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Why Every Entrepreneur Should Self-Publish a Book - TechCrunch

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 02:07:23 +0000

Why Every Entrepreneur Should Self-Publish a Book - TechCrunch:

New Year's Resolutions 2012

Sun, 29 Jan 2012 02:33:25 +0000

In years past, I’ve posted my New Year’s resolutions at the beginning of the year and then reviewed them at the beginning of the next year. While I wasn’t exactly around for the start of the new year, that’s not exactly an excuse for not doing my resolutions. So, here they are, and may I be held accountable for them!

(I don’t seem to have made resolutions last year, which makes this an easy blog entry to write, because I only need to do this year’s resolutions, rather than revisiting last year’s as well. So, here we go.)

Get better at photography, particularly by addressing at least one of the following two problems:
1. I’m fairly weak at shooting people
2. I have very little experience or education in shooting in anything but bog-standard natural daylight
Become a faster cook — I’m a very good cook, but you’d better give me an afternoon to do it in!
Get back to running, or find some other cardio that I love
Finish up my novel
Get back into blogging
Be a great husband in all of the new ways that having a normal job with a predictable schedule allows me to, that I couldn’t do when I was self-employed.

So that’s that. Let’s check in next year and see how I do!

My Advice for Your Safari in Tanzania

Sat, 21 Jan 2012 22:05:01 +0000

Let’s lead off with my first suggestion here: definitely 100% you should go on a safari, and I highly, highly recommend Tanzania for that safari. It’s a place where there are amazing animals that you can get so close to; where there are friendly and happy people who will help you have an incredible time; and where you’ll likely find yourself imbued with magic powers, like my wife who always knew what time it was to within two minutes, despite not having a watch, and who always knew how to get where we wanted to go, even though, at home, her sense of direction isn’t good enough to successfully walk out the door she just walked in. We had an astounding time — truly the trip of a lifetime — and I’m confident you will too.

Why Tanzania?

We picked Tanzania for three reasons: 1. It has the vast majority of the animals you’ll wan’t to see 2. It’s quite safe and stable 3. I’m a bit of an admirer of the “father of the nation,” Julius Nyerere

Number one was important to us because we like to settle down and really take some time to explore in each place we stop. This is a lot easier if you can spend at least two nights — which means a full day — in any destination, and that, in turn, is a lot easier if you minimize your overall travel time. We never took a flight much more than 2 hours once we were inside Tanzania, and that meant that, even on a travel day, we were able to fit in a safari first thing in the morning, before our departure, and in the evening, after we arrived at our next stop. That basically means we tripled the number of trips into the bush we could take, versus longer travel-time destinations.

Number two kind of speaks for itself. Tanzania is vastly safer than South Africa — which, near as I can tell, may actually be less safe than Baltimore or Palms — and somewhat safer than Kenya. You have noticeable crime in some of the bigger urban areas, but we didn’t have the slightest problem anywhere we stayed. That counts for a bit, especially with other plausible safari destinations including Burundi, South Africa, and Malawi.

Number three was a bonus just for me, although my wife’s embroidered initials, CCM, on her bag caused a bunch of second looks. I’d learned to admire Julius Nyerere in a college class on sub-Saharan African politics, and I was certainly glad to hear Tanzanian after Tanzanian tell me what a good job he’d done, especially in making them all feel like Tanzanians, rather than members of their tribe, first. I can’t lie, I enjoy going places whose politics I understand a bit!

What’s Tanzania Like?

Probably the hardest thing to get used to about Tanzania was that they’d say “hakuna matata” to you and mean it. Then there’s the parents taking their little tykes on safari: you see them point at a lion and say “look! There’s Simba!” and you just want to tell them, listen here, this isn’t some Disney movie, this is real nature, appreciate it for what it is, with the tragedy and violence, and stop lying to your kid there, ok? Except then you realize that the Kiswahili word for “lion” is “simba,” and the parents are just teaching their child a new language and helping them become a better citizen of our global society, and you’re the asshole in this one.

Oh, and Tanzania’s hot and sunny. So, so hot and sunny: even little doesn’t-tan’-doesn’t-burn me was wearing not my usual SPF 15 but SPF 50 to make it through the day. But the truth is that you hardly notice the heat when you’re 20 feet from a pride of lions. Excuse me, from a pride of simba.

Where Should I Go in Tanzania?

Short answer: anywhere. Long answer: we really enjoyed our stops — the Mahale Mountains, Ruaha, and Selous — that were a little bit away from things. In general, we found staying in camps and getting up early and going out tracking and exploring on safari with the guides there was an amazing experience. The solitude of being with just a few people in a small camp in the middle of nowhere really made me feel like I was closer to nature. Were we to go back again, I don’t know that we’d plan the Serengeti, which is much busier.

For mainland Tanganyika, we’d go to Kwihala in Ruaha, Selous Impala, or Nkungwe in Mahale again. In Zanzibar, we loved 236 Hurumzi, but it was very much a place you love or hate, so I recommend you do your research. Given the sand and water we saw, I can’t imagine any beach spot in Zanzibar being a bad choice (we chose ours based only on availability).

