-I may be crazy, but I'm the closest thing I have to a voice of reason.

-I may be crazy, but I'm the closest thing I have to a voice of reason.

Have you ever heard something and then never been able to forget it?

I was once told, while camping, that you shouldn't drink your pee. Seemed pretty obvious. However, I was then told, if you must drink your pee for survival, you must never drink your first pee off the day -- after waking up.

Now, every time I pee first thing in the morning, I remind myself that I shouldn't drink it. WTF? Prior to being told that, the thought never would have entered my mind.

****
Saw Kings of Convenience a couple days back at the Mosaic Music Festival in Singapore. A close cousin to Napoleon Dynamite. Check out Rather Dance with You -- two minute mark -- vs the real deal Dynamite.

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A.A. Bondy: "Mightiest of Guns" on hearya.

Udaipur to Agra

Spent the past couple of days up in Udaipur, a city known for the lake palaces in the north western state of Rajasthan. Stayed in a sweet hotel with sweeping lake views for 500 rupees. Took a cooking class today and learned to prepare a wide range of curries. Most importantly, was instructed how to prepare a garam masala by roasting the spices before grinding them together. Garam masala consists of black cardamom, cloves, black pepper, cinnamon, coriander seeds, cumin seeds and bay leaves. Tastes fantastic and is used in all the dishes, including the chai.
Dishes prepared:
* Butter Paneer Masala
* Yellow Dal
* Aloo Gobi
* Chapati

Pretty standard, but it was the instruction to the process that was key. Keen to get a kitchen again so I can setup shop and start experimenting.
*******
Had a quality conversation on the way home. A rickshaw driver approached Scrappy and I asking if we wanted a rickshaw. We declined as we had just gotten out of one. The conversation went as follows:
- Rickshaw?
- Nah. Thanks
- Special? Smoke? Hash?
- Nope.
- Girls?
- Hmm. Where are the girls? (we were intrigued, but mostly as there appear to be so few in public)
- In the Farmhouse.
- Ok. Where is the Farmhouse?
- In the Mountains.
- Right. Where are the mountains?
- One hundred and fifty-one kilometers away.

- Cool. Maybe next time.

******
About to jump a night train from Udaipur to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. Will spend the day there before catching another night train to Varanasi.

Godspeed.

Bombay

On the road I am met by curious glances that are often held to stares. Faces stern and searching and at times intimidating. However, I am humoured how quickly they explode into accepting smiles, contagious to one offered first.  India is filled with prying eyes. Pivoting heads, following your path, which morph into tilting bobble heads if you shake first.

Mumbai is madness.

*******

I am currently in Mumbai, India. I arrived two days ago and have been exploring the city since. Staying in Colaba in a dodgy guest house for 600 rupees a night. Making my way up to Udaipur tomorrow with a buddy of Matt's nicknamed Scrappy. Should be entertaining.

Kiting

I originally intended to spend one week in South Africa, mainly in Cape Town. Within two days I had decided I would need more time. In total, I spent just over two weeks in Cape Town and happily could have stayed. In fact, I tried. I bought a tie, crashed a hedge fund conference, networked and setup meetings exploring opportunities.

I originally came to visit an old McGill buddy, Trip, who is living in CPT, working as a consult and kite boarding actively. His flat is in an area called Table View, which has unobstructed views of Table Mountain, but more importantly is a stones throw from Kite Beach, one of the top ranked spots for kiting. I was keen reacquaint myself with the sport.

My last time kiting was back in March in Thailand with Matty and Tom, at which point I was just starting to get the hang of it. Ultimately, kiting is a very dynamic sport. There are a huge number of variables to monitor – wind, tide, kite, board, other kiters – and still you must respect the fact that those variables are steadily changing. Its tough to ever feel totally and completely in control and once you do, you start to go bigger and faster.

I had a couple of sessions at Table View, but the best two sessions were out in Langebaan, which is about 100km up the west coast from CPT. I drove out with Peitro on a Saturday afternoon and returned Sunday evening. Two days of kiting on the protected and calm bays of Langebaan is pretty special, especially when the wind is pumping as it was on Sunday.

Sunday, we awoke and did our best to ignore the copious amounts of Jager from Saturday night. I’m not sure why, but South Africans love their shots, Jager and Peron in particular. It takes a toll, but nothing fried eggs, bacon, toast, coffee and howling wind can’t cure.

