sister mama beautiful dear sweetie boss

Disclaimer: this was originally written as a private entry, and, while I’m a bit hesitant to share it, I actually think it’s a pretty enlightening glimpse into the power of perspective. So, while I’ve edited it slightly, I’ve left it mostly intact. The reality is that I am biased in the way I experience and interpret the world. Sometimes I learn new information and it shifts my understanding, and sometimes I don’t. I’m usually pretty good at trying to examine different angles, but in this instance I was so totally frustrated that I was stuck with my own preconceived explanation of things. Until shown otherwise.

• • • • •

The switch from traveling en masse to solo was a bigger jolt than I had anticipated. Not only was I not spending time and sharing adventures with friends, but I switched from very comfortable hotels to pretty grubby hostels, and I went from being, not invisible perhaps, but maybe from slightly unapproachable to an absolute magnet for male attention. Departing from my hostel in Mombasa was a harsh and debilitating shock.

It felt like if there was ever a man not talking to me, it’s only because there was already another man talking to me. Or because I was already buying something (read: meal, transportation, activity). My attention apparently doesn’t belong to me here. It belongs to any man who wishes to claim it. The first few times it happened, I had polite, but confused and uncomfortable exchanges before eventually begging to be excused. Including an episode of a man sitting himself at my table after I had already ordered, and bragging about his business acumen while he watched me eat. I paid my bill and left before I had finished my food. I took a tuk tuk home even though I wanted to walk. I didn’t feel confident of my standing here. The rules for women aren’t the same as I’m used to.

I had felt a certain ominousness about Mombasa before arriving, which I attributed perhaps to just planning time in another city when I’m not really a city person. I honestly didn’t enjoy my stay there. I spent a lot of more time than I expected to in the hostel because I couldn’t bear facing all of the men. I couldn’t summon the sheer energy it takes to fend off the many and varying advances. I had begun putting up my guard in a way that I never have, and it was exhausting.

I was eager to move on from Mombasa and take up residence in Watamu. I had a relaxing few days planned primarily around snorkeling at the marine reserve. However, Watamu wasn’t going to be the quiet town I was expecting.

I woke early to have breakfast at my hostel and catch a matatu – the sort of public bus here which is the cheapest way to get around. In town they’ll drive around with someone hanging out the door of the minivan calling out the destination. Stopping for passengers to board and alight. For this trip, I went to the Buxton Malindi stage where there were a few matatus vying for passengers. As soon as my tuk tuk pulled in, a crowd of hustlers was in my face, each trying to get me to choose their matatu. The factors seemed to be price point and time till departure. In the instance of these longer journeys, the matatu doesn’t leave until every seat is filled. I chose the second cheapest option, as it was a third of the size of the cheapest option, and only 100kshs more. There were only a few other passengers onboard, but it didn’t take long to fill. I supposed lots of people were holidaying in Watamu on their weekend.

It took nearly 3 hours. The bus was warm, and I was glad to be sat beside a window. I kept my backpack on my lap as I usually do. The stress of potentially losing things is nearly absent when everything you own is within your grasp. I listened to an audiobook while enjoying the changing landscapes and city(/town/village)scapes throughout the journey. We passed hectares of tidy agave farms, ever shrinking villages, a massive clothing market at the roadside (our driver pulled over and seemed to have done some shopping while the rest of us just sat and waited?), and a few glimpses out to sea. In Gede seemingly everyone on the bus helpfully indicated that this was my stop. I had to transfer from the matatu and get a short ride to my accommodation. Uber seems to be less utilised the further from Nairobi you get, so while I didn’t have hopes of actually securing a ride, I did reject the mass of tuk tuk and boda boda (motorcycle) drivers to sit on my own and at least have a look at the suggested pricing. I was glad I did, because when they quoted the same price I had just paid to travel 100km for a distance of less than 7km, I had a reasonable ball park for haggling.

Walking through the gates of my accommodation was like walking into some version of The White Lotus set. I was almost certain I was in the wrong place. Wasn’t this just cheap backpacker accom? However, I wasn’t lost. It truly was a lux tropical paradise, I just had the cheap room at the back. The owner informed me, and apologised, that I was sharing a room with 3 men. However they ended up being perfectly lovely, and I was unbothered.

I decided to spend the afternoon at the beach. The coast was very warm comparative to both the winter I was coming from in Australia, and the relatively mild weather I’d been experiencing in both Addis Ababa and Nairobi. And we all know that hot weather = grumpy Rae, so I was keen for a swim on this side of the Indian Ocean. The nearest beach was less than a 5 minute walk, and quite stunning. There are seven islands scattered across the coast which you can walk to when the tide is low, which it happened to be when I arrived. Tragically, I couldn’t clock 3 minutes without a young guy approaching me and offering to show me turtles or starfish, or their favourite, Lovers Island. Again, I found myself having perpetual unwanted conversations which I eventually, with effort and growing exasperation, extricated myself from. The conversations were all very casual and curious, and it feels bad (to a perpetual people pleaser) to dismiss someone who is just trying to be friendly. But several minutes in there is always a ‘so if you want to buy some coconut water’, ‘so if you want a beach guide’, ‘so if…’. I’m far too accommodating for this, and it just wears me down. As a veritable poster child for introversion, I just can’t handle this level of unplanned human interaction with people I’m not already comfortable around. I fancy somewhere floating above my head there is a video game style Energy Level Bar that just rapidly depletes as soon as I Exit Hostel, and I have to make it back to the privacy of my…bunk bed (lol)…in time before I’m KO’d.

