The Masterplan
Sightseeing in a modern city is so easy: Public transport covers all places you want to go to, all sights are clearly indicated, and you can pick up a map just about anywhere. Life is grand, except for the weather. It looks like it's going to rain soon, but we have a 4-step plan to complete.
1: The ANZAC memorial in Hyde Park. An impressive starry ceiling looked down upon me in the building, each of the 120,000 gold stars representing a New South Wales volunteer soldier during WWI. Uncharacteristically, Blandine gets teary-eyed from the emotional weight of this building and walks out. Weird. I find her outside, in the park, want to ask what she's thinking about, but refrain in the end. Let's focus on other things altogether.
2: On the way to the Hyde Park Barracks museum, the beginnings of a Sydney drizzle chases us into St Mary's Cathedral. A quick look around this bastion of Catholic religion is all we need. Sure, it's a nice place, but 5 minutes peeking around is all we really need to figure this place out: we got cathedrals of this splendour in my very home town. What we don't have is a huge statue of Cardinal Moran in front of the cathedral. Would his congregation be called the Morans?
Faced with the option to remain in this refuge of prayer until the rain stops or dashing up the street, we choose for the latter and make it to the Barracks museum without too much trouble. The barracks compound is a fair brick building, yet the museum really surprised me. The ground floor of the museum deals with life on Hulks, prison ships that lay moored in front of the Sydney coast. Upstairs you'll find information of Irish single women who undertook what must have been an exhausting, adventurous voyage. The top floor has a section with nothing but hammocks used by a group of destitute women, housed here in the second half of the 19th century. A great place to have a 5-minute personal chill out session. When we come out of the museum, the rain has subsided and we continue our way toward Circular Quay.
3: Circular Quay and Sydney Opera House: Every big city has a touristy central hub where folks from all walks of life hang out. For Sydney this is Circular Quay. We watch a man juggling a chainsaw; his colleague artist plays house music on a didgeridoo. Interesting stuff to say the least. After a quick snack we continue our walk and spot the Sydney Opera House. No need to walk all the way around the harbour to go in it, a building of this size is best seen from a distance. As good tourists do, we whip out our camera and take turns posing in front of what must be Australia's most photographed landmark. After that we stock up on a bit of energy in "The Rocks", a cutesy upscale area just west of circular quay, then climb up the toll road bridge for...you guessed it...more pictures of the opera house. We're lucky; a rainbow provides a perfect background.
4: A walk through the Royal Botanic Gardens Sydney. Okay, that's it: we want to walk back through the gardens, yet it's too late, they close rather early. Oh well, we'll have reason to come back.
The one thing I'd like to accomplish here that didn't work out in Chile is to get a local basketball team jersey. I go through several sports stores, but it's not the season, it's not a big seller, it's...whatever it is, they just don't seem to sell basketball jerseys here.
Blue? Code red!
Exhausted, we make our way back to the hostel along George Street. Halfway down Blandine tells me that she's still not had her period and she's seriously overdue. I fend off her fears: "There's nothing to worry about, sweetie, we've spent a lot of time a serious height in Bolivia, we crossed the Pacific flying not so long ago." She's not convinced and I'm getting annoyed. "Fine, why don't we burn some Australian dollars on a pregnancy test in the nearest pharmacy, then you can find out the obvious and start worrying about something else. Jeez!"
We get to the hostel; I jump on the bottom bunk of our bed and flip on the TV, while Blandine runs into the bathroom. Not even 30 seconds later, I hear: "Jan, can you come over here for a second?" Pfff, what is it now? No toilet paper? I make my way past the bathroom door to find Blandine, trousers at her ankles and in tears. Has this something to do with her emotional moment at the ANZAC memorial earlier? Her right hand shakily holds up a white stick and she snotters "I'm pregnant."
When these words hit my eardrums, an alarm goes off inside my head. Code RED! Oh my flippin' god! I am gob smacked. Oh my flippin', flippin', flippin' god! I look at the box, read the instructions in record time and verify the meaning of the blue colour: yup, she's not kidding. My eye falls on another one of these test-thingies inside the pregnancy test package. Great! We're going to redo the test right now, in my presence, and rule out beyond the shadow of a doubt that this may be the one faulty test that the test makers warn you about with "The results of this test are 99.9% accurate". Blandine feels we should wait until tomorrow morning, maybe she's eaten something today that influences the test result. You never know with these things and redoing the test tomorrow on a sober stomach will indeed be better. I walk out of the bathroom, and look at the city traffic down below. My mind is drunk with joy and stress of this new perspective and trying to grasp implications on this trip, the upcoming PSE camp, the rest of our lives together, the possible reality of it all.
Blandine emerges from the bathroom and I turn away from the hostel room window to look at her in the fading daylight. We study each other’s face for an eternity, as if we've just met. A smile, a tear, a hug, and time stands still. This is one of those moments that can't be defined by a single emotion, rather an incredulous blending together of many. We smile goofily at each other, barely grasping how profoundly our lives have just gotten entwined. Blandine grabs the camera, passes it to me and bares her stomach: the perfect background for a blue pregnancy stick. The sun is setting behind the double-glazed hostel window and I take pictures of my girlfriend's belly. It's hard to concentrate, but finally the applicator stick and her belly are in focus enough to rectify a decent photograph.
Mentally exhausted by emotion, we walk along Sydney's darkening streets and stop at Mc Donald’s. Is it Blandine's first conscious craving? Who knows, who cares? We eat in near silence, giggling to ourselves once in a while. Night has fallen by now and Sydney gets colder by the minute. Neither of us really feels like being a tourist, a jetsetter, or even a computer nerd: this night requires just each other’s company, no more. Back in the hostel room we watch a bit of telly, holding each other as tight as humanly possible. The goofy grin from earlier is still on my face and not about to go.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Wednesday, July 21st: Ekasuper Cultural Experience!
Ekasup village
After another nice breakfast we get picked up and driven over to Ekasup cultural village, where we are joined by over 100 Australians on a P&O cruise. There wouldn't be this many ugly tattooed people at a local skinhead concert. The jokes that fly around are cheap, peroxide blond hair is omnipresent. We walk through the jungle and are soon "hunted" by scary-looking tribal warriors. Screams come from seemingly everywhere around us (for a flavour, see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZdY4-PjylA). The village chief takes us through different aspects of the traditional village life and customs. We learn about medicine and herbs, hunting, trap making, food preservation, and more. At one point we see how spiders wire is used to make fishing nets. Half the crowd it horrified at the sight of these big spiders and the way a kid from the cultural village plays with them as pets; I'm part of the intrigued half. Fantastic how the locals use all that Mother Nature gives them to their advantage. And all information is served with a nice ladle of humour. These Ni-Vanuatu (=people from Vanuatu) know how to entertain a crowd of Ozzies, that much is clear. The village plays a few songs for us, then we head back to Port Vila. It's a great excursion, really, I'm happy to have gone through this experience. We arrive at "Room with a View" three hours before our flight, check out, then spend our last Vatus on a taxi to the airport.
On to Oz
The flight to Sydney is incident-less: it leaves on time and arrives even a bit early. We set foot in a hyper-modern airport, without an orchestra of sweaty, colourful locals entertaining us. Customs gives us no trouble whatsoever, Australia feels laid-back from the start. I snap a "Krispy Kream" donut from the arrivals hall before we hop on the shuttle bus to our downtown hostel.
Wake Up! (www.wakeup.com.au/) has all you can expect from a travellers hostel: friendly, helpful staff, an internet café in the lobby, keys that give access to your floor only, a student-priced restaurant/bar in the basement. We stumble into our squeaky clean room, tired as a three toed sloth running a marathon ("tired as a whore on nickel night", anyone?). Blandine runs into the bathroom, I look around the room for a place to sit, then "Bammm!" a flashback to high school pinches me in the cheek: we'll sleep in bunk beds with a blue metal frame! Correction, in boarding school there were bunk beds, but not with a double bed on the bottom and a single bed on the top. This will be a cool night.
Enough pho you?
But first we have to eat something. The night air is cool, much cooler than we've gotten used to, the wind is forced between the high-rise buildings and, irritated, she blows straight through our jackets. Vanuatu was "cool" with night temperatures in the lower twenties, here the thermometers read 5C currently. A Vietnamese-owned pho shop is the closest place to our hostel, and it will do just fine. Blandine is starving and orders the big portion, I point at the picture for the small portion. I can barely finish mine, after twenty minutes Blandine gives up: her bowl looks like it is barely touched. We can't take any with us, what a waste, but we console ourselves with the fact that this delicious meal cost us next to nothing. Bye-bye Pacific prices! We pay and hurry back along the chilly boulevard to the warmth of our hostel, hugging each other closely.
At the reception I make an international phone call to ASUS in Bangkok, and agree we bring the netbook for repair. The guy on the other side of the phone speaks English with a thick Asian accent and doesn't always understand what I ask him, but I get through to him that they need to send the repaired unit on to Cambodia. A dead weight is lifter from my shoulders, and soon from my backpack as well.
After another nice breakfast we get picked up and driven over to Ekasup cultural village, where we are joined by over 100 Australians on a P&O cruise. There wouldn't be this many ugly tattooed people at a local skinhead concert. The jokes that fly around are cheap, peroxide blond hair is omnipresent. We walk through the jungle and are soon "hunted" by scary-looking tribal warriors. Screams come from seemingly everywhere around us (for a flavour, see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZdY4-PjylA). The village chief takes us through different aspects of the traditional village life and customs. We learn about medicine and herbs, hunting, trap making, food preservation, and more. At one point we see how spiders wire is used to make fishing nets. Half the crowd it horrified at the sight of these big spiders and the way a kid from the cultural village plays with them as pets; I'm part of the intrigued half. Fantastic how the locals use all that Mother Nature gives them to their advantage. And all information is served with a nice ladle of humour. These Ni-Vanuatu (=people from Vanuatu) know how to entertain a crowd of Ozzies, that much is clear. The village plays a few songs for us, then we head back to Port Vila. It's a great excursion, really, I'm happy to have gone through this experience. We arrive at "Room with a View" three hours before our flight, check out, then spend our last Vatus on a taxi to the airport.
On to Oz
The flight to Sydney is incident-less: it leaves on time and arrives even a bit early. We set foot in a hyper-modern airport, without an orchestra of sweaty, colourful locals entertaining us. Customs gives us no trouble whatsoever, Australia feels laid-back from the start. I snap a "Krispy Kream" donut from the arrivals hall before we hop on the shuttle bus to our downtown hostel.
Wake Up! (www.wakeup.com.au/) has all you can expect from a travellers hostel: friendly, helpful staff, an internet café in the lobby, keys that give access to your floor only, a student-priced restaurant/bar in the basement. We stumble into our squeaky clean room, tired as a three toed sloth running a marathon ("tired as a whore on nickel night", anyone?). Blandine runs into the bathroom, I look around the room for a place to sit, then "Bammm!" a flashback to high school pinches me in the cheek: we'll sleep in bunk beds with a blue metal frame! Correction, in boarding school there were bunk beds, but not with a double bed on the bottom and a single bed on the top. This will be a cool night.
Enough pho you?
But first we have to eat something. The night air is cool, much cooler than we've gotten used to, the wind is forced between the high-rise buildings and, irritated, she blows straight through our jackets. Vanuatu was "cool" with night temperatures in the lower twenties, here the thermometers read 5C currently. A Vietnamese-owned pho shop is the closest place to our hostel, and it will do just fine. Blandine is starving and orders the big portion, I point at the picture for the small portion. I can barely finish mine, after twenty minutes Blandine gives up: her bowl looks like it is barely touched. We can't take any with us, what a waste, but we console ourselves with the fact that this delicious meal cost us next to nothing. Bye-bye Pacific prices! We pay and hurry back along the chilly boulevard to the warmth of our hostel, hugging each other closely.
At the reception I make an international phone call to ASUS in Bangkok, and agree we bring the netbook for repair. The guy on the other side of the phone speaks English with a thick Asian accent and doesn't always understand what I ask him, but I get through to him that they need to send the repaired unit on to Cambodia. A dead weight is lifter from my shoulders, and soon from my backpack as well.
Tuesday, July 20th: Kava, Lap Lap, Dance
The best laid plans
Could I describe a truly regular sightseeing day to excruciating boring detail? Yes. If only I'd get a chance. It's 6AM, Blandine is still sleeping. Two fans rotate occasional shreds of coolness in the room, while I go over our day in my mind. The plan is to drive around the island, either by taxi, or by motorbike. Or any other way we can sort out for a decent price, really. Having spent all our time on Moso, it is high time we get to know the main island and we have just today and tomorrow morning to do so. Damn, this incessant downpour is raining on our parade. I turn over, thinking that a little extra sleep might clear up things.
We have breakfast on the villa's patio overlooking Port Vila bay. The Pacific weather gods have finished draining their main vein over this island, yet a stinging little drizzle inhibits a smile on our tourist faces. The locals passing by on the street underneath the patio don't mind: only a few people sport umbrellas, the majority of flashy T-shirts pass by without rain protection. The breakfast is good: all-you-can-eat fresh fruit, cheese or jam on toast and coffee. It's too late to sort out reasonably priced transport; anyways rushing around this tropical island while it's raining never inspired anyone.
It's decided, we'll take it easy: window shopping and looking for post cards in town must have its charm too, no? We walk down into town, drop off a week's worth of laundry, then make a first official stop at ....a travel agency, where we book a tour to a cultural village for tomorrow morning, and an island feast for tonight. Nope, we're not trying to compensate for anything. =p
We fill up on the latest news from Europe at an air-conditioned internet café, it's been more than a week since we've been connected! Funnily, the sun has come out now that we are in a curtained room. We rush out into the main street light and continue our shopping, hurrying from one shady spot to the next, holding hands until they get too sweaty for comfort.
My name is Mud
A nice lunch will help our feet recover from all that walking, The local mud crab in coconut sauce on the suggestion board of the Café du Village lures me in. We sit on a patio overlooking the harbour, from the wooden framework above us purple bougainvillea flower strings hang down in ample veils. A Vanuatu Tusker will keep my mud crab company. At 4400 Vatu (=EUR 36), the mud crab is far from cheap, but we're on holidays, right? Moreover, could I really leave this place without eating one of its most advertised gourmet treasures? Exactly.
This heavenly lunch finishes in style with a 1000 Vatu chocolate mousse Blandine manages to eat in record time. Why am I worried about what things cost? After yesterday's seriously steep bill for our exploits on Moso, we must at all cost do a better job not to ruin ourselves before the end of this career break. Bellies filled to the limit with happiness, we start heading back to the hotel. Along the way we decide to walk through the local market, curious to see what's on sale here. Coconuts, wood, unusual veggies like meter-long strings named snake beans, pineapples, bananas and fresh banana crisps all sold by smiling locals who still have most of their teeth. We can't buy a thing as we fly to Sydney tomorrow afternoon, so we take pictures instead. As we get back in view of the front gate of "Room with a view", a minivan stops across the street. Rats! That must be the van for our evening activity! We rush upstairs, drop off our shopping and bag with fresh laundry, storm down the stairs and into the waiting van.
Island feast
This is it; we've bought ourselves tickets to the culinary highlight of the week: a local feast with music spectacle and a cultural experience. Okay, it's a tourist's tour and authenticity will be missing, but with the time left in this place we have no illusion that we could befriend locals and get ourselves invited to one of their official functions instead. Arrived at the "cultural village", we look at a few caged parrots, geckoes, spiders, then I pose with a Pacific boa around my body while the park guide (cultural village guide?) in typical Pacific island-style uniform puts her tanned hands behind her back and explains that it's not a deadly species. Blandine kindly refuses to take over the vertebrate from me, snakes aren't her favourite animal, lets say.
The tour takes us to a cave with photos about some of the island's cannibalistic history, the occupation of the French and the English, and some of the local mythology. There's too much to read and twilight is turning into darkness. I rush through beds of local vegetables to catch up with the rest of the group, on its way to the festival area. The guide has us all seated on benches in a half circle, just before the sun has completely set, and states in an apologetic way that we can come back to the cultural village tomorrow on the same ticket. It's the first time she speaks with confidence, apparently it's not the first time this happens. The place is worthy of more exploration, but I imagine Blandine and I rushing back, from our morning tour to make it on time to the airport, so revisiting this place is not an option.
Kava, lap-lap, dance
A local music band keeps us entertained, under a setting sun, and in the distinguished company of voracious mosquitoes. The spray on our legs will hold off most of the mozzies, others have started scratching the minute they sat down. This doesn't discourage some of us to pull out our dancing shoes while the locals continue to cook our feast. While blandine and I slowdance, I get a closer look at the band and "darn", I seem to recognise the guys in the band, where have I seen them before? I dig deep into my Pacific music bands memory and then I remember: they're the same guys that entertained us when we arrived at the airport!
Then the park hostess invites us to drink kava. Kava is a bitter, milky drink made from roots of the pepper tree. It doesn't look appetizing, so why should we try it? It's the big hit all over the Pacific, used in all official ceremonies and is rumoured to have special properties. You'll find kava bars all over the islands, some have legendary status. It's mainly a drink for real men I'm told, so, after having verified it's not the drink that ferments with woman's spit, I give it a go. Woow, within seconds my lips start numbing a bit, I get the tingly feeling of a sleeping limb, but on both my lips. I start laughing and rush back to Blandine, half a cocunut of lipnumbing liquid in hand. She doesn't share my enthusiasm and only after my insisting for 2 minutes she caves in an has a quick slurp. "Brrrwaaah, how can you drink this?!?" is all she can utter. It's a man's drink, I understand.
All this drinking and dancing makes us tourists rather hungry. Then, finally after a good 15 minutes, we're invited, to come and see our food being dug up. Yes, that's right. Our food has been wrapped in banana leaves and place over hot coals, then covered with earth. For hours it has slow-cooked to perfection. First we get to taste lap-lap, a Vanuatu delicacy that looks like a type of glutinous pudding. It's made from grated vegetables (such as manioc, taro or yam), soaked in coconut milk to form a paste. Our guide tells us that on special occasions, pork, beef, chicken, fish or even flying fox (a large fruit eating bat) may be added, or the paste may be sweetened with a few bananas. We taste the one with banana. Bummer, I could have had a bit of bat, really. We sit down and eat our heart's content of island pork and marinated fish while chatting with our Australian neighbours, who are impressed with our story about our upcoming volunteer job. The food is good, the company as well, and inevitably time starts moving faster than ever. Before we know it, the buffet is closed and the park guide points in the direction of the van. Stuffed like pigs we are returned to our tourist hotels. Mission accomplished, goodnight!
