France, Cheese, Chateau and Strike Update

Our trip so far has been an absolute pleasure. After a whirlwind few days in Paris consisting of too much food and not enough sleep, we headed out to the French countryside. Slowly making our way down the Loire Valley in the direction of the Atlantic coast, we have been sampling the excellent cheeses, wines and chateau of the Loire, picnic-ing for lunch and treating ourselves to an excellent dinner in the evenings. We have met some very cool people along the way - the guys at Slide Performance in Orleans who helped us get some repairs done on the bug, the couple who run the Bed and Breakfast at Domaine Beaufort who shared some of their bubbly wine with us and who showed us their 1925 wooden-body Citroen car that, along with the farm and vineyard, had been in their family for 3 generations.

We are currently just outside of Angers where our friends have put us up in our very own chateau! OK, it's not really a chateau, but it certainly feels like one. It's actually an old farmhouse, parts of which date back 200 or 300 years (no one is quite sure - nor are they terribly interested in finding out because in the French scheme of things, 200-300 years is not very old) The farmhouse, which comes with it's very own name - La Fontaine du Mont - has been added to, remodeled and updated during it's history and now encompasses 1 rehearsal studio, 2 staircases, 2 living rooms, a dormitory for visiting bands, 2 offices for music producers and promoters and at least 20 other rooms. The main jewel of La Fontaine is the kitchen which is located in the oldest part of the house. It sports a stone floor, exposed beam ceiling (with enormous, smoke darkened timbers) modern appliances and a fireplace in the center of the room. It was here that, on our first night - seated on one side of the massive fireplace with our friend Chimene and her son, Goya - four-and-a-half year-old Aloise presented her spectale du danse from the other side of the rectangular fireplace, using the the frame as her "stage".


The strike, which continues with no end in sight, has made it difficult to find gasoline. It's a little disconcerting to drive past station after station and see that every one is closed...especially when you're down to 1/4 of a tank. No one here seems to be freaking out about it, so we're remaining calm as well. The gas station closure has led to a couple of funny goose-chases: We hear from someone that a station "just down the road" has gas, but invariably get lost trying to find it. If and/or when we find the station, they have run out of gas and we end up hanging out in the station parking lot, chatting with other drivers who had heard the same rumor and arrived to find that there was no gas. The strange thing is that no one is upset. Everyone seems to support, or at least understand the strike and everyone is sure that the government will figure things out very soon and that things will go back to normal. I'm sure things will go back to normal, but I am equally sure that it won't happen until after we leave the country.


Click here to read the background story about the 1959 VW convertible and my reason for being in France.

Free Money!!!

I work for a company which specializes in rare and one-of-a-kind Hollywood costumes and props. We recently took over another costume and prop company. Although many pieces of this new collection have been identified, many pieces have not yet been identified, which often leads to some exciting discoveries. While digging through some costumes from Batman and Robin, I came across a brown suit. There were very few identifying marks on the suit and no name on the tag. I reached into the pockets, you know, just to check, and I felt a wad of paper. It felt like a wad a bills and I excitedly pulled it out to find...
A WAD OF BILLS!!!
Not in US currency, unfortunately, but issued in the name of the Bank of Gotham.
Still, very cool.

...und ein gutes Deutches Bier

My mother and I have just spent nearly an hour polishing the armoire in my grandmother’s apartment. This armoire has been in our family for over 70 years and my mother, my uncle and I are doing everything we can think of so that the armoire can stay put. My grandmother, at 95, has decided that she no longer needs to keep her apartment and is just fine, thank you very much, living at the retirement home. She has decided instead to rent out her apartment to a lovely elderly woman whom we very much hope is in need of a beautifully polished 70 year-old armoire. My mother, uncle and I all want this armoire for ourselves because it’s gorgeous, solid wood and hand carved. As you can imagine, it’s also very heavy. Unfortunately, none of us live even remotely close to where this armoire is currently located in Marl, Germany, so we are desperately hoping that Frau Franz will have a use for it since frankly, the idea of disassembling it and getting it down to street level causes us all to break out in hives.

2008, thus far, has proven to be the year for me to clear out other people’s life accumulations having just finished this same task at my parents house after the death of my father in March. The difference though is that this time I can ask my grandmother about the history of specific items and my grandmother (who happens to have a memory like a steel trap) can tell me all about aunt Agatha who was born in 1812 during the Napoleonic Wars and probably received the item in question as a wedding present around 1830….Whereas I will never know why my father thought it necessary to accumulate 20 needle-nose pliers during his lifetime.

So I find myself in Germany, on the invitation of my mother, cleaning out my grandmother’s apartment and deciding what to do with a half-complete set of Weimar silverware and a beautifully polished, extremely heavy armoire. After 7 months of living out of a suitcase it has become painfully obvious that at some point I will need to stop travelling for a minute and, you know, maybe get a job or something, but in the meantime I’m feasting righteously on sausages and good German beer – enjoying the arrival of spring in Germany–a never-ending progression of rain-infused weather systems.

Farewell to Africa

Last days in Africa and I'm preparing to go back to Europe. The first thing I want when I arrive is for someone to hand me a big bottle of good, red wine, a hunk of French cheese and some saucisson. All things I desperately miss - having been away from them for so long.

I'm ready to go. It's been a long, sweaty, sometimes frustrating, sometimes ugly, always interesting trip and I need a good, long nap. The voodoo documentary didn't go as planned, the priests and practitioners here being too secretive and all too wary of outsiders. That's most of the power of the voodoo religion here - it's secretiveness and the VIP status the practitioner feels when they are allowed to be part of the group. Unfortunately for the voodoo crowd, the Christian and Muslim contingent don't really care who joins their clubs and are more interested in quantity than quality - actively recruiting members left and right. The effect is that less and less people practice the animist/voodoo religion and new membership appears to be declining. At the 2 ceremonies I was able to attend, the average age of the practitioners was about 30 years old with only a few young children around. There were no teenagers involved in either of the 2 ceremonies which is odd for a country where young people make up a majority of the population. Instead of voodoo (or voodoo-porn which was our unofficial second choice and the source of many jokes which eased the frustration of dealing with the guarded world of Togolese voodoo), we found a new topic.

A house in Agbodrafo, built in the early 1800s, which may or may not have been built and used for the purpose of black market slave trade. The interesting story isn’t about the house itself, although it is interesting. The interesting part of the story is the different versions of history and the politics behind this house. Of the descendents, one side is contesting that the house was built to hold slaves, the Togolese government is on their side. The government of Togo is currently proposing the site to UNESCO to be considered as a World Heritage Site (despite the fact that there is insufficient evidence to support this). A UNESCO designation would bring the tourists who currently skip Togo on their way from Benin to Ghana in search of family history or information about the slave trade. The other half of the family is furious that their family name might be associated with the illegal slave trade. This side of the family are prominent politicians and businessmen, direct descendents of the European man, named ‘Wood’, who built the house. We discovered other descendants and other claimed descendants who were also for or against the idea of claiming the house as a slave house. Every faction has their reasons and every faction has personal or political motives as well. It's a soap opera of historical proportions. Granted, it's not as "flash" or as "sexy" as voodoo (or voodoo-porn), but it's an interesting topic and should hopefully end up being an interesting finished documentary.

The Harmattan wind is blowing in from the Sahara and while the locals wear jackets and shiver, I find the temperature quite comfortable and enjoy the unusual experience of not sweating as I prepare myself for the 18+ hour bus ride between here and Ouagadougou.
Wish me luck

Christmas in Togo

I didn't think that X-mas was widely celebrated in Togo - animism being the official religion - but signs of the X-mas spirit have been increasing steadily until the explosive crescendo this morning.

About two weeks ago, prosperous businesses began decorating their stores with gaudy lights and inflatable santas. Shortly afterwards, music stores began blasting X-mas music from the huge speakers set up in their entrances. Normally, these stores blast awful pop music, awful gospel, awful elevator music or coupe de caille (which, by definition, is always awful).

The volume of music coming from these stores is always at maximum-plus to the point that the noise no longer sounds like music, but more like rhythmic, crackling distortion. Imagine the pain of "Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer", now turn the volume up to 11, now imagine the lyrics in French (or better yet, imagine them in English, but sung with such a strong accent that it's hardly recognizable as English).
Another Togolese X-mas tradition that we have discovered is fireworks. Here and there for the last two weeks we have heard the occasional "pop!" of a firecracker. This last Saturday and Sunday were like the 4th of July in the States... because really, nothing says X-mas quite like explosives.

The height of X-mas psychosis occurred early this morning at approximately 7am, when our neighbors decided that it would be a great idea to blast X-mas music from a small boom-box that was clearly not up to the task. The children were singing along, at the top of their lungs, to a horribly kitch version of "Jingle Bells". English not being the language of choice in these parts, the poor munchkins obviously had no idea what they were screeching as they jumped up and down in fits of glee. Had I been anywhere else in the world, I would have assumed that a mental asylum had moved in next door during the night because it was nothing short of insanity in the neighbor's courtyard where children were up in a tree, others running in circles and others just jumping up and down all screaming what sounded like
"Jeego Boes! Jeengo Boes! Jeego a dway!"
as loud as their little lungs could manage.

