Gotas de Lluvia A-Fallin’ on My Head…

So Chiloe Island is about 650 miles south of Santiago – jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean.  In addition to being the termination point of the Pan-American highway (which starts in Fairbanks, Alaska), it is best known for misty mornings, hiking, kayaking, and mountains of shellfish at every meal.  Like if Maine was in Chile.
One should have perhaps thought more about the idea going to one of the rainiest places in the country, during one of the coldest and rainy times of the year.  Like if Maine was in Chile and it was early March.  It was damp – to say the least.  The seaside tourist market was partially boarded up – and many of the remaining stores had stowed the regional handmade knitware in favor of being Americanos (which is what stores selling used clothes are called down here). 

Despite the constant state of mainly-rain, there were one or two days of mostly-sun, so I was able to sneak in a day of hiking in the national park.  It was still early in the season so the trails at points were not that clearly marked (and to be honest I am not sure they ever get that clearly marked).  My fellow hiker and I got a bit lost and ended up walking up into a modern version of the fairy tales that Chiloe is famous for (though their fairy tales see to include a greater incidence of vicious sexual appetites and cannibalism than I remember from your standard Brothers Grimm).  We spotted two adorable little lambs, one black and one white. 

(My traveling companion was Welsh and taking pictures of sheep is apparently a bit of the national pastime – when one is not mining coal or playing rugby.)  We followed them down the path, trying to get a good picture, until we came upon a little wooden farmhouse on a hill.  Out from the farmhouse popped a pair of forest gnomes (okay, maybe not actually gnomes but they were certainly wee).  They led us into a low ceilinged wooden hut, where they imprisoned us until we bought handicrafts.  No joke.  I escaped with my life only by paying $2 for a splinter-throwing hand-carved wooden spoon. 

The best experience of the time in Chiloe though was the sunrise kayaking trip.  In the Chepu section of the park, a husband and wife team have set up a little eco-tourism lodge, with the main attraction of kayaking through the sunken forest at dawn.  (I know, but this fairy tale is slightly more grounded in science.  In 1960 a massive earthquake rocked Chiloe Island.  It caused this section of the coastal forest to suddenly drop six feet.  This proved to be an unfortunately development for the resident tree population as the forest floor was now below sea level.  The ocean rushed in and the trees died.  Now the sunken rotting stumps sticking out of the tidal plane is all that remain. In the misty dawn, this is a really eerie place to paddle around.)   It poured most of the time, but was still worth it.

But while the outdoor activities were a bit of a washout, the bivalves were stupendous.  The town of Castro is known for its pulmay – which is basically a huge pile of mussels, clams, giant mussels, giant clams, all served with (an easily removed) sausage and potato.  The giant mussels were the biggest that I have ever seen.  (Some of these guys had beards that would make the most harden Taliban commander envious.)  This plate was work.  I came in hungry, spent three hours, had three glasses of wine, read a book, picked up a fellow traveler, and I *still* had trouble finishing.

Having completed my twin missions of mollusks and outdooring, I headed north to Puerto Varas.  As far as I could gather from the Lonely Planet, Puerto Varas was a beautiful Alps-like town, nestled at the base of snow covered volcanoes.  Maybe.  I saw a lake and more rain.  Not to be thwarted, I hopped on the local bus and headed out 45 miles to the *really* scenic town.  My cloud friend accompanied me.  I stopped to see the majestic waterfall against the backdrop of the volcano.  I saw the waterfall and Cloud.  I waited 45 minutes trying (unsuccessfully) to hitchhike to the lake town.  Cloud kept me company – patting me lovingly on the head with his raindrops just to let me know he hadn’t forgotten about me.  I finally got to the lake, where I saw lake and Cloud.  I hiked up to the first view point on the volcano trail – where the soggy tourist map promised me an incredible panorama including the lake and three snow capped volcanoes.  I saw Cloud.  I told him to suck it.  This apparently pissed him off because he kicked it up a notch from steady rain shower to outright pouring.  I stubbornly continued to hike up until the trail became a free flowing creek. 
(The trail was not super well marked.  There are nice painted arrows on the bottom, which peter out to arrow-shaped piles of rocks after a mile or so, which further diminish to piles of rocks after another two miles, which fade out completely after that.  Going up was fairly easy – I just took the branch of the trail that seemed most against gravity – with the intention of following my boot tracks in the mud down.  The creek was a major impediment to the successful implementation of this strategy.)  So I gave up.  And stomped down the mountain, soaked to the bone, slipping in the mud the whole way.  Screw you Cloud.  I will have the last laugh.  I can go to places where you aren’t welcome.  I can go to places where it hasn’t rained in *years.*  Oh yes Cloud.  It’s on.