When Should I Go to Tanzania?

We went during the Little Rainy Season, which is a good time to go. From October through the end of December, you’re most likely to be rained out for a half day at most, or even just drizzled on, which is just fine. Also, not many people come during the little rainy season; we were the only two at in the entire Mahale Mountains National Park, and the only two at our camp in Ruaha during our first day there.

Many people come to Tanzania in the main dry season, late January through March, which can be a great time to see the big predators, but a tough time for the chimps — whereas we saw 20-30 at a time at an hour or 90 minutes from camp, the chimps go up into the mountains to seek out scarce forage during the dry season, so you’ll see at most a handful and that after four to six or even more hours of trekking. Our guides recommended August-October as a time that was good for seeing game and predators and also not too busy.

What Camera Equipment Should I Pack?

I was rather surprised at my photo experience at the end of the whole thing — the gear I’d expected to be the most-used never got touched, and the gear I left behind because I didn’t think it would be appropriate would’ve turned out to be tremendously useful.

Every single source I read said “bring a beanbag for your camera!” Perhaps because my longest lens was 300mm — the maximum length for hand-held shots in fairly bright daylight — I was able to do without. (My bad shots were bad, but they didn’t have motion blur in them.) Most of the angles I had to shoot at didn’t have a metal bar to hook my beanbag to anyway. So, I might’ve skipped that entire half kilo out of my 15-kilo weight limit.

On the other hand, I didn’t bring my very cheap but very long 500mm mirror lens. I figured it was slow; too long to hand-hold; and hard to focus; all adding up to something I couldn’t ever get a shot with. Well, I was wrong: those animals, they didn’t move as much as I thought they would. I’d had troubles shooting the dogs in the backyard with that lens, but lions? They’re lazy. Definitely take your long, cheap, slow lens to Africa.

And my nifty fifty? I brought that in case the jungle at Mahale was too dark and I needed that f/1.8 speed. Nah, my everyday 18-50 f/2.8 let in plenty of light for that at ISO 800.

So, I’d say: cover 24-as high as you can go and you’re fine. (The panoramas are so wide that you don’t need your wide angle to get that shot.) Don’t worry about having the fastest lens; cover your range. Oh, and don’t forget your circular polarizing filters, to catch the green vegetation and the azure water right.

What Should I Pack for My Safari?

I actually plan to write an entry on “how to pack” soon, based on experiences over the past ten years or so, but my advice for safari is: * Long sleeves to protect yourself from the very hard sun * About three times as much sunscreen as you think * A broad-brimmed hat, again for that sun * A safari vest. I bought the cheapest plausible one I could find, and guess what: I fell in love. Who cares about camera bags (I bought a neat new one for this trip)? Carrying your lenses in a vest? Filters, too? OK, that was my idea of heaven. * Oh, and little tiny toilet paper rolls. Not those, the biodegradable kind. For when you need to potty on safari.

What About Malaria Pills?

I had never taken malaria pills before, and had traveled all around the most malaria-ridden parts of Latin America without any worries, using this great stuff to keep me safe; but everyone told me “take your Malarone!” in Africa. Well, despite the repellent, I got bit up by old anopheles time and time again. Good thing for those magic red pills!

Where Should I Book My Safari?

We booked with Africa Travel Resource, and never regretted it for a moment. In fact, several of our guides looked at our itinerary and commented how great it was. And it didn’t even sound like they were blowing sunshine up our you-know-whats. They were helpful and got us the right vacation at the right price.

So that’s about it. The only other advice I can give you is: plan your safari now, you’ll never forget it!

And Now for Something Completely Different

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 07:20:49 +0000

After our trip through the Selous, the driving about the Ruaha that came before it, and dusty Arusha, and the mud and jungle of Mahale, it was time to recover from our vacation. From 5am wake-up calls to afternoons out in the bright sun and hundred-degree heat and hours spent peering into the foliage for a moment’s sight of a brightly-colored bird or a rare, stalking predator, we were tired out. Yeah, I know, us poor folks on a once-in-a-lifetime safari half the world away.

But there were no two ways about it: we were tired out, and we’d seen enough animals. So it was time to leave the mainland and jet — or, rather, the usual 12-seat turboprop — our way over to the Indian Ocean island of Zanzibar. Once the center of a vast and wealthy Sultanate that controlled East African trade, Zanzibar is a verdant pool in the midst of bright blue water; so of course we went to the beach to relax with drinks with umbrellas in them. And it was everything we’d hoped for: azure water, friendly staff, delicious drinks, and a lagoon as warm as a bath with cabanas floating in it for the delicious drinks the staff had served you on the beach.

We even were able to celebrate the new year on that beautiful beach, dancing with the happy staff of the resort, around a bonfire in the stiff sea breeze.