New photos have been posted to flickr!Check them out!http://www.flickr.com/photos/muddygaloshes/

Lome, Togo

Our apartment is a 10 minute walk from the beach (not that we ever go to the beach anyway, but it's nice to think about) and just two blocks off Blvd. de 13 Janvier in the neighborhood called KPEHENOU (pronounced 'bey hey noo', go figure). It's on an unpaved street of dirt and sand, dotted with potholes, rocks and the occasional shell. There is a papaya tree in front, and out back I can look down into the neighbor's courtyard and see the women cooking over charcoal fires. The windows are left wide open all day to catch the delicious breeze that blows in from the sea.

13 Janvier is the semi-circular road that begins and ends at the beach and unofficially delineates the downtown of Lomé. It's the hip, happening street packed with bars, restaurants and cafés. During the day, the street is jammed with traffic and commerce, in the evening, the sidewalks are crammed with people - walking, sitting at outdoor bars and restaurants or out selling things. The sellers walk along the street, large platters or bowls perched on their heads. They sell everything from cigarettes to sandals, fake Gucci watches to cold bottles of soda pop. There are also sellers set up along the sidewalk hawking BBQd meat kebabs, pineapple slices, bags of water (water comes in .5 liter, sealed bags. You bite off the corner of the bag and suck/squeeze out the water)...and just about everything else - toilet paper, tomato paste, imitation, brand-name bottles of alcohol (made in China).

Even though 13 Janvier is jumping until the early hours of the morning, our street is relatively quiet - with one exception - we just happen to sit directly under the flight path of the airport. Luckily for us, Lomé International is not the transportation hub that its designers intended it to be, so the handful of flights that go in and out each day aren't too terribly distracting...except for the really heavy, 4-propeller cargo planes that need miles and miles in order to gain altitude. Those scare the bejesus out of us at least once a day. They are loud and, from the sound, you could swear that they are heading straight for the apartment. "This one is surely too low," you think. "This one isn't going to make it..."

Goats and chickens roam our neighborhood like packs of timid school children. I have no idea who the goats and chickens belong to but I've discovered that they like to eat our vegetable trimmings and the leftovers that have gone bad. This cuts down greatly on the amount of garbage that goes in the trash can and makes me feel very eco-friendly and closer to nature as I pretend to be "Farmer Jane" and feed leftovers to wild, potentially rabid goats and chickens in the center of the capital city of Togo.

Electricity is a precious commodity and, almost everyday, gets cut for a number of hours. This is great for the goats because it insures a constant supply of leftovers-gone-bad. The water is often cut off as well, but usually for only for a few hours. We keep a large quantity of water on hand as reserve, but as yet, we haven't really had to use it much.

Why I never go to the beach: The beach is only good at 6am and since I'm very rarely up and out the door by 6am, I don't go often. 6am is the only time of day that it's daylight, but not too hot to go walking around for fun. After 8 or 9am, if you have somewhere to go, you want to get there fast - before you run out of energy, before you have to stop somewhere for a cold drink, before you lose your motivation to go at all. Besides, the beach is kind of dirty and the rip currents make it far too dangerous to swim.

Zemi-John

Zemi-John,
Zemi-John, aye!
Zemi-John, aye, aye, aye
Taxi Moto. - from a popular song on the radio

go here to listen to the song and watch the video
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nwy7YdfdobM


The easiest, fastest, cheapest way to get around town is by zemi-john, or "zem". They are small motorcycles or scooters driven by men who either work for a company or independently. There are thousands of them all over Lomé. The motorcycles aren't marked in any special way and the drivers don't wear a uniform, but a zem is easy to find, in fact, they are unavoidable. When walking down the street, every available zem driver will honk at you regardless of what side of the street you are on, if you are alone or in a group of 4...pretty much unless you are dead on the side of the road the zem drivers will honk at you hoping to get a fare. It's practical to travel by zem. You can weave between cars, avoid potholes easier and squeeze around big trucks parked (or stalled) on the side of the road. The fare is about 25 cents, 75 if you are going across town, and is negotiated at the beginning of the ride. The problem with zem drivers, and most motorists in general in Lomé is that they are completely INSANE!!!! No one pays attention to traffic signals, right of way, rules of the road and, unless there is a policeman on the scene directing traffic, it is absolute, complete chaos. Sure, I've tried taking a regular taxi, but they're more expensive, harder to find and take much longer to get where you're going as the driver makes detours and multiple stops to pick up and drop off other passengers along the way. So I do what everyone else here does - I take a zem. I try and stay relaxed, I try not to watch the road ahead and I hope, deep down in the core of my being, that God, Allah and every single one of the voodoo deities in the neighborhood is watching my back.

Lome, Togo and Thanksgiving in Africa

About the long delay since the last post: I got sick again. Probably another "petit salmonelle", but this one took awhile to get over. Hooray for anti-biotics! ...and yes Lynn, I have been using the hand sanitizer you gave me...this time I got wiped out by some undercooked sauce. Vive l'Afrique.

After a grueling 18+ hour bus ride, smashed in shoulder to shoulder, knees touching the back of the seat in front and NO TOILETS (Not even at the 'rest stops' - and when I say 'toilets' I mean hole in the ground surrounded by 1-4 walls - and when I say 'no' I mean go hide behind a tree...if you can find one)...no sinks either...and since I'm on the subject, NO FOOD! At the 'rest stops', women were selling bags of onions. ONIONS! What am I supposed to do with ONIONS on a hot, stinky bus? It's 8am! Someone find me a cup of Nescafe and a boiled egg! (As you can see, I'm still a little bent out of shape by the whole experience). At the border between Burkina Faso and Togo, young boys were selling old, 1980s telephones. Again, what exactly am I supposed to do with an old telephone while traveling through Africa? Find me a Nescafe and a boiled egg for crying out loud!!! No luck. Sometime around midnight, after the driver "bought a cup of coffee" (read: 'bribed') for the policeman who stopped us for no apparent reason, we passed though Lome. Still jumpin' on a Sunday night. We turned right and drove along the ocean. Hot and humid, palm trees everywhere. Yeah, the ocean.

A friend in Bobo-Dioulasso had given us the name of a friend of his here, Vincent, who has become a good friend of ours. We celebrated Thanksgiving with him, his wife and 2 kids, the owner of the hotel where we are staying and a few other guests of the hotel. I made pheasant, stuffing, mashed potatoes and butternut squash pie (I couldn't find pumpkin and, as it turns out, butternut squash tastes just as good). Sounds pretty traditional, right? It was, except for two things. For one, we ate dinner on the terrace in shorts and T-shirts (sipping rum punch). The other was the way the pheasant met its end. When buying birds in the market, you buy them live. We picked out two good looking birds and the saleslady shoved them in a plastic sack and handed them to us. OK then. (Sitting on the back of a motorcycle taxi with two sacks of live pheasant under your arms is an experience not to be missed if you ever have the opportunity.) The guardian at the hotel offered to kill the birds for us (thank goodness), but Mamy, the hotel owner, insisted that we get them drunk with rum which would not only kill them in a more pleasant way (for them), but the meat would be tastier. If there's one thing I've learned in life, it is to never argue with a 78 year-old Vietnamese woman...so out came the rum. The pheasants took their time, but eventually drifted off to fermented-sugar-cane-heaven. The guardian sliced and plucked, I stuffed, and after a couple of hours and the quick placement of lime slices to keep the birds from drying out (a practice I will use again in the future because 1. it works and 2. tastes great!) we had an awesome feast.

Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso, Africa

Yesterday marked one month that I have been in Africa. It also marked the second day that I have felt 100% well for an entire 24 hour period since my arrival: A bad cold, allergies, indigestion, nausea and salmonella (yes, salmonella. The doctor assures me that it was a 'small' salmonella though - which is a revelation because I was unaware that salmonella came in different sizes).

I'm looking forward to our next adventure in Togo which should get underway in about a week. Franck, the ethnologist, has been doing his research and making contacts, Lyderic has been familiarizing himself with the camera and, well, eventually Cora and I will have something to do as well. When it's all said and done, we hope to have enough decent footage to put together a documentary on the animist/voodu practices of southern Togo and Benin. We have decided to base our operations in the town of Togoville (southern Togo, just east of Lome and just north of Lac Togo). It's big enough and close enough to Lome to have some of the comforts of modern technology that we are accustomed to, yet small and remote enough that it's not too tainted by contact with the big city and the West.

I feel like I am finally getting a handle on things...to a certain extent. My mind is still blown to bits almost every time I go outside the gates, but I'm beginning to make sense of things. I can negotiate the market and bargain for a better price for the big, fat cashews and hibiscus tea that I love so much. I know where the gas station is and I know to put gas/oil mixture in the motorcycle tank because the oil pump broke on our last road trip (very common with the Chinese motorcycles you find here). I know that if there is anything I need, I just need to ask and someone will know someone who can take me to someone who has what I am looking for. I know what the juice of the fruit of the baobab tree tastes like and, even better, I know how to make it. I've eaten caterpillars and drank millet beer out of calabasses. (I was sick before this, so I can't blame the salmonella on the caterpillars). There's still plenty of things that I haven't figured out and plenty more that I'm sure I will never figure out (for instance why it's OK for straight men to be physically intimate in public, like hugging and holding hands, but you rarely, if ever, see men and women even hold hands in public).

