Monday night Leah and I were treating ourselves to a couple of small chocolates (a pre-birthday celebration for Leah) and coffees from the Hotel Colbert when we heard a series of quick, chest-thudding explosions. Several people dashed outside, including a waiter. Naturally, we followed. Outside we saw the start of the Independance celebration one day early: huge, high fireworks were being launched from a nearby lake. From edge to edge the streets were crowded with friends, couples and families. Small children teetered in warm clothes (it's been chilly, especially at night) with neon, flashing lights or paper lantens bigger than their heads. We watched for 20 minutes or so and then we started making our way back for dinner. Briefly, we were stuck in the middle of the crowd, and then popped into an Italian restaurant. We had a tasty dinner, returned to our hotel, the Raphia, and slept to the loud sounds of firecrackers.

For the holiday proper, the following day, it was relatively low-key. There were still random firecrackers, but the mobs were gone, and since almost everything was closed, we spent the day reading in the hotel. When we did venture out, it was to say "bonne fete" ("happy holiday" in French, the most widely spoken second language) to random people and stroll through the fair on Independence Ave. The fair, clearly design for the Malagasy (the proper name for people from Madagascar) children, had a little train; race cars; trampolines; a "high wire", where scared kids stumbled along suported by a climbing harness; card games; roulette, or something that looked just like it; and, lots of other games.

It wasn't until today that we've been able to run some trip errands, like going to tourist information or the national parks office or buying maps from the bookstore. We plan to head south tomorrow to the Ranomafana national park. Although it may take two days depending on the transport and the roads.

Posted by David | Permalink

I've been nervous about going to Madagascar for the last few days: butterflies in the stomach nervous. I was telling David it's because I always worry before we go to a poor country. I've wanted to work in Africa for so long that before going I'm afraid something will make me not like it and then what will I do? If something happens that I just can't deal with, if the poverty suddenly seems overwhelming and I don't know how to cope, then everything I've planned to do since I was about ten becomes meaningless.

For some reason the fear about coming to Madagascar has seemed worse than before Malawi or The Gambia. It's probably because of the guidebook, which, while the author clearly adores the country, is full of dire-sounding warnings that I've blown out of proportion. It's written for people who've never travelled to Africa, or poor countries, something I should have realized.

At one point, sitting on the plane while David tried to figure out somewhere nice to be for my birthday, to make up for being in China last year, feeling as though the butterflies where practising their most acrobatic moves, I started paying attention to what was being shown on the screen at the front of the cabin. It was clearly a documentary about Madagascar with host of the zebu, hump-backed cows; men in old, worn clothes using a hammer and chisel for some masonry work; and village scenes of children smiling nervously at the camera. And I suddenly remembered a conversation with Papa and Eleanor in Inverness during which we discussed feeling different from those around us and how that made us feel. I went off, in that way I do, about feeling different and it being something that travelling has allowed me to come to terms with. One of the things I love about travelling is even though the act of travelling makes me different, it also makes me realize how similar everyone everywhere in the world is. Even with radically different cultures, value systems, ways of earning a living, I have yet to go somewhere and think, "I don't recognize these people." At least in some way; because we're all very similar in our interactions with family and friends. And seeing the five minutes of the documentary let me see the Malagasy as people, instead of imagining them as something 'other.' Something to be nervous about.

All of which is to say: we're here, and it's lovely. Tana, the short name for Antananarivo, Madagascar's capital city, is much like other large African cities we've seen. As soon as David realized that the "bus" we were waiting for to take us from the airport was a bush taxi, all of his nervousness left him. We definitely know how to do bush taxis. The ride is was lovely, though squashed. There was playing between bus drivers about who could pick up more passangers, which was quite funny. Getting directions to the hotel we'd picked couldn't have been easier: we kept stopping people on the 2km walk to make sure we were going in the right direction, and everyone of them was very nice. Even if they hadn't the faintest clue how to identify our position on the map we held out.

