Bangkok, Thailand

Yeah, that’s the view from our hotel room window: Hello Bangkok!!! 

We have decided to name the next phase of our journey -- we call it The Wolfpack chapter.

Inside joke: our friend Shelley is with us now in Thailand and the three of us (Ken, Hill, and Shel) named ourselves The Wolfpack when we ran the San Francisco half marathon last year - the name is from the movie The Hangover.  

You see ... I always saw myself as a loner, like a lone wolf in a wolf pack, but then work brought Shelley into my life, that’s when I knew I had another wolf for my wolf pack, so there was me in the wolf pack and then Shelley joined so there was two in the wolf pack, then I met Ken and I knew I just added another wolf to my wolf pack, so there was me in the wolf pack then Shelley joined and now there’s Ken....

Kolkata, India

We really appreciated Varanasi as it’s traditional way of life had not yet been disrupted by western modernity.  But after a few days, we were ready to continue on the last leg of our India journey.  Our train tickets never went through, so we bought last-minute flights to Kolkata (formerly Calcutta) -- we were both secretly relieved to avoid another 15 hour overnight train journey. 

Arriving into the eastern city of Kolkata we had a one night stay before we would depart to Bangkok and, in typical fun fashion, Ken found us a floating hotel.  Yes, literally a hotel floating on the Hooghly River (like a big house boat) full of navy-inspired decor.  In a feat of irony, the hotel had the most luxurious breakfast buffet we had yet encountered, but we slightly overslept so we could only rush in and out, quickly stuffing down breakfast but not having enough time to really enjoy it.  

Varanasi, India

We were awakened on our first morning by the Hindu chants that sounded from below our guesthouse situated on the banks of the Ganges River.  Stepping out in bare feet onto our cold balcony, hugging myself to keep warm and still in a sleepy haze, I gazed at the lively scene below me.  Hundreds of small wooden boats rowed up and down the holy river.  Pilgrims bathed themselves (and washed their clothes!) in the murky waters along the banks, while others offered prayers and floating candles drifted near the shore.  A family of monkeys kept leaping onto and off our balcony from the adjacent apartments; I kept my distance on the hanging wicker chair ready to scream if they attacked (they didn’t).  Looking south in the distance bodies were undergoing cremation.  The magnificent orange sun peaked over the horizon and the spirituality of the place resonated in the thick polluted morning air - even those who knew little of Hinduism could not take indifference to such a shocking wake up call.

Yesterday we trained from Agra to the holy city of Varanasi (one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world), an overnight trek originally scheduled for 12 hours but ended up taking over 17.  Thankfully we had bunk-bed type accommodations so we could sleep and a bag full of cookies to tide us over.  Stepping onto the dirty train platform the wave of humanity overwhelmed unlike any place we’d been before.  Thousands flooded the station, in tow with their large family groupings, melange of mixed luggage - everyone pushing to escape the frenzy.  In the chaos a large black cow strutted down the platform like he was looking to catch the next train to Kolkata.  Scruffy backpackers (the real kind) appeared to have just returned from Everest, women from rural villages in full makeup and neon saris dressed in their finest.

Our rickshaw dropped us to within ten minutes of the guesthouse - the last leg would be on foot because the roads were too narrow for cars: walking down a crowded colorful market streaming with honking motorbikes and ancient bicycles; climbing to the left up the narrow painted alleyway; taking a series of right / left turns impossible to remember; stepping (literally) over anorexic cows, sleeping disabled beggars, and fresh cow poop; ducking under low hanging awnings; and finally arriving to the banks of the ghats where thousands lined the concrete steps and boats filled with pilgrims and tourists docked to watch the evening ritual of incense burning and praying.  In the dark night sky, the candles burned as they floated and reflected off the river, mounds of incense burned smoking the scene, and everyone contemplated the religious ceremony in near silence offering their prayers to various gods.

Over the next days we strolled the Ganges ghats, Ken received a massage, and we attended a yoga class (contrast: American yoga instructors are stereotypically young, female, in shape, and wearing trendy yoga outfits; whereas our teacher was not young, not female, not in shape, and wearing a ridiculous (by our standards) outfit... oh and he was missing his front teeth... but he was very patient, pleasant and laughed louder than Ken does - I know that’s loud!).

