tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-114173582024-03-13T08:18:48.651+08:00Small Girl Big Travels: Field NotesThe world is more beautiful on the road less travelledSarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.comBlogger163125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-91127182962781177302018-06-02T00:17:00.001+08:002018-06-02T10:30:48.897+08:00Sublime<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I think "sublime" is the word that best describes diving.<br />
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I remember first learning about the notion of sublimity in junior college, when we spent a year exploring Romantic and Gothic literature. One of the hallmarks of Romantic literature is the celebration of the natural world; Gothic literature, on the other hand, revolves around the wild, the terrifying, and the uncanny. The common thread tying these two genres together is the rapturous grandeur of emotions that nature - the utmost source of sublimity - elicits in the characters and readers alike.<br />
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It's hard to think of another word that describes diving so perfectly. Close your eyes, hold your breathe, and imagine -<br />
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A world that is quiet and grey in its vastness. You float, you and a mere handful of others, in the middle of this edgeless, desolate cosmos, and then with a muted nod at each other, you slip silently beneath the waves.<br />
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And again, imagine -<br />
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The exultant freedom of being underwater, a space where you can navigate with ease one more dimension than you were created to master. A space to which you're alien, but one that embraces you wholly and intimately, immediately.<br />
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And, once more? -<br />
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This time close your eyes underwater as well. Feel your breath, feel your weightlessness, feel your vulnerability. Then open your eyes and look at your hands. Clench your fingers, release them; marvel at your human-ness and how perfectly designed you are.<br />
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And lastly, imagine, if you can -<br />
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The countless wonders and mysteries that must exist just outside the bounds of your vision and your mind.<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-3348490515276264632018-03-17T13:57:00.000+08:002018-10-14T20:36:42.054+08:00Spiti Valley winter trek<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"There!" Tenzing hisses, pulling us into a squat so abruptly that I almost lose my balance.<br />
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It is our seventh day in Spiti Valley, and we're trekking back to lower ground. Yesterday we spent the night in Komic, one of the highest villages in the region at almost 4,600m, where we unexpectedly found fossils of ancient sea creatures in a bed of loose rocks. (The Himalayas used to be part of the Indian Ocean before plate tectonic movements pushed it out of water two hundred million years ago, so this belt is particularly rich with fossils of sea animals and plants.) We heard that scores of people camp here in the summer to hunt for fossils, so I suppose we were luckier than most - we found ours when we were idly kicking stones around during a water break.<br />
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Before Komic we also passed through Hikkim, yet another high-altitude village that is home to the highest post office in the world. Our guide, Tenzing, joked that pretty much everything in this area is the highest <i>something</i> in the world. This claim to fame, like it or not, comes at a price - life in the mountains is so harsh and difficult that you can see it in the deep-set wrinkles on the locals' faces, and in the strength of their browned, rugged hands. Around the central fireplace one cold night, we asked our home-stay host <i>what keeps everyone in this village? </i>The look in his eyes as he answered spoke volumes. <i>Poverty is one reason, </i>he said, his resignation tempered with pride and warmth, <i>and also because of the community here. We all know each other and help each other, and when the nights are cold and long, we hold parties to celebrate. </i>I wonder if we all lost something important when we moved into the cities.<br />
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Then on Christmas, we passed through the picturesque village of Kee, a messy collection of straight-edged Tibetan-style houses on a hill, topped by the biggest monastery in the Valley, Kee Gompa. Kee was a personal highlight for me - in fact, a picture of Kee that I chanced upon last year was the sole reason I had decided to trek in Spiti Valley. Look at this photo and tell me it isn't the most beautiful village you have ever seen!<br />
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Getting into Spiti Valley though, isn't as easy as you'd think it is. Because Tibet lies just a few hours' walk away, and border skirmishes are not uncommon, security in this region is immensely tight. There are military outposts and checkpoints everywhere. An official at the permit office also told us that because of the conflict, it is extremely difficult for China nationals to be granted permission to trek in this region.<br />
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Then there is the matter of the roads. In order to get to Kaza, the gateway to Spiti Valley, we had to drive for eight long hours on roads that were freshly hacked out of the sides of the mountains. Excavation is still on-going in many sections, so the surfaces are hardly smooth, and the cliff faces at the side are oftentimes so raw that I subconsciously braced myself for a rock-fall at every turn. A friend of mine who had ridden through Spiti Valley with a motorbike gang said that <i>someone in his group had actually skidded off the road and down the mountainside. </i>The poor soul hadn't survived, of course, and the rest of them had had to scramble down to retrieve his body. I was extremely relieved to make it through with nothing more than a sore bum and a nose-ful of dust.<br />
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Today, we're finally three-quarters of the way through our trek, which means we can almost feel and taste luxuries like hot showers and buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I'm busy smacking my lips at the thought of all that food, which is why I practically walk into Jared and Tenzing before I see what they've been observing for a while: a dead yak.<br />
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It's sprawled in an awkward, dark mess at the foot of the opposing cliff, barely two hundred metres away from us. Its head must be facing away because I can't make out where it is; the only distinguishable features are its spindly legs, and a large reddish patch on its side. Without much though I assume it's a blanket that its owner had once given this poor beast.<br />
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"Maybe it fell," I say. The trails here are treacherous with ice this time of year; we've each taken a spill on our bums at least once. Tenzing just looks thoughtful as he moves off.<br />
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Twenty metres on, and he suddenly freezes again. Then he grabs us, pulling down hard on our arms as he falls into a tense crouch. My bewilderment vanishes in a split second as I read his lips: <i>SNOW LEOPARDS!</i><br />
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To put this in perspective, there are only an estimated twenty-five to thirty leopards in this region - a population density of less than one per hundred square kilometres. (Knowing this fact meant that I had, rationally and unfortunately, decided not to pack a telephoto lens for the trek!) The small population is a result of man's encroachment into their territories. Thankfully, after the introduction of several conservation programmes in recent years, there are indications that the leopards' numbers are on the rise. Local attitudes have also changed, with people now considering themselves lucky to see one. In one famous incident in 2017, an entire community came together to care for an old snow leopard that had wandered into their village, before cremating it when it finally died.<br />
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The two snow leopards Tenzing spotted are standing on the face of the mountain opposite us. A narrow valley separates them from us, so we are not afraid of an attack. In any case, snow leopards are known to be the least aggressive to humans out of all the big cats, and have been seen to even abandon their kill when threatened.<br />
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Even at this distance the leopards' coats are visibly luscious and full. Their tails look especially thick and fluffy, with a row of diamond-like spots patterned down their lengths. Both leopards hold our gaze as they stride uphill slowly. "Blood," Tenzing says in a low voice, and my mind immediately returns to the redness we saw around the dead yak. "They walk slow because they are sleepy from drinking blood, or maybe they are old."<br />
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The leopards continue to make their way up the mountain at a leisurely pace, though there is a wariness in their steps that belies their nonchalance. At one point, they stop and stare at us - perhaps willing us to go away, but we hold our ground, frozen to the spot by a blood-thumping mix of excitement and awe. Have you ever experienced one of those moments when everything seems fast and slow at the same time? I feel like I'm so focused that I can see in slow-motion every twitch the leopards make, and yet, before I know it, the leopards are at the crest of the mountain, and they disappear with one last look over their shoulders at us. Then the spell is broken; the cold hits our senses with renewed vigour, and we reluctantly fall back into rank for the <a href="https://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2018/01/the-mountains-are-calling-and-i-must-go.html">rest of our descent</a>.<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-5596014575586531442018-01-21T21:23:00.001+08:002018-01-21T21:23:32.736+08:00The Mountains are Calling and I Must Go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe out.<br />
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Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe out.<br />
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The air is cold, so cold and dry that every inhalation makes my nostrils hurt. The scarf warms my breath a little, but it comes at a price - I can smell the exertion of the past eight days in the yarn, a stale mixture of sweat, mucus, saliva.<br />
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Breathe in. Breathe in. Breathe out.<br />
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The first time I trekked at altitude, I cried. I hadn't imagined that walking could be so difficult. But up here, the mountains don't care if you live or die. They're silent against your tears. It's you against the world.<br />
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In. In. Out.<br />
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I can hear my heartbeat, fast, loud, hard, in my ears and in my chest. I haven't been able to eat anything more than instant soup down the past few days, and I feel the beginning of a headache stirring behind my eyes. I'm tired, and hungry, and my clothes are hanging looser, but I'm acutely aware of each breath I take, the way it rushes down my windpipe and fills my lungs. And so, despite it all, I feel strangely Alive.<br />
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In. In. Out.<br />
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One step, then another. One hour, then another. One mountain, then another. One lifetime, then another.<br />
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In. In. Out.<br />
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Do you feel most alive when you're pushed to your limits?<br />