Fueled, we drove to Shark Bay, which I’m told is named for the harmless sand sharks. Better to not challenge the explanation. I caught my first glimpse of this kiting oasis as the truck crested the hill and presented a sweeping horseshoe view of white sand engulfed by a spectrum of blue and turquoise. The bay is protected. The water ranges from deep to extremely shallow – especially at low tide – and remains calm for the majority. As said, it is an oasis.

We ripped the bay for over three hours. I was kiting up and down wind. Transitioning. Holding ground. I was launching some air and riding away. Mind you, I also ate it a few times attempting.

At one point, I looked over my shoulder and saw Pietro leaning way back, hauling a line parallel to mine at full tilt. He was quickly making up ground. He recognized that I was holding my own and ready for a challenge. I dipped the kite into the power zone, pulled in the line to gain speed and leaned back to edge. We were tearing the open waters, tossing up a salty spray and leaving a frothy wake. We were balancing the variables and edging the line between being in and out of control, all the while respecting the elements of the ocean and the wind.

Absolutely brilliant. Completely humbling. Massively addictive.

Turn Right at the Robot

I have been confused a number of times while traveling, its only natural. Often my confusion revolves around the way things are done, scheduling or processes. It is easy to spot the differences between a supposed normal you know and the ones prescribed in the country where traveling. “What do you mean the bus schedule in Uganda is based on the ‘it leaves when it’s full’ premise? Or ‘why is it my responsibility to have adequate change while in an Argentine taxi?’

However, as far as directions go, I’m good and capable and can find my way. Yes, there are a number that may disagree, especially anyone that has taken a road trip with me in Japan before – and to a certain degree after – I got a navigation system. However, I’d argue Japanese car navis are great in graphics and shite in offering directions. For example, the country is spectacular in offering unnecessary signage for miles before an exit, yet utterly terrible at placing a sign anywhere near the relevant exit or destination. Massively confusing. If you have driven in Japan you will be empathetic.

 Nonetheless, I have a decent sense of direction and usually find my way. After all, I’ve gotten this far.

Anyway, two weeks ago in Cape Town I found myself standing at a cross walk scratching my head. I wouldn’t claim to being lost, but definitely confused. I was heading to a meeting and looking for the building. I was in the neighbourhood and knew it was extremely close, but couldn’t quite locate it, so I asked for directions.
‘Excuse me, do you know where the Newlands building is?’
‘Eay?’
‘The Newlands building. I am looking for it. Do you know where it is?’
‘Iz it eh. Yeeh mate, its close. Right over there. Walk straight up this here road two blocks and take a right at the Robot.”
‘Sorry the Robot?’
‘Yeeh. Two blocks and take a right.’
‘Cool. Two blocks, turn right. Thanks.’
I walked up two blocks and stopped to look for the Robot. Couldn’t find one, but took a right anyway and directly in front of me was the Newlands building. Success.

Yet, I was still curious where and what the Robot was. Following the meeting I met a buddy for a beer and asked him if he knew of any Robots downtown. He too looked confused, which initially made me feel better, but then his brow raised with condescending charity. He was looking at me like I was from the remedial class. Being Canadian, I am used to such looks and usually respond by jerseying such people and delivering a few dummy punches – mentally at least.

His brow still raised, he took a sip from his pint, lowered the glass and laughed. Now I really wanted to jersey him.
‘Sorry, did I miss something? What’s so funny,’ I respond with a light chuckle.
‘Mate, Robots are all over the city.’ He then started pointing around us. ‘There’s a robot and another one over there. Everywhere.’

It was now my turn to laugh. The guy was pointing to the traffic lights at the intersections.
‘HA! You’re joking, right? The stop lights! You call stop lights, Robots?!! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. That’s worse than the British calling training wheels ‘stabilizers.’’

Now, after my recent visit to South Africa, I can attest the country has a tremendous amount going for it and is well developed, but never will it reach any heights of technological innovation so long as they call the simple switch of a traffic signal a ‘Robot.’ Just imagine the names they would give to a vacuum cleaner or Honda’s ASIMO.

Uganda is Green.

Uganda is green.

