I Heart Zimbabwe

When I started this trip to Southern Africa, I had no idea what to expect, having little knowledge of the region or its people. Joe and I made a "wishlist" of the animals we hoped to see, and whittled down our list of must-do activities so the allotted month of precious vacation time was used wisely and to its full advantage. Before we even began the trip we had to talk ourselves out of a quick trip to Lake Malawi and Joe had to talk me down from a quick flight over to Madagascar to look at monkeys (but it's only right there--we'll be so close, Joe!) Again the lament: Why oh why can't our lives be more vacation and less work?

So with little knowledge of what to expect from the countries, the people, the environment, the animals, we set off, and have been nothing short of amazed and delighted at every turn. Since I have not once had the opportunity to post a blog from the road, I am far behind and find myself now on the cusp of my last week of vacation--already--and as the internet connection is temperamental like most faraway foreign places (and considering we are a good 30 minutes up a horrendous dirt road away from Lusaka, Zambia, i am surprised we have wireless at all) I will only share my new love for Zimbabwe, its land and its people.

We have spent the last 8 days on a canoe safari on the Mighty Zambezi river (the very same river I took several unplanned swims in while rafting its raging waters a couple of weeks ago) with 2 of the coolest, nicest, most friendly and most hilarious guides ever, Cloud and Elijah. The first 3 days we also had a European couple with us, both very nice, but they left and Joe and I carried on for another 5 days with just the guides. We saw everything from lions resting on the bank after a morning feast, baboons socialising with elephants, a kudu (type of antelope) that nearly kicked a warthog as it lept over him, thousands of carmine bee eaters (beautiful bright red and blue birds that nest in holes along the riverbank), to hundreds and hundreds of hippos and big fat crocodiles that we had to dodge in our canoes so we wouldn't tip over and become lunch. Fantastic wildlife and scenery beyond amazing, this taste of Zimbabwe came after we'd spent time in Victoria Falls and Hwange National Park.

The people of Zim, from cab drivers to lodge owners to guides to people on the street are friendly, smiling, helpful and polite. I have never been waved to so much in my life, and that simple gesture is enough to put a smile on your face the rest of the day, especially when it comes from everyone you meet, whether on foot or in a car. Smiles beam out from everyone you meet as well, no matter if they are living in some far-flung, thatched hut village or the city, there is no one person in Zimbabwe that has had even a downcast look cross their face, including the cab drivers, which in itself is amazing!

There is too much to say here, and with dodgy internet, flies buzzing all around and my cider getting warm, I will leave it at that. I mean no disrespect to Zambia, South Africa, or Botswana, and I still wait to see what Swaziland has to offer, but Zimbabwe, I heart you. Forever.

Africa, Here We Come

Now's the time. We are headed to a new continent (for me) and 5 new countries (for us both).  Ready to to forget about work and phones, emails and post, and excited to tear up the passports with new stamps and visas,  to check out the "Big 5" in their natural habitats, and experience the world beyond our door.

First stop, London for lunch and pints. By Saturday afternoon we'll be on safari in Hwange National Park in Zimbabwe.

Hoping to post some photos and entries along the way. Here's the area we'll be traipsing around:

Watch out Africa, here we come!

High On Protein

Beautiful Bison

What is it about meat? Good meat, I mean. Hormone-free, free-ranging, grass-fed, all natural, tasty, wonderful meat. Eating a hamburger from In-n-Out, no matter how good, is not quite the same as enjoying a nice, big, hand-cut, cooked to perfection piece of steak. I don’t eat it very often, if only because 1. I can’t cook it quite the way a professional can, and 2. it’s freakin’ expensive, the good stuff. I have no problem eating meat, but I want it to be great, I want it to melt in my mouth and let the wonderful earthy, grassy flavor engulf me. And I want the protein high.

Now, the protein high is not something I have always recognized. Only recently has it been brought to my attention that I get crazy high, goofy and witty all at the same time after I’ve consumed a fair amount of great meat. Saturday night it was a bison ribeye. Grilled to medium-rare perfectness, naked on my plate, lounging seductively on a bed of heavenly creamy white mashed potatoes (classic choice, and not one I mind in the least) and a few sautéed haricort verts, their long, lean green legs peaking out from under the bison. Otherwise, naked. I can be a purist when it comes to high quality meat. Sauces and such are only disguising the fact that your chosen cut is not confident enough to go bare.

I ate only half of the 14 ounces, but the first 7 was enough to make me loopy. My man claimed I was “unusually witty” and when I used the word “prehensile” in a sentence he nearly went over in his seat. Now, this of course leads me to believe he doesn’t normally find me witty, or even slightly funny for that matter, nor does he think my vocabulary includes anthropological words that I can actually use in a sentence. He thinks it’s the meat. And I am starting to believe him. It’s happened before. This time, though, I can definitely say I was not drunk. The meat high began after my first cocktail (a lovely and refreshing strawberry-basil-black pepper-vodka concoction) but before I finished my first glass of wine. And it was like being high—expensive, short-lived and fun, but more intelligent. Don’t get me wrong, I have had the most brilliant, well-conceived, near-perfect thoughts while high, ideas so amazing I rushed to write them down, convinced they were award-winners and fortune-makers. Of course, it was all in my head, and if I happened to share with my fellow imbibers, everything came out in jumble, just scrambled words with little to no linear sense. But the meat high seems natural, and functioning.