We plan to do a very rough circumnavigation of the island, heading south down the east coast, going north up the west coast and then taking a break at a tiny island off the north east coast before heading back into Tana to fly out in 11 weeks. We're mostly going to the national parks, so internet access will be necessarily spotty, but we'll write when possible. And after all the nervousness, I can't wait to get going!

Posted by Leah | Permalink | Comments (1)

I stole the post title from the village name "Ampleforth." I was convinced, somehow, that its name was "Ambleforth," which just seemed perfect, especially since we had to walk two and half miles to it from our campsite outside Helmsley. But then we arrived and I noticed the "p," which makes it not nearly as much fun, I think.

At any rate, we're ambling onwards. Today sees our removal from London to Madagascar, with a brief stopover in Italy to change planes (and cities, but whatever). We plan to be in Tana, the capital, for at least a few days, but we're not sure about internet connections so it might be awhile before we write again. Or it could be all of 24 hours. Whichever, I'm sure you'll be dying to hear about our first lemur sighting, so we'll take good notes.

Posted by Leah | Permalink

After returning the car in Newcastle last Thursday, we saw Leah's parents off at the airport and continued south to Durham, England.

Durham's nearest campground had all the joy that can be experienced by pitching a tent 3 feet from an 8 lane highway. Although the people there were friendly. For example, to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the caravan club, the camp owners invited us, and anyone else who happened to be staying there that night, to sample some hard cheese and wine so sweet I thought I was at a Bar Mitzvah. Our retired neighbors were friendly too. They had us over for tea and cookies, after seeing us struggling to put up our tent in the pouring rain. Leah had a pleasant conversation with Jill and I heard from Brian about all the problems in England: drugs, the EU, the central government, the local government, Labor, immigrants, etc. Leah left happy and I did not. Very early the next morning we started looking for a way to leave Durham county.

Logically, heading south towards our eventual flight from London seemed like a good idea, but no one could explain to us how to get to Yorkshire. When asked, each person's eyes would get wide and they would stop in thought, their head would tilt up, and eventually answer that they didn't know a way to Yorkshire by public transport. In the end, we took a train for 30 minutes and were there.

York was wonderful, if crowded. It put us in mind of Venice, where most people in the city are tourists or natives who rely on tourism almost exclusively. And, the thing is, it was still a great place to be. We visited the small art museum (a large section was closed); walked the medieval walls; ate pasties and pizza; gawked at the minster; and roamed through the streets. We pitched in the village of Naburn, just 15 minutes by bus from the city center. Our tent was at the top of a mowed hill overlooking a low field, and further on a lock on the river Ouse.

Saturday, our first morning in Naburn, the Ouse flooded. Water covered most of the lock machinery and spilled into the neighboring field and far into the low land on the opposite side of the bank. Parts of the campground were also flooded. I spent some time watching trees and other flotsam floating past on the very swollen river. I spoke to the camp owner and found that the river floods often, although mostly in the winter. The water comes from the mountains 40 miles away. Our tent, by the way, wasn't in danger.

An hour and a half north by bus, was the picturesque village of Helmsley with a fully stocked deli, a used book store, post, bank, bakery, co-op, everthing, really, except a campground. The nearest was 2 1/2 miles away, which would would be fine, but with infrequent bus service and unpleasant walking due to a large section of the walk along a main highway with almost no margin, our moblity ended up as an awkward combination of both. Waiting too long for buses, walking part way along the highway and cutting through wet fields of grasses and flowers, we followed the less used public paths. But, finally, we made it to the ruins of the huge Rievaulx Abbey. With electronic audio guides in hand, we wandered the grounds for hours, and all the hassle was worth it.

Yesterday, we bused from camp to the closed Byland Abbey ruins; walked to the tiniest village, Wass; enjoyed lunch at the only commerical structure in Wass; bused to York; took the train to London; and used the Tube and a bus to finally arrive at a campground in London. Yes, it is possible to find an inexpensive accomodation even in the most expensive of European cities. But only by spending a small fortune on transport.

