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Guatemala and the Taking the Long Way Home

We  woke up to overcast skies. We went to get breakfast at a place called the Bagel Barn. It wasn't great. The bagels were very dry, and despite asking for chocolate chip, tragedy struck when I received raisin. After this, we walked briefly around Parque Central, where they have a fountain of mermaids shooting water from their breasts. That's just what mermaids do. From there, we walked up Cerro de la Cruz, a hill overlooking the city. From above, we could see that the town of Antigua is in a grid, something that made Antigua unique in its day.  The peak of the volcano was still obscured by cloud cover, and though the weather reports predicted a clearing around 11, this would never happen.

After walking back down hill, we went down by the Arco de Santa Catalina, which is like "Main Street," Antigua. On weekends, it also becomes a pedestrian-only zone. Other historic walled cities should take note. This is how it should be. The sidewalks are too small. We did a bit of shopping and I tried to get a decent shot of the arch. I guess back in the day, it acted as a pedestrian bridge to allow nuns to cross the street without being seen. Previously they had ordered the street closed so nobody would see them when they left the convent. The bridge was a compromise. Like most things in Antigua, however, it was destroyed in an earthquake, and a clock was added later on.

We explored the streets a bit more after dropping off our purchases at the hotel. We went to a place called Convento de Santa Clara. It's not a working convent, evidenced by the lack of a roof, as well as steps leading to nowhere, but that is what made it interesting. It had a large courtyard area, and we could see that people were setting up for a wedding in a chapel also missing its roof. Rain could be an issue.

We were able to climb up into the choral area above the chapel for a good view over the ruins and courtyard with the mountains in the background. After our self-guided exploration of the convent and grounds, we went to go get some lunch. We went to a place called Cafe Sky, so we could be on the roof and look out. I got a massive tortilla soup with avocado and onion. Antigua was historically known for its usage of avocados, and the variant they most often consumed was brought to California, and is said to have cultivated the entire avocado industry in California. That's big doings. No Antigua, no avocado toast.

We walked the streets a bit more before returning to our hotel to gather our belongings and catch an uber to the airport. The ride was about an hour and we discovered that the morning Delta flight must have transferred some of its paying passengers to our flight, which made our chances of getting on seem a bit dicey. We switched to Avianca, which left an hour earlier, and went through customs and security. Avianca boarded, Avianca had seats up front, but those cannot be awarded to the likes of us. Avianca left. We did not. We went over to Delta. Delta awarded us seats. We sat down. We got ready to depart. A gate agent came on board and informed us of a miscount and that there was now just one seat. I can't jumpseat on Delta internationally, so that was that. We took a walk of shame off the plane and tried to figure out a plan C.

We were starving and got some baked goods from a store and then slumped into depression. A Delta gate agent, named Isabel, found us and offered suggestions. She would become our best friend over the next several hours. She kept finding us at different places in the airport and was the conduit with the United agents in trying to figure out our best bets. They were pushing Newark. Our options were to go to Newark and change planes there to LA. This added about 7 hours of flying to our initial plans, and also included Newark which is undesirable. A stop in Houston was more direct, but would require waiting another two hours and the flight from Houston to LAX was anything but guaranteed. Lastly, we could get a hotel near the airport, attempt the morning flight on Delta direct to LA. While there are no guarantees in standby travel, Houston and a direct flight the next morning were a bit dicey. Newark to LAX had a surprising amount of seats as long as we arrived close to on time. After already spending seven hours in the airport, we willingly chose to make our day even longer. Isabel asked us to update her if we got on.

We got middle seats to Newark and did the headbob for a few hours until we landed at a timely 5:15am. Our flight to LAX was leaving at 6:00am. As we had arrived on an international flight, we had to go through customs and security. Things weren't looking great, as the "efficiency" of the Newark airport has broken the likes of even the calmest traveler. Like some kind of miracle, though, we were the last people to arrive at gate C92, were awarded business class seats, and the door closed a few minutes after we got settled. Thanks to the nice seats, we were able to at least rest, albeit sometimes fitful. Around 10am, we finally landed in LAX, a bit burned out, but home, and with a new instagram follower named Isabel.

