Don’t try this at home, kids.

Sun, alcohol, and stupidity – I believe I alluded to that in my last blog post so many months ago. I’ve got no excuses for being so incredibly absent from my blog, other than sheer laziness, and certainly no excuses for that alcohol.

It was a beautiful, but hot September in Madagascar. The day before, we had flown south from Antananarivo (Tana), the capital city, to a private, tiny dirt airstrip, in two tiny planes. That’s an experience requiring a lot of weighing – of everything and everyone. No, really, they weighed each person and divided us up between the two aircraft, with assigned seating so that everything was properly balanced. We were picked up by our mini-bus driver who’d left Tana two whole days before us in order to get there on time.

RingtailsOur first full day excursion into Isalo National Park was a hike into Namaza Canyon, the first half of which didn’t have much shade until we reached a picnic area. Here, we had our one chance to see some Ringtails, the most famous lemur species. About half of us hiked the rest of the way into the canyon, our efforts rewarded with a beautiful little oasis.

oasis

While I definitely appreciated the shaded, cool atmosphere of our destination, I didn’t feel like I had gotten dehydrated on the way in. Or on our return trek. I drank plenty of water and never felt over-heated until near the very end, when my heart started beating really fast and I had the sudden urge to get back to the air-conditioned minibus. I pushed my way past a couple other people, probably a bit rudely, and hoofed it outta there.

Back in our beautiful stone chalet at the Relais de la Reine Hotel (one of two hotels who owns that dirt airstrip), my plan for a cool shower was aborted when I realized our laundry had not yet been returned. No clean clothes = no shower (why bother if I had nothing else to wear?) So, what did I do instead? Yep, you guessed it, I headed to the main building and the bar, and helped myself to a pint of Three Horses Beer, a local lager that is the country’s top-seller. I still didn’t feel dehydrated, but adding the alcohol, not to mention starting on a second pint, really wasn’t a good idea.

Abandoning the second beer at the dinner table, where I lasted for about five minutes before having to excuse myself, and ran to the little restroom just off the lobby to, you know, upchuck all that alcohol. (Apologies to the next woman who may have tried to use that facility.)

As I made my way back to the chalet, I paid little attention to the odd beauty of the orange glow dominating the darkened horizon, only momentarily wishing I had the energy to get my camera to capture the stunning landscape. Yes, the hotel was surrounded on three sides by grass fires that night. There were different opinions on the cause of the fires: either local farmers clearing land, local villagers unhappy with their percentage of the national park’s profits, or maybe cattle rustlers.

A couple of others in my tour group later shared some photos with me. I’ll try to arrange them here to give you a sense of what it was like. The thing that sticks in my mind the most is the number of hotel guests who were lounging outside, watching the fires, all seemingly unconcerned. It was odd to me because I remember the panic of wildfires here in Northern California (1991 Oakland Hills Fire, anybody??) It was surreal. I later learned there were a few worried people, primarily the owner of a private plane that was sitting at the airstrip. Most of the hotel staff was, in fact, out there keeping the flames away from the plane.

The rest of my night was not so entertaining. I got little sleep, running back and forth to the restroom. (I’ll spare you the details.) There were times where I felt so completely drained I didn’t think I had the strength to walk the few feet back to my bed, convinced I was going to drop to the floor at any second. My poor friend, and roomie, Bobbie, kept checking on me (as did our tour leader, Andre, who had what turned out to be the best remedy: charcoal tablets.)

I was completely useless the next day, staying sequestered in the chalet, while the others went on another hike (I missed the swimming hole!). Many thanks to the hotel staff who checked on me during the day and brought me soup and juice. They were all very kind. While I did recover enough to enjoy the second week of the trip, my appetite dropped drastically and I didn’t dare drink another beer until our very last night. I lost about five pounds. (I do NOT recommend this as a weight-loss strategy.)

As I said in my previous post, it’s possible this incident had something to do with my later illness, but who knows? It could’ve compromised my immune system, I suppose. Maybe breathing in smoke from the wildfires had something to do with setting off my asthma, but I’m thinking that would’ve had a more immediate effect rather than a delayed one. I’m just happy that it’s over with.

So now that it’s summer again, remember kids, don’t try this at home. Or on vacation.

Advertisements

Mystery photo(s) of the week

I thought, as I try to fulfill my promise to get back to regular blogging, that I would try something different and choose random photos from my travels.