Could I describe a truly regular sightseeing day to excruciating boring detail? Yes. If only I'd get a chance. It's 6AM, Blandine is still sleeping. Two fans rotate occasional shreds of coolness in the room, while I go over our day in my mind. The plan is to drive around the island, either by taxi, or by motorbike. Or any other way we can sort out for a decent price, really. Having spent all our time on Moso, it is high time we get to know the main island and we have just today and tomorrow morning to do so. Damn, this incessant downpour is raining on our parade. I turn over, thinking that a little extra sleep might clear up things.
We have breakfast on the villa's patio overlooking Port Vila bay. The Pacific weather gods have finished draining their main vein over this island, yet a stinging little drizzle inhibits a smile on our tourist faces. The locals passing by on the street underneath the patio don't mind: only a few people sport umbrellas, the majority of flashy T-shirts pass by without rain protection. The breakfast is good: all-you-can-eat fresh fruit, cheese or jam on toast and coffee. It's too late to sort out reasonably priced transport; anyways rushing around this tropical island while it's raining never inspired anyone.
It's decided, we'll take it easy: window shopping and looking for post cards in town must have its charm too, no? We walk down into town, drop off a week's worth of laundry, then make a first official stop at ....a travel agency, where we book a tour to a cultural village for tomorrow morning, and an island feast for tonight. Nope, we're not trying to compensate for anything. =p
We fill up on the latest news from Europe at an air-conditioned internet café, it's been more than a week since we've been connected! Funnily, the sun has come out now that we are in a curtained room. We rush out into the main street light and continue our shopping, hurrying from one shady spot to the next, holding hands until they get too sweaty for comfort.
My name is Mud
A nice lunch will help our feet recover from all that walking, The local mud crab in coconut sauce on the suggestion board of the Café du Village lures me in. We sit on a patio overlooking the harbour, from the wooden framework above us purple bougainvillea flower strings hang down in ample veils. A Vanuatu Tusker will keep my mud crab company. At 4400 Vatu (=EUR 36), the mud crab is far from cheap, but we're on holidays, right? Moreover, could I really leave this place without eating one of its most advertised gourmet treasures? Exactly.
This heavenly lunch finishes in style with a 1000 Vatu chocolate mousse Blandine manages to eat in record time. Why am I worried about what things cost? After yesterday's seriously steep bill for our exploits on Moso, we must at all cost do a better job not to ruin ourselves before the end of this career break. Bellies filled to the limit with happiness, we start heading back to the hotel. Along the way we decide to walk through the local market, curious to see what's on sale here. Coconuts, wood, unusual veggies like meter-long strings named snake beans, pineapples, bananas and fresh banana crisps all sold by smiling locals who still have most of their teeth. We can't buy a thing as we fly to Sydney tomorrow afternoon, so we take pictures instead. As we get back in view of the front gate of "Room with a view", a minivan stops across the street. Rats! That must be the van for our evening activity! We rush upstairs, drop off our shopping and bag with fresh laundry, storm down the stairs and into the waiting van.
Island feast
This is it; we've bought ourselves tickets to the culinary highlight of the week: a local feast with music spectacle and a cultural experience. Okay, it's a tourist's tour and authenticity will be missing, but with the time left in this place we have no illusion that we could befriend locals and get ourselves invited to one of their official functions instead. Arrived at the "cultural village", we look at a few caged parrots, geckoes, spiders, then I pose with a Pacific boa around my body while the park guide (cultural village guide?) in typical Pacific island-style uniform puts her tanned hands behind her back and explains that it's not a deadly species. Blandine kindly refuses to take over the vertebrate from me, snakes aren't her favourite animal, lets say.
The tour takes us to a cave with photos about some of the island's cannibalistic history, the occupation of the French and the English, and some of the local mythology. There's too much to read and twilight is turning into darkness. I rush through beds of local vegetables to catch up with the rest of the group, on its way to the festival area. The guide has us all seated on benches in a half circle, just before the sun has completely set, and states in an apologetic way that we can come back to the cultural village tomorrow on the same ticket. It's the first time she speaks with confidence, apparently it's not the first time this happens. The place is worthy of more exploration, but I imagine Blandine and I rushing back, from our morning tour to make it on time to the airport, so revisiting this place is not an option.
Kava, lap-lap, dance
A local music band keeps us entertained, under a setting sun, and in the distinguished company of voracious mosquitoes. The spray on our legs will hold off most of the mozzies, others have started scratching the minute they sat down. This doesn't discourage some of us to pull out our dancing shoes while the locals continue to cook our feast. While blandine and I slowdance, I get a closer look at the band and "darn", I seem to recognise the guys in the band, where have I seen them before? I dig deep into my Pacific music bands memory and then I remember: they're the same guys that entertained us when we arrived at the airport!
Then the park hostess invites us to drink kava. Kava is a bitter, milky drink made from roots of the pepper tree. It doesn't look appetizing, so why should we try it? It's the big hit all over the Pacific, used in all official ceremonies and is rumoured to have special properties. You'll find kava bars all over the islands, some have legendary status. It's mainly a drink for real men I'm told, so, after having verified it's not the drink that ferments with woman's spit, I give it a go. Woow, within seconds my lips start numbing a bit, I get the tingly feeling of a sleeping limb, but on both my lips. I start laughing and rush back to Blandine, half a cocunut of lipnumbing liquid in hand. She doesn't share my enthusiasm and only after my insisting for 2 minutes she caves in an has a quick slurp. "Brrrwaaah, how can you drink this?!?" is all she can utter. It's a man's drink, I understand.
All this drinking and dancing makes us tourists rather hungry. Then, finally after a good 15 minutes, we're invited, to come and see our food being dug up. Yes, that's right. Our food has been wrapped in banana leaves and place over hot coals, then covered with earth. For hours it has slow-cooked to perfection. First we get to taste lap-lap, a Vanuatu delicacy that looks like a type of glutinous pudding. It's made from grated vegetables (such as manioc, taro or yam), soaked in coconut milk to form a paste. Our guide tells us that on special occasions, pork, beef, chicken, fish or even flying fox (a large fruit eating bat) may be added, or the paste may be sweetened with a few bananas. We taste the one with banana. Bummer, I could have had a bit of bat, really. We sit down and eat our heart's content of island pork and marinated fish while chatting with our Australian neighbours, who are impressed with our story about our upcoming volunteer job. The food is good, the company as well, and inevitably time starts moving faster than ever. Before we know it, the buffet is closed and the park guide points in the direction of the van. Stuffed like pigs we are returned to our tourist hotels. Mission accomplished, goodnight!
Monday, November 8, 2010
Monday, July 19th: Last Day in Paradise
Owen's Reef
Dive number 5. Just like experienced divers would, I leisurely chit chat with Greg and his father, it's a pretty picture, all of us sipping instant coffee, enjoying the morning sun, the boat engine gently approaching Owen's Reef. Owen's reef? Yup, you lease an island, then name your favourite diving spot in the area after yourself. Not too shabby, I say. There are a few differences with regular divers, easily noticed by the trained eye: my wetsuit is on way before the boat gets to the site and I'm a bit giddy all the way. It IS my first official "fun" dive after all, a dive without any teaching or exercises attached. Once the boat turns off its engines over the dive spot I throw on my tank, mask and fins, and with the official big stride off a small platform at the back of the boat I fall in the water, more than ready for another underwater adventure.
It's better down here
The water is warm, we see schools of unbelievably colourful fish and Steve, my eternal trainer/dive buddy, takes me down to 21 meters, my personal record. Yes! On the way back to the island I put my IPOD on shuffle and before I can stop it Dido has me humming "I still got gand in my shoes".
We eat lunch as rainclouds gather over the island. It's been overcast off and on for a few days now, not the kind of weather you'd associate with a paradisiacal island.
See or use kayaks?
It's now or never. It's a bit windy, clouds are still gathering, yet if we ever want to use these sea-kayaks then we have to do it now, at 5PM we're heading back to mainland. The first part is deceptively easy. We make good speed downwind and only worry about not getting rocked off the boat by the growing waves. 20 minutes later, as limbs begin to ache, we beach our kayak and look at our desolate surroundings. Palm trees swaying in the breeze, nobody on the beach as far as you can see in both directions. Silence is golden. Then a shell moves toward me. It's a hermit crab, crawling over bits of washed up coral, continuing its business, now that the humans have immobilised their huge beach sandals in the sand. We take some pictures, then stick the camera back in a waterproof compartment of the kayak and paddle back through a drizzle. Splashing each other would not change a thing, within minutes we're soaked and the paradisiacal ideas of this island wash away. There should be a ban on rain during expensive island vacations.
All good songs come to an end
We turn the nose of the kayak and log it back into the sea, the holiday on Moso has come to an end, this is the first stage of our leaving Vanuatu. The song we chant to encourage ourselves to paddle is just a notch too enthusiastic to sound genuine. We reach the resort again, bring the kayak back on land, and get ready to leave paradise.
My backpack only has to carry my diving book on top of the stuff it contained when I arrived on Moso, yet it feels 5kg heavier. Once the Congoola drops us off on mainland, we transfer our backpacks to a waiting van. Greg's dad and his wife are in the van and accompany us all on the way to Port Vila, the capital> Naturally we end up chatting a bit about diving, but I give up quickly in favour of silence. My arms are a bit tired from the kayaking (muscles rarely used) and could just doze off, but who would then play cool for Blandine who is worried about us finding a place to stay? Without internet on Moso, we haven't had a chance to book anything, we have just two tips of hotels to go on, scribbled down on a scrap of paper. And the Moso drizzle has translated into full-fledged Efate rain. At Owen's dive-shop it's rush hour, just before close. We sort out the payment, Owen even suggests to give us a 5% discount (Ok Owen, how can I argue about that?), and his wife gives us free "Tranquillity Island Resort" baseball caps while we wait for him to recalculate the bill total.
Fan of room with a view
Still recovering from the amount we spent on accommodation over the last week, we decide to go for something on the lower end of the price scale. Praised for its delicious breakfast, "Room with a View" sounds corny enough and fits the bill at around 3500 Vatu (about 38 USD). The owner, a Korean woman with designer sunglasses and a thick accent, makes it understood she's real happy to have us and puts in the effort to come pick us up in person. Let's hope the rooms are up to scratch, neither of us has any interest in wandering around in the rain with heavy gear on our backs. We soon settle into an upstairs room of what must be her private villa, life is good!
Anything but nirvana
To satisfy our hunger we'll have to go outside, so we put on our rain gear, walk into town, then have some Thai food in Nirvana restaurant. It's the worst service I've had so far on the trip. The waitress doesn't understand my English until I point to the item on the menu, can't explain anything and forgets to bring me my beer. The food is ok, but not copious and rather overpriced. We need to get back to Bolivian spending habits if we want to keep this trip from derailing financially. Whatever, we're too tired to care about service at this point; the only thing we care for at this point is our room with a comfortable bed. Tomorrow we'll see what Port Vila has to offer us, all we have energy to do before we fall asleep is concoct a balanced Port Vila sightseeing plan.
Dive number 5. Just like experienced divers would, I leisurely chit chat with Greg and his father, it's a pretty picture, all of us sipping instant coffee, enjoying the morning sun, the boat engine gently approaching Owen's Reef. Owen's reef? Yup, you lease an island, then name your favourite diving spot in the area after yourself. Not too shabby, I say. There are a few differences with regular divers, easily noticed by the trained eye: my wetsuit is on way before the boat gets to the site and I'm a bit giddy all the way. It IS my first official "fun" dive after all, a dive without any teaching or exercises attached. Once the boat turns off its engines over the dive spot I throw on my tank, mask and fins, and with the official big stride off a small platform at the back of the boat I fall in the water, more than ready for another underwater adventure.
It's better down here
The water is warm, we see schools of unbelievably colourful fish and Steve, my eternal trainer/dive buddy, takes me down to 21 meters, my personal record. Yes! On the way back to the island I put my IPOD on shuffle and before I can stop it Dido has me humming "I still got gand in my shoes".
We eat lunch as rainclouds gather over the island. It's been overcast off and on for a few days now, not the kind of weather you'd associate with a paradisiacal island.
See or use kayaks?
It's now or never. It's a bit windy, clouds are still gathering, yet if we ever want to use these sea-kayaks then we have to do it now, at 5PM we're heading back to mainland. The first part is deceptively easy. We make good speed downwind and only worry about not getting rocked off the boat by the growing waves. 20 minutes later, as limbs begin to ache, we beach our kayak and look at our desolate surroundings. Palm trees swaying in the breeze, nobody on the beach as far as you can see in both directions. Silence is golden. Then a shell moves toward me. It's a hermit crab, crawling over bits of washed up coral, continuing its business, now that the humans have immobilised their huge beach sandals in the sand. We take some pictures, then stick the camera back in a waterproof compartment of the kayak and paddle back through a drizzle. Splashing each other would not change a thing, within minutes we're soaked and the paradisiacal ideas of this island wash away. There should be a ban on rain during expensive island vacations.
All good songs come to an end
We turn the nose of the kayak and log it back into the sea, the holiday on Moso has come to an end, this is the first stage of our leaving Vanuatu. The song we chant to encourage ourselves to paddle is just a notch too enthusiastic to sound genuine. We reach the resort again, bring the kayak back on land, and get ready to leave paradise.
My backpack only has to carry my diving book on top of the stuff it contained when I arrived on Moso, yet it feels 5kg heavier. Once the Congoola drops us off on mainland, we transfer our backpacks to a waiting van. Greg's dad and his wife are in the van and accompany us all on the way to Port Vila, the capital> Naturally we end up chatting a bit about diving, but I give up quickly in favour of silence. My arms are a bit tired from the kayaking (muscles rarely used) and could just doze off, but who would then play cool for Blandine who is worried about us finding a place to stay? Without internet on Moso, we haven't had a chance to book anything, we have just two tips of hotels to go on, scribbled down on a scrap of paper. And the Moso drizzle has translated into full-fledged Efate rain. At Owen's dive-shop it's rush hour, just before close. We sort out the payment, Owen even suggests to give us a 5% discount (Ok Owen, how can I argue about that?), and his wife gives us free "Tranquillity Island Resort" baseball caps while we wait for him to recalculate the bill total.
Fan of room with a view
Still recovering from the amount we spent on accommodation over the last week, we decide to go for something on the lower end of the price scale. Praised for its delicious breakfast, "Room with a View" sounds corny enough and fits the bill at around 3500 Vatu (about 38 USD). The owner, a Korean woman with designer sunglasses and a thick accent, makes it understood she's real happy to have us and puts in the effort to come pick us up in person. Let's hope the rooms are up to scratch, neither of us has any interest in wandering around in the rain with heavy gear on our backs. We soon settle into an upstairs room of what must be her private villa, life is good!
Anything but nirvana
To satisfy our hunger we'll have to go outside, so we put on our rain gear, walk into town, then have some Thai food in Nirvana restaurant. It's the worst service I've had so far on the trip. The waitress doesn't understand my English until I point to the item on the menu, can't explain anything and forgets to bring me my beer. The food is ok, but not copious and rather overpriced. We need to get back to Bolivian spending habits if we want to keep this trip from derailing financially. Whatever, we're too tired to care about service at this point; the only thing we care for at this point is our room with a comfortable bed. Tomorrow we'll see what Port Vila has to offer us, all we have energy to do before we fall asleep is concoct a balanced Port Vila sightseeing plan.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Sunday, July 18th: Certification's the name of the game
Mourning till lunch
I stand to get certified today, yet we have breakfast in silence. On the way to breakfast we see Kim and Garth climb into the Congoola and leave the island. We're too far away for them to notice us. We're the only guests now. Steve and Sarah are also a bit sad, I can tell. There's good news though: a new family will arrive today.
The rest of the morning is spent sweating over the final, comprehensive exam, I pass it with flying colours, only a few remaining dive skills stand in the way of my first PADI title. The first set of skills we do just in front of the Tranquillity resort jetty, for the last ones we'll need to take the boat out in the afternoon.
Afternoon
Blandine comes along on the boat for the afternoon dive on the Bottlefish Caves site. We dive at 15:22, 35 minutes later I'm officially certified. Crack open the champagne if you have any, captain! There's no alcohol on board, so we settle for the free coffee. All this diving has made me real hungry, I can barely wait for dinner. And to see the new arrivals of course.
Evening encounters
Meet Natasha, or Tash for short, loving hubby Greg and their 10 year old son Tom. They're a happy family from Newcastle, Australia out on a diving holiday here. Correction: Greg is. Tash can't dive because she's pregnant and Tom is really eager, but still too young to get certified. Tash's father, a longtime diver, stays in a nearby hotel on the mainland and will come out on day trips to dive with us. We introduce ourselves to each other and before I know it I'm having fun playing cards with Tom while Blandine chats with the adults about her job at Caritas. The evening passes by in a jiffy, the excitement of my achievement still makes my blood pump faster. It's our last day on the island tomorrow, so I simply MUST take advantage of my time here and go on as many dives as possible, without alienating Blandine of course. We are on this island together after all. So, tomorrow I'll go diving in the morning, then after lunch - if the weather's decent enough we'll take out the sea kayaks for a little cruise, then get back in time to say goodbye to Moso island and take the boat to mainland.
I stand to get certified today, yet we have breakfast in silence. On the way to breakfast we see Kim and Garth climb into the Congoola and leave the island. We're too far away for them to notice us. We're the only guests now. Steve and Sarah are also a bit sad, I can tell. There's good news though: a new family will arrive today.
The rest of the morning is spent sweating over the final, comprehensive exam, I pass it with flying colours, only a few remaining dive skills stand in the way of my first PADI title. The first set of skills we do just in front of the Tranquillity resort jetty, for the last ones we'll need to take the boat out in the afternoon.