And then Antigua

It was a rather unexpected and fateful day. You see, there seems to be an issue with either Avianca’s ticketing system and/or the website that I use to list for flights because when I want to change to a flight at a different time or go somewhere else, it keeps giving me an error when I try and cancel my previous listing. It came up when we took an earlier flight to Cartagena. I told the ticket agent that there were probably two that were showing up in the system, and to cancel the later one if it was possible. (She wasn’t able to do it either, but that’s beside the point). I had created two listings for today. We had to fly from Cartagena to Bogotà regardless, but the next leg was a bit different. One went from Bogotà to Los Angeles direct on Avianca. The other went to Guatemala City, a holdover from when we thought we would be spending the night in Bogotà and the direct flights for tomorrow didn’t look good. From my research, I discovered that there were seats to Guatemala City and then a direct from there on Delta to LAX. You follow all that?

  To get to the point, I had two listings to two very different places. In my research I discovered a small colonial town called Antigua, a UNESCO heritage site, an hour or so drive outside Guatemala city. It looked very nice in the pictures, so I was a bit intrigued. On the flip side, we had been on the road for the last two weeks dealing with holiday stress and a suitcase that had both winter garments and bathings suits. There was a certain appeal to getting home and going back to our lives.   

  The Avianca counter in Cartagena was out of control. For some reason they have scheduled three flights to Bogotà all within the hour plus a flight to Medellin, so the line extended well beyond the ropes. Luckily our rudimentary knowledge of Spanish let us know that an Avianca employee was motioning people on the 9:11 am flight (us) to go to a separate line. From there, we were quickly called to the counter. It was at this point that I asked Nicole what she wanted to do. She was noncommittal, so it was up to me, except I didn’t say anything and the ticket agent never asked. Eventually we were handed four tickets, with only the Cartagena-Bogotà leg visible in the stack. I had my hands full with other things, so I couldn’t flip through to see where we were going next until we got to security. I looked at Nicole, “You ok with going to Guatemala?” Sure.

  After a somewhat confusing situation where we were given seats on an earlier delayed flight, which had already boarded by the time we got into the terminal. We were transferred back to our originally scheduled flight once we realized what had happened. Once in Bogotà we worked at a brisk pace to exit the domestic terminal, enter the international terminal, process through customs, go through security, and walk to our gate just prior to boarding. About three hours later, we were in Guatemala. We got an Uber to take us to Antigua. With traffic, it took about 90 minutes due to some slow trucks climbing through the hills. The town of Antigua looks substantially different than the views from the car leading up to it. We made a turn and all of a sudden went back 500 years. The streets were cobblestone and we saw our first white people, who appeared to be involved in some kind of yoga retreat. Figures. Our hotel was an old mansion built for some conquistador. It would have been quite the house. It has a large courtyard and fountain. I’m not sure if it’s the wood or what they’re cleaning with, but the place has an aroma of something that’s 500 years old.  

  After settling in, we walked around briefly. The clouds had moved in, obscuring the usually photogenic volcano and dulling some of the colors of the buildings, so I didn’t take any pictures. Uncharacteristically, we were able to get an ornament for our tree at the first shop we entered. It is a grouping of “worry” dolls stitched on a wreath. The worry dolls were/are a tradition for Guatemalan kids, who place them under their pillows and by morning, their worries have gone away. Perhaps they should make worry dolls for adults too. We walked a bit more and got dinner at a place called Angie Angie. They also had a large courtyard, where they had strung lights and started a fire. It was a very nice atmosphere. Worth noting is that we were wearing jackets because despite how one might picture Guatemala, we are currently more than 5000 feet above sea level and the temperature dropped quite rapidly after the sun went down. After dinner, we returned to our hotel to sit in the courtyard and relax after a long day of unexpected travels. Tomorrow we hope the sun shines down once again on Antigua so we may see it in its glory.