It was all a relaxing delight, even the massages. Oh, of course the massages would be good — it was what they made you wear during the massages that was odd. For modesty’s sake, it seems, they prefer you to wear disposable undergarments, which I suppose I could see being modest if they weren’t completely transparent black mesh, the kind of thickly-waled, wide-gapped black mesh that I’m pretty sure is quite à la mode in Berlin’s finest S&M techno clubs. But, hey, I managed not to laugh and the masseuse hopefully managed not to be mortified by my nudity, so I suppose it was a win for everyone.

After wearing our — well, I don’t know what you’d call them, gayderhosen? — we felt ready to rejoin society. And that was our next stop: the old Zanzibari capital of Stonetown.

Stonetown is a beautiful city, a warren of streets built before automobiles and far too thin to fit anything larger than a motorbike. It has a beautiful market with fresh fish and meats and some of the best spices anywhere, and this translates into absolutely delicious restaurants. And history is everywhere, from the ornate touches of India and the Middle East in architecture to the 16th century Portuguese cannon that the Sultanate captured and then, ten generations later, tried in vain to use against British battleships in the shortest war in history (it took the Sultan only 45 minutes to have all of his stuff blown up and surrender).

Once a fabulously wealthy city, the slow decline of the Sultanate of Zanzibar, revolution, and poverty hit Stonetown hard, however, and a shocking exhibit in the local museum — a building called the House of Wonders, the Sultan’s former palace and the only part of his landholdings not blown up by those British battleships — stated that 60% of the buildings in Stonetown were in danger of collapse. Looking at them, I wasn’t surprised; in fact, there were gaps here and there where a building had fallen down already.

Decay or not, Stonetown was an adventure. Perhaps a bit alien — the bustle of the market, with vendors all pitching their wares, the smells of butchery, and the yelling of cabbies overwhelmed the two of us just a bit — but the people were lovely and the artisans made beautiful work everywhere. Two days, and probably ten showers in the dusty, hundred-degree weather, we were finally able to start our 39-hour trip back to the US. You know, the part of the trip where we ended up in a cab driven by a guy who didn’t speak English and didn’t know where we were going, so he had to pull into a dark dirt alley in the middle of the night and ask a hooker for directions.

Actually, that sounds a lot like riding in a cab in LA. So, welcome home it was indeed, and welcome back to civilization for sure!

These Are My Teeth!

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 05:38:15 +0000

We arrived at the Selous right ahead of a storm, just as we had at Ruaha. We could feel it too: as our unpressurized Caravan made its landing turn, hot, humid, close air burst through the ventilation system, filling the cabin with languor and the promise of rain. Again, just as at Ruaha, the sun was shining and the sky clear as we landed, but there was a vast, dark cloud in the corner of the sky, and the wide horizons of Africa made it easy to see that rain was streaming out of it. At Ruaha, we started back to camp as if on a game drive, but then dark clouds emerged from two other corners of the sky, and then we sped back to camp to try to get there before the storms converged from three sides.

At Selous, we had less of a worry if we would beat the weather, because our afternoon safari was planned to take place in a covered boat. We’d head down the broad, muddy Rufiji river, keeping our eyes peeled for birds, hippos, and, yes, crocodiles, returning at sundown to clean up in our tent.

And it was some return. The Selous Impala camp, where we stayed, offered the only fan we had in any of our safari stops. Courtney, who loves keeping cool and had been quite the trouper to put up, uncomplaining, with day after day of 100-degree-plus weather. She quite literally almost hugged the fan as soon as we walked into our tent.

It’s no exaggeration to say that Impala was a very, very different place than Kwihala — or any other place we’d been. Impala is owned by Italians, who, it’s fair to say, have their own set of priorities. For instance, in the middle of nowhere, with no source of power or anything other than diesel they truck in, they have this:

Dinner was served in a grand style, too, in a lovely setting as well:

There was even the house hippo, Andrea, who loved to hang around the place:

Andrea was quite the challenge: while having him around was exciting and scenic, the reality is that hippos are cranky, cranky animals and, if you were to unexpectedly stumble upon Andrea, the reality was that he would almost certainly trample you to death. Us urban types have few skills related to not stumbling upon hippos, so, rather than deal with a ton of dead tourists they have to hide, Impala employs a bunch of Maasai warriors who escort you from place to place. You just stand outside and yell “Jambo Masai!” and they come and get you, pointing out little animals (and, of course, Andrea if he’s around) along the way.

We had just one driving safari in Selous, but it was a humdinger: a tracker had found a lion pride, and our driver was on top of it:

Most of our time we spent on river safaris, going up and down the Rufiji. The river teemed with birds of all sorts, like this bee-eater:

And this kingfisher (hot tip: I love photographing kingfishers, no matter what part of the world we’re in):

And even this egret — the local egrets seem to like standing on the local water buffalo:

But of course what we came to see were the hippos, like this one who took a serious look at us:

And this one who wanted to tell us: these are my teeth!

And, of course, the sinister crocodiles:

The sunsets? They were a bonus!