Afternoon
Blandine comes along on the boat for the afternoon dive on the Bottlefish Caves site. We dive at 15:22, 35 minutes later I'm officially certified. Crack open the champagne if you have any, captain! There's no alcohol on board, so we settle for the free coffee. All this diving has made me real hungry, I can barely wait for dinner. And to see the new arrivals of course.
Evening encounters
Meet Natasha, or Tash for short, loving hubby Greg and their 10 year old son Tom. They're a happy family from Newcastle, Australia out on a diving holiday here. Correction: Greg is. Tash can't dive because she's pregnant and Tom is really eager, but still too young to get certified. Tash's father, a longtime diver, stays in a nearby hotel on the mainland and will come out on day trips to dive with us. We introduce ourselves to each other and before I know it I'm having fun playing cards with Tom while Blandine chats with the adults about her job at Caritas. The evening passes by in a jiffy, the excitement of my achievement still makes my blood pump faster. It's our last day on the island tomorrow, so I simply MUST take advantage of my time here and go on as many dives as possible, without alienating Blandine of course. We are on this island together after all. So, tomorrow I'll go diving in the morning, then after lunch - if the weather's decent enough we'll take out the sea kayaks for a little cruise, then get back in time to say goodbye to Moso island and take the boat to mainland.
Saturday, July 17th: On The Road To Certification
Breakfast of champions
Pancakes for breakfast, pancakes with sugar and lemon juice. And the usual two cups of coffee to properly wake me up. It's the best eco-resort breakfast to date, and a welcome change after the toast-and-jam-heavy month in South America. I eat three, then Garth tells me he's had five, then burps to his own delight. The idea of a pancake-eating contest flashes up in my mind, but I decide I'm too old for that. And I'm on a diving course, no need to feel sick to my stomach at the bottom of the ocean. I haven't passed the what-to-do-when you-puke-in-your-mask test, and have no need to find out any time soon. With caffeine properly running through my veins, I axe the last two chapters in the PADI course book.
Grouper Gutter greatness
We have a quick lunch, you guessed it - steak sandwiches again -then I hop on the Congoola, and head to "Grouper Gutter" in the company of some day-tripper divers and Garth. Pitter patter pitter patter. Always up for a bit of comedy, Garth jumps off the boat sideways in a quirky, nonchalant, completely unorthodox way. I could have guessed. He's a boy stuck in a man's body in my opinion, but he calms my nerves about diving. If he can do it, so can I.
This time things go so smooth I forget what I was worried about the first time around. I spend 32 minutes under water, mainly at 12 meter. Sure, I perform skills toward my Open Water certification, but we're done with them in record time and I spend most of my bottom time looking at all the treasures this open-air aquarium called Grouper Gutter has to offer. Surrounded by virgin reef and tons of fish I feel like a kid in a candy store. What a rush!
Diving for overland treasure
Steve is playing with a shiny coin over dinner. He tells us he's got from a geo-caching adventure, a sort of treasure hunt that involves locating hidden items with a GPS, then logging your experience online. Some treasure boxes contain a cool item that you can take with you if you leave something else for the next geo-cacher that completes this treasure hunt. Can you believe it, there are loads of geo-caches placed all over the world. Glad we uncovered that, I'm never going to go hiking aimlessly again! This kind of discovery really boggles my mind and makes me wish I was a teenager again, so I could go hunt for treasure with friends. Once I get back to Belgium I'm so going to try this out.
Fire it up
It's Garth and Kim's last night, so after dinner we invite them over for a goodbye camp fire by our bungalow. Garth's got half a forest worth of firewood pulled out of the surrounding jungle in a matter of minutes and a huge fire is blazing shortly after. It's a chilly, somewhat breezy night once again (we're just feet away from the water), yet the fire keeps us all real warm. We chat about all kinds of things until our eyelids get heavy, then say our goodbyes. Chances are that we won't see them before they leave tomorrow morning. It was great meeting them.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Friday, July 16th: Let's Do It
Let's do it
A new sun colours the forest around our bungalow in a golden hue. It's early morning, Blandine's still asleep, and I've made up my mind. I'm going to continue with the diving course: "Open Water" certification is within reach, I feel it in my bones.
I tell Steve and Sarah of my plans to continue over the breakfast scrambled eggs, they're quite happy for me. And Blandine? Blandine will stick with snorkeling for the moment. She'll join us for our dives, but will only entertain the fish at the surface. There's plenty to see there. Steve sets me up with the course material and I spend half of the day studying. With chapter 1 covered yesterday, I breeze through chapters 2 and 3 of the course and take the appropriate skill-review quizzes, while Blandine goes snorkeling.
WWOOF there it is
Over lunch, Sarah explains Steve and her intend to go WWOOF-ing in New Zealand once their dive teaching here on Vanuatu finishes. It's got nothing to do with taking their puppy to dog training. Nope, WWOOF (http://www.wwoof.org/) is an international network that links volunteers with job opportunities on organic farms. Rather than just volunteering to help out farmers with their harvest in return for food and lodging, farmers also share their organic farming expertise with WWOOFers. Sounds pretty cool to me!
Garth's most excellent job adventures
I don't know how we got on the subject, but during dinner time Garth entertains us all with stories of the different jobs he's done. He's pretty much worked any job you can imagine from a cheese-making plant to construction work, but the one story that stuck to me the most is the one about the meat processing plant. In his own colourful style, Garth gives us his mind blowing, rather unappetizing insight into the world of meat processing. Meat hooks with whole goats on them for starters, a machine that skins the goats, a guy whose job it is to operate a vacuum cleaner-like machine to suck out the eyes from the skinned animal heads, goo at every level, and so on, the whole grim story of a meat processing plant laid out in intricate detail by an Australian man who spares no non-verbal behaviour to mimic all machines with his hands, somehow makes for real entertaining dinner conversation. Just what I need after a hard day of studying while everyone else had fun.
A new sun colours the forest around our bungalow in a golden hue. It's early morning, Blandine's still asleep, and I've made up my mind. I'm going to continue with the diving course: "Open Water" certification is within reach, I feel it in my bones.
I tell Steve and Sarah of my plans to continue over the breakfast scrambled eggs, they're quite happy for me. And Blandine? Blandine will stick with snorkeling for the moment. She'll join us for our dives, but will only entertain the fish at the surface. There's plenty to see there. Steve sets me up with the course material and I spend half of the day studying. With chapter 1 covered yesterday, I breeze through chapters 2 and 3 of the course and take the appropriate skill-review quizzes, while Blandine goes snorkeling.
WWOOF there it is
Over lunch, Sarah explains Steve and her intend to go WWOOF-ing in New Zealand once their dive teaching here on Vanuatu finishes. It's got nothing to do with taking their puppy to dog training. Nope, WWOOF (http://www.wwoof.org/) is an international network that links volunteers with job opportunities on organic farms. Rather than just volunteering to help out farmers with their harvest in return for food and lodging, farmers also share their organic farming expertise with WWOOFers. Sounds pretty cool to me!
Garth's most excellent job adventures
I don't know how we got on the subject, but during dinner time Garth entertains us all with stories of the different jobs he's done. He's pretty much worked any job you can imagine from a cheese-making plant to construction work, but the one story that stuck to me the most is the one about the meat processing plant. In his own colourful style, Garth gives us his mind blowing, rather unappetizing insight into the world of meat processing. Meat hooks with whole goats on them for starters, a machine that skins the goats, a guy whose job it is to operate a vacuum cleaner-like machine to suck out the eyes from the skinned animal heads, goo at every level, and so on, the whole grim story of a meat processing plant laid out in intricate detail by an Australian man who spares no non-verbal behaviour to mimic all machines with his hands, somehow makes for real entertaining dinner conversation. Just what I need after a hard day of studying while everyone else had fun.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Thursday, July 15th: Diving 101
Okay, I'm not going to bore you with endless descriptions of wonderful life at Efate, I'll just focus on the highlights. If I leave out a big part of the day, that's because it was wonderfully uneventful.
A tale of turtles
The highlight of the day is the turtle preservation sanctuary, another initiative of Tranquillity Island Resort. At a 5 minute walk North of the restaurant, Owen has put together enough resources to breed turtles until they're 13 months old, at which point they are tagged and released into the wild. The sanctuary lies a short beach walk beyond the restaurant, we visit right after breakfast. Not surprisingly we're the only visitors here, the Congoola will drop off the day trippers later this morning.
The breeding program relies on financial contributions from visitors, like so many others. What's pretty cool is that when the turtle you sponsor is spotted, you receive an email telling you where your turtle is hanging out these days, so you can follow its travels around the world. It's cute to see turtles grouped by size in different basins. They seem well taken care of. We're entertained by the beauty and charm of these creatures and read all the info displayed about them. Blandine's visibly excited and coos at each tank. I tell her to grab and hold one of the smaller turtles, but she's too afraid. Ha!
On the walk back to our bungalow I remember John, an acquaintance from the Philippines, once telling me that when he was a kid he'd go swimming in the sea and piggyback on turtles. The image of me relaxing on top of a turtle surely sounds cool, it would make a great blog entry to say the least. I entertain this thought for a while then decide there's no turtle big enough to carry me without me risking retaliatory "Cruel and Unjust Punishment" by the Marine Life Police. I'll be happy to encounter some turtles on my dive.
In the diver's seat
It would be silly to stay in an Eco-dive resort without at least attempting to dive, right?Yesterday we signed up with Steve and Sara for the Discovery Dive, a one day affair that will take us through the basics of diving this morning, class-room style, then reward us in the afternoon with the real deal, an instructor-led plunge under water.
I'm looking forward to this new experience, and Blandine, who has explained to me several times in the past that water isn't really her favorite element, has mustered up enough courage after the day of snorkeling to give diving a go as well. After Sarah's pleasant introduction, PADI (a well-known diving certification body) entertains us with a bit of cheesy video material. Picture an overexcited, syrupy American female voice saying things like "With PADI you don't just learn to dive, no, you become part of an exciting new network of friends, sharing the same passion" while muscular men with permanent Colgate smiles help skinny exercise-video type girls into their diving gear.
In a tide spot
While we're having lemon juice and more steak sandwiches for lunch once again, Garth shows us his newest party trick. He grabs a bit of spiderweb off one of the restaurant room's poles, wraps it around the band of his metal wristwatch and, without a flinch, lifts the whole thing up. He makes us touch the spider wire too, they're quite sticky.
We set up our gear and enter the water just off the beach in front of the equipment room, ready for our first underwater exploration. The sea's not very cooperative today: waves push us and our heavy equipment back and forth as we enter into shallow water. It's clear who's boss. "No worries," Sarah comforts us, "once we get under water, we won't be troubled with the current". Indeed, as soon as I get a few meters under water, the waves leave me alone, in search for another play buddy. Where's Blandine? Ah, just under the surface, a bit back from me. With Sarah, who's fidgeting with something on Blandine's BCD (Buoyancy Control Device, the life jacket type vest divers inflate and deflate to help them stay at whatever depth the require). Huh? What's wrong? Blandine's too light! Didn't think I'd say this in Vanuatu after the big breakfasts we've been having, but it's true. Sarah's trying to fix something, and Blandine descends a bit. OK, we're cooking with gas, they're both coming toward me. Nope, Blandine's signalling she wants up again. I ascend and see her getting out of the water. Huh? Why? It's obvious something has got to her and she's calling it quits. No need to force her, she's done. Sarah escorts her back to the equipment room, helps her get out of her equipment, then returns to the water.
Holding back the ears
We continue with a few exercises under water, I manage relatively well, though it's all a bit confusing for me, but again, I manage. Equalising works okay for me, but it's not perfect; truth be told, my left ear's been bothering me for a while. Ever since I received a smack on it during a basketball late last season, it feels like there's a tiny but constant filter on it. It doesn't hurt, I just have the impression my hearing's a bit different. I've had it looked at by a specialist, but he couldn't find anything. Am I supposed to feel a bit of pressure in my left ear under water? Within 20 minutes we stop for the day as well. I've been down a few meters under water and comfort myself with the thought that at one point both Blandine and I were completely submerged and been breathing from our air tank. This complete surrender to and trust in machinery has to be the biggest threshold to overcome, no? I feel good about this accomplishment. Just as when I drove a car for the first time, I emerge from the experience completely exhausted. My knees are shaky as I walk back over the beach, completely equipped, but I'm smiling the smile of success.
The hammock in front of the bungalow is a haven, a place to wind down. I hop in, Ipod in hand. I've got it on shuffle, yet the lyrics in Coldplay's somber "Trouble" catch my attention, so I replay the song a couple times, singing along to "Oh no, I see. A spiderweb, and it's me in the middle. So I twist and turn. Here am I in my little bubble. Singing I never meant to cause you trouble. I never meant to do you wrong. Ah, well if I ever caused you trouble, oh no I never meant to do you harm."
Could the local spiders really weave a web that holds a human being? Ever since Gary's little demo Blandine makes an even bigger circle than normal around the spider traps glistening in the sun on the way to our cottage. I don't destroy them, we are in an Eco-resort after all. It's a tad windy and I'm body's running on fumes from all this diving . It's only 4:30 and the sun's far from disappearing into the sea, yet goosebumps on my arms suggest I head inside and seek the comfort of a bag of cookies and our bungalow's bed. I touch the sheets and fall asleep almost immediately, into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Below talk
That night's dinner conversation starts off with a chat about our Discovery Dive experience. The excitement of diving, the cheesy PADI video material, Blandine's early quitting. To my surprise, Garth is more serious about this topic and dishes out a few tips. He's been diving for a long time and knows what he's talking about. Soon the conversation changes subject and his wife Kim starts talking about her work with disabled children. An interesting topic, and I'd completely dig into it any other day, but my mind is drowned, preoccupied with the personal digestion of my whole dive experience. I've heard eve. I'm not sure whether I'll continue, the experience was quite draining and I wasn't completely zen either. A case of the jitters? I'll ponder it over and let Sarah know tomorrow. The spaghetti bolognaise is quite welcome, nothing like a bit of comfort food to calm the nerves.
We make it an early night, reserving time to share the personal ups and downs of our diving adventure as pillow talk. Blandine tells me she didn't feel comfortable requiring an in-water adjustment during her dive. Having Sarah, anyone for that matter, fidget with her BCD while she was just trying to get her head around all the controls pushed her out of her comfort zone. The real tipping point came 5 minutes later, when she finally descended and couldn't equalise her ears. Her ears are quite sensitive to begin with already and equalising's a must for a good diving experience. Too bad, it doesn't look like she'll be diving any time soon. I confide that the whole experience was a bit intimidating at first for me as well. I wake up about an hour later, my pillow's got a wet spot. Something's popped in my left ear and a bit of water's come out. That's great news! I consider that if tomorrow I continue and Blandine's still freaked out, we'll spend considerable time apart from each other. And I'll have to hit the books for the next three days, not exactly how I'd planned this holiday.
A tale of turtles
The highlight of the day is the turtle preservation sanctuary, another initiative of Tranquillity Island Resort. At a 5 minute walk North of the restaurant, Owen has put together enough resources to breed turtles until they're 13 months old, at which point they are tagged and released into the wild. The sanctuary lies a short beach walk beyond the restaurant, we visit right after breakfast. Not surprisingly we're the only visitors here, the Congoola will drop off the day trippers later this morning.
The breeding program relies on financial contributions from visitors, like so many others. What's pretty cool is that when the turtle you sponsor is spotted, you receive an email telling you where your turtle is hanging out these days, so you can follow its travels around the world. It's cute to see turtles grouped by size in different basins. They seem well taken care of. We're entertained by the beauty and charm of these creatures and read all the info displayed about them. Blandine's visibly excited and coos at each tank. I tell her to grab and hold one of the smaller turtles, but she's too afraid. Ha!
On the walk back to our bungalow I remember John, an acquaintance from the Philippines, once telling me that when he was a kid he'd go swimming in the sea and piggyback on turtles. The image of me relaxing on top of a turtle surely sounds cool, it would make a great blog entry to say the least. I entertain this thought for a while then decide there's no turtle big enough to carry me without me risking retaliatory "Cruel and Unjust Punishment" by the Marine Life Police. I'll be happy to encounter some turtles on my dive.
In the diver's seat
It would be silly to stay in an Eco-dive resort without at least attempting to dive, right?Yesterday we signed up with Steve and Sara for the Discovery Dive, a one day affair that will take us through the basics of diving this morning, class-room style, then reward us in the afternoon with the real deal, an instructor-led plunge under water.
I'm looking forward to this new experience, and Blandine, who has explained to me several times in the past that water isn't really her favorite element, has mustered up enough courage after the day of snorkeling to give diving a go as well. After Sarah's pleasant introduction, PADI (a well-known diving certification body) entertains us with a bit of cheesy video material. Picture an overexcited, syrupy American female voice saying things like "With PADI you don't just learn to dive, no, you become part of an exciting new network of friends, sharing the same passion" while muscular men with permanent Colgate smiles help skinny exercise-video type girls into their diving gear.
In a tide spot
While we're having lemon juice and more steak sandwiches for lunch once again, Garth shows us his newest party trick. He grabs a bit of spiderweb off one of the restaurant room's poles, wraps it around the band of his metal wristwatch and, without a flinch, lifts the whole thing up. He makes us touch the spider wire too, they're quite sticky.
We set up our gear and enter the water just off the beach in front of the equipment room, ready for our first underwater exploration. The sea's not very cooperative today: waves push us and our heavy equipment back and forth as we enter into shallow water. It's clear who's boss. "No worries," Sarah comforts us, "once we get under water, we won't be troubled with the current". Indeed, as soon as I get a few meters under water, the waves leave me alone, in search for another play buddy. Where's Blandine? Ah, just under the surface, a bit back from me. With Sarah, who's fidgeting with something on Blandine's BCD (Buoyancy Control Device, the life jacket type vest divers inflate and deflate to help them stay at whatever depth the require). Huh? What's wrong? Blandine's too light! Didn't think I'd say this in Vanuatu after the big breakfasts we've been having, but it's true. Sarah's trying to fix something, and Blandine descends a bit. OK, we're cooking with gas, they're both coming toward me. Nope, Blandine's signalling she wants up again. I ascend and see her getting out of the water. Huh? Why? It's obvious something has got to her and she's calling it quits. No need to force her, she's done. Sarah escorts her back to the equipment room, helps her get out of her equipment, then returns to the water.