I arrived late at night, around midnight. The sun had well set and I couldn’t much see anything, but could tell immediately that the land was lush and green. Exiting the airport, the most striking difference between Kenya and Uganda to hit my senses was the air: full, moist and clean. We drove from Entebbe to Kampala with the windows down. Fresh air streaming into the car and clearing the lungs. I was sporting a full bladder and requested a pit stop. The driver chuckled and quickly pulled over onto the dirt shoulder of the streaming two-lane commuter.

Exiting the cab and out into the pitch midnight air. I could barely make out any shapes and was reluctant to venture too far from the car. I didn’t want some funky, non-existent Ugandan land croc to lunge on me unsuspectingly. I slashed into the roadside’s long grass. The shores of Lake Victoria shimmered twenty meters from the road. The trees were alive with a percussion sound resembling the knocking chime of a bell made from hollow wood. I still haven’t figured out if it was a bird, frog or bug, but the forest had a beat.

The next morning I walked outside and saw the green I smelt the night prior. Yet, more striking, even in the city of Kampala, was the clay red dirt. My shoes and clothes would adopt an orange tinge over the following few days; mostly from biking through the country dirt roads.

Megumi and I made our way to the Bus Park in the central core of Kampala to catch a bus to the western countryside of Uganda. There we met her friend Charlie. The bus park is accurately named – unlike parkways and driveways – for the buses spend a huge amount of time, well, parked. We located our bus. It was stationed tightly in a row of other idling diesel buses, all of which had been plucked out of 1990 Japan. Ours had a ‘Nissan Diesel: Saitama, Japan’ badge beside the entrance. The bus was half full at this point. The seats were all covered in plastic and in rows of two and three. I walked to the back and grabbed an empty three seater, slid open the window and leaned out to take in the ensuing chaos.

Thousands of people milled around. Some hawking typical wear – sunglasses, portable radios, bread, coke – some looking for their bus, some trying to grab luggage in escort, some banging on the sides of buses aiding the drivers to park, others simply loitered. One bus read ‘BORNTOSING HALLALUYA.’ A sign in the front window of another said ‘The Struggle!!! Kampala-Soroti-via-Mbale-Kumi.’

A group of guys gawked at a passing woman of full figure and tight jeans. She fired back a glance that only flared their catcalls.

The bus was heating up far quicker than it was filling up. We were still waiting. The bus was scheduled to leave at 2pm. It was 2:30. I was told it wouldn’t go anywhere until it was completely full. I was sweating from the brow and wrists. My legs stuck to the plastic seat cover. A man entered trying to sell queen size cotton-satin sheets with a floral print. He had about ten sets draped over his arm. He unfolded one entirely. The passengers held an edge and inspected the thread count. A captive infomercial audience.

My attention quickly turned to the commotion outside. A broad woman in jeans and a khaki top started throwing haymakers at a tall lanky man. Her left hand held his red button-up shirt in firm grasp. He ducked and she delivered. She was the only woman in sight. A crowd of twenty guys stood around laughing at the poor sap being slapped.

Through the crowd came a teenager carrying rip-off Timberland luggage and a jar of pencils above his head. He was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey jersey circa 1995. ‘GILMOUR 93’ stitched on the back. I called and got his attention, but he was suspect to allow me to snap a photo of him.

The bus was just about full. The driver was preparing to leave. One last hawker entered. He was peddling vitamin B complex pills. A worthy cause, but I respectfully declined.

The ride was bumpy. Slow in time, but fast in speed. These buses fly down the narrow two lane sparsely paved roads. Giant speed bumps the only deterrent. Being at the back of the bus, I would eject from my seat each time we passed over one. Sticky plastic seat covers my only restraint.

We stopped for fuel. The bus was surrounded by hoards selling sticks of grilled meat, corn and juice. I bought warm chapatti bread from my window seat. Staring back out the window I spotted a sign for Midas Cooking Oil, which appeared to read, ‘Give your Cocking that Midas Touch,’ which seemed to be more appropriate.

We ripped past the lush rolling green of tea plantations. A light cloud of misting rain hung over the western horizon and refracted the setting sun.