Anyways, I started getting stressed, and I really wasn’t enjoying this beach venture, but I didn’t want to give up on…going to the beach?! Surely I could enjoy this beach. At some point, as soon as I was approached, I just started saying ‘no thank you, I’m not interested, I’d like to be by myself, can you please let me walk on my own?’ adding more and more sentences to build my picture of I’m Sure You’re a Nice Person but I Don’t Want to Hang Out With You and I’m Not Buying What You’re Selling. Which…wasn’t especially effective. Repeatedly I found myself arguing with some kid about whether or not I should be able to walk by myself. Some of them just followed me until they found someone else who looked more botherable.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I take the blessed feminist men in Melbourne for granted. I can’t remember the last time I received unwanted male attention, and in the future I’ll be appreciating it with that particular gratitude you inhabit when you experience having clear nasal passages after being grossly congested for a few days. I’m realising that I am bringing my cultural ideas to another country with me. My own conceptions of a woman’s value and ability to navigate the world. Which are so uniquely shaped by the places I’ve lived and the experiences I’ve had until now. Here it feels like women are a commodity for men. That idea that women should give their attention to any man who asks for it is literally following me around and not taking no for answer. Of course there is a touristic component as well. Here I am holidaying in someone’s home, and intrinsically that means I have the disposable income to do so. My recognisability as a foreigner betrays an expected wealth. And shouldn’t I share what I have equitably? Needless to say, I’ve been ruminating over a lot of complex questions around cultural norms, gender roles, financial imbalance, and the morality of travel.

-=hindsight update=-

So after having this experience, and journaling it out, I went for a swim in the blessedly private pool at my accommodation, took myself to a nice dinner, had a good sleep, and decided to start fresh the next day.

I had coffee and a breakfast sandwich before heading out for a snorkel. My host had recommended a captain for the job, and I arrived earlier than necessary, hoping to see a new, potentially less fraught beach. I had a nice, normal chat with a man who was maybe a ranger? I then sat with the captain, and we had a deep conversation about the logistics of Watamu. I learned why there are so many Italians (which I won’t go into here). So much so that the locals will address you in Italian. They learn it in school! This place is truly little Italy, and it was very unexpected. I also learned that there’s a compelling reason why so many young men are approaching foreign women on the beach, and it’s because there is a thriving market for it 🤯. I suddenly reframed the entire previous day in my mind and…wrote it off. There were mechanics at play beyond my my field of vision. A whole history I wasn’t aware of. I think I’m the wrong clientele for Watamu and Watamu isn’t the seaside town for me, and that’s okay. The great thing about travel is you can move along to the next place whenever you want.

That said, I actually had a really nice second day. Snorkeling was a lovely way to spend an afternoon. I followed two separate lionfish for ages (at a considerable, nervous distance) – it’s so fascinating to watch them move languidly (and dangerously) through the water. Other creatures of note were an abundance of both white and black eels, and a blue spotted stingray which apparently glows in the dark. Unfortunately I forgot my camera, and got no photos or video of the marine reserve. I had a great exchange based on a misunderstanding with the French couple on my snorkeling boat. I asked if they had been in Watamu long, and the man thought I had asked if he’d had watermelon. And I just don’t think I’ll ever hear the word watermelon the same ever again.

After snorkeling, the captain kindly gave me a lift to the place I was having dinner – a special locale called Crab Shack Dabaso. It’s a charming restaurant built on a winding boardwalk that’s tucked into the mangroves. As the sun slowly set, I had the obligatory crab samosas and a cold Tusker, followed by a messy but delicious seafood curry. Surrounded exclusively by Italians, ovviamente.

My time in coastal Kenya ended on an okay note. It’s not my favourite experience I’ve ever had. At times I felt deeply uncomfortable. But I think I learned something valuable. And when I moved along to Uganda, I refrained from immediately putting my guard up when people started approaching me in the street, which was a good thing because most of the people I encountered were actually just really friendly and curious. I could’ve spent the rest of the trip fending off imaginary advances and missing out on some lovely interactions. And I could’ve been a really bad ambassador for foreigners, cold and closed off. And what’s the point of traveling if you are too afraid to interact with the people whom you are visiting?

sawa sawa

The journey to Maasai Mara, while [blessedly] uneventful, felt thrillingly cinematic and new. An incredibly small plane took us out beyond the crowded city and across the expansive savanna. The flight took about an hour, and included a layover where we exchanged the three other passengers for three new passengers who apparently needed to fly the extra eight minutes from their previous destination (on the way back to Nairobi, we completed a 3 minute flight, which must surely be some sort of record length for a legitimate flight). The bush airstrips consist of small patches of worn earth with a toilet block and at least one Maasai folk selling their distinctive colourful fabrics, small painted replicas of every animal, elaborate beaded jewelry, and other traditional wares. For the duration of the flight, I kept my eyes glued on the ground below, hoping to catch sight of herds of wildebeest, towering giraffes, etc. I apparently didn’t learn from my early time in Australia where every time I saw a ‘koala crossing’ sign I earnestly searched the trees to absolutely no avail, ever. Needless to say I didn’t get an aerial sneak peak of the wildlife, but I did enjoy watching the shadows play against the changing landscape.

Upon our landing at Musiara Airstrip, we were meant to be collected by our camp in the standard issue jaunty safari jeep. However when we alighted from our mini plane, while there were plenty of olive-khaki jeeps, none were from Kandili Camp. Stranded in the middle of decidedly non-civilisation, Sunita and Pacita both got to work trying to get in contact with our accommodation. Racing against a grey cloud bank which was stretching menacingly across the sky towards our little group huddled under a tiny structure. Ultimately we were rescued by another camp, their driver – also warily eyeing the oncoming storm – took pity on us. The lovely folks from Governor’s Camp deposited us to the safety of their luxurious setup and plied us with coffee while we waited for our own hosts to gather us.

Eventually someone from Kandili came for us, and on our way to our home in (well, near) the Mara, we unceremoniously came across of family of giraffes who didn’t mind us stopping to watch them simply exist. I honestly could have gone home happy. Giraffes? Eating leaves? Walking? Looking at us with something between mild curiosity and indifference? Incredible. After nearly 10 years of sharing a home country, I’ve never stopped being amazed at Australian wildlife, and African wildlife is a whole new level of mind blowing.

