Hurricane Ava

June 9, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

The stage was set for an exquisite evening. We had just finished cocktail hour in the gorgeous Manhattan Lounge at the St. Regis Saadiyat Island Resort in Abu Dhabi and were headed out to meander through the lovely grounds to Sontaya Restaurant. As I pushed open the door to the outside and noticed the distinct lack of humidity and heat that had plagued the area over the last few days, I was glad that an outside table was the only one available at the time we’d requested. The sun began its descent into the Arabian Gulf as we were seated.

We ordered drinks and scanned the menu, and I snapped photo after photo of the sunset and the perfect deck that we perched upon, set above bubbling pools and waterfalls. I had been waiting for an evening like this for some time.

The lovely server explained to us that since the previous evenings had been so incredibly hot and uncomfortable, they had booked most of the reservations inside the dining room. We had the deck to ourselves, save a Filipino nanny and her young twin charges. They were winding down their meal and departed before our first round of drinks arrived. We were blissfully alone.

But not for long.

I noticed him initially for his lack of adherence to the dress code. When the hotel sent us a confirmation of our reservation, the request for smart casual attire was noted. Men must wear trousers, collared shirts and closed shoes. He sauntered to a table for six, right next to ours, in board shorts and flip flops, but, as it was early, I assumed the staff simply made an exception. He sat alone but asked for kid’s menus as well.

A few minutes passed and our appetizer arrived. As we were divvying up our savory chicken satay, two women and two young girls arrived at the bottom of the steps that connected the outdoor dining area to the beach pathway. The man shouted to them as they realized that the gate was locked, and the ladies loudly declared their intent to walk to the proper entrance of the restaurant.

Then the youngest of the girls bellowed something akin to, “I’ll surely die if I have to walk another step!”

So daddy, being the good chap that he is, lifted her and the other, older, girl over the gate. The younger girl galloped loudly up the wooden boardwalk-like steps and all hell broke loose.

It was easy to ascertain that the smaller girl, probably four or five years of age, was called Ava. How do I know that? This is all that I heard from daddy, mummy, and auntie over the next forty minutes.

“Ava! Sit down like a big girl!” “Ava! If you don’t listen I’m going to take you back to the room!” “Ava! Can’t you sit down like Macy?” “Ava! If you don’t sit down I’m going to take you home and leave you there all alone!” “Ava! If I have to tell you one more time…” “Ava, stop!” “Ava, no!” “Ava, I’m serious!”

Of course, having undoubtedly heard all of these empty threats many times before, Ava couldn’t be bothered listening to such tiresome rubbish. She was intent on doing exactly her own thing, and nothing her parents said or did would change that.

Most likely because she knew her parents would do exactly that. Nothing.

Little Ava proceeded to press her face and hands on every available window into the dining room, and make faces at the patrons. She went to each empty table on the deck and touched every glass, knife, fork and spoon she could find. Then she rearranged the settings into something that suited her fancy. Then, to really get the look that she was after for her table creations, she began to lick each piece of flatware before she set it down again.

What were her parents and aunt up to during this fiasco? They were trying to decide between the Pinot Grigio and the Rosé, wondering if chicken noodle soup in an Asian fusion restaurant would taste like the canned variety, and deciding amongst themselves who had “kid duty” for the remainder of the evening, so the others to go out for cocktails.

Ava was expressing her delight at the situation by stomping her obviously steel-shod feet up and down the wooden deck like a prancing Clydesdale. Additionally, in case no one could hear her, she vocalized her actions with a rousing rendition of that classic hit, “Stomp, Stomp, Stomp!” Quickly bored of that, she went back to one of her favorite pursuits, flatware licking.

Despite the fact that I would have loved to have stayed on that deck for an after dinner drink or two, we asked for the check as soon as we were done. While my husband signed for the bill, I noticed the hostess seating two older women at a table near us. A table that had just had its flatware swabbed by the tongue of little Ava.

And the hostess had no idea.

On our way out I quietly informed our server that a replacement set of silver and glassware might be in order for the tables that had been in the swath of Hurricane Ava, and we made our way to the door, seething and laughing at the same time.

