t think to ask a woman…” But then, I started feeling badly, wondering how others would help us if we were in the same predicament. I even slipped my fifty dollar bill into my hand… but then the bus stopped and the men were let on. Twenty minutes later at a standard “safety” check, an officer climbed on the bus, ignored the twenty other men standing in the aisle and pulled all six of the foreign men off of the bus.

I guess it was probably a good idea I didn’t hand over my $50 after all.

Fourteen hours after we first boarded the bus, we arrived in Pemba. We were exhausted, sore, and hungry. The owner of Ten Degrees in Tanzania recommended a place to us in Pemba. She said it was a great place to hang out and had dorms that would fit our budget. We headed there.

Unfortunately, Russell’s Place was nothing to write home about, except in the form of complaints. We were given dubious looks when we asked for beds in the dorm, then not only charged a ridiculous fee, but led to an open air loft above a barn that seemed to house a generator for the entire lodge, and didn’t notice the wafting smell of garbage until after we had checked in and showered. After the past few days, I didn’t have any energy to complain, let alone walk around to find another bed to sleep in, so we sat down for dinner, and then crawled back into our respective bunks immediately after.

Day 198: The day our bus crashed

We were told we could buy our tickets at the bus when we boarded in the morning. We arranged for a taxi to pick us up at five in the morning and before dawn, we were pushing our way through the absolute chaos that is the Dar Es Salaam bus station trying to find the right bus. Chaos is most probably an understatement. This was not your typical station. Picture instead, the fair grounds, the day after the fair and a hard rain. No lights, other than the few from buses with engines running and headlights on for a near future take off. Behind the buses ready to go were more… Rows upon rows of buses. Without signs to where they are going. With vendors offering up loaves of bread or bottles of Fanta roaming in between.

“Mtwara?” I asked one of the women selling bread. She hollered for someone and suddenly we were being led in between buses, in the dark, stopping only to asses how big a puddle was and how I could avoid stepping in its muddy waters. Usually I would refuse to be led in the dark, to a place unknown, in a language I don’t speak, but I didn’t see refusal being an option, and I certainly didn’t want to stay in Dar for another day, so I followed willingly.

When we arrived at the bus Andrew found had the best reputation, we were told we could not buy tickets, therefore could not take the bus. We were led, yet again, through a maze of buses to another couple going to our same destination. Andrew didn’t recognize the first bus and demanded another company he read had a decent reputation. We haggled over the price, put our bags underneath, and took our seats. Maybe ten minutes later, we were pulling out of the station. Not fifteen minutes after that, we stopped at another station and parked for an hour, waiting for the bus to fill up before we could make the journey down to southern Tanzania.

It was uncomfortable. Although this bus at least stopped for multiple bathroom breaks, which cannot be said for the bus we took from Arusha to Dar. By bathroom breaks, I mean the bus pulls over to the side of the road, and everyone gets out and drops trow next to the road. Sometimes women go to one side of the road, and men to the other, but not always. I thought I had achieved something when I got comfortable stripping down in the Korean bath houses and having a Korean ajjumma (older woman) scrub me down. But squatting down on the side of the road in plain sight of not only your fellow bus companions, but any bus passing by is a whole new level.

“It’s better to go than not to go… It’s better to go than not to go…” I chanted in my head hoping that having Andrew standing a couple feet in front of me at least prevented any curious onlookers from seeing my hoo-ha.

These buses are unlike anything I have ever ridden before. Instead of a pair of seats on each side of the aisle, one side has two skinny seats, while the other side offers a row of three skinny seats. I think a typical bus seats 35-40 passengers, these buses seat 60-70. There is little legroom, which means there is none for Andrew, and don’t even think of reclining. Also, you have to really pay attention to where you sit, otherwise you might not have any access to open or close the window. And that, my friends, is something you want control over.