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I do.<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-14867324609012960882017-12-03T14:50:00.002+08:002018-03-03T20:30:21.700+08:00Dallol<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Stepping into Dallol is like stepping into another world; there's no less cliched way to say it. Where else could the very fabric of a place be such a kaleidoscopic clash of colours, lines, and patterns? It is the masterpiece of a painter taken by fever, or the enigmatic translation of a three-year-old's dreams onto canvas; this is the only fitting description.<br />
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Even its name hints at how far removed it is from our understanding of normality. <i>Dallol</i> - or, in English, <i>disintegrated</i>. Broken, not intact, not one of the whole. I wonder how the first few persons who stumbled onto this place felt?</div>
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The landscape is all the more alien because of the journey we took to get here, across the vast <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2017/07/salt-flats-and-camel-caravans.html">salt pan</a> that separates Dallol from the familiar. We drove steadily across the blank whiteness of the pan, until a rusty-brown mound that rose abruptly out of the flatness prevented us from going any further. The mound was torn by thigh-deep rifts that we often had to skip over, or if they were too wide, retrace our steps and avoid.</div>
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And now, here we stand: on the highest point for miles around, looking down on a psychedelic shock that shouldn't be, but is.</div>
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Dallol, being a volcanic crater, is an area of sulfur. Although maybe it is the weather, or some other unknown reason, but the air isn't sharp with the acrid stink of sulfur; Dallol is merely an assault on the eyes today. In places the pools of blue and green catch the sunlight and glint in a faintly translucent way - I think like how a painter's workspace must look like, with countless containers of multi-coloured paintbrush water pushed together haphazardly. But this is just an illusion; closer inspection reveals that the surface is solid, crystalline. Still, we take heed as we navigate around the crater on the narrow whitish crusts, for the faint bubbling noise reminds us that under the layer of crystals, there is a nasty surprise in store for the careless.</div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-22629397142084044192017-07-13T22:12:00.001+08:002017-07-14T07:16:59.803+08:00Of salt flats and camel caravans<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Most people would have probably heard of the salt flats in Bolivia, Salar de Uyuni. There are tons of gorgeous photos of the place - vast expanses of white in the dry season, and perfectly mirrored shots of the sky in the wet season. But I don't think many have heard of the salt flats in northern Ethiopia, despite its no less impressive claim to fame.</div>
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The salt flats lie in Ethiopia's <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2017/03/erta-ales-living-lava-lake.html">Danakil Depression</a>, one of the lowest (a hundred and twenty-one metres below sea level, certainly the lowest point in Africa) and hottest places on Earth (though you wouldn't know it from my photos, because of the unseasonal torrential rain that had flooded the area in a single morning. And speaking of which, has any one else noticed that unseasonal weather is becoming more and more frequent? I've had four consecutive trips where we met weather patterns that had the locals mystified - unexpectedly grey weather in <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/search/label/French%20Polynesia">French Polynesia</a>; extended droughts in one part of Ethiopia and <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2017/03/simien-mountains-grand-canyon-of-africa.html">unusually heavy rains</a> in another; late spring in Yubeng; and sandstorms in Jiayuguan. We even heard that the <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2015/11/hammerheads.html">hammerheads</a> we'd encountered in <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/search/label/Indonesia">Indonesia</a> in 2015 had gone deeper this past season because the waters were getting too warm for their liking). Temperatures go up to a mind-blowing <i>fifty</i> degrees Celcius from June to August - the only months when the salt miners take a break from plying their time-tested trade, one that has seen generations and generations of miners come and go, for over two thousand five hundred years. In spite of its already long history, there's little doubt that this trade will continue for many more years, because the salt flat is one thousand two hundred square kilometres and - get this - <i>eight hundred</i> <i>metres deep</i>.</div>
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We had actually been on our way to a sulfur mine, which lay over an hour's drive beyond the salt flats. Behind us was the salt miners' camp, a derelict settlement of shabby huts and indiscriminate piles of rubbish, and far beyond even that was a village built on the edge of a dried-up river. Miners have to walk about two hundred and thirty kilometres with their camel caravans to reach this village in order to sell their salt. </div>
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Later that night we would return to the miners' camp to rest - we slept in huts whose roofs and walls offered little protection from the rain, and conducted all manners of business in the open (there was no purpose-built toilet). Besides the obvious squeamishness of accidentally stepping in someone's leftovers, the thing that struck me the most was the sombre thought of the locals who fall ill, some perhaps fatally so, from the unhygienic living conditions - and I, <i>lucky me, just for being born in the right place!</i>, was safe from all these diseases simply because I had cheap and easy access to vaccines in my own country. The unfairness of the way the world works boggles my mind.</div>
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In any case we were now in a convoy of jeeps travelling over the salt flats. Because the rain had made the ground dangerously slick, our driver was going at a very cautious ten km per hour - at one point I wasn't sure if he was feigning sleep or had really nodded off. We continued this way for what felt like an hour before finally reaching a dry patch, where we stopped for a quick stretch and a marvel at the scenery. And the scenery, it must be said, was pretty cool - all around us were these distinct, three-dimensional hexagonal tiles on the ground, forming an ancient geometric tract that was once upon a time part of the Red Sea. </div>
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Then, further down the salt flat, we met a large congregation of miners. They were hunched over in groups of three or four, their donkeys and camels lying by their sides. Given the number of people the area was oddly silent, save for the rhythmic <i>chuf chuf chuf </i>of hoes cutting through the salt. Even the animals had a strange sort of impassivity to them; I imagined that they were despondent from the heat and tedium as well.<br />
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The miners were each engaged in different activities. Some of them were hacking rough chunks of salt from the ground, and the others, whittling them down to equal-sized slabs. Yet others were busy lashing the slabs onto their camels, readying themselves for the long walk back to camp before nightfall.<br />
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It's not easy work, as you can imagine -<br />
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Your palms and soles, raw from the jagged crystals that make up your lifeblood.<br />
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Your eyes, perpetually narrowed against the glare of the surrounding whiteness.<br />
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Your skin, burning from the feverish, salty African sun.<br />
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Your back, hunched over for hours on end, as you chop chop chop away at the ground beneath your feet.<br />
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One miner looked up at us as we went by. He could speak Arabic because he'd worked in the Middle East before, he said, was there anyone here who could understand him? An Egyptian man in our group stepped forward. Someone else handed him a bottle of water, which he acknowledged, and then he asked in a quiet, matter-of-fact way through the Egyptian, "Do you have painkillers?"<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0Ethiopia9.1450000000000014 40.489673000000039-6.7069934999999994 19.835376000000039 24.996993500000002 61.143970000000039tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-1959168411557615062017-06-01T23:23:00.003+08:002017-07-13T22:12:03.901+08:00Omo Valley, Ethiopia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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At the tail-end of our trip to Ethiopia, we visited the Omo Valley tribes in the deep south. Thinking back, I'm not sure what I had expected to get out of that sojourn. Barely a week after my trip a friend back in Singapore described it as akin to a <i>frivolous gap year</i> - that is, by his definition, the kind of self-gratifying trip that privileged kids take to ogle at the less fortunate. I argued weakly that I wasn't there to feel better about myself, but it was true that I had specifically chosen to visit the tribes because they seemed so exotic - so, <i>ogling</i>, if you will.<br />
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Incidentally, this was the first time I'd decided to visit a group of locals for the sake of finding out more about their way of life. Usually my trips are centered around hiking and diving; if the chance came up to interact with the locals I'd seize it, but it had never been something I actively sought out. So, it wasn't until I was on the jeep headed towards the Mursi tribe that it struck me I didn't have a clue what to expect when I finally met them. Would we be invited in for tea and a chit chat? Maybe they'd take us for a walk around their village. Or perhaps we'd luck out and there would be a celebration that we could take part in. Regardless of how it could pan out, I wasn't certain how should I conduct myself to ensure that I would be respectful and non-intrusive, because I imagine there are few things worse than being objectified and looked down upon.<br />
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It must be said here that Ethiopia is not an easy place to love. From the moment I touched down in Addis Ababa and was bodily pushed out of the airport door by a security guard, my impression of the country took a downturn. Then, as we travelled out to <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2017/03/erta-ales-living-lava-lake.html">northeastern Ethiopia</a>, the land became more strewn with rubbish and the people increasingly aggressive. Children threw rocks at us. A boy barely ten years of age threatened to slit our throats with a machete. Two men bigger than me smilingly asked me to take a photo of them, then grabbed my arm and demanded payment for it. A toddler threw a stick at our car with so much vehemence that his feet lifted off the ground. People of all ages yelled "China, China!" at us. We were heckled, shoved, and had our personal space invaded countless times (though it was sometimes out of curiosity and not maliciousness).<br />
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At first I was really upset. These people and their actions affected me and made me feel constantly on edge. Who likes to be treated with this little respect, consideration and dignity? Then, one day, our guide sensed the mood and told us: <i>Don't worry. Do whatever you want. If you want to take pictures or walk around the village, but they shout and throw rocks at you, ignore them. They are nothing.</i><br />