Agra, India

Q: What’s more dangerous than driving in India?  

A: Driving in India in zero visibility fog at midnight in a rickshaw that doesn’t have a headlight.  Roy, we’re lucky you found us such good insurance.

Agra Fort impressed, but nothing compared to the Taj Mahal, the gorgeous white marble mausoleum erected in the name of love.  At Agra Fort Ken was jealous of the tale that the king had a harem of 300 women... that was until I reminded him that he could barely supervise one, and soon our friend Shelley would be joining us on our travels.  He reconsidered: yes, two wives would be too many let alone 300.  We were in such an agreeable mood that we let our rickshaw driver Saleem tour us through the backstreets of Agra.  

Our accommodations were at a ‘homestay’ similar to AirBnB-style living with a local family; Varun, the owner, was so gracious and his mom made us the best masala omelets.  We loved the restaurant Touch of Spice - not only was the food superb but Ken devoured the after-dinner candy-coated fennel (tasted like black licorice).  On our way out of town we inquired with Varun if there was a grocery store (we wanted to pick up snacks for our impending train ride), having looked for a store for two days during our meanderings.  Our host informed us yes, the largest grocery store in all Agra was less than one block away - we were dumbfounded.  We had searched in vain only to find a mega grocery store right next door.  Sometimes what you’re looking for is right in front of you!

Jaipur, India

Our quaint Jaipur guesthouse had a quirky wise owner (we called him The General because the hotel was called the General’s Retreat).  We toured the Amber and Nahargarh Forts, perched dramatically atop the hills overlooking Jaipur, the Pink City (known for it’s pink colored buildings), lost ourselves (literally) in the Old City bazaars, and gazed at the Hawa Mahal (glowing orangey-pink palace) and the Jal Mahal (the water palace built in the middle of a lake).  


Confession: after an extensive day of traditional sightseeing we happened into an air conditioned mega mall for an English bookstore, Target-type chain store, ugh and yes a Pizza Hut (we were desperate for dinner and having no other food prospects we ordered the masala pizza so we wouldn’t feel toooo guilty).  We grabbed our train to Agra and had to laugh because we had clearly found the tourist circuit (all the white backpackers were seated in the same train car: racial discrimination or booking coincidence?).

Delhi, India

We flew into Delhi and stayed at an unique guesthouse on the Main Bazaar road.  Oddly, each room featured it’s own fish tank; however, it had an impressive rooftop restaurant for all the backpackers to congregate -- we met the nicest guy from Afghanistan who had positive feelings about what the American troops were accomplishing there.  

Delhi had a much more modern feel than Mumbai, with grand avenues and new high rises.  We visited the Red Fort and had the strangest tourist experience: flocks of people hounded US for pictures!  (Usually we’re the ones trying to snap pictures of local people).  I didn’t mind it at first, but it got old fairly quickly (it’s hard to enjoy the sights when everyone is gawking at you and asking for pictures like you’re a sideshow).  Ken loved it though and was much more gracious with taking loads of pictures as “that tall white guy.”  We had an entertaining afternoon shopping along the Main Bazaar; simply walking down the street was half the thrill.  That evening we hopped a four hour train to Jaipur in Rajasthan.  We expected the worst not knowing the class of our tickets, but the ride was so pleasant: we had an entire 6-person berth all to ourselves!

Pune, India

We rode the train three hours to visit our Houston - turned San Francisco - turned Pune friend who was working a six month stint in India.  Luxury train ... yeah, that just means air conditioned.  We quickly learned that Indian travel is hindered by two major elements: 1) near impossibility of purchasing a cell phone SIM card (oddly, you need a cell phone to buy train tickets) and 2) difficulty in purchasing train travel because they are totally booked weeks in advance and even if tickets were available, you need an Indian credit card to pay (along with the before mentioned cell phone).  Not sure how other tourists get around this complexity but we (thankfully!) found a savior who was able to work magic, securing us both SIM card and train tickets (sworn to secrecy on our stealthy methods).