We seemed to be making good time, due to the crazy speed our driver was going, and we were about two hours away from our stop, when there was a loud pop and the bus started to swerve back and forth on the road. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, as I’ve become quite accustomed to the speed and the jerky nature of many drivers. But the swaying only intensified and I instinctively grabbed onto Andrew, afraid the bus was going to go on its side. I remember being scared, simultaneous to “Yep, I thought this was going to happen at some point on this trip” feeling. Having never experienced a serious crash before, I was almost in wonder, wondering how it was going to play out.

Suddenly, we were off the road and tall grass was flying against the window I was sitting next to. I looked at the window, wondering if I had left it open or had recently closed it, and what would be best upon impact. If it’s open, am I going to fall out of it? If it’s closed, should I open it more? These thoughts flew through my head and it suddenly seemed as though we weren’t going to go on one side, but I wondered how long we would continue to speed off the road.

And then it all stopped. Water sloshed up around the bus. The windshield shattered. And it was over. The men behind me sprang out of the bus, jumping out one of the windows. Somehow Andrew was caught halfway on the seat in front of us and halfway in the aisle. I was confused and wondered if I would even fit if I tried to jump out of the window the men had easily slid through. They were standing on ground, even though water surrounded the bus. I stood up and Andrew and I were quickly demanding if one another were ok. Babies were crying and everyone on the bus was half dazed and half panicked about getting off.

I stood up with my backpack that was in my lap and told Andrew we had to get off the bus. He had lost his i-phone and was searching the floor of the bus for it, a bit oblivious of the fact that we might need to hurry. I loosened our plastic bag of Masai shukas from the shelf above and again, upon smelling gas, again insisted we needed to get off the bus immediately. Finally, it sunk in and he grabbed his bag and turned to squeeze past others searching for their own belongings. Luckily I spotted his phone on the floor our way out of the bus, as I stood up, I was face to face with a young man who had clearly been sitting near the windshield as his face was covered in blood. I felt so clumsy trying to maneuver past him, wondering what it was that he felt necessary to go back for with his face so mangled.

Once off of the bus, I held a man’s bag while he slipped his shoes off to walk through the water to get to dry land. Andrew yelled at me, wanting me to get away from the bus. It was so surreal, everyone going in different directions and locals from the village we had just passed walking down to help by way of the trail of smashed grass our bus had left in its wake. I took my flip-flops off after nearly losing one in the muddy water the back end of the bus rested in. Andrew had given me both of our daypacks and the bag of shukas while he tried to get our bigger backpacks out from under the bus. He ordered me to go up to the road and take pictures in case we needed them for insurance purposes. Smart. It would have been smarter had I stayed below to take pictures of the bus in water though…

With two backpacks full of computers and cameras, I sank up to my thighs in water and gratefully handed over our things and accepted a hand to help pull me out. One of the women also walking away from the bus slowed down to walk with me. I think she thought I was hurt, but I was mostly having a hard time climbing up to the road in my flip-flops as my feet were covered in mud. We got up to the road and an older man took one of the bags from me and they both began walking me towards the awaiting bus that had stopped.

“Hospital.” My new friend declared with worry all over her face.

“No, no… I’m ok. It’s ok. You go!” I tried to tell her, repeating the Swahili word for “fine” over and over again as she looked me over with concern. I put down my bags and thanked the older man for helping. Then pointed to Andrew who was by the bus and tried to communicate that I couldn’t leave him.

Andrew gave up trying to retrieve our backpacks momentarily and came up to meet me on the road. Both of our legs had raised bumps from hitting the seats in front of ours, but one of his legs was oozing blood and I immediately started ripping my bag apart for wet wipes and band-aids, suggesting we go to the hospital immediately. Not having any band-aids big enough, I unwrapped a panty-liner and band-aided it to his leg. He wasn’t nearly as impressed with my handiwork as I was. His leg continued to bleed, and wondering if he needed stitches, I suggested again we go to the hospital. I envisioned us leaving our backpacks behind and wearing Masai shukas for the next several days. He said he was fine and that wasn’t leaving without our bags.