Holding back the ears
We continue with a few exercises under water, I manage relatively well, though it's all a bit confusing for me, but again, I manage. Equalising works okay for me, but it's not perfect; truth be told, my left ear's been bothering me for a while. Ever since I received a smack on it during a basketball late last season, it feels like there's a tiny but constant filter on it. It doesn't hurt, I just have the impression my hearing's a bit different. I've had it looked at by a specialist, but he couldn't find anything. Am I supposed to feel a bit of pressure in my left ear under water? Within 20 minutes we stop for the day as well. I've been down a few meters under water and comfort myself with the thought that at one point both Blandine and I were completely submerged and been breathing from our air tank. This complete surrender to and trust in machinery has to be the biggest threshold to overcome, no? I feel good about this accomplishment. Just as when I drove a car for the first time, I emerge from the experience completely exhausted. My knees are shaky as I walk back over the beach, completely equipped, but I'm smiling the smile of success.
The hammock in front of the bungalow is a haven, a place to wind down. I hop in, Ipod in hand. I've got it on shuffle, yet the lyrics in Coldplay's somber "Trouble" catch my attention, so I replay the song a couple times, singing along to "Oh no, I see. A spiderweb, and it's me in the middle. So I twist and turn. Here am I in my little bubble. Singing I never meant to cause you trouble. I never meant to do you wrong. Ah, well if I ever caused you trouble, oh no I never meant to do you harm."
Could the local spiders really weave a web that holds a human being? Ever since Gary's little demo Blandine makes an even bigger circle than normal around the spider traps glistening in the sun on the way to our cottage. I don't destroy them, we are in an Eco-resort after all. It's a tad windy and I'm body's running on fumes from all this diving . It's only 4:30 and the sun's far from disappearing into the sea, yet goosebumps on my arms suggest I head inside and seek the comfort of a bag of cookies and our bungalow's bed. I touch the sheets and fall asleep almost immediately, into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Below talk
That night's dinner conversation starts off with a chat about our Discovery Dive experience. The excitement of diving, the cheesy PADI video material, Blandine's early quitting. To my surprise, Garth is more serious about this topic and dishes out a few tips. He's been diving for a long time and knows what he's talking about. Soon the conversation changes subject and his wife Kim starts talking about her work with disabled children. An interesting topic, and I'd completely dig into it any other day, but my mind is drowned, preoccupied with the personal digestion of my whole dive experience. I've heard eve. I'm not sure whether I'll continue, the experience was quite draining and I wasn't completely zen either. A case of the jitters? I'll ponder it over and let Sarah know tomorrow. The spaghetti bolognaise is quite welcome, nothing like a bit of comfort food to calm the nerves.
We make it an early night, reserving time to share the personal ups and downs of our diving adventure as pillow talk. Blandine tells me she didn't feel comfortable requiring an in-water adjustment during her dive. Having Sarah, anyone for that matter, fidget with her BCD while she was just trying to get her head around all the controls pushed her out of her comfort zone. The real tipping point came 5 minutes later, when she finally descended and couldn't equalise her ears. Her ears are quite sensitive to begin with already and equalising's a must for a good diving experience. Too bad, it doesn't look like she'll be diving any time soon. I confide that the whole experience was a bit intimidating at first for me as well. I wake up about an hour later, my pillow's got a wet spot. Something's popped in my left ear and a bit of water's come out. That's great news! I consider that if tomorrow I continue and Blandine's still freaked out, we'll spend considerable time apart from each other. And I'll have to hit the books for the next three days, not exactly how I'd planned this holiday.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Quick real-time update
Okidoki, we've landed safely in New Delhi and our holiday is running on its last legs. It's 31C here, and we hope that when we land in London, our bodies will not go into thermal shock. Indonesia was super-cool, we were glad to have a simple beach holiday without many activities. Tomorrow we plan to go to see Taj Mahal. Keep your eyes on the blog, no worries!
Jan and Blandine
Jan and Blandine
Monday, October 11, 2010
Wednesday, July 14th: A Typical Day in Paradise, Moso Style
Morning
It's early by our standards, 8AM, but the sun's been doing its thing for hours and the large body of water just metres outside of our hut is gently lapping me into consciousness. I sit up in the bed with a first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life kind of feeling. Something's different, I can sense it, but I don't know what it is. Did I dream all those animal sounds I heard earlier, or is that how the jungle celebrates the rebirth of the sun? We'll know for sure tomorrow morning. Then it hits me, I'm on a paradise island, just like Robinson Crusoe. Scratch that, I'm on a paradise island, but with my honey next to me and all the meals for the rest of our stay on Moso catered for. Now that's what I call living!
After the all-you-can-drink breakfast coffee, fresh juice, and toast with scrambled eggs, spiced up with some Garth humour a la "Did you get any yesterday? Did you slap it to her good? ", questions I don't bother answering, we get into our swimwear and leisurely make our way to the Congoola. A few day-tourists get on the boat with us, then we're off to a nice diving and snorkeling spot, the island is surrounded by them. It's a tad windy, we're happy to have brought our towels along. Then, before we realise it, it's time to check out the local marine life. Fantastic! Coral in all colours and shapes is the playground for a plethora of tropical fish who are curious to meet us. I can't get enough of it, and Blandine keeps excitedly pointing out things at me. At this point I could go into detail about all the fish we've seen, but the pictures we took say it better than I ever could.
Lunch
Lunch is a freshly grilled marinated steak sandwich with a side of coleslaw, potato salad, and these meter-long local green beans, served in the dining room. I eat my heart's content, and Blandine's not shy of a nicely grilled tender piece of meat with a royal serving of vegetables either. Tusker, the local beer, keeps my sandwich company.
Afternoon
In the afternoon we catch up on a bit of reading, me from the hammock by our porch. My sweetheart, a book, some shade and a gentle sea, what more could I want? Cookies! I head back inside the bungalow, and take a pack of butterscotch cookies out of the plastic food container. Ants like cookies too here, so all sweet stuff needs to be put in a box. The cookies turn out to be a bit humid, but the nearest store is several hours away, so I make do with what I have and laze out on our private beach. Sounds great, no? Trust me, it is!
Evening
Dinner's delicious. Garth makes more jokes, his wife is rather embarrassed again, yet not too fussy about it. I think she's used to it by now. He's interested in a big spider, sat in the corner, high up in the roof, but can't get to it. Blandine's happy about that, her encounter with the spiders in our Eco-bathroom this morning was hair-raising enough. Honestly, the spiders are bigger than in Belgium, but equally scared of human beings, 100 times their size. That kind of logic just doesn't work on Blandine, who tasks me to remove/chase away critters that she doesn't like. Women.
After dinner Blandine and I build a camp fire in our fire pit outside the bungalow. OK, we cheat a bit, using the oil in the storm light to start the fire. Soon the fire is blazing and we have to move our chairs back a bit to prevent our knees from melting. Life is grand!
It's early by our standards, 8AM, but the sun's been doing its thing for hours and the large body of water just metres outside of our hut is gently lapping me into consciousness. I sit up in the bed with a first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life kind of feeling. Something's different, I can sense it, but I don't know what it is. Did I dream all those animal sounds I heard earlier, or is that how the jungle celebrates the rebirth of the sun? We'll know for sure tomorrow morning. Then it hits me, I'm on a paradise island, just like Robinson Crusoe. Scratch that, I'm on a paradise island, but with my honey next to me and all the meals for the rest of our stay on Moso catered for. Now that's what I call living!
After the all-you-can-drink breakfast coffee, fresh juice, and toast with scrambled eggs, spiced up with some Garth humour a la "Did you get any yesterday? Did you slap it to her good? ", questions I don't bother answering, we get into our swimwear and leisurely make our way to the Congoola. A few day-tourists get on the boat with us, then we're off to a nice diving and snorkeling spot, the island is surrounded by them. It's a tad windy, we're happy to have brought our towels along. Then, before we realise it, it's time to check out the local marine life. Fantastic! Coral in all colours and shapes is the playground for a plethora of tropical fish who are curious to meet us. I can't get enough of it, and Blandine keeps excitedly pointing out things at me. At this point I could go into detail about all the fish we've seen, but the pictures we took say it better than I ever could.
Lunch
Lunch is a freshly grilled marinated steak sandwich with a side of coleslaw, potato salad, and these meter-long local green beans, served in the dining room. I eat my heart's content, and Blandine's not shy of a nicely grilled tender piece of meat with a royal serving of vegetables either. Tusker, the local beer, keeps my sandwich company.
Afternoon
In the afternoon we catch up on a bit of reading, me from the hammock by our porch. My sweetheart, a book, some shade and a gentle sea, what more could I want? Cookies! I head back inside the bungalow, and take a pack of butterscotch cookies out of the plastic food container. Ants like cookies too here, so all sweet stuff needs to be put in a box. The cookies turn out to be a bit humid, but the nearest store is several hours away, so I make do with what I have and laze out on our private beach. Sounds great, no? Trust me, it is!
Evening
Dinner's delicious. Garth makes more jokes, his wife is rather embarrassed again, yet not too fussy about it. I think she's used to it by now. He's interested in a big spider, sat in the corner, high up in the roof, but can't get to it. Blandine's happy about that, her encounter with the spiders in our Eco-bathroom this morning was hair-raising enough. Honestly, the spiders are bigger than in Belgium, but equally scared of human beings, 100 times their size. That kind of logic just doesn't work on Blandine, who tasks me to remove/chase away critters that she doesn't like. Women.
After dinner Blandine and I build a camp fire in our fire pit outside the bungalow. OK, we cheat a bit, using the oil in the storm light to start the fire. Soon the fire is blazing and we have to move our chairs back a bit to prevent our knees from melting. Life is grand!
Tuesday, July 13th: Welcome to the Tropics
Arrival in Port Vila
Right, it's afternoon, and despite the unforeseen last-minute cash outlay, our faces sport the biggest Colgate smile ever. We've arrived close to paradise. On paper, Vanuatu is the most exotic destination of the whole trip. Only 3 hours away from Auckland, this island exudes an unpretentious island spirit from the get-go. We walk into the single-conveyor belt arrival hut, where 5 tanned men in red Hawaiian flower print shirts and white slacks, some armed with a ukulele work up a funk to provide us with a taste of island music. It makes queueing for passport administration so much more bearable.
Introduction to Eco-tourism
A taxi drops us off at Owen's dive shop, where owner Owen himself welcomes us to the island, then briefs us on the experience we're about to have. We're going to be staying at an Eco-lodge on Moso island, just West of Efate, the main island. His lodge is the only tourist accommodation on the island, leased from a local chief whose tribe lives on the North part of Moso. There are 4 bungalows, each with its own little beach and coconut tree. Accommodation is full board, with a set menu served at set times. No stores, no cars, just sea, sand and serenity. At the end of his introduction, The shop owner stresses once again that Tranquillity Resort is a set of no-frills Eco-bungalows, we're not to expect 5-star accommodation. No worries Owen, we really aren't looking for the next Sheraton, we WANT to be almost one with nature. Only one other bungalow is rented, so it's going to be a rather private, exclusive experience. Swell!
Owen drops us off at the local SPAR (!) supermarket, for our last tango with civilisation before our Robinson Crusoe experience. We stock up on cookies and chocolate: no need to push Blandine's mood to the limit unnecessarily, right? Off we go, before long we've left Port Vila behind us and Owen steers his jeep along ever-winding coastal roads, bordered with a generous serving of coconut palms and lush vegetation. A thick forest meets the road for most of the 40-minute trip, dotted with the occasional congregation of thatched roofs. Owen's worked in the UN system long enough to afford this little Eco-venture. He's not your typical stressed out businessman who fakes a smile from here to Tokyo at the sight of new clients, rather a man who's come to terms with the responsibilities surrounding his Eco-business. Someone who's happy to share a bit of his life experience. Not surprisingly, Blandine and Owen are happy to bombard each other with UN-acronyms. I follow the conversation a bit from a distance, but I know little about this world and quickly start counting the waving palm trees that whizz by.
West side is the best side
We arrive at the West side of Efate, where the Congoola and its tanned, white-shirt crew are waiting to transport us. Diana, the Vanuatu woman with who we've been communicating over email to make the reservation welcomes us on the boat. She's got a few days off and is happy to spend them with the boat crew. I really enjoy the unpretentious warmth of this family-and-friends run business, where people are proud to help you. It reminds me a bit of the travel business my dad ran 20 years ago. As the sun sets, this two-mast ship sails across the crystal clear body of water that separates Moso from the main island. 20 minutes is all we need to arrive at a strip of concrete barely sticking out above the water line. We're greeted by Steve and Sarah, the resident dive instructors of Tranquility Resort. And by Bear, their energetic puppy dog. They walk us over a sandy, shell-lined path to our bungalow, all the while giving us an introduction to life on Moso. It's going to be a fantastic week, I just feel it!
Letting the lust settle
We settle into our new wicker Robinson Crusoe surroundings within 15 minutes, first testing the quality of the mattress in our mosquito net-covered love nest. It's thick enough to provide the comfort my back is looking for. Size-wise, the bed's a bit cramped for me, as was the case throughout South America, but there's no backboard, so I'll be fine sleeping , albeit somewhat diagonal. Full sunlight has been traded in for the romantic touch of island twilight, a soft breeze is rustling through the leaves of the coconut tree on our private beach. I check our mobile phone , it's only a bit after 6PM. Ah, but that means dinner's served in 10 minutes. We freshen up a bit in the bathroom behind our cottage, then change into our best T-shirt and flip-flops. The island's enveloped in total darkness now, so we decide on the small brightly coloured plastic flash lights over the petrol-powered storm lights in the bedroom, mainly because we don't want to fiddle with matches. We anxiously illuminate our flip-flops, then follow them on their way to the restaurant hut, our stomachs equally curious about the food they're going to deal with as we are about the people we're about to meet.
Meet the locals
It's a little tricky to find, but within 5 minutes we find the warm light of the resort dining room homing us in. This room is unlike any restaurant dining room I've ever seen, it's basically a very large hut with a roof made of dried palm tree leaves, resting on four wooden poles, but no walls. The island's sand is the floor and dinner will be served on one of two large tree trunks converted to table. The cooking staff beams at us from the far corner, appetizer ready to serve.
Blandine, who hasn't dealt with Australians before.
Steve and Sarah also dine with us, while giving us an overview of the activities planned for tomorrow. We take them up on their offer to hop on the Congoola for a spot of snorkeling and keep in mind we can take out the sea kayaks any time we want. Garth's establishes himself rather quickly as bit of a funny man on the edge, cracking one dirty construction worker's type of joke after another. You know, the stuff that's rather funny amongst a group of men only. Kim nervously laughs along a bit, Blandine keeps looking at me, signalling "What is he saying?" I have quickly gained Garth's sympathy, even though he's labelled me as a white-collared pencil pusher from the get-go. During dinner, a tasty chicken curry with rice, Garth's all too eager to show me the pictures he's taken so far on his new, shiny silver point-and-shoot digital camera: some beach shots, a spider, a turtle, his wife's bare chest..."Check out the zoom on this thing" he says, zooming in to one of his wife's nipples as his wife blushingly and unsuccessfully tries to take the camera away from him. He grins and elbows me: "Technology's cool, aye?" I laugh nervously, not sure what to do in this situation. We finish dessert and chat a bit, surrounded by island darkness. We finish our beers, then Garth stands up, switches on his industrial strength flashlight, and offers to walk us back to our cottage "before you give your girlfriend a good shagging, you big monster you. Is it true what they say about big men?" Before I can answer that, everybody gets up, it's the end of dinner. I get up too, reluctantly, wondering whether he's just being super nice, fearing above all Garth's going to propose us to be part of one of his sexual fantasies.
We walk back in silence, pass their hut, number 2, then we walk on to number 4. I prepare my answer to any possible sexual advances. Nothing happens, Garth just wishes us good night as he turns on his heels. "How sweet of Garth," remarks Blandine "though I just don't understand what he says most of the time." "Yes, that is really sweet of him" I reply. We crawl under the mosquito net and read a bit, holding hands as our eyelids quickly grow heavy.
Right, it's afternoon, and despite the unforeseen last-minute cash outlay, our faces sport the biggest Colgate smile ever. We've arrived close to paradise. On paper, Vanuatu is the most exotic destination of the whole trip. Only 3 hours away from Auckland, this island exudes an unpretentious island spirit from the get-go. We walk into the single-conveyor belt arrival hut, where 5 tanned men in red Hawaiian flower print shirts and white slacks, some armed with a ukulele work up a funk to provide us with a taste of island music. It makes queueing for passport administration so much more bearable.
Introduction to Eco-tourism
A taxi drops us off at Owen's dive shop, where owner Owen himself welcomes us to the island, then briefs us on the experience we're about to have. We're going to be staying at an Eco-lodge on Moso island, just West of Efate, the main island. His lodge is the only tourist accommodation on the island, leased from a local chief whose tribe lives on the North part of Moso. There are 4 bungalows, each with its own little beach and coconut tree. Accommodation is full board, with a set menu served at set times. No stores, no cars, just sea, sand and serenity. At the end of his introduction, The shop owner stresses once again that Tranquillity Resort is a set of no-frills Eco-bungalows, we're not to expect 5-star accommodation. No worries Owen, we really aren't looking for the next Sheraton, we WANT to be almost one with nature. Only one other bungalow is rented, so it's going to be a rather private, exclusive experience. Swell!
Owen drops us off at the local SPAR (!) supermarket, for our last tango with civilisation before our Robinson Crusoe experience. We stock up on cookies and chocolate: no need to push Blandine's mood to the limit unnecessarily, right? Off we go, before long we've left Port Vila behind us and Owen steers his jeep along ever-winding coastal roads, bordered with a generous serving of coconut palms and lush vegetation. A thick forest meets the road for most of the 40-minute trip, dotted with the occasional congregation of thatched roofs. Owen's worked in the UN system long enough to afford this little Eco-venture. He's not your typical stressed out businessman who fakes a smile from here to Tokyo at the sight of new clients, rather a man who's come to terms with the responsibilities surrounding his Eco-business. Someone who's happy to share a bit of his life experience. Not surprisingly, Blandine and Owen are happy to bombard each other with UN-acronyms. I follow the conversation a bit from a distance, but I know little about this world and quickly start counting the waving palm trees that whizz by.