Then the next day I headed back to Santiago for a day of museums on my way back to DC.  I saw a couple of art exhibits and the pre-Columbian museum (it seems pre-Columbian society was really into psychedelic mushrooms and pottery).  And mercifully in Santiago – it was cold and clear.  I was enjoying my first dry day in a good long while.  Then, I shit you not, I almost got fire-hosed.  I was walking around Santiago and came across a couple of guys, in period costume, trying to get a 1864 steam powered fire truck to work.  They had stuck the intake hose into a fountain, had a pile of burning coals on the sidewalk, and were just wailing on this baby will all sorts of wrenches and business.  There was a crowd laughing and taking pictures.  (This is literally in the Chilean equivalent of Herald Square.)  Suddenly the contraption lets out a piercing whistle and the pistons start pumping madly.  The period fire fighters rejoice!  Except for the poor bastard that’s holding the fire hose.  The water steam swings madly across an intersection, broadsides a bus, then arches up and directly for the crowd.  This is the last picture I took before he started taking out bystanders and I was up over the barrier (admittedly into the middle of the street but fortunately there was traffic).   My hair had just dried and I was facing a 14 hour flight.  I’ll take my chances with an oncoming taxi. 

Then, after maxing my allotment of duty free Chilean wine, it was back to DC.  Just in time to meet the remnants of tropic storm Lee. 

Rapa Nui

Rapa Nui is what the locals call what the Chileans call Isla de Pascua which is what we call Easter Island.  The place is in the middle of no where (a phrase which at this point in my life I do not use lightly).  It is about equidistant from Tahiti and the Chilean mainland - but more than a 5 hour flight to either.   The island itself is about the size of Manhattan south of Canal Street (though admittedly the infrasructure is somewhat less developed).  Rapa Nui is also famous for being the place where humans learned a very valuable lesson about resource conservation.  Once the island was about 60% covered in trees.  The different family groups lived in different parts of the island in relative harmony (or as much harmony as a people that practice sporadic cannibalism can really expect), and built these large stone totems to ask their ancestors for fortune.

But in order to transport these increasingly larger stone statues, the islanders cut down more trees.  This, in addition to thedaily use of trees for fishing and cooking, led the island to run out of trees.  At which time, all hell broke loose,  massive tribal wars started, the stone totems were pulled down either by enemy tribes or by regular people no longer buying what the elites were selling, more than 80% of the island either died or paddled away into certain doom in the blue.  (Least you think that we whiteys are finally off the hook on this this one,don´t worry, we kidnapped,enslaved and basically killed off all that remained.)

Moral of the story: if you live on an isolated outpost in the middle of no where, it is best to be a bit careful with your resources, as it is a long paddle to Mars.

Fast forward a few hundred years (that´s right - this took place only a few hundred years ago), I arrive!  After the blustery cold of Santiago, I am in paradise.  This place is only nominally in South America, in reality it is all     South Pacific.  I spend the day tooling around in a taxi, exploring agricultural sites, taking pictures of statues, climbing around in caves, watching huge waves crash out of the torquise sea onto volcanic rock coastline, trying to teach my taxi driver English - amazingly the man could spend the day serenading me, in English, with Marc Anthony songs but I had to teach him the word for tree (or perhaps not that surprising).  That night he suggested that I check out a traditional dance show.

I am expected some tame hula nonsense with pretty girls in grass skirts and maybe a little ukelele action.  And, indeed, all of those things featured in the show.  What I hadn´t really counted on was the band having a full drum kit and electric bass, and the feathered cod pieces.  Oh yes, that´s right.  The show opens with two almost completely naked men painting themselves with mud war paint.  They are soon joined by a bunch more similarly attired warriors, all of which were either chosen for their ahem... stage presence... or else I believe I just received a profound sociological insight into why the average Rapa Nui woman had15 children.  Much of the show was war dances (think the Haka performed by the New Zealand rugby players) and what I assume were some sort of fertility dances).

At once point during the performence, the warrior leader leaps off the stage, lands in front of me, grabs my neck, and raises his club screaming.  I assume that this would have been both terrifying and the end of my story had I been an 18th century rival tribesman, but instead I just got a giggle spasm because my nose ended up two inches from his feathered stage presence. All and all, this might have been the most entertaining $20 I have spent in a long long time.

