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. 

Just Add Water

Of incredible and awe-inspiring natural beauty, Guatemala has its fair share. The views and mountainscapes are second to none; so much so that at one point in our travels northward, we took five local buses in one day, including four hours bouncing down a dirt road, just to take the scenic route. It is vast and grand and, at times, overwhelming.

On the smaller scale, central Guatemala has some impressive natural formations. Among these are a number of cave and river systems of exhaustive beauty.

Among these natural phenomena, Semuc Champey wears the crown. Pools of varying sizes and shades of turquoise (who knew it had more than one shade?) send river water spilling from tier to tier, as the primary river takes an underground detour.

Another marvel of the shapes nature creates, a nearby cave system sprawls through Guatemala’s mountainous Alta Verapaz region. Serving as sacred sites for past and present Mayans, the caves’ stalactite and stalagmite residents sprout from floor and ceiling.

It is truly amazing the spectrum of creations that arises when Mother Nature has the help of water, minerals, and time.

Island for Sale

Just outside of Granada, on the northwest side of Lago Cocibolca, lie hundreds of fun-sized islands. Las Isletas, over 350 of them, are the result of a massive explosion over 10,000 years ago, which gave nearby Volcán Mombocho its rather haggard silhouette.

Touring the isletas the cheap and dirty way, we paid less than half the price of what the tour companies were asking. What we got was a ride in a motorboat from a teenage kid who just pointed out the obvious. And it was a lovely way to pass an hour.

Massive tropical trees sprouted from the diminutive islands, dipping their branches out over the lake. Birds dipped and dived, skimming the surface of the water. Awkward, gangly herons stalked about, trying to look elegant in white. Water lilies stretched their open faces toward the midday sun. Monkeys vaulted through tree branches.

Once one of Nicaragua’s poorest neighborhoods, the millionaires have started to move in, mansions popping up here and there to supplant the patched together houses with weatherworn paint. Hammocks and laundry hung about in the sun, as a number of the islands are inhabited.

And everywhere, islands presented themselves as a real estate option, just waiting for their new resident to boat by and fall in love. Maybe one of these days (years) we’ll have the disposable income to just choose an island, throw up a hammock and some Swiss Family Robinson–style dwelling, and spend our days, drink in hand, on our own private island. One of these days. 

Tiny Flippers

All along Sri Lanka’s southern coast, evidence of the 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami is prevalent. In between tourist towns, ruined walls and remains of gutted, faceless homes have been left to crumble. With no tourist income in the area, there is little reason or financial means to bother tearing them down or building them back up. In some places, shops spring up like weeds within the collapsing buildings. And on each of our bus rides, I was overwhelmed by the number of roadside graveyards, wondering if they were tsunami victims.

Among the devastation, Sri Lanka’s turtle hatcheries took a particularly hard hit. Many of them, though they had been in business for decades, are run complete off donations and volunteer work. So, I figured that we should surely go put our money to good use, donating to the rebuilding turtle hatcheries in the area. Kosgoda holds the highest concentration of turtle hatcheries; it is the only place where, of the five species of sea turtle that lay eggs on Sri Lanka, all five come to nest.

Since Sri Lankans consider sea turtle eggs to be a delicacy, and the hatcheries have a hard enough time with natural predators, the hatcheries pay a higher-than-market price to all local fishermen who bring in turtle eggs. They then put them in a “natural incubator” (sand box) until they are ready to hatch. Since turtles hatch at night, using the reflection of the moon as a guide back to the sea, the hatcheries rig a system wherein an artificial light lures the hatchlings into a box instead.

Baby turtles, already susceptible to birds and other predators, are especially vulnerable when they are first born. Not only are their eyes not yet open fully, but their bellybuttons aren’t closed; it’s like ringing a dinner bell for all nearby predators. The hatcheries keep the new turtles in tanks of seawater for three days, by which point their eyes are open, their bellybuttons sealed, and they are ready to go. On the night of the third day, the hatchery workers, along with any volunteers lucky enough to be there, release the baby sea turtles under the cover of darkness.