Kandili is a beautiful camp set in a lovely location. The camps here are full glamping setups. We were housed in a massive permanent tent, complete with cozy beds and running water. We all got very close for a few days considering the toilet was separated from the rest of the tent by a mere zipper. Nothing to bolster a relationship like facing your bathroom demons in front of your friends. The staff kindly pinned up the sides of our tent during the day so we could be fully immersed in the scenery (and get some cool breeze running through), and zipped us snuggly in at night – safe from the descending cold and the wildlife prowling past. Our stay felt so short that we were barely able to fully enjoy the comfort of the camp, but I was grateful for our cozy base.

During our stay we enjoyed thoughtfully prepared three course dinners, with lots of tea and coffee. All of the staff at Kandili are men, clad in traditional Maasai dress – the distinctive red plaid (which, when I asked about the significance of the colour red, was told that animals fear red, due to generations of the Maasai both protecting themselves, and killing lions in order to enter manhood) and softly jingling body jewelry. Being cared for by all of these men made me realise how much I associate hospitality with femininity, and it felt very sweet receiving all of this carefully considered hospitality from these men. Right down to the hot water bottles tucked under our covers when we returned from our dinners.

Our first day of safari was in the Mara, which is another post. The second day we opted to do a quieter safari on the extensive reserve at Kandili. We didn’t go first thing in the morning, which means you don’t see the wildlife when it is most active. Overall it was a very different experience from the exhilarating previous day. We saw more varied landscapes and smaller, more hidden animals like the rock hyrax and some very colourful birds and lizards. As the day drew towards dusk we started seeing more and bigger animals coming out to own the night. A family of lazy hyaenas (with a pup!) who had taken up residence in a termite mound, which had *previously* been taken over from an anteater (just imagine moving into a home made by and consisting of your food – pizza house, where are you?); several giraffe (who weren’t that keen on us watching them); the elusive-of-photos warthogs (called pumbas – fools, because they have laughably short term memory, and if they get scared and run away, they only get a few dozen meters before forgetting why they were running and just stop and go back to what they were doing regardless of whether the danger is still imminent); some teeny tiny dik-diks; a massive herd of bachelor impala (only one male can live with the females, and he usually only satisfies them for a few months before being ousted by a younger, stronger male); a lone hippo soaking in a one-hippo-sized-mud-pit; another small but mighty jackal. We headed home before the rains descended.

Can you spot the rock hyrax?

As compensation for being stranded at the airport upon our arrival, we were taken on a third, mini safari on our final day on our way back to the airstrip. In just a few hours we saw so many things. An island of hippos, some crocodiles that were difficult to really see from far away (can we justify counting them on our nonexistent safari bingo cards?), a gang of traipsing banded mongoose, a baboon making its distinctively baboon way into the distance, and more giraffes and elephants that we didn’t have time to stop to watch. I feel really fortunate to have been able to witness all of these animals over these few entirely too short days. Maasai Mara is a very special place.

a leopard named success

The night before the safari I was too excited to sleep, surrounded by sounds of animals I couldn’t quite recognise prowling around our tent. I finally realised the most prevalent, eerie sounds were hyaenas when I heard one lone call turn into a full fit of laughter, and the sound I thought might be a warthog was actually the soft grunting sounds of a lion.

Sleep did eventually overtake excitement, and our alarms sounded too early at 5am. We readied ourselves and sat for tea and biscuits before climbing into our sturdy transport with our driver and our guide, Moses and Derrick, respectively. We didn’t get to choose which sort of vehicle we’d be in, but in hindsight, after assessing all of the modes of transport in the Mara, I was glad we ended up in ours. It’s a big 4×4 jeep with three rows of tiered seating, excluding the drivers cab. The sides are entirely open with the option to roll down plastic screens for protection from the rain. By midday it was warm, and heat was radiating through the roof in waves. I can’t imagine being in car with windows and low capacity for air flow. However, I did think several times about the unlikeliness of surviving a crash if our jeep rolled and my head slammed into the rocky ground with absolutely no protection. Hopefully such incidents don’t happen all that often 🤞

We set off in the dark, with the moon still high in the sky. The first blush of pink just staining the horizon. Our camp, Kandili, is tucked deep in the bush, so by the time we reached the more open grasslands we could just make out our surroundings. The first most common animals we saw were small gazelle, tails twitching, with white butts easily distinguished in the dawn darkness. They remind me of goats and I love them.

We quickly spotted a small group of elephants in the distance, always visible and recognisable in both rotund shape and ambling pace, even from far away. We veered toward the elephants, even though safari strategy suggests you should really prioritise finding the predators first thing in the morning, as later in the day they nap invisibly in the tall grasses. But elephants were high in our list, and we enjoyed observing them against the backdrop of a Maasai Mara sunrise. To our surprise, we found out firsthand that elephants eat dung for its nutritional value. Who knew? It was suggested that elephant dung is medicinal for humans, too. We didn’t opt to try it…

It feels impossible to tear yourself away from most of the animals that inhabit these lands, but if you want to witness the full array of creatures, you have to keep moving. So off we went in search of our big cats, our assortment of hooved, vaguely-deer-shaped or vaguely-pig-shaped beings, and other warafiki (friends).

‘The Big Five’ is a sort of safari bingo that most people strive for. Lion, leopard, elephant, rhino, and buffalo (somehow giraffes didn’t make the list?!). Our guides informed us there is also ‘The Ugly Five’, which includes wildebeest, warthog, hyaena, vulture, and marabou stork. I’d mostly disagree with the assessment, but then I’m too liberal with my ideas about cuteness.

We spotted most of the ugly five pretty quickly, and didn’t really stop for observation or photos, though I’m honestly just as interested in seeing them live their unique lives and getting to know their little mannerisms. However, since they are fairly ubiquitous, I was happy to prioritise time for the rarer animals, and circle back around to the easily found impalas, topi, and the like. Moses and Derrick heard about something interesting through the radio, so we kicked up a big trail of dust to see whatever it was.