That bison ribeye was only the second of its kind I’ve had. The first, near Scottsdale, Arizona, was by far the better meal, but the atmosphere in which it was consumed was so sterile and stuffy that my high was subtly suppressed. Here in San Diego, at a downtown spot, having dinner at my favorite place in a restaurant—the bar—with my man, the protein got to my head, and that $38 piece of meat made me feel oh so fine.

Packing M.O.

Africa gear--Looking good before it goes into the bag

 
My man and I, having traveled together over thousands of miles, several countries, and a few continents, now have what you might call a "Modus operandi" for the days leading up to departure. I shop several times for mini toiletries (why is that aisle so addictive?), clothing I might need like a sun hat or neoprene socks, and food items (if it's an outdoor trip, but I also like bringing 'lunch' with me on planes so I don't starve or in the case we are on one of the few flights left in the world serving meals, I don't have to eat airplane food). I am finished packing clothes and lunches, have cleaned or at least straightened up the house, stopped the mail, been to the bank and informed the landlord of our plans several days before we leave. The night before I even book the taxi. On the day of departure I am calm and relaxed, channeling my holiday self and letting the worries of work and daily life slip away. If we are at the airport 30 minutes prior to departure, life is good.

My man, on the other hand, operates in a different world: the day before we leave, he runs around town buying toothpaste, clean underwear and new socks because he hasn't done laundry, he spends all night charging camera batteries and emptying SD cards, goes to bed at midnight and gets up at 2am to pack (and by that I mean hurling clothes into a bag) for a flight that leaves at 7am. He checks with me once, twice, four times that I booked the taxi, and when we don't hear the cab's horn at the appointed time, shoots me a dirty look and is half in his car saying we'll just pay the $25 a day to park at the airport even though our trip is 3 weeks long. I have him subdued just barely when the taxi pulls up and he begrudgingly breathes a sigh of relief. Mind you, I have booked the taxi 3 hours ahead (the airport is 10 minutes from our house) because on the day of departure, no matter how long or international the flight, my man insists that we are checked in, through security and waiting at the gate a minimum of 2 hours ahead of flight time. 2 1/2 to 3 hours is preferable, but after years of battle I have whittled it down a bit. 

After all these years of travel together, I have also learned not to mess with the man and his M.O. when it comes to airports. 

The first time we went on a trip together I was not aware of his "airport issue." We were going to San Francisco for the weekend, a mere hour or so flight for us, and I was ready to breeze into the airport 30 minutes prior to departure, relaxed, excited, and feeling romantic about our first trip together, the first of many I'd hoped, having finally found someone for whom the love and passion for travel was as boundless as my own. Well, as I casually called a taxi, I noticed my man twitching strangely at my seemingly blase attitude, then as I cruised through security with not a care, and waited in line for the despised "cattle call" that certain airlines without assigned seating utilize, I was alarmed to see his twitch turn into shaking, and his slight convulsions turn to near hysterics as the hoards and their overstuffed rolling luggage jostled for position at the gate. I didn't know what to do. I tried talking him down, but never having seen him this way, nor anyone for that matter, I was at a loss. Of course, we were snappy with each other, trying to keep a lid on what was amounting to a full blown fight, struggling to get seats and settle in before our wonderful romantic San Fran weekend began.


By the time we got to S.F., things were calmer, but not until we were well settled in to our second drink of the night did the man explain to me how he likes to handle the airport. Of course, I thought he was nuts, especially when his packing and preparation routine is so chaotic and anything but ahead of schedule, but decided if it means that much to him, I will go with his airport M.O. from now on. Even if it means waiting at gates for 2 full hours or more or getting up at 3am instead of 4. Mind you, we have been so early for a 30 minute flight to Vegas that we could have driven there in less time than it took us to fly, but if it makes my travel companion calm on travel day, I am all for it.

The arsenal (pre-sorted!)

That's why I have been in shock for days. Days. That's how long his Africa bag has been packed. We leave in 4 days and his bags are done, including at least half of his photography equipment. I think he finished 85% of his chores over a week ago. I finally threw stuff in a bag yesterday. And I still haven't sorted through the arsenal that is womens' toiletries. What the what? I must say I am happy for this change in the M.O. It means we are both more relaxed in the days leading up to the flight, and who knows? this feeling of calm may eventually transcend to travel day. As of today, t-minus 4 and counting,  we are both ahead of schedule, and our flight leaves at a blissful 4:30 in the afternoon (we even have a ride), but I bet we'll still be waiting at our gate, surfing the internet on the ipod and drinking $5 coffee by 2:00pm.