Cartagena Take Two

Things were a little bit calmer this morning, though the heat was already quite intense. We walked outside the city walls for the first time to an area of town called Getsemani. We were already having a few issues with people stopping abruptly on the narrow sidewalks. We knew very well, however, that things could be much worse. We walked toward the Castillo de San Felipe, but as we crossed a bridge to get there, I was a bit concerned about the heat and being completely exposed without shade for an extended period of time, so I snapped a picture from a distance and we turned around. We took a different route back to the old town, passing some graffiti as we walked by. We did a little bit of shopping, but didn’t end up buying anything. Stores essentially had the same stuff from one place to the next, but not the key items we needed like . . .a pin for Nicole’s camera bag, or an ornament for our tree. Even good magnets were hard to come by. If you wanted a Panama hat, however, you need not look far.   

 We had lunch across the street from our hotel at a pizza place. We had hoped to snag one of the seats in the plaza, but an older man who looked like Dr. Hammond from Jurassic Park stole the last one. Some nerve. We ended up being the first to be sat indoors, but there was a balcony upstairs which worked out nicely because it eliminated the hawkers trying to sell us cigarettes and panama hats. After our pizzas, we regrouped at the hotel to formulate our next plan. We still needed to get aforementioned pins and ornaments and such, so I did a bit of research. We ended up going to a stretch of stalls at the Mercado de las Bovedas, which was an old military storehouse. It’s now about 20 “different” shops selling mostly the same stuff. We ended up getting a keychain of one of the colorfully-dressed fruit vendors which I will convert to an ornament.  I also ended up getting a Colombian national team soccer jersey because the price was right. It ended up being about $10, so I didn’t feel right trying to get a lower price any lower than that. Later on we found a flag pin for Nicole, but it really took some hunting.    

 I had made a dinner reservation for 630pm (when most restaurants just start opening for the night). I thought perhaps a reservation was needed since outdoor space is often limited, but it turns out it was most definitely not required. We were the first people there, and watched them physically open the restaurant and put out the signs and menus. I had picked this place because I wanted to try a local dish called Posta Negra Cartogena. It’s basically steak cooked in a sauce made out of Worcestershire sauce and Coca Cola amongst other things, so it’s a kind of tangy/sweet flavor served with plantains, and coconut rice. Unfortunately, the restaurant I had reserved told us that they were out. It had been a frustrating evening of running into people and nearly getting hit by cars, so we were in a bad place when we heard this news. I basically said there’s no point in even staying, so we up and left. We hunted around briefly. Another restaurant I remembered from my research ended up having a guard posted outside, blocking the entry. I took this to be not a great sign, and we continued elsewhere. As we neared our hotel, we passed the restaurant next to the place where we ate pizza for lunch. They had one seat outside, though it was an unusual setup. Because a group of twenty girls had showed up and wanted to eat at ONE table like the Last Supper, our table ended up being off by itself as if we were eating at a completely different restaurant, or had perhaps brought our own table.   

 To make matters worse for Nicole, she was alerted that due to previously mentioned group of twenty girls (who had all decided to order pizza, even though there was a pizza place next door), the wait for Nicole’s margherita pizza would take at least 45 minutes at best. The waitress suggested various salads and fish dishes, but I think she could sense the fear in Nicole’s eyes. She then brought Nicole with her to order a pizza from the neighboring restaurant. As it turned out, I got my posta negra a while after Nicole received her pizza, but it was a delightful dish that was topped off with some kind of banana dessert. It was perhaps the closest thing we will have to any authentic in Cartagena.

    We went back to our hotel and sat on the rooftop, away from the chaos all around us as car horns and salsa music from different bars wafted into our ears to create a kind of dissonance that pretty accurately sums up lively and wild Cartagena.   

Feliz año nuevo!

After a Christmas in New Jersey and a followup visit to Houston for the holidays, we elected to continue our adventures down to Colombia. From Houston, it’s a short five-ish hour flight to Bogotà. Unfortunately for us, there was a two hour delay on our New Year’s Eve flight due to some sort of runway restrictions down at El Dorado Airport. This would mean that we would arrive in 2020 as opposed to having a little buffer back in 2019 to get through customs and to our hotel for a chance to get some much needed rest. As it turned out, we touched down with about five minutes to spare and were pulling up to the gate when the flight attendants announced that it was now 2020. We were fortunate to have gotten business class seats, so we were off the plane in short order. As we walked the long length of the terminal toward customs, we saw fireworks erupting all along the horizon. A group of about twenty rampers were watching it as well and eventually turned and looked at me and waved. Welcome to 2020.  