The first thing you see when there is a big cat around is what I’d categorise as something between a cluster and a frenzy of jeeps. Someone shares a word and a location on the radio and a veritable flash mob appears with all of the drivers angling for the best view, and all of the passengers armed with their extra large lenses loaded onto their cameras, vying for headspace to peer out of the rooftops in preparation for a few gigabytes of photos of The Big Cat. Honestly, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the human behaviour was as interesting as the animal behaviour. The Great Migration involves, among other animals, an astounding number of wildebeests leaderlessly trekking from Tanzania to Kenya for water sources and longer, greener grasses. Consequently all of the predators convalesce for a yearly feast on the seasonal delicacy of wildebeest and other succulent Serengeti meals. Humans have now inserted themselves into the cycle, and we have created the height of tourist season to align with the great migration. The humans come to watch the predators who come to eat the wildebeest who come to eat the grass which grows in its proper season, and so it goes…

The first big cat we had the pleasure of seeing was the truly majestic lion. There was a lazy couple cuddling in the tall grasses. We watched them lounge and nuzzle and snip at each other before continuing along.

The second big cat we really couldn’t see for the first 20 minutes we were there. The well camouflaged leopard was safely savouring its meal at the top of a tiny tree. Luckily for us it decided it wasn’t all that keen on treetop dining, and it dragged half of a carcass (possibly gazelle or impala based on the colouring?), mostly just two back legs and some flesh stretched between, out of the tree and wove a parade through the maze of jeeps. At that moment I felt complicit in an unfortunate practice. I like the idea of a safari because it feels minimally invasive. It feels like a way to observe wildlife without changing their behaviour, a way to let animals be animals and do animal things without getting in the way or requiring them to perform for our benefit. But here we were, very literally getting in the way of this leopard, ceaselessly. When the leopard, who happened to be an individual known as Mafanikio, would walk some distance, the jeeps at the back would shift into gear and try to anticipate where she would go next. Which makes for great photographs, but truly seemed to be stressing her out. The frenzied entourage essentially pushed her into a small valley with some bushes, where she lay deeply camouflaged in the dappled light for so long that most of the jeeps left one by one for more photogenic prey. Leopards are apparently quite rare to see as they are both solitary and difficult to spot against the landscape. Perhaps the rarity of the sighting caused the hysteria, but I hate to think of these important animals being paparazzied day in and day out. Unable to exist unhindered once they’ve been sighted by the first jeep.

Our final big cat was the one I was most excited about. My childhood favourite animal, the exquisite cheetah. We had several duma encounters throughout the day, each more exciting than the last. The first was napping in the tall grass. You almost couldn’t see it when it was lying down, but it occasionally sat up to stretch, and eventually seemed to get hungry and consider a hunt. Its sleek patternation is an absolute joy to watch in motion. Dotted fur which looks like it was designed by Yayoi Kusama stretching against its very slender frame. It doesn’t hunt any of the larger animals – wildebeest, zebras, and the like. The small goat like gazelles are an ideal size, and it seemed like it saw a few it liked, but the jeep entourage again were keeping a tight circle, and the cheetah seemed as though it couldn’t keep locked on a target.

We left the cheetah to its hunting and moved along to stop for our own lunch under a tall acacia tree. The small amount of shade it cast a welcome relief from the midday heat. We ate our picnic spread in the company of the aptly named superb starlings, who seemed to understand, like every pigeon and seagull, that humans = crumbs.

Along our journey we also stopped to watch vast congregations of wildebeest. Sometimes moving in tidy, seemingly unending lines, and sometimes just scattered about eating mouthfuls of long grass and making their signature gnu sounds that litter the aural landscape across the Mara. Interspersed were first just a few odd zebra, and then great swathes of zigzagging stripes. The zebras and wildebeest have a symbiotic relationships where the wildebeests eat the longer grasses, and then the zebras come in afterwards to mow it right down. The zebras are particularly photogenic, and in their curiosity always seem to be posing.

We also saw a single jackal; many topi with their signature ‘blue jeans’; buffalo; impala; several ostriches, the males distinct from the females with their darker feathers and apparently very attractive bright pink necks; some steaming hippo heads just visible down a stream (they were there when we passed in the morning, and didn’t seem to have moved when we passed again in the afternoon), and a group of hyaenas close to the main track.

The highlight of the day was a particular duma encounter. We saw a cheetah ahead on the road, and pulled off to the side. The cheetah walked our way, and heavily panting, with steps slow from exhaustion it reached our jeep and laid down to have a rest right beside me. We sat in awe for about twenty minutes before we finally pulled away so that other jeeps could get a good view of the cheetah. I appreciate that the drivers have a real sense of fairness about letting everyone have a chance to have a good vantage point.

We had left camp at 6am, and didn’t get back until nearly 6pm. On our way home the sky suddenly darkened with rain heavy clouds. It seems to rain daily here from around 5 or 6pm until well into the night. Moses raced home against the oncoming rain and we had a more exciting drive than any of us had really signed up for. Suddenly the Jurassic Park ride at Universal Studios had a lot more context – those folks have been on safari. We were all completely exhausted from essentially just being passengers all day, and it was all we could do to eat our delicious three course dinner before falling into our mosquito net enclosed beds, tucked in with our hot water bottles, and the soundscape of rain pattering on the tent alongside the familiar noises of animals we knew.

a very good price

So, I had a feeling I was going to have a hard time with customs entering Kenya. I had applied for the East African visa, and afterwards, on a non-government website, read that you have to apply for the visa through the first country you are visiting. Which…it didn’t say anywhere on the actual application. Had the government website said as much, I would have switched tact and applied via the Kenyan government website. For whatever reason I had applied through the Ugandan government. I’m usually quite thorough and detail oriented. But there I was, unconfidently attempting to cross a border. Sure enough the customs officer took one look at my form and gave a big nope. I feigned a degree of ignorance, and basically asked what my options were. Which were A) don’t come to Kenya, or B) buy a Kenyan visa. The latter of which I did, though I provided absolutely no information or documentation. Apparently that’s okay 🤷‍♀️

Our first day in Kenya, we could have been anywhere. We were collected from the airport and taken to a very fancy hotel. It included free entry to the arboretum, which we took advantage of, and a very extensive buffet breakfast, which we definitely took advantage of. I particularly enjoyed the inclusion of some Swahili dishes like wimbi porridge, mbaazi, and mahamri. We only stayed for a night before transferring to our more permanent, still luxe accommodation in westlands (where I had my own bedroom, and there were three bathrooms between us). The extensive security took some getting used to. There are a lot of security guards here, as you have to go through a scanner every time you enter a hotel, a shopping centre, or a myriad of other public spaces. It’s also strange to see so many officious people casually carrying various types of rifles. But eventually I forgot about the newness and it began commonplace.

