Chai Aboard the Indian Rail

“Chai-eeeeee, chai-eeeeeee!,” as the train slows to a crawl at Virar station, young men flood into the carriage, attracting potential customers with their sing-song calls for sweet, milky chai. The carriage erupts into a flurry of commotion, and a perfectly executed production unfolds before me. Some Wallahs display their skills and vie to impress customers by expertly pouring long, thin streams of chai from giant kettles held high above their heads into tiny clay cups balanced on calloused fingertips. Others woo passengers with beautiful, sung descriptions of their product. Passengers’ broad smiles and laughing eyes delight in this ritual, and in exchange for a meager five rupees, participants are rewarded with a few delightful sips of India’s most popular beverage.

“Madam. Excuse me, Madam?” I turn to see my berth mates settling into their meal, carefully packed in round aluminum canisters. “You must be hungry. Please join us.” The young family is traveling from their home in the southern state of Karanataka to Mumbai to visit family during Holi, the annual festival of color which invites an open disregard to all polite civility.

Mr. Gupta struggles with one of the canisters. His fingers pull at the lid with admirable determination until the lid pops free, unleashing a tantalizing burst of steam that sends condensation dripping into the piles of turmeric, cumin, and green chili coated potatoes. The spices tickle my nose and tease my neglected stomach into a flurry of grumbling anticipation. Leaning through the barred window, I stretch my arms into the hot wind of a landscape yearning for the arrival of the monsoons, and using the last drops pooled in the bottom of a discarded baggie of water, I rinse my hands of the inevitable dusty grime that a 30 hour train journey accumulates.

The young girl sitting across from me meticulously unwraps a package of grease-stained newspaper and offers me the largest puri in the pile. Conversation hovers around my life back home, my family, and my motives for traveling alone as we tear off pieces of puri to use as utensils for the aloo subji. Between bites, I struggle to adequately explain my yearning for independence and freedom to a family in which personal identity is defined in the presence, not absence, of family.

The train slows again, and instinctively I reach for my coin purse. I can almost taste that raw, slightly bitter, textured taste of earth mixing with the sweet, milky gingery smooth. The voice of a fine limbed boy, barefoot and draped in a much too large kurta catches my attention amongst the chaotic commotion of Wallahs selling everything from chai to samosas to chaat and fresh juice. I flag the boy and in an instant he hands me a little mud cup, filled to the brim with Indian’s favorite past time, its national treasure, and a symbol of unmatched hospitality. I pass the cup carefully to my new friends, and order six more.

Caught in the Cross Fire

We set out on foot from a small village nestled at the base of Mt. Bisoke and spent the next few hours following buffalo paths up steep muddy inclines, cutting through thick vegetation, and diligently trying to avoid the stinging nettles that grazed our arms. Clutching at roots and branches to drag ourselves up a particularly strenuous uphill stretch, our armed guide stopped in his tracks and motioned for silence. With the intensity of a magician revealing his secret behind the veil, Jean Pierre pushes aside the greenery to reveal a full grown Silverback munching on wild celery. The gorilla glaces in our direction, his eyes strikingly human, offers up a humph of indignation, and continues with his breakfast. Adrenaline fueled excitement pulses through me, my eyes wild in amazement, as I stood paralyzed, stunned by the reality in front of me.

About half of the world’s remaining 700 mountain gorillas live in the Virunga Mountains of central Africa. Dissected by the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and Rwanda, the dramatic slopes of these volcanic mountains are lush with tropical forests, an enormous diversity of mammals, birds, and reptiles, and civil unrest that has gripped this region for decades.  The plight of the mountain gorilla has been well documented over the past 20 years, and it is widely recognized that the future of these magnificent creatures is in great peril.  Slash and burn agriculture and logging have accelerated loss of habitat, black market demand for their hands and feet as trophy pieces have incentivized poachers, and capturing infants to raise as pets have all contributed to their dwindling numbers. However, in the last few years, the mountain gorilla has added yet another adversary to its list, and unfortunately these guys are proving to be much more deadly.

Sitting on top of Mount Bisoke, embraced by the chill of a gray, soggy mist I pull my knees into my chest and stare pensively across her crater lake. The deep green canopy of trees and mysterious mountains tainted by images of news headlines—rebels, AK-47’s, child soldiers, death, dying, despair—consume the landscape. The invisible border that slices the peak of Mount Bisoke in half intrigues me, and it’s only my faint sense of reason and responsibility that keeps my bum firmly planted on the Rwandan side. The rest of me wants to approach that line , to wiggle my toes across it, to dance a little happy dance, just to see what happens. Just to say I did.