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His words gave me a jolt. In an instant, I understood why and how these people came to act the way they do. How can these people be expected to treat others with respect when they aren't accorded the same, not even by their own countrymen?<br />
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I also realised that I wasn't enjoying the trip because I was reacting to the situations without first seeking to understand it. The region I was in where most of these incidents happened was Afar, one of the poorest in the country. Ethiopia, though developing better in recent years, has also been through some tough times. Wars, politics and famines have ravaged the country; its scars are obvious to see. There are people begging on the streets for money. As you get further out from the capital the requests become for food, then water. We even visited a tribe that lives in abject poverty, in an area so parched and primitive I could barely believe it exists. To exacerbate the situation, there was a drought going on while I was there, and so there were a lot of people in desperate conditions. Recognising these facts made me empathise with the people who were rough towards me, instead of instinctively shunning away from them out of fear.<br />
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We are all moulded by personal circumstances, and we all struggle to survive the only way we know - some more so than others - and perhaps, at the end of the day, the best we can do is to recognise each other as children under the same heavens, and appreciate just how far a little kindness can go.<br />
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The first tribe we visited was the Mursi (famed for the clay disks the women wear in their lower lip). They lived about sixty kilometres from the town of Jinka, and we made the journey by four-wheeled drive, bouncing down dirt roads heavy with suffocating clouds of hot dust. The arid land stretched out to the horizon on both sides, dotted only with the withered outlines of dead trees, and tall, bizarre-looking termite nests that were surprisingly cool to the touch. The ride took us over two dry riverbeds. I looked out the window in time to see three dead cows, their hides waxy and stretched tight over their protruding ribs. (<a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2017/04/bull-jumping-ceremony-with-bena-tribe.html">Cows and goats are the lifeblood of the tribes here</a>, and this must have been a significant loss to a family out there. To illustrate how important the animals are: during one of our drives, we met a roadblock; villagers standing sentry at the sides of the road ran out, dragging large tree branches that they laid across the path of every approaching car. Twenty or so men and women brandishing all manners of weapons - machetes, sticks, stones - then poured onto the road and surrounded each vehicle. It turned out that a truck had hit a goat further up the road, and the owner had made a quick phone call to mobilise a roadblock on all vehicles passing through. With some persuasive skills and a good deal of cold sweat, our driver pointed out that we weren't the persons they were looking for, and they cleared the road for us to go on.)<br />
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At the edge of a slight clearing, our car stopped. There wasn't any real indication that we had arrived at a village, but we got out of the car anyway at the behest of our driver. Almost immediately, a couple of children with white paint down their torsos came skipping out from behind a nearby grove of shrubs, chorusing the phrase we would come to realise was the anthem of all youths in the Valley: <i>Photo, photo, ten birr, ten birr! </i>A group of bare-breasted, middle-aged women soon appeared - the men were out tending to their livestock, so only women and children were around - their calls of <i>ten birr</i> were only slightly less energetic than the children's.<br />
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Our driver took us on a tour of the village. I use the word <i>village</i> loosely, because it supposes a certain size, and this community consisted only of fewer than ten huts, each shaped something like an upside-down jello cup. It took all of a minute to walk around it. All the while, a train of Mursi followed us, tugging on our shirt sleeves and trousers - and my ponytail - repeating <i>"photo, photo,"</i> until even our driver looked at us wearily and shrugged. "Photo?" he asked. <br />
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That was the magic word; immediately the Mursi gathered into a rough line, pulled their clothes straight, and put on their head gear. They beckoned with their hands at the slightest eye contact, mouthing <i>photo, ten birr, ten birr,</i> in a whispered urge that knew the visitors would surely pay for photos, after having travelled all this way to see them.<br />
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How it goes is this: from the people standing in front of you, you choose the ones that catch your eye. It could be the one with the most flamboyant headwear, or the one with the most impressive scars. Or maybe it's the kids who have painted themselves in an identical fashion and are standing with their arms draped over each other's shoulders. Kids are always cute in photos. Having chosen your subject, you then point to them and gesture with your camera, and mime where you would like them to stand or pose. Usually, they already know the good spots and the popular poses. They wait patiently while you fiddle with your camera settings and check the image preview. You snap, snap, snap, then hand over a handful of crumpled notes.<br />
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Let me say it here - that was easily the most uncomfortable moment of my trip.<br />
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Reeling a little from the shock of it, I took a handful of photos mindlessly and signalled to our driver, <i>let's go</i>. He gave me a look of amusement and turned to lead the way back to the car, whereupon the rest of the Mursi broke rank and started surrounding us again.<br />
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In retrospect, isn't this ironic? There I was, worried that I would be objectifying the tribes-people and intruding into their personal space, but as it turned out we were the ones getting harried instead. Fair exchange, I say. We get a brief glimpse of their lives, and they get to capitalise on our curiosity. In regions rife with poverty, this has turned out to be smart, opportunistic way to get money for food and medicine.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvePn8zGLinPrG3MWpUcMPbSrAM6ejsmpKh3Vxb4cOeJD5GB_rvZPjq5Q4FIT76f6eLVeupep8B9Kf3R0q48uqlHXd7WFzqYyrAAms9Dx-khnA5HMPLgovQMZYQ_Rl-vOai4I/s1600/IMG_7692.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvePn8zGLinPrG3MWpUcMPbSrAM6ejsmpKh3Vxb4cOeJD5GB_rvZPjq5Q4FIT76f6eLVeupep8B9Kf3R0q48uqlHXd7WFzqYyrAAms9Dx-khnA5HMPLgovQMZYQ_Rl-vOai4I/s640/IMG_7692.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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After the Mursi, we headed back to Jinka, where we met up with the principal and two students of a local elementary-cum-high school. We had with us a fairly large number of English books - courtesy of many generous friends - that we intended to pass to the school, since these aren't that easy to come by in the smaller towns. One of the students was a nineteen year-old boy in Grade Eight. He told us that he'd only enrolled at age thirteen, because his family had been reluctant to lose a pair of helping hands around the farm. His dream now was to make it to university one day, and the last glimpse I caught of him running down the street with an Enid Blyton book tucked under an arm will always be a reminder of what it means to persevere against all odds.<br />
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From Jinka, we headed deeper into the Valley, visiting the Hamar, the Bena, the Tsemay, and the Daasanach. By this time Dad and I had gotten a lot less awkward interacting with the tribes-people, although that didn't detract from the fact that every photo and conversation was transactional. Mostly, I was the one who was the target of the badgering because my camera gave me away. Dad conveniently deflected all attention from himself by automatically saying, "She's the one with the camera, go ask her." He was, however, outwitted on one occasion when an enterprising young lady came up from behind and pushed her bare chest into his arm. When he recoiled in surprise, she grinned sheepishly and seized the temporary attention to parrot, <i>photo, photo! </i></div>
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Thinking back, the most peaceful moment I had that leg of the trip was when we were on our way back to Arba Minch. We had pulled over at the side of a road to wait for the local police to come by with some paperwork. The sun was low in the sky - I can't remember if it was rising or setting - and the terraced hills of Konso were cast in a hazy glow. There was no one for miles around - or at least there was no one interested in us for miles around. I stood on top of a small hill in the unexpected quiet enjoying the view, until our driver waved me back into the car, the faint sour odor of butter (that the locals mix with clay and rub into their hair) lingering in our senses long after the scenes of the Valley had faded away.</div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-44760828809945080712017-04-29T16:24:00.003+08:002017-04-29T16:42:52.821+08:00Snapshots of Lalibela<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXjFxJnOVE9qiZsRcK0UUeI-XtGbgMn7kZ15c0v0HBmmRlL9Ux_8d9k7ItXBPQHwDUCc55aO5am6A4tvQIMCZI163qQKOq9vO1kHFCtIKzMaDpfNbT48NgcJXXAefMgO6yJIE/s1600/IMG_6767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Saint George's Church in Lalibela (shaped as a giant cross) is carved 15 metres into the ground" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXjFxJnOVE9qiZsRcK0UUeI-XtGbgMn7kZ15c0v0HBmmRlL9Ux_8d9k7ItXBPQHwDUCc55aO5am6A4tvQIMCZI163qQKOq9vO1kHFCtIKzMaDpfNbT48NgcJXXAefMgO6yJIE/s640/IMG_6767.jpg" title="Saint George's Church in Lalibela" width="640" /></a></div>
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Lalibela is set in the <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.com/2017/03/simien-mountains-grand-canyon-of-africa.html">craggy highlands</a> of <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.com/2017/03/erta-ales-living-lava-lake.html">northern Ethiopia</a>. The overland journey there will take you past scenes frozen in history - huts woven together with sticks, bare-chested children playing under the trees, and farmers bent over in <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.com/2016/07/batad-rice-terraces.html">terraces</a> of teff. Elders shrouded in white, timeless apparitions that have been treading these roads for centuries, pause in their tracks and gaze at you as you pass by. Even before you enter Lalibela, you feel in your bones - there is something transcendental about this place.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji-BL-m0XUF6jtd-r-_YIwiminsgQ4Hdw-jpUMVb72cZcmKlydz5oUO90fLyikfQu4PFbopRNKKSdAf2bN2zGOwG8_DXXKIG-AtJdAaMzgaH2Jf7yZ1zocDMlhBQGFNrhZIPXk/s1600/IMG_6712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="inside a rock-hewn church in Lalibela" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji-BL-m0XUF6jtd-r-_YIwiminsgQ4Hdw-jpUMVb72cZcmKlydz5oUO90fLyikfQu4PFbopRNKKSdAf2bN2zGOwG8_DXXKIG-AtJdAaMzgaH2Jf7yZ1zocDMlhBQGFNrhZIPXk/s640/IMG_6712.JPG" title="inside a church" width="640" /></a></div>
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Stolen silence, an enclave of calm. We slip into a church where the air is cool and dark. Beneath the carpet of red cloth the ground is uneven, each notch a vestige of the hands that had tirelessly carved the church out of solid rock. The eleven churches were all hewn in twenty-four hours, they claim, a labour of love by men and angels.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVniqkywhZ9r_YSkBqsMy4frIlRcZzaylPJcnd1bvm15c9-3Ay37UNffk9EUD09IaSj762dl0G5QSOceklgXK5UcDFWckueZiS2lIg74rddiAvHi-cU-O-17jfBY50ajB5NTuR/s1600/IMG_6710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="four men in traditional white cotton shawls praying in front of a church" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVniqkywhZ9r_YSkBqsMy4frIlRcZzaylPJcnd1bvm15c9-3Ay37UNffk9EUD09IaSj762dl0G5QSOceklgXK5UcDFWckueZiS2lIg74rddiAvHi-cU-O-17jfBY50ajB5NTuR/s640/IMG_6710.jpg" title="men praying in front of a church" width="640" /></a></div>