My first point of business out in the wilds of the Nairobi cityscape was to acquire a sim from Safaricom. I purchased 2.5gb of data for 2 weeks, which is exponentially more data than I use at my worst, however somehow I used up the vast quantity before my 2 weeks were over and needed to top up again. I’m convinced that somehow doing the same internet activities takes up more data here 🤔

With confusion and misgivings, I loaded M-PESA, that is: digital money that you use through your phone company, onto my account. It feels very weird to hand over your passport and a stack of cash to one of the countless, tiny green stalls tucked into every nook on every street and expect that money is going to magically be available on the other side, but, that is exactly how it works. I’m not convinced about the whole mobile money thing, but it is more common here than paying with a card, so I’ve apprehensively adopted it. Also, it means you can have readily payable money without carrying loads of cash, which is its own relief.

I had a constellation of Places to Go saved for Nairobi. Far flung small adventures, mostly consisting of places to eat and artist collectives. Sunita and I tucked into this list, with Pacita joining in when she wasn’t at the conference. Particular favourites included wandering the diverse range of stalls brimming with colourful art at Kuona Artists Collective, perusing Westlands market (and lots of haggling for some of our party), taking a tour at the beautiful Kazuri Bead Factory (and buying way too many beads), and seeing the production at Ocean Sole where they turn flip flop ocean debris into colourfully patterned sculpted animals. We all bought semi-matching clothes from the lovely Mrembo Africa label that we discovered at the sprawling Spinner’s Web market.

We had some incredible Indian food, as well as a sampling of Swahili dishes. The ‘wet fried’ fish was incredible, but we couldn’t finish the pile of very green tasting kunde leaves. If I’m being honest, I was more enamoured with the trying of dishes than the actual eating of dishes. I’m not rushing home to [unsuccessfully] recreate Swahili food like I attempted to do with numerous noodle dishes after my trip in Southeast Asia. But there were lots of nice, simple meals of meat, [some] veggies, and a carby component of rice, potatoes, ugali, or chapati.

We indulged in tasty beverages. I had as many dawas – a spicy ginger drink – as I could get my hands on. And while we agreed the coffee wasn’t as good as Ethiopia’s, that didn’t stop us from seeking it out anyways. I enjoyed about half of the milky spiced African Teas that I tried. Some were just too milky for me. I also had a few of the infamous Tusker local beers tucked into my Kenyan adventures.

We didn’t make it to all of the places I wanted to go, but we put in a solid effort. Our days in Nairobi felt unrushed and meandering. I’ve really noted a slower pace of being that exists here, there isn’t a huge focus on efficiency as the most important thing. You’ll order a coffee and it won’t come immediately. Dinner takes a long time to make and serve. Transportation comes when it comes. I’ve been forced to reexamine my ideas about quality, ETAs, and the religion of should. And why shouldn’t I? I’m not really in a rush, I’m just used to things happening in a certain way. But keeping up those expectations here could very easily lead to a trip full of frustration. I’m constantly experiencing situations that don’t unfold in the way that I expect and being like right, this is what’s happening. I’m here as a guest, and I’m existing in new parameters. Let’s change perspective. It’s been a good reminder that you can’t change the world around you, but you can certainly change how you respond to it.

not a good wife

Our days in Addis Ababa started late. With  opposing jet lags and questionable sleep, we didn’t once breathe the city air in the AM. If staff at restaurants were confused when we asked for breakfast at 12 or 1pm, they kept it to themselves and politely brought us our coffees and inappropriately timed meals. Faranj, hey?

We fell in love with Akkoo Coffee, which was conveniently around the corner from our hotel. It’s an unapologetic chain, which normally I’d scorn, but the coffee was incredible, the food was good (and easy to identify what you were ordering), and the staff were graciously accommodating. Every morning we asked ourselves ‘are we having breakfast at Akkoo, or are we branching out?’ We invariably chose the former.

Breakfast at Akkoo started with a ‘non-fasting macchiato’. In my understanding, the large population of Orthodox Christians abstain from all animal products every Wednesday and Friday, and consequently most restaurants cater for these fasting days. They diligently check whether your coffee, your ful, your chechebsa is fasting or non-fasting. For the most part, our semi-vegetarian party were keen to partake in fasting dishes in order to avoid copious piles of meat, but we didn’t actually want non-dairy coffees, and we definitely didn’t want to miss out on any of the delicious nitter kibeh (butter that is infused in heaven with aromatics and rich spices) which is used as a base for so many Ethiopian dishes. Anyways, we had amazing coffee, this coming from an absolute coffee snob who won’t drink the stuff outside of Melbourne (if the suburb wasn’t within the Melbourne ‘Ring of Steel’ during COVID, then the coffee isn’t drinkable). So aside from Proud Mary in Portland, which is a Melbourne cafe with a magic portal in the US, Akkoo is now the third great coffee location of the world.

And let me just back up by saying that Ethiopia is the proudly proclaimed birthplace of coffee. That farmer and his goats started it all (contestably in the region of Kaffa?). Coffee or buna is deeply built in to the culture here. Often family or community partake in regular coffee ceremonies which can last for hours, with the coffee being caringly roasted and steeped and served. It’s an opportunity to engage intimately with your loved ones over an important shared ritual. I kept seeing reverberations of this commitment to connection deeply engrained in the culture during our few days there. 

“Why share one of a good thing when you can share a portion of a lot of good things?” (a slight misquote of a general life motto) is law in Ethiopia. Meals are for sharing, and the food comes arranged as such. Curries, meats, and salads piled neatly onto one giant spongy injera for everyone to participate in.