Along the way (Taken with instagram)

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 07:21:19 +0000

Along the way (Taken with instagram)

The Most Into Poo I've Ever Been in My Life

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 16:16:19 +0000

I never expected I would care about dung beetles, or that I would even see them on this safari: but, apparently, get a bunch of scarab beetles rolling around and then burying their very own balls of elephant dung, and I can’t hold myself back. They’re just such hard-working little buggers, fighting for their dung, rolling it into a ball, climbing to the top every once in a while to make sure they’re rolling it in the right direction, then finally burying it so that it can incubate the next generation of poo-oriented scarab beetles. Intrepid indeed! So naturally I was on my belly getting photos of them working hard, silhouetted by a gigantic pile of elephant spoor.

Our trip to Ruaha was very much about the little things. Sometimes that was literal, as with the dung beetles, or the swarms of inch-long bullfrogs, or the many-colored dragonflies, or the super-adorable (if unfortunately-named) dikdik.

But it was also about the little matter of the manner in which we appreciated the safari. After Mahale and Manyara, we’d truly seen the vast majority of the incredible animals we’d come to see. Sure, we were hopeful we’d spot leopards or lions or wild dogs, but the reality was that Ruaha would offer mostly the elephants and giraffe and impala that we’d already seen. So we could be bored, or we could go to Ruaha to do something different.

And that was what we did. We stayed in Kwihala Tented Camp, a mobile camp of large, frankly luxurious tents that moves several times a year to stay near the wildlife. But it’s still just a bunch of tents in the bush, and you need an escort from the main lounge tent to your tent at night. All night long you hear the snorts of impala, the low booming of lions, the snuffle of warthogs, sometimes just outside your tent — you feel a bit alone in the middle of Africa, which is great.

All day long — and I mean all day long — we safaried by vehicle. The friendly team woke us up at 5:30 every morning with juice and coffee, then by 6 we were on our way, seeing the park at sunrise. Then we’d stop for tea and a breakfast of fruit, toast, eggs, and bacon at around 9:30, returning for lunch at noon. At 3:30 we’d head out to do it all again, not coming home until the sun was well down, just in time for an 8:30 dinner call.

Exhausting? A bit. An incredible chance to see the animals? Definitely. Our guide Steve found us tons of those great small buggers, and a lot of beautiful birds. But he also found us the good big game. There were elephant just outside our Land Cruiser, real live wild elephant playing and suckling and eating and knocking down trees and walking close enough I could’ve touched them if I were sitting on the hood. We saw young male impala fighting, we learned all about giraffe behavior, and we found a pack of baboons and watched their babies play.

Sure, there was that one time Steve parked us in the middle of a tsetse fly-infested swamp to get a better view of some animals, but I can forgive him that. Because he also found us this incredible lioness. She was old, and injured, and clearly hadn’t eaten for weeks; she was skin and bones, and was hiding in the shade. Anyone could’ve missed her (in fact, others on safari drove past us right after we saw her and didn’t stop). But Steve spied her sleeping, and we waited around, and we saw her get up and walk and saw her limp and understood that was why she was emaciated and used that to understand lion pack behavior.

So that was this part of the vacation: seeing real wild animals in their real habitat acting naturally, and understanding why. There’s not much better reason for a safari than that! Next stop is the Selous (say see-lou), with its famous river boat safaris to see the hippos and crocodiles and its equally famous pool in the midst of camp to cool off in. Which would be great, because it’s hot here. Africa hot, as the locals say.

"‘For instance,’ [Meryl Streep] says, forking at a bread-crumbed oyster, ‘we are taught about..."

Sun, 08 Jan 2012 15:22:01 +0000

“‘For instance,’ [Meryl Streep] says, forking at a bread-crumbed oyster, ‘we are taught about Benedict Arnold, the first traitor in America, but I’ve never heard—until I went onto the [National Women’s History Museum] Web site—about Deborah Sampson, the first woman to take a bullet for her nation. She was 21 years old in the Revolutionary War. She enlisted on the American side under a man’s name, wore boys’ clothing, was cut with a British saber across her forehead, and took a musket ball in her thigh.’ She’s a good storyteller, with a warm, urgent voice. ‘And her compatriots carried her six miles to the doctor’s, and he stitched up her head and she wouldn’t let him take her pants off—because he would discover she was a woman!’ So did she die of her wound? ‘No—she was very good with her needle, so she cut the musket ball out and sewed her own leg up and served another eighteen months. In 1783 she was discharged, went home and had three children.’ Sampson was granted £34 by the state of Massachusetts for exhibiting ‘an extraordinary instance of feminine heroism by discharging the duties of a faithful, gallant soldier, and at the same time preserving the virtue and chastity of her sex unsuspected and unblemished.’ Amazing story. ‘And I am 60 years old and I learn this story,’ says Streep. ‘I should have learned that story in the fourth grade. Because it helps you as a child to know that it is not just Paul Revere riding a horse and calling, ‘The British are coming, the British are coming.’ It’s not just Benjamin Franklin and George Washington and the battles won, it’s the bravery of all these people that are undiscovered, unknown.’”