I spent the rest of the time in Rapa Nui hanging out, drinking Mahina, and eating ceviche and tuna empanadas.   Exploring more sites, taking more pictures of statues, buying souvenir crap.  It was sad to move on back to the mainland.  My taxi driver came by to give me a hug and traditional shell necklace (a gesture that really touched me until I saw that literally every single tourist on check in line was wearing one), and back to the icy mainland I went.

 I got off the plane at 9 pm, walked upstairs to the ticket sales, asked what they had leaving that night, they looked at me blankly, found someone that spoke English, I repeated my question somewhat less dramatically, and got a ticket south to Puerto Montt.  Where I arrived at 1 am, in the freezing cold, with no hotel reservation and not speaking Spanish.  At one point in my life this situation would have freaked me out but really now was no more than an inconvenience, and this self-satisfaction kept me warm until an enterprising taxi driver interested in a nice tip drove me to an English speaking hostel.

Letting My Pinko Flag Fly.

So in setting a new personal best for a weekly total in frequent flyer miles, over the course of a week I flew from Dar es Salaam to Zurich to Washington DC to San Francisco (congrats Mike & Sara!) to Washington DC to Santiago de Chile.  For those keeping score at home, and if you let me count the six hours that I spent raiding the complementary gummy bear and Toblerone bar in the Zurich airport lounge (which I actually had to get stamped into Switzerland to go to), that is four continents in seven days.

Don’t ever do that.

Two things are immediately noticeable when you arrive in Santiago.  One, it is winter here.  Complete with snow capped mountains and the occasional flurries.  Two, the country seems to be in the middle of a major social uprising.  Complete with water cannons and tear gas.  More on that in a couple paragraphs.

So other than being located in a giant crater that is ideally designed to collect smog, Santiago is in the perfect location.  Drive one hour up – snow and skiing.  Drive two hours down – sea lions and surfing.  And what did the master planners stick in the middle?  Vineyards.  Seriously.  Does it get better than that?  Oh yes, in fact.

Besides the awesome nearby amenities, the food here is also epic.  As it was explained to me by my host, “Chilean food didn’t used to be anything interesting.  Then everyone had to leave because of the dictatorship, and when they came back, they brought their food with them.”  Now it is basically a 'best of' hit list, with the freshest ingredients.  Plus there is all sorts of crazy aquatic shit that lives in the Antarctic current.  We went to a fish market for lunch one day – cheese baked clams, sea urchin in tomato sauce, and eels stew.  Washed down with a perfect crisp white wine.  All delicious.  

What could possible spoil the tender budding romance between Kristen and Senor Santiago?  Well, riots.  Hundreds of thousands of people marched for education reform (the conditions sound pretty dire) over the last two days.  Basically it was peaceful, but it turned really nasty in pockets (particularly around the hotel where I am staying).  200 people were injured, 1400 arrested and a 16 year old boy was shot and killed.  Protesters threw stones and bottles, police had tear gas and water cannons (and allegedly live ammunition as well).

Note – as I promised my mother – I stayed away from the protests to as much as extent as possible.  There was one occasion when, just as I was thinking that was an unusually large group waiting on this particular street corner, the light changed and everyone raised their fists and started singing.  I thought about pulling out my World Bank badge and lecturing them on the glories of free market capitalism, but I just crossed the street instead.  I would have gotten my high-heeled, business-attired, laptop-toting ass kicked.

And, speaking in a totally personal capacity and in no way reflecting the views on my omnipotent employer, good for them – they should get a better education system.  Hell – we all should.

Hot and Heavy

The first thing my sister asked me when I got back: what it as hot as Haiti down there? Definitionally yes, since Haiti must be and can only be as hot as itself, but actually no, it was quite a bit cooler in Port-au-Prince than it has been over the last few weeks in say, New York or Washington. (Hot as Haiti was my grandmother’s favorite climatic expression. There were few times in the dog days of summer when it wasn’t ‘as hot as Haiti out there.’) Her second question was if I had met Wyclef Jean – to which all I had was that Bill Clinton was staying at the same hotel I was.