West Africa

Africa.
I don't even know where to start. There is no way to gently or logically introduce Burkina Faso to someone who has never been here. It's been a week since we arrived and still I regularly catch myself staring at something with my mouth gaping open, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. I want to tell a story about what I've experienced in the last week, but there are at least a thousand stories in my story. A lifetime of stories in the span of one week.

I want to tell about smushing 7 of us (plus the driver)into a taxi in Ouagadougou and watching in terror from the front seat as the driver passed people bicycling, walking, riding mopeds - and wincing as he narrowly missed crashing into them, into oncoming cars, people crossing the street, a stray dog wandering across the road or a mule-driven cart. Watching in amazement as all these people and things moved along at different speeds and in different directions without colliding into each other. What seemed like complete chaos was, in fact, a graceful and highly choreographed dance of bodies in motion, all with a similar objective and an enormous amount of respect for one another and for the physical space that each occupied.

I want to tell about the people, so kind and open and beautiful - stunning even. The children stare and smile. "Too babou! Too babou!" they shout as we ride by on motorcycles. "White person! White person!" It's not an insult. It's more like an exclamation and a form of greeting. In response you say, "Too babou!" or"Farafee!" (black person) or "Ani cle" ('good day' in Dioula) or simply "bonjour". When you are walking, the children (if they are very brave) may come to you to shake your hand, just to say "hello". Usually, it's one of the older children, then when the younger ones see that it's OK, they want to shake your hand as well.

Greetings are very important. A true greeting among Africans begins with "hello", moves on to the subject of health, then the health and well-being of the family, back to "hello", then again through the list. This is often repeated 2 or 3 times depending on how well the people know each other. For Too babou, usually, "bonjour" and "ca va?" are sufficient, but the handshake is absolutely essential. In the maze of the grand market yesterday, I was searching for a specific item and was led from one stall to another by varying people who claimed to have what I was looking for or knew someone who did. Each time, the same thing - handshake, "hello", "how are you?" Only to discover that the person did not have what I was looking for. Two hours later, I succeeded in finally tracking down the sole vendor in the entire market who had what I was looking for. Did you catch that? TWO HOURS. A lot of this was the "hello", "how are you?" part. Life definitely moves at a different pace here.

Oh, I have so many more stories to tell; about eating To' (polenta) and playing music under the mango tree in the middle of the cornfield with friends of the man we are visiting, about helping to harvest that same corn the next day and watching the women and young girls balance impossibly huge containers of corn on their heads as they gracefully negotiated their way across the field, about the Tuareg man who sold jewelry - when I asked him if I could take his photo, he agreed, then quickly pulled a small mirror from his satchel in order to check his appearance and make sure he was as handsome as possible - about the hotel/restaurant, run by French ex-pats, where we went to watch the rugby game on TV. It was a fixed price dinner and included the aperitif (a rum punch mixed up in what was essentially a small garbage can, and referred to as such during the evening 'Hey! There's more punch in the trash can, help yourself!').The price also included the meal (a Texas chili that would have made any Austin native proud) some bottles of red wine (not easy to find in Burkina), as much beer as you could drink as well as 'service libre' of the huge bowl of marijuana sitting on the bar. No one even thought twice about it. I, on the other hand, found it very amusing (though I didn't participate). There are so many more stories....but unfortunately, you will have to wait until the next installment to read them.
-Michelle

News about school supplies: We met with the people of PaperForAll http://paper4allcharity.com/- the association that manages donations for the school in Ouagadougou. It's a group of about 12 people, plus the school director. They are wonderful people, very kind and the association seems to be really well organized. We gave them all the school supplies that we had collected in the States and brought with us - all the notebooks, pens, pencils, clothing and backpacks that that our friends and neighbors had been so kind to donate. Because it was a holiday and there was no school, we collectively decided to wait until November, when we return to Ouaga, to purchase and donate the rest of the school supplies with the money that had been collected from friends and neighbors. The director told us that the money would be best spent in purchasing school books for the children since they currently have to share books between 2 or 3 children. The school has about 10 classrooms, but only 2 are used since there are only 2 teachers. The classroom we saw was the same size as a normal US classroom, but holds almost 150 children - 5 to a bench. I can't even imagine it, but in November we will go back to the school and I will be able to see it.

Great Barrier Reef, the Outback, Byron Bay

After spending a week camping in the Outback, we've made it to Byron Bay. Byron is a small surfing town on the east coast about 2 hours south of Brisbane. We've decided to spend our last few days in Australia just doing nothing - no driving, no sightseeing, no trying to figure out where we'll spend the next night - just lounging on the beach and reading books or hanging out by the pool. Since the last posting, we've gone diving in the Great Barrier Reef, survived a "tsunami" and driven through the Outback dodging wild Emus, Road Trains and Kangaroos.

Great Barrier Reef = awesome.
I have never in my life seen so many fish of so many colorful varieties.
We took a dive boat out from Cairns and dove a number of spots along the Great Barrier Reef. The water was warm enough that the wetsuit was optional and I stayed down on every dive until my tank was near empty. The majority of sea life was between 15 and 30 feet, so one tank lasted for almost an hour. If I could have, I would have just stayed underwater. Maybe brought a sleeping bag and moved in. By far, this was some of the best diving I have ever done in my life.

The "tsunami" turned out to be a dud. An offshore earthquake in the Solomon Islands led to a tsunami warning along the eastern coast of Australia. Luckily, we were up in the hills at Mission Beach, staying in a little cabin with screens for walls and a fantastic view of the rainforest. After the scare was over, we continued on our journey, only to find out later that a "tsunami" had actually occurred...a "tsunami" of 20cm. Tragically, the Solomon Islands experienced an actual tsunami which brought some serious damage and ended many lives. We feel fortunate to have not experienced what the Solomon Islanders went through and our hearts go out to the survivors.

Driving through the Outback
I was hesitant to visit the Outback again after my last adventure there 10 years ago. It turns out that traveling through the Outback in air conditioned comfort is quite pleasant.If you're not occupied with standing in the sun, sweating profusely and trying to hitch a ride, the Outback is really a lovely place. It is chock full of Eucalyptus trees, wildlife, termite mounds and, in some places, red dirt that fills the horizon as far as the eye can see. We saw wild emus and kangaroos, small dusty towns and lots of red earth. We also saw Road Trains which, next to Kookaburras, are my new favorite thing.

Road Trains are terrifying visions. Giant semi trucks that pull up to 4 trailers; they can be as long as 55meters (about 150 feet) and they CAN'T STOP. There is too much momentum behind them. Whatever is in their way will be smushed.
There is an immediate rush of adrenalin to the head when you spot one in the distance coming toward you. In many cases, we would be on a one-lane road when a road train was spotted. Normally, when passing a car on a one-lane road, each car moves to the side, so 2 wheels are in the dirt and the other two are on the asphalt. If it's a road train coming at you, it's important to get the heck off the road entirely. It's also imperative to slow down or even stop as the pebbles and rocks that these things kick up can nick or crack a windshield. Watching one of these beasts roar by - especially from the vantage point of a small, Japanese car - is truly awe inspiring, like watching a battleship from the vantage point of a rowboat.

More photos have been uploaded to flickr. Take a peek!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/muddygaloshes/
Thanks!
-Michelle

Queensland is Awesome.

Driving north from Brisbane, we have officially crossed the Tropic of Capricorn and are making the most of clear skies and a pleasant climate. Unfortunately, the Tropic of Capricorn is also the beginning of crocodile and jellyfish territory. From now on, we can only swim at net-enclosed beaches or in swimming pools. This is somewhat disheartening as the further north we get, the hotter the climate and the more tempting the water looks.

At this very moment we are eating fresh coconut meat from a local coconut ....actually at this very moment, we are banging the two halves of coconut shell together in a goofy impression of Monty Python's "Quest for the Holy Grail"...but that's how we amuse ourselves having now been without TV for almost 6 months.

There are these fantastic birds all over Australia that "crow" in the mornings and evenings. You have heard them before because their warble has appeared in almost every "tropical jungle" scene in every movie ever made. They are called the Kookaburra. The best description I can come up with for their sound is an overactive howler monkey, or perhaps a loud, laughing baby. It is the most lovely, yet spine-tingling sound imaginable.

Tasmania!

Tasmania was absolutely incredible. Stunning. We left after one week wishing that we could have spent 3 more on that beautiful island. It was so wild and unpopulated and so incredibly gorgeous. We resolvedthat if we were to do our Antarctic adventure again,we would skip New Zealand and go straight to Tasmania after our work contract was finished. The island is teaming with wildlife; wallabies, wombats, Devils, kangaroos and possums. We saw plenty of them roaming around...and even more on the sides of the roads,victims of nighttime automobile encounters. We ate the freshest, most delicious oysters, drank fantastic wine, ate produce picked only hours before and saw very few humans. We spent most of our days hiking and camping...and eating. The Tasmanian Devils, the island's local heros, are fairly rare and nocturnal to boot, so we had to visit an animal park to see some. The park we visited had some in captivity that we were fortunate enough to pet, as well as wombats, koalas and a large, and very tame, red kangaroo.