In Pune, we rode rickshaws (a motorcycle type taxi that seats three passengers) and gorged on phenomenal food (so tasty and we can’t get over the prices!)... will add information on the blog’s Food tab.  Special thanks to Pauravi for letting us crash, totally overloading our stomachs, hooking us up with black market cell and train tickets, and laughing until we cried about: Pune’s Osha “meditation” center aka tourist brothel; Ken’s previous successes with his wingmen Binu and Roop - ‘cuz brown men give you “wings;” our inability to get back to the hotel because of Pune’s circuitous roads causing us to hitch a ride with a random bank executive; and reflecting on Pauravi’s historic incompetence using utensils only to notice she accidentally dipped her entire hand in the chutney (aka India’s silverware).

We’ve only been here three days so we can’t reach conclusions just yet.  We heard so much about “rising India” (practically every other article in the Economist) but our initial impression was that, while definitely improving there is still a huge gap - governance and other - before India will rise to a superpower (along with China of course).  As the growing middle class migrates to the cities, fresh with their ubiquitous cell phones (but oddly lacking WIFI) and expanding private sector, there is limited freedom to question a corrupt government and such intense poverty that we still cannot process it.  We’re off to the north - what will this crazy land have in store for us next?

Mumbai (Bombay), India

I’ve always had a deep fascination with India - it seemed exotic, so far away.  Maybe I just wanted to escape to an unknown land of history and mysticism.  Probably I was a kid who read too many books.  The dramatic images of India I had constructed in my mind were soon to be realized as we landed into the coastal island city of Mumbai, previously called Bombay (which is what everyone in India still calls it).  Our first impressions of Mumbai (yes Chris Smutny, some of the stereotypes are true): overpopulated given the amount of land; crazy dangerous driving with no regard for lanes, traffic lights, or pedestrians (translation: flashing of headlights means “get out of my way,” throwing a left foot out the rickshaw means “I’m turning left”, and honking does not designate an impending accident but instead means “I’m driving”); smelly / dirty (sorry to be an elitist but there was a definite lack of sanitation, plus goats tied up to fence posts along city streets?!?); immense poverty (half naked children begging on the street corners) and a redefinition, er, lack of or disregard for personal space... ok, but on the positive side: Mumbai was surprisingly full of new modern cars (modernity at its finest, I had expected motor bikes and bicycles); and FANTASTIC food for CHEAP (less than $5 for a huge delicious meal for two).  

I unknowingly booked us into a hotel in the heart of the Muslim neighborhood - a fringe community in a minority ghetto, the menus were in Arabic and the women were in full black niqab.  We felt totally safe, although with tensions of the recent Mumbai attacks I don’t think many Hindus venture into this part of town.  A friend from Wisconsin moved back to Mumbai and graciously agreed to play our tour guide for a day.  We wandered through the streets noting the elegant pre independence architecture along the banks of the Indian Ocean as we drank (in no particular order) chai tea, sweet lassis, cold coffees, bottled water and Kingfisher beer.  Special thanks to Som for our personalized tour of the populous city and insight into the real Bombay.

Nairobi, Kenya

We departed Rwanda landing in Nairobi for a night.  Lesson learned: don’t leave Rwanda with their currency!  We tried exchanging the francs at bureaus and banks across Nairobi - even the bank whose ATM we used in Rwanda to get the francs - only to be informed the currency was worthless (no trade in value).  After much searching and haggling we found one bureau willing to give us 50 cents on the dollar - not exactly fair but better than losing the full amount.

In Nairobi, en route to the airport the taxis tried charging an exorbitant amount ($20), so we jumped on a minibus (15 passenger van) headed in the general direction of the airport.  About 100 meters from the airport everyone scrambled off the minibus and several people directed us towards the “airport transfer bus”...feeling somewhat stranded in the dusty outskirts of Nairobi, we crossed our fingers and boarded the bus.  Unscathed, the 30 km adventurous trip to the airport only cost us 80 cents!  

On a previous red eye, Ken and I both wanted the window: who wouldn’t especially when you’re trying to sleep?  Compromising, we decided to sit in different rows with Ken directly behind me on the right side window.  The Ethiopian Airlines check-in girl thought this was a grave booking mistake and tried seating us together.  We assured her, no, we did not want to sit together.  Confused (she had clearly never encountered such a couple) she started giggling and laid her head down on the desk, laughing at our request.  The gentleman seated next to Ken was also concerned about our seating arrangement because then I couldn’t rest my head on Ken’s shoulder “like wives usually do.”  After again explaining we both preferred windows, he looked at us with total bewilderment.  Crazy Americans.