West side is the best side
We arrive at the West side of Efate, where the Congoola and its tanned, white-shirt crew are waiting to transport us. Diana, the Vanuatu woman with who we've been communicating over email to make the reservation welcomes us on the boat. She's got a few days off and is happy to spend them with the boat crew. I really enjoy the unpretentious warmth of this family-and-friends run business, where people are proud to help you. It reminds me a bit of the travel business my dad ran 20 years ago. As the sun sets, this two-mast ship sails across the crystal clear body of water that separates Moso from the main island. 20 minutes is all we need to arrive at a strip of concrete barely sticking out above the water line. We're greeted by Steve and Sarah, the resident dive instructors of Tranquility Resort. And by Bear, their energetic puppy dog. They walk us over a sandy, shell-lined path to our bungalow, all the while giving us an introduction to life on Moso. It's going to be a fantastic week, I just feel it!
Letting the lust settle
We settle into our new wicker Robinson Crusoe surroundings within 15 minutes, first testing the quality of the mattress in our mosquito net-covered love nest. It's thick enough to provide the comfort my back is looking for. Size-wise, the bed's a bit cramped for me, as was the case throughout South America, but there's no backboard, so I'll be fine sleeping , albeit somewhat diagonal. Full sunlight has been traded in for the romantic touch of island twilight, a soft breeze is rustling through the leaves of the coconut tree on our private beach. I check our mobile phone , it's only a bit after 6PM. Ah, but that means dinner's served in 10 minutes. We freshen up a bit in the bathroom behind our cottage, then change into our best T-shirt and flip-flops. The island's enveloped in total darkness now, so we decide on the small brightly coloured plastic flash lights over the petrol-powered storm lights in the bedroom, mainly because we don't want to fiddle with matches. We anxiously illuminate our flip-flops, then follow them on their way to the restaurant hut, our stomachs equally curious about the food they're going to deal with as we are about the people we're about to meet.
Meet the locals
It's a little tricky to find, but within 5 minutes we find the warm light of the resort dining room homing us in. This room is unlike any restaurant dining room I've ever seen, it's basically a very large hut with a roof made of dried palm tree leaves, resting on four wooden poles, but no walls. The island's sand is the floor and dinner will be served on one of two large tree trunks converted to table. The cooking staff beams at us from the far corner, appetizer ready to serve.
Blandine, who hasn't dealt with Australians before.
Steve and Sarah also dine with us, while giving us an overview of the activities planned for tomorrow. We take them up on their offer to hop on the Congoola for a spot of snorkeling and keep in mind we can take out the sea kayaks any time we want. Garth's establishes himself rather quickly as bit of a funny man on the edge, cracking one dirty construction worker's type of joke after another. You know, the stuff that's rather funny amongst a group of men only. Kim nervously laughs along a bit, Blandine keeps looking at me, signalling "What is he saying?" I have quickly gained Garth's sympathy, even though he's labelled me as a white-collared pencil pusher from the get-go. During dinner, a tasty chicken curry with rice, Garth's all too eager to show me the pictures he's taken so far on his new, shiny silver point-and-shoot digital camera: some beach shots, a spider, a turtle, his wife's bare chest..."Check out the zoom on this thing" he says, zooming in to one of his wife's nipples as his wife blushingly and unsuccessfully tries to take the camera away from him. He grins and elbows me: "Technology's cool, aye?" I laugh nervously, not sure what to do in this situation. We finish dessert and chat a bit, surrounded by island darkness. We finish our beers, then Garth stands up, switches on his industrial strength flashlight, and offers to walk us back to our cottage "before you give your girlfriend a good shagging, you big monster you. Is it true what they say about big men?" Before I can answer that, everybody gets up, it's the end of dinner. I get up too, reluctantly, wondering whether he's just being super nice, fearing above all Garth's going to propose us to be part of one of his sexual fantasies.
We walk back in silence, pass their hut, number 2, then we walk on to number 4. I prepare my answer to any possible sexual advances. Nothing happens, Garth just wishes us good night as he turns on his heels. "How sweet of Garth," remarks Blandine "though I just don't understand what he says most of the time." "Yes, that is really sweet of him" I reply. We crawl under the mosquito net and read a bit, holding hands as our eyelids quickly grow heavy.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, July 12th: Fly the friendly skies?
We left early morning on the 11th and are arriving early morning on the 12th, because we've crossed the date line. We've missed practically all of the 11th, a lazy Sunday where people sit around, maybe have a walk in the park, possibly turn on the telly in the evening and ...oh ... WATCH THE FLIPPING WORLD CUP FINAL! Did it even happen? And if it did, what did we miss? Who won? As we walk into the Auckland airport terminal it's 8:30AM and the game's halfway through the second half. One of the pubs in the terminal has the game on, a few men are standing up under a rather large TV screen, pint of beer firmly held in their right hand, clearly ignorant of the earliness of the day. But let's think this one out for a minute: what are your options as a football fan,really? Could you honestly dress completely in orange, wear a viking helmet up top your head, then ask the bartender for a cup of Earl Grey and a croissant? It's still 0-0, the tension is still building up. We've clearly missed our connection, at this time the Pacific Blue plane is about to taxi on the runway. By the time we've cleared customs, the game is over, no need to find another TV screen. All of Holland must be weeping by now. We missed the footie, and we've missed the connecting flight, that's 0 for 2, not a real impressive record.
I decide to go through the motions of making our claim as the LAN Chile crew described, in the hope to recover at least some of our money.
A little research reveals that if we're still interested to make it out to Vanuatu, then our best bet is to buy brand-new Air Vanuatu tickets for tomorrow's flight at NZD 300 each, bought from their downtown office. Ouch! We've got no other option, really, so off to downtown we are, glad to leave this airport with its air so tense you could cut it with a knife.
Auckland Accomodation base-X
A shuttle bus takes us to the centre of Auckland, where we check into a backpackers hostel on the 6th floor of a downtown office building. XBase offers pretty kewl rates. All we want is a clean, basic room with a clean bed for one night only, and NZD 60 gets us exactly that. The windowless room - windowed rooms cost more - is about 50 cm bigger than the bed, there's just enough space to put our backpacks on the side. Bathrooms and showers are shared, yet squeeky-clean. A paradise for backpackers living on a tight budget.
Waggling in Auckland
Jetlagged as we are, we kip for a bit, then go out and give downtown Auckland a go. Outside, I wonder what to do with this day that landed on us out of the (Pacific) blue. Nothing much cultural to see in downtown really, only malls, boutiques, hotels and restaurants. We get our handwritten Air Vanuatu tickets straight from the downtown office (didn't know they still do that), from a ball of curly Pacific hair, who's so excited that she offers to come along. Tickets in the daypack, we leisurely stroll down to the waterfront, feasting our eyes on the local handicrafts on display in every other shop window. It's turned out to be sunny winter's day, a day that promises a nice New Zealand summer in the making. We're too jet-lagged to really appreciate it like the locals do, we're focused on coming up with an afternoon entertainment plan that would take care of our afternoon. A plan that doen't involve sleeping at any point, because if we give in to our tiredness now, we'll wake up at 3AM and never get rid of our jetlag.
Tunnel vision
How about if we chilled a bit with the whacky penguins at Kelly Tarltons Antarctic Encounter? It's really a kids thing, but hey we can be big kids if we want to.
Blandine: "Did you see that? Wooow! Can we go again?" She grabs my hand, pulls me off the conveyor belt and runs us all the way back to the starting point. We've instantly become kids again.
Once outside we stroll hand in hand down the pier on the opposite side of the road, to take in the view of Auckland bay. It's a bit windy, so we retrace our steps to the Aquarium's parking lot, where a courtesy shuttle bus in the shape of an open-mouthed killer shark waits to take us back. It's only 6PM, but sleep is steadily winning ground on us, so we groggily stumble back into the hostel, stumble into our bed-room, and pass out. Not having dinner is quickly becoming a habit.
I decide to go through the motions of making our claim as the LAN Chile crew described, in the hope to recover at least some of our money.
- Agency covering fo Pacific Blue: "I think it's a LAN Chile problem sir, but please call Pacific Blue from a courtesy phone."
- Pacific Blue operator at other end of courtesy phone: Sorry to hear about your problem. I can give you a preferential rate on the next flight, the day after tomorrow. Only NZD 600 instead of NZD 1100. That's way over our budget sir. OK, the best I can do is to give you credit for the money spent on the missed flight. Good luck. It's one of the nicest guys I've ever had on the line. OKay, I didn't get anywhere concretely, but I hang up the phone with a smile.
- LAN Chile desk: If you have insurance you could possibly claim something back. But check with the LAN Chile office upstairs, they're open in an hour.
- VISA-card financed call to Europe Assistance Belgium: a waste of time and money. NZD 20 for a 5 minute phonecall just to find out they don't cover this kind of incident.
- LAN Chile upstairs office, after waiting 1 hour. "Sir, LAN Chile has kept it's promise to bring you from Santiago to Auckland. That's as far as we're required to honour the contract (flight ticket) with us. If you had a LAN Chile connection, then we could try to do something for you. (OK, how about if I tell you that LAN Chile doesn't fly anywhere near to Vanuatu. Duh.) If you wish, I can type you up a complaints form." Hell yes, you haven't heard the last of this.
A little research reveals that if we're still interested to make it out to Vanuatu, then our best bet is to buy brand-new Air Vanuatu tickets for tomorrow's flight at NZD 300 each, bought from their downtown office. Ouch! We've got no other option, really, so off to downtown we are, glad to leave this airport with its air so tense you could cut it with a knife.
Auckland Accomodation base-X
A shuttle bus takes us to the centre of Auckland, where we check into a backpackers hostel on the 6th floor of a downtown office building. XBase offers pretty kewl rates. All we want is a clean, basic room with a clean bed for one night only, and NZD 60 gets us exactly that. The windowless room - windowed rooms cost more - is about 50 cm bigger than the bed, there's just enough space to put our backpacks on the side. Bathrooms and showers are shared, yet squeeky-clean. A paradise for backpackers living on a tight budget.
Waggling in Auckland
Jetlagged as we are, we kip for a bit, then go out and give downtown Auckland a go. Outside, I wonder what to do with this day that landed on us out of the (Pacific) blue. Nothing much cultural to see in downtown really, only malls, boutiques, hotels and restaurants. We get our handwritten Air Vanuatu tickets straight from the downtown office (didn't know they still do that), from a ball of curly Pacific hair, who's so excited that she offers to come along. Tickets in the daypack, we leisurely stroll down to the waterfront, feasting our eyes on the local handicrafts on display in every other shop window. It's turned out to be sunny winter's day, a day that promises a nice New Zealand summer in the making. We're too jet-lagged to really appreciate it like the locals do, we're focused on coming up with an afternoon entertainment plan that would take care of our afternoon. A plan that doen't involve sleeping at any point, because if we give in to our tiredness now, we'll wake up at 3AM and never get rid of our jetlag.
Tunnel vision
How about if we chilled a bit with the whacky penguins at Kelly Tarltons Antarctic Encounter? It's really a kids thing, but hey we can be big kids if we want to.
Blandine: "Did you see that? Wooow! Can we go again?" She grabs my hand, pulls me off the conveyor belt and runs us all the way back to the starting point. We've instantly become kids again.
Once outside we stroll hand in hand down the pier on the opposite side of the road, to take in the view of Auckland bay. It's a bit windy, so we retrace our steps to the Aquarium's parking lot, where a courtesy shuttle bus in the shape of an open-mouthed killer shark waits to take us back. It's only 6PM, but sleep is steadily winning ground on us, so we groggily stumble back into the hostel, stumble into our bed-room, and pass out. Not having dinner is quickly becoming a habit.
Sunday, July 11th: in the air tonight?
It's past midnight here, and after hours in Auckland as well, so we can't inform Pacific Blue about any of this. The courtesy officer feels really bad for us, but LAN Chile can't do anything either from this side. We'll have to try our luck on the other side of the Pacific, in Auckland. To calm everyone down a bit, and to appease the inconvenience causes, LAN offers everyone a sandwich and a drink in the café by the gate. The drink is most welcome, I'm quite thirsty. The sandwich, well...I eat it to pass the time a bit. We finally leave around 3AM, with loads of question marks in our heads, too groggy to think straight. Bye bye South America, Vanuatu here we come! We hope.
Saturday, Jul 10th: Last day in Chile
Getting a grip on Chilean grapes
Last day in Chile. We don't have our airplane until just before midnight, so all sightseeing needs to be crammed into the next 12 hours. We decide to go with the Concha y Toro vineyard tour, and for book the 2:00PM tour in English. However, we underestimate the travelling time to the estate by subway, arrive late and in all our hurry even forget to use the 15% discount coupon, which I give to the delighted gay Polish couple behind us. We run to the restaurant cum gift shop, hoping 2PM really means 2:15 in Chilean, but no such luck, we'll have to do the 2:30 tour in Spanish. No problema, señor, that gives us the time to lower our heart beat and powder our noses in the nearest bathrooms. After a short introductory video we're off to the park surrounding the estate. A whole new world opens up, only 5 minutes by taxi from that concrete jungle at the end of subway line number 4. The heart of the park houses a summer residence reminiscent of a French castle's domain: fountains, a lake surrounded by Greek-inspired statues, European-looking trees, stylish French architecture. Breathtaking. Walking back to the estate, the tour guide points out the beginning of a field with rows and rows of planted, bare grapevines, as far as the eye can see. Concha y Toro own plenty of different fields around Chile, with reason: they're the biggest Chilean wine house by far.
And then the tour becomes really interesting: the tour guide mentions with pride Concha y Toro's investment in the Carménère grape, a variety I've never heard of. With origin in the Médoc region of Bordeaux, this grape was destroyed by a nasty case of Phylloxera plague in the late nineteenth century, until recently wine experts found out that Chilean wine growers had inadvertently preserved it for the last 150 years! I had to get my lips on some Carménère, that's a fact.
Let's get the devil out of here!
But before we gain access to the restaurant the tour guide takes us down into the "Casillero del Diablo", the cellar underneath the estate. The story goes that the landlord, in an attempt to stop his bottles from growing legs, told the superstitious locals that the devil himself lived in these cellars. At once the thieving stopped. In honour of this story, the landlord labelled one of his wines "Casillero Del Diablo". At this point in the tour we are all gathered in the cool cellar, completely surrounded by rows and rows of wine casks. Suddenly the light goes out, the cellar door closes and a demonic laughter makes its way to our ears. I imagine being stuck in here, with a lifetime's supply to the house's best wines: it's got zing, this fate. Then, annoyingly so, the light comes back on, the demonic voices stops and with it my resolution for a future as wino are bombed.
A cup that runneth over
A public bus brings us back from the estate to the town centre of Puente Alto, where a huge TV screen welcomes us. Surprise, surprise, the World Cup is once again the main attraction of the day, and it has managed to filled 3/4 of the town square with football fans. The second half of the little final is in full swing: Germany is playing Uruguay, the last South American contender. Germany wins the encounter deservedly with 3-2 and the town square clears within minutes. No fights, no drunks hassling anybody, just plain football fun. We dive in the subway, and make our way back to the city centre. The first part of the ride is overground, and we get to see snow-capped mountains all around us, the same ones as on the ride up. I'm finding this sight fantastic, riding a subway amongst snow-capped mountains, the locals don't even look out the window, they're used to these surroundings.
Hasta la vista? Erhm...nope
We plan to have a view over the city from the mirador. We make our way through the fancy neighborhood of Buena Vista up to the entrance of the cable car, but the daylight is fading; so we give up and have a cup of hot chocolate in one of the open malls, with French music in the background. It's week-end, so let's enjoy these last moments in Latin America, no?
God is not a DJ
Then it's off to the hotel again, to pick up our mill stones, erhm backpacks and head for the airport again. The subway ride is comfortable all the way to Pajaritos. On the airport transfer bus I strike up a conversation with an interesting man who tells me about his life as a movie make-up artist. An interesting story, until he asks me to embrace the Lord, like he has done many years ago. "You see, people are so sceptical about faith, because they cannot see it. In medieval times people didn't believe in viruses, and it wasn't until we got microscopes that people reluctantly accepted their existence. You see, God is everywhere, couldn't you accept that?" Me: "So, God is a virus?" That ends the conversation prematurely.
LAN-locked in Santiago airport
The LAN check in: 1 poor, stressed girl doing the check-in on her own, while 4 of her colleagues stand around a few desks away, doing generally nothing except for being ignorant about the long queue of frustrated passengers. People mumble, but nothing happens. Chickens! I may not have worked for the last month, but I sure remember what customer service is supposed to be like. There, enough rage has built up inside me to take friendly action. I step out of the queue and tell the check-in clerk that she should get the other clerks to assume their duties. At once the check-in with LAN Chile is rendered smooth. With our luggage on it's way to the belly of the plane, we burn some of our last pesos on candy and hang around the departure gate. It's 9:30 and the flight doesn't leave until 23:50. To kill time we have dinner in a TGIF-type of restaurant around the corner of our gate. I have a decent burger and a good beer.
When I pay, the waiter raises an eyebrow and tells me it is customary to leave 10% tip. Little does he know that I've recently tapped into a well of honesty. I serve it to him straight: "Listen, the burger was good, but the fries were so overcooked that they were about to turn into charcoal, and the service was good, but a snail could have served me faster. This is not your fault, you are working your burger restaurant buns off, but this place is severely understaffed and I cannot as an honest customer endorse, let alone financially promote this level of service". Badabing badaboom! I turn on my heels and leave the guy behind me, struck by lightning.
Right, it's almost 11PM and my eyelids are getting heavier all the time. As I'm trying to get comfortable in these plastic waiting lounge chairs, it happens: our flight is delayed until further notice. Noooooo. We've only got a 3-hours window in Auckland to make our connection to Vanuatu, so we can't afford to loose too much time. Everyone's panicking and people crowd the poor LAN Chile guy who made the announcement. I know that he's in no position to do anything for us at this time, so I leave him be. Within 15 minutes an official comes to chat with us. The plane will most probably be 3 hours delayed because of a technical defect that must be fixed before we can take off. If the fix takes longer, LAN Chile will put us up in a hotel for the night. I calmly explain that this makes it impossible for us to catch the connection to Vanuatu. We're slowly going nowhere at all.
