Hakuna Matata

You can’t go to Africa, particularly East Africa, and not go on a safari. Okay, you can, but really, why would you want to? The practical, grown-up answer is, of course, money; as a general rule, experience-based commodities, especially when the experience is something rare or precious, tend to be either expensive affairs or jam-packed with people.

Luckily for us, Uganda currently falls right in between those two extremes: not the most popular, over-touristed destination in the region (like Kilimanjaro or Serengeti National Park) , but with a newly-blossoming budget safari industry. And by ‘newly-blossoming’, I mean ‘has two reasonable options.

Now, the difference between a budget safari and your other safari options comes down to one thing: number of passengers, i.e. are you willing to risk sharing your experience with a bunch of strangers, potentially putting the fate of your trip in their hands? Some people would rather pay more and keep the whole thing as a private endeavor, since, as we have learned in the past, the group is one of the vital ingredients, with the power to completely sabotage an experience. We got lucky. Not only did we save money, but we ended up with a fantastic group of people, something that certainly augmented the whole experience.

Of the two most impressive national parks in Uganda, we opted for Murchison Falls National Park as it is the cheaper of the two and home to the country’s only giraffes, both equally important in my book. It is also home to one of the world’s most powerful waterfalls, where the entirety of the Victoria Nile squeezes through a tiny 6-meter-wide space, making for some mighty impressive views.

But let’s get to the important part, the reason we’re all here. Wildlife.

Seeing exotic creatures at the zoo is lovely, a glimpse into another world. Seeing those same creatures in their own habitat, roaming free, is absolutely beautiful. Breathtaking. Awe-inspiring. Surreal. An experience unique unto itself.

Over the roughly six hours spent on game drives, bouncing down dirt roads perched atop an open-roof van, we spotted a wealth of wildlife strewn about the park’s vast, lush landscape.

The elegant Ugandan Kob, the befuddled-looking Jackson’s Hartebeest, the stockier Waterbuck, all dot the horizon, grazing wherever you look.

Warthogs trot past, tails skyward, trailing their tiny wart-piglets.

Water Buffalo stand stock-still, only their jaws working away at grass, staring as we pass, birds comfortably hitching a ride on their back.

It’s a wonder to top a verdant hill, coming several feet from a herd of elephants, ears flapping, wrinkles mud-caked.

Hippos bob in the Nile, ears and eyes visible, cool in the midday heat. The males viscously assert their dominance in splashing, open-maw bouts. At night they roam our camp, grazing in the cover of night.

The vibrant flutterings of color that make up Murchison’s birdlife runs the full spectrum of the rainbow. Greens, blues, reds, oranges, and yellows, each shade is represented with a flapping of wings, a making of nests.

But for me, it’s all about the giraffes. Their unique markings, like no other creature on earth, pale in youth and darkening with age. As they run, it is as though they are moving through a viscous liquid, like the tape is played in slow motion. Graceful, majestic, and magnetic in their beauty; to witness numerous giraffes, reaching with ease into the tallest of trees to pluck a snack, towering over even the elephants, sauntering about without a care, is an experience unlike any other.

And, yes, these are animals we’ve seen a thousand times, in zoos, on nature specials and in the pages of National Geographic. But there is nothing that can take your breath right out of your chest like the beauty of seeing them carousing in their natural habitat, miles to roam, nothing but ground underfoot (or hoof or paw) and sky overhead.

Simple, Serene

Working evenings and Saturdays, our travel opportunities while in Rwanda have been quite limited. We managed to escape from Kigali’s hustle and bustle (if its road traffic and churches blaring hymns can be considered as such) for roughly an 18-hour getaway to the country’s beautiful Lake Kivu. So, we headed to Kibuye, the cheaper of the two destination options on the shores of the lake, to soak up some R&R.

Not being ones to pass up some exploration outside of Kibuye’s tiny tourist sector, we did amble through the town. We passed those at work and play, local eateries and shops, all as they languished in the mid-morning heat. Children repeatedly approached us, wondering who we were and where we were going. They were heading to markets and churches, uncertain why in the world we were just walking without destination.  

Unintended though it was, we eventually came to a destination of sorts, stumbling upon Kivu's more open, and less scenic, shore.  From this vantage point we were able to catch a glimpse of neighboring Congo (DRC) across the water, hazy and distant. 

We checked out the large lakeside Catholic church and its adjoining genocide memorial. The church itself was so full of a Sunday morning that worshipers were perched along the church walls in an attempt to catch the service, and more seemed to be pouring in by the minute.

But, the town offered little to compete with the tranquility of the town’s smaller stretch of lake. Laced between towering hills, topped with an array of hotels, this sliver of Kivu is a paradise unto itself, and the reason tourists venture to this area.

If Colorado were home to a vast array of tropical plants, it would be Kibuye. From pines with long, drooping needles to massive cactus-esque flora to trees bursting with yellow flowers and eucalyptus filling the air with their fragrances. Birds flit among the trees, lizards precariously climb flower stalks, cows low in the distance, all perfectly accompanying an early morning breakfast with a spectacular view. 

Not a bad escape, no matter how brief. 