Am I wrong in thinking that parents should be more considerate? If you’ve always secretly desired to have a little blonde tyrant crack the proverbial whip in your life, that’s your choice, but it certainly isn’t mine. A child under my watch in that situation would receive a very stern tongue-lashing.

But it seemed as if the only one doing any tongue lashing here was Ava. And that flatware has the DNA evidence to prove it.

Summertime Blues

June 3, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

Watch out. This sun will stalk you and kill you.

Remember those days when summer couldn’t come fast enough? In a time long past, I counted days, minutes, seconds, until school was done and I could spend three glorious months in a blissful, oblivious state of freedom. While my choice of activities ranged from pruning myself in our neighbor’s pool and hours spent riding my horse at age 10, to motorcycles, boys and lakeside beers in the sweltering Oklahoma heat at age 16, I was never more excited than I was for the days when my choices were (mostly) mine.

Seasons were the norm for most of my early adult life in Utah, and trudging through an icy, snowy winter brought me happily to spring and summer, and contemplatively into fall and adulthood. I loved different aspects of each season, skiing in the winter, hiking and camping in the spring and summer, and picking my stunned jaw up from the ground during the color riot that is autumn in the Wasatch Mountains.

However, after a few years spent living in New Orleans, I realized that cold weather was not really my thing. Mild winters felt so incredibly delicious that I couldn’t imagine ever willingly placing myself into a freezing environment again.

So I moved to Hawaii.

Then to Taiwan.

Then to coastal Peru.

In none of those places was anything more than a jacket or sweater ever required during the winter months, and as my skin went dark and my hair went light, I felt as if I had found the climate my kind was meant to reside in.

Then we made another move.

To Abu Dhabi.

Now, I didn’t have my head in the proverbial sand prior to this move. I have a good working knowledge of geography and climate science. I knew it was going to be hot. But seeing 50+ degrees (125+ degrees fahrenheit) on paper and having it slap you ruthlessly in the face on a June day are two totally separate things. The heat here is unlike anything I have ever experienced. It is inhumane in its brutality.

During the height of the Middle Eastern summer, I don’t really know what outside looks like. Or what fresh air smells like. Or what sunshine on my shoulders feels like. I lurk indoors, whether it’s a mall, my home, a restaurant, or even an air conditioned parking garage (yes, those exist here). In those moments between my front door, the car and my final destination, I am covered from head to toe in clothing, hats and sunscreen, so much so that I have fleeting concerns about rickets due to the complete and utter lack of Vitamin D that reaches my skin.

Even sunset, which generally signals a daily reprieve from the heat in most parts of the world, is very different in the desert. The dust that chokes the skies generally makes for a brilliantly colored sunset, but venturing outside to see it is an exercise in stupidity. The heat takes my breath away just as much as the blood streaked, cloudless sky does. As the sun retreats, the humid air advances with a one-two punch to the idea that “it’s a dry heat”, further dashing any hopes we may have had for a barbecue, a drink out on the patio, or any sort of life outside of our villa.

What’s a girl to do? Well, I wait. I wait for the Ramadan holiday so we can escape to blissfully cool Europe. I wait for late October when the heat retreats and leaves four or five months of “winter” that are so divine I understand why people grudgingly tolerate the rest of the cruel, cruel year. I wait for those weekends during the height of the heat, when we trade our dark, air conditioned cave of a house for something a little bit fancier.

This weekend is one of those of those weekends. We are going to the exquisite St. Regis Hotel and Spa at Saadiyat Island. It’s only about 15 minutes from our house, but feels worlds away, with sublime swimming pools and a beautiful beach on acres and acres of gorgeously landscaped grounds.

But you’ll likely find me in the bar, sipping an ice cold beer and gazing out the tinted windows at the bright blue Arabian Gulf.

It’s too damn hot outside.

Moscow’s Metro Stations

May 29, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

When we arrived in Moscow, Russia we brought warm weather with us. The long, cold winter was officially over and we were greeted by blue skies, warm breezes and flowers and trees bursting with life. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

However, we were destined to spend one day entirely underground, riding the city’s metro system from station to station. A strictly utilitarian feat in most cities, Moscow’s metro has a very unique distinction. It has the most beautiful stations in the world.