Last day in Chile. We don't have our airplane until just before midnight, so all sightseeing needs to be crammed into the next 12 hours. We decide to go with the Concha y Toro vineyard tour, and for book the 2:00PM tour in English. However, we underestimate the travelling time to the estate by subway, arrive late and in all our hurry even forget to use the 15% discount coupon, which I give to the delighted gay Polish couple behind us. We run to the restaurant cum gift shop, hoping 2PM really means 2:15 in Chilean, but no such luck, we'll have to do the 2:30 tour in Spanish. No problema, señor, that gives us the time to lower our heart beat and powder our noses in the nearest bathrooms. After a short introductory video we're off to the park surrounding the estate. A whole new world opens up, only 5 minutes by taxi from that concrete jungle at the end of subway line number 4. The heart of the park houses a summer residence reminiscent of a French castle's domain: fountains, a lake surrounded by Greek-inspired statues, European-looking trees, stylish French architecture. Breathtaking. Walking back to the estate, the tour guide points out the beginning of a field with rows and rows of planted, bare grapevines, as far as the eye can see. Concha y Toro own plenty of different fields around Chile, with reason: they're the biggest Chilean wine house by far.
And then the tour becomes really interesting: the tour guide mentions with pride Concha y Toro's investment in the Carménère grape, a variety I've never heard of. With origin in the Médoc region of Bordeaux, this grape was destroyed by a nasty case of Phylloxera plague in the late nineteenth century, until recently wine experts found out that Chilean wine growers had inadvertently preserved it for the last 150 years! I had to get my lips on some Carménère, that's a fact.
Let's get the devil out of here!
But before we gain access to the restaurant the tour guide takes us down into the "Casillero del Diablo", the cellar underneath the estate. The story goes that the landlord, in an attempt to stop his bottles from growing legs, told the superstitious locals that the devil himself lived in these cellars. At once the thieving stopped. In honour of this story, the landlord labelled one of his wines "Casillero Del Diablo". At this point in the tour we are all gathered in the cool cellar, completely surrounded by rows and rows of wine casks. Suddenly the light goes out, the cellar door closes and a demonic laughter makes its way to our ears. I imagine being stuck in here, with a lifetime's supply to the house's best wines: it's got zing, this fate. Then, annoyingly so, the light comes back on, the demonic voices stops and with it my resolution for a future as wino are bombed.
A cup that runneth over
A public bus brings us back from the estate to the town centre of Puente Alto, where a huge TV screen welcomes us. Surprise, surprise, the World Cup is once again the main attraction of the day, and it has managed to filled 3/4 of the town square with football fans. The second half of the little final is in full swing: Germany is playing Uruguay, the last South American contender. Germany wins the encounter deservedly with 3-2 and the town square clears within minutes. No fights, no drunks hassling anybody, just plain football fun. We dive in the subway, and make our way back to the city centre. The first part of the ride is overground, and we get to see snow-capped mountains all around us, the same ones as on the ride up. I'm finding this sight fantastic, riding a subway amongst snow-capped mountains, the locals don't even look out the window, they're used to these surroundings.
Hasta la vista? Erhm...nope
We plan to have a view over the city from the mirador. We make our way through the fancy neighborhood of Buena Vista up to the entrance of the cable car, but the daylight is fading; so we give up and have a cup of hot chocolate in one of the open malls, with French music in the background. It's week-end, so let's enjoy these last moments in Latin America, no?
God is not a DJ
Then it's off to the hotel again, to pick up our mill stones, erhm backpacks and head for the airport again. The subway ride is comfortable all the way to Pajaritos. On the airport transfer bus I strike up a conversation with an interesting man who tells me about his life as a movie make-up artist. An interesting story, until he asks me to embrace the Lord, like he has done many years ago. "You see, people are so sceptical about faith, because they cannot see it. In medieval times people didn't believe in viruses, and it wasn't until we got microscopes that people reluctantly accepted their existence. You see, God is everywhere, couldn't you accept that?" Me: "So, God is a virus?" That ends the conversation prematurely.
LAN-locked in Santiago airport
The LAN check in: 1 poor, stressed girl doing the check-in on her own, while 4 of her colleagues stand around a few desks away, doing generally nothing except for being ignorant about the long queue of frustrated passengers. People mumble, but nothing happens. Chickens! I may not have worked for the last month, but I sure remember what customer service is supposed to be like. There, enough rage has built up inside me to take friendly action. I step out of the queue and tell the check-in clerk that she should get the other clerks to assume their duties. At once the check-in with LAN Chile is rendered smooth. With our luggage on it's way to the belly of the plane, we burn some of our last pesos on candy and hang around the departure gate. It's 9:30 and the flight doesn't leave until 23:50. To kill time we have dinner in a TGIF-type of restaurant around the corner of our gate. I have a decent burger and a good beer.
When I pay, the waiter raises an eyebrow and tells me it is customary to leave 10% tip. Little does he know that I've recently tapped into a well of honesty. I serve it to him straight: "Listen, the burger was good, but the fries were so overcooked that they were about to turn into charcoal, and the service was good, but a snail could have served me faster. This is not your fault, you are working your burger restaurant buns off, but this place is severely understaffed and I cannot as an honest customer endorse, let alone financially promote this level of service". Badabing badaboom! I turn on my heels and leave the guy behind me, struck by lightning.
Right, it's almost 11PM and my eyelids are getting heavier all the time. As I'm trying to get comfortable in these plastic waiting lounge chairs, it happens: our flight is delayed until further notice. Noooooo. We've only got a 3-hours window in Auckland to make our connection to Vanuatu, so we can't afford to loose too much time. Everyone's panicking and people crowd the poor LAN Chile guy who made the announcement. I know that he's in no position to do anything for us at this time, so I leave him be. Within 15 minutes an official comes to chat with us. The plane will most probably be 3 hours delayed because of a technical defect that must be fixed before we can take off. If the fix takes longer, LAN Chile will put us up in a hotel for the night. I calmly explain that this makes it impossible for us to catch the connection to Vanuatu. We're slowly going nowhere at all.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Le camp d'été PSE en perspective
Cela fait déjà plusieurs semaines que le camp d'été s'est terminé et il est encore difficile de trouver les mots pour exprimer, pour expliquer. Je ne peux m'empêcher de penser que pour moi, arrivant au camp en venant juste d'apprendre que j'étais enceinte, forcément, mon expérience reste très particulière et unique... mais après tout, chaque moniteur a dû vivre un camp différent. C'est une de ces expériences de la vie qui ne peut être que personnelle.
J'ai passé 4 semaines avec le même groupe d'une vingtaine de petites filles, âgées de 4 à 12 ans, qui portent - encore visibles sur leur corps, pour certaines - les cicatrices d'un drame familial, qui les a conduit à vivre au centre PSE en permanence, en vase clos. Au total, ces "pensionnaires" sont environ 70; elles ont jusqu'à 18 ans, et plusieurs années d'ancienneté pour quelques unes. Je ne connais pas et n'ai pas cherché à connaître l'histoire indivduelle des filles; j'ai préféré les considérer toutes égales, dans leur souffrance vécue, et leur besoin présent d'affection. C'est une mini-société avec ses codes et sa hierarchie qui s'est établie entre elles; difficile de capter ses règles implicites pour une personne extérieure, qui plus est, une étrangère qui ne balbutie que quelques mots de cambodgien. Les moniteurs cambodgiens (cerains liés à PSE) y ont compris sans doute un peu plus mais leur traduction nous simplifiait largement les propos. J'ai eu la sensation de naviguer en aveugle pendant tout un mois; cet état d'incompréhension permanent rendait les choses un peu surréelles, voire superficielles. Ce fût le plus grand défi à relever: revenir toujours à la réalité, se redire qui sont ces enfants et quel est mon rôle ici, et ne pas cesser de chercher à me connecter à elles, à leur faire passer quelquechose de constructif et positif, sans une trace de doute.
Dans l'ensemble, tout s'est très bien passé. Je me suis amusée, et j'ai vu ces fillettes s'amuser, sourire encore et encore et parfois, carrément s'éclater! Elles ont adoré faire des bracelets de perle pendant des heures durant, confectionner des masques, apprendre de nouvelles chansons et de nouvelles dances, jouer au loto. Elles attendaient avec impatience les jours de piscine au waterpark et se sont régalées, dans tous les sens du terme, lors de notre sortie au Lucky Burger. Quel immense plaisir renouvelé chaque jour de voir ces enfants si joyeuses et si libres de tout souci pendant quelques heures!
Biensûr, il y a eu des moments de frustration et de déception... essentiellement concentrés dans la deuxième partie de la deuxième semaine, car la lune de miel entre les filles et les moniteurs n'a duré qu'une petite semaine... Au démarrage de la deuxième semaine, nous avons retrouvé des filles surexcitées, un poil débridées, qui semblaient avoir décidé de mener la barque du camp d'été elles-mêmes: la liberté leur aurait-elle monté à la tête? Nous, les moniteurs, essayions encore de trouver nos marques et notre empreinte en tant qu'équipe. Nos balbutiements et nos imprivosations répétées par rapport au planning étaient sans doute trop perceptibles. Nous nous sommes retrouvés désharçonnés par ces problèmes de discipline et de désaveu (?) nouveaux: que faire, que dire quand une grosse minorité de filles soudain boyottent l'activité, en demandant toute en même temps d'aller aux toilettes ou à l'infirmerie ? quand le silence ne peut être obtenu qu'en criant plus fort qu'elles? quand certaines s'isolent dans un coin de la salle pour lire un livre sans se soucier du reste? Nous avons dû réagir, faire le point entre nous, nous remotiver. Fort heureusement, rapidement, après quelques "sermons" (notamment de ma part dans mon rôle favouri de méchante rabat-joie...) les choses se sont tassées et on a pu reprendre une vie de groupe plus saine.
Ma frustration est venue principalement de l'échec de toutes mes tentatives de mettre en place des actvitées un tantinet plus structurées avec une thématique en fil rouge sur toute la semaine. Manque d'intérêt des autres moniteurs et sans doute des filles elles-mêmes qui auraient perçu cela comme un trop grand parallèle avec l'école... Je me suis résignée, j'ai recalé mes idées au panier et les activités purement ludiques que nous avons organisées ont ravi les filles - c'est ce qui comptait!
Parmi elles, je dois dire que je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher d'avoir mes chouchous. Disons que certains enfants sont plus adroits à renvoyer l'affection qu'on leur porte et cela crée des liens plus forts. Mais une fillette en particulier m'a donné du fil à retordre , tout au long des quatre semaines. 9 ans et déjà un caractère de rebelle bien affirmé, doublé d'une capacité pour la manipulation affective bien rôdée. Ce fût "je t'aime, moi non plus" pendant un mois. J'ai dû sortir ma panoplie complète de comportements: des fois copine, des fois grand soeur, d'autre fois prof, et d'autre fois plutôt gendarme... Rien ne semblait survivre la journée: tout devait se reconstruire le lendemain matin, peu importait la façon dont on se quittait la veille. Ca s'est terminé en grandes embrassades au moment de mon départ, avec un dessin en cadeau - comme un calumet de la paix. Comme toujours, elle a réussi à me prendre au dépourvu, mais au delà, c'était très émouvant!
Côté communauté des moniteurs, l'ambiance était très agréable, remplie de petites attentions pour les uns pour les autres, remettant du baume au coeur quand il en fallait. Ceci dit, j'ai le sentiment et le regret d'être passé un peu à côté de cet aspect là du camp. A cause (ou grâce à) ma situation de femme enceinte, nous logions dans la guest-house avec les sympathiques et épicuriens moniteurs seniors espagnols. Les autres moniteurs avaient le privilège (hum-hum) de partager les dortoirs de 8 lits en bambou, avec ventilateur et moustiquaire. Notre éloignement, combinée à la fatigue qui m'accablait en fin de journée (les dodos à 20h n'ont pas été rares) ne m'ont donné que peu d'occasions de participer aux veillées et aux dîners chez Mala (le McNouille du quartier). Ceci étant dit, j'ai grandement apprécié mes échanges avec les autres moniteurs, tous animés d'une pêche et d'une générosité incroyables. J'ai souvent été impressionnée par la maturité de certains jeunes moniteurs (la moyenne d'âge étant de 22,5 ans!) et par leur aptitude relationnelle avec les enfants, tout en douceur et en sourire.
J'ai déjà dit tout le bien que je pensais de l'équipe d'organisation et de coordination, qui nous avait notamment concocté une semaine de préparation très pro. Je voudrais toutefois faire une mention spéciale à Marisa Caprile Alonso, une dame tout simplement formidable. C'est elle qui a recruté individuellement chaque moniteur et qui en a pris soin comme ses propres enfants pendant la durée du camp. Ses précieux conseils et l'attention particulière -tout en étant discrète- qu'elle m'a porté m'ont beaucoup aidé à vivre mes premières semaines de grossesse sereinement. Au delà, sa dévotion (bénévole) pour la cause de PSE, son enthousiasme communicatif pour combattre les injustices, ainsi que son incroyable pari (réussi) d'avoir embarqué mari et enfants dans l'aventure des camps d'été sont admirables. Marisa est un modèle, et l'on ne peut qu'être honorée d'avoir obtenu sa confiance. Comme je le lui ai dit, "moi, quand je serai grande, je ferai comme Marisa"... le défi est immense: où pourrais-je trouver cette énergie???
J'ai passé 4 semaines avec le même groupe d'une vingtaine de petites filles, âgées de 4 à 12 ans, qui portent - encore visibles sur leur corps, pour certaines - les cicatrices d'un drame familial, qui les a conduit à vivre au centre PSE en permanence, en vase clos. Au total, ces "pensionnaires" sont environ 70; elles ont jusqu'à 18 ans, et plusieurs années d'ancienneté pour quelques unes. Je ne connais pas et n'ai pas cherché à connaître l'histoire indivduelle des filles; j'ai préféré les considérer toutes égales, dans leur souffrance vécue, et leur besoin présent d'affection. C'est une mini-société avec ses codes et sa hierarchie qui s'est établie entre elles; difficile de capter ses règles implicites pour une personne extérieure, qui plus est, une étrangère qui ne balbutie que quelques mots de cambodgien. Les moniteurs cambodgiens (cerains liés à PSE) y ont compris sans doute un peu plus mais leur traduction nous simplifiait largement les propos. J'ai eu la sensation de naviguer en aveugle pendant tout un mois; cet état d'incompréhension permanent rendait les choses un peu surréelles, voire superficielles. Ce fût le plus grand défi à relever: revenir toujours à la réalité, se redire qui sont ces enfants et quel est mon rôle ici, et ne pas cesser de chercher à me connecter à elles, à leur faire passer quelquechose de constructif et positif, sans une trace de doute.
Dans l'ensemble, tout s'est très bien passé. Je me suis amusée, et j'ai vu ces fillettes s'amuser, sourire encore et encore et parfois, carrément s'éclater! Elles ont adoré faire des bracelets de perle pendant des heures durant, confectionner des masques, apprendre de nouvelles chansons et de nouvelles dances, jouer au loto. Elles attendaient avec impatience les jours de piscine au waterpark et se sont régalées, dans tous les sens du terme, lors de notre sortie au Lucky Burger. Quel immense plaisir renouvelé chaque jour de voir ces enfants si joyeuses et si libres de tout souci pendant quelques heures!
Biensûr, il y a eu des moments de frustration et de déception... essentiellement concentrés dans la deuxième partie de la deuxième semaine, car la lune de miel entre les filles et les moniteurs n'a duré qu'une petite semaine... Au démarrage de la deuxième semaine, nous avons retrouvé des filles surexcitées, un poil débridées, qui semblaient avoir décidé de mener la barque du camp d'été elles-mêmes: la liberté leur aurait-elle monté à la tête? Nous, les moniteurs, essayions encore de trouver nos marques et notre empreinte en tant qu'équipe. Nos balbutiements et nos imprivosations répétées par rapport au planning étaient sans doute trop perceptibles. Nous nous sommes retrouvés désharçonnés par ces problèmes de discipline et de désaveu (?) nouveaux: que faire, que dire quand une grosse minorité de filles soudain boyottent l'activité, en demandant toute en même temps d'aller aux toilettes ou à l'infirmerie ? quand le silence ne peut être obtenu qu'en criant plus fort qu'elles? quand certaines s'isolent dans un coin de la salle pour lire un livre sans se soucier du reste? Nous avons dû réagir, faire le point entre nous, nous remotiver. Fort heureusement, rapidement, après quelques "sermons" (notamment de ma part dans mon rôle favouri de méchante rabat-joie...) les choses se sont tassées et on a pu reprendre une vie de groupe plus saine.
Ma frustration est venue principalement de l'échec de toutes mes tentatives de mettre en place des actvitées un tantinet plus structurées avec une thématique en fil rouge sur toute la semaine. Manque d'intérêt des autres moniteurs et sans doute des filles elles-mêmes qui auraient perçu cela comme un trop grand parallèle avec l'école... Je me suis résignée, j'ai recalé mes idées au panier et les activités purement ludiques que nous avons organisées ont ravi les filles - c'est ce qui comptait!
Parmi elles, je dois dire que je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher d'avoir mes chouchous. Disons que certains enfants sont plus adroits à renvoyer l'affection qu'on leur porte et cela crée des liens plus forts. Mais une fillette en particulier m'a donné du fil à retordre , tout au long des quatre semaines. 9 ans et déjà un caractère de rebelle bien affirmé, doublé d'une capacité pour la manipulation affective bien rôdée. Ce fût "je t'aime, moi non plus" pendant un mois. J'ai dû sortir ma panoplie complète de comportements: des fois copine, des fois grand soeur, d'autre fois prof, et d'autre fois plutôt gendarme... Rien ne semblait survivre la journée: tout devait se reconstruire le lendemain matin, peu importait la façon dont on se quittait la veille. Ca s'est terminé en grandes embrassades au moment de mon départ, avec un dessin en cadeau - comme un calumet de la paix. Comme toujours, elle a réussi à me prendre au dépourvu, mais au delà, c'était très émouvant!