Gisenyi, Rwanda

View of Congo

Even though Rwanda is a land locked country it isn’t without sun and beaches - the western edge of the country is bordered by Lake Kivu.  We rode the bus to the lakefront town of Gisenyi (renamed Rubavu) as we were assured safety even though the town borders the Democratic Republic of Congo.  We came across high school kids playing basketball; Ken asked to join and to accommodate him, instead of someone sitting out, they just increased to a game of six on six.  Also walking along the lakefront we met a group of boys - and they hammed it up for the camera.

We stayed for one night at a budget guesthouse near the bus station, but then upgraded to a mid range option closer to the lake - while beautiful, the lake is known to 1) “explode” with deep CO2 deposits, asphyxiating the swimmers, and 2) be a notorious dumping ground during the genocide.  So while we relaxed 400 meters from the Congolese border, enjoying the peace and sun, we all the while knew not to stray too far west.

Volcans National Park, Rwanda

A Belgian birdie got in our head that we should track mountain gorillas - a voyage into a world we rarely see.  The scarce mountain gorillas live in the Parc National Des Volcans, a string of active volcanoes straddling Rwanda, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo.  To secure a permit we dropped by the Kigali Tourism Office, an experience in itself given the office had moved (that day!) and from their demeanor they were not accustomed to dealing with chipper American backpackers (most rich tourists go through expensive tour operators but were trying a DIY-gorilla excursion).  After two hours of haggling we secured two permits.  (We also had a stalker of a taxi cab driver, but that is another story).

We headed north via one of the most scenic bus rides of our world journey.  Much to our surprise northern Rwanda was a cold, misty, tropical paradise, a polar opposite from our conjured images of desert Africa.  The terraced countryside was pure beauty; the primary color in every direction was vibrant green, dotted with brown houses, and colorful clothing of the women carrying water jugs on their heads as they walked along the roadside.  Every available parcel of land was cultivated - potatoes in the front yard, corn in the backyard, beans on the hillside behind town, and a coffee field across the road.


Mostly for convenience, we selected a guesthouse 100m from the park’s entrance as we had to report promptly at 7am to begin tracking.  Concerned about missing the start time, we jogged through the torrential rain that morning to the hut where everyone assembled.  Ken didn’t have a rain jacket (his was ruined in Argentina) so he rented one at the park headquarters (a very masculine periwinkle color).


We didn’t realize we needed a 4WD (like I said, everyone else was with a tour company) so Ken helped us bum a ride from a German couple who had an extra row of seats in their jeep.  Along with the four of us were three Canadian ladies, two in their fifties and one aged 70 (Joanne).  With the sweetest demeanor Joanne explained her six month training regiment to prepare herself for the climb (apparently at the age of 69 her husband asked what she wanted for her next birthday, and she replied, “Send me to Africa!”)  In single file line the seven of us and three guides embarked into the dense forest.

Quickly we came upon an impassible river, so we scrambled up the banks to the north only to find the river wider and deeper.  Thus we had to backtrack to our original crossing point.  A group of kids from the local village assembled at the water’s edge looking to see how these muzungas (white people) were going to cross the river.  We each leapt (barely) across the river onto slippery rocks (I know, not safe) and one of the guides waded across with Joanne (with a huge grin) piggy-back style.  We were all in great spirits as we clapped at our portaging success.

Climbing the volcano for two hours through the densest vegetation was not straightforward.  There wasn’t a footpath, only the narrowest of openings made by our guide’s machete.  Drenched in sweat and rain we eventually reached the Kwitonda family of 23 gorillas, including the chief silverback, the second chief, the assistant (third in line), various females and adolescent males and five babies - one who was only three weeks old.  Despite the chief’s intimidating size (400 pounds), his charisma and non-aggressive nature at close quarters was surely a trip highlight.  We stood within 6-8 feet of the babies, taking pictures and enjoying their company for one hour (we wanted to remain all afternoon).  
















The gestures and features of the mountain gorillas were so human-like... which one is gorilla, which one is human?