We asked around for a phone to try to call our guesthouse to see if they had any suggestions on what to do about our bags and/or how we should go about getting there. One man, who didn’t speak English, nodded and told me to follow him. I left Andrew with all of our bags on the side of the road and thought we weren’t going far. Two hundred meters later, I stopped the man and when I turned around, I could see Andrew beginning to walk towards us. Later, Andrew told me that after our bus crashed, we made it out ok, he wasn’t going to let me be led somewhere without him. I assured him the man wasn’t trying to harm me – at. all. But understanding his thought process completely. After all, it’s why I stopped and told the man I needed to wait for my ‘husband.’

We gave some money to a younger boy who ran back into their town to get credits to make a phone call. It didn’t work. We couldn’t get any reception. I handed out melted chocolates to all of the men who waited with me while Andrew tried again to get our bags. Fifteen minutes later, he waved me over and I could see him holding one of our bags. Another bus had pulled over and I began to run (how one would with two bruised up legs and three bags in her arms) towards the bus.

We squeezed in front, me sharing seats while Andrew sat on top of the boarded over engine with several others. I tried not to panic every time the bus sped up or hit a bump in the road. I tried not to remember the boy who was too close to the front of our crashed bus with the bloody face. I prayed to Jesus, Buddha, and even Ganesh that we wouldn’t crash twice in one day. I concentrated on not crying about all of the above.

Our bus didn’t ask for any fare, but instead dropped us off when it was turning off of the road we needed to continue on. Five minutes later a dala-dala pulled up and we were squeezed in, standing in the middle of the shared mini-van. Twenty minutes after that, we were dropped off at the door of our guesthouse. We showered. We cried. We drank a beer and then watched Project Runway pretending, at least for one hour that we didn’t just get the shit scared out of us.

Day 187 Arusha to Dar Es Salaam

We’ve lost count of how many terrible bus experiences we’ve had. This one joined the list. I didn’t have enough leg room, which means, Andrew had it even worse. And for some reason, bus drivers in select countries around the world seem to think blasting music is mandatory for journeys clocking in at twelve hours or more, even when these journeys begin at six in the morning.

Gospel music with close up booty shots were on the menu this morning. It only got worse as the day continued with a low budget African movie full of slapstick “comedy” and one man cutting off his own toe. Strange? Not to all of the other passengers on the bus…

We arrived in Dar around dusk and immediately ran into two of our new friends from Arusha. After dinner, we all crashed. Dar doesn’t offer much to do by day, and it’s advised not to go out at night. It’s nights like these that make me grateful for Andrew’s hard-drive of movies and television. We watched Project Runway (All Stars. Is it just me or is Heidi’s replacement, Caroline kind of annoying?) and crashed.

Day 105: another overnight bus

The only thing I wanted to do was return to the Marionette shop and buy a dancing princess. The day before when I dropped in and asked for prices, they didn’t seem high and I thought I could get them even lower. When we went back, the shop was full of men (not the woman I spoke to the day before) and the prices nearly tripled. It was fun to see the back room full of fancy marionettes and see them dance, and as much as I wanted the dancing princess, I couldn’t pay triple for one. Thankfully, another small shop had fair prices and even if they didn’t have an elaborate dancing princess, they did have a marionette horse that made up for it!

We wanted to take a train to Mumbai. It would have been faster, but all of the trains were full, so we had to take another overnight bus. We almost didn’t make it. Some of the overnight buses park in random places and our rickshaw driver had no idea where it was. After, of course, we piled into his rickshaw and had been on the road for ten minutes or so… It was also the slowest rickshaw in all of India. He stopped for directions a few times, thought he took us to the correct place, only to find no bus. When we got back into his rickshaw,

he asked: When is your bus?

we responded: 6:30

driver: Ohhh very big problem! And what time is it now?

Andrew: 6:31

driver: Ohhh very big problem!

Luckily, the bus was still there. I have no idea how we made it. And it turned out to be the nicest bus we’ve been on yet!