Politics aside, Josef Stalin had a desire to create the most ostentatious displays of Soviet architecture that he could, and this is evident all over the city of Moscow. However, some of the best examples of Stalinist architecture are deep below the city. With most of the construction taking place between 1931 and 1958, designers and architects used the finest materials to construct the stations, and most are still in use today.

Marble floors and benches, stained glass, bronze statues, arches and domed ceilings and exquisite light fixtures combine to rival any interior in the world. Additionally, the cost to enter the metro is about 1 USD, and you need not pay again if you don’t go out. We spent hours riding from station to station, which made this one of the cheapest activities in an otherwise very expensive city.

Unfortunately, a lack of English signage makes this metro system a bit difficult to navigate. We circumvented this by creating our own map and deciding which stations we wanted to visit. After that, simply counting stops was a great way to get around that pesky Cyrillic problem.

My apologies in advance if I didn’t match the photos with their correct station. I was so busy picking up my jaw from the floor that I didn’t take very good notes

I would have loved to spend days exploring each station, but at 188 stations and over 318 kilometers of track, that would have taken most of the week we had in the city. I was more than content with the stations we did see, and it one of the best dollars I’ve ever spent.

Road to the Amazon: Part Four

April 24, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

There’s not much to do on a cargo boat. There’s no swimming pool, no bar, no shuffleboard on the Lido deck. The cabins are tiny and stifling hot, and while “rustic” may be the current trendy way to describe simple, ethnic dishes, it doesn’t even begin to describe the simplicity of beans, rice and lard. If we hadn’t brought our own wine aboard, our first night on the river, watching bats catch insects around the boat’s bright lights and listening to the cattle stagger about below, may have gone down as one of the most anticlimactic experiences of all time.

We had no idea how long it would take to reach our destination. Some accounts that we’d heard mentioned trips of as long as five days, especially during the dry season when boats can be stuck on sandbars for weeks. Maps can differ wildly, so we had little knowledge of what lay between Yurimaguas and Iquitos, but almost 250 miles of river can’t be completely desolate.

I woke the next morning to a beautiful sunrise which morphed into a brutally hot morning. The day wore on, and as the boat made her way downriver, lone houses and small villages slipped by. Without warning, we’d slow and stop at certain outposts, and villagers hustled to unload and load cargo, climb aboard to hawk fruit and fresh bread, a few girls tried desperately to sell baby caiman crammed into dirty two-liter bottles. Huge bundles of bananas were slung on board, and the local children frolicked and swam in the diesel infused water at the muddy banks.

That afternoon, we exchanged the Huallaga River for the mighty Marañón, once thought to be the source of the Amazon. The boat seemed to ride a little higher and pick up a little speed, as the distance between the banks widened significantly. Another magnificent sunset signalled an end to the day, amid rumors that we would arrive in Iquitos the next day. After clearing my cabin of a wayward bat, I fell asleep.

I woke the next day to noise, commotion and a crazy story. Will had slept in the hammock on the deck, and woke to the majority of the passengers preparing to disembark in the early light of dawn. As the boat made contact with the bank, a horde of people rushed the boat, clambering over the cattle in the their corral, crushing each other to climb the stairs, and, when that didn’t work, scaling the sides. This mass of people was there simply to vie for the opportunity to assist the passengers with their things in the hope of picking up a few neuvo soles in return.

The words amongst the staff that day was that we were making good time, and would reach Iquitos by mid afternoon. The villages became larger and more frequent. Despite the fact that this part of Peru is accessible only by water or air, these villages were vibrant and thriving, one even sporting massive oil tanks and a helipad.

Around noon, with little fuss and no warning, there it was, the Amazon. We made the smooth merge with the Ucayali River, and all of a sudden it was the Amazon. Virtually indistinguishable from the river we were on five minutes ago, but the Amazon nonetheless. Will, myself, and a lone Kiwi girl whose cabin was next to mine stood at the front of the boat to see it. No one else seemed to care.