 We breezed through customs and took an Uber down the empty roads to our hotel near the old town, about twenty minutes away. Some shady looking characters immediately ran up to the car when we got out hoping for some change, but Nicole and I are millennials and didn’t have any actual cash to give anyway. To heighten the tension, our hotel door was locked and nobody was there to let us in. After a minute, a security guard at the adjoining building was able to get a hold of the hotel to let us in. For having touched down around midnight, it was now about 1am, which wasn’t too shabby. We settled in for the night. 

We were awoken the following morning by heat consuming us. You see, while it was really only about 50 degrees outside, the altitude and the shade’s absorption of heat made it feel like 80 in the room. We had an early start to the day, just to get out. In spite of our phones telling us it was only 58, we didn’t need our jackets while walking outside. We explored a neighborhood known as La Candelaria. The streets were nearly deserted. We eventually reached Plaza Bolívar, where we encountered more people, but they were far outnumbered by pigeons. Virtually nothing was open at this hour, so there wasn’t a whole lot to see. We then caught an Uber to take us up the hill to where we thought we would catch a cable car or funicular to the top of Monserrate Hill. Apparently a lot of other people had the same idea, and it looked like a line for a ride at Disneyland so we simply walked down the hill back toward our hotel. Since we had pretty much exhausted our to-do list for Bogotà, we decided to take an earlier flight to Cartagena. A little while later, we found ourselves back at the airport, but this time in the domestic terminal.   

 Though we were able to depart earlier, it only saved us maybe 40 minutes in the end, as it was a very long taxi for departure. We will take what we can get. Our hotel in Cartagena is also in the old walled area of the city. It was very quickly apparent that this is very different than Bogotà. It is quite busy and there are a lot of tourists. After checking in, we walked around to explore. It was a bit overwhelming. It has similarities to Casco Viejo in Panama City, but it’s not as . . .nice. It’s perhaps a little too wild for our tastes, and very difficult to walk. Gaggles of tourists stop abruptly as they try to figure out where they’re going or pausing for a dramatic selfie. We would have to jump off the narrow sidewalks into the street to avoid them only to be almost run over by a taxi or horse-drawn carriage, which are surprisingly frequent. I didn’t even want to stop for pictures because everyone behind me would surely run me over.  

 It’s like a cross between Panama City, Ubud in Bali, and New Orleans — it’s a nice looking neighborhood with the colonial architecture, but it caters to a clientele and inauthenticity that is a bit of a turnoff. We had dinner at a place called, “Beer Lovers.” This was a nice chance to escape the crowds on the street and enjoy some local brews. Nicole had a red ale and I had a coffee stout, not standard Caribbean beers, or tropical beers, but delicioso nonetheless. We also got a couple beers and some snacks to go because they were so yummy and we were now just seeking ways to avoid the crowded streets. We figured we would enjoy the beers on the roof of our hotel. Perhaps I am being unfairly negative toward the poor walled city of Cartagena, but when you’re spoiled like we are, you have a lot to compare it to. It does appear that everyone else is enjoying themselves, so take that as you will. Tomorrow is a new day, and maybe things will be different when it’s not a holiday. Fingers crossed.

Out of Africa

Africa is one of those places that conjures up many images in one’s mind, and for the average American, most of the images are probably bad ones. If we just pause for one second to think about what we ingest from the news about Africa, it entails political unrest, famine, and AIDS. And if you don’t follow any news, the only time the average American cares about Africa, is when it directly affects them. Remember about three years ago when it turned out that two or three people flew to the U.S., but were diagnosed with ebola? The mighty brave and tough United States just about descended into chaos. When Nicole and I flew to New Jersey a couple weeks later, people were flabbergasted how we could even bring ourselves to board an airplane. It was a missed opportunity to use ebola as an excuse to get out of a trip to New Jersey. Anyway, I will not for a minute attempt to argue that I’m so much more “woke” about Africa, or somehow better, just because I spent a couple weeks there, but I will try to dispel some myths and share a few  observations I made during my very brief time there.  