Day 98: a walk through Sardar Market in Jodhpur

We left Pushkar around nine in the morning, and arrived in Jodhpur around three in the afternoon. It wasn’t a terribly long journey and riding a bus through the countryside made me wish I was on motorcycle so I could stop and take pictures whenever I wanted… The land was peaceful and its occasional inhabitants would wave and shout “Hello!” when they recognized you weren’t Indian. We made a friend (Bastian, from Germany) and when our bus arrived to Jodhpur, the three of us crammed into a rickshaw and found a guesthouse within the old walls of ‘The Blue City.’

Tired, but not wanting to give into the temptations of a nap so late in the afternoon, Andrew and I went for a walk around Sardar Market in Jodhpur. We walked through it to get to our guesthouse, and while it was not as intense as the markets of Jaipur, it was still full of bangles and saris and fruit stand upon fruit stand. I’m always a fan of walking through a market, but I have to admit, I was looking forward to going to sleep early, and so we didn’t stay out too terribly long. We tried to track down some internet to catch up on emails and blog posts, but it proved to be impossible, so I drowned my internet woes in a chocolate milkshake and fell asleep soon after.

Day 80: 26 hours of travel to Varanasi

We were going to fly from Kathmandu to Delhi. But that meant a 6-9 hour bus from Pokhara to Kathmandu, and then a pricey flight from Kathmandu to Delhi, so we decided to take an 8 hour bus from Pokhara to the Indian border, take a 3 hour bus from to border to Gorakpur, and then take a 7 hour train from Gorakpur to Varanasi. Basically a little less than double the travel time for about a fifth of the cost? 

This made complete sense, until our first bus broke down on the side of the Nepalese mountain road we were on. Forty (I think possibly more) passengers climbed off the bus and sat on the side of the road and watched the driver assess the situation. Some passengers offered to help, pouring water on the steaming brake plate, or maybe it was the axel itself? Whatever it was, it was hot, and everyone was surrounding it, trying to help, or taking close-up shots (I have no idea why) of the conundrum. After about an hour, some got ansty and started jumping into passing buses, many of us needing to cross the border before it closed. We followed suit and ended up on another crowded bus. Women and children were kicked out of their seats for us, which made me feel terrible until I saw that they (along with the majority of the packed bus) got off at the next village stop less than ten minutes later.

We arrived at the border and saw everyone (except the two Koreans) who were on our original bus. We chatted and made our way through the Nepalese immigration and sighed with relief when they didn't demand we pay the $30.00 extension for being one day late on our visa. We bumped into everyone again on the Indian side at immigration, and then Andrew and I headed for the government bus to Gorakpur where we had tickets for the overnight train to Varanasi.

And then we see the Koreans. Their hired jeep broke down and they were waiting on the side of the road for the government bus we were on to catch the same train. We smiled, waved, but then lost them once we got into Gorakpur. Once we arrived at the train station, we were worn out and hungry, and not necessarily prepared for all of the looky-loos in the station. After living in Korea for five years, I'm a little familiar with sticking out… Sometimes being the only Caucasian on a train platform, train, or even in a whole part of Seoul. But living in Korea for five years had NOTHING on how many stares we received walking onto the Gorakpur platform. Unabashedly, people would just watch. our every. move. At one point, a man stood in between us facing the platform, and the platform itself and just stood two feet away, looking down on us, for about ten minutes. I have to admit, I was more amused by it than uncomfortable. I always am amused though, when I get attention for the color of my skin, size of my face, and shape of my eyes. Growing up in a 99% white community does not prepare you for these conversations, nor experiences of being the minority. It's interesting, and gives me a completely different perspective on life in a homogeonous society- be it Korea, or where I'm from in Kentucky.

Our Korean friends, and two others from our original bus showed up on our same train platform, and we all waited (miserably) through the hour delay before the train arrived and we crawled into our appropriate bunks for a cold, mosquito filled First Class (that did not feel like it) overnight to Varanasi.