But what Haiti lacked in heat it made up in heavy. Haiti is a heavy country. A year and a half ago, and estimated 200,000 people were killed in the earthquake. This is the percentage equivalent of the United States losing the entire state of Arizona, or the combined population of Chicago and Los Angeles, at one time. Nearly all those were in a tightly packed section of six communes around the capital. The hotel where I stayed was in the process of being re-built after collapsing and killing 200 staff and guests. In addition, the country has been plagued with gang violence, multiple cholera epidemics, and almost statistically impossible levels of unemployment. Driving to work on morning, what the driver calls a ‘fight’ in the street is actually one guy standing there screaming at another while pointing a gun at his head. (Not to ruin the ambiance set up by the previous paragraph, but really? What could this guy have possibly done to you to piss you off that much at 9 am? Neither of you even own cars.)

But despite all the above, it is not a miserable country. It looks a lot like West Africa, which in its own way is frightening since I like to reason that one of the causes of poverty in West Africa is its remoteness, whereas from Port-au-Prince, I can get to Miami in less than two hours on American Airlines. But like a little green sprout growing in a lava field, life finds a way. And that is what Haiti feels like – healthy skin growing back over a bad scar. And like everywhere in the world, it is not immune to me stumbling through and inadvertently offending the populace. Like the morning where I got lost on my run and ended up in the middle of a displaced persons camp. Tank top, running shorts, no wallet or cell phone, standing there soaked in sweat among the tents, slightly goggle-eyed and mumbling ‘shit shit shit’ under my breath. They were nice about it – knew where I came from – and pointed me back.

Or the day that my official World Bank vehicle got pulled over for ‘illicit window tinting.’ (In a law dating back to the bad old days when kidnapping was rife, you need official permission for window tinting. Apparently it is harder to make a clean getaway through Port-au-Prince traffic with an MP’s wife screaming in your back seat if you don’t have tinting.) In any case, the cops (mounted on ATVs) pulled us over and used nails to scrap off the aftermarket tint while the driver went thermal on the sidewalk. I know I was only making the situation worse because I couldn’t stop giggling.

Or my absolute inability to grasp the concept of the Haitian dollar. I am not sure I have the story completely straight, but this is how it was explained to me (feel free to jump in and correct me on this if I am bit fuzzy on the details) : once upon a time Haiti had a currency (called the Haitian dollar) that was pegged 1:1 to the US dollar. But, as all good little MPA/IDs know, in order to maintain your peg, you need foreign currency reserves. And when those run out – that’s it for your peg. So Haiti ran out as some point, and had to float the currency. To make this more palatable, the government issued a new currency - ‘gourdes’ – at a rate of five gourdes to the old Haiti dollar. But people still liked the Haiti dollar, and even though it doesn’t exist anymore, they still generally post prices in it. But now it is no longer pegged to the US dollar and now hovers somewhere in the ~1.6 range. I have no proof that this whole elaborate system was just set up to rip me off of cigarettes, but I feel my circumstantial case is strong.

So that’s my five paragraph overview of 11 days in Haiti. It is most definitely *not* the worst place on earth – I am looking at you Choum, Mauritania. And now, after less than 48 hours in the US, I am in Ethiopia – on the third continent of my four continents in eight weeks summer 2011 tour.

Tito and the Small Hope

After spending so much time bouncing around Africa, it is going to be tough to write an interesting blog post about five days at a resort in the Bahamas.  And I am still coming to terms with my new underwater camera so the photos aren’t even any good.  But I hope to get better with the camera, so I just consider this a baseline post. 

Last weekend I took a quick five day sanity check on Andros Island in the Bahamas.  Andros is the largest and probably least developed of the major Bahamian islands, which guaranteed a healthy separation between me and a potentially homicidal situation with cruise ship crowds.  I stayed that the Small Hope Bay Lodge – which is kind of like summer camp for big kids.  (Note to campers everywhere – it takes much less time to get to first base on a hammock if there is an open bar.)  Small Hope is the type of place my sister and brother-in-law would hate – no pool and no TV.  But my cabin was right on the beach, I went diving every day, the chef was excellent, and there was that aforementioned open bar. 

Andros is a bit in the middle of nowhere though.  It is about a 25 minute flight from Nassau in a five seat single engine prop.  I know this because that is how I got back to Nassau to get my connection back to Baltimore.  I had been supposed to take the comparatively luxurious 12 seater commercial flight, although it left at 7 am and would strand me in dangerous proximity to the cruise shippers for six hours.  But there was this guy with a plane – which I was assured by the staff - was immaculately maintained – and he could fly me over to Nassau after lunch as long as I could track down two other passengers to share the ride.  After talking a very nice Californian couple into my scheme, we headed to the airport.  And an immaculately maintained five seater plane pulls up, loads our luggage, and proceeds down the runway just far enough to hit a piece of sharp coral and puncture the nose tire.  That’s game over for us.  The pilot assured me – with my already tight connection in Nassau – that he had a buddy that had a plane and it was all going to be no worries. 