 First, Africa is not just one thing. It is obviously a collection of very different cultures ranging from Islamic/Middle-Eastern in the north to a shockingly European feel in the south. The Africa that Americans tend to focus on is “scary Africa” (known to Americans through the lens of Blackhawk Down, Hotel Rwanda, Gorillas in the Mist, Captain Phillips, or Invisible Children [Remember all that fuss about #Kony2012? Yeah, nothing ever happened with that]). Then there’s the white person’s romanticized and exotic version of Africa (as seen through the lens of Casablanca, Out of Africa, The English Patient, and let’s throw in Zulu just to impress my father). As a result, I tell people I’m going to Africa, and the reaction is a mix of awe and horror. Then tell them you’re renting a car in Namibia, and the response is, “WHAT?! . . . Where’s Namibia?” I’m sure our itinerary sounded much more exotic to those not actually taking part in it. As much as I’d like to see myself as a rugged Indiana Jones-type whose survival instincts in the deserts of Southern Africa could impress even Bear Gryllz, the truth is quite far from that. If we blew a tire on the many unpaved desert roads of Namibia, I most definitely would have pulled up a YouTube video to figure out how to put on the spare. Perhaps my biggest challenge in the desert was sitting by the pool with a beer trying to connect to a decent Wi-Fi signal.  There is a large chasm that exists between perception and reality when it comes to Africa.

 Let’s go to the beginning, and to Cape Town. People (including myself) perceive the cities of South Africa to be a hive of crime. This is not necessarily untrue, but it is worth noting that thanks to the GOP and political arm of the NRA, people regard Chicago as a pretty terrifying place, and we were also there for a couple days at the beginning of our trip without giving it any thought. Unlike Chicago, however, Cape Town had a very strong security presence. People hoping to visit our hotel’s rooftop bar were basically interrogated before being allowed to access the elevator. The hotel’s own guidebook basically said not to answer your own door for any reason (what about housekeeping?), and shuttles were provided to the popular V&A Waterfront so as to avoid walking on the scary streets. So, a little about all this . . . Cape Town does have issues with crime, BUT I do think everything is a bit overblown as far as the threat to the average tourist. There are certain districts that are known for crime, and certain ones that are not. Manhattan Beach on L.A.’s westside is not the same as South Central, but Cape Town seems to be approaching the issue like they are. With any city, there’s a certain element of common sense and calculated risk that goes along with traveling; but perhaps Cape Town is taking the conservative approach and assuming that everyone is either an idiot or that a 0% risk of being victim to petty crime is infinitely preferable to a 2% risk. There’s almost more a perception of crime than there is actual crime. And again, I understand Cape Town is not the safest city in the world, but neither is it as dangerous as it would lead one to believe. With all this fear mongering, it did kind of get to our heads, and we wondered if it was ok to walk around the Bo Kaap neighborhood near our hotel. We could see a fair number of other people exploring the area from our balcony, so we figured it was safe enough. And ultimately, with the Duke and Duchess of Sussex making an arrival that afternoon, we figured security would at least be on hand for them. If there ever was a time to commit a crime, however, it would have been just prior to Prince Harry and Meghan’s arrival as the crowds became quite dense. Never did we feel unsafe during this time. Anyway point being, District Six or some of the unofficial settlements are associated with crime, but a place like the V&A Waterfront with its microbrew pubs and upscale seafood restaurants should really not be thrown into the same category. Apartheid has clearly had some lasting impacts on the populous, and there’s a high level of distrust between people with increased levels of poverty, crime, and AIDS occurring very clearly on racial lines. Nearly every house had a security system and often some “extras” such as electric fences or high cement walls. For one, it’s not aesthetically pleasing. House Hunters International would really struggle with that kind of style. Furthermore, the end of apartheid was not that long ago, and it will take a long time to heal those wounds. When we were out, we typically saw whites hanging out with other whites, blacks with blacks. There wasn’t a huge amount of mixing, though both groups have to interact with each other on a daily basis. I do believe that there will be a point in our lifetimes when South Africa will no longer be known as the place where one in three women has been victim to sexual assault. And to really drop a bombshell, South Africa is not the world’s capital of rape. They are number two to none other than the United States of America.