Only a few of the books he's taking

Pulling the Trigger

Well, I have finally done it. I have posted my very first blog. And then 2 more. All retroactive....does that count? I have been somewhat paranoid to put my words out there in the big bad old world, but while I am a little chick getting its bearings, who's reading anyway? Even if someone happens to google "wayward" and "chicken" in the same search, the only thing they're getting is some crazy amalgamation of songs called "Carry On My Funky Wayward Chicken."

What the what? Who cares who reads these words? They are for me, and the title I have come to realize means very little in the grand scheme, even if I spent many hours testing out names in the dead of night, rolling each one off my tongue like reading off a shopping list, annoying my boyfriend trying to sleep and who really hates the "name game" anyway. Every time I say, "Babe, what do you think of this one," spouting some random, half-nonsense website name to him, he rolls his eyes and walks away from me with a half-huff, half-sigh thrown back in my direction before I can even finish the dotcom.
 
So I pulled the trigger. We are live. I am blogging. For chrissakes, blogging. I hate that word. Always have. Really, couldn't they have come up with something better? Regardless, it gets me writing again. After this long, horrible drought that might be the longest in history (curious--what IS the longest writers block recorded? Who would record such a terrible thing?) I am writing again. It may be crap, longwinded, wayward, but it's there. A projectile bullet hurtling through space to who knows where. 

To celebrate the firing--after all, it DID feel pretty damn good--and to swallow the bullet I had just fired, we went to Toronado. We talked travel. The travel bug is upon us, with only now officially 7 days until Africa, we are both feeling buzzed, even without beer.  

How I am feeling right now

 

Training for Africa and Pelada

Not Africa....Dry land in the Salton Sea, California

We leave for Southern Africa in 9 days. By training I do not mean we are hiking across vast sweltering deserts armed with cameras while protected and guided by the same man and his rifle. I do not mean we are keeping our eyes out for killer crocs and rampant hippos. We aren’t even packing.
We are training our bodies to exist (and function) in terminal heat. And by function I mean sleep.
We live in San Diego. “America’s Finest City” is our motto. Fine is far from the mind right now. At least in our house. Built circa 1940’s, sans insulation, with an empty, dirt bottomed basement below and zero breeze flowing through despite multiple windows on all sides of the house, our lovely home is the worst place to be on a hot day. Or a cold day. While outside our front door the perfect weather San Diego is known for gets on in a fashion, we suffer in our sweat just inside the front door. In fact, you can actually tell the difference in temperature in mere feet: inside front door =105, outside front door = a balmy 80. I know I have no right to complain--I do live in Southern California, after all. But everyone has a right to bitch, no? So while I lay atop blanket and sheets, fan a full blaze, staring at the ceiling with little chance of sleep in this stifling, albeit charming house, I dream of Africa. And listen to my boyfriend’s positive take on the situation: We’re in training for Africa. Indeed.
If only there were a lion roaring outside my window.
As an attempt to get away from the heat, and because we are still riding the World Cup high, we headed over to Blind Lady Ale House for a screening of “Pelada,” a lighthearted, interesting look at football (soccer) around the world featuring a man and a woman who are in between playing worlds, having finished their careers in university football but were not picked up professionally. The film sees them traveling to over 25 countries in a year, playing pick-up games with the locals (pelada is Brazilian for naked, or stripped-down), everyone from prisoners to children to Iranian women in burkas.  A great little film, and Gwendolyn, one of the film makers and a featured cast member, was in attendance, introducing the film and answering questions after the screening. Well worth seeing, and as they still have a massive debt accrued in making the film, we were happy to purchase the DVD. Who knows, after the weather cools down, maybe we’ll have a screening of our own, and maybe a pick-up game out front.

Gwendolyn of "Pelada" at BLAH

It's My Friday

In the restaurant business, everyone has a Friday. It’s never Friday. Having a Saturday off is like winning the lottery--the beginning of every week fills you with a new hope that this will be it, finally your just reward for hard work, faith, and loyalty. But then the schedule is posted, and just like last week, and the week before, and in fact your whole working life, you get screwed.
I feel a bit alienated at the weekend; while everyone else is at the beach, or having afternoon beers, or going to shows and plays and concerts, I am getting ready for work. Putting on long pants and sleeves, all buttoned up and stifling on a summer day when everyone else skips around in breezy cool dresses or shorts and t-shirts, I admit I curse them all. But then Monday morning comes around, and while I hear the 6am alarms buzzing outside my window from the house next door, I cozy further down into my bed and smile.
Monday, or any other weekday really, is a great day for errands, for getting shit done without the hassle of car and people traffic. Crowd-free, line-free, stress-free days where shops and grocery stores, bars and restaurants are blissfully empty. Even the service is better during the week. Customer service reps are pleasant and helpful, even nice because they aren’t dealing with hoards of impatient people like a Saturday afternoon can bring. I feel like they are there for me, that they actually want to be there for me. And for one in the business of customers, I can appreciate that.