This meant that we were nearing Iquitos, and the end of the line for us. The boat made one last stop on the outskirts of the city, where the majority of the local passengers got off, leaving the three white people and a group of Peruvian students from Chiclayo who were going to Iquitos for a dance festival. One of the luxury Amazon cruise boats passed us, complete with air conditioners and satellite dishes.Those passengers took pictures of our boat, the cattle and chickens crowding the stern. We must have looked rustic.

We reached the port of Iquitos and our dock, and the thing we’d all hoped to see during our entire trip appeared. A pod of pink Amazon River dolphins played at the mouth of a small tributary. My trip was complete.

Almost.

Next time: I swear we’ll get to the crazy coke dealer, and all of the other weird things that happened in Iquitos!

Road to the Amazon: Part Three

April 22, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

As our crowded, slipshod taxi pulled into the dusty town of Yurimaguas, I saw them. They were lying in wait like lions near a watering hole. And they saw us. They were the moto drivers who would be our best friends, or something just shy of it, for the next few hours.

When we did our research before we left on this epic journey, we discovered that we wouldn’t be riding a cruise ship down the Amazon. On the contrary, we would be hopping aboard a cargo boat that takes passengers. They offer a few cabins with meager amenities, bust most of the passengers prefer to sling hammocks on the deck, and sleep shoulder to shoulder, because it’s cheap. Two complimentary meals are served daily, lunch and dinner, and there may or may not be snacks for sale. A personal supply of water is critical. As is wine, don’t forget your wine.

We had decided that we would procure our supplies in Yurimaguas, then board the boat around noon. As we exited our taxi, and the eager moto drivers descended, I took the initiative, locked eyes with a young man and said “Vamos”. I said some other things in my halting Spanish, but he knew why we were there, and what we needed. And he knew just where to take us.

His uncle’s shop, of course.

We barreled into the heart of town, which was very much like most other small Peruvian towns we’d visited over the last few days, and screeched to a halt in front of a store. We were ushered in, and just like the pros that they are, our driver and his family began gathering all of the things we’d need for our journey. Hammocks, raincoats, mosquito netting, eating utensils and rope joined a pile of other stuff quickly towering on the counter. Then something strange was placed beside the stack.

An electric kettle? ¿Qué? ¿Por qué?

Para el café o té.

Will and I looked at each other and suppressed a laugh. I don’t really see us finding a place on a Peruvian cargo boat to plug in a kettle and enjoy a quiet cup of morning coffee. Plus, we’d already decided on buying a few cans of Red Bull to stave off the morning headaches. I thanked the lady kindly, but refused the kettle.

Our fearless young leader helped us gather our things after we’d paid what seemed like an insultingly meager price, and we were off to the market. As we rumbled along the dusty streets, I instructed Will to pick up some fruit, some non-perishables, Red Bull, water and wine. Don’t forget the wine! I stayed behind in the moto with our driver, while Will went into the market.

The shopping done, we sped downhill to the river. Finally, our first sighting of the confluence of the mighty Paranapura and Huallanga Rivers, which came together in a wide, muddy boil. Gone were any last vestiges of hope I might have had for any luxury on this trip. As thin, wispy men rushed to have the honor of carrying our things onboard, for a small fee, of course, I got my first view of my chariot for the majestic river adventure I’d soon be on, the Eduardo VI. Really? This is a boat?

As I dodged mud and piles of cow shit, and navigated 2×4’s serving as gangplanks while trying to keep up with our scrappy porter, we scampered up and over and around and he deposited Will and I at the man in charge. We decided to get a cabin, which also allowed us to hang hammocks on the deck. This was perfect, as the cabins could be locked, thus relieving us of the constant need to watch our things. We paid for our journey, about 80 USD for the both of us, then our porter hung our hammocks, we were shown to our cabin, and that was that.

Except the boat wasn’t leaving until 5pm, and it was currently 1pm. And hot. So very steamingly, swelteringly hot. What to do?

Well, make sure our things are locked in the cabin, and head off for a beer and look around the town, of course.

And that’s exactly what we did.

We returned a few hours later, and as Will settled in his hammock to read, I began to arrange things in the tiny cabin. I placed the netting over the jalousie window, shoved the box of water under the bunk, and stacked our cans of Red Bull and boxes of snacks along the wall. As I’m maneuvering things around, I notice something. No. It can’t be!