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In the courtyard, a quartet stays motionless; they pay you no heed as you tiptoe by. Only when you are directly in front of them do you see the slight movement of their lips, and hear the low hum of voices harmonized in a long-rehearsed prayer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_opul5E2h6uvxKbmjhyphenhyphenY196Y2Vu_jvc1ujLVQvzAc7aFnww4FIymZaG86oibzpbpkFGQuLS4RmTX5dgVrH1vzLUImuOIo-aB7XNcFtj4usxRq2rV4Hh3ZXRbm7ju61qqOIIz/s1600/DJI_0118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="drone shot of Saint George's Church in Lalibela (shaped as a giant cross), which is carved 15 metres into the ground" border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_opul5E2h6uvxKbmjhyphenhyphenY196Y2Vu_jvc1ujLVQvzAc7aFnww4FIymZaG86oibzpbpkFGQuLS4RmTX5dgVrH1vzLUImuOIo-aB7XNcFtj4usxRq2rV4Hh3ZXRbm7ju61qqOIIz/s640/DJI_0118.jpg" title="Saint George's Church in Lalibela" width="640" /></a></div>
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A great cross carved fifteen metres into the ground, its shape fully visible only from above, as if its designer had meant it for God's eyes alone. Our hotel was less than two hundred metres away from the church, but we couldn't catch even a glimpse of it from there - that's how well it camouflaged into the topography of the land.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHLgQwv-sR3p4goEYxc6C5ddARNvuJO7uAgYNivpqNlT8xqRR1p3G56drQuAV7KyLhpOIbqNcQ4jQq6zE3doALPYvXe4qsmJ1ty-lzWo90ii0V7OPlcnQ7_bKnd0PvY07DIcoL/s1600/IMG_6788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Mummy in Lalibela church" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHLgQwv-sR3p4goEYxc6C5ddARNvuJO7uAgYNivpqNlT8xqRR1p3G56drQuAV7KyLhpOIbqNcQ4jQq6zE3doALPYvXe4qsmJ1ty-lzWo90ii0V7OPlcnQ7_bKnd0PvY07DIcoL/s640/IMG_6788.jpg" title="Mummy in Lalibela church" width="640" /></a></div>
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There are rectangular holes dug into the sheer walls of the churches. These are tombs for the wealthy, the noble, and the venerated. In one of the courtyards a mummified body lies barely concealed behind panels of mesh. We're told it's a miracle it's so well-preserved. And it is, indeed - its toenails are still distinguishable, at the end of a foot so desiccated that it looks more like wood than flesh. The mummies are left in the open as a reminder that miracles happen to those who believe.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNadxMdJjuaO3HETTy2TCRhpVY_NLA2BswB3N-H52xMZIJwU1bZeT7XC2TkJnGKR7ylzaAwSHbzG9zlnG6-6syrXthMXsLh41hkntq5lYGMMseA9ECyLeuN_x0kcZ3azFS5x_/s1600/IMG_6718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="tukuls and churches in Lalibela. a man praying in the doorway of a church tunnel" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNadxMdJjuaO3HETTy2TCRhpVY_NLA2BswB3N-H52xMZIJwU1bZeT7XC2TkJnGKR7ylzaAwSHbzG9zlnG6-6syrXthMXsLh41hkntq5lYGMMseA9ECyLeuN_x0kcZ3azFS5x_/s640/IMG_6718.jpg" title="Lalibela" width="446" /></a></div>
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A subterranean tunnel between two churches, modelled after man's image of hell, so dark that you can't see your hand in front of your face, or your foot as you take each hesitant step. With one hand tracing the rock wall on your left and the other the ceiling of the tunnel, you press forward carefully, disoriented, feeling half like you're floating and half like you're drowning, before you burst back out in breathless relief into the warm daylight.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wNkd81OHO6W44nWCIuTp0HOhRcrl1lR9YFlPJvDkSQ3aMMIRpJ0vch6dyFM10JfRdoVLx7qw8PsbCxbpWnWlOisIliIx6NTKozurqtVSZ8uk9d6n_su04SHLUSP1icMWje0H/s1600/IMG_6827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="church in lalibela with a steep drop" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wNkd81OHO6W44nWCIuTp0HOhRcrl1lR9YFlPJvDkSQ3aMMIRpJ0vch6dyFM10JfRdoVLx7qw8PsbCxbpWnWlOisIliIx6NTKozurqtVSZ8uk9d6n_su04SHLUSP1icMWje0H/s640/IMG_6827.jpg" title="church in lalibela" width="426" /></a><br />
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Millions of pilgrims converge on Lalibela throughout the year, most notably on Easter, Christmas, and Timkat (Ethiopian Orthodox celebration of Epiphany). I wonder out loud if any one of them has ever fallen to their deaths. The guide says no one has, but that doesn't give me enough assurance or the courage to peer over the edge of that steep, steep drop.</div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0Lalibela, Ethiopia12.0308987 39.04762979999998211.9998392 39.007289299999982 12.0619582 39.087970299999981tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-33518611845040700352017-04-06T20:20:00.001+08:002017-04-26T17:33:53.641+08:00Bull-Jumping Ceremony with the Bena Tribe (Omo Valley, Ethiopia)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqFpi26U-culDOaePeBb7T05AjU3Q3OzLryPoLg30Jo8WwWHH0JdITXoheR1a16s677mnjdaDxKkhsdPx-dPHWFmPb7FjOayVmJrjgrNNaZSL8W3rMNHHMBBoWESP1IC96CbO/s1600/IMG_7338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="a bena tribe boy getting his face painted during a bull-jumping ceremony in omo valley, ethiopia" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqFpi26U-culDOaePeBb7T05AjU3Q3OzLryPoLg30Jo8WwWHH0JdITXoheR1a16s677mnjdaDxKkhsdPx-dPHWFmPb7FjOayVmJrjgrNNaZSL8W3rMNHHMBBoWESP1IC96CbO/s640/IMG_7338.jpg" title="Face painting" width="640" /></a></div>
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Coming of age is a significant milestone in many cultures around the world. This I know because MTV ran a programme that documented some very important observations on human nature, called <i>My Super Sweet Sixteen </i>(which I must admit I watched voraciously).<br />
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This milestone is so universal because it celebrates something we can all relate to: a person's transition from child to adult, becoming someone braver, wiser, stronger (and marriageable). The Sateré-Mawé tribe endures stings from bullet ants. The Jewish celebrate Bar Mitzvah. Vanuatu islanders bungee-jump. And the Bena, whom we visited in Ethiopia, bull-jump.<br />
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According to our guide, the bull-jumping ceremony is reserved for boys who want to get married, as well as boys whose <i>younger brothers</i> want to get married. He told us a story about his friend, who had become a Christian missionary, and who refused to partake in such a ceremony until his brothers begged him in tears to go through with it, because they couldn't get married until he did.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizF0jj9Oyg8e31E6Xds3jD92yXBfMtcEEbsReEfB_IF-7v2NmI2H5LwNDv5tJ1YUInetVg8mAv_T97l0EDWukmH3zYndYI661L1teUz2tR8nyheGnPqwBrcA0VhRpld60ox9Ul/s1600/IMG_7522.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="group of bena or hamar girls dancing and singing during the bull-jumping ceremony in omo vally, ethiopia" border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizF0jj9Oyg8e31E6Xds3jD92yXBfMtcEEbsReEfB_IF-7v2NmI2H5LwNDv5tJ1YUInetVg8mAv_T97l0EDWukmH3zYndYI661L1teUz2tR8nyheGnPqwBrcA0VhRpld60ox9Ul/s640/IMG_7522.jpg" title="Dancing Bena girls in bull-jumping ceremony" width="640" /></a></div>
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So, suffice to say bull-jumping is a huge deal. Relatives and friends journey from neighbouring villages, carrying food, coffee, and alcohol. The party easily lasts two to three days in a frenzied stupor of music and merry-making.<br />
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When we arrived at the party, we were immediately introduced to the star of the show, a sixteen year old boy whose countenance was a mixture of haughtiness and preoccupation. He spoke to us as if from a distance, his eyes never meeting ours, and he trailed off mid-sentence more than once. In part this was probably because English is not his first language; but more likely, it was because his mind was fixed on the task ahead.<br />
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"He must be a rich man's son," our guide said in jest, "So many people have come for his ceremony. A lot of people love him."<br />
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True to his words, people were streaming nonstop into the clearing, and the group of girls that was stamping out a catchy rhythm in the dust grew larger and rowdier (their cow-horn trumpets and silver bells created a cacophony of excitement that could rival any school sports club's) by the minute. The boy had spent the months leading up to that day practising his leaps; to fail in front of all these people would mean waiting another year to try again, and would be a very embarrassing affair indeed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivJRpLDV_CmJ66xj1n6W3UaJM0ia22oG7uAa2gWJmetdK9x67m_pdyxgsr2ygaBajgLvHELcx1nIN-HpphDnKOnWep8U2mKpg0hFTqADAQBxf5YWGxFFn2xPSa_h8riSBiiyfu/s1600/IMG_7472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="silver bells on the leg of a bena girl dancing during the bull-jumping ceremony in omo valley, ethiopia" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivJRpLDV_CmJ66xj1n6W3UaJM0ia22oG7uAa2gWJmetdK9x67m_pdyxgsr2ygaBajgLvHELcx1nIN-HpphDnKOnWep8U2mKpg0hFTqADAQBxf5YWGxFFn2xPSa_h8riSBiiyfu/s640/IMG_7472.jpg" title="Silver bells on leg of girl" width="640" /></a></div>
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As the group of girls continued their strangly addictive song and dance, we caught sight of a few boys striding around the arena, carrying long birch twigs. "Maza," our guide called them, meaning <i>the accomplished one</i>. They were boys - I suppose I woud have to call them men now - who had already been initiated into adulthood. Their role that day was an important one. The girls had to be whipped to show their devotion to the sixteen-year-old - and the harder they were whipped, and the more blood drawn, the greater their show of love for him.<br />
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One of the Maza had softer eyes than the rest. He was quite a pretty boy, really. Though he was carrying a birch twig just like the other Maza, he didn't act like them. His lashes were gentler, less passionate, and after a while he quietly stepped aside to serve the elders coffee. We saw one of the girls he whipped touch her back and check her fingers for blood. There was nothing, and she shook her head in disappointment before picking up a twig and dancing up to another Maza, feigning kicks to aggravate him into hitting her.<br />
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All the while the girls were being whipped (there was a heavily pregnant girl who joined in too), a whole lot of other festivities were going on as well. The sixteen-year old boy was getting his face painted; the elders were drinking coffee in a large hut roofed with leaves; and people were passing large bowls of fermented sorghum alcohol around. Then the crowd shifted to a larger clearing some distance away, where there was a door frame made out of branches standing in the middle of nowhere. The boy, now stripped naked, sat underneath it as the elders performed a ritual to bless him.<br />
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All of a sudden he got up - and like a shot, he was off!<br />
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We all chased after him, young and old alike; and alongside us ran a herd of about eight clueless bulls. On and on we ran - oh, it must have been at least six hundred metres over the rocks and dry brush - before imploding into another noisy, high-spirited swarm.<br />