Flaming Pink

Nearly 30,000 flamingos make their home in the shallow, murky waters of the Yucatan Peninsula’s northern coast. Thanks to the salty water of the estuaries and mangrove forests, the water of the area makes a hospitable environment for tiny organisms and algae. It’s a regular flamingo feasting ground, the carotene-rich algae making the flamingos some of the pinkest in the world.

We were lucky enough to visit the Yucatan’s Celestún Biosphere Reserve, the winter habitat of these magnificent, bizarre creatures. Vibrantly-colored, around five feet tall, and all gangly limbs and massive beak, flamingos are some of the strangest, most unique birds on the planet, bar none.

When they stretch to full height, in squawking distress about the nearness of boats or humans, it is easy to see how their shape could lead to their being used as disgruntled croquet mallets in the Queen of Hearts’ court. However, the fear and upset cause to non-fictitious flamingos by human presence has a more immediate danger; in such a delicate ecosystem, any disturbance could cause the flocks to abandon their feeding and nesting grounds, leaving these mostly non-migratory birds to seek asylum elsewhere on the peninsula.

Seeing them by the hundreds, or possibly thousands, is a breathtakingly beautiful experience. They paint the horizon in vibrant magenta patches as they spend their days feeding in the estuary bed, one-legged, necks swiveling this way and that, massive evolutionarily-designed beaks filtering water ceaselessly. There is nothing quite so amazing as seeing magnificent creatures in their natural habitat.

Making Macaws

Traveling through Central America is making one thing very clear: I am a sucker for a conservation project. Full to the brim with so-called ecotourism options, Costa Rica has more than its share of ecological options.

The problem comes down to one of choice. But, without an overarching standard, governing body, or way to realistically cross-compare, it becomes immensely difficult to tell what is a genuine, eco-friendly, positive impact project and what is just plain old, money-hungry tourism. Faced with such a choice, I was relieved to find a project that seemed like it was focused solely on the creatures it is meant to help, rather than trying to turn a profit.

Tucked away in a residential corner of Alajuela, The Ara Project, or Finca Hatched to Fly Free, is a macaw conservation effort to rescue, breed, and re-populate Costa Rica’s resident species. It’s basically what you get when you add a couple of expats with a passion for birds and zoology, sufficient acreage, and a government with a large number of  rescued native macaws and no place to put them.

Scarlet and Great Green Macaws, the two indigenous species in Costa Rica, have suffered incredible loss in population. Deforestation, poaching, the exotic pet market, and the price the feathers alone can receive, all combine to severely threaten these magnificent birds.

Making matters worse, the great greens’ lifecycle revolves solely around one tree.  It is the only place they nest; the nuts are the only food they will eat. Thanks to the tree’s value for hardwood furniture, these once migratory birds are stationary, their population has dropped to only 200, and only enough trees remain for 30 nests.

Beginning in the 1980s, Costa Rica’s macaws in need of help, those rescued from poachers, injured, or no-longer-wanted pets, were sent to this property. Naturally curious, incredibly intelligent (think 5-12 year old child), social creatures, macaws need contact with other macaws. So, once rehabilitated, health checked, and approved, the birds were put into communal cages. And, due to proximity and natural desire, the birds started pairing off and decided it was time to start up the breeding portion of the project.

Thanks in part to the birds (and their libidos), a handful of volunteers, and some biologists, the project has a full, healthy population in captivity and are slowly introducing the macaws back into the Costa Rican ecosystem. And, the Ara Project has been wildly successful. The birds have started mating in their natural habitat. The great greens released have acquired a more diverse feeding and nesting palate. Education programs have cut down on poaching.

More importantly, macaws are once again part of Costa Rica’s present, as well as its future. Grandparents who watched the macaws slowly disappear have seen them returned in large numbers. Children who have never had the opportunity to see such vibrant displays of avian plumage are given the opportunity. And in nature no less.

Now that’s something I’ll donate money to. 

The Humming of Tiny Wings

Acaime Reserve, a place bordering on magical in its beauty, is intended primarily to protect one thing, its numerous hummingbirds. At any given time of year, the reserve provides haven for six to eight hummingbird species. For a small donation (roughly $1.50), we received hot chocolate and a chunk of cheese to enjoy as the tiny birds darted around us. Eaten in local fashion, dropping the cheese into the chocolate, this was a surprisingly delicious treat. (We have found that cheese pops up in the most bizarrely delicious ways in Colombian foods.)

I find hummingbirds, much like geckos, to be endlessly fascinating in their specialized engineering. The speed at which their wings move is an unparalleled aerodynamic feat. This movement allows them to move in all directions, including backwards, a talent unique among birds. Incredibly long, narrow beaks, in conjunction with ultrathin tongues, allow them to feed from flowers (and plastic feeders of sugar water) inaccessible to other creatures. Hummingbirds are, hands down, an evolutionary marvel.

We have hummingbirds in New Mexico, as with much of the U.S., but there is something surreal about being in the presence of dozens of them all at once. They dipped and dove around us, whirring past on their way from flower to feeder, feeder to branch. Green and orange, black and white, iridescent blues, pausing briefly to drink one second, they darted away the next. Beautiful and majestic; they were worth the five-hour roundtrip hike. 