In addition to giving baby turtles a helping hand on their way to survival, the hatcheries take in wounded sea turtles. Injured turtles can be nursed to health and then released back into the ocean; turtles that have lost limbs and would typically die in the wild remain at the hatcheries, helping to educate local school children (and us tourists). Rare albino turtles, massive and majestic, don’t end up in the wild at all, their luminescence making them immediate prey.

There are obviously many people who are opposed to the turtle hatcheries’ interference with nature. But you have to figure, with sea turtle numbers dwindling, even one more turtle that survives is a small difference. 

Markets of Thailand: Floating Market

Thailand’s most popular floating market, Damneon Saduak, is in Ratchaburi province, roughly an hour plus from where we lived last semester. A floating market, is exactly the same as many street markets in terms of goods and wares for sale, just instead of walking you are in a boat, so there is the added danger of capsizing. This token difference turns Damneon Saduak into a giant tourist magnet. 

Due to the throngs of tourists, Damneon Saduak can be incredibly expensive. As is the case with many tourist areas in Thailand (and, honestly, everywhere in the world), the locals view it as a lucrative opportunity for overcharging foreigners. From the bus ride to renting a boat and someone to control the boat to buying anything vendors are selling, everything is a chance to rip off a tourist, tacking on anywhere from 20 to 400 baht more than the price should be. We were lucky enough to be traveling with P’Gee (our Thai mother), so we had to deal with less of the hassle. One of her former students was even a police officer at the market, so our boat ride (normally the most expensive part) was on the house.

Two types of boats cruise the river: longtail boats with their lawnmower engines extended dangerously far into the water and clouds of putrid black smoke; and slow boats, equally long, but motorless (so without the speed, but also the noise, sounds, and danger) and relying instead on a Thai to paddle down the river. The whole river is such a traffic jam that speed matters very little anyhow, so we opted for a quiet, leisurely ride in one of the slow boats.  

Amid the chaos, shop owners wield a long stick outfitted with a hook to catch their prey. Show any interest and your boat will be singled out. The shopkeeper uses the hook to pull the boat over to the riverside stand and hold it captive while he or she tries to sell things for hiked up prices. 

 

By mid-morning, as the sun starts to hover overhead, the floating market heats up considerably. As sun protection, many of the boats keep a full stock of big floppy hats. And as you float up and down the river, there is no shortage of cold beer, water or chilled fruit. Boats bump and knock together, jolting tourists and vendors alike, as everyone jostles to inch forward. 

While there were a couple of shady, quiet stretches of water away from the crowd, our overall impression wasn't entirely positive. Hectic, frenzied and expensive, not to mention inconveniently located, Damneon Saduak isn’t somewhere I would choose to go again. But, thanks to the presence of an experienced Thai who kept the swindlers at bay, it wasn’t the worst day trip.

Little Fishes Galore

Between a hardware store (tubs), the weekend walking street (fish), two pet stores (still more fish), the flower market (water plants), and a water lily store (seriously, just water lilies), we have assembled a makeshift pond on our porch.

It was a lovely weekend project, involving many, many motorbike trips. Our pond is surrounded by multiple potted plants, including a five-foot tall papyrus, and contains roughly sixty fish. Or did, we’ve been having a big fish die off, but that will hopefully clear up.

The water lilies open up to the occasional spot of sunlight. Tiny fish flicker and shimmer, tails and fins iridescent and black, darting in and out of plants. We already have baby fish in black, gray, and orange. And, we’re thinking of adding a turtle pond as well. It has made our porch feel like the relaxing post-school haven that it should be.

A Chill in the Air

Northern Vietnam was cold. Arriving at night, people were bundled up in winter clothing, coats buttoned up to the throat, hats pulled down snug over ears. By our standards it was an overreaction, but all over Hanoi, on motorbikes and on sidewalks, seated on tiny plastic chairs, clothing was layered to fend off the chill. The sky was grey, ominous, the sun rare. It wasn’t bitter winter cold, more like fall crisp, but the change was dramatic. Even we put on jeans and long sleeves.