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The bulls were pulled into the centre of a tightly-packed circle of people. There, they were jostled into line - shoulder to shoulder, each held in place by its horns and tail. I could see the whites of their eyes from where I was standing. This was the price these beasts had to pay for being such an important part of life here in Omo Valley, where wealth is measured not by money, but by lifestock. A Mursi man, for instance, has to gift thirty-five bulls (and a Kalashnikov rifle, if she has a brother) to his prospective bride's family. Each bull costs the equivalent of four hundred US dollars - so you can see marriage really isn't cheap any where you go in the world!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVL5atBTLzyIfV3r4Bqr82Pa-vqdYPT3P9YBhcGxNPp-_JGyUKvsjKu9FxU4onfFbNn240tQReEBPdTReo1wgqsNV8HXYarZuSxF7bx7jVO7WW6Ed1kRzybgMgV-Q7oXrf2GD/s1600/IMG_7393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="bena tribe girl with lashes on her back carrying a rifle during the bull-jumping ceremony in omo valley, ethiopia" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVL5atBTLzyIfV3r4Bqr82Pa-vqdYPT3P9YBhcGxNPp-_JGyUKvsjKu9FxU4onfFbNn240tQReEBPdTReo1wgqsNV8HXYarZuSxF7bx7jVO7WW6Ed1kRzybgMgV-Q7oXrf2GD/s640/IMG_7393.jpg" title="portrait of bena tribe girl" width="426" /></a></div>
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At a signal, the boy took off - he leaped onto the back of the first bull without difficulty, and the crowded responded with a roar of approval. With full concentration and a noticeable bit of wobbling he sprang from bull to bull. It couldn't have been easy to balance on their knobbly backs. At the end he did an about-turn and came back; this he did a total of four times, before jumping down amongst us again - no longer a boy; now, a man.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ibN_birqyEugC7Gnu4Wx8WsSNK_5HkL0E5PDX_xg3sBvKBuOORyp9_nWHaTyo7MLLyLCpP41Qj2vMn9B5XRySlpV-v2EdvFlIiGBS37PxA34WlCvGFN4JzgLfK0V2j3kc2vF/s1600/IMG_7624.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="bena boy jumping on the back of bulls in omo valley, ethiopia, as part of a coming of age ceremony" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ibN_birqyEugC7Gnu4Wx8WsSNK_5HkL0E5PDX_xg3sBvKBuOORyp9_nWHaTyo7MLLyLCpP41Qj2vMn9B5XRySlpV-v2EdvFlIiGBS37PxA34WlCvGFN4JzgLfK0V2j3kc2vF/s640/IMG_7624.jpg" title="bena boy bull-jumping in ethiopia" width="426" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBYU_O1TtyyA1LfMefrabpBcuYiMmEQ_EMhoqgZNadI26LvXMxj1piZZF2C9uzfx9i71JQsiUs2LmOPfcKuxNadJauQVaVshAUoze7lqawZj7FyQWZu4UUrToyjKwVeSygoLuD/s1600/blogsignature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBYU_O1TtyyA1LfMefrabpBcuYiMmEQ_EMhoqgZNadI26LvXMxj1piZZF2C9uzfx9i71JQsiUs2LmOPfcKuxNadJauQVaVshAUoze7lqawZj7FyQWZu4UUrToyjKwVeSygoLuD/s1600/blogsignature.jpg" /></a></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-11760828890784696302017-03-21T18:23:00.000+08:002017-04-08T23:32:02.058+08:00Simien Mountains, the Grand Canyon of Africa (Ethiopia)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVZVFUk0gd-4d3HP7OgLZTd83OSZZDJdxzhwQwWM0Cj4tp7N7slx9XQQ5hdUE8z4HX5u7DQ11S6SFIkca7OsiS-_VWsCS5eQ3mUF0psDBGf45LkzieAJtP0D8lBuWVOw1XebZ/s1600/IMG_7068.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img alt="a group of gelada highland baboons feeding on the hillside in simien mountains, ethiopia" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVZVFUk0gd-4d3HP7OgLZTd83OSZZDJdxzhwQwWM0Cj4tp7N7slx9XQQ5hdUE8z4HX5u7DQ11S6SFIkca7OsiS-_VWsCS5eQ3mUF0psDBGf45LkzieAJtP0D8lBuWVOw1XebZ/s640/IMG_7068.jpg" title="Baboons in Simien Mountains" width="424" /></a></div>
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On a good day, I imagine the Simien Mountains would be no less impressive than Arizona's Grand Canyon.<br />
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We were, unfortunately, not there on a good day.<br />
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To be precise, it hadn't even been a good <i>week</i>, according to our guide. Where there was a drought going on in the other parts of Ethiopia, it had been drizzling more or less every day here. It seemed like all the country's rain clouds had descended upon the Simien Mountains and us hapless hikers.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSbVTdt6wrdGi0-NxBAeKwZPKS3RE6SAJOlZgaJrBAvLGitTzwbtiuJ2NfItKMkc8LnzmkRnQ5XHV-HDhgKgoVAsaPo4HDxq_qh9H29ojHzZk4vc2lwxTcPohkMYs_zXLKKyb/s1600/IMG_6610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="view of canyons and mountains in ethiopia" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSbVTdt6wrdGi0-NxBAeKwZPKS3RE6SAJOlZgaJrBAvLGitTzwbtiuJ2NfItKMkc8LnzmkRnQ5XHV-HDhgKgoVAsaPo4HDxq_qh9H29ojHzZk4vc2lwxTcPohkMYs_zXLKKyb/s640/IMG_6610.jpg" title="canyons in ethiopia" width="640" /></a></div>
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In a sense this was a welcome relief for those who live here. The drizzle heralded the end of the dry season, washing away the arid dust that hung in the wind and left a strange, scorched smell in our hair. But the downside of this was that the scenery was never fully visible throughout our hike.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCax5ajvydAGQkPJiP7vP55b-KqXJS-3BKHoMoDI2LK8w913l8K_goGjHKtvAyGgb09LbtpE8AJcAvUfOE4y4IcEQlabcuGIPhc341Dbs3Sv2xksiHwi-3xKoUMRymcYncPdq0/s1600/IMG_7013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="view of the surrounding canyons and mountains from our hike in the simien mountains on a foggy day" border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCax5ajvydAGQkPJiP7vP55b-KqXJS-3BKHoMoDI2LK8w913l8K_goGjHKtvAyGgb09LbtpE8AJcAvUfOE4y4IcEQlabcuGIPhc341Dbs3Sv2xksiHwi-3xKoUMRymcYncPdq0/s640/IMG_7013.jpg" title="simien mountains" width="640" /></a></div>
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As we trekked across the mountains, the heavy grey clouds and fog remained our constant companion, obscuring the canyons and cliffs from view. Occasionally - only very occasionally - the sun would emerge and the chill would lift. These moments we cherished; we shrugged off our backpacks and sat with our faces upturned to the sun, revelling in the grandeur of the rugged landscape.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i8n8mzTjRZQLhjBVlfTLoGjnk44FAguBh6wez0R-k-6d7rSAyD2ynrw6bzZttmZfq01RsjvJIPnEHptN60rY7ue8iaZaLcwxY9iurhljvXRxbKQN5n0VIeeDjTJy0he1nwg9/s1600/IMG_6959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="view of a valley from our hike in the simien mountains" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i8n8mzTjRZQLhjBVlfTLoGjnk44FAguBh6wez0R-k-6d7rSAyD2ynrw6bzZttmZfq01RsjvJIPnEHptN60rY7ue8iaZaLcwxY9iurhljvXRxbKQN5n0VIeeDjTJy0he1nwg9/s640/IMG_6959.jpg" title="simien mountains" width="640" /></a></div>
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In spite of the bleakness, we saw many things:</div>
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We saw birds wheeling around a waterfall that plummeted five hundred metres into an abyss below. I teetered on the edge of the cliff - too scared to lean forward, but at the same time eager to catch a glimpse of the waterfall's end - before retreating on wobbly legs to the safety of solid land.</div>
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We saw a bomb crater, about three metres across, an innocuous bowl-shaped depression carpeted with grass that had smoothened out its edges. We sidestepped it cautiously as we continued upwards on our hike.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMtRa6DIlUjPgVXPVILX0p4fPw8ax0ongFxfdUntCs8AY4UZOrR1Cq9QgbWK7Lds-kIE5NvUo9LY-NPZweaCcFDFiVpCQPaJBf0t18ToCKNhJtEWwta_dpu-oHGICMhqzUiNE/s1600/IMG_6920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="view of the surrounding mountains and canyons from our hike in the simien mountains on a foggy day" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMtRa6DIlUjPgVXPVILX0p4fPw8ax0ongFxfdUntCs8AY4UZOrR1Cq9QgbWK7Lds-kIE5NvUo9LY-NPZweaCcFDFiVpCQPaJBf0t18ToCKNhJtEWwta_dpu-oHGICMhqzUiNE/s640/IMG_6920.jpg" title="simien mountains" width="640" /></a></div>
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We also saw the highland gelada baboons (also called the bleeding-heart baboons, for obvious reasons), stars of their own show on <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/life/Gelada">BBC</a>. In the drier months the fresh grass that forms the staple part of their diet is nowhere to be found, so the baboons are reduced to digging for the moist, tender roots of the dried vegetation. The troupe of hundred ignored us as we wandered amongst them on the vast hillside. "You know, they are very fascinating, intelligent animals," our guide marvelled. "They are so much like humans. They have language - or something very close to language as we define it. The adults actually have thirty-seven different types of vocalisations. But the most interesting behaviour of all is that they <i>mourn their dead</i>. They grieve when a baboon dies, and then they drag the body off somewhere - no one knows where, or what they do with the body, but that's why you never see dead baboons lying around."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJxKOtdo3jgPFHjlCqUZJl_wLTeJk120m-sO-kXM2sfBvJPfrJJS1Defy35wgCP6YO_yCMcj99yD0MvHExnH-LugrUwgmGH6WgF0Ww2v2VRZYSNQ0o7qDmxrqMSU0aYdDj5D1/s1600/IMG_7090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="close-up photo of a gelada highland baboon in the simien mountains in ethiopia" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJxKOtdo3jgPFHjlCqUZJl_wLTeJk120m-sO-kXM2sfBvJPfrJJS1Defy35wgCP6YO_yCMcj99yD0MvHExnH-LugrUwgmGH6WgF0Ww2v2VRZYSNQ0o7qDmxrqMSU0aYdDj5D1/s640/IMG_7090.jpg" title="gelada baboon" width="426" /></a></div>
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We saw bush bucks prancing at the trail-side; a large flock of guinea fowl in beautiful grey-blue plumage; vultures and eagles swooping overhead.<br />
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And we agreed, as we drove back to civilisation, that despite the dreary weather it had been a most pleasant experience after all.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcl_h6kixRWrblfQfJ-5i0iV2NauNLOOaNtYXaz7TH8Uo1uPaAi_YB-QJCqaQPhNJXGQGADsfpzIaqy_t1Q1VuFg6naqFpUPUFTDEo_px8MZSl7Zn0v9wW0R9YqlKiApGU_Pt-/s1600/IMG_7076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="gelada highland baboon feeding on dried grass during winter in the simien mountains in ethiopia" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcl_h6kixRWrblfQfJ-5i0iV2NauNLOOaNtYXaz7TH8Uo1uPaAi_YB-QJCqaQPhNJXGQGADsfpzIaqy_t1Q1VuFg6naqFpUPUFTDEo_px8MZSl7Zn0v9wW0R9YqlKiApGU_Pt-/s640/IMG_7076.jpg" title="gelada baboon eating" width="426" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHYe5MGZJqXy5ahxRQ0sT5Z4iEthtCBw3RQ-wgoG3dtAKRvJ0B-WGMUGZGb3N0REcCRu3v8NmQVwv2h8SYsohlOlMx1Zvjx7kZ0L97k0WHc6x9JjbfExhvffuCpzX_Gt0cR9o-/s1600/IMG_7081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="close-up of a gelada highland baboon also known as a bleeding heart baboon in the simien mountains in ethiopia" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHYe5MGZJqXy5ahxRQ0sT5Z4iEthtCBw3RQ-wgoG3dtAKRvJ0B-WGMUGZGb3N0REcCRu3v8NmQVwv2h8SYsohlOlMx1Zvjx7kZ0L97k0WHc6x9JjbfExhvffuCpzX_Gt0cR9o-/s640/IMG_7081.jpg" title="portrait of gelada baboon" width="426" /></a></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-38873173129681565942017-03-12T08:23:00.001+08:002017-04-08T21:41:16.041+08:00Erta Ale's living lava lake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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With a last mechanical groan, our four-wheeled drive pulls into base camp. For the past three hours or so we have been forcing our way over the cracked lava fields of northeastern Ethiopia, where more than thirty <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.com/2015/12/fiery-bromo.html">volcanoes</a> - not all still active - dot the landscape. The going has not been kind to us nor to the rest of our convoy. Thrice we have had to stop to change tires and jump start flat batteries. Now, finally, we are on relatively flat ground and hopeful for some respite.<br />
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Base camp is a collection of circular stone huts with roofs of grass, situated on a slight rise. From this vantage point we can see the parched brush and black volcanic sand stretching out for miles around. Sinewy soldiers in weathered uniforms stride around the compound with their AK-47s slung carelessly across their chests. Other than a few sharp commands of <i>"no cameras!", </i>they don't bother to interact with us foreigners. The hostility of the environment is palpable - both within the camp and without.<br />