It’s funny – when I’ve gone out for Ethiopian meals with friends in Melbourne, we’ve commented on the feeling of fomo or scarcity over sharing a veritable map of curries. However, every time we finish the meal there are leftovers and everyone is perhaps overly full. Here it is precisely the opposite. It’s not competition, it’s the definition of communal. My hunger and satisfaction is intertwined with that of everyone at my table. I do not exist, there is only us.

I bore witness to the most hearteningly beautiful display of this in the form of a practice called gursha. In my understanding, gursha is when someone scoops up the best bite and feeds it tenderly to another. And just to paint a vivid picture for anyone not familiar with Ethiopian cuisine, everything on the menu seemingly can be, and usually is eaten by hand, scooped up with injera, a spongy, fermented, crepe/tortilla/flatbread. So in this scenario, you are feeding your loved one with your own hand.

In my mind, it is the culinary embodiment of this quote:

“That’s how you know you love someone, I guess, when you can’t experience anything without wishing the other person were there to see it, too.” — Kaui Hart Hemmings

During one of our meals, I saw this happen first with the seemingly newly minted couple sitting in front of us, and then a few tables away where a woman got up from her seat to share a bite with her friend at the next table. I cannot describe the sweetness of that moment. I love this practice, even as I tend to shy away from showy affection, and generally feel overwhelmed by even a smidgeon of attention.

We didn’t have a heap of activities planned. We spent an afternoon at the lovely sprawl of Entoto Park. We visited the original Tomoca, the oldest coffee shop in Ethiopia. Here we were asked if we wanted our macchiatos weak, medium, or strong. I opted for medium, and medium was quite strong. A week’s worth of coffee concentrated in one small cup. It’s a wonder they could fit milk in with all that caffeine taking up the glass. But, it was still good, if overly energising. We visited Merkato, which is supposedly the largest market in the world. Fortuitously, we had hired a driver for the day and experienced a drive thru experience of this overabundance of market space. Each section stretched out for blocks! Blocks of clothing, blocks of electronics, blocks of spices. At some point, when I started recognising stalls and landmarks, I realised our driver didn’t know where he was going. He had to ask directions a few times to locate the section for spices. A deliciously pungent market neighbourhood filled with 25kg sacks of vibrantly hued spices. Sunita stocked her pantry with an array of spices, and some coffee beans as well. Finally, we had dinner at a cultural restaurant. There are plenty to choose from in Addis Ababa, we landed at 2000 Habesha. These restaurants offer traditional food and cultural entertainment. There was singing and dancing, and we tried to experience a traditional coffee ceremony, but it was a rather condensed version for tourists. I had hoped the restaurant wouldn’t be a sh*tty tourist trap, but it was actually lovely. The entertainment was good and the food was great. I was able to try tej, the Ethiopian honey wine.

As we packed and journeyed to Nairobi, I was feeling ready to leave Addis Ababa, but sad to be leaving Ethiopia. I originally had an extra week planned at the end of my trip to explore other parts of the country, but due to high conflict in the areas I really wanted to visit, changed my plans and extended my time in Uganda. Someday I hope to return for a proper exploration.

Sampling tej served in the traditional berele

preamble in pearl white

I thought I had reached an age where I was past booking tormentingly long layovers. But the chance to have a brief glimpse of a new part of the world was just too tempting. So after a 14+ hour flight, I landed in Doha, Qatar at 5am with 13 hours ahead of me. Luckily I had been able to sleep copiously on the plane, and I was feeling relatively human and conscious.

My research had indicated that Qatar Airways offers a free tour of the city for anyone with a layover of 6+ hours. However, upon arriving at the desk, I learned that the ‘free’ part was no longer applicable. I could have opted to explore Doha on my own, but arriving in the scorching days of summer – 45 degrees! – I thought paying to ride around on an air conditioned bus with a tour guide sounded pretty worthwhile. On said tour I learned that even most of the residents of Doha evacuate the heat of the city for several months each summer, which I can totally respect. Apparently the ocean there is so shallow that it’s too hot to swim in during the summer! Not even swimming is an option for relief. Help! 😅

The tour felt like it was perhaps sponsored by the Qatar government. The commentary had a bit of a Stepford polish to it. But the city is stunning. I haven’t yet been anywhere in the Middle East, and the architecture swept me off my feet. The city is filled with elegant white and cream coloured buildings, most of which have been elaborately designed with graceful lines and intricate geometric patterns. I’ve heard people talking about shaping skylines, but I’ve never actually comprehended the aesthetic capacity of a majestically curated sprawl of skyscrapers.

National Museum of Qatar

Museum of Islamic Art

Save the date!

The Blue Mosque, Katara Cultural Village

Pigeon Towers (designed for harvesting pigeon poo for fertilisation!), Katara Cultural Village

even the bins are beautiful

Souq Waqif exterior

Souq Waqif interior

The tour was essentially just a series of photo ops, but I used it as a starting point for my second layover there in six weeks time. Due to the heat, lugging around my backpack, and the unexpected afternoon shutdown of the city (due to…heat), I ended up returning to the airport earlier than expected. Hamad International Airport is actually a very cozy space to while away an excess of hours. I got myself a cup of heavily spiced karak and planted myself in The Orchard to people watch. I finished an entire book between leaving Melbourne and arriving in Addis Ababa. Can recommend Annihilation as both a film and a book 👍🏼

The Orchard at Hamad International Airport

The fun statue that is never devoid of humans

My already very late-arriving flight was delayed due to aircraft issues, which seems to be happening to me frequently these days. Are airplanes breaking down more? Are we just finding the alarming problems more than we used to? Or am I a magnet for defective aircrafts? Regardless, instead of arriving just after midnight, I got in to the Ethiopian capital just before 2am. My itinerary for this trip allowed me to tidily apply for just 2 visas, with the ability to visit 4 countries. I was meant to have both my Ethiopian and my East African visa processed at the airport in Addis Ababa. However, upon handing both printed visas to the customs officer, he casually slid the East African visa back toward me. It was none of his business, and he didn’t know anything about East Africa visas. Which, admittedly, makes sense. I found it odd that it could be processed in a non-participating country. But I literally selected Addis Ababa from a drop down box as my port of entry / location to have the visa processed on the official government website 🤷‍♀️ With some misgivings, I concluded my customs for Ethiopia and left my East Africa visas problems for a future, less exhausted me (spoiler alert, it didn’t go smoothly).