Côté communauté des moniteurs, l'ambiance était très agréable, remplie de petites attentions pour les uns pour les autres, remettant du baume au coeur quand il en fallait. Ceci dit, j'ai le sentiment et le regret d'être passé un peu à côté de cet aspect là du camp. A cause (ou grâce à) ma situation de femme enceinte, nous logions dans la guest-house avec les sympathiques et épicuriens moniteurs seniors espagnols. Les autres moniteurs avaient le privilège (hum-hum) de partager les dortoirs de 8 lits en bambou, avec ventilateur et moustiquaire. Notre éloignement, combinée à la fatigue qui m'accablait en fin de journée (les dodos à 20h n'ont pas été rares) ne m'ont donné que peu d'occasions de participer aux veillées et aux dîners chez Mala (le McNouille du quartier). Ceci étant dit, j'ai grandement apprécié mes échanges avec les autres moniteurs, tous animés d'une pêche et d'une générosité incroyables. J'ai souvent été impressionnée par la maturité de certains jeunes moniteurs (la moyenne d'âge étant de 22,5 ans!) et par leur aptitude relationnelle avec les enfants, tout en douceur et en sourire.
J'ai déjà dit tout le bien que je pensais de l'équipe d'organisation et de coordination, qui nous avait notamment concocté une semaine de préparation très pro. Je voudrais toutefois faire une mention spéciale à Marisa Caprile Alonso, une dame tout simplement formidable. C'est elle qui a recruté individuellement chaque moniteur et qui en a pris soin comme ses propres enfants pendant la durée du camp. Ses précieux conseils et l'attention particulière -tout en étant discrète- qu'elle m'a porté m'ont beaucoup aidé à vivre mes premières semaines de grossesse sereinement. Au delà, sa dévotion (bénévole) pour la cause de PSE, son enthousiasme communicatif pour combattre les injustices, ainsi que son incroyable pari (réussi) d'avoir embarqué mari et enfants dans l'aventure des camps d'été sont admirables. Marisa est un modèle, et l'on ne peut qu'être honorée d'avoir obtenu sa confiance. Comme je le lui ai dit, "moi, quand je serai grande, je ferai comme Marisa"... le défi est immense: où pourrais-je trouver cette énergie???
Le camp du sourire au pays du sourire
Une deuxième semaine de boulot va commencer des demain matin (15 aout), au camp d'été organisé par l'association Pour un Sourire d'Enfant (PSE) pour les enfants nécessiteux du Cambodge... c'est du boulot certes, mais du bonheur avant tout de voir ces enfants sourire et plus, s'eclater... et d'y etre un peu pour quelque chose! c'est le cadeau du moniteur!
Avant de nous lancer dans cette aventure, nous avons eu une phase de preparation intensive, ou l'on a appris a se connaitre mutuellement, entre moniteurs benevoles, venant essentiellement de France et d'Espagne (Jan est le fier, unique, representant de la Belgique). On a aussi pu mieux comprendre le milieu de vie des enfants et de leur famille a proximite de la decharge, tout en revisitant l'histoire du Cambodge.
L'equipe encadrante et les coordinateurs qui ont deja participe a plusieurs camps sont justes geniaux: de belles personnes, pleine d'enthousiasme communicatif et d'idees. Ils s'assurent de notre bien-etre, et nous aident, nous les novices, a proposer des activites pour les enfants. On oublie presque leur enorme boulot de coordination entre les 5 camps sur Phnom Penh, la centaine de moniteurs europeens, la centaine de moniteurs khmers et les plus de 4,000 enfants qui vont tomber dans nos pates d'ici la fin aout!
J'ai ete designee responsable (avec 1 monitrice espagnole et 2 cambodgiennes) du groupe des petites pensionnaires de 4 a 11 ans - elles vivent dans le Centre toute l'annee, ayant ete retirees de leur famille a cause de maltraitances. Pour les 2 premieres semaines du camp, Jan est le chauffeur: il doit vehiculer les moniteurs et la nourriture d'un camp a l'autre, ainsi que les enfants malades ou blesses vers le dispensaire.
C'est une experience formidable! Et la chaleur (35 degres) et l'humidite (c'est la saison des pluies) ne nous arretent pas!
Avant de nous lancer dans cette aventure, nous avons eu une phase de preparation intensive, ou l'on a appris a se connaitre mutuellement, entre moniteurs benevoles, venant essentiellement de France et d'Espagne (Jan est le fier, unique, representant de la Belgique). On a aussi pu mieux comprendre le milieu de vie des enfants et de leur famille a proximite de la decharge, tout en revisitant l'histoire du Cambodge.
L'equipe encadrante et les coordinateurs qui ont deja participe a plusieurs camps sont justes geniaux: de belles personnes, pleine d'enthousiasme communicatif et d'idees. Ils s'assurent de notre bien-etre, et nous aident, nous les novices, a proposer des activites pour les enfants. On oublie presque leur enorme boulot de coordination entre les 5 camps sur Phnom Penh, la centaine de moniteurs europeens, la centaine de moniteurs khmers et les plus de 4,000 enfants qui vont tomber dans nos pates d'ici la fin aout!
J'ai ete designee responsable (avec 1 monitrice espagnole et 2 cambodgiennes) du groupe des petites pensionnaires de 4 a 11 ans - elles vivent dans le Centre toute l'annee, ayant ete retirees de leur famille a cause de maltraitances. Pour les 2 premieres semaines du camp, Jan est le chauffeur: il doit vehiculer les moniteurs et la nourriture d'un camp a l'autre, ainsi que les enfants malades ou blesses vers le dispensaire.
C'est une experience formidable! Et la chaleur (35 degres) et l'humidite (c'est la saison des pluies) ne nous arretent pas!
Le camp d'été de Pour un Sourire d'Enfant : comment, pourquoi?
Quand Jan et moi commencions à concevoir les plans d'un congés sabbatique pour voyager, Jan souhaitait grandement y inclure une période de volontariat, afin de nouos rendre utiles et de vivre une expérience au plus près de communautés défavorisées d'un pays qu'on visiterait. Je trouvais l'idée excellente, puisqu'elle me permettrait de retâter le terrain humanitaire, et d'enrichir ma connaissance du travail de développement. Nous voilà donc partis à la recherche d'une mission de bénévolat pour une période de 3 à 5 semaines... Naturellement, j'ai pris contact avec mes amis travaillant dans diverses Organisations Non-Gouvernementales (ONG) (exclue celle pour laquelle je travaille actuellement afin de ne pas confondre congés sabbatique et travail déguisé); les retours n'étaient pas très concluants, car les organisations recherchent avant tout des personnes pouvant s'engager sur plusieurs mois. Mais en parcourant le site de Pour un Sourire d'Enfant (PSE), une ONG que j'avais visitée lors de mon séjour au Cambodge, nous sommes tombés sur l'annonce de recrutement de moniteurs bénévoles pour le camp d'été 2010, qui se déroulerait en août. On ne pouvait rêver mieux!
Pour un Sourire d'Enfant est une association fondée par un couple de français en 1995 afin de répondre aux besoins alimentaires puis éducatifs des enfants travaillant sur la décharge publique de Phnom Penh. Des paillotes aux abords de la décharge avaient été installées pour distribuer des repas; puis ce fût la construction d'un centre à proximité avec des salles de classe, et tout un système d'incitations aux familles (notamment par la remise d'un sac de riz hebdomadaire) pour qu'elles cessent d'envoyer les enfants travailler sur la décharge et les envoient plutôt à l'école où ils seront également nourris. Se sont créés ensuite des centres de formation professionnelle (hotellerie, restauration, mécanique, nounou, etc), afin de fournir un métier aux adolescents. Il existe aussi un programme de prise en charge complète de jeunes filles au centre (les "pensionnaires") et de jeunes garçons dans des familles d'accueil, ayant été retirés de leur famille pour cause d'abus et de mauvais traitements. Récemment, se sont ouvertes encore des classes spécialisées pour des enfants handicappés moteur et mentaux. Des antennes se sont également ouvertes à Sihanoukville (sur la côte sud) et à Siem Reap (au nord, dans la ville des temples d'Angkor). En 20 ans, PSE est devenu une énorme usine de réussite, car les stat montrent par exemple que près de 100% des candidats PSE ont obtenu le bac, et près de 100% des diplômés de la formation professionnelle ont trouvé du travail.
Les écoles gérées par PSE sont reconnues par le Ministère; ce sont des écoles de rattrappage qui permettent aux élèves de passer l'équivalent de deux niveaux scolaires en un an, afin qu'ils puissent ensuite intégrer l'école publique "normale". Des partenariats avec les écoles publiques du quartier ont été établis permettant la livraison des repas, la visite de l'imfirmerie et de la bibliothèque ambulantes, etc.
Pendant les vacances scolaires des écoles de PSE, au mois d'août, un camp d'été, c'est-à-dire l'équivalent d'un centre aéré, a été mis en place afin d'éviter que les enfants oisifs ne retournent travailler à la décharge avec leurs parents. Cette période de vacances étaient redoutés par les enfants qui voyaient leur destin s'assombrir à nouveau. Grâce à la générosité et l'énergie de la famille Alonso, une famille espagnole établie à Toulouse, constituée de Marisa, Fernando et leurs trois enfants, le camp d'été a pris beaucoup d'ampleur - la première année, il y a 8 ans, c'était environ 400 enfants, et cette année 2010, ce fût plus de 6000 enfants qui en ont bénéficié.
Il s'agit de proposer des activités ludiques avec comme seul objectif: le sourire des enfants. Pour cela, cette année, près d'une centaine de moniteurs européens bénévoles (pour la moitié espagnols, pour l'autre français... et quelques autres) et plus d'une centaine de moniteurs cambodgiens rémunérés ont été recrutés pour encadrer les enfants.
Le camp est financé par le budget de l'ONG - cette année, les comptes ont montré un coût de 10 dollars par enfant pour la période du camp (1 mois): à peine plus qu'une place de cinéma! La source financière principale de PSE, ce sont les parrainages d'enfant, par des individus - comme vous et moi!
Si vous êtes intéressés, vous trouverez plus d'info sur leur site: www.pse.asso.fr
Pour un Sourire d'Enfant est une association fondée par un couple de français en 1995 afin de répondre aux besoins alimentaires puis éducatifs des enfants travaillant sur la décharge publique de Phnom Penh. Des paillotes aux abords de la décharge avaient été installées pour distribuer des repas; puis ce fût la construction d'un centre à proximité avec des salles de classe, et tout un système d'incitations aux familles (notamment par la remise d'un sac de riz hebdomadaire) pour qu'elles cessent d'envoyer les enfants travailler sur la décharge et les envoient plutôt à l'école où ils seront également nourris. Se sont créés ensuite des centres de formation professionnelle (hotellerie, restauration, mécanique, nounou, etc), afin de fournir un métier aux adolescents. Il existe aussi un programme de prise en charge complète de jeunes filles au centre (les "pensionnaires") et de jeunes garçons dans des familles d'accueil, ayant été retirés de leur famille pour cause d'abus et de mauvais traitements. Récemment, se sont ouvertes encore des classes spécialisées pour des enfants handicappés moteur et mentaux. Des antennes se sont également ouvertes à Sihanoukville (sur la côte sud) et à Siem Reap (au nord, dans la ville des temples d'Angkor). En 20 ans, PSE est devenu une énorme usine de réussite, car les stat montrent par exemple que près de 100% des candidats PSE ont obtenu le bac, et près de 100% des diplômés de la formation professionnelle ont trouvé du travail.
Les écoles gérées par PSE sont reconnues par le Ministère; ce sont des écoles de rattrappage qui permettent aux élèves de passer l'équivalent de deux niveaux scolaires en un an, afin qu'ils puissent ensuite intégrer l'école publique "normale". Des partenariats avec les écoles publiques du quartier ont été établis permettant la livraison des repas, la visite de l'imfirmerie et de la bibliothèque ambulantes, etc.
Pendant les vacances scolaires des écoles de PSE, au mois d'août, un camp d'été, c'est-à-dire l'équivalent d'un centre aéré, a été mis en place afin d'éviter que les enfants oisifs ne retournent travailler à la décharge avec leurs parents. Cette période de vacances étaient redoutés par les enfants qui voyaient leur destin s'assombrir à nouveau. Grâce à la générosité et l'énergie de la famille Alonso, une famille espagnole établie à Toulouse, constituée de Marisa, Fernando et leurs trois enfants, le camp d'été a pris beaucoup d'ampleur - la première année, il y a 8 ans, c'était environ 400 enfants, et cette année 2010, ce fût plus de 6000 enfants qui en ont bénéficié.
Il s'agit de proposer des activités ludiques avec comme seul objectif: le sourire des enfants. Pour cela, cette année, près d'une centaine de moniteurs européens bénévoles (pour la moitié espagnols, pour l'autre français... et quelques autres) et plus d'une centaine de moniteurs cambodgiens rémunérés ont été recrutés pour encadrer les enfants.
Le camp est financé par le budget de l'ONG - cette année, les comptes ont montré un coût de 10 dollars par enfant pour la période du camp (1 mois): à peine plus qu'une place de cinéma! La source financière principale de PSE, ce sont les parrainages d'enfant, par des individus - comme vous et moi!
Si vous êtes intéressés, vous trouverez plus d'info sur leur site: www.pse.asso.fr
Monday, September 27, 2010
Friday, July 9th: Ocean Treasures Treasured
Technical pit stop at Viña
Today we want to find out what treasures the Pacific coastline has to offer us. Our first stop is Viña del Mar, a big coastal town basking in the sun, just north of Valparaiso. Flaunting our latest resort wear on the high street is not really our thing, we're soft-core backpackers. However, need dictates us to pick up a bit of men's cologne and a USB memory card reader, so we dive into the first department store we encounter. To be honest, the sight of the frantic activity in this beehive, combined with aisles that are filled to the limit with consumer goods and smiling department store clerks, dolled-up goddesses softly urging you to spend, spend, spend the almighty dollar (or peso if you have to) makes my stomach revolt. It's an all-too-familiar claustrophobic shoppers world, a world we had conveniently forgotten about on the Altiplano. We get the necessary, then make our way out as fast as we can, in search of blue skies, ethnic oxygen, but all we find on the high street are more department stores, restaurants, and boutiques. And strolling tourists, peanut vendors, and people offering romantic horse-and-buggy tours around the centre of town. Aaaargh!
Ballers of the world, unite...please!
I cherish the desire to get a shirt of a local basketball team from every country I visit. It wouldn't necessarily have to be the Santiago Saints, actually the more obscure the better. My search for such a shirt in Bolivia was fruitless, so I'm hoping for a Chilean slam dunk here in the commercial heart of Viña Del Mar. After an hour of being sent from one sports store to the other, I give up. Turns out that this city, geared up to the max to sell whatever you want, cannot deliver. Anyway, our stomachs have indicated that they're unemployed.
The pelican-can at Concon
We grab one of the buses that hugs the coastline, in search of the perfect seafood lunch. Carolina, a Chilean friend of mine who lives in California, has been boasting about "El Gatito de Concon". Concon lies another 30 minutes up the coast, but hey, we're happy to leave Viña and check out this restaurant. Without address it may be a bit tricky to find it, but the bus driver say "El Gatito? No problem" and drops us off right in front. The place is packed, we're told to wait 30 minutes for a table, well below the 1 hour waiting time we were promised beforehand. To kill time we watch a flock of huge pelicans sit on the edge of the roof of the next door restaurant. They're neatly queueing for kitchen scraps that occasionally appear out of the kitchen window below. There's a code of conduct between pelicans, a pecking order: they've all read their rights in a Pelican Brief. The roof counts roughly 30 birds, but only 3 or 4 fight for food. I'm not even sure it's a real food fight, it seems more like a lot of wing flapping to get the best position. Once eaten, they fly in a wide circle over the beach to the next pelican-snack bar and start their dance all over again. Blandine has never seen these majestic birds with huge beaks from this close before and is overjoyed: "Here, Kitty, Kitty" does not work, the birds simply ignore her. Probably for the better: a wild adult pelican is not exactly the kind of pet you would want to land on your shoulder. Though I admit, I'd happily take a picture of that type of mess. We stroll down to the beach, camera in hand, to get a closer look at some of these birds. They've got an enormous beak, an even bigger wing span, yet they fly so graciously. We're still in awe when we hear our name called. Time to go create some kitchen scraps of our own!
Seafood con-convulsions
A table by the window, overlooking the Pacific is waiting for us. All around us are happy, chatty customers. It's Friday afternoon and it seems the week-end has already begun. We decide to get in the mood as well and order something to whet our appetite. The house appetizer is to die for: fresh abalone, mussels au gratin, and other local favorites, all prepared to perfection. We order a bottle of wine, something to match our mains. The choice is easy: house-white or house-red, so we go with white. Blandine's main is a fish with a mushroom-cream sauce. ), mine is a huge piece of "reineta", steamed just the way I like it, swimming in a slightly sweet sauce decorated with fresh abalone (they call it "loco" over here, because the taste is just madly delicious). We've got some veggies, rice and a salad on the side. While one of the waiters grabs a guitar, I open my belt buckle and slide my belt one hole over to make space for the dessert: peaches and cream. Yummy, I could not think of a better way to complete our treasure hunt. I lean back on my chair and look out over the Pacific, thinking: "I came, I saw, I conquered, but only just. They may have to roll us out of this restaurant". I dinner so perfect it makes me shed a tear. Or is that from the cheesy guitar songs played by the waiter?
Lacking the lingoBlandine's tugging my jacket rather nervously, so I shake hands with these men, and we leave the scene. There are no bus stops here, you just wave down the bus and it'll stop right in front of you. A country that doesn't need bus stops, that must be JC Decaux's worst nightmare.
Travelling daze
We make it back to the Pilcomayo hostel late in the afternoon, then rush to the bus terminal for our return to Santiago. Back at the Pajaritos bus terminal in Santiago - which seems to be the hub for any from kind of transport in and out of the city - we hop on the subway to the centre of town. Still in a digesting daze, we concentrate just enough to get off at the right place, somewhere downtown. It's dark when we emerge from the subway with our heavy backpacks, so we check into hotel Paris (ironic, no), a standard type of hotel, willing to go half-price to have us. They even got info about tours to local vineyards, we're set! The room is okay, so we take a hot shower (what a pleasure) and fall on the bed, exhausted from all that travelling. I remember watching a bit of telly and smelling loads of smoke coming from the adjoining room, but being too tired to do something about it. The smoky smell eventually is replaced with loud snoring. Oh well.