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We're told that the armed guards are necessary because of continuing conflict with Eritrea, a small country in the north that gained independence from Ethiopia in 1991. In 2012, five European tourists were killed. Both sides blamed the other for the attack, and the Ethiopian government has mandated military patrols and escorts in this border region ever since.<br />
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After a paltry dinner of canned soup with dry bread, our guide announces that we are going to trek fifteen kilometres across the lava field tonight - so much for rest! Still, I'm looking forward to stretching out my legs after a whole day of bumping around inside a stifling hot car (air-conditioning is non-existent here, even at day-time temperatures well above forty degrees).<br />
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The reason we're setting out after dinner is that trekking by night is the most comfortable way of attempting this journey. The Danakil Depression, a desert basin one hundred and twenty-five metres below sea level, is one of the lowest, driest and hottest places on Earth. On top of that, we are aiming to come face-to-face with Erta Ale, an active volcano with a living lava lake (one of only four in the world and the record-holder for the longest one in existence).<br />
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By the time dinner is done, the stars have crept overhead. There's a full moon tonight and it's bright enough to see our way around without a torch. Against this brilliant celestial backdrop, someone points into the distance and wonders aloud, "<i>Is that the volcano?" </i>In the direction of his gaze, there is a vivid orange glow on the silhouetted crest of a darkened mountain; it flickers and flares ever so slightly, almost as if by a trick of the eye.<br />
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We hike over rock and gravel for three hours. Without any kind of prior agreement, all of us somehow fall into a loose formation - us twenty foreigners walk two or three abreast, flanked by faceless armed soldiers who skirt the edges of our lamplights.<br />
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In a way, trekking by night makes the journey a lot more tolerable. It isn't just about escaping the heat; the harshness of the landscape is veiled by darkness, making it easy to focus on each step without thinking about the distance yet uncovered.<br />
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Around midnight, we reach a clearing that affords us more space than the ones before. Scattered around are low circular walls made of stacked stones. Our guide gestures at them grandly. <i>"We sleep here tonight,"</i> he says. Already thin foam mattresses are being unloaded from the camels and laid out in each of the hollows. Amidst the confusion and general surprise, Dad and I snag a "room" to ourselves.<br />
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The two hours of sleep we get are sorely needed but elusive. Partly it's because the stone walls do little to block the wind; mostly it's because of the (unseasonal) rain that starts pelting down on us. With no overhead shelter, we curl up under our windbreakers and try to will away the cold. I suppose from the shuffling noises and muted whispers that no one gets any real sleep. Eventually, the sounds peak and it turns out it's time to start our last hour's trek to the volcano.<br />
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From here on the ground changes. The rocks underfoot become increasingly brittle and black, crunching with each step. The guide tells us that these are new lava rocks, barely three weeks old. In places they are so fragile that they cave in with a sudden hollow <i>whuumph</i>, and so we learn to test each footing before placing our whole weight on it. Still, more than one trekker end up with legs shredded from the serrated edges of an unfortunate misstep.<br />
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Cautiously, gingerly, we inch across this menacing landscape. Our progress is punctuated with starts and stops as we circumnavigate collapses in the basaltic crust. Everyone is understandably - and some visibly - tense. With my head down in concentration, it's only when I almost walk into the person in front of me that I realise the group has come to a complete stop - <i>we can't go any further, because there is lava flowing out of the ground just ten metres in front of us! </i></div>
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It is an incredibly surreal experience being able to stand so close to actual, moving lava. One of the movies I remember most from my childhood is <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120461/"><i>Volcano</i></a> - specifically, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TuLC3FtqI8Y">the scene where Stan tries to leap over a sheet of lava</a> but fails and lands in it and oh god he bursts into flames and melts into nothing in twenty seconds flat. So okay, naturally I've always thought that lava would be inconceivably hot and you'd get burnt just from standing too close to it, except here I am, ten metres away, and there isn't all that much heat emanating from it. It turns out that watching basaltic lava flowing is more meditative than thrilling. I mean, you can outrun - out<i>walk</i>, even - the lava. But it's all good, as this gives us all the extremely unique opportunity to observe the lava up close.<br />
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All this while, we can see the occasional glow of spurting lava at the other crater pit a few kilometres away. For our safety we aren't allowed to go near that crater as it has been getting increasingly active the past few days, but it doesn't take too much to imagine how beautiful that view must be as well.<br />
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In the east the sky brightens; dawn has come, and with that, the blistering African heat. We hasten to pack up and begin our long walk back to base camp. By daylight the landscape looks so inhospitable that I'm astonished we traversed all this way overnight. I don't know if it takes us longer to cover the distance this morning, but it definitely feels like it given that we're functioning on zero sleep and an empty stomach. A thoroughly unforgiving first 48 hours in Ethiopia!<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-29309196271752414152017-02-17T13:25:00.000+08:002017-04-08T21:58:11.560+08:00Diving Ali Baba's Cave, Fakarava<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In the Arabic folktale <i>Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves</i>, the protagonist stumbles upon a cave that a group of thieves is using to hide their loot. The mouth of the cave is sealed by magic; by chance, Ali Baba overhears the password that opens it and manages to sneak in. He's astounded to find that the cave is overflowing with all kinds of treasures, from bags of gold coins to bales of silk and brocade.</div>
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The original Ali Baba's Cave may have been somewhere in the Middle East, but deep in the South Pacific, the atoll of Fakarava has its very own version as well. And just like its namesake, the Cave in Fakarava doesn't yield its secrets easily - it's patrolled by sharks and hidden behind a labyrinth of underwater canyons.</div>
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"One, two, three, go!" Vincent shouts, voice muffled by his regulator. We back-roll into the water. The waves immediately catch us, buffeting us against each other as we give our camera equipment one last check. Here, just beyond the barrier reef, the surface of the ocean has been whipped into a living grey mass that reflects the cast of a sky heavy with rain clouds. It's a far cry from the tranquility of the glassy lagoon. Swallowing back a bubble of seasickness that's sitting uncomfortably in my throat, I signal to Jared and we slide silently - and gratefully - into the relative calm of the blue.<br />
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Fakarava isn't a designated National Park, but the locals respect the wildlife and do what they can to protect it. <i>Every boy when he is growing up</i>, one said, <i>learns how to spearfish from his father. He learns to shoot only what he needs to eat, and he never kills for sport. </i>(Contrast this to a tourist family we met in <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2017/01/scuba-diving-in-rangiroa.html">Rangiroa</a>. The parents had encouraged their three young children to try their hand at line-fishing, which they did with limited prowess - all they caught was a handful of aquarium-type fish, which are small and make for poor eating. Nonetheless, they displayed these poor creatures proudly in the pension kitchen, humouring their son who insisted, without knowing any better, that he would have them for dinner. We later found them discarded in the bin - such a tragic waste of life.)<br />
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The effect of the Polynesians' philosophy toward their environment is evident everywhere underwater. For one, the coral here is incredibly pristine. Fish life is also abundant, and subject to so little human interference that they remain unafraid of visitors. At one point a fish even comes so close that it looks like Jared accidentally kicks it with his fin!<br />
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We settle into the column of water and let the current take us along the reef wall. The bottom falls away far beneath us, maybe forty, fifty metres. We continue descending, and at thirty-eight, without noticing when or how, there are white-tip sharks swarming around us suddenly. They force their way between Jared and I, brushing by us then circling round again. These sharks are small - smaller than either of us - and all of them are female. This turns out to be a very curious observation because it means the sharks aren't gathering to mate. Neither are they in a feeding frenzy, as there's no sign of any Napoleon wrasses around, the other common predator in these waters. These clues lead us to the conclusion that the sharks are seeking protection amongst us; perhaps a larger shark passed by a few minutes earlier, sending the school scrambling onto the reef for shelter.<br />
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The current continues driving us along the reef, with schools of fish and cruising sharks taking turns to keep us company. The waters here are often described as "crystal blue", and it's not hard to see why: even on a day as gray as this the visibility is a cool forty to fifty metres, making it easy to spot the tunas, barracudas, giant trevallies and sharks that flit in and out of the blue.<br />
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With no lack of excitement on this dive, the time flies by. We follow the contours of the seabed and slowly head up, up, up, and I think regretfully to myself - <i>ah, the dive must be ending soon. </i><br />
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But the current unexpectedly picks up and funnels us through a shallow canyon, and with a last <i>woosh</i> it deposits us at a little rise. We stay there for a few minutes observing a school of juvenile sharks, then Vincent beckons to us, <i>come on. </i>He slips around the rise and disappears down behind it. Jared follows; I have problems equalising so I fin after them, three metres above, cursing my ears under my breath -<br />
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when a strange undulation catches my eye and makes me stop short. Thousands upon thousands of fish, rippling and surging and swelling in an immense synchronised dance - the entire sea floor moving beneath me!<br />
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These, we later find out, are paddletail snappers, congregating in immense numbers to mate. They move almost as if they are a single living entity, each pulse its ragged breath; but the billowing ranks of snappers are careful to stay within the edges of the basin, for above them the sharks are patrolling their personal larder.<br />