“Shhh, listen. You hear that?”  My ears strain to hear the faint pop, pop, pop in the distance. Cutting through the thick mist I could just barely make out the dull cracking of bullets. I don’t shutter in fear. I don’t worry about our safety. I sit quietly and I listen. I acknowledge the bullets, their seeming familiarity with the landscape, and sadly it’s almost like they belong.

The horror of the Rwandan Hutu-Tutsi genocide that captured the world’s attention in 1994 continues to wreak havoc on the eastern region of the DRC. Fleeing UN persecution, Hutu extremists were granted refuge in the DRC by President Mobutu where they launched continued attacks on Rwanda and laid the foundation for a bitter, highly-political period of conflict and lawlessness that continues today.  The resource rich Virunga Mountain Range is one of Africa’s most bio-diverse regions, and a highly coveted position of control for rebel groups. In July 2007, the headquarters of Virunga National Park was taken by a rebel group in a plot masterminded by Honore Mashagiro, the Director of Virunga NP himself. The attack resulted in the slaughter of 9 gorillas, the acquisition of millions of dollars worth of resources, and control of land that thousands of people rely on for their livelihood—a major power move that has had, and will continue to have devastating consequences for the people of the eastern region of the DRC.

I caught a fleeting glimpse of daily life in the eastern DRC as Kate and I explored the strangely deserted streets of Goma a few days later. Aside from UN patrols of armed men and a few lone construction workers repairing a section of road long past repair, the streets were curiously bare. We hired two motorbikes to take us to the outskirts of town where a friend was preparing dinner for us. The further we got from Goma’s center, the more populated the streets became, and slowly, the energy and commotion felt wonderfully African again. But signs of war were everywhere. Machetes and guns. People with missing hands and deformed skulls. Temporary camps. But life too was normal. Prince and his family welcomed us into their small home, and set before us a feast of ugali, fried fish, and greens. Children peaked through the windows, giggling at the sight of muzungus. Christian music blared from a nearby store and conversation spiraled around politics, religion, and hopes for the future. Prince introduced us to his wife and new daughter, we took photographs with his mother, uncles, and curious kids. I had so many questions and wished the language barrier wasn’t quite so pronounced. I was desperately curious to know sort of truth was really behind the headlines.

Uganda, Rwanda, and the DRC all officially charge visitors $500 to track gorillas, however in the latter, the lack of regulation allows for activities that are detrimental to the conservation of this disappearing species. There are a plethora of companies and individuals who will offer tours for drastically less, most of whom are connected to rebel groups or corrupt park rangers taking a backhander. Beyond that, stumbling upon unhabituated family groups is dangerous not only for yourself (gorillas are incredibly territorial, especially when young are involved), but for the gorillas as well, who’s increased tolerance of human contact puts them at heightened risk in the face of a poacher. Virunga NP leaves much to be desired and visitors to the region should do their homework before setting off on an unofficial gorilla trek.

“Do you want to go see the gorillas?” Prince inquired, just as we were heading back into town before darkness fell over the streets. Explaining that we had seen gorillas in Rwanda, Prince continued. “I can get you diamonds. Cheap. Please my friend, please.” Kate and I glanced at each other knowing full well that the source of the diamonds were just as toxic as supporting the gorilla trade. The pang of desperation in his voice left me feeling helpless, as this kind man stood before me simply trying to support his family in a country where the luxury of ethics is obsolete, his options come down to mere survival.

An Independent, Budget Savvy Visit to Rwanda’s Volcanoes National Park

The dramatic sloping peaks of Volcanoes National Park (Parc National Des Volcans) provide what is arguably one of the world’s most poignant and memorable wildlife experiences.  Forming the natural border with the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda’s most celebrated national park has become THE definitive place to see mountain gorillas.  The park was established in 1925 (Africa’s first national park) in an effort to protect the majestic creatures from poachers, and was made famous in the 1960’s by the tireless work and advocacy of Dian Fossey. Today, the Rwandan Tourism Board offers visitors several options for tracking gorillas and for further exploring the park. The highlight of the park is undoubtedly the gorillas themselves; however the experience comes with a price.