Whether it was the weather, or simply a regional disposition, the chill seemed to be in the personalities as well. The people were aggressive. Smiles seemed rare. A foggy trip to Halong Bay ended in a yelling match – tourists vs. tour guide, 18 to 1 – after he kept us waiting on a street corner for over an hour and then tried to leave some people behind. We hadn’t seen the sun in days; dealing with people was tiresome. We decided to cut our losses, make one more stop, and head the 800 km down the coast to central Vietnam.

Before leaving we stopped in Ninh Binh, more commonly known as ‘the Halong Bay of the rice fields’. It was yet another rainy day, preventing us from renting bikes (read: saving money) and biking around in comfort. But by the time we arrived at the tourist dock, the temperature was rising, leaving only a thick fog around in its wake. 

As we left the dock, a hush seemed to settle over the landscape, interrupted only by the steady sound of the oars. Immense limestone cliffs towered above us, layered over one another like construction paper cutouts. On either side of the waterway, villagers tended to their rice paddies, boats tied up nearby. We drifted leisurely down the river, through natural tunnels in the cliffs, past vendors and homes. 

It was a tiny, but much-needed, spoonful of tranquility in our stressed-out North Vietnam soup. 

Conquering Water?

While living in Southeast Asia, as with pretty much anywhere else we live, one of the goals is to get certified in as many ridiculous things as possible. Win already has Thai Massage under his belt, but hopefully next term I will even that one out. We would love to learn to blow glass and weld. We also want to get Scuba certified, and with its clear water, coral reef, and extensive marine life, southern Thailand is an excellent place to learn to scuba dive. 

Unfortunately, I can hardly swim. 

I have always considered swimming to be more of a survival tactic than a fun summertime activity. This may be due in large part to the fact that I never properly learned how to swim. An incident in which a chubby pig-nosed kid held eight-year-old me underwater didn’t help. The second time he did it helped even less. I can swim well enough to not drown going from point A to point B, given that A and B are not far apart. I hold my nose when I go underwater. I don’t go in water if I cannot touch the ground. I am just not a swimmer.

Back in December we spent a three-day weekend on Koh Tao. We decided to go on a full day snorkeling trip. Babysteps along the road to eventual scuba certification. 

At the first dive spot, I donned the full snorkel gear, climbed down into the water, and abruptly panicked. The fins were twisting and turning underwater, trying to pull me down; the life jacket was sneaking up in an attempt to suffocate me; the mask was all wrong; the boat was alternating in its efforts to push me underwater and inch the ladder out of my reach. That was it, I couldn’t do it. I sat on the boat crying, shaking, and smoking a cigarette while our guide tried to comfort me in Thai.

I calmed down by the next spot we stopped --- a cove with much calmer water and more to see --- and took Win’s advice. I went in without the fins (which I still think should be called flippers). Without the waves and awkward, uncontrollable frog feet, it was quite pleasant. Fish skittered past below and around us, blue and yellow, iridescent, neons, in a variety of shapes and sizes. I was in water and I was enjoying myself. 

It is now March and we are going through southern Thailand on our way to Malaysia. We planned to spend time in Hat Rai Leh and Koh Phi Phi, with the goal of snorkeling on Phi Phi, this time with fins. 

Rai Leh is a peninsula cut off from mainland Thailand by a series of towering cliffs. Accessible only by longtail boat, Rai Leh is renowned for its world class rock climbing. We found a room on the cheap side, just five minutes’ walk to the white sand beach and turquoise water that makes the other side so expensive. Aside from rock climbing, which neither of us do (Okay, Win claims to rock climb a little, but I have yet to see proof), there is little to do other than lounging on the beach drinking overpriced cocktails or kayaking around the peninsula’s various cliffs and rock formations. We decided to stay two nights in order to kayak without the pressure of catching a ferry in the same day.