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How aptly named, this dive site called Ali Baba's Cave! We dive it over and over, and every single time it blows us away with the sheer amount of life we see. It's a great reminder of how much we can - and should - protect if we all only learn from the Polynesian school of thought.</div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-70867963971775720132017-01-12T22:56:00.001+08:002017-04-08T21:59:15.558+08:00Scuba Diving in Rangiroa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We landed in Rangiroa on Christmas Eve. Rangiroa is one of the largest atolls in the world - certainly the largest in French Polynesia - and even in midair from our turboprop plane it was impossible to see the far end of it. Shaped like a hollow rectangle, Rangiroa was formed when its volcano sank beneath the waves once upon a time. This monumental descent left in its wake a ring of coral that encircles a lagoon of unimaginably brilliant shades of blue, in essence carving out a bubble of paradise in the middle of the endless South Pacific ocean.<br />
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This thin strip of land that separates the two bodies of water, however, isn't continuous. It's broken in places by narrow valleys in the ocean floor. These create passes via which the water rushes in or out of the lagoon with the tides, arguably giving rise to the best conditions for diving with pelagics like great hammerhead sharks, tiger sharks, manta rays, eagle rays, and dolphins.<br />
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The dive center we had chosen to dive with was one of the more affordable ones on the island. Right off the bat, you could tell it was a very no-nonsense kind of establishment. It lay at the end of a road riddled with flooded potholes, hidden behind an exposed pile of rusty engine parts and nameless scraps. The dive center itself looked more like a store room than anything else. It was dark and damp, and a horde of mosquitoes seemed to live permanently in the shelves. The place was thick with the look and smell of adventure.<br />
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We had heard legendary things about the owner, who was purportedly the first to open a dive center in Rangiroa thirty-one years ago, and whom the other operators spoke about in something just shy of reverence. <i>God of diving</i>, someone said, <i>no one knows this area better than He</i>.<br />
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He, unfortunately, was away for the day, and whether it was because of this or not, our first dive was dreary. Some reef sharks circled in and out of our periphery, and there was a most interesting African pompano, but on the whole nothing thrilling of the sort Rangiroa is renowned for. Still, the next day looked promising, for the dive guides were satisfied with our capabilities and experience, and would be allowing us to go down to sixty metres (local regulations stipulate that PADI Advanced divers can go to 40m, Rescue divers to 50m, Dive Masters to 60m) into deco in search of the great <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2015/11/hammerheads.html">hammerheads</a>.<br />
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The next day came and went without fanfare. <i>Rangiroa is a place that is All or Nothing,</i> our guide said. <i>Some days when the conditions are right everything shows up, and other days you may not see much at all. </i>And the thing about Rangiroa is that if the pelagics don't show up, there's nothing much else worth writing home about - the coral reef isn't outstanding and there's not much macro life.<br />
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Then day three dawned, and we were halfway into our stay in Rangiroa. So far we'd gotten an unexpected glimpse of a hammerhead at fifteen metres and a few eagle rays had swooped by. Nothing had really blown our minds yet. But the atmosphere at the dive center was different that morning - it was hard to put a finger on it precisely - everyone seemed a little more upbeat and there was palpable energy in the air.<br />
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Our dive guide came up to us. <i>Yves is back,</i> he said. <i>You will dive with him today</i>. Then he gave us a smile that had all the unspoken suggestions of magic.<br />
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And magic - that's exactly what happened.<br />
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Our guide had this theatrical way of diving - he glided around with his arms outstretched, motioning as if pulling in the big stuff on an invisible rope. I told him once that I got a big kick out of watching him underwater, and he laughed. <i>It doesn't always work,</i> he admitted, <i>But that one percent of the time it does, and a dolphin shows up right when I do this</i> [and he did that arm motion again], <i>everyone's amazed.</i><br />
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Yves' magic was different. His was a frenetic performance, born out of an intimate knowledge of the area and in part, I'd like to believe, something more mysterious. He whirled underwater; he would cast an arm out and - <i>there!</i> - a school of eagle rays would come silently into view, and with another throw of his arm - <i>over there!</i> - a tiger shark would come nosing by.<br />
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I happened to glance at him after the huge tiger shark had disappeared back into the deep blue. He was hunched over, rubbing his hands together furiously, jerking and twitching in a peculiar way. Caught up in the rapture and thrill of the moment I half fancied to myself that he really did cast a spell over the ocean. (I kept my faith till the last dive, when we finally asked him about his ritual. It turns out he was mimicking a distressed animal to try and lure the sharks in.)<br />
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Yves' magic held up right to the end. "You want to see dolphins?" he asked, and we did, and it was the best possible way to round up the trip indeed.<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-42124206149009734232016-11-16T20:23:00.004+08:002017-04-08T21:59:45.677+08:00Cape Cross Seal Colony<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I've always kind of liked seals. I mean, what's not to like? Their chubby bodies are clearly the best thing you could possibly hug, and they have the most beseeching round eyes ever. But more than anything else, I think they first wormed their way into my heart when I realised that my dog, a barrel-like and highly sedentary Shih Tzu*, bore an uncanny resemblance to a baby seal.</div>
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So when Google informed me that the world's largest breeding colony of Cape fur seals can be found on the <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/06/skeleton-coast-namibia.html">Skeleton Coast,</a> I immediately knew I had to see it for myself. (I was also highly encouraged by how <i>easy</i> this was going to be. I've gone on <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2015/08/following-humpback-whales-in-greenland.html">whale-watching trips</a> and <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/search/label/Diving">dive excursions</a> where animal sightings ultimately boiled down to sheer luck. This means that when told there are ten thousand seals doing nothing but lazing perpetually at the same place all year round, there is absolutely no logical reason not to check it out.)</div>
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And thus, one grey Friday morning before our <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/10/over-namib-desert.html">flight over the Namib desert</a>, we drove out in search of the colony. It was supposed to be a fairly simple drive - after all there is only one coastal road, and all we had to do was head forty kilometres due north until we bumped into the seals. But life is rarely so straightforward, particularly when you are on a tight schedule. </div>
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After twenty minutes on the road and in the middle of the next sleepy village, our driver pulled up at a slip road beside a tackle shop. </div>
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"We're here," he said, gesturing with his phone, which had an authoritative Google Maps pin in the centre of the screen. </div>
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A good number of unanswered questions ran through my mind as we stepped hesitantly out of the car. <i>Why is it so quiet? Are they not wild seals? God forbid, did the seals pull a mass migration just before we came? And why is there a palatial Chinese restaurant across the road anyway? </i>(The correct response to the last question is always: Because we really are everywhere. But in this case the response was also: There are a lot of Chinese miners extracting uranium in this part of the country.)</div>
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One puzzled phone call later, the driver grinned sheepishly and told us we were about twenty kilometres off track. It took another fifteen minutes of driving through the desert before the first weathered sign saying <i>Cape Cross Seal Colony</i> came into view.</div>
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By this time, a gale was picking up and dark clouds were gathering at the far edge of the desert. And perhaps it was because of the wind, but we certainly didn't smell or hear what ten thousand socialising animals should smell or sound like. In fact, we couldn't even see them, though a car going the opposite direction assured us that they were just ahead.</div>
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It was only after we went up a short rise and turned into the parking lot that we came face-to-face with the first seal - a rambunctious fella who was lying across the base of a plaque, and who told off our driver in no uncertain terms when he leaned in too close for a selfie.</div>
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Beyond him the parking lot opened up into bare rock. Not that you could see much of the rock anyway, because - <i>yes</i> - the ten thousand seals! </div>
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There they were, in a multitude of sizes, some fighting and some sleeping, and yet others making their way into the cold Atlantic waters, where there was an endless display of acrobatic backflips and wave-surfing going on. The scene was cooler than I could've imagined, if only because I'd never seen so many animals congregated in one spot before. The only thing that took me by surprise was, in spite of how cute they look, how remarkably (and horrifically) cow-like they sounded. And make no mistake, I'm not talking about the kind of cows you see on telly in some idyllic milkmaid advertisement. These ones sounded like cows on a rampage. It was all bellows and bovine shrieks, and the occasional hacking cough of an old man with an incurable lung disease.</div>
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Also, for an animal so big, they were surprisingly timid. At one point of time my dad took off his cap and waved it at me to get my attention. I didn't notice it, but the seals around my dad certainly did - about thirty of them bolted upright and shuffled away at top speed.</div>
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Regrettably, we didn't get to spend more than an hour wandering amongst them, as we had to rush off for our flightseeing tour. We did end up seeing a number of seal colonies from the air that day though, but none that came anywhere close to the size of the Cape Cross one.</div>
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<i>*Speaking of which, I went to a zoo the other day and there was only one animal - a dog - in it. It was undoubtedly the worst zoo I'd ever been to. On the way out, I grabbed the zookeeper and asked why there was only one dog. He said, </i>"Because it's a Shih Tzu."</div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-8230692253869196152016-10-06T23:00:00.000+08:002017-04-08T22:00:50.302+08:00Over the Namib Desert<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On our last proper day in Namibia, we went for a flight tour over the Namib Desert and <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/06/skeleton-coast-namibia.html?m=1">Skeleton Coast</a>. The plane was due to take off from an airport on the outskirts of a small seaside town called Swakopmund.