A socket. A goddamn electric socket. IN MY CABIN!

We should have gotten the electric kettle.

As the cattle and chickens and bananas jockeyed for position below deck, I stood at the railing, near the captain’s cabin and tried to ignore the pornographic poster on the inside of his flung open door. The engines rumbled to life as the sun began to set in the most impressive display of force I’ve ever seen in my life. It was as if pink, purple and gold light sabers were intent on slicing the sky into shreds, to display the inky blue lurking in the shadows.

And just like that, with no confetti, no fanfare, and no champagne bottles popping, we left the last place in northeastern Peru accessible by road, the boat swinging wide into the current and off into the night.

Destination, Iquitos.

Next time: Crazy cocaine dude (I promise), Iquitos is kind of weird, alligator in a bottle, and pink dolphins.

The Alphabet List: Part Three

April 21, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

Sorry about the delay! I know that The Alphabet List typically comes out on Friday, but due to circumstances beyond our control, it’s been pushed back until today! Enjoy the third installment, where we start with the letter…

G

In 2007, I applied for and won a scholarship to study Mandarin in Beijing. I was beyond thrilled to spend several months in that amazing city, learning the language, meeting the people, and seeing the sights. Of course, this included the Great Wall.

I went with my classmates to Mu Tian Yu, which is easily the most heavily touristed portion of the Great Wall, but it was still thrilling. I hiked along the top of the wall, peering through the holes in the battlements, and marveling that I was actually there. However, the aerial tram lifting hordes of tourists to the top, and the slide offered for the trip down didn’t necessarily lend a great deal of authenticity.

Will has never been to China, but we have a trip planned for this fall. I can’t wait to show him around Beijing, a city that means a great deal to me. Of course, we’ll visit the Great Wall, but I’d like to see a different part of it, a more raw and wild portion of one of the greatest feats of human accomplishment. It’s going to be even better the second time around.

H

This one was too easy. “H” is for the beautiful US state of Hawai’i. I lived on Hawaii’s Big Island for several years, I went to university there, and that is where I finally met Will, a little over three years ago. Little did I know that meeting would start the crazy RTW adventure I’m currently on.

All of Hawaii is a beautiful place, but I’ll always be partial to the Big Island. An active volcano, gorgeous and lush rainforests, golden beaches and palm trees, it really is paradise defined. I’ve been on a solo, sunrise swim with dolphins at Ho’okena, played in the snow on the top of Mauna Kea,seen the eerie glow of a lava flow at night, and been witness to the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen in my life. Hawaii is a truly magical place.

We’ll always have a connection to the islands, as friends, family and a little piece of property in the rainforest are still there for us. One day, I don’t know when, we’ll be back.

I

I thought that the letter “I” was going to be difficult. Iceland? Ivory Coast? Well, this list doesn’t necessarily have to be places, therefore “I”, in this case, is going to refer to getting “inked”. Specifically, getting inked in Amsterdam.

I’ve been tattooed in China and Thailand, but it’s been several years that the ink’s been dry, so to speak. Will has also been itching to go under the needle, so we’ve decided to start our northern European trip in August with several days in Amsterdam, home of some of the world’s best tattoo artists. The city is packed with studios, and is one of Europe’s best and most popular places to pick up some ink.

My mother and my daughter are even considering joining us for this tattoo adventure. Talk about a family vacation!

I’ve always thought that tattoos make much better souvenirs than trinkets or T-shirts, don’t you?

Stay tuned for the next installment! I wonder where we’ll go for “J”?

Road to the Amazon: Part Two

April 18, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

Continued from Part One.

We left Chachapoyas in a taxi, bound for the little town of Pedro Ruiz. We were early, very early, for the bus to Taropoto, so we walked the length of this one-donkey town, stopped at a restaurant for something fried and delicious, and settled into the bus station to wait. And wait.

Most of our experiences with Peruvian busses had been good, with an on time accuracy airlines should envy, but this one was late. We lounged in hard plastic chairs, watched something horrible on the news, and smoked cigarettes while we waited.