Partying With a Rockstar - Melbourne

We arrived in Melbourne about a week ago. After spending a couple of days camping at Wilson's Promitory with our friends Mandi (whom we knew from South Pole) and Janine and seeing a wombat, wallabies and possums!, we returned to the city of Melbourne and have since that time, been partying like rockstars. The friend we are staying with, Wally, is in fact a rock star, which makes the partying that much more monumental...or just 'mental' (Ozzie slang for 'insane').

So far, Melbourne has been hugely entertaining; great music in lots of different venues, random, public art for no apparent reason, well-dressed, hipster-types filling the cafes, good coffee and great food. This is the kind of town that knows its important chefs by name and covers their culinary feats in local newspapers and magazines. I really enjoy Melbourne, but it is imperative that we leave soon. In our weakened condition, having just spent 1 month in pristine natural surroundings, this level of general merrymaking is beginning to wear us out and, if continued in this manner, could feasibly kill us. Luckily, we are leaving for Tasmania tomorrow and so just might make it out of here alive.

I've posted some more photos and captions on my flickr account.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/muddygaloshes/
Enjoy.
-Michelle

More about New Zealand

New Zealand is beautiful, gorgeous even. Soaring mountains rising out of the sea, blue green waters in rivers and ocean, pristine sand beaches and forests that scream "LORD OF THE RINGS!" (Parts I, II, and III). With only 4 million people, it's a sparsely populated country, yet every Austral summer, the population of many cities more than doubles with the influx of tourists. The Kiwis seem not to mind. They are still uber-friendly and gracious. They realize that they live in a naturally stunning country, so tolerate the hoards of seasonal invaders.

New Zealand has fresh, delicious vegetables, eggs and meat. They make great wine and cheese and during our entire trip, we haven't have one, single bad cup of coffee. Even in the tiny, po-dunk towns every cafe has an espresso machine and a staff that gladly serves up fresh, steaming cups of caffeinated bliss.

New Zealand is mindblowing in its perfectness. Everything works, the entire country is clean and runs on time. There is no poverty that we have seen, and did I mention that it's CLEAN. It's practically impossible to find a trash can to dispose of our own trash, yet not a speck of trash can be found on any beach, path or parking lot anywhere. It's surreal. If I had children and they wanted to travel in New Zealand, I would be completely at ease. I have never felt so safe in my life. People are extraordinarily friendly, kind and helpful.

"Ah, ha! Utopia!" you're thinking.

And it is.

On To A New Adventure! New Zealand!

We were offered the opportunity to leave the Pole a week earlier than expected and we jumped at the chance. Unfortunately, this required that we pack and then make it to the plane within 2 hours. By the skin of our teeth, we made it to the plane on time, bags overflowing and out of breath. A quick goodbye to all our friends and we were FREE!! No more freezing our fingers off, no more working to near exhaustion, no more being out of breath after only climbing a flight of stairs.
Hooray!

We arrived in Christchurch, NZ, tired, but overjoyed. The air was warm and humid, there were trees and smells, sounds other than bulldozers and snow mobiles. Heaven. We spent the next two days walking around town and lounging in the Botanical Garden. Giggling hysterically about the fact that there were trees to climb, flowers to smell and grass to sit on. People must have thought we were nuts...and we probably were to a certain extent. After two days of decompressing, we went looking for and found a car to buy, figuring that it would be cheaper than taking the bus or renting. We found a dealership selling a car for $1500 Kiwi (about $1100US) who guaranteed us that in Auckland, their sister dealership would buy the car back at 50%. What a deal! Too good to be true! We bought the car, ran some errands and headed to Akaroa (about an hour away). Just inside Akaroa, right by the campground, the car died. No gears. It wouldn't budge. We had only had the car for 5 hours and already it was giving us trouble. It was after 5pm and all the mechanics were closed, so we spent the night in the campground and called the dealership the next morning. "I'll be right there to get you." was the reply. Cool. They offered to put in a new transmission and give us the car back. We stayed in Akaroa in the meantime and camped, hiked and went kayaking with dolphins. Not a bad way to spend a few days.

3 days later, we picked up the car and continued on our way. We went to the west coast, over the mountain pass,figuring if that didn't kill the car, then we were good. The car made it fine and 2 days later we were photographing glaciers and driving through lush, mostly unpopulated greenery. We passed the town of Haast, drove 40km to the nearest campground and then, blammo! It happened again. This time, the gears were slipping and to make matters worse, it was a Saturday night. No one would be open at that hour OR the nextday.We camped overnight and then tried to drive the car in low gear (the only gear that worked) back to Haast. We made it about halfway when we lost low gear. Luckily,a towing service was open that Sunday and we were able to have the car towed back to Haast and to get a room at the hotel.

We spent most of Sunday trying to relax and figuring out what we could do next. Would the dealership in Christchurch give us our money back? Would a mechanic in Haast be willing to buy our car for parts? How on earth were we going to get around New Zealand now? Early Monday morning, I called the dealership. Naturally, they were concerned and not sure of what to do. They couldn't pick us up, it was too far of a drive. We were expecting a huge runaround or a verbal battle, but after about half an hour of calling back and forth, they said we should come back to Christchurch and they would give us a different vehicle. "Just leave the car here?" we asked incredulously. "Yeah, just leave it. One of our mates will be going down there eventually and he can tow it back for us. "We couldn't believe our luck. A different car! We're now slowly working our way back to Christchurch to pick up our new car and continue our journey.

Wish us luck!

Where Does the Water Come From?

Where does the water come from?
This seems like a silly question. The South Pole station rests on top of miles of ice. Just melt the ice right?
This is what was done up until the 70's, but due to the altitude and the extreme cold, it a time-consuming and fuel-consuming process where much of the heat is lost to the atmosphere.
Then some dude named "Rodwell" came up with a brilliant idea.
Drill down into the ice with hot water and pump up the melted ice.
This process creates a huge underground lake of melted water which is constantly circulating. Hot water goes down, melted ice water comes back up. Brilliant!
At a certain depth, it's no longer cost-effective to pump water out of the hole, so you just make a new hole.
The old well then becomes a depository for all the station's waste water. (Before I arrived here, I was really hoping that the waste water was somehow shipped out and processed in a proper facility, but this isn't the case. It would be far too expensive).
The exact GPS coordinates are recorded in case the waste water deposits need to be relocated for treatment or disposal in the future (yeah, right), and life goes on as usual (or as usual as it can be in the highest, driest, most desolate, most pristine (more-or-less) continent in the world).
So the next time you think of the South Pole, think of the pure-whiteness, the vast, desolate nothingness of snow-desert... and giant lakes of frozen poop-water hidden beneath the surface.

about snow...

About snow...
The Inuit have numerous words for different types of snow, but I am relatively sure there is no word in their language for the snow we have at the South Pole. I've never experienced snow like this before. Imagine taking a piece of styrofoam and putting it through a grinder so that it's completely pulverized into pieces smaller than grains of sand.
It even sounds like styrofoam when you walk on it.
Kicking a small chunk produces a sound similar to glass tumbling over concrete.
You can't make a snowball with it.
It doesn't compact at all.
Driving over it just loosens it up and walking over it is like walking on sand at the beach. It seems that the only thing that compacts it is walking over it one hundred times or so.
The cool thing about it (probably the ONLY cool thing about it) is that it's so light. The water content in this snow is extremely low, so that the flakes (if you can actually call them 'flakes'. There is no snowflake shape to these 'flakes', they are more like single crystals) don't weigh much and can easily become airborne. This is most likely how the majority of snow at the Pole actually gets here, it is carried by the winds.
It doesn't snow at the South Pole very much, only 3-5 cm per year, whereas the actual accumulation of snow is around 20 cm per year.
OK, back to the airborne part...
When the wind picks up the snow and blows it around, it can do some pretty interesting things;
For one, the ice crystals blowing around on a sunny day make everything glittery, like someone is sprinkling fairy dust around. On one of these type of days, when the sun is out, and the wind is blowing in the right direction in relation to the sun and the ice crystals are aligned properly, one can see a really interesting meteorological phenomenon called "Sun Dogs". This is a huge rainbow-colored halo around the sun and on the left and right of the sun, inside the rainbow, are two very bright spots of light, Sun Dogs. On a REALLY good day, and we only had one of these, there is a second halo around the first halo and above the second halo, a U-shaped rainbow of light. It's a truly incredible thing to see.