Posted by David | Permalink

I've read dozens of novels set in rural England and have enjoyed the descriptions of rural life with small villages where everyone knows everyone else. Because of the age of most of the novels, though, I'd assumed that life no longer existed and instead, like the US, village living had turned into either suburban living or the villages were dying out. Both and neither of these things happens to be true.

You can still experience village life, and very pleasant it is, too. Most of our camping in both Scotland and England has been in, or near, small villages. Places where everyone smiles and says hi, asks us where we're from and where we're going, and mostly, places where people apologize for and explain the weather. It turns out April got May's weather and May, as well as June, has gotten all the rain that should have come in April. David's already mentioned camping in the rain, which is awkward, but not really a problem, but I find the British need to apologize for their weather hilarious. They're very polite, the British. It's one of the only countries we've been to in which the natives are more effusive if their politeness than we are. Korea, of course, being the other country. The Scots, in fact, are so polite that I feel as though they're competing with each other to have the last, good, word. At the end of one shopping exchange I overheard, the two people involved progressed from, "Thank you, Thanks, Bye, Cheers, Cheerio" before the young man walked out the door and got in the last, "Ta." The buses are even polite. Instead of reading "Not in Service," they all read "Sorry I'm not in Service."

But there are some things the British seem to do less well, including designing sinks. I recognize that indoor plumbing was a novelty for a country where the buildings are so old and so many of the pipes are on the outside, but how this leads them to continue, several decades later, designing sinks that are almost impossible to use, I'm not sure. The sinks in the hospital where Papa spent far more of his vacation than he would have liked, were so small you had to move your upper body into all sorts of contortions to wash your hands. Sort of like the mating rituals of some of the larger and more colorful birds, but with slightly less purpose in the end. What makes it especially odd is that we have yet to find sinks where the faucet is a pleasant mingling of hot and cold water. Instead, you get to push either the hot handle, so you scale yourself, or the cold handle, where you freeze. Of course, the cold water comes in quite useful when you have to stand with your hand under it for several moments because you've just scalded it using the hot push-tap.

Posted by Leah | Permalink

Once upon a time there were four American bears visiting Britian. They were of the common variety ursus touristus and would have stayed inconspicuous in their touristing, except the Papa Bear's knee seized with an infection and he ended up in hospital near Hadrian's wall. Poor thing. We'll leave him there, though, because his story is quite different, full of humorous and disturbing accounts of fellow patients in the orthopedic ward and the intricacies of the National Health System, which this author is not able to fully comment on.

With the Papa Bear in hosptial there were only three bears left: the Mama Bear, a David Bear and a Leah Bear. Now, these three bears were somewhat at a loss as to where to stay while the Papa Bear was in hospital until they talked to a nice woman named Helen, who told them they could stay on her farm. This was perfect because the Mama Bear had read lots and lots of books about the English countryside, but never gotten to stay there, and because the David and Leah Bears preferred more rural living anyway.

So, the three bears quickly settled into a comfortable routine, spending most of the day at the hosptial with the Papa Bear or in the nearby town running various errands that presented themselves. The evenings were spent at the farm, each in their own chair in front of the (gas) fire, reading or chatting, each in their own chair at the breakfast table, and each in their own seat in the car. The routine was so well established after two days, that the Leah Bear even scolded the David Bear for being in 'her' chair when she came into to read one night. But then the Leah Bear was always quick to set up routines.

The three bears would have conceivably continued in their very pleasant routine except the Papa Bear was finally cleared to go home. This was not quite what was planned, since the Papa Bear and the Mama Bear were supposed to continue traveling until early July, but the Papa Bear's doctors thought he should be on antibiotics for a long, long time, and that it would be easier for everyone if he were at home. Plus, even though the Mama Bear liked her Mama Bear chair in front of the (gas) fire and her Mama Bear chair at the breakfast table and even her Mama Bear seat in the car, and she really liked having the David and Leah Bears make her dinner every night while she read, she wanted the Papa Bear to be better. And, at the rate she was buying books her travel money was going to run dangerously low before she got home.