- “Meryl Streep: Force of Nature,” Vogue (via thatluciegirl)

I just read this to Chris and started crying.

(via meganwest)

Chain Link Confined (Taken with instagram)

Sun, 08 Jan 2012 12:47:55 +0000

Chain Link Confined (Taken with instagram)

How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body - NYTimes.com

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 15:42:04 +0000

How Yoga Can Wreck Your Body - NYTimes.com:

(via Instapaper)

Arusha, I Can't Quit You

Sat, 31 Dec 2011 16:00:05 +0000

I’m writing this blog entry on my third flight out of Arusha — we keep leaving, but we can’t seem to stay away. Even after yesterday, after we drove out of there.

We overnighted in Arusha after leaving the Mahale Mountains, the easiest convenient flight being, of course, to the city we can’t leave. The next day, we drove out in a big Toyota Land Cruiser under the watchful eye of Christopher, our Maasai guide for the next two days. (Note to Rover executives: when Toyota replaces the Range Rover as the safari vehicle of choice in an image-conscious former British colony, you’ve made a lot of bad moves.) He drove us out through Arusha’s busy, seedy downtown, into the Maasai steppe and even past his own hometown, into the little Manyara reserve, for our first vehicle safari.

In general, we’ve tried to avoid the Northern Circuit on this safari holiday — it’s migration season in the Serengeti, which is supposed to be astounding, but also apparently brings with it as many tourists in Land Cruisers as it does antelope and lions. Rather than fight the lines to see a lounging lion, we’re headed to the Southern circuit, where we’ll be much more alone. (If the fact that we’re the only two people on this flight means anything, much much more alone!)

Manyara was a great introduction to the vehicle safari: easily accessable and with many animals that were generous enough to come close to the road. The park started us off right with an elephant who tentatively stuck his head out and then walked across the road right in front of us.

We then were introduced to antelope and giraffe, both as graceful as on tv. The giraffe somehow a slow-motion version of a horse, gliding over the landscape almost like a special effect. But I think my favorite hooved animal in Manyara was the zebra:

The hooved animals had a lot of competition from the monkey side of things, and the monkeys were really representing at Manyara. The small, cute side of things was held up by the blue and the black-faced vervet monkeys:

Meanwhile, at the large, mischevious end of things, the baboons were moving around in large packs. (Make sure to lock your doors and close your windows! Apparently they’ll reach in to steal your stuff!) With their long, silky-looking fur and inquisitive nature, they pretty much stole the show:

And they had backup in the cute department too, what with their young’uns:

At the end of our first game drive, we drove up the outer escarpment of the Ngorongoro crater to stay at a working farm. And, when I say “working farm” I mean “place that grows the vegetables it serves at gourmet meals, while having luxurious huts for dozens of guests.”

First thing in the morning, it was onto a flight to the vast Ruaha game preserve in the south. Or so we thought: it turned out to be another flight into Arusha, where our local carrier, Coastal Air, would drop us and then figure out how to get us to the Ruaha. And I can’t complain, because, as I said, I’m writing this on my third flight out of Arusha, and we’re the only two people on this sleek, silver Pilatus streaking south high above the clouds, rakish French pilot speeding us towards our next stop: a tented camp in the middle of the bush.

Look at That, it's Raining in the Congo

Fri, 23 Dec 2011 00:10:05 +0000

Lake Tanganyika is the second-longest freshwater lake in the world, and contains 17% of the world’s fresh water — or so it said in the brochure in our resort, the Nkungwe Lodge in the Mahale Mountains. Easy-to-believe statistics, given that the lake stretched almost as far as the eye could see in all directions, a deep, clear blue to rival any Caribbean or South Pacific ocean. I say almost because, while we couldn’t see Zambia to the south or Rwanda and Burundi to the north, we could see the misty hint of the Congo’s eastern forests on the far horizon, and the rain over there would hide it all behind a curtain of dark blue in the eggshell sky.

We’d gotten to the Mahale Mountains area on what was practically a private plane, a scheduled charter that only had the two of us and one other passenger on it. The 12-seater Cessna Grand Caravan shot right into the sky from Arusha’s runway and took us on a scenic, smooth trip over deep-green jungle. (In an old blog entry from my trip to Southeast Asia, I said that Thailand had a yellowish-green jungle and Vietnam a bluish-green one; Tanzania has a black-green one, like the platonic ideal of a tree color but with the shadows clipped straight to black, so that brightness drops into murky darkness straight away.)

From there we were picked up by a guide in a little, fast boat that sped us down Lake Tanganyika to our resort, where they welcomed us warmly. There aren’t many resorts in the Mahale mountains — actually, only three, all offering mountain jungle safaris to see a group of chimpanzees native to the area. One of these is apparently incredibly famous but would’ve had us blowing practically our entire budget in just a few days; we picked the camp, Nkungwe, that many called the second-choice. As the boat pulled up to Nkungwe’s glowing golden sand beach, expansive thatched-roof lounge, and little tents tucked up in the edges of the forest, it was hard to see how this could be a second choice.