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The night before we had arrived fresh off a <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/10/deadvlei-namibia.html?m=1">three-day trip into the desert </a>(which by the way is probably one of the best experiences of my life if only because of the view of the stars at night), and had checked into a hotel that turned out to be little more than a row of containers. The interior was, shall we say, <i>minimalist</i> – although frankly what little furnishing they had was a huge luxury compared to the tents and sleeping bags we had been using for the <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/08/safari-at-etosha-national-park-namibia.html?m=1">rest of the trip</a>. To top it off, we had discovered a restaurant with an amazing seafood curry that unequivocally put the ham sandwiches we’d had for three meals a day the past six days to shame. </div>
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The restaurant was built around a real tug boat overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. When we arrived it was just past nine at night. It was dark out – the only lights around were those of the restaurant and the hazy, flickering embers of a dozen lit cigarettes in the hands of lovers on the beach. The dazzling night sky I’d become so accustomed to in the desert was completely shrouded by the heavy fog and opaque clouds that had swept in from the ocean. Yet, through the dress of white, you could still hear the ocean’s ceaseless, timeless rhythm breaking along the nearly invisible coast. </div>
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The fog was to persist till the morning of the day our flight was scheduled to take off. At eight in the morning, the flight operator called to inform us that there was a good chance the flight would be cancelled given the poor weather conditions. “No flights yesterday and the day before,” she said, “The conditions just won’t allow it. Let’s wait and see.” </div>
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Miraculously, half an hour before our scheduled take-off, the fog lifted and the skies cleared. It was to stay clear right up to the time we touched back down on the runway, a window of almost exactly two hours. In effect we were the only flight to have made it out in three days. </div>
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What luck, and what an experience! I’d thought it would be terrifying to be in such a small plane – they look almost toy-like and capable of getting blown off-course at the slightest cross-wind. But something about being able to see exactly what the pilot is doing (i.e. looking utterly calm and unconcerned) was very reassuring. </div>
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The first hour or so we fly in a roughly straight line over the desert. From this vantage point it isn’t always possible to make out the undulations of the sands beneath us, particularly because the noon-time sun is at its apex and there aren’t a lot of shadows to throw the dunes in relief. But the lines that are ridges of the dunes crisscross each other in a satisfyingly abstract way, at times in a confluence of whorls, other times in stark perpendicular edges, and yet others in beautiful snaking patterns. </div>
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Then there is the spectrum of colours – from the red, iron-rich sands that blow in from the Kalahari Desert, to the muted beige that stretches endlessly in all directions, to the golden dunes that fall abruptly into the Atlantic. At one point a vivid furrow of green, so out of place in this barren landscape, comes into view. It neatly demarcates two distinct environments: a vast granite plain on the left, and dunes of red on the right. We meander along the belt for a while as the pilot yells to us over the roar of the propellers, “The trees follow an underground river!” And indeed, far below, we can see this unexpected oasis of life wind its riverine way into the distance – leading, I imagine perhaps overly romantically, to a lost jungle paradise – as we reluctantly break off and veer towards the coast. </div>
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Before we see the Atlantic Ocean we see the shipwrecks. They languish in eerie abandon, their once proud features now skeletal and weathered a rusty brown. The wrecks are so far inland because the desert constantly pushes its way into the Atlantic, so year by year the ocean slowly loses its grasp on its ill-fated victims. </div>
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Now we are flying along Skeleton Coast. The contrast – of colour and movement – between the desert and the ocean is equal parts stunning and haunting in its desolation. It’s impossible to be here and not realize how large the world is, and just how small we are in the grand scheme of time and space. </div>
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It's ninety minutes into our flight. Before we arrive back at Swakopmund, there are a few more treats for us: pockets of Cape fur seals lounging on the beach, an inlet bordered by pink flamingoes, and a flock that motors by some ways beneath us.
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Then, all too soon, the flight ended and we descended back into the encroaching fog. As we taxied down the runway the world behind us gradually disappeared into dreary whiteness, and it felt uncannily like waking up from a lucid dream. Only this time, we knew it was real, and as I type this on my laptop, I smile at the thought of this spectacular realm of wildness that endures its way through the ages, somewhere across the globe from where I am right now.</div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-40203907481222463212016-10-05T21:46:00.001+08:002017-04-08T22:01:31.814+08:00Deadvlei, Namibia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We are explorers.</div>
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Hands held high against our brows, shading our faces from the relentless heat - a futile resistance. We trudge steadfastly into the rising sun.<br />
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Ahead of us the desert unfurls like a roughened red ribbon. We stand in the hollow of its creases, where its edges are out of sight, but we see in our mind's eye that it ravels till the ends of the earth and know there is no one here but us.<br />
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A sand dune lies in our path and we decide: <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.com/2015/03/how-to-climb-sand-dune-chronology.html">we must climb</a>. Step by step we ascend, bent over in effort, up a red wall that falls silently away beneath our feet. Along the ridge the wind whips ripples into the sand and raises a cloud that hangs in the air and assaults our breaths. We tumble gleefully down the far side.<br />
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Here, a dry riverbed. It is old, cracked, and bleached the colour of time. We follow the fossilised tracks of an antelope and then a hyena. The idea of life in this most desolate of lands is inconceivable. We laugh, giddy, as the sun's rays beat down mercilessly on our shoulders.<br />
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Another sand dune, and another, and a shimmering mirage of an oasis in the distance. We can see the harsh outline of trees standing tall in a chalky white lake. Drawn by the hope of respite, we inch closer. But it is not water, and there is no rest. Instead: gnarled outstretched limbs, immovable in a bed of clay, twisted and frozen in an image of death -<br />
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Deadvlei.</div>
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<i>Deadvlei is a clay pan characterised by the dead trees that still stand in it, a remnant of lusher times when a river flowed through the area. As the climate changed and the sand dunes shifted, the river was diverted and eventually dried up. The trees died soon after due to the lack of water but never decomposed because of the dry heat of the desert. Seven hundred years later today, they have become one of the most recognisable symbols of the Namib Desert.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>Also, the massive sand dune in the background is called Big Daddy, and it's said to be the highest sand dune in the world at over three hundred metres tall. </i></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-27599278123509068902016-08-27T10:40:00.000+08:002017-04-08T22:01:52.521+08:00Safari at Etosha National Park, Namibia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The journey to Etosha National Park from the capital city Windhoek was smooth until the back tire on our eight-wheeler unexpectedly blew halfway through. Changing it took the better part of two hours, which was a long time given the short winter days. At first we were tense, eager to regain momentum so we could make it to the park before nightfall, but after the first hour the anxiety gave way to acceptance. That's life after all, having to take everything in stride and dealing with it the best you can - and there's no better way to come to that realisation than under the unrelenting African sun.</div>
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We made it to the gates of Etosha fifteen minutes before the sun disappeared over the horizon, so my first memory of the savannah is tinged with a resplendent orange glow. In that glow, silhouetted against the setting sun, is a lone elephant - he's not grazing, just standing motionless in the tall grass, and as we draw closer he looks at us momentarily then slowly turns away.</div>
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It's like Etosha's gates separate two disparate worlds. Outside, the land is mostly fenced up game ranches and farms, bisected by a single long road where you can drive for hours without seeing life, though there is no lack of discarded water bottles and cigarette butts littering the rest stops. But beyond the gates the asphalt abruptly turns to gravel and the fences disappear. The plains on both sides of the track are so vast and unsullied, and dotted with so many different species of animals, that you can't help but feel you've been transported back in time. This, I think to myself, must be what the world looked like long before Man arrived. </div>
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A few hundred metres from the entrance, someone gives a great shout. <i>Elephants!</i> We screech to a halt as a herd emerges from the trees and crosses the road (they didn't look both ways). They've almost all reached the other side, but big mama pauses and looks back, and a little one comes scampering out of the bush, ears flapping as he races to catch up with the herd. </div>
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Such beautiful animals, elephants - and we were lucky to see over a hundred during the safari, with the biggest sighting at fifty-four in a single herd. Up north, we were startled to see two big white males, but it turned out that the colour was just due to the mud they use to coat their skin for protection against sunburn, which was chalkier than the one their southern neighbours use. Watching the elephants interact, there's no doubt that they're intelligent social animals. When they meet up, they always touch each other with their trunks in greeting. They also wait for their slower members, and you can tell the younger ones are having fun splashing about at the waterholes. </div>
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Giraffes, on the other hand, are kind of funny. They freeze in place when they spot you, although their heads turn and track you as you go by. The exception to the rule was this one baby giraffe who tried to get as far away from us as he could, his legs flailing in all directions as he broke into a run that could barely keep pace with his mother's slow stride.</div>
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There's also the kudu, a type of antelope with the most graceful, curvy horns. You can tell whether the kudu is a mature one by counting the number of curves in them - there are four in the horns of adults. And then there's the oryx, whose face looks like some kind of kabuki mask. One loiterer at the doorway of the campground shower gave me a shock when I stepped out, still bleary from the cold morning temperatures. At night we also saw some bad-tempered rhinos at the waterhole, who tried to instigate fights with each other and the elephants.</div>
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The reason why there there are so many animals in Etosha (although no Cape buffalo, the only one of the Big Five not found in Namibia), our guide explained, was because the authorities actively rounded up the animals that lived outside and relocated them in. It's as much for their own protection as it is for the farmers. As Namibia's population grows and farming activities increasingly encroach on the animals' territories, the number of conflicts between humans and animals rise as well. This is especially true with predators - the lions and leopards - who find easy meals in the farmed livestock. </div>
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I won't forget our first encounter with the lions. Dad woke me up at two in the morning, face flushed, saying, <i>I can hear them! </i>He