As we flew north to Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, we encountered the Africa that is heavily tourist-driven. The infrastructure present in areas like Chobe National Park in Botswana or Victoria Falls is far beyond what one might expect in other so-called developing countries. Here we encountered our fellow tourist — well-to-do, white, tilly hat equipped, and an average age of 65. Nearly everyone was on some kind of tour. It became very clear to us that the vast majority of people do Africa this way, but it can get very expensive. The entire town of Victoria Falls is essentially a money pit for tourists. When you think Zimbabwe, you don’t think $25 for a tree ornament, but the town knows its audience. Entry to Victoria Falls was $30 per person. A day trip to Chobe cost us each $170. Even hawkers on the street were trying to sell me old hyperinflated Zimbabwean currency used under President Mugabe. I was admittedly interested in getting some billion dollar Zim notes, but knowing that it’s literally worth nothing made it difficult to spend $10 for a worthless piece of paper from a street vendor. But at the same time, you’ve got to hand it to them. With the hyperinflation, those billion and trillion dollar notes were probably worth pennies when they were new, so holding on to them and unloading them on tourists for $10 is quite a coup. Yet something even more bizarre occurred the day we were walking between Zimbabwe and Zambia. Various vendors had set up on the bridge knowing that people would be transiting between the two sides of Victoria Falls. Most were peddling various statuettes of hippos or elephants, and while we politely said we weren’t interested, their tactics shifted to a possible trade. Not one, but multiple vendors tried to trade me something for a pen. A PEN! While it’s perhaps good to know that a small statue of a giraffe is of equal or lesser value than a pen, I don’t think I’ve found in any of my travels that someone was willing to actually make a trade. Later on, another gentleman had his eyes on the hand sanitizer in a mesh pocket of my camera bag. When he offered to trade for it, I could sense Nicole in silent peril over the prospect of me giving up something very dear to her. With more than nine days of our trip remaining (and at least 30 hand washings), I politely declined, and we were left alone. I did feel a little bad, and later on some people just straight up said they were hungry and wanted some money for lunch. This segues nicely into my next topic: the white savior industrial complex.  

I don’t know a ton of people who have been to Africa, but compared to other regions of the world, there seems to be a higher incidence of people going there on “mission.” I recently spoke with one such individual who had gone to Kenya to . . .build wheelchairs. Now, the wheelchairs (or wheelchair parts) were not brought over from the United States, they were already in Kenya. And I feel as though building a wheelchair is not something that requires importing a grey-haired white man for its construction, but then again I’ve never “built” a wheelchair as you say. Nevertheless, I’m sure this gentleman felt quite good about himself. He claims his teenage children were very moved by the experience, and want to go back to “help” again. Sure, the sentiment is admirable. The desire to help other people who are less fortunate or less mobile is much preferred to telling them it’s their own fault that they can’t walk. BUT, this cycle is actually doing more harm than good. Corrupt governments enjoy this because it means they don’t have to actually do any sort of meaningful reforms, and can line their own pockets with (hyperinflated?) money that should be used for social and economic improvement projects. While at the tail end of our trip to Botswana, an elderly couple was talking about a village tour they did out of Victoria Falls. They were really raving about how the people did a whole dance to “welcome” them to the village. As it was explained to us, the children were very grateful for the $1 bills that the couple handed out. The couple continued to say how it was very interesting to see how people actually lived and made a living. I think Nicole and I were probably thinking the same thing — that this was a tour that people paid $70 a head to take part in. The tours go to the same village every day. I’m not saying the same woman making a clay pot in the village gets into a Landrover at the end of the day, but the whole setup seems suspicious. It reminds me of the Hutong Tour in Beijing, where I was taken to a school where children sang to me, drew me a picture, and we were then welcomed into a resident’s house, which amazingly happened to be the same house that I could see in three other friends pictures on facebook, who also visited the Hutong. Anyway, we were told by the couple that the village tour was great and it was wonderful to see how appreciative the villagers were with their arrival. Cool. As The Onion once said, “6-Day Visit to Rural African Village Completely Changes Woman’s Facebook Profile Picture.” And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.  