How to Get Dressed in the Morning

The very first item of clothing necessary in the morning are the Raytheon Inc. issued, extra-thick wool socks. The reason for this is because the floor in the Jamesways Tents (which are actually tents, thick canvas tents, but tents nonetheless) is COLD, like below 32F, and having freezing feet the first thing in the morning is no fun. The next thing to put on is thermal underwear. After the thermals, the ECWs, which stand for Extreme Cold Weather gear (they just adore acronyms and abbreviations in Antarctica. It makes everything sound so much more official). Then Windpants and “Bunny Boots” which are thick-soled rubber boots. They weigh a total of 7 pounds, are bulky and clunky, but are absolutely essential to combat freezing cold snow. There is no dirt at the South Pole, only 9,000 feet of snow beneath your feet. That’s a lot of coldness underfoot, so the boots come in handy (or footy). It's also very important to remember to put the boots on AFTER the pants, or things can get a little unstable as you try to balance on one foot as your other foot is stuck halfway down your pantleg.
After the windpants and boots, it’s time to put on the fleece jacket, the big green or red coat, hat, neck gator and last, but not least, goggles or sunglasses. Smear some sunscreen on any exposed areas of skin (the tip of the nose is about all that should be visible at this point), slip your water bottle in your pocket and you’re ready to go. The overall weight of this ECW gear is about 20 lbs.
Though it sounds simple, this process of getting dressed can take up to 15 minutes – depending on your level of concentration first thing in the morning.
Because of the complication of dressing for cold, waking up in the middle of the night and having to go to the bathroom can be a truly disheartening experience.

This is Not a Test…

The last few weeks have been very hectic at the South Pole.
Christmas, New Years, the arrival of 4 British Marines who skied in from Patriot Hills (about 700 miles away), a group of 11 Indian Navy who skied in the last 2 degrees of latitude (about 100 miles), then a British woman skiing solo from Hercules Inlet – over 700 miles away - a new record, 39 days…and a major emergency in the power plant.

Christmas was spent like most days off – sleeping in, eating a huge brunch, then lazing around for the rest of the day. The night before X-mas, we enjoyed a fancy dinner, with tablecloths and everything. Holidays are nice because they give you something to look forward to, a little break in the monotony and, for most people, an extra day off.

The British arrived a few days later. They had a few bad spots of frostbite on their faces and smelled pretty ripe, but were otherwise in great shape considering they had just spent 46 days skiing across Antarctica, pulling heavy sleds behind them. Their plan was to pick up supplies that had been delivered for them at the Pole and then, when the wind was right, kite back to Patriot Hills. Luckily for us, the wind was coming from the complete wrong direction for a number of days after their arrival and the Brits were forced to hang out a few days longer than they had anticipated. In the meantime, they were lovely to talk to, gave us a great slide show / talk about their journey, and let me fly one of their kites. Especially appreciated was Paul’s willingness to sing for the band that played at our New Year’s party. It was a great save as the band didn’t have a singer.
They’re on their way back now sending out cool web updates. http://www.humanedgetech.com/expedition/polarquest2/index.php

The Indian Naval group and the solo skier were all in the galley on the day of the Brit’s slide show and were able to add a lot of information and tell us about their own particular expeditions. I admire their courage of pitting themselves against the harshness of Antarctica, but I think they’re all nuts. There are many people who have a love affair with Antarctica, but I will never understand how someone can love a continent that is constantly trying to kill you.

OK, on to the big drama, our powerplant emergency. Just a few days after X-mas, I was getting ready to go to work when the fire alarm sounded. “Whooop, whoop, whoop!” Then a computer voice, “May I have your attention please. There is a fire emergency in the POWERPLANT, in the POWERPLANT.”
“Damn. I really hope this is another false alarm,” I thought, but hurried to get dressed and get to the powerplant. I’m on the volunteer trauma team, so it’s my responsibility to show up whether it’s a drill or not. Then, as I was about to leave the building for the powerplant, a human voice came over the loudspeaker, “Please be advised, CO2 has been released in the powerplant.”
Damn. Not a drill.
CO2 is only released in a real fire and only for a fire involving electrical equipment. Before a CO2 release, there is only a 30 second warning. If you’re not out of the room quick, the gas can be deadly. I searched my brain for who might be in the powerplant at that hour, “Adam is on shift right now. Oh please don’t let Adam be in the room with CO2 being released,” I thought.
I hurried to the powerplant.
When I arrived, the scene seemed like complete chaos. The power was out, there was tons of smoke and people were running back and forth in firefighter gear. I asked the first person I found where the muster point for the trauma team was and was directed to the bar. When I walked in I saw someone on the floor being secured to a stretcher.
That’s Bill!
Damn.
There were enough people handling the situation so I just hung back and tried to help provide light with the failing flashlights we had available.
Damn. This was the real thing. Not a drill. I took a quick inventory of the medical supplies in case we had another victim. Then my friend Adam came in supported by two people. He was able to sit up but looked terrible.
I yelled, “We have another one! Get the first patient out to medical quick! We need the room!”
Bill was quickly shuttled out the door to a waiting snowmobile and whisked off to medical. Now it was Adam’s turn. He was coherent, but had inhaled a lot of smoke. I helped put him in a mummy bag and strap him to a back board while someone gave him oxygen. Within 5 minutes, he was on his way to Medical.
Now came the hard part. Waiting. Would there be more victims? Would the power come back on? What was going on in the powerplant?
After almost 7 hours of sitting around, the power finally came back on and was stable. The “fire” turned out to have come from a leaking pipe that broke and poured heating fluid (glycol) onto a hot generator. The glycol smoked but no real fire erupted. We had a total of 6 victims, all of whom were pronounced OK by the doctor and allowed to go home by the end of the day. In the end, everything was fine, we learned a lot about our emergency response abilities, discovered some weaknesses, realized how much we all depend on each other and were reminded that heat and electricity are truly wonderful things when the outside temperature is teeth-chatteringly cold.

More photos at:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/32829412@N00/

24 Hours of Daytime

It seems like something a person could get used to eventually.
The sun is out ALL THE TIME. Big deal, hang a blanket over the window and go to sleep, right?
Not so easy. After spending a day indoors, working hard, your body feels tired. Walking outdoors can be something of a shock, especially if you haven't been around a window in the last few hours. Not only does the negative 50 degree temperature smack you in the face like a prizefighter, but the full-on, middle-of-the-day, blinding sunlight feels, well it just feels wrong.
Imagine this scenario - you've worked a long day, you mosey over to the bar for a couple of drinks. After a couple of beers, you're tired, you're ready for bed, you walk outside and…
BLAMMO! the midday sun hits you smack in the eye. Your first impression is,
"Oh jeez. How long was I in that bar?!!" the next impression is a feeling of guilt - walking out of a bar in broad daylight just feels wrong. I don't care how long I'm here for. I will never feel good about walking out of a bar in blinding daylight.

And while we're on the subject of “here” – the absolute middle of nowhere –
After working all day in the kitchen in a normal job, doing normal things, pausing to look out the window and seeing an ocean of snow can be a major freakout. Life here is so normalized...until you look out the window. People have DIED out there and here I am all cozy and warm indoors, wearing a short-sleeved shirt, working a normal job and living a somewhat normal life. Sometimes the wind whips up the snow and the visibility is less than a mile. Other times, you can see clear to the horizon.
It is always white and it is always flat…and it is always cold.

Ice is Nice

Ice is Nice
We arrived at McMurdo Base on Monday afternoon after a 5 hour flight on a C-17 (a big-ol' military plane). There are only a few small portholes on a C-17, and nothing to see over the ocean, so my first glimpse of Antarctica came when I stepped off the airplane onto the ice runway. We had landed on the frozen ocean a couple of miles away from McMurdo Base and my first view was an almost complete 360 of ice and snow and mountains. It was breathtaking. The first thing one notices is the brightness and the clarity of the sky in Antarctica. The sky is crystal-clear and ice-blue, like the blue you see in photographs of icebergs. McMurdo Base is surrounded by hills and mountains, one of which is Mt. Erebus (the southernmost active volcano in the world). On the day we arrived, the top of the volcano was hidden by clouds, but since then I have seen some puffs of white emitting from its top.

Upon our arrival, we were shuttled off in busses (one of which was named 'Ivan the Terra-Bus') and taken to the Galley, also known as Building 155, where we had orientation. Most buildings here have a number and a name...and sometimes another name. The dorm where I am staying is called 188, Mammoth Mountain Inn and MMI. It can be a little confusing for a newbie like me.

Later that evening, I found out from one of the supervisors that our flight had actually arrived 45 minutes late. The reason we were late was because there had been a seal on the runway and the captain had been forced to circle for 45 minutes waiting for the seal to move out of the way. I am so totally in Antarctica!

I have actually been here for a couple of days now and it's uncertain when I will be able to get to the Pole. In order to fly out, the temperature at the Pole must be -50F or warmer. Since that hasn't happened yet, there is a large group of us "Poleys" waiting to go. There are at least 4 planeloads of people in front of my group, so the date of departure is uncertain. Pole people who are scheduled to arrive after us, like my husband, will be delayed in Christchurch until some of the people who are already here can be sent onward to the Pole. As much as it's cool to be here, I can't help being jealous of those stuck in New Zealand, with warm temperatures, places to see and a daily stipend of Kiwi Cash.

In the meantime, our group of almost 150 Poleys is causing a bit of a strain on the McMurdo community which is not used to supporting such a large amount of "extra" people. We're all doing what we can to help out, volunteering in the kitchen, washing dishes, finding a department where are skills might be helpful. You can only do so much though, so we regularly stumble across each other in the coffee shop, the library and, of course, the bar. People at McMurdo have been very friendly and understanding for the most part, but occasionally we do get the "When are you guys gonna leave?" comment. The fact that our jackets (also known as Extreme Cold Weather Gear or ECWs - again with the 3 names) are differently colored than those of the folks here doesn't really help us to blend in.