We arrived at our eco-lodge an hour after nightfall. The facility was perched on a hill overlooking the valley and hosted 4 cabins, an open air eating area and small private crater lake. The proprietor, a portly man with a graying beard, also runs an orphanage and offsets those costs by revenues generated by the lodge. We were fed an incredibly satisfying spread of beans, fried plantain and rice.

I retired to bed shortly after eating. Pull back the mosquito net, tuck in the corners and fall asleep.

Strolled down to the crater lake for a wake up swim the following morning. I joke overtly about fresh water crocs to conceal my legitimate fear – even though there isn’t even a fraction of a chance they live here. My swim is quick, but massively refreshing.

We rent mountain bikes and head off to explore. It’s hot, but the moisture from the valley is refreshingly cool. Our treads kick up red dust from the dirt road. Green as far as the eye can see. Lighter shades from young sprouting crops, fresh hues of tea, dark temperate rain forest tones in the horizon. Crater lake vistas, steep banks of tall non-indigenous eucalyptus trees.

We pass through a small village. Children come running, others stand timid behind their mothers. One child asks, “How are you?” I respond and the group follows with a chorus of “how are you.” Throughout the course of the afternoon I hear four lines: “How are you,” “I am fine,” “Give me money,” which later turned into, “Give me MY money.”  Efficient communication.

Nonetheless, the children are inquisitive and keen to engage in further conversation. A group of school kids approach on their way home. All in blue uniforms. We talk math and soccer. They see my camera and ask for a picture. They stare deep into the lens as if looking for something beyond the shutter.

We stop for a late lunch overlooking another crater lake and girls’ school. Their uniforms consist of white dress shirts and long pink skirts, which makes quite the contrast to the green hills when viewed from a distance.

Lunch is a local dish called a ‘Rolex’, which is essentially a shredded cabbage omelet, rolled in chapatti. Rolex. I order it out of entertainment of saying ‘Rolex.’

A game of soccer is being played on a red dirt pitch in Kampala. Locals sit, stand and watch on the grass hillside – a natural bleacher. Red versus Blue. Referee in yellow. It is still day, but light is fading and a shadow engulfs the field.

We head back to the car after dinner. An armed guard dressed in a bright red pleather windbreaker approaches us. He is tiny, but armed with rifle nonetheless. He stares blankly. I nod and grin. He flashes a huge teethy smile in return. I ask about his gun. He holds it out with two hands as if to offer it to me. I decline, but ask for a picture. He accepts. Bull Market moment.

Cape Town

I woke up in Cape Town this morning. Staying with a good friend, Trip, from university. His apartment is just up the north shore from downtown CPT. He has wide open western views of the ocean from his living room. Big sliding glass doors open up to the crashing tide. Robben Island is directly across. Glance left and you will see the buildings of central standing in front of the classic Cape backdrop of Table Mountain, Devil's Peak & Lion's Head. 

The picture above was taken one beer after arriving at his flat. Fan powered parasailer with lofty views of Table Mountain. 

Now sipping a coffee with morning sun lighting up the white froth of the breaking waves. The sound of the ocean drowns out the costal traffic or construction. We're figuring out our day ahead. Will drive south to Cape of Good Hope, over to Constantia wine route. Should time allow we may be ambitious and try to hike the Table for sunset. 

A friend, who used to live here, recently wrote me a note and said 'once the sunsets on you in South Africa it can be hard to leave.' I won't get carried away jut yet, but can understand where he is coming from. The views are stunning and they seem to just get better. 

Masai Mara, Kenya.

I have just spent the past three days on safari in Masai Mara, Kenya. Legendary rumours preceded my visit, but in all honesty, I really didn’t know what to expect. I now feel firsthand experience is necessary in order to grasp the vastness of the park. A roaming splendor. Nature at large. Raw.

The land is scorched. An open grassland of dry burnt yellow. Yet as we reach the top of a ridge the view changes dramatically. A recent fire has ripped through the open grass plain, charring dead grass down to the bare soil. The driving line where the fire consumed and where it ceased is the worn tracks made from the safari vans. Interestingly the fire’s damage is limited, in fact, its impact is quite rejuvenating. The fire, in combination with afternoon showers and the glaring African sun have fertilized the land. Mother Nature has wielded her wand with brush strokes of lush green. As a result, it seems the entire herbivore kingdom is grazing on the fresh green shoots.