At one point, as I stepped outside, yet another ciggie in hand, I looked up into the hard, bright sky and saw something I had never seen before. It was a rainbow around the sun, and I called Will out to see it. He called it a “sun dog” and I was entranced, risking my eyesight to stare it down.

Soon after, the bus arrived, and the passengers began to file off to eat their lunch in the small bus stop cafe. However, this group of passengers was riled up, one woman in particular. She shouted, in Spanish, that a group of men seated behind her on the bus has stolen her mobile phone. A lacquered pink, long fingernail jabbed the air and she shouted for justice. Other passengers rolled their eyes, but when the police arrived, people began to get pissed. We were going to be REALLY late now.

The police spent almost an hour, searching the passengers, searching the bus, and just when things were about to blow sky high, the woman’s sister comes running in, holding the bright pink phone. “It was under the seat!”, she said, laughing. No one was laughing when we finally boarded the bus, and the woman who had laid the accusations came up the steps. She was booed and cursed, even as she tried to apologize. I just wanted to get on the road.

As we had boarded the bus midway on its journey, Will and I did not have seats together. I sat next to a young Peruvian man, and Will was a few seats behind me. As the bus lumbered out of town, and wound its way higher and higher into the green mountains, I noticed a smell. Was it coming from the toilet at the back of the bus?

As the man next to me began to squirm in his seat, and turn away from me to fiddle with the waistband of his pants, I began to suspect he was having a problem. He tried very hard not to meet my eyes as he continued to fuss with his clothing, then he stood up to move past me, and I realized what was going on. He had a colostomy bag, and it wasn’t working properly. He clutched his hands to his front as he rushed to the lavatory at the back of the bus. I felt so badly for him, since he spent most of the rest of his portion of the ride at the back of the bus. When we stopped for a bit in Moyobamba and braved the hordes of people selling everything from sodas to endangered species, I did not see that young man get back on the bus.

We arrived in Tarapoto with just enough time to eat and sleep, and hurry through the next morning to catch the collectivo to Yurimaguas, where we would board the boat bound for Iquitos. Will, myself and several men and bags were jammed like sardines into a small station wagon, trailing trucks with people perched precariously in the beds and on the sides. As we made our way higher, it became evident that the landscape was changing, as it became much more lush and tropical. The road was twisted and terrifying, but as we descended from the highlands into the town of Yurimaguas, I knew our adventure was just beginning.

Next Time: La Vaca!, we should have bought the electric kettle, and crazy coke dealers.

Road to the Amazon: Part One

April 15, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

We were only on our second bottle of wine when we decided to go to the Amazon. It was an easy decision to make. Our Aussie friends were there to watch the house, and we didn’t have anything else to do, as was most often the case during our time in Peru. Two days later we were on a bus, rumbling north. First stop, Chachapoyas, home of the Cloud People.

We left the balmy beach of Huanchaco and, after an overnight bus ride, we arrived bright and early, and with a Gatorade soaked camera, into chilly Chachapoyas. However, as is usual at Peruvian bus stations, we were soon in a taxi, on our way to the hotel. Although it was not yet 7am, we were ushered into a gorgeous, old colonial-style hotel, given a room, and directed to breakfast and the all-important coffee.

Showered and fueled, we made our way to the town square, home to a gorgeous cathedral, and stopped at the first tourism office we found. Most tours highlight the ruins of Kuelap, but I noticed another tour that offered a visit to the sarcophagi at Carajia, and a tour of a cave. A cave! I adore caves! Forget that most people refer to Kuelap as the “Machu Picchu of the North”, and that we only had one day. I wanted to see the cave.

With a swiftness that still surprises me after all this time, we were loaded into a rickety Toyota and began our journey into the mountains. The roads quickly deteriorated from asphalt to gravel, and the lack of guardrails made me shiver. But as we wound higher and higher toward Quiocta Cave, the stunning views took my breath away. Strange plants dotted the landscape, and I marveled at everything around me.

About an hour later, we stopped in a little village, and with our broken, but improving Spanish, we ascertained that we would rent tall, rubber boots for our time in the cave. Boot in hand, we continued through lush green farmland to the area of Qiocta cave. We met up with another tour group and made our way down the steep stairs.