For travelers on a budget, the thought of forking over $500 to observe and photograph gorillas for an hour might make you a little queasy.  Undoubtedly, the rare experience of observing mountain gorillas in their remote habitat will be a memorable and unique opportunity that will likely evoke strong emotions for you and have envious friends back at home clamoring for pictures, but what the tourism board likes to keep on the mum is the fact that there are other opportunities for spotting the gorillas that are much easier on your wallet.  Park rangers will take visitors on 1 and 2 day treks to summit extinct volcanoes, on guided walks to Dian Fossey’s camp and tomb, and even on tracking expeditions to spot the Golden Monkey.  None of these cost more than $75, and since you’ll be in the heart of gorilla territory, the chance of spotting a family group are very, very good.

The park is located in the village of Kinigi, about 25 minutes by motorbike from Ruhengeri. While Ruhengeri is a bustling market town and good place to stock up on snacks and do any last minute banking, the town itself has little to offer, and unless you arrive late and need a place to crash for the night, I’d suggest moving on to Kinigi.

Savvy Crashing—Kinigi Guest House ($15-$50)

The Kinigi Guest House is located at the base of the Virunga range and just down the dirt road from the Park’s headquarters, making for great day time exploration and convenient early morning departures for the park. The guest house offers a range of accommodations from pitching your own tent, to 4 person dorms, to luxury suites, and like many hotels and guest houses in Rwanda, a simple breakfast is included. For value and location, this is definitely your best bet, and as an added bonus, nearly all of the proceeds generated by the guest house are used to pay school fees for orphaned children and to support community development projects. Reservations are generally recommended, but so long as you’re flexible, the staff will find a place for you to stay.

Savvy Activity—Trekking Mount Bisoke ($75)

Mount Bisoke (3711m) is a long, strenuous 1-day hike that can be completed by anyone with enough determination and a moderate level of athletic ability.  The trek follows trails created by buffalo, so the notion of leisurely switch-backs is obsolete; expect steep inclines. During the rainy season, these so-called trails are incredibly wet and muddy, so be sure to dress in layers, wear decent shoes, and be prepared to get dirty. Representatives at the park headquarters have a tendency to downplay the length and difficulty of this hike, and when they say it’s only 4 hours, they really mean 8. Bring food!

You’ll be hiking in gorilla territory so there is a very good chance that you will encounter a family group at some point during the day, but because you haven’t purchased a permit, taking photos is a big no-no. Your guide will kindly remind you of this should you find yourself in the presence of gorillas (and take this seriously, guides can lose their jobs over this!). The out and back hike reaches the turnaround point at the summit of Mt. Bisoke. From the banks of the crater lake, the 360 degree views of lush, green dramatic peaks is intoxicating, and punctuated only by the reality that just a few years ago, Mount Nyiragongo erupted, spilling an angry river of molten rock through nearby  towns and villages, and causing immense devastation to the region.

All park activities meet for an orientation at the park headquarters at 7am. After paying your fees and listening to a quick orientation, its off to the starting point. The Mount Bisoke trek starts at the base of the volcano located about 45 minutes by car from the park headquarters. It is expected that you have your own transportation to the starting point, however if you are an independent traveler who arrives by hitching, walking, or local transport, there will most likely be an open seat in one of the vehicles leaving from the park. Just ask around, you’ll find a ride.

**Savvy Tip—Bummed you didn’t get any photos of the gorillas? Buddy up to a few of your bunk mates back at your hotel and offer to buy a few rounds of Primus in exchange for a few of their photographs.

Savvy Finances—US dollars are king (Priceless)

The park does not take credit or debit cards or any kind, and prefers US dollars. If you do pay in Rwandan Shillings, be prepared to pay a bit extra as a penalty. Outside of Kigali, obtaining US dollars can be excruciatingly difficult, if not impossible, so come with cash in hand. Remember that Rwanda is a MasterCard only country, so make sure that your debit card is issued by MasterCard to ensure access to your funds back at home.

Savvy Eats—Village treats ($1)

Just beyond the park headquarters is the village center of Kinigi, consisting of a few small shops and a food stall or two. Kids kick around balls made from plastic bags and string, and adults arriving from the fields, chat idly. Take a seat on one of the brightly colored plastic chairs and enjoy whatever happens to be available. The likely fare? Ugali with greens and boiled plantains, or if you’re lucky, beans too. Eating and chatting with locals is a far more rewarding use of an evening than the typical guest house restaurant fare.

Total Cost for accommodations, trekking to the top of a volcano, the chance to see mountain gorillas, and dinner in a local village… less than $100

My Hometown in 500 Words or Less

In a town of exceedingly educated hippy types, community gardens, animal rights activists, and with a love for bicycles likely unsurpassed anywhere else in the world, my hometown was a place I wasn’t quite sure about growing up.  We ate at communes, and planted in community gardens. We recycled, composted, and shunned the use of plastic bags long before it was anywhere close to cool. People-powered transportation, electric cars, and solar-powered houses were coveted. By the time we could flush, our parents had us chanting, “If its yellow let it mellow, if its brown flush it down!” But in my years of self-absorption and insecurities, I left this place behind as I chased an ideal of suburban normalcy.

The warm glow of a late summer evening paints the ancient olive trees and wide-open, dusty fields in the golden hues I love so much this time of year. My nose it tickled by the wonderfully familiar bouquet of over-ripe tomatoes, cow manure, and the nutty-fermentation of fallen olives as we ride through the hot breeze towards campus. The salad that I’ve prepared rattles noisily in the basket attached to my handlebars, as the tires of my 1950’s cruiser bump awkwardly over the asphalt bike path that has been tormented by the central valley’s unrelenting summertime temperatures.  The path veers to the right, hugging the edge of a field used by the UC Davis Ag Department in their quest to create new plant varieties that are better suited to our changing climate. The path turns again, left this time, guiding us up and over Highway 113, before depositing us at the western edge of Orchard Road.

Plots of tilled land, ripe with giant sunflowers and summer produce welcome us. We stand in a circle around the fire pit at the center of the Domes, hands clasped.  “Give thanks to the sun and to this beautiful earth…to the love of our brothers and sisters, and to the wonder of the human spirit. May this food nourish our bodies, our minds, and our spirits. Let’s eat!”

The rhythm of bongo drums and the tantalizing flames of a bonfire mix effortlessly with home grown food and homemade wine to settle conversations into fantastic soundboards of creativity. A little girl twirls and flutters. Some faces are new, some simply more weathered and wise. “Welcome home, kid.” Rick asserts, as he lowers himself next to me. His small dark eyes are intense and loving behind his signature round glasses; his hair as wild as ever. Hugging my knees into my chest, I grin, concede, and let belonging embrace me.

Come Visit: The Domes (also known as Baggins End) are a student co-op located on the UC Davis campus. Chickens, community gardens, tree forts and rope swings, greenhouses, and the infamous Bike Church make up one of the nicest pieces of land on campus. All are welcome for the vegetarian potluck dinner that residents and community members host Monday-Thursday at 7pm (6pm in the winter).

MatadorU Assignment #2: From Treadmill to Tanzania and Back Again

Whiskers tickle my cheeks and the cold paws balancing on my arm hint that it’s just about time to get up. The dark, cool morning filters into my reality as I slowly and begrudgingly untangle myself from the cocoon of blankets, duvets, and pillows that embrace my unassuming California skin. My phone erupts into a vibrating fit of steel drums, lazy guitar, and the raspy smooth of Bob Marley. Akeelah announces her excited anticipation for breakfast, encouraging me to move just a bit faster. She clumsily tumbles down the stairs, overcome with kitty jubilation. I stumble behind her, overcome by the obscenity of the hour.

I spoon a lump of cold cat food into her dish. She cozies in next to her bowl to enjoy her feast as I gulp down a glass of OJ. Upstairs I slide into my gym clothes. Shivering at the cold, I remind myself its due time to stop ignoring the inevitable change in weather. I lace up my running shoes, grab my keys, and enter the icy air. The drive to the gym is chilly, as once again, I curse myself for forgetting how cold it is here.

Methodically, I head for the treadmill, the third in a line of three, just like most mornings. I give the routine, friendly nod to my fellow treadmill warriors who run beside me, silently and unknowingly encouraging me to run just a bit faster, a bit longer. Headphones in, I scroll through the list of playlists that have become the soundtrack to my life. I ramp up the speed and increase the incline. My feet begin to move beneath me as the beat of Akon’s I’m So Paid, helps me to find my pace. I notice the wind in the trees and the brightening of the sky, the glimmer of the ocean just beyond the roof tops and the lack of people on the streets below. Sweat drips off the man in the red shirt beside me. The brassy fusion of hip-hop, rap, and intoxicating Tanzanian culture fills my ears.

Bongo music is blaring from the scratchy speakers at an ear-piercing decibel. The cab of this big rig is suffocatingly stuffy, thick with exhaust fumes, and too many bodies. Perched just behind the driver’s window, I relish in what little relief the hot breeze provides and the partial view of landscape inching slowly by. The sharp tingling of a foot waking from slumber has me adjusting my awkward positioning at the expense of the two men crouching next to me. They glance in my direct, apologetic and understanding. I notice the older man’s eyes. Worn and tired. A curiously faint smile lifts the edges of the younger man’s mouth, inviting me to engage. “Jina laku nani?” I inquire. “Mimi John, na yeye Mani.”

John and Mani were travelling back home after visiting family in Kigoma. For this father and son, home for the past twelve years has been a UN refugee camp in western Tanzania. Tweleve years of living in a temporary hut. Twelve years of waiting, hoping, and praying that they’d be able to go home. Twelve years of food rations.  In the spring of 1995, John had owned a successful mechanic shop in the foothills of outside of Goma, was a happy newly wed, and was excitedly anticipating the birth of his first child. But then the Hutu rebels attacked his town. The bitter civil war that had been tearing his country apart for decades had finally arrived.

Beads of sweat have formed at my hairline, and are sliding slowly towards my eyes. I wipe the perspiration from my brow with the blue gym towel that hides the digital display of my progress. The man running next to me has sweat jumping off him, his red shirt soaked into a smelly mop clinging to his torso. The TV flashes images of too-thin, leggy blondes. “Ugh,” I think to myself at yet another example of the shallow, disturbing ideals that have come to shape western cultures.

Slight, yet strikingly strong women wrapped in colorful fabrics, bent nearly in half, work the dusty fields. Small children stand amongst them, hoe in hand, working harder than any child should have to. An imposing wire fence encloses a sea of roofs made from white tarps with baby blue lettering. John and Mani signal the driver to pull over, and with great ease maneuver over the tangle of legs and bags. I smile and wish them both well. Mani reaches for my hand, calloused and rough, his grasp resonates determination and resilience. “Merci, and God bless you.” His small, wet eyes burrow into mine. Feelings of overwhelming powerlessness and undeserved good-fortune consume me.

Unannounced, the treadmill slows beneath me, signaling that my 30 minutes are up. I make my way into the locker room. Noting the pang of yearning and sadness, I find comfort in the warm embrace of the stifling sauna.

MatadorU Assignment #1: A Few Unexpected Things To Do on PEI

Prince Edward Island is touted by guidebooks, websites, and tourism pamphlets as the idyllic home of Anne of Green Gables. Rolling green pastures, white sandy beaches, and red-clay cliffs jutting into the Gulf of St. Lawrence fill the post-card stands at every store in town. A family-friendly destination that attracts over one million visitors each summer, PEI is also home to a burgeoning year-round, increasingly diverse crowd. Until a few years ago, things on this little island were pretty homogenous—not too many people from away, no ethnic dining, and certainly not much in terms of cultural events. Here’s just a sample of a few of the wonderfully unexpected things you can do during your visit to the island.

Curry Night at Churchill Arms

A traditional British pub in every sense of the word, Churchill Arms is a local favorite, especially on Curry Night. Every Wednesday, the restaurant dishes out piping hot bowls of British curries—Butter chicken, Madras, and Korma—plated along side fresh cut fries , steamed rice, and naan. The tight quarters and dark wood give the pub a cozy, intimate feel which keeps islanders coming back week after week. The best part? It’s two-for-one. Buy one, get one free.

**Best time of year: Fall & Winter

Exploring Dixon Road

 The Dunk River winds it way through the community of Breadalbane, a 20 minute drive west from Charlottetown. This tiny community of less than 200, is home to a thriving cultural scene. Artists, organic farmers, musicians, potters, and the like have made a name for themselves here. Dixon Road serves as the main thoroughfare and has become synonymous with such epic events as Funk the Dunk, Fool Moon Taboganing Parties, and merry-making of every imaginable kind. Local musicians can regularly be heard at “The Dunk,” an icon of sorts created by Hal Mills. Partaking in a Dixon Road party has become a rite of passage for many islanders, especially for those who are “from away.”

** Best time of year: Year Round

All Dirt Roads Lead to the Beach

Camping on PEI can mean a lot of different things, but for those who are looking for seclusion, pristine beaches, and a plethora of drift wood to stoke your bonfire, steer yourself down any dirt road on the north shore, and you’ll likely find your very own piece of sand perfect for sleeping under the stars.  

The north shore is famous for its miles and miles of silky white sandy beaches and clear blue, slightly frigid waters.  During the peak summer months of July and August, the north shore beaches are packed with sunworshippers, but come sundown, families head home, making way for a night of starry skies, a silence that is interuppted only by the lapping of waves, and the twinkling of bioluminesence dancing in the sea.  

• My Pick:  St. Peter’s Harbor trumps the list of great camping on the north shore and is located at the end of Lighthouse Road about 25 minutes north-east of Charlottetown.

**Best time of year: late June-early September