(In the mean time, the departure room had filled up with about 50 cranky Navy and Air force personnel waiting for their ride back to Florida.  The crankiness may or may not have been due to the fact that their transport plane was circling overhead – unable to land without the wash of the much bigger plane flipping our little five seater stuck on the side of the runway.  And do you think that they would agree to drop me off at Andrews?  Even though I asked nicely?  Even though there was plenty of room in their C-23?  Noooo.  Why do I even bother paying my taxes?) 

I was starting to get a bit nervous.  If I wasn’t wheels up in 15 minutes, I was definitely going to miss my flight back to the US.  Then Tito shows up.  You know Tito.  He is the guy that comes to pick you up at the train station when your boyfriend’s car won’t start.  He has a 1989 maroon Cutlass Ciera with duct tape seats on the seats.  Wire is intimately involved with holding the driver side door on.  The engine sounds like someone dumped a full bucket of loose screws and squirrels in it.  Yeah, except in my version of the story, Tito’s hoopty is a plane.  I smile apologetically at the very nice couple from California whom I had talked into this mess, and asked Tito if he could please give it a bit of gas, I had a flight to catch. 

Which I did – after admittedly having to fast talk a selection of airline and ground staff.  And the result of all my efforts?  I am back in DC and back at work.  Lesson learned: next time don’t try so hard.

Whale Sharks and My Life as a Rap Icon

So in yet another example of how my life must inevitably converge with that of a rap music superstar, let me start with a shout out to the peeps that showed me love during a dark period of my blogging career. (You will notice that there hasn’t been much in the way of posts in the last few months as I have been moving back to Washington and trying to arrange a life there – but I am on the road again – don’t call it a comeback!) To the Traveler Within and Stuff Ex Pat Aid Workers Like – who singlehandedly quadrupled my site traffic by linking to my blog story about me doing something vaguely illegal with my UN passport. So many people read SEPAWL that for a week or so I was getting daily messages – sometimes from people that found me in the company directory – that I had “made it.” And also to MV, mahbrouk! Congratulations on getting your country back and I wish you (and all the Egyptian people) the best on the rocky road to democracy.

Okay – back to my regular life. I am in Kenya this week working with the stats bureau, but decided that it was in the best case for everyone’s sanity that I duck out for the weekend with the Former Roommate (famous from last year’s Drive and Dive adventure) and Roommate’s Wife for a weekend in Diani – on the south coast below Mombasa. We left Friday after work, and despite all acting about half our ages by having rum and coke and Pringles for dinner then drinking heavily all night, we made it to the docks of East African Whale Shark Trust, at the crackin’ hour of noon and still munching over very-responsible pizza breakfast, to spend the day tracking whale sharks in the Indian Ocean.

Whale sharks are giant elusive fish that are notorious in the world diving community for having just passed through whatever locale you are at the week before. I had seen one once off the coast of southern Mozambique, but it had become a bit of an aquatic holy grail for Former Roommate. This trip was going to provide a good chance though. The boat was supported by a spotter in a light aircraft. Basically we floated around in the slowly rolling waves for long stretches of time until the spotter came on the radio shouting the location (1 kilometer off your three o’clock!) at which time everyone hit the deck as the captain gunned the engine. Once at the location, the guide spotted from the bow, then yelled for everyone to get in the water – at which time the shit circus really kicked into high gear. Grabbing snorkel gear and jumping every which way off the boat to hit the water before the whale shark dove out of sight – splashing, kicking and otherwise gorging fellow snorkelers – you landed in the water just in time to see the massive fish sail off into the blue and start kicking frantically after it. Totally worth it though. These babies are beautiful. Graceful and docile from having a brain the size of a walnut rattling around a body the length of a city bus, then sail right under you blissfully. The guide actually tagged one of them for research purposes (using a truly medieval looking spear gun) and this thing didn’t bat a flipper. We spotted seven of them over the course of the day, getting into the water with six. And, despite the last drop in being in the middle of a stinging plague of blue bottle jellyfish, an excellent time was had by all.