It started to rain so we had to descend back through the jungle.  With thunder clapping in the impenetrable air, the grey clouds darkened the sky and we slid down the muddy hillside like a slip-n-slide.  We could have glided down on our butts were it not for the stinging nettles and biting ants in our pants (literally).  Joanne impressed us with her ease of climbing and descending the volcano (Ken and I were totally out of shape!); we can only hope to be so active and adventurous at 70!  Drenched and caked in mud up to our thighs, we drove back to our hotel with huge smiles.  Ken’s only pair of pants might not recover, but we had the experience of a lifetime.

Special thanks to our sponsors Phil and Tanya for our face to face encounter with gorillas in the mist - it was a special wedding gift that we will treasure always.

Kigali, Rwanda

Hotel Rwanda

List of Victims

A reference to Rwanda elicits horrific images of brutality and racial extermination, and yet arriving into the country we were stupefied by, dare I say, its tranquil and stable nature?  With lush rolling hills and tropical greenery we instantly took a liking to the gentle capital - a quiet suburb amongst the terraced countryside, the complete opposite of bustling Nairobi or the nearby Congo.  Arriving on a Sunday, the streets were eerily quiet: no honking cars, only chirping birds and the occasional rustling of the dense trees in the breeze.  We hiked the hills, noting the surprisingly modern infrastructure (thanks to foreign investments) and cheerfulness of the locals (for the most part ignoring us, which we loved).  Was this really the same urban area where dead bodies rotted in the streets and one million people were murdered in only 100 days? 

During the 1994 genocide, a high-end hotel (known as Hotel Rwanda per Hollywood) served as a sanctuary for Tutsi’s escaping the slaughter in downtown Kigali.  So it was surreal (to say the least) to eat an eloquent Sunday brunch on a sun-filled afternoon by the poolside patio of the real hotel.  Looking around I wondered... how many people knew someone who died (everyone?)... who in this buffet line killed someone... who in this clear blue swimming pool witnessed the carnage... how can these people go on living after such trauma?  My body succumbed to constant chills as I strolled through the perfectly manicured lawn and lobby’s marble bathroom, well aware of the tragic events that befell here.

At the Kigali Memorial Center, a mass grave for 250,000 people, again we were disturbed beyond words - how does one stand on the grounds knowing thousands of dead corpses were buried en masse beneath one’s feet?  The museum offered an excellent audio tour; we languished for hours listening to the dark stories of terror and fear, survival and optimism.  While the extreme suffering caused deep psychological damage, we were simply astounded that a people could do such a remarkable job of healing its wounds and looking towards a peaceful future.

Nairobi, Kenya

While relaxing in Arusha, we concocted a plan for our remaining days in Africa - and after some Belgian encouragement we decided to set out for Rwanda.  The Arusha to Kigali bus ride would have taken two days of circling north around Lake Victoria (through Kenya and Uganda), but we found a reasonable roundtrip flight from Nairobi to Kigali so we opted for air travel.  We packed our bags, said “kwaheri” to one of our favorite countries, and hopped on a mini-bus to cross from Tanzania to Kenya.

Whether it be genes or Wisconsin-raised will, I rarely get ill (an iron stomach so to speak) but my poor husband hasn’t faired as well with the traveller’s illnesses.  With a 102 fever, vomiting, and diarrhea, he took the six hour bus ride across the border like a soul on the verge of perishing.  At every stop he beelined for the bathroom, not exactly your idea of a joyous ride - more like painful abyss bordering on wanting to kick the bucket.  Given his imminent demise, we decided to upgrade to the Hilton for some luxury accommodations.  Recovering for 24 hours, he’s now back in the land of the living, Nairobi that is.

Nairobi, with its infamously bad reputation combined with our low expectations, surprised us with its clean streets, abundant English speakers, and modern cityscape.  We were also charmed because, seriously, who doesn’t like a free upgrade to a suite with two bathrooms after you’ve been hugging the porcelain for a day and you’ve become accustomed to budget hostels? (I was a Hilton Honors points hoarder in my previous life, which I had been saving for just such an occasion).  Plus, they gave us a free bottle of red wine because it came out that we were newly married.  Walking around downtown Nairobi, we were stuck by the number of armed guards, especially the ones who checked our car for bombs (twice).  We couldn’t ascertain if this was giving us real security or a false sense of protection against would be assailants.  Either way, we’re just happy Ken is now doing great and we’re enjoying the friendly Obama-loving city until we depart tomorrow to Rwanda.