Today we want to find out what treasures the Pacific coastline has to offer us. Our first stop is Viña del Mar, a big coastal town basking in the sun, just north of Valparaiso. Flaunting our latest resort wear on the high street is not really our thing, we're soft-core backpackers. However, need dictates us to pick up a bit of men's cologne and a USB memory card reader, so we dive into the first department store we encounter. To be honest, the sight of the frantic activity in this beehive, combined with aisles that are filled to the limit with consumer goods and smiling department store clerks, dolled-up goddesses softly urging you to spend, spend, spend the almighty dollar (or peso if you have to) makes my stomach revolt. It's an all-too-familiar claustrophobic shoppers world, a world we had conveniently forgotten about on the Altiplano. We get the necessary, then make our way out as fast as we can, in search of blue skies, ethnic oxygen, but all we find on the high street are more department stores, restaurants, and boutiques. And strolling tourists, peanut vendors, and people offering romantic horse-and-buggy tours around the centre of town. Aaaargh!
Ballers of the world, unite...please!
I cherish the desire to get a shirt of a local basketball team from every country I visit. It wouldn't necessarily have to be the Santiago Saints, actually the more obscure the better. My search for such a shirt in Bolivia was fruitless, so I'm hoping for a Chilean slam dunk here in the commercial heart of Viña Del Mar. After an hour of being sent from one sports store to the other, I give up. Turns out that this city, geared up to the max to sell whatever you want, cannot deliver. Anyway, our stomachs have indicated that they're unemployed.
The pelican-can at Concon
We grab one of the buses that hugs the coastline, in search of the perfect seafood lunch. Carolina, a Chilean friend of mine who lives in California, has been boasting about "El Gatito de Concon". Concon lies another 30 minutes up the coast, but hey, we're happy to leave Viña and check out this restaurant. Without address it may be a bit tricky to find it, but the bus driver say "El Gatito? No problem" and drops us off right in front. The place is packed, we're told to wait 30 minutes for a table, well below the 1 hour waiting time we were promised beforehand. To kill time we watch a flock of huge pelicans sit on the edge of the roof of the next door restaurant. They're neatly queueing for kitchen scraps that occasionally appear out of the kitchen window below. There's a code of conduct between pelicans, a pecking order: they've all read their rights in a Pelican Brief. The roof counts roughly 30 birds, but only 3 or 4 fight for food. I'm not even sure it's a real food fight, it seems more like a lot of wing flapping to get the best position. Once eaten, they fly in a wide circle over the beach to the next pelican-snack bar and start their dance all over again. Blandine has never seen these majestic birds with huge beaks from this close before and is overjoyed: "Here, Kitty, Kitty" does not work, the birds simply ignore her. Probably for the better: a wild adult pelican is not exactly the kind of pet you would want to land on your shoulder. Though I admit, I'd happily take a picture of that type of mess. We stroll down to the beach, camera in hand, to get a closer look at some of these birds. They've got an enormous beak, an even bigger wing span, yet they fly so graciously. We're still in awe when we hear our name called. Time to go create some kitchen scraps of our own!
Seafood con-convulsions
A table by the window, overlooking the Pacific is waiting for us. All around us are happy, chatty customers. It's Friday afternoon and it seems the week-end has already begun. We decide to get in the mood as well and order something to whet our appetite. The house appetizer is to die for: fresh abalone, mussels au gratin, and other local favorites, all prepared to perfection. We order a bottle of wine, something to match our mains. The choice is easy: house-white or house-red, so we go with white. Blandine's main is a fish with a mushroom-cream sauce. ), mine is a huge piece of "reineta", steamed just the way I like it, swimming in a slightly sweet sauce decorated with fresh abalone (they call it "loco" over here, because the taste is just madly delicious). We've got some veggies, rice and a salad on the side. While one of the waiters grabs a guitar, I open my belt buckle and slide my belt one hole over to make space for the dessert: peaches and cream. Yummy, I could not think of a better way to complete our treasure hunt. I lean back on my chair and look out over the Pacific, thinking: "I came, I saw, I conquered, but only just. They may have to roll us out of this restaurant". I dinner so perfect it makes me shed a tear. Or is that from the cheesy guitar songs played by the waiter?
Lacking the lingoBlandine's tugging my jacket rather nervously, so I shake hands with these men, and we leave the scene. There are no bus stops here, you just wave down the bus and it'll stop right in front of you. A country that doesn't need bus stops, that must be JC Decaux's worst nightmare.
Travelling daze
We make it back to the Pilcomayo hostel late in the afternoon, then rush to the bus terminal for our return to Santiago. Back at the Pajaritos bus terminal in Santiago - which seems to be the hub for any from kind of transport in and out of the city - we hop on the subway to the centre of town. Still in a digesting daze, we concentrate just enough to get off at the right place, somewhere downtown. It's dark when we emerge from the subway with our heavy backpacks, so we check into hotel Paris (ironic, no), a standard type of hotel, willing to go half-price to have us. They even got info about tours to local vineyards, we're set! The room is okay, so we take a hot shower (what a pleasure) and fall on the bed, exhausted from all that travelling. I remember watching a bit of telly and smelling loads of smoke coming from the adjoining room, but being too tired to do something about it. The smoky smell eventually is replaced with loud snoring. Oh well.
Quick real-time update
Hello my friends, we're back in business, the computer has been fully repaired. Thanks for waiting patiently all this time. I've found a shady tree on Lembongan island (Indonesia) and the time to type up a bit of my notes. Enjoy!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
July 8th: Valparadiso
Getting a bit ruder inside the house of Pablo Neruda
We start the day with a graffiti walking tour of Valparaiso. This town is full of amazing street artwork, you've just got to see it for yourself. The end of the tour drops us at the house of Pablo Neruda, no introduction needed I presume. The poet's place is quaint to say the least, definitely worth the visit. Seated on one of the hills overlooking the city, with commanding views of the pacific, this 3 story-building is a pearl on the necklace that is Valparaiso. Filled with curious objects - Neruda was a big collector - we take our time to take in all this beauty this residence has to offer. Or, at least we try: within minutes of having bought the entrance ticket, a huge flock of chatty Chilean teenagers floods the entire house, in search of answer to their school assignment. Bye bye calm and serenity. Neruda's a poet, but with these kids about, you'd never know it. Luckily my height plays a serious advantage here as well as in the rest of South America, at least I can still see where I'm going. Most of the teenage noise I block out with the help of the audio tour headset. I try to wait for the entire class to pass me, but there are too many of them, so I adapt to my new surroundings and hop from one corner of the house to the other, marching boldly, which makes these little chatterboxes scatter. A few snaps from Neruda's dining room conclude our visit, we're happy to leave these chatty Chilean sardines behind us, and hunt for some lunch.
Seafood supreme
On a tip from the Pilcomayo hostal staff we head to the Valparaiso market for more seafood: El Rincon de Pancho on the top floor is an institution, and does not disappoint. This time I have to have the ceviche and I share with Blandine some kind of mixed seafood dish, completely covered in grilled cheese. It comes with loads of bread, like a seafood-cheese fondue. To round things off nicely, I get the lucuma ice cream. Not bad tasting, but nothing amazing either.
Tag, Valparaiso you're it!
In the afternoon we work our way through a labyrinth of cute, narrow streets, ever climbing and descending, and full of the coolest graffiti, until we end up at Aduana (Plaza Weelwright), take the ascensor up to plaza 21 de Mayo, where we enter Cafe Mirador. Tired from all the walking we reward ourselves with a fantastic sunset view over the city and the harbour, over what must be the worst coffee ever served on the Latin American continent. What a tourist rip-off! I can't even drink it halfway and am forced to leave the place with a bad taste in my mouth.
Dial "0" for murder
We're told to take the "0" bus at Aduana, so we make our way down by foot, shoot a few pictures of Lolo on the way, then hop on a bus that drives along all the cerros. It's the ride of a lifetime: the busdriver plans to show everyone on this bus who's the boss of these windy, hilly Vaparaiso streets and puts the pedal to the medal from the minute we get on. As the city moves in and out of view with each curve in the road, so do images of my life. The guy's good, REAL good, but he needs to vent his frustration on a skateboard instead of a city bus with real people on it. As people keep falling on my lap and stumbling over my shoes, I realise that I've never written a will.
We get off the bus after about 25 minutes, just before our stomach plop out of our mouths. We're on the other side of town, in the dark, in the middle of nowhere. The only sensible thing to do is get on a "0" bus that drives us back. Are we going to get killed? This time around the bus driver is not suicidal, and we even have time to recognise the stop on top of Cerro Alegre, where our hostal is located, which saves us a lot of walking. Our stomachs are still working on the lunchtime excesses, so we decide to keep it cool that night and just watch some TV in the hostal lounge before we turn in. A glass of Chilean red offered by our night time housesit, together with a bit of blogging concludes the evening for me, Blandine's asleep since hours.
We start the day with a graffiti walking tour of Valparaiso. This town is full of amazing street artwork, you've just got to see it for yourself. The end of the tour drops us at the house of Pablo Neruda, no introduction needed I presume. The poet's place is quaint to say the least, definitely worth the visit. Seated on one of the hills overlooking the city, with commanding views of the pacific, this 3 story-building is a pearl on the necklace that is Valparaiso. Filled with curious objects - Neruda was a big collector - we take our time to take in all this beauty this residence has to offer. Or, at least we try: within minutes of having bought the entrance ticket, a huge flock of chatty Chilean teenagers floods the entire house, in search of answer to their school assignment. Bye bye calm and serenity. Neruda's a poet, but with these kids about, you'd never know it. Luckily my height plays a serious advantage here as well as in the rest of South America, at least I can still see where I'm going. Most of the teenage noise I block out with the help of the audio tour headset. I try to wait for the entire class to pass me, but there are too many of them, so I adapt to my new surroundings and hop from one corner of the house to the other, marching boldly, which makes these little chatterboxes scatter. A few snaps from Neruda's dining room conclude our visit, we're happy to leave these chatty Chilean sardines behind us, and hunt for some lunch.
Seafood supreme
On a tip from the Pilcomayo hostal staff we head to the Valparaiso market for more seafood: El Rincon de Pancho on the top floor is an institution, and does not disappoint. This time I have to have the ceviche and I share with Blandine some kind of mixed seafood dish, completely covered in grilled cheese. It comes with loads of bread, like a seafood-cheese fondue. To round things off nicely, I get the lucuma ice cream. Not bad tasting, but nothing amazing either.
Tag, Valparaiso you're it!
In the afternoon we work our way through a labyrinth of cute, narrow streets, ever climbing and descending, and full of the coolest graffiti, until we end up at Aduana (Plaza Weelwright), take the ascensor up to plaza 21 de Mayo, where we enter Cafe Mirador. Tired from all the walking we reward ourselves with a fantastic sunset view over the city and the harbour, over what must be the worst coffee ever served on the Latin American continent. What a tourist rip-off! I can't even drink it halfway and am forced to leave the place with a bad taste in my mouth.
Dial "0" for murder
We're told to take the "0" bus at Aduana, so we make our way down by foot, shoot a few pictures of Lolo on the way, then hop on a bus that drives along all the cerros. It's the ride of a lifetime: the busdriver plans to show everyone on this bus who's the boss of these windy, hilly Vaparaiso streets and puts the pedal to the medal from the minute we get on. As the city moves in and out of view with each curve in the road, so do images of my life. The guy's good, REAL good, but he needs to vent his frustration on a skateboard instead of a city bus with real people on it. As people keep falling on my lap and stumbling over my shoes, I realise that I've never written a will.
We get off the bus after about 25 minutes, just before our stomach plop out of our mouths. We're on the other side of town, in the dark, in the middle of nowhere. The only sensible thing to do is get on a "0" bus that drives us back. Are we going to get killed? This time around the bus driver is not suicidal, and we even have time to recognise the stop on top of Cerro Alegre, where our hostal is located, which saves us a lot of walking. Our stomachs are still working on the lunchtime excesses, so we decide to keep it cool that night and just watch some TV in the hostal lounge before we turn in. A glass of Chilean red offered by our night time housesit, together with a bit of blogging concludes the evening for me, Blandine's asleep since hours.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Cambodge, mon éternel amour
Quelle joie et quel privilège que de se faire accueillir à l'aéroport de Phnom Penh avec des colliers de fleurs de jasmin remis par Theara (4 ans) et Theary (8 ans), accompagnées de leurs parents, Noeun et Thear, ma "petite famille cambodgienne". Je me sens comme de retour à la maison! Nimmi, Jeffrey et leur petite fille Asiyih nous rejoignent plus tard autour du verre de l'amitié à l'hôtel.
Durant nos week-ends de liberté, nous aurons toujours le même plaisir à retrouver nos amis et faire le plein de nouvelles, sachant qu'il est peu probable que nous revenions au Cambodge avant plusieurs années. Je suis extrêmement fière d'entendre Theary parler un si parfait anglais; cela fait 5 ans que je la sponsorise pour suivre l'école en anglais et cela a porté ses fruits, non seulement d'un point de vue linguistique mais aussi par rapport au goût qu'elle a développé pour l'apprentissage et l'école. Elle réussit très bien autant à l'école cambodgienne qu'à l'école en anglais, à la satisfaction de ses parents et avec l'admiration sans borne de sa petite soeur Theara.
Malheureusement, la période estivale de notre visite coïncide avec les vacances d'autres amis établis au Cambodge et nous ne pourrons pas les voir cette fois-ci... Toutefois, la cerise sur le gâteau aura été de partager un dîner avec Frenzi, et Katja, des amies de Bruxelles en vacances au Cambodge!
Phnom Penh a beaucoup changé depuis que j'y ai vécu entre 2003 et 2004: certains changements sont positifs bien entendu, et certains beaucoup moins - si prévisibles et typiques d'un pays en développement qui cherche à tout prix à prétendre rejoindre la cour des grands. Cote positif, je note que la ville est plus propre, plus conviviale: des parcs ont ete amenages et les familles viennent s'y ballader le soir, manger une glace ou jouer au badmington. Les enfants peuvent trouver ca et la dans la ville des installations de jeux gratuits et agreables. La croisette le long du Mekong a ete reamenage, et malgre l'absence de bancs a l'ombre, ca rehausse cette partie de la ville hautement touristique. Un marche artisanal de nuit a ete cree au bout de la croisette; la cerise sur le gateau. Je note aussi que de nombreuses rues ont ete bitumees, inclue la rue 292 dans laquelle j'habitais qui etait en laterite; ce qui voulait dire simplement de la boue en saisie des pluies. Cote negatif, la regle semble se confirmer: quand on a de l'argent il faut le montrer. Le nombre de Hummer et de grosses 4X4 s'est multiplie, de meme que les maisons pompeuses a colonnades et vitres teintees - faisant face a des petites baraques faites de bris et de broc. Le boulevard Sihanouk est meconaissable: c'est devenu une succession de magasins chics d'habits modernes sur plusieurs etages avec des grandes vitrines.
Dans tout cela, certains de mes endroits preferes ont disparu: exit le salon de beaute a cote du CCF, et le cafe du CCF; exit le cinema kirirom qui etait le repere pour aller chez moi - detail assez revelateur: ce cinema est devenu un hotel casino!!
Ceci dit, la ville garde un charme bien asiatique; les gens, petits et grands, continuent de vivre, manger, dormir, jouer dans les rues; à leur visage s'accroche sans peine un grand sourire après l'échange d'un "hello". C'est le Cambodge que j'aime! Avec une certaine nostalgie, j'ai effectué les passages obligés pour des emplettes au marché russe (où je retrouve quelques visages familiers parmi les marchands de soie et de nourriture); chez Ambre, la boutique de l'excellente styliste cmabodgienne Romida Keth (où je me suis fait faire une magnifique robe de cocktail); et chez Beautiful Shoes (sans Sopheap) d'où je suis partie avec quatre nouvelles paires de chaussures faites sur mesure...
Et biensûr, massages, manicure, pedicure, soin du visage: si parfait, et si nécessaire pour se débarasser de la sueur, de la poussière et de la pollution, et se sentir féminine à nouveau, même pour un court instant! Ce sont là aussi mes grands plaisirs du Cambodge!
Nous avons consacré un week-end à revisiter les temples d'Angkor (la deuxième fois pour Jan et la sixième fois pour moi!). La magie d'Angkor Wat, du Ta Prohm et du Bayon reste intacte, même sous une chaleur de plomb (env. 39 degrés). Mehran, un ami de la première époque qui habite à Siem Reap, est venu egayer notre dîner aux Orientalistes, avec son rire incomparable.
C'est à Phnom Penh que j'effectue les premières analyses de sang et la première echographie. Quelle émotion immense que de faire connaissance avec ce petit être qui grandit en moi. Impossible de contenir nos larmes à la vue de ce profil en noir et blanc sur l'écran - nous sommes bouleversés, tellement heureux. Et, je suis si contente d'associer à nouveau le Cambodge à un des plus grands changements de ma vie. Dès le retour de l'hôpital, nous annonçons - enfin! - la bonne nouvelle à nos familles et à nos amis: c'est encore tellement de joie d'entendre et de lire leurs réactions, remplies d'amour et d'humour (en vrac, nous avons eu droit à des larmes, à un "mais, pour de vrai??", des "je le savais, j'en étais sûr", un "holly shit!", un "waow, fuck, waow"...).
Au camp, les réactions à l'annonce faite le dernier jour sont toutes aussi chaleureuses. Les petites filles avec lesquelles j'ai passé le mois sont en extase, et viennent me toucher le ventre ou poser leur oreille. Je m'amuse à les surprendre en donnant un grand coup de respiration; elles sont persuadées que le bébé a bougé! Les moniteurs, eux, nous font la fête: les garçons attrappent Jan et le jetent en l'air à plusieurs reprises; nous recevons de nombreux messages de félicitations qui font chaud au coeur.
Je ferai bien 10 bébés, rien que pour revivre encore ces précieux moments de joie partagée autour de l'annonce de l'arrivée de quelqu'un que personne ne connaît. Fascinant!
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