Straight off the boat we were offered the chance to trek into the forest to see chimps — wholly unexpected, since we’d heard they were often hours away from camp and we’d arrived just after 1pm. Today, the tracker who follows the group for all the area lodges told us they were only about 45 minutes away, so, after a delicious lunch, we were off!

It took us what seemed like no time to hear their first hoots and screams echoing from only a few hundred yards away. The sound made my heart race — the chimps were close! Maybe we’d catch a glimpse! Oh, how low I set my sights at the beginning of that first trek!

Within twenty minutes we’d come on a group of about a dozen chimps — a mother with a baby just under two in the crook of a trunk about four feet off the ground, the rest up to about thirty feet up in the surrounding trees. We were silent and hesitant as our safari guide, Given, encouraged us to get closer. Finally, I mustered the courage to work to my left and get the chimps so they weren’t backlit and I could start taking photos. The youngster, joined by two friends, was swinging and leaping wildly, testing herself while her mother looked on.

Then there was an enormous hooting and hollering, and a crashing of chimps up to the top of the trees: the alpha male had caught a good-sized monkey and was prepared to share it with the group. We saw four other males tear the monkey — who was already limp and, I presume, dead — into roughly equal parts and chow down. There are no choice pieces, Given explained; they just eat it all.

Soon I was at ease, walking down to where a game warden stood with a machete (more for hacking paths than for defending us from chimps I think), and shot more photos. But, as I climbed uphill to my earlier spot, we were startled by more screaming and general activity as a female in heat came through the group. I could feel the testosterone and aggression around me and suddenly felt very alone, by myself halfway up a forty-foot slope, between the warden and Given. I stood still, as I’d been told, and soon they’d calmed down.

The next day we were out again in the morning, taking a somewhat different path to the chimps. This time they were further up in the hills that rose steeply away from Lake Tanganyika, but fortunately not all the way to the mist-shrouded tops, a good nine-hour hike. About an hour later, we’d crossed a stream and clambered up and down the muddy faces of a rise, tree roots carving the path into natural steps. We ran into the chimps at an intersection, and watched, again, a baby gambol as he and his mother waited for the rest of the group.

Then the alpha male came by — right behind us. We were between the two adult chimps, with no way out except along the path they were sitting directly next to. Given told us to calmly walk right past, and I past close enough to the group’s Alpha that I could’ve brushed him by accident. Later, we saw about another dozen group members together, and even caught two mating, before, with a sudden roar, a downpour enveloped the jungle and drove us home (just as it drove the chimps, who hate to get wet, up higher in the trees).

When we returned to Nkungwe, the staff offered to dry our clothes for us. “Oh no,” we answered, “we’re sure you must have other people to take care of!” (Although, we hadn’t seen any!) “No,” answered the manager, “you’re the only people at any of the three camps in the Mahale.” “Also,” Given expanded, “during the dry season, people usually trek up into the hills, taking 8 hours and having to wait their turn with many other groups to see just one or two chimps. With more than 40 tents at the three camps, and a maximum of 6 people looking at a chimp group at once, and a limit of an hour a day per group, dry season safaris are lucky to see a baby playing, much less something special like a hunting or mating.”

Thus we discovered that the ideal ratio of tourists to national parks is 2:1, just as the ideal ratio of tourists to resort staff is apparently about 2:16. And that even a place that you can’t get to from Europe in less than eleven hours is still packed full at high season.

In all fairness, we did have three other people on our flight back to Arusha, so it wasn’t all a private affair. Also — probably in some kind of penance for our ridiculous luck — I came down with a bit of stomach trouble on our third day and missed the last chimp safari. Anybody who knows my wife knows her luck, and would be unsurprised to learn that, while she and Given were out without me, they saw nearly thirty chimps and even were menaced by a less human-friendly member of the group.

But the lodge fixed me up right that evening, with the traditional cure of soda water and white rice. The rice, as you might guess, was outstanding, as was all of the food served at Nkungwe. Of course, it’s all unfair because they started with fruit of a freshness that’s unimaginable even from a farmer’s market; I don’t believe any fruit was picked as long ago as yesterday, or eggs laid either. And the chef had a deft touch with flavors, mixing spices from southern and western Asia, as well as unexpected techniques like shaved bell pepper (awesome!) into everything.

So, the summary of Mahale Mountains: the only problem is, can any other part live up to this? We’re headed back to Arusha to overnight, then it’s a vehicle safari through Nogorongoro Crater, one of the largest craters on land anywhere. And, to be honest, I fear I’ll find Moivaro’s adorable bar to be rather dull tonight.