Buffalo stand idle under the lonely shade of a single tree in an otherwise open land.

Our van holds its course on the washboard dirt track. My body shakes to the rhythmic beat; they call it the ‘African Massage.’ I am standing up. The van’s roof popped open like a canopy. I spot a hyena before it spots us. It is sleeping in a modest puddle at the road’s edge. Apparently, they lay in the water to aid digestion. Our van roars by and spooks the hyena awake. He jumps to all fours in a quick, but pissed-off lethargy. Agitated, he slinks away, peering back at his puddle and our fading silhouette.

A male zebra earns his stripes. He is mounted motionless on one of the herd’s females.

Bones scattered like littered limbs strewn after a gusty storm. Sun bleached and powder dry lay pieces of vertebrae. The legs free from their hips pivot. It reeks of rot and decomposing carcass. Despite it being the supposed rainy season, the cattle likely passed hungry and parched due to the current drought in western Kenya. Discarded and left to decay. Some old and weathered, their skin pulled taut like leather over bone. Others are fresh, but skinned of their hides. The Maasai have spotted value in utility. Meat left to dry in the daytime sun.

A herd of elephants are in the distance. Twenty lumbering beasts, like grazing shadows, on the horizon. We approach, but it takes time to get near while following the tracked path. The elephants are feeding. Trunks tearing grass and stuffing their mouths. It’s methodical. The young stay close to their mothers. The males proud and sporting ivory trophies. Once a bounty to colonial hunts and poachers, but now just the symbol of a stud. They pass by incredibly close as if to size us up and I am reminded of an emotive picture of an elephant’s eye, one which harbored depth and appeared to be crying. There are no tears today, yet I am still struck by their peering eyes and feel an inherent intelligence and wisdom. Or, perhaps it’s just a mirage cast by the surrounding wrinkles. Calm and deliberate, the herd moves on.

With the elephants just yards behind us, the van gets serenaded by monkeys. They run along side of us and congregate as we roll to a stop. I cannot help but feel the captive beast. One primate watching another. Babies grasp the front side of their mothers like a knapsack worn in reverse. At first glance only the tiny purple clasp of an infant’s hand is visible. Gripping thumbs locked on each side of the mother’s hair. A male sits atop a hill – a dirt mound. He rests. His bare ass his seat. His cock standing proud. Excited. He hangs with his wang out on display. An invite to his ladies. His turf. His crew. “Carry on now,” I can imagine him thinking, “nothing to see here.”

Giraffes stand idle like statues. Lanky. Knobby knees. Odd horns. Both dark and lighter species intermingle. A bird of striking indigo is perched on the back of one giraffe. The monkeys shuffle on all fours in the foreground, while buffalos roam the backdrop. One giraffe careens his neck, spots us and dashes off in an awkward, yet surprisingly quick, trot. 

Two cheetahs stroll the open grassland. Their cheeks patched with fresh blood. Whiskers glisten a sticky red. Recent predators. Prey captured and eaten. Now they search for shade. Shoulder blades rise and fall with each stride. Once in the shade they settle side by each. Bloody cheek to bloody cheek. Tails both stretched behind them, curling to the right and just touching the shadows cool edge. They are mates – or so it seems. They take turns licking and cooing one another’s face. They are cleaning, while very clearly showing affection. Carnivores.

The land is calm. Eerily calm. The sun still scorches, but the zebras and antelopes are still. A large female antelope stands erect, gaze focused on a small shaded rock crop one hundred yards away. She stares, as her calf becomes prey to a lion. It is feeding time for the lions. The land remains calm as if participating in collective mourning. The only sounds to interrupt are the cracking bones of the antelope under siege by the lion’s jaw. It is fierce. Raw. Nature. His paws, giant mitts, hold down his prey. His shoulders and entire back flex as he tears a limb. The antelope is well dead, open and wounded. The lion pauses. Sniffs. Licks the corpse. His face is marooned with blood. A younger lion waits his turn in the shade. A herd of three elephants pass in the background. The lion is unyielding. Giant canines crush through the shoulder: skin, muscle, ligaments and bone. Unfettered.