So, the Papa Bear and Mama Bears flew home, even though their luggage didn't, at first, and the David and Leah Bears continued on their way.

The End

Posted by Leah | Permalink

For the first two weeks, Leah and I camped in the Scottish wind, cold and rain. Setting up the tent in the drizzle is tricky. No matter how (or how fast) it's pitched, we're upright puddles when we finish. But, free of our rain gear and inside the sleeping bags, it's warm and dry. We sleep wonderfully, lofted on our Thermarest sleeping pads. In the mornings, I love waking to crisp air and birdsong. That is, until I flap open the tent's rain fly, pasting it to itself with water, and realize it's still raining, the wind has displaced the tent stakes, which in turn has slackened the tent enough to allow water to slowly dribble inside. And, there is really no experience quite like folding up a wet tent, and cramming it, without a hint of ceremony, into a backpack.

Don't get me wrong: we love Scotland. It's beautiful with green rolling hills, neatly parsed farms, placid cows, cliffs, burns, glens, birds, wildflowers and millions of sheep methodically ripping up grass with jerks of their heads. The best part, as far as we're concerned, is the public access to footpaths. Footpaths ramble all over the country and, the public's access to footpaths cannot be prevented, even if the path winds through private property--it's the law! How enlightened. Numerous times, I've heaved myself over a stile (a word the Scots use for a set of step over the wall of a field) to find that I was sharing the field with sheep, cows and, in one case, the backyard of a cottage complete with children's playset.

Posted by David | Permalink

David loves to point out that "reduce and reuse" come first in the "reduce, reuse, recycle" mantra, so we keep to those two as much as possible to limit our environmental impact. We don't own a car; we use rechargable batteries; we use the library instead of buying books, or when we do buy, we buy used; he bought me an eReader as a graduation present so I won't have to forever be buying, or carrying, books around as we travel; I made the ultimate sacrifice during school and stopped printing out articles I had to read on paper, and just read them on the computer; we recycle everything we can; and we give clothes and household items we don't need/want anymore to Goodwill, so someone else can get another use out of them. Aside from our jet fuel use, we do pretty well, but in terms of reusing, we have nothing on the Brits.

There are secondhand shops on every high street, essentially "main" street, in every village we've been in. Oxfam's shops I had read about researching them for various school assignments, but there are also secondhand charity shops for the British Heart Foundation, Cancer Research UK, various animal shelters (local and national), as well as numerous individual shops that benefit specific local needs, often medical, but not always. There are so many shops, apparently, that they've wiped out the nation's supply of secondhand goods. We've seen signs posted in dozens of shop windows along the lines of, Needed: Ladies trousers. Or, Small furnishings in good condition needed. If it gets much worse, maybe the US and UK could get an exchange going whereby people trawl landfills for the perfectly good items Americans throw away and then ship them to Britian for re-sale. Not only would we help relieve the growing American landfill problem, but British charities would make lots more money. Of course it might be easier if US institutions just started the same type of programs. Just think, instead of selling plastic bracelets or ribbons, the American Heart Association could motivate everyone to clean out their closets and houses and make a mint at the same time.

Posted by Leah | Permalink

After nearly a week in or around the hospital as visitors, we decided to shorten yesterday's visit and drive off to tour the Farne Islands.

Two hours later, we and 14 other passengers were happily climbing on to a small boat for a 2 to 3 hour tour of the Farne islands including 1 hour to explore Inner Farne island by foot. Smiles withered in the first few minutes of rough chop; it was cold, foggy and the boat heaved up and down and in all directions. Thankfully, after only 15 minutes the boat slowed to a comfortable drift. The first set of tiny rocky islands was filled with seals--representatives of the grey and common variety lounged on the rocks and each other, poured themselves into the sea or popped curious heads out of the water nearby. The captain's border collie paced frantically, pausing frequently to bump a passenger aside to lean over the edge and whimper at the seals. Leah thought the dog was trying to "herd" the seals. It was adorable.