Once at the entrance to the cave, the guide began to fiddle with a backpack and a car battery. Next thing I knew, he’d connected a spotlight to the battery, donned the backpack, and we entered the cave. I understood little of the Spanish narrative, but the cave was beautiful and haunting, with gorgeous stalactites and human bones scattered throughout. We waded through the mud until we could go no further, then turned around.

We returned our boots to the shop, had lunch, then journeyed onward to the sarcophagi at Carajia. As we arrived, we noticed several Peruvian women and children, holding saddled horses. We emerged from the car to offers of the use of the horses for the ride down to Carajia. The asking price for the one kilometer ride was 60 Peruvian soles, or about 20 USD. We shunned the offer, agreeing that one kilometer was not at all far. And it isn’t, when you’re going downhill.

What began as a gentle slope turned into a downward scramble, and as I looked at the sarcophagi perched on the cliffside, the 600 year old resting places of the elite of a long gone civilization, all I could think about was the climb back up. The altitude was definitely a factor as I began the slow trek and the need to stop every few minutes to catch my breath worried me. But then I rounded a corner and met my salvation.

A few of the young girls had followed us down, horses in tow. I almost sobbed with relief, as I handed Soles to two of the girls, claimed one horse, and told the other girl to save her horse for Will, as he was still behind me admiring the view. As this lovely girl led me up the hill, her younger brother cavorted behind my horse, asking repeatedly, and without gasping for air, “¿Estás cansado?” “¿Estás cansado?” Yes, I’m tired. And your cardiovascular system is freakishly impressive.

At the top of the hill, I sat in the grass with the girl, her brother now joined by a litter of puppies and they all bounced around me. The view was incredible, and I sat in silence, waiting for Will’s horse to bring him to the top. I felt that I could have waited there forever.

Will arrived and we returned to Chachapoyas for dinner, a beer, and bed. We were in for an early wake up the following day, and the road to the Amazon would continue.

Next Time: Sun Dogs, la policía, and colostomy bags.

Alphabet List Part Two

April 12, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

After writing the first installment of the Alphabet List, I thought that this would be a breeze. Just go through the letters, and pick places or activities that intrigue me. Easy peasy, right? Wrong. There are so many things to see, touch, taste and marvel at that I’m afraid 26 letters just isn’t enough. But I’ll do my best to arrive at a conclusion, or two, for the next three letters.

Today we start with…

D

Diving with Sub Aqua Phuket — Diving in Phuket, Thailand

The letter “D” has got to be diving, SCUBA diving to be specific. Since I was certified almost ten years ago, diving has expanded the way that I travel in many ways. Often a destination will be chosen first for its dive sites, second for anything else that might interest us. I’ve been diving in many places, Thailand, Hawaii, the Philippines, but there are many other places that I am dying to see.

The Great Barrier Reef is a natural choice as the largest reef in the world, but also because it’s becoming more and more threatened by invasive species, climate change, and overuse by humans. I’d love to see it while it is still a viable, healthy ecosystem.

If you’ve never heard of Yonaguni, you might want to have a search beyond my brief description. Yonaguni lies off the coast of Okinawa and many say that it is an ancient underwater city. Atlantis, perhaps? Regardless of the mystery surrounding it, I really want to see these structures for myself. Most of it is accessible in less than 30 meters of water, making it a relatively easy dive.

Another dream dive destination would be Micronesia, specifically Palau. In 2009 Palau created the world’s first shark sanctuary, and has banned all commercial shark fishing in its waters. In addition to seeing many species of sharks in Palau’s waters, saltwater crocodiles also call the area home. The reefs have very high species diversity and healthy corals, and also provide shelter to endangered species such as the dugong. However, as nice as all of those things are, Palau also is home to Jellyfish Lake, and while diving is not permitted, snorkelling is, and you are surrounded by thousands of jellyfish who have lost their ability to sting. Heaven.