Day 56: 8 Kilograms of Laundry

We crossed the border from Laos into Thailand by 9:00. We were on the bus to Chiang Mai by 10:30. By 5:00, we were checked into one of the nicest guest-houses (with a pretty pool too!) we've found on our trip so far. And then we set out to drop off some laundry, and by some, I really mean practically every article of clothing we have with us before dinner. And then once again, as we are still a bit sick, we crashed early. You have no idea how lovely a clean (sans deer head with moveable wooden ears) room, bathroom without holes in the wall in lieu of drains, and not having to wake up early feels. Ok, maybe you do, but just to reiterate, it feels great. Except, you know, the colds we're both battling. 

Day 33: Kampot to Battambang

Another day spent on a bus. It could have been worse, but the rain – the downpour – didn't make our 2 hour stopover in Phnom Penh any fun. We got into Battambang late in the evening and we were immediately greeted by a swarm of tuk tuk drivers. Exhausted, we settled on a hotel that could have easily doubled as a mental asylum with its empty white tiled walls, florescent lighting, and creepsters lurking in the hallways.

Day 30: 20 passengers in an 8 seater to Kampot

We had planned to go to Sihanoukville directly after our stay in Takeo. Four years ago, I missed out on this beach town and I was envious of travelers who I had met who gushed over how calm and pretty it was. I really wanted to go this time around to check it out. We actually spent the whole week debating how we were going to get there. We could take the bus back to Phnom Penh and then take another bus to Sihanoukville: $8.00 each for about a six hour day of transport. OR we could take a shared taxi directly from Takeo to Sihanoukville: $20.00 each for about a three hour day of transport. We went back and forth. Takeo was so cheap for us to stay the week, but $12.00 could pay for a night in an air-conditioned room in Cambodia!

“Why not go to Kampot instead?” Some new travelers to NFO suggested.They agreed with what everyone had said, Sihanoukville is no longer the calm, untouched town it was when I was in Cambodia last. So, we changed our minds and decided to go to Kampot via a shared mini-bus for $5.00. We laughed when we squeezed in among 18 other passengers in the shared mini-bus. Luckily, not all passengers were traveling the full hour to Kampot, and by the time we arrived in town, there were only 8 of us sitting comfortably in the mini-bus.

We were told it would be easy to walk from the drop off point to find different guesthouses in town or along the river. We weren’t told that the mini-bus might drop us off at a diffferent location, farther away from the round-about that was our point of reference. It was steadily raining when we arrived, we had already told the tuk-tuk drivers  (that were asking if we needed a ride through the mini-bus window  before we even came to a complete stop) that “NO! We don’t need a ride!” but after walking for 5 minutes in the rain, we really had no clue where we were going. I knew we weren’t going far, so I hollered after Andrew that I was getting into a tuk-tuk. We climbed in, I thought we were going to one guest-house, Andrew gave directions to another, and then the tuk-tuk driver totally ripped us off . (Btw, Cambodia operates on dollars and riels- so it’s always a bit tricky when you go to pay in a different currency than what was stated, and you almost always get change in both currencies. I know, it’s weird.) $3.00 for a tuk-tuk ride that should have been $1.00!?! And I know, it’s only $2.00, right? But in Cambodia, it’s different, and when I know I’m getting ripped off, these huge red flags go up and I get defensive.

So, we’re standing outside the tuk-tuk, Andrew is trying to get the driver down to $2.00, I’m asking the girl who came out of the guest-house how much it would be for one night, listening to Andrew get ripped off, and the girl says it’s a whole $8.00, I freak out. In my head, all I could think about was how Ernesto told us a room (at the guesthouse I thought we were going to) would be $5.00 and all I could think about was “Great. This woman is watching us get ripped off by the tuk-tuk driver, and thinks she can rip us off too… No. No. No, I’m not staying here for $8.00. I told her we could stay elsewhere for $5.00, but she didn’t budge. I stood under my umbrella indignant as all hell and she came down to $7.00, but no more. And then I made us walk across town, in the rain, to stay at the $5.00 a room guesthouse because I’m too stubborn for my own good. I could barely walk because my flip-flops were soaked and slippery, my Nalgene bottle smacking my legs hanging down from a zipper because my (horrible Osprey) backpack doesn’t have adequate water-bottle pockets, my tri-pod mount fell off my camera that was dangling from my arm – because I couldn’t fit it into my (horrible Osprey) backpack, so I practically fell over trying to pick it up out of a puddle, all while Andrew walked at least 30 steps ahead of me because a. his legs are twice as long as mine and b. he gets over-eager about finding places and doesn’t always remember to wait for my 12” shorter self to keep pace with him.