Midday is approaching. The sun is high, full and bright. The day is hot. African hot. The hippos are lounging in a shallow river. Deep enough to cover their hulking masses. Herbivores. Territorial. Aggressive. No natural predators. The hippos share this river with crocodiles. Crocs that are only respectful to the hippos. An armed guard is our guide as we walk the riverbank, which only a month prior was the locale of the infamous wildebeest migration. My imagination is running wild. Initially, the only movements in the river come from the awkward flapping of the hippos’ disproportionately tiny ears. The silence is broken by an enormous roaring eruption of inter-herd fighting. Water appears to boil. Giant gaping mouths lunge. The crocs never flinch. Still. Laying half submerged at the shore’s edge. Scales mock the bark of a fallen tree. A predator patient with hunger.

It is now late afternoon. Sunday. We are leaving the park for the day. Signs of human civilization litter the dusty roadside. Plastic bags. Refuse of all sorts strewn in the ditches. Not much, but stark and evident against the wide open space. Once again the stench of rotting carcass fills the van. Three dogs sleep within a twenty-foot radius of four dried and flattened cows. A truck is parked by the river’s edge. A large black container of industrial plastic sits on the flatbed. A hose runs into the pooled water – a brownish puddle with little current – and sucks from the shallow depths. One man stands in the stream, holding the hose below the surface. His pants rolled up to the knee.

Approaching the Maasai village we pass a cluster of buildings, both of corrugated steel and mud caked walls. We are greeted, warm and welcome. Men of long slender bodies are draped in robes of rich red. Colourful beads draped around their wrists and neck. Ear lobes hang in stretched loops. We are asked to pay 1000 shillings ($10) to enter the village. It is authentic, but looking to capitalize. I comply and enter.

I witness a welcome song, tribal dance and gaming jumps. Two old men with weathered faces, lingering gray whiskers and cloudy eyes of early cataracts file the hardened olive tree wood. They are crafting ‘Skull Crushers,’ a native weapon of 2’ shaft with a heavy and rock hard bulb ending. They use it to finish their lion kills. At age fifteen, the Maasai are required to kill a lion and bring back it’s four canine incisors as trophied proof. A right of passage.  The men each wear one around their necks in boastful affirmation.

Kids run. All smiles. Some snotty nosed. One pushes an old plastic water jug across the dirt and manure covered ground. He has attached a makeshift sail from discarded plastic. He makes the sound of a motorboat racing across the open ocean. He has never left his village. Never seen an ocean, or lake. Never seen a boat. Yet still, he races across the pitch. A captain in charge.

I witness the Maasai start a fire by spinning soft cedar on hard olive wood until the cedar smokes in charred embers, which are then smothered in dry grass. They blow the smoke billows thick until flames engulf the grass. Boy scout myths proven effective.

I am blinded when I enter the mud and manure hut. It is bright outside, but pitch black within. There is only one small window above the stove – a pile of smoking sticks. Its takes a few full minutes before I can make out the interior. Fifteen by twenty feet and home to three generations. The grandmother, mother, father, four children, one cow and one goat. Cramped quarters.

The Maasai diet involves milk, blood, grains and animal meats. Each morning they tap the neck of a cow and draw blood to drink. Just enough to consume and have the cow live for another day. Once it falls for good they will slaughter it for meat, skin the hide, desiccate the tendons. The bones will be scattered and left to dry in the African sun.

africa

I'm currently in Joburg, SA. Moments away from boarding my flight to Nairobi, Kenya.

I will be meeting up with an old friend from Tokyo, Megumi, in Nairobi. She claims a guy named Fred will be waiting at the airport to pick me up and take me to the Meridian Court hotel in downtown. We'll go exploring after check-in. Nairobi after dark.

Planning on cruising the city for most of tomorrow and heading out to Masai Mara on Saturday for a 4 day safari.

Following the safari, I'll follow Megumi back to Kampala, Uganda where she has been based while working for the Clinton Foundation over the past couple of years.

By Nov 13th I will fly to Cape Town and am planning on spending a couple weeks in the surrounding areas of CPT.

Sure to be an interesting next couple of weeks.

Pictures from Salta & Cafayate, Argentina.

I uploaded some pictures from my trip to Salta and Cafayate, Argentina. A wide scope of terrain made for some interesting shots: parched desert scapes, sprawling green vineyards and forgotten Ford Falcons of yesteryear.

Have a gander at them all.