I've been enjoying my freetime, helping out in the kitchen, attending yoga class and hiking all around the base. Working a full shift is going to come as a shock to my system...assuming we ever make it to the Pole...

Antarctica Bound!

I'm leaving for Antarctica in 2 days.
In the corner of my bedroom is a pile of clothes, toiletries and miscellaneous odds and ends that I plan on bringing with me to the South Pole. There is no chance in hell all these items are going to fit in my suitcase. In addition to the stress of packing, paying bills in advance, finding someone to care for my plants and making sure the subletters have all the emergency contact information, I have been having very strange dreams. Every night they are becoming more and more bizarre (last night involved aliens and biological experiments).

My travel itinerary goes like this:
Tues. October 17th Leave Chicago for Denver
Spend 2 days in Denver for training and filling out forms (most likely involving signing away any right to sue in case of accident, dismemberment or death)
Thurs. October 19th Leave Denver for Los Angeles to Aukland, New Zealand to Christchurch, New Zealand (17.5 hours total air time)
Wait around in Christchurch for the call to leave for the Ice (Antarctica).
This wait can be anywhere from 1 to 5 days depending on the weather.
Then from Christchurch to McMurdo base to the South Pole (another 8, or so, hours).

Yesterday, my husband and I sent a package to ourselves at our South Pole address filled with treats which we thought we might appreciate when the package arrives a month from now. The package consisted mostly of dark chocolate, tea, cocoa and cigarettes. We considered sending ourselves some good whiskey, but with the trouble of mailing liquid items and the extra weight, we decided against it. Besides, we figured that the South Pole was most likely well-stocked with liquid refreshment. After a 9-10 hour workday, the employees would surely riot if there was no beer to be had. Plus, any wise employer knows that a well lubricated crew is a happy crew.

Check out the
South Pole Web Cam

Oh, by the way, the current temperature (with windchill) is -85F
crap.

New Orleans Garden District, Cemetaries, Restaurants and Oyster Fest '05!

Walking Around the Garden District Rule number 1:
Make sure to wear sturdy shoes. In all of New Orleans, there is no place where the sidewalk is level, straight or negotiable. This is what happens when you build a city on top of a swamp and then plant oak trees along all the avenues. While the city gradually sinks into the mud, the oak trees thrive, pushing up the sidewalk and streets at obscene angles. I have a great admiration for the women who are brave enough to venture out in high-heels, especially the pointy-toed stilettos which are in vogue now. You need some strong ankles and a whole lot of bravado to go teetering around in those...especially after a couple of cocktails...

Rule number 2:
Everyone that you see walking around the Garden District is a tourist. People who can afford to live in the Garden District do not walk. They go to the gym for exercise.

Cemeteries
The other day I was feeling a little homesick, so I took a walk over to the Lafayette cemetery. Nothing gets you out of a blue spell like visiting a cemetery.
No matter how rotten you might feel, at least you're not six feet under, right?
Cemeteries in Southern Louisiana are notable for the fact that they are above ground, which makes it feel like you are walking among small houses. Cities of the dead. The abundance of rain in Southern Louisiana helps all the massive oak trees grow, but causes the cemetery graves to decompose much faster than they would in a drier climate. Marble cracks, water gets in, plants start growing...instant jungle. The crumbling tomb lids give one the distinct impression that the deceased are not actually "at rest" as the headstones may advertise, but instead are trying desperately to get out.

Restaurants
Oddly enough, the Commander's Palace, one of the more famous Creole Restaurants (a.k.a. expensive), is right next to the Lafayette Cemetery. I've been told that on weekdays, during lunch, they offer 25 cent Martinis and Cosmopolitans. Also, their lunch menu is priced much more affordably than their dinner menu, so during the week, mixed in with all the tourists, there is a large assortment of locals who work nights, appreciate good food and who don't have a lot of spare cash. I've heard the food is quite tasty, so we have plans for a inebriated lunch date sometime this week or next. Maybe we'll teeter over to the cemetery afterwards and make sure none of the dead guys have escaped.

Oyster Fest 2005
We did it! Oyster Fest occurred on Easter Sunday 2005. Laura, our good friend, invited a few of her friends over, we invited a couple of our friends and we bought a sack of oysters. We shucked...and we shucked...and we made other people shuck. There were 8 of us hungrily devouring oysters as fast as the three shuckers could shuck them (which wasn't very fast...especially for a newbie like me) and we still had almost 3 dozen oysters left at the end of the evening!

FYI
I finally got my hands on some Bud Extra. I was so excited. Beer with caffeine! Two of my most favorite things in the whole world, together at last! I can't tell you how thrilled I was. I bought some, took it home and...

It's disgusting. Undrinkable. It tastes like Red Bull with beer flavoring. Blech. The creepiest thing about it is that there is no way of knowing exactly what's in it. Because it is marketed as an alcoholic beverage, Budweiser isn't required to list the ingredients. It could contain crumbled worm guts for all I know...and perhaps it does...which might explain the greasy aftertaste...

St. Patrick's Day Parade. New Orleans.

The amount of beads that are thrown from the parade floats is indescribable. Literally TONS of colored, plastic, bead necklaces...and this was only St. Patrick’s Day! Imagine the mayhem of Mardi Gras along a parade route! After we caught a few strands of beads, we began actively trying NOT to catch any more beads... even so, we still managed to come home with pounds of them. While I took photographs, Lyderic had to stand just behind me to ensure that I didn't get hit in the head while shooting. Beads hurt. The cabbages, potatoes and carrots that were being thrown from the floats hurt even more. After about an hour of the parade, the crowd became bored with the beads and were also trying NOT to catch more beads. By the end of the parade, the street was filled with neglected beads, cabbage leaves, discarded moon pie wrappers and other flotsam and jetsam. The crowd went home, many people with huge sacks full of cabbage, potatoes, onions and carrots slung over their shoulders.

All About Oysters

Before arriving in New Orleans, I had these grandiose ideas of eating fresh oysters on the half-shell every night with dinner. New Orleans is known for it's seafood, right? I figured we'd be close enough to the Gulf of Mexico to hit it with a well thrown stone, so oysters should be plentiful and cheap... and I was right... to a certain extent. They are plentiful AND cheap, but you can only buy them already shucked. There's a bizarre law that does not allow for a sack of oysters in the shell to be divided and sold individually, except with a special license, and as of yet, I have not been able to locate a fish monger with this particular license. The strange thing is that it's perfectly legal for a store to tear open a closed, tagged sack, shuck the oysters and then sell the shucked oysters by the half-pint, pint...up to a gallon size. Go figure.

As much as I love oysters, I'm not oblivious to the fact that they are ugly, slimy-looking things. For some inexplicable reason, raw oysters only look appealing on the half-shell (and even then, just barely) so if you can imagine a pint full of them (or worse, a whole gallon!)- all grey and naked, floating in their milky juices... not a very appetizing thing to see, I can assure you. I have considered saving the shells the next time we go out for raw oysters, then buying some shucked oysters and placing one on each half-shell, but that would just be silly...and an act of sheer desperation. Cooking them is another option and although they add a delicious flavor to gumbo, they taste far better when served raw. Do you see my predicament? Can you feel my pain?

Unfortunately, thanks to Louisiana's strange licensing setup, it appears that our only options are to go to a restaurant and spend too much money OR buy an entire 25 pound sack of oysters (that's about 100 oysters). Considering that a sack of oysters is only $26.00, it's a very tempting proposition. I'm relatively sure that I would not be able to eat 50 oysters in one sitting, but I would certainly be willing to try!

The only other option is to make some friends here and then invite them over to an oyster-fest at our place. We are currently conducting informal interviews with
potential candidates, with the main focus of ascertaining the potential candidate's level of interest in oysters. The questions go something like this:
1. Do you like oysters?
2. On a scale of 1 to 10 how much would you say that you like oysters?
3. With what method of preparation do you prefer your oysters?
4. If requested to do so, would you be able to eat 25-35 raw oysters?
5. What if you were forced to eat that many? Could you do it?
6. If you were in a Russian Gulag and made to eat oysters on the half-shell...

For some reason, we haven't been able to get past question 4 or 5 before the potential candidate excuses him or herself to go to the restroom and then disappears...

Gardens, Ghosts and Crazy Landladies

The apartment we live in is just inside the Garden District at Jackson and Magazine Street. You would think that this would be a prime location - I mean, it's called the GARDEN District and some of the mansions in the neighborhood are priced in the
millions - but whenever we tell people we live in the Garden District, we invariably get a weird look and a knowing, "Oohh." When pressed for the meaning of this cryptic "Oohh", they immediately clam up and say, "Oh, nothing. It's just that the neighborhood has a, ...well, ...a reputation."
"Well, what kind or reputation?" we ask.
"Oh, um, just be careful."
"Well, we're from Chicago. You can't scare us. We're tough. We can chew it up for breakfast, spit it out and ask for seconds...
...so, what exactly are we being careful of?"
But that's all we can get out of anyone, "just be careful."
Of what, we haven't figured out yet. It's very cryptic. Ghosts of Civil War generals? Deceased plantation owners? It's a mystery because the only people we have seen walking around in the neighborhood are tourists, hoards of them. Maybe they get roudy in summer and try barging in people's apartments for tours?