We got there, and the $5.00 a night room had a broken ceiling fan, so we decided to move to the $6.00 a night room with a working fan. So, in sum, I made us walk across town, in the rain, miserable, to save a whole $0.50 each. I am (not at all) awesome. Worse, we had lunch at the guesthouse restaurant and it was ridiculously over-priced, and not very good, especially compared to the amazing meal we had for dinner elsewhere. I pouted about our lack of solid communication, the tuk-tuk driver ripping us off, and my own stubbornness. We agreed to make sure we are on the same page about where we’re staying in the future, and I took a much needed nap. A short sleep, and a respite from the rain made me feel loads better.  We walked to  Rikitikitavi, a restaurant Matt recommended to us that proved to be amazing (and cheaper than the food at our guesthouse, I might add).

Day 23: Cambodia Post thinks outside the box

The rain stopped me from a walk to the post office the day before. I also needed a break from dragon shipping disappointment. Had I known I would LOVE the Cambodia Post so much, I would not have worried so much! We arrived, and after they eyed my box, informed me that it was too large, and they would re-pack its contents into a Cambodia Post box. All items had to be shipped in a Cambodia Post box. I sighed, opened my box, pulled out the dragon and let them see for themselves what I was dealing with. They tried – unsuccessfully – to put it into their regulation Cambodia Post box. And then, magically, they handed it back to me and said to put my dragon back in my box. They would cover my box with Cambodia Post boxes! I could have kissed them. All of them.

They got to work covering my box with another layer of Cambodian cardboard, and asked me where I got the dragon. We explained what happened, and they smiled when I repeatedly thanked them for their help. Shipping cost a little more than what the dragon cost in the first place, it has enough cardboard around it to hopefully survive the slow boat home, and should arrive in about 2-3 months. Yay!

me: Ohmigod, it’s like the weight of a dragon has been lifted off my shoulders!

Andrew: More like the bulk of one…

After the post office, we walked through the Central Market, got bus tickets to Takeo, lunch, and then waited for what felt like forever at the very crowded and busy station for our bus.

A fairly painless two hours later, we arrived in Takeo and were immediately bombarded by tuk-tuk drivers. Per our tuk-tuk rule, we never agree to a ride when someone hounds us. Usually we stroll around until we find one lounging in his ride and we ask him for a lift. Also, we thought it might be possible to walk to the Volunteer Center. Not only did the tuk-tuk drivers get on the bus before we got off, they asked us a couple of times while we got our backpacks, and then drove their tuk-tuks up to us four meters away from the bus to ask again. As Andrew laughed about later, I do admit, I kinda lost it.

me: Why you ask 5 times if we want tuk-tuk?

tuk-tuk driver: I want to know if you need tuk-tuk.

me: ONE time, you ask if I need tuk-tuk. I said NO. TWO times, you ask if I need tuk-tuk. I said NO. THREE times, you ask if I need tuk-tuk. I said NO. FOUR times you ask if I need tuk-tuk. And I SAID NO! NOW FIVE TIMES?!? FIVE TIMES YOU ASK IF I NEED TUK-TUK!?!? NOOO!!! (and maybe, ok, I did, pretend to physically pull my hair out of my head at this point)

The tuk-tuk driver laughs. I turn around to more laughter and it’s another tuk-tuk driver and I point to him and say “YOU TOO! NO TUK TUK!” and he laughs too, and they leave us alone.

And then we got lost walking.

But then the only foreign tuk-tuk driver passes us by, turns around and asks where we’re going. He’s from New Futures (where we were headed), and gives us a ride to what turned out to be a couple of kilometers to the center. Even if Jake hadn’t pulled up, you know I would have stubbornly walked 2 kilometers with the 50 pounds of backpack weight on my back instead of tracking them down for a ride.