The kayaking looked spectacular. But, being yet another water sport, in the open ocean with its waves and speed boat wakes, not to mention speed boats, was something I found mildly terrifying. I had been in canoes in lakes, but never in a kayak. I was expecting more than an oversized piece of plastic with seats. We were the only ones in life jackets, and I’m sure Win was simply humoring me. Every time we hit waves, no matter how small, my chest would tighten up. What if we flip over? 

But we didn’t. And eventually I accepted that we probably wouldn’t. 

Once we broke away from the flocks of other kayakers, the cliffs were even more impressive than from a distance. A surprising combination of geological happenings, they were eroding from the bottom while sprouting massive stalactites from the sides and the tops of eroded caves. Trees sprouted from every nook. 

The stone giants loomed over us tranquilly as we figure-eighted our way around and between them. We stopped on tiny hidden beaches, where I was stung by an equally tiny jellyfish and pinched by a miniscule crab. Kayaking was exhausting, but it was yet another step forward in my comfort with water. I even was conversationally tricked by Win into agreeing to go parasailing.

Next stop Koh Phi Phi. We braved the frat party, tourist-only atmosphere in lieu of the world class diving. While we didn’t have time (nor was I yet at the comfort level) to try to get Scuba certified, we figured that we would stay two nights and spend the day in between on another snorkeling trip. We also thought that by taking a longtail boat trip, rather than a big boat, we would stand the best odds of having a small group like on Koh Tao. 

A Thai picked us up on foot in the morning, as there is no motorized transport on the island, and we walked up and down the streets as our group snowballed. Once at the beach, we got into one of the three boats. We chose the one with families with children, hoping to avoid having to listen to stories about friends getting wasted and the like. We even befriended two delightful older Canadian men, one of whom looked and sounded like Canada’s version of Jack Nicholson, the other had mastered seal tricks.

First stop, open water. I once again panic, this time based on the fact that the lifejackets are all big enough to fit a grizzly bear of a man and will not adjust to a small enough size to not make me feel like I’m drowning. I was shown up by a pregnant woman, snorkeling sans lifejacket. But half of our group wasn’t snorkeling either, so it wasn’t such a disaster.

But the rest of the trip was. An old Spanish woman swam out too far and was trapped on a coral reef perch, bleeding and crying. Our boat sputtered to a stop in open water and, when efforts to tow it behind the other longtail boat failed, we bobbed and ate lunch until a replacement arrived. The new boat wasn’t big enough to hold all of us, so we were precariously spaced in order to not tip it over. The new captain skipped all but one snorkeling spot (the one cove, at least, was as beautiful as advertised). Luckily, the smaller boat had smaller lifejackets, so I was able to join Win in snorkeling comfortably. It was the abridged version of our full day of snorkeling. 

We reached Maya Bay, the backdrop for the movie The Beach and supposed climax of the trip, and had to swim, scramble over sharp rocks, climb rickety, moss-covered steps, and then walk to get there (something that the pregnant woman, children, elderly people, and now a sick woman couldn’t do). It was swarming with people and boats, and the water was a pale murky green. Compared to the bright blues and turquoises of everything else we’d seen I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.

And then it started to rain. Hard. The sunset portion of the trip was cancelled. Despite the roof over part of the boat, it was raining inside the boat as much as outside. We sped back to Phi Phi, soaked, shivering, and protecting our camera case with a lifejacket. 

Land was in sight when our captain got the longtail stuck atop a massive underwater rock (one of many now visible due to low tide). I envisioned multiple sinking scenarios. When he finally freed the boat and made his way through the minefield to reach shore, we leapt to the safe haven of solid ground. It wasn’t even our beach, but being an island meant we could walk back. I was not going to drown. 

 

I still haven’t mastered the flippers. Win has (hopefully) gotten used to my clinging to him like a wet baby koala anytime the water is too deep or something touches my foot. He gives me solid advice and information to stave off the panic, things like “You can’t touch here” are always better than the surprise of sinking. While Phi Phi’s misadventure did nothing in the journey to scubaing, at least I didn’t drown.