My Top 5 Artists (Week Ending 2011-12-18)

Thu, 22 Dec 2011 20:00:23 +0000

My Top 5 Artists (Week Ending 2011-12-18):

Imported from Last.fm Tumblr by JoeLaz

Mount Surprise

Thu, 22 Dec 2011 15:27:34 +0000

The veranadah we enjoyed our first Tanzanian beers on was at the Moivaro Lodge, a lovely getaway in the midst of a coffee plantation just outside Arusha. (It sounds more antebellum than it actually is). This quiet, beautifully landscaped place seems more a stopover for most of its guests than anything else, some heading to summit Mt. Kilimanjaro, some heading to the Northern or Western safari circuits of Tanzania.

We were headed for the Western circuit first, but, stopover or not, nothing says romantic like a mosquito net draped over your wide, comfortable bed, like an awning of old. That, plus a great wood-carved bar — all the wood so far in Africa seems priceless, probably easily-harvested locally but no longer available elsewhere — and a roaring fire, with a friendly man serving locally-manufactured gin (lemony! light! complex!) with locally-manufactured tonic (sweet! also citrus-y!), with bowers of flowering African bushes outside, makes for a lovely stay, stopover or not.

There were really only two downsides to our stay at Moivaro:

For some reason, we kept being seated far away from others at dinner, such that we felt like the young couple seated right next to the bathroom entrance at any LA restaurant; that is, shunned, and we already did the young couple in LA thing so we don’t need a refresher
We decided to tour the local village, which turned out to be a pretty solid Kilimanjaro work-up (how do I know that? When we tried to quit, our guide told us so).

The food, especially the breakfasts, was delicious, so I can overlook the seating. But the walk through town? Advertised as a light two hours — just what our jet-lagged, thirty-hours-on-planes bodies needed, it turned out to be three-quarters quaint and detailed walk through the local village and one-quarter mental toughness exercise.

The walk through the local village was nice enough; everyone had their own farm plot, most clearly large enough to provide for a family. It was the typical scenic version of developing-world poverty: nobody looking hungry or naked, no missing roofs, but no paved roads or running water either.

The hill stood right behind town, overlooking it, with the nicest neighborhoods maybe even a couple of hundred feet up it. So we started up, and soon found out the hill’s dirty secret: while it wasn’t too high, the path was straight up to the top, and any hill is pretty darned steep that way.

We thought about turning around several times, but each time the guide prodded us on — you won’t make Kilimanjaro if you can’t make this! Neither of us is patient enough to spend six days climbing Kilimanjaro, so goodness knows neither of us cares, but neither of us is inclined to back down from a challenge like that either. So we kept at it, which would’ve been just fine if we’d done basic things like, oh, bring water. Which we didn’t. Because this was a leisurely jaunt through town, not a on-all-fours scrabble up a dry, dusty grade.

In retrospect, our biggest mistake was not imitating the village kids, who smashed large plastic bottles flat and rode them down the dirt path like any of us rode garbage can lids in our youth. As it was, I spent half the descent basically surfing my way along, crouched over one foot, sliding on the loose, steep dirt, the other foot out front to steer.

Somehow we made it back, and able to drag out a few Tanzanian Shilling to buy some water at a bar in the village on our way home. And then we got a massage, because we’d earned it: three and a half hours on a mountain, no water. Yep, we were ready to climb Kilimanjaro: pity we were headed for the Mahale Mountains first thing!

30 Hours

Sat, 17 Dec 2011 19:33:30 +0000

Habati from Africa! At least, I think that’s the word. It’s kind of hard to tell details like “what’s the language” and “where am I?” and “what time is it?” after a flight halfway around the world.See, we left the house at 2:30pm and then finally arrived at our destination at 9:30am two days later. Taking into account time change fun, that totals up to about 30 hours in four airports, three planes, and a Toyota Land Cruiser.

It all started in LAX’s Tom Bradley International Terminal, which was a wonderful reminder of just how much of a shithole LAX actually is. I’d last flown out of that terminal probably six years ago, when much of the construction was still ongoing (for instance: the big TSA luggage x-ray machines were right at the front of the building, because that was the only place that there was room, which also meant a building-long line of people waiting for checked luggage clearance that you had to somehow make your way past before you could even get to the line for the check-in counter). I was excited to see the new Tom Bradley International Terminal, with its many restaurants and shops that the wife and I could pass hours in as we waited for our flight.

So we arrived, responsibly, a bit more than 3 hours early (driven by the only good cab driver I’ve had since 1993 in LA, by the way, or at least only the second one who knew where he was going; he got a big holiday tip). And security was fast and we got right in to the gates area. And then we discovered that the restaurants were actually *outside* the gates, and there was almost nothing to do inside. Well-played, LAX, well-played: you almost made me forget what a shithole you are with your nice, clean Tom Bradley International Terminal.