Maybe I’ll tell a short tale associated with the photo. Maybe I’ll see if anyone recognizes the location. Maybe it’ll just be a pretty picture.

So we’ll begin here, the veranda of an historic hotel in a small town whose fortunes have risen and fallen and risen again along with the copper mine that birthed it. While finding me with a beer in hand is not that unusual, this one came with free wi-fi (courtesy of the hotel) so I could send this picture to my co-workers back home (who were slaving away in the “mines” back home that afternoon).

Me_at_Hotel

Even with the shining sun and the relaxing afternoon, listening to the locals express hope in the future and point to the new cars they’ve been able to buy, one can not help but notice the sight on the hilltop to the south: the prominent cemetery.SantaRosaliaCemetery Indeed, it is one of the first things you see when your boat is approaching the town’s docks. I never did get any tales of the cemetery’s inhabitants (miners meeting mishaps?), but the horror writer in me wondered what would happen if a torrential rain storm came along and washed all those bones down the hill and into the sea. (Morbid, I know.)

But I wanted to end on a lighter note and chose this sign, painted on a wall, on the town’s main road leading back to the dock. If you can read Spanish, it’s pretty dang funny. Leyendo

Where am I?  (Yes, it’s Mexico – but where in Mexico?) (Judith, Jay – you can’t answer)

 

 

A Penguin and a T-Rex Walk Into a Bar

I’m not quite sure where I read about the Chama River Microbar in Albuquerque, but I was curious as to why I had scribbled the bar’s name and address in the margins of my Moon’s New Mexico Handbook. ChamaDogs I’d arrived in town two days ahead of the scheduled start of my Chaco Canyon tour and, after enjoying the city’s museums, decided to have a little adventure Friday evening. To save money, I’d booked a cheap room at the funky Route 66 Hostel, conveniently located between old town and downtown, and decided to forgo a rental car and instead use the local buses. (Hey, $2 for an all-day pass! That’s hard to beat.) Yes, this means I was riding the bus by myself at night….pssst….don’t tell my mom; no matter how old I get she’s forever telling me to not travel alone in a strange city.

I almost missed the place, which is literally a hole in the wall on 2nd Street, just a block from the Alvarado Transit Center (a major bus/train transfer point). With the gentrified-sounding “microbar” in its name, I expected something other than a small bar with half a dozen stools, maybe four tables, and what looked like an iPod-centered music system. Positive I must’ve read a recommendation for this bar in some travel magazine, I hesitated for a brief second. This didn’t look like the sort of place travelers frequent. It’s too small and too easy miss.

But as I stood in the doorway, Ado and Scotty greeted me. Who? you ask. Ado and Scotty – that’s the two dogs there in the photo. Their relaxed stances, wiggling butts, and wagging tails told me all I needed to know. I held out my hand for them to sniff and promptly got licked, and licked, and licked. You know how it is with the dogs. I petted them and asked their permission to enter. And they made a path for me, trailing behind. The tables were full, so I plopped my butt down on the last stool at the end of the bar.

PenguinAtChamaA couple of reviews I’ve since read were critical of the bar’s atmosphere: its “locals only” feel, an inattentive bartender, and “not safe for women” vibe. But I experienced nothing like that. Certainly, I kept my day pack slung across my back – but I always keep my money and ID close to me when traveling. I was instantly welcomed by the bartender, who gave me a taste test of their available brews. (The Microbar is listed as a tasting room for the Chama River Brewery on the north side of Albuquerque.) I spent a friendly evening chatting, first with the bartender and Adam, the patron on the stool next to me and then with Aaron (who replaced Adam who had to leave) about Albuquerque and Chaco Canyon. I’m certain I was the only out-of-towner in the bar, but no one treated me any different. Heck, even the couple at the end of the bar shared their pizza with me! (The microbar doesn’t serve food, but you can request delivery from any number of nearby food establishments.)

And no one laughed when I pulled Penguin About Town out of my pack and posed him next to a glass of the Chama River Amber Ale. I figured he’d had a tough day, nearly getting devoured by Stan, the T-Rex at the New Mexico Museum of Natural History. He needed a drink and a friendly welcome to Albuquerque. So did I. It was a pleasant way to spend the evening: a couple of dogs, a dozen or so humans, and a stuffed penguin. It didn’t matter how far any of us had traveled to get there, or why anyone was there. Only the beer and the conversation mattered. Words. Drink. Time. All cocooned in a non-descript hole in the wall that the average tourist would walk right past.PenguinAtMuseum