In order to have a 24 hour crossover in Melbourne with my Joel, who was returning from nearly 8 weeks in Europe, I delayed my departure by a few days. Consequently, Sunita and Pacita had arrived a few days before me, and were already snuggly tucked into the Best Western Plus which would be our home for the next few days. The airport shuttle was a blessing, and I was relieved to find the driver waiting for me in the middle of the night, over an hour after I was meant to land. Sunita and Pacita, coming from New York, have the flavour of jet lag where you can’t fall asleep at a reasonable time in the current time zone. Coming from Melbourne, mine is of the persuasion where I am literally falling asleep at 10:30pm and there’s not much that’s going to change that. Which, is arguably an easier slant. Anyways, Sunita was awake waiting for me, and working on her dissertation proposal (nothing to help you sleep better than deep thinking around important deadlines). We stayed up talking for a bit before we both gave in to sleep. We had a big few weeks of adventure ahead of us, and we’re pretty old ladies these days 👵🏼👵🏼

hour 30+ of traveling…

the continuation and re-ending of Otter and Seal

So, when my longtime partner in crime Sencha Mujer Otterchoa departed Olympia, I didn’t expect we would ever occupy the same city again. Ergo, her relocation to Australia was a welcome and surprising delight.

I’m never at a loss for amazement that sometimes you get to share life with people who are so magnificent. This one is ready to join in on any adventure I might imagine. Prepared to propose adventures which I wouldn’t imagine. Ready with pizza upon my landing[s] at [all] the airport[s]. And soup on my sick days. And cookies before I crave them. And tea when I awaken. (We like food.) And surprises for no reason. Ready with patience when I’m grumpy. With energy when I’m exhausted. With encouragement when I’m defeated. With solid advice and understanding for any situation I fall into. With enthusiasm every day of the week. Ready for chips (fries), always.

I think relationships at their very best look like people allowing each other to be themselves, uncompromisingly. Creating an atmosphere that is both comfortable and safe for the other to flourish. Being both encouraging and challenging. That’s exactly the space we’ve had in Melbourne (and beyond). Such a beautiful foundation for intentional and incandescent living. I’ve felt so nourished and supported. So ready to exist fully.

This past year has seen a lot of kilometres of gorgeous landscape and fun experiences on the road. It has also seen days and weeks and months of simple life conducted out of a cozy [partial] home. It has been an exceptionally creative time for me (I think it’s safe to say for both of us). Creative cooking based on whatever seasonal, local produce we’ve found delivered in our CERES boxes. Gourmet road trip meals mostly-suited to the desert, or to the bone-deep winter of Tassie. Sewing projects beyond my experience, painting, card games, reading and other shenanigans at Bar Josephine. Filling scrapbooks from an entire country. Braiding, knotting, macrame-ing a sea glass toned collection of anklets. Threading together film clips of a gorgeous island state. I struggle with motivation, often. But this year has been so full. Of experiences. Of growth. Of satisfaction. I attribute this to having a really solid foundation. One which was created, significantly, by this gorgeous friendship. By this caring and conscious individual. It feels good to be ready for life. It feels good to have the energy and the space to live well. And while Melbourne is filled with so much excellence and so many stellar people of it’s own accord, it is this human, as always, who has filled so much of my heart. And filled my life with so much more than I would’ve had on my own.

Thanks Mujer for a year of epic goodness. Thanks for making me more me. Thanks for changing the fabric of this city for a year. I love you endlessly.

As a side note that deserves (and will have) its own note (eventually): While we’ve created our own precious space, we’ve also had so many people adopt us into their homes and their lives, and we wouldn’t have loved this place so much without all of you who have been there for us. Our hearts are full! 💕

the crumpet fiasco

Somehow I had gotten it into my head that crumpets would be an excellent road trip food. Not like, store bought crumpets. No. Crumpets from scratch. So in our trip preparations we bought egg rings and yeast and Sunita dutifully let me make my usual overambitious and absurd plans. However, the desert is decidedly less ubiquitous with its gas bbqs than other parts of Australia. So I had been putting off the crumpet endeavours. But after a full day of hiking and swimming and being in the sun, making and eating real food sounded like a hassle. And for once we had heaps of daylight left after arriving at our roomy desert camp for the evening. I decided today was the day. The day for crumpets. The perfect road trip food.

So I retrieved my little handwritten recipe and set about the process. Our soymilk was cold and I needed warm milk for yeast activating purposes. I could’ve used our camp stove. But instead, I set the container I had chosen, our large jar normally reserved for iced tea (our best reprieve from the heat), on the hood of the car. Sunita noticed this, and suggested popping the hood instead. Which I agreed was, in fact, a superior method. So there we were with the hood open and a jar of yeasty sugar milk resting on our seemingly ever-warm engine. (A fellow camper checked to make sure we weren’t having car issues.) Next, everything else gets mixed in and then it rests for forty-five minutes and gets all fermenty. This was the point where I set it well away from us since the flies had taken particular interest in it’s rich, quickly souring aroma. Also, where I realized, in hindsight, that I should’ve halved the recipe. We’d be eating crumpets forever.