But it was actually OK, because we’d had a pretty outstanding experience checking in for our flight. And how many times have you ever said that? We flew Turkish Airlines — you may not know, since we didn’t, that they won Best Airline in Europe last year — mostly because they met the big two priorities we had:

Reasonable Price
Layover less than 8 hours

In addition, they had an add-on bonus that didn’t contribute to our selection of them but certainly made us more excited: a brand-new premium economy section that they were selling at almost-economy prices, and that we could fly on our first leg, the preposterously-long LAX-Istanbul non-stop route. When we arrived for check-in, we discovered an entire queue set up just for premium economy, so we sped to the counter. Once there, we had to talk to a nice lady in ticketing; as she started to help us, she repeated our names back to us, which resulted in the nice lady next to her saying “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong! I know you. Your ticket is right here!”

That’s right, apparently we’re so important that the desk agents at Turkish Airlines recognize us straight away. I assume that this is because my wife works in TV; all fame in LA comes from TV. At least, I assume it’s not because the agent has a thing for content management systems.

Thus, despite the continuing incompetence of LA World Airports, we were able to enjoy our sojourn at the gate with a reserve of good attitude. And then, speaking of good attitude, we got on the plane.

When we bought premium economy, we pretty much expected what we saw on other domestic airlines: a couple of inches more seat pitch, some premium in-flight entertainment, and business-class food. Maybe free booze too, if we were lucky. What we didn’t expect — and what we saw as soon as we walked in — was pretty much what they called “Business Class” 10 years ago. With a probably inappropriate level of oohing and aahing, we sat down — me next to the window, Court along the aisle, in a 2+4+2 widebody configuration — and then suddenly realized that I could get up and walk past my wife to get to, say, the bathroom without her actually having to leave her seat. And there was a footrest. And those little reading lights on the flexible stalks. And a ton of recent movies on the inflight entertainment.

And, just when we thought it couldn’t get any better, the cabin crew brought us our dinner menu. So that we could make our selections. It looked delicious — when was the last time you said that about an airline menu? — and we were excited. Then it came, and it was delicious, with a salad with good-quality feta and fresh olive oil, and great chicken and fish, and delicious rice and sauce and veggies, and free whisky for the both of us.

The upshot is: the next time you only have 24-30 hours for vacation, you might just want to book a round-trip on Turkish Air and enjoy the free movies, the delicious food, the friendly cabin crew, and the outrageous seats. Apart from the risk of thrombosis, I think I could’ve spent three weeks on that flight!

Flying from Istanbul to Dar Es Salaam, the commercial capital of Tanzania, wasn’t quite as luxurious, but we still got to travel on a brand-new 737-900. And the meals were good again, even the breakfast that came in your standard airline box. Which just begs the question: why does anyone ever take a US carrier? Or, more than that, why are US carriers so awful?

We landed at 3am at the very relaxed, very tropical Dar airport, waited in line for a while to get a very nifty-looking visa stamped into our passports — it even has our photos on it! — and then hung out on a bench waiting for check-in to open for our final leg of our flight, about 3 hours later. So we waited and read — and I accidentally walked around security and off practically onto a boarding walkway, but they were very nice about it — and finally got in a nice, quick line to check in with local low-cost carrier Precision Air.

Again, the flight was lovely, with smiling cabin attendants who somehow pulled off their yellow-and-lime-green uniforms and comfortable-enough seats even on the little ATR turboprop. Luckily enough, we were even seated on the right side of the plane to get a view of Mt. Kilimanjaro as we went in to land.

The Kilimanjaro airport made Dar, with its actual multiple floors and gates and queues seem bustling. In minutes our bags were up and we found a nice man with a sign that said “Armstrong Wade” (my name order is surprisingly unclear when coming at it from another culture, actually) and a big, tan Toyota Land Cruiser. He took us down well-maintained highways, past a town with a market days and past a bunch of guys on good-looking motorcycles with chrome polished to a rare shine — to our first destination: the lodge at the Moivaro Coffee Plantation, just a bit outside of Tazania’s resort center of Arusha and about 3000 feet up the side of Kilimanjaro.

Which is where I’m writing you from, enjoying a caramel-y Serengeti Lager while Court savors her crisp-yet-nutty Kilimanjaro lager, on a verandah while the sun goes down around us, the birds whistle in the nearby jungle, and the locusts chirp a soothing story. Tonight, it’s luxury under a mosquito net in our little hut. Because, after thirty hours, it’s been well time.

My Top 5 Artists (Week Ending 2011-12-11)

Thu, 15 Dec 2011 06:11:06 +0000

My Top 5 Artists (Week Ending 2011-12-11):

Imported from Last.fm Tumblr by JoeLaz

Guilt. (Taken with instagram)

Sat, 10 Dec 2011 16:48:42 +0000

Guilt. (Taken with instagram)

1954 (Taken with instagram)

Sat, 10 Dec 2011 03:38:51 +0000

1954 (Taken with instagram)

My Top 5 Artists (Week Ending 2011-12-4)

Wed, 07 Dec 2011 05:54:30 +0000

My Top 5 Artists (Week Ending 2011-12-4):

Imported from Last.fm Tumblr by JoeLaz

Califrostia (Taken with instagram)

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 17:10:47 +0000

Califrostia (Taken with instagram)