And eschewing the typical rap icon private plane and Cristal, we opted for Kenya Airways and mango juice for the trip back to Nairobi. And instead of a Glock, I bought two seven foot Samburu spears. Should you not hear from me again it is because TSA has sent to me one of its black op prisons.

P.S. I am, as a bonus for the ladies, attaching a partial photo of the alarmingly attractive "rescue swimmer" attached to the crew of our boat, his somewhat questionable judgement in tattoos aside.

Parental Supervision Required

So it has been awhile since the last post - which is inexcusable because I have been here in Africa - ostensibly having the adventure of a lifetime!  In reality it has been more work than anything else - bouncing between Tanzania, South Africa and Uganda, and trying frantically to dot i's and cross t's before my approaching December 15th return to the US.  Plus I had to plan a 12 day safari / Zanzibar vacation.  In contrast to my usual throw-the-backpack-on-and-wander-out, my parents require a bit more advance planning. After their first African experience in Burkina Faso in 2002, I had to deliver something with a little less "smoke and dirt" if I wanted then to ever consider coming back.

So, joined by my intrepid sidekick Adonis J, we set off for five days in Arusha, Serengeti and the Ngorongoro Crater.  It was one of my most incredible safari trips to date - and fortunately my parents got to see the big five plus some.  Mom liked the elephants, Pops dug the Cape Buffalo, Adonis J and I both like the dik-dik.

I took literally thousands of pictures over the course of our visit, but as no one has the patience of that (except for maybe Alice!), I have culled and categorized them for your viewing simplicity.

Lions

Everyone likes lions, and man-oh-man did we see lots of lions.  Sleeping lions, walking lions, copulating lions, lions in the road, lions under trees, lions in trees, lions on roads, lions in the grass...  They walked close enough to the safari car, that in many circumstance, should you have been interested in a rather unique obituary in the local paper, you could have reached out and slapped one on the ass.  There was also one particularly memorable moment where, having interrupted two lions getting busy, we got stuck in the sand while the male lion glared at us from a few feet away.  We sat there for awhile wondering how this was all going to turn out (and listening to what I assume was a steady stream of Swahili obscenities from the driver), until another car came by and was able to block the lions' view long enough for the guide to hop out, kick gravel under the tires, and hop back in.  Quickly.  In any case, here are the lion pictures:

Leopard

We only saw one leopard and it was a bit camera shy.  Though I do like the shot of the Reebok in the tree.

Cheetah
While not quite as many as the lions, we saw a bunch of these guys as well.  Including one that spent a good chunk of the morning making some zebra very uncomfortable.

 

 

Civet Cat

Rounding out the big cats on our virtual safari is the civet cat.  It is about the size of a extra large house cat and would certainly guarantee that your house didn't have any rats.  Or squirrels.  Or spaniels.  

 

Hyenas and Vultures

Much like no matter how many baseball games I go to I never catch a foul ball, no matter how many safaris I go on, I have never seen a kill.  This is as close as we came this trip, it vultures and hyenas finishing the job.

 

 

 

Elephants

We saw lots of elephants. They tend to go pretty much wherever they feel like - and particularly seem to like the ease and convenience of walking on main roads instead of tramping through the bush.  Multiple times we had to stop so the elephants could finish crossing, including once where an old male was oncoming traffic.  Again, close enough to touch.

The Herds

We were lucky enough to be in the Serengeti for the "reverse migration."  While not as impressive as the regular migration - which involves thousands of animals squeezing through narrow bottlenecks on the quest north, the reverse migration - where everyone is headed back south again - is still quite impressive.  Below are the best of all things hoofed.

 

Hippo and Rhino

One plentiful, one rare, the fat boys are getting lumped together because I didn't get much in the way of good pictures of them.

 

One Miscellaneous Agama Lizard

I like the lizards and this was the only one that held still long enough to get his picture taken.

Maasai

Sometimes, as a daughter, you just need to stand back and let your parents learn life's lessons the hard way.  The Maasai village was one of those times.  My mother developed a bit of a fetish of the exotically dressed traditional warriors native to the Serengeti.  That was quickly cured with a Maasai "village tour" which included a brief introduction to Maasai culture, then full blown hard sell buy-my-crap routine.  But after only an hour in the people zoo, my mother was cured.  And I got some great pictures, both of the Maasai villages, and my parents.

That was it for the safari portion of this vacation.  Yesterday we flew from Arusha out to Stone Town in Zanzibar, and a headed to the beach for the rest of the week.  You can look forward to nothing but sunsets and nudibranches in the next post.