Ostrich Cowboy: The Sequel

Turns out, riding an ostrich is not as easy as it looks. And it doesn’t actually look all that easy.

Win thoroughly enjoys taking the giant birds for a spin, and in the time we have lived in Chiang Rai he has taken two visiting friends for this “Once Time in Your Life” experience. Seeing as our departure is rapidly approaching, I figured this weekend was the time to put on my big girl pants and just ride an ostrich, dammit.

Ostriches apparently each have a unique personality, and, as we discovered, drastically differing reactions to having a foreigner perched on their backs. Becca (another visiting New Mexican), for instance, rode the smaller of the two ostriches. It trotted around politely, sometimes just standing still, allowing her the comfort of only moderate awkwardness, as well as normal facial expressions in all the pictures.

I was on the bigger of the two birds, and I think Becca and I had completely opposite experiences. My ostrich liked to run full-tilt, make quick turns, come to short halts and try to buck me off its back, all while making terrifying hissing noises. Not that I blame it; I wouldn’t like it if someone were clinging to my body, holding onto my useless wings and treating me as if I were a horse.

Becca was able to gracefully slide off the tail-end of her ostrich. I was not so fortunate. Mr. Ostrich did manage to successfully hurl me off his back. I went down sideways, but somehow managed to stick the landing, inciting a burst of applause from a group of tourists who had been watching my entire ostrich debacle.

On a related note, during this visit Wanna Farms had a cluster of new hatchlings and toddler ostriches. If you have never seen a baby ostrich (as we hadn’t before yesterday), they are possibly one of the most bizarrely adorable creatures I’ve ever seen. If they didn’t grow into the mildly creep monsters that those of us in Chiang Rai like to treat like horses, I would make Win promise that we could get a bunch and let them run around our backyard.

The World's Most Awkward Birds

On a recent weekend excursion around Chiang Rai, we chanced to see something slightly different on the map. Along the route we had planned for the day, there was a tiny red star indicating the Wana Ostrich Farm. Wana Ostrich Farm? You bet we wanna.

With the twenty-foot tall ostrich statues standing guard over its entrance, Wana Farm would be hard to miss. We entered through the gift shop – purses and lamps made from monstrously large eggs – and walked back to the “farm.”

Ostriches aside, the farm itself was a bit on the average side. A handful of sheep, some very large and very sleepy rabbits, a couple of horses. But of course, then there were the ostriches. Probably a dozen, ranging in size, trotted awkwardly around a couple of pens, gangly and befuddled.

Now, I can say without hesitation, ostriches have to be some of the goofiest creatures on the face of the earth.  Dr. Seuss characters come to life; they have wings, but cannot fly. They have a long, awkward neck, but none of the grace or fluidity of a giraffe. They loll their heads about on their stringy necks, and try to eat everything within mouth-range. And, while we didn’t see it in real life, cartoons tell me that they are dumb enough to try to hide by sticking only their head underground, giant ass in full view. Their huge, curious eyes would be lovely if not for the expression of pure stupidity. Their feathers lack any color or beauty, nothing more than floppy brown tassels. Their feet are easily three times the logical size, perhaps to keep them from keeling over, and have to be lifted all the way up to their stomach and then flung forward in order to induce forward momentum. Never have I seen such an awkward creature.

But then, Win was offered the opportunity to ride an ostrich, and all awkwardness increased exponentially.

The understandably reluctant ostrich was cornered and a burlap sack tossed over its head, like putting blinders on a horse. Before having Win climb up, the Thais gave a full demonstration on the proper technique: climb from a stool onto the beast’s back, wrap your legs around it, grab the wings (as they are useless anyhow), lean back, and hold on for dear life.

When they removed the bag, the ostrich began trotting around the pen. The ringleader of the whole setup, standing safely outside the pen with me, leaned over and said to me, “It can go faster. You wan to go fast?” Of course I want to go fast, I’m sitting on the sidelines rather than on the ostrich. Everytime I would say “fast” he would yell to the Thais inside. Apparently the way to make an ostrich go faster is to chase it with a stick. Think reverse rodeo clown. So, around went the Thai with a stick, around went the ostrich with Win, and around went the second, riderless ostrich. Faster and faster, at my behest.

“Run” is probably not the word for the movement of an ostrich. Horses gallop. Gazelles bound. Giraffes lope in slow motion. Ostriches … garlumph. Yes, that has the right ring to it. Their big floppy feet are pulled all the way up to their chest, their legs swing wildly, and their whole body plops from side to side, their head bobbing and swaying atop their spaghetti neck in opposite rhythm. Ostriches garlumph along at relatively high speeds. 

And there was Win perched atop this swaying bobbing, swinging mass running away from a stick. Except, Win’s legs, being much longer than those of Asians, didn’t exactly wrap snuggly around the chest of an ostrich.

Shoes were lost, mud was flying, feathers were sticking to his sweaty palms in clumps. It was the best hundred baht we have spent in Thailand.