We are one block away from Magazine Street, a cool, 6 mile promenade full of boutiques, record shops, cafes and restaurants. On warm, sunny days, it's full of people strolling around, shopping or sitting at cafes.

The apartment we live in is a 100+ year old mansion that has been divided up into 6 apartments. It's very beautiful from the front...but since we live in the back, we rarely see the front of the building, so the effect is kind of lost on us. Our apartment is a little, one-bedroom affair with a kitchen, a bit of a garden view, some steps outside our front door to sit on and air conditioning which should be coming in handy in about a month. The landlord is an old Italian lady who grew up in the Bronx. She's losing her hearing and her mobility is limited due to an injury she received a couple of years ago, so she spends a lot of her time hanging out by the door to her apartment watching our comings and goings and asking us regularly about our job situation, what we are having for dinner, where we are going, etc.

In addition to her snoopyness, she has terrible taste in music. The reason I know this is because she plays her music so damn loud, we can hear it in our apartment. Occasionally Marvyn Gaye makes an appearance to soothe our ears, but in general, the day passes with German drinking songs including, but not limited to, such perennial favorites as the Chicken Dance and It's A Small World After All. (if you've ever been trapped on the "It's a Small World" ride at Disneyland and forced to listen to this song repeated over and over at high volume for almost an hour, this particular number can bring back especially traumatic memories)

"Do you like my music? You know, it's over one hundred years old, my music." she says proudly as we stare at the ground, shuffling our feet and thinking of a polite way to tell her that the constant thudding bass of Um-Pah-Pah not only prevents us from concentrating on our projects while in the apartment but also has the unsettling effect of causing us to imagine creative ways of strangling old ladies.

We're beginning to wonder if perhaps this is what people have been warning us about.
"Oh, you live in the Garden District?" "Just be careful"
What they're really saying is, "Be careful not to strangle any old ladies or you'll be thrown in jail for many more years than it might be worth just to silence that annoying Um-Pah-Pah music."

New Orleans Music, Food and Glossary of Terms

One of the first things that strikes you when you arrive in New Orleans - after you get over the wonderful smells of Creole food emanating from every restaurant - is the vibrancy of the music scene here. First off - the local public radio station does not play typical public radio fare; no BBC news, no Ira Glass, no Car Talk and no classical music. Monday through Friday, they play jazz, blues and some Cajun
and it's all LOCAL music and musicians. Bands that are scheduled to play in a club that night will often stop by the station to announce their gig and the DJ who is on staff at that time will usually conduct a short, impromptu interview with the band. At the top of each odd hour, the station broadcasts a recorded list of all the live music scheduled for that evening and the station even maintains a 24-hour phone line with a recorded message listing the bands and venues for that evening. http://WWOZ.org if you want to check it out. In addition to this, the best radio station ever, there are at least 2 free music magazines that list all the schedules of the local live music venues and offer music reviews and interviews with artists and bands. Most of the clubs are located in or around the French Quarter, so even if you don't know which band you want to see that night, you can just go for a walk and stop in whichever club sounds good to you. Many clubs even have two sets with two different bands on the weekends, one early show and one late. The other night, Lyderic and I saw a trio of washboard, tuba and guitar, a Flamenco dance performance and a country-blues band in three different clubs, all for the price of a few drinks.

Another thing I've noticed, and I believe this is typical of all the South, is that people are much more civil to each other. They say "hello" or "excuse me". They will chat with you in line at the grocery store or at a cafe or bar - and no one honks at you when you're driving - even if you do something foolish like go the wrong way down a one-way street.

Glossary of Terms:
Cajun: A person of French descent from rural Louisiana.
Cajun music: Music by Cajuns. Usually includes accordion, guitar, fiddle and drums. The lyrics are often in French or a French dialect.
Cajun food: Typically spicy and either boiled or, more commonly, deep-fried. Cajun vegetables are, without exception, deep-fried, usually to the point where they have lost any semblance of their original color, flavor or texture.
Creole: Formerly the wealthy residents of New Orleans of French or Spanish descent. Although Cajuns will commonly refer to themselves as Cajuns, a person would not refer to themselves as being of Creole descent (unless they were really snooty).
Creole food: See "Cajun food", then bump up the price. Actually, food in New Orleans is really good and much less greasy and fried than Cajun food. The quality of the ingredients tends to be high and the flavors are more delicate. Vegetables and salads often appear on the plate in their original - or close to original form.

Mardi Gras in Cajun Country

Imagine the following scenario: a large group of country-folk dressed in colorful, fringed, homemade costumes. Drinking has begun at 7am (or earlier if the party happened to be spilling over from the party of the night before). All the revelers, called “Mardi Gras”, are packed onto trailers or on horseback and then travel out to farms or houses in the countryside. Once at the houses, the costumed revelers begin to dance and sing songs in an ancient style of French, begging the farmer for ingredients for a communal gumbo. The farmer lets them dance, watching from the porch of his house. Occasionally a dancer will break from the festivities and in a great show of begging, grovel at the feet of the farmer or pull at the pant legs of one of the onlookers. The capitain, whose job it is to keep all the participants in line, makes a great show of mock-whipping the transgressor and shoving him or her back into the dancing melee. After some time, the farmer produces a chicken from a sack on the porch and throws it in the air. Suddenly, the Mardi Gras stop dancing. They break into a wild run in pursuit of the chicken, tripping over each other in their haste. The chase can last for several minutes as the Mardi Gras climb trees, jump over bushes and leap over fences in order to catch the chicken. On one occasion, I even saw a Mardi Gras crawl into a storm drain in pursuit of an especially wily bird.
Sheer madness, I tell you.

After Cajun Country, we arrived in the Big Easy, New Orleans. We managed to find a furnished apartment at a pretty good price in the Garden District and get relatively familiar with our surroundings. Next up dreaded job hunt...

The weather has been spectacular (although, for some reason, everyone has been complaining about how cold it is...boo hoo, it's only 55 degrees. We were just ecstatic that the temperatures were above freezing!) The trees and telephone wires were still draped with beads from the recent New Orleans Mardi Gras celebrations giving everything along the parade routes a jeweled, Christmasy appearance.

Cracking the Conch Mystery - Bahamas

In the Bahamas, the conch is a delicacy featured in every menu in every restaurant; cracked conch, conch fritters, conch chowder, conch flambe (OK, so I haven't actually seen that last one yet, but I'm sure it exists somewhere). Conch is the shell that Hawaiians blow through in all the old-timey movies that depict life before car horns. It's a very beautiful shell and I wanted one! At every island we went to, we would see conch boats loaded to the gills with conchs bound for restaurants and food stalls in town. Every beach we walked on (even the most remote ones) had conch shells lying empty on the sand with the tell-tale break in the shell signifying that whatever had once lived inside the shell had been forcibly removed to become someone's meal. I snorkeled high and low, but for the life of me, I couldn't find a darn conch anywhere. I was becoming convinced that conches in the Bahamas only existed in top secret conch farms, far-removed from the prying eyes of sneaky tourists. Then one day, at high tide, I took the dinghy to a remote area of the little harbor we were anchored in and I found the mother-load of conch colonies. YAY!!! Conch for dinner! I picked 9 of the largest conchs and took them back to the boat. Now to clean them. I figured it couldn't be too hard. The locals did it all the time. I whacked the shell in the proper place, cut around inside a bit with a knife and then yanked out the little beasty inside. The grossest looking, slimy, squirmy alien entity spilled out on the table in front of me. EEEEWWWWW! This thing didn't look anything like the fritter I had eaten the night before - it was brown and pink and black with two antennas and a slime emitting device that was sliming like nobody’s business. The US government, or at least the Astro-Glide company, need to look into the chemical composition of this slime because the ick wouldn't wash off. Even with soap and hot water I had to wash my hands 3 times to get the goo off! OK, so being the tough girl that I am, I start to skin
the critter and chop off its guts. I figure the Bahamians have been doing it for centuries, how hard can it be, right? Well, the thing was still moving and sliming and being downright uncooperative in this endeavor. FINALLY - after about an hour and a half - I get two of the beastys cleaned and begin slicing the muscle into strips to make ceviche. Well, the darn thing is STILL MOVING, so each strip that I cut curls up and contracts and I end up having to cube each strip individually and then douse the whole mess in lime juice. GROSS! But, like I said, "doing it for centuries...when in Rome"...etc.

We ate it for dinner and it was good.
The End.

Stuck in Spanish Wells, Bahamas

It turns out that the damage to the boat was much worse than expected. After hobbling the boat over to Spanish Wells, using only one engine and at the fantastic speed of a whopping 5 miles per hour, the mechanics at the boatyard hauled the boat out of the water. Once the boat was on land it was obvious that we'd be stuck here for awhile. Parts have to be ordered from Miami and a lot of straightening and re-aligning needs to be done. The propeller was mangled and although we had a spare, we didn't have spares for all the other stuff that was bent up. "Well," I thought, "the weather is great and the scenery is beautiful. There are plenty of worse places to be stranded."