The boat paused and sidled to the rocks several times, and the tour director made informational comments. After the seals, there were birds. Lots of birds. Birds on every ledge and in every nook; the rocks were arranged vertically into small cliffs and topped with bird "muck" as the tour director called it. It was breath-taking, both the visual spectacle and the considerable pong.

We alighted on the island of Inner Farne and were greeted by two cheerful National Trust money-takers, who wore broad brimmed hats and were decorated in bird muck as though they were painters that had been in a paint fight because the Off-white paint had been mixed too thinly. Further on the path, we were attacked by a mass of Artic Terns. Hitchcock couldn't have imagined it better: dozens of people waving hands and umbrellas over their heads, cinching hoods, ducking, walking stiff-legged quickly to cover, or ambling slowly, oddly enjoying or accepting their fate. I tried to wave a hand over my head (as instructed) and received a snap at my finger that I thought had drawn blood (it didn't). By the end of the hour my strategy was set: when I went through the Tern areas, I tightened the hood of my rain jacket and with my head down I moved swiftly through. Right before I left, I receive two hard pecks on the head. Leah four. Marilyn six! It would be easy to be upset with the Terns, but I couldn't. The Terns were laying eggs and we were on their island walking by their nests. Maybe, the birds were hopeful that with a few more knocks on the head, people would realize this. And, in that sense, I agreed with them.

If it wasn't for the Internet connection I have now, at this point, I would conclude with some pictures I took of Guillemots, Eiders, Shags, Razorbills, Puffins, a lone Oystercatcher and all those Gulls.

Posted by David | Permalink

The family trip, until Sunday morning, was going quite well. It was awkward, and probably hilarious to outsiders, trying to get all seven of us to agree on anything. Not, oddly, because we disagreed, but because we were all so desperate to be agreeable, no one would make a decision or state an opinion. But everything was quite pleasant and we were thoroughly enjoying Scotland and having a good time, until Papa's knee seized in the middle of the night.

Being descended from some Scots, he decided to "tough it out" (he's insanely stubborn and didn't want to inconvience us), so we drove out of Scotland to England to look at Hadrian's wall. Except we only got to Haltwistle, the nearest village with an information center before driving out to the wall, when Papa realized the pain just wasn't endurable. We ended up about 10 miles away in Hexham, at the hospial (Haltwhistle's apparently being too small to have an x-ray machine), where the ubiquitous "they" of the medical world decided he probably had an infection in his "new" knee (replaced in October). So Papa got to travel by ambulance to Wansbeck hospital, about 15 miles outside of Newcastle, Sunday evening, and he's still there. They've opened him up and flushed the knee and he's on course for 6 weeks of antibiotics. It's a staph infection and they have no idea if the antibiotics will kill it all, but everyone seems pretty sanguine. Hospital people are currently facilitating medical transport home, which would provide for a nurse to accompany Papa, though we're unclear on all the other details. It might be early next week that he goes home, which is what the doctors want, but who knows what the insurance will throw back next.

In the meantime Irene, Eleanor and Megan have taken the second of two cars we rented, back to Edinburgh to catch their flights Wednesday and yesterday. The poor things have jobs, if you can believe it! Mama, David and and I are comfortably ensconced in a cottage in the middle of someone's farm (sheep, mostly), which is run through this really neat program called Farm Stay. We'd enjoy it more if we weren't at the hospital most of the day, or if Papa were able to come back with us, but we've spent three very pleasant, peaceful evenings in the living room in front of the gas fire, reading our books and callously drinking Papa's whiskey cream liquor. If only it didn't take a hospital stay to slow us all down.

Posted by Leah | Permalink | Comments (3)