As we finally made our way to Namibia, we felt that we had gained a bit of independence as we now had our own transportation. We could pull over whenever we wanted. However, this was Namibia, and there was really nothing to pull over for. It is one of the least densely populated places on the planet and it was very apparent. To stop for snacks, we simply pulled over to the side of the unpaved road with nothing but desert for hundreds of miles. But the lack of people, major cities, and conveniences had its charms. When we arrived at Namib-Naukluft National Park, we could see stars in a volume we may never see again. In the past, I have found myself in places like Monument Valley or the Cook Islands where I could use my phone app and figure out where the Milky Way was supposed to be, point my camera in that direction, shoot a 30-second exposure and say, “Look, I can see the milky way in this picture!” In the Namib, all you had to do was look up — it was plainly visible to the naked eye. While our cameras did a decent job of capturing the night sky, they can’t replicate that feeling of “wow” from actually being present in such a surreal setting. Later on in Etosha, Nicole and I were in awe at the volume of animals we encountered. Unfortunately, not everyone seemed to be as impressed, since they were evidently just working on their "Big Five" checklists. Safari trucks were pulling up next to massive herds of zebras and driving off seconds later as if they were nothing. Can a safari still be a success without seeing the "Big Five?" If you're leading a tour group, apparently not. I'm glad we could set our own pace and enjoy what was right in front of us instead of chasing something that may not have even been there. 

In the past, I have talked at length about my overall disdain for social media influencers and instagram “models.” There’s just something about not looking at the camera (but also knowing that a camera is there) that ignites a fury in me. While we were in Namibia, I don’t think we saw a single influencer. Why is this? Well, Namibia probably hasn’t caught on yet as a tourist destination. Secondly, everything is hard to get to. It’s not like Bali, where Ubud is very social-media friendly, and places are tailor-made for these types of people. Just getting to the Namib took four and a half hours of driving on unpaved roads. And once there, the photographic opportunities were present, but only for those with some knowledge of actual cameras. Those star photos of Nicole and I holding each other would probably be an influencer’s dream shot, but your average insta-model is equipped with just an iPhone and a ring light which under ideal circumstances might capture the moon (faintly). We have perhaps reached a point of peak travel “influencing," when more people are traveling than ever before. Yet travel is being ruined by those who are attempting to portray, in one low resolution photo, a feeling, a lifestyle, or an ideal that simply does not exist.

When we were hiking over to Deadvlei in the Namib Desert, there wasn't a marked trail or anything resembling a path. I asked a young lady nearby if she had some knowledge of the path, as I didn't want to climb a 500 ft dune and get my shoes full of sand if I didn't have to. She was nice enough and shared what she thought the route was, but I was a bit surprised to see she was wearing fashionable sandals. It's like desert 101 that you don't wear sandals. Forget the traction and mobility issues, the sand can get really hot! Anyway, after this encounter we never saw her again. We forged on ahead, and I can only imagine that there is a bleached pile of bones and designer sandals baking in the desert sun of the Namib right now. This was a rare encounter in Namibia for many reasons. One, she was under 60. Two, she wasn't wearing the signature Columbia travel pants and adventuring hat. Where does she get off? While she was a rarer sight than a cheetah, she is like the canary in the coal mine of what could be. I don't have enough instagram followers (or influence) to matter, but someone else might. Then it's only a matter of time before a swarm of 150 influencers are all posing contemplatively, gazing away from the camera, duck lips on point, Chinese tour group cleverly cropped out of frame. Photography by nature is a bit of a deception. The photographer only shows what they would like you to see, and that's understandable. But a simple deception from an instagram account with a million followers can lead to thousands wanting to replicate the exact same shot for their own followers (even if that shot is dishonest). Because for many, it's not even about visiting a place or experiencing it, but rather about showing other people that you visited the place. This leads to a very damaging cycle of disingenuous instagram posts enticing others to get the same shot. All of a sudden, the highly sought after photo site becomes overwhelmed with people who don't care about anything but the number of likes they hope to receive. Namibia, and the places we visited in southern Africa as a whole, are still insulated from this threat, but that can quickly change.