E

Makes me want to get my Viking on. Photo: Claudio.Ar

“E” was a hard one for me, but I settled on Estonia. I’ve always been interested in the republics of the former Soviet Union, and after a visit to Ukraine, I became even more interested. Its location in northern Europe is also nice, as that’s a part of Europe that I’ve yet to explore. More than half of Estonia is covered by forest, which would satisfy my hiking addiction, and it’s long and eventful history, from Vikings to World War 2 to Soviet occupation gets my brain churning.

Add to that the cosmopolitan capital of Tallinn, castles, quaint country towns, and seaside villages, and my travel senses start tingling.

F

This one was way too easy. “F” is for foxhunting in Ireland. I have been an avid equestrienne since I was very young, and the dream of foxhunting in Ireland has been with me just as long. The thrill of riding a powerful Irish hunter over beautiful countryside and leaping fences and ditches at top speed, accompanied by the sounds of the hunting horn and baying hounds is a feeling I am primed to experience.

Many local hunting clubs offer visitors a chance to train for a few days, then join a hunt, which is quite a privilege. Excellent riding skills are a must, as a hunt can last for hours. But the satisfaction of completing one, and keeping pace with experienced hunters is something that long for. It will happen.

For the animal lovers among my readers (and I am one too) please note that few hunts actually hunt live foxes anymore. A scent trail is laid along the path the hunters wish to take, and the dogs follow it.

So that completes this week’s installment of the Alphabet List! Join us next Friday and we’ll see where “G” takes us!

The Bottle Town of Slovenia

April 10, 2013 by Cate Brubaker

We’d left the northern Croatian coast early that morning, our trusty, rented Volkswagen steed primed and ready. No plans were laid save for an arrival in Prague in one day’s time. We’d hoped to make it as far as Graz, Austria that day, but a long detour to pay a parking ticket and find the birthplace of Nikola Tesla kept us in Croatia much longer than we’d thought.

And then there was the border crossing. On our journey to Croatia, a few days prior, we zipped through the crossing from Slovenia, snickering at the very long line of cars trying to make the opposite crossing. At the time, I chalked their long wait to the fact that it was the weekend, and as we sped into Croatia, the border quickly left my mind.

This time, there was nothing else I could think about. Not only were in this long queue of cars, the heat was record-breaking, and a stupid Lana Del Rey song was playing on almost every radio station. “Summertime Sadness” seemed more than appropriate as we waited, and waited, and waited, and wilted in the hot sun.

When we finally crossed that magical line into Slovenia, it was nearing 4pm. Graz, Austria was not going to happen that day. We left the highway in search of a hotel. One was a resort, choked with children and water slides and inevitable misery for me, so we investigated another. We never did find the proprietor, but the smell and the dingy carpets in the lobby didn’t warrant an enquiry as to vacancy or price.

So, up the road we went, yet again, to the next little town, Miklavž na Dravskem polju. The heat, and the full day in the car had me in a near meltdown state, so we parked the car, and walked to the nearest pub. A cold beer and a bathroom set me right, so we decided to have a walk around this little town in search of a room.

What we found were bottles.

Hundreds and hundreds of wine bottles lining the narrow streets. These bottles were carefully and artfully arranged, shining green in that angry red light of late afternoon in summer. Some had nondescript flags nestled in their necks. There was no real indication as to their purpose.

Well, there probably was, but I can neither read nor speak Slovenian.

I now know this says "School Way". — I now know this says “School Way”.

So we tiptoed around the bottles, and I was terrified at the calamity that would ensue if I knocked just one. And I’m not exactly known for my grace. I took some photos of this strange sight and we reached the top of the street.

A stop into another hotel was sublime. The small but well appointed lobby wooed me with aircon and cutesy decor. We queued behind a few other travelers who were also asking about a room for the evening. The smiling receptionist quoted 100 euros to the man ahead of us. So as not to be rude, we let her quote us the same price, knowing it was out of our budget, and trudged out the door.

On the walk back to the car, and ultimately to Maribor, the bottles continued to wink in the waning sun from the side streets. I knew that they meant something important, a party or festival, but it was not for me to know. An hour later we were sipping beers in the still sweltering early evening heat in the town square of Maribor.

Later, in our hot room with no air con, while I tossed and turned in a sweaty mass of sheets, I could not stop thinking about the bottles.

They were so beautiful.

I’m sorry to have missed the party.