Day 9: “Just call me Little Miss Poopy Sore Calves.”

I woke up, and as I limped around the home-stay house, I confirmed that breaking in a pair of barefoot running shoes (that I thought would also make great wet trekking shoes) was the worst idea ever. I scraped the last of my Tiger Balm out of the jar and gently massaged it into my calves while we waited for breakfast. Our itinerary said we’d enjoy breakfast with our host family “after sunrise” and I thanked the Sapa stars their definition of sunrise ended at 9:30 AM. We were served, but didn’t eat with our host family (the family we still weren’t exactly certain who they were) and then we took off through terraces, bamboo forests, Giang Ta Chai village, a waterfall, and a suspension bridge.

This day of trekking was my favorite. I still wasn’t feeling so hot, but the trekking through terraces and jumping over streams, and sitting with my feet in the water (Genius idea, Tony and Raquel!) felt the most like what I had enjoyed four years ago.

It was a little muddy, a little exhausting, and reminded me of being ten and going out exploring in the woods behind my childhood home.

After lunch, we were picked up by a bus pumping some electronic dance beats and headed back to Sapa’s city center for showers, and last minute minority tribe wears. This got me in trouble. I saw a bag our first day in Cat Cat, but was feeling too badly to bargain it down to a reasonable price. I didn’t even stop to ask how much it was, just looked long enough to know it was just different enough from all of the other bags that I liked it a lot. Because I didn’t get it our first day, I was on a mission to find one similar on our last day.

This didn’t happen. My next (not so) brilliant idea was to get another style (with the embroidery and colors I wanted) and take it to a tailor in Hoi An and have them turn it into the style of bag I wanted. Perfect? Right? Until I worried that maybe I didn’t have enough material for the style of bag I liked, and continued with (not so) brilliant ideas to buy a pillowcase (with the embroidery and colors I wanted) and even a belt (with the embroidery and colors I wanted) to ensure that I would have enough fabric for a bag. I spent $12.00 on this mess and later found a different bag entirely (of better quality for $15.00) I simply HAD to have in Hanoi. GAH!

Lesson #5 learned from traveling around the world: Seriously. Don’t buy it unless it’s exactly what you want. Seriously. You’ll find another bag you love soon, I promise.

After I spent too much on things I wasn’t going to want in the end, we got some Tiger Balm, showers, dinner, and hopped on the shuttle bus to catch our overnight bus back to Hanoi. Our bus driver hit a motorcyclist. We waited on the bus uneasily as we watched the poor driver try to call for help while not moving in the middle of the road, our driver busy picking up pieces of the bus that broke off upon contact. Fifteen minutes or so later, the motorcyclist got up (or more accurately, he was pulled to his feet by our bus driver) everyone cleared out of the intersection, we waited a bit longer, and then we were on the road again. On average, something like 30 people die daily in traffic related accidents in Vietnam. Not halfway through our trip here, it’s easy to see why.

As if that wasn’t enough fun for one bus ride, I started feeling poorly again. Mostly, I think due to the anxiety of being on a bus with a crazy driver and 11 more hours to go. I was relieved when we pulled into a rest stop, hoping a trip to the bathroom would help. It didn’t. The “bathroom” consisted of a concrete wall separating the men from the women. A trough sat a little deeper closer to the wall, behind a row of bricks that were lined up for women to stand on as they (we) squat down to take care of business. side by side.

Modesty is simply something you have to forget about in situations such as these. At least I wasn’t wearing a romper (without a bra) so I wasn’t completely vulnerable. (When attempting to poop in public, it’s better not to be naked.) I gritted my teeth, nodded to the Vietnamese woman next to me, and marched up to the bricks and squatted. Like a boss. Only not really, because of the two numbers that I needed to take care of to make my stomach feel better, I simply couldn’t attend to both with an audience. I climbed back on the bus and immediately into a fetal position for the remaining six or so hours before again, sprinting to a bathroom while Andrew checked us into a room in Hanoi.