That was one week ago and now I can't wait to leave. Not only is my home propped up at a 15 degree angle (I measured) but there is really nothing to do here. We don't go out to eat because the food is nasty and deep fried - no fresh fish anywhere on the island! “What’s the big deal? Cook on the boat,” you say. Hey, YOU try cooking a meal when your kitchen is tilted at 15 degrees and everything wants to slide off the counter into the sink!
There is NO liquor served or sold anywhere on the island, there's no movie theater, no library (no book store even!), no video rental, no art gallery...not much of anything. It's no wonder the kids just drive around the island all night with their music blasting. There's nothing else to do!
That's another strange thing - the island is only 2 miles long by 1/4 mile wide. Having a vehicle is really unnecessary, but no one here walks. They either drive a fancy, new car or they putt around in golf carts or on scooters. I think it all stems from having too much money and nothing to do. The kids drop out of school at around 14 years old - the girls to get married and the boys to go lobster fishing - The guys who fish (which is most of them) make about $60,000 per year. They spend their cash on cars and drive around in circles all day and part of the night - occasionally changing direction so as not to get dizzy.

Nassau, Bahamas and a Wrecked Propeller

After 5 days of boating around the islands, we finally made it to Nassau . We were going into port to drop off one of the guests of the boss-man and on the way into the harbor, hit a submerged rock. We hit it pretty hard and it certainly scared the heck out of me with the loud THUD and grating noise. One propeller no longer worked and as I ran around like an idiot, looking for any sign of water leaking in, the owner hobbled the yacht into port. Everyone is OK, but the port side propeller is bent up pretty bad along with the propeller shaft. In fact, it is so badly bent that in order to make the repair, the boat must be lifted out of the water. The catch is that there is no place in Nassau that has a lift big enough, so tomorrow we're leaving for an island called Spanish Wells, near Eluthera Island, in order to get the boat repaired. We'll be able to make it to Spanish Wells OK, it will just take a little longer than it normally would.

I’m excited to have the opportunity to visit another island and go into port. My favorite thing about traveling has always been meeting new people and experiencing a different culture...whereas all the boss-man likes to do is fish. Yawnsville.

Bahamians are very friendly and smile alot. I like it here in Nassau. And the water! I can't even describe the amazing shades of blue! In 10 feet of water over a sandy bottom, the color is the lightest shade of turquoise you've ever seen...and you can make out exactly what is lying on the bottom, crystal clear. Naturally, I've been looking for dubloons...Nassau having been a hub of pirate activity in the distant past. I'd settle with a cutlass or broad sword though.

Shoving Off, the Gasparilla Pirate Parade and More about Mullets

It looks as though we will be shoving off in 2 days. The boat is stocked with food and supplies and all fueled up (600 gallons!!) We just need to load up on fresh vegetables and then we’re off!

Last week, I rented a video on CPR when I found out that the owner has a cholesterol level of over 300!!!! (He wouldn’t tell me the exact number). Then I got smart and rented some videos on chart reading and navigation. I figure, if he keels over on the trip I’ll give the CPR thing a try and when that doesn’t work it’s the old heave-ho and I set a course for South America!! I’ll sell the boat to some drug lord in Uruguay and retire in semi-luxury with an army of cabana boys at my beck and call to fan me and give me foot massages.
Aaaaaah. “More pressure on the big toe, Pedro.”

The wildlife count now includes 3 dolphins, a couple of blue herons, some monkeys that I saw when I snuck into Noah’s Chimp Farm, and thousands of raving drunk lunatics at the Gasparilla Pirate Parade (Tampa’s answer to Mardi Gras). The legend goes something like this: Two hundred years ago, the pirate Jose Gasparilla, invaded the city of Tampa and sacked the town using the usual pirate techniques of pillaging, looting, general mayhem, etc. So, now they have a parade in his honor every February.
By this strange reasoning, I imagine 200 years from now, New York City holding an Osama parade and instead of dressing like pirates, the residents of New York City will don robes and fake beards and cheer as floats of tanks and airplanes go by on the parade route. Hey, stranger things have happened.

Unfortunately, research on the Mullet will have to be put on hold until I return from the Bahamas, but I’ve made some startling discoveries since my last report. First, I discovered that there is an island nearby called “Mullet Key”. Maybe the location of secret rituals and rites, maybe just a little island where people go to fish. No one knows! The other discovery is that of a fish called the “Mullet”. It’s a common, but unusual fish in Florida. This fish swims in large groups but has very limited contact with other species of marine life. It may have something to do with the fact that the other fish laugh at the Mullets because of their funny-looking hairdos.

Wildlife Count, Motorcycles and Manatees

I'm having a grand, ol' time here despite all the rednecks and the shrivs (shriveled-up old people) I recently got my grubby little hands on a motorcycle, so now I'm mobile and no longer need to rely on the bus system (which runs once every hour from 5am to 9pm except every other Wednesday when they run every 42.5 minutes...you get the picture).
I haven't made it to Tampa yet, only a measly 20 miles away, because I'm still not quite sure about the motorcycle. I had resurrected it from the dead and it seems to still have some lingering goblins...or it could just be pissed that I'm driving the darn thing all over town...

The wildlife tally so far (not counting the rednecks)is this:
4 alligators
4 soft shell turtles
6 gopher turtles
1 random turtle that was crossing the street on my way to the library.
2 green herons
1 blue heron
countless pelicans, seagulls and cormorants that like to squawk in my ear at 7 in the morning as the sun comes up
and 1 manatee that was swimming around in the marina yesterday. It was so close I swear I could have touched it as it swam under the dock. I wanted to jump in and swim with it, but I doubt the manatee would have wanted to play and then I would have looked pretty foolish splashing around in the Marina by myself.

The weather has been incredible and I'm still enjoying myself immensely. Rumor has it that on the 15th of January or thereabouts we will head off to the Bahamas. All I know for sure is that I will probably get seasick. Once again, a hearty “thank you” goes out to the makers of Dramamine and to all those products which aid in the righteous fight against the ills of motion sickness.

The Mullet

Despite its dwindling numbers in the rest of North America, I'm pleased to report that the Mullet appears to be thriving in Florida. Whether this is due to the abundance of cheap beer and 80's metal or the superior climate has not yet been ascertained, but intensive studies of the Mullet's social, work and breeding habits are being conducted as we speak.

On November 15, 2001 I submitted a proposal to the Endangered Mullet Society for a grant to study this rare and misunderstood creature. I hope to shed more light on its social behavior patterns and its offspring rearing practices. (It has been noted in past studies that the offspring of Mullets do not necessarily stay with the flock and occasionally exhibit distinctly non-Mullet behavior, such as a comprehension of basic math skills and the ability to form complete sentences).

I am very excited about the proposed study and I anxiously await the reply from the EMS (Endangered Mullet Society). I'll be sure to keep you updated on the proposal and my upcoming research.

Florida is Neato

I arrived in St. Petersburg, FL on Friday (after having all my luggage and person searched...twice) and was whisked away to the yacht that will serve as my home for the next six months. It's really nice. There's a large living room, a covered back deck, small kitchen, a master bedroom, guest room, and my room at the bow of the ship. My room is relatively spacious with a dresser, small closet and bunk bed with two little windows that I can look out of when I'm on the top bunk. It also has a sunroof/escape hatch that I can climb out of when I want to get closer to the warm Florida sun.

Speaking of which...the weather has not been of the highest caliber since my arrival. There was some worry that St. Petersburg was in the path of Hurricane Michelle (ironic, no?), but as of yesterday, it seems that we're not in harms way...
Unfortunately, one of the side effects of having a hurricane pass close by, is an increase in water movement. Even though the yacht is in a relatively well-protected harbor, the boat still rocks rather violently from side to side, making me green - and not with envy.
Thank goodness for Dramamine...

A New Adventure - This Time in Florida...and the Bahamas

The big news is that I’m leaving again on another adventure! This time I’ll be gone for awhile…like, until May.

Completely by chance, I got a job working on a boat that will be docked in Florida for the winter. I will be cook / housekeeper / crew for this boat from November 1; docked in St. Petersburg harbor; to January or February; when we weigh anchor (how much does an anchor weigh anyway?) and head for the Bahamas; through April and perhaps until the middle of May, after which we return to Chicago via the Mississippi river.

I will be the only other crew member on the boat and although I was a little unsure about this at first, after talking to the owner and speaking with some of his past employees, I realized that the sleaze factor for this scenario is zero, and nothing to worry about. I get to learn how to navigate, maintain, dock and generally care for a 56’ Hatteras power yacht, as well as cook and clean…I’ve also got to learn how to gut, fillet and prepare a super-fresh fish A.S.A.P! The owner really likes to fish and anything that we catch, we eat.

I’m very excited about this new adventure but also a little nervous…you know that saying, “If it seems too good to be true it probably is…” yeah. That’s kinda how I’m feeling. Getting paid to travel? Wow,…you know how some kids dreamt of being policemen or firefighters? I always dreamt of being a professional traveler…when I was little, I thought that being a flight attendant was the absolute pinnacle of existence. I’m not so keen on the flight attendant career anymore, but traveling! I can’t get it out of my blood. It’s probably my parents’ fault. I mean, really, who takes a 10 month old baby to Europe and then expects her to grow up all normal like!!??!