So what’s the point of all this? Well it’s a collection of three lessons that one can use not just for travels to Africa, but really anywhere. 

1. Do your research on safety (whether that be crime, food hygiene, or road conditions), but also have the sense to make your own judgments and assessments. The best information is not always found in a statistic or data point, but from firsthand accounts.

2. It doesn’t matter where your heart is, if you act like you’re some kind of gift to the local populous, you're part of the problem.

3. Usually this is where I would encourage people to travel more, but it's quality over quantity. If the only reason you're going somewhere is to get a few likes or some new followers, just stay home. Leave these amazing sites for the people who appreciate them and actually care. Mahalo.

To Windhoek, Johannesburg, and Frankfurt

We had an uneventful drive on paved roads down to Windhoek, where we drove to our hotel from the first night in hopes of just picking up the old wi-fi. It didn’t work, so we ended up getting lunch at a place nearby with wi-fi and just booking a room at the same place again to make it easier. We spent an hour or two sitting out in the hotel’s courtyard getting caught up on all things internet-related. I requested an update to the Condor Airlines flight loads and it had gone down from 6 seats to 1 with no indication of standbys. Nicole and I both felt that we would probably still get on, but it wouldn’t likely be together, and if we didn’t get on, it would cause a whole slew of other issues. As a result, we decided that evening that we would change our flight to British Airways to Johannesburg, change planes there to Lufthansa, and get to Frankfurt that way.  

 The Johannesburg Airport was much much larger than Windhoek’s, which was basically two doorways for gates. We got our steps in walking to our next flight. The process was surprisingly smooth, much unlike Heathrow. The only snag was security taking my nail trimmers. It was only a matter of time, though the rules are so inconsistently applied (even within the same country), one never knows when the trimmers will disappear. We were only in Johannesburg airport for about two hours. Then we went from Johannesburg (a city known most for its high crime statistics) to Frankfurt (a city known for having a major international airport nearby). We got seats together, but we were row 42 on a 747-800. It wasn’t great, and once the gentleman in front of me decided to recline for the rest of the flight, there was basically no chance of getting comfortable. Some 10 and a half hours later, we arrived in Frankfurt around 5:30am. We shot through customs, booked a hotel, got on a train, walked to the hotel, and miraculously managed to check into our room at 7:30am. We napped until about 11 and went out to explore Frankfurt.

 Again, Frankfurt isn’t really known for . . .much of anything, other than having a massive airport, but we also didn’t want to spend the whole day in the hotel. The lobby had some umbrellas that they lent to us, which was highly necessary because rain was in the forecast for the entire day, only dropping to a 50% chance sometime near midnight. It was also fairly cold, so the combination of cold and rain made it kind of unpleasant conditions for a stroll around the city, but we attempted to make the best of it. We walked to an area known as Romerberg, which is the older part of the city. It had a nice square with traditional German buildings with various cafes and shops. Surprisingly, some people had chosen to eat outside. Sure there were umbrellas covering some of the tables, but it was still only 45 degrees and raining. Anyway, we elected to find some food and a hot tea at an older German-style restaurant a few blocks away. I had a mushroom soup and peppermint tea and Nicole had some schnitzel with potatoes. We split an apple strudel afterward. Our warmup in the restaurant made the return to the outdoors that much worse. The rain was going strong and the wind had some bite to it as well. We walked down to the river for about a minute before circling back to the square, where Nicole added to her pin collection on her camera bag. After this, we elected to just walk back to the hotel to thaw. For Frankfurt in October, this is considered normal weather, but for two kids who just came from the deserts of southern Africa, this was a cruel shock to our bodies.  

 We made one last trip outside to get some pizza at a nearby pizzeria. I’d be curious to know the statistics on how many of our trips end with a pizza dinner, as I’m sure it’s quite staggering. In any event, we returned to the hotel to relax for (hopefully) our final night abroad. We have a long flight to Los Angeles tomorrow and perhaps a reflections essay will be authored during that time. Stay tuned.