We were cramped together in the way way back of our Honda CR-V. It was too warm to be in the car, but the alternative – being outside, but covered in flies – was worse. Would you rather? In an almost unprecedented scenario, I’d choose heat. Anyways. It occurred to me, suddenly, the near certainty of this crumpet mixture rising beyond its vessel’s capacity. I braved the flies to check on it. Before even reaching it I notice the once flat top had become a bulbous mound. Damn. And then everything is moving in fast forward and I’m covered in a sticky fly-attracting white goo for the next hour. My elbows to my fingertips unusable for anything unrelated to crumpetry. Unsuitable really even for that. The batter covered tea towel gets left in the dirt, the ever erupting jar needs constant attention to keep the flies from claiming our precious crumpets-to-be as their own. Sunita prepares the stove and everything to start cooking this underdone concoction immediately. As It turns out, I wasn’t feeling patient enough to use the egg rings and make proper crumpets in these conditions. They were more like crumpet pancakes. Which, hybrid pastries are like a major trend right now, hey? Cruffins and cronuts and the lot. We didn’t have the means to properly clean the jar or the tea towel so they got disappeared into the roof pod for future us to deal with. Meanwhile the desert floor is dotted with little crumpet puffs that got smattered about (and cooked!) while I was attempting to both pour crumpet batter and swat away the damned flies. I’d like to say we had a nice meal of crumpet pancakes (Sunita didn’t appreciate the title of ‘crumpcakes.’) but realistically, as soon as the less-than-successful crumpets were slathered in butter and honey the flies became absolutely frenzied and we had to fight viciously for each bite. My hands were still covered in dried batter and plenty of red dust. Still, I licked the precious Tasmanian pepper berry honey from my fingers.

So yeah. I guess this is what we get up to. On our road trips. In the desert. Needless to say, I have conceded that crumpets are best left to a kitchen environment…

Western Tasmania

cows cows

The way I heard it, the reason behind the ubiquitous free BBQs throughout Australia is due to hooligans vandalising their coin operated predecessors. That the government did some calculations and figured it would actually cost them less to provide the BBQs for free, than to keep sending repairmen to fix them (in other words: remove all of the foreign objects lodged into the coin slots by said hooligans attempting to BBQ their food at the mere price of game tokens or wood chips or bits of plastic.)

Anyways, there is now a generous smattering of electric BBQs across the country, and Sunita and I have made excellent use of them. It seems like every meal we have is rich with the smokey char of grilled veggies. By now we have arguably mastered most foods on the grill. Fried eggs were problematic at first, but you learn quickly. You can toast bread pretty well in a makeshift oven with those standard metal camping plates. We even finally found that we could simultaneously boil our tea water in a pot in one corner. Thus, BBQs have become an indelible part of our daily map.

We’re pretty fancy with our meals on the road. Breakfast is pretty easy with standard eggs on toast or porridge with an array of toppings. Lunch is often leftovers from the previous night’s dinner. For dinner we get creative. We’ve had curries; gnocchi with pumpkin cream sauce or eggplant, cauliflower and lemon cream; thick, juicy mushroom burgers with local pepper berry cheese and a host of toppings and condiments; Ethiopian style lentils and veggies over cous cous (everything with cous cous because it cooks so quickly); pasta loaded with grilled veggies and a rich nutmeat; burritos with sweet potatoes and black beans, or grilled veggies and – wait for it – cous cous; sloppy BBQ sandwiches; various soups. We’re never bored with our food. But we always have heaps of dishes at the end of the day. And in winter, cold water dish washing is not a pleasant task. I’ve taken to stealing the last dregs of the BBQ’s heat to warm plates of water, so that at least the scrubbing portion is okay. Your hands go numb with the rinsing, but when mouse inhabitants (more on that later) are the alternative to fastidious dish washing, you sacrifice your hands.The unfortunate combination of cold and a pre-five-o’clock-sunset has led to much extended sleeping hours. Try as I might to keep occupied in the evenings, when I am lying in a warm, cozy bed there is just nothing left but surrender to sleep. The eastern side of the state has proven a more manageable climate. At least my nose doesn’t freeze and I can spend some hours reading and writing in addition to our usual routine of listening to a podcast or audiobook. At Friendly Beaches we stayed out well past the sun. We spent our dinner watching pinks and purples wash across the sky. Then we had several walks in hopes of spotting wildlife. We saw various macropods, a large wombat, a spotted quoll, and a brush tail possum. We were pleased with our platonic hunt. We caught the sunrise, too, in an array of orange and red that faded into a warm teal in tones reminiscent of Miami Vice.
At breakfast we had an insistent wallaby guest who was well curious of our goings on. He munched on ferns and eucalyptus with a flurry of fairy wrens fluttering at his feet. Wallabies seem like the friendliest of the locals in general. We had another instance where a couple joined us during our dinner prep and were most interested in the radio lab episode we were listening to. We both suspected one might grab the speaker in its altogether too-short- for-such-a-task arms and take off with it.  But it merely gave the glowing device and inquisitive lick and continued listening with us. The wombats on the other hand appear far speedier in Tasmania, and want nothing to do with us. Unlike the thoroughly apathetic wombats of Victoria. We love them all the same. We’ve sought out several colonies of our old friends, the glow worms. The first was with a proper tour in a gorgeous cave, but the glow worm experience wasn’t very lovely or intimate. We explored another cave on our own, plus an old tunnel, and finally a “grotto” of fern dwelling glow worms. Soft constellations of blue scattered across the Tasmanian darkness. I admit I am as captivated by their brilliant bioluminescence as their unwitting prey. We’ve yet to spot glowing fungi, so-called sea sparkle, or the bewitching Aurora Australis, as I had hoped. But I suppose that is much to ask of one venture. The stars are brilliant here. The bright smear of the milky way adorns the night as though it is commonplace. Shimmering planets making bold appearances as early as 6pm. We feel spoiled on clear nights. I joked about seeing a shooting star as I squatted for a piss outside the van one night, but it was was a commonplace magic. Exquisite events are occurring constantly, and available to be witnessed by those who put themselves in situations to do so. I always wonder why I don’t make sunrises/sunsets a priority when I am viewing one. Cascades pouring water down endless rock faces, thundering, damp lush scents. Ferns and every manner of flora unfurling in forests and jungles in meadows and mountains. Ocean reaching onto the sand and curling ever back into its own mass. Salty. Teals and blues, greens and greys. It is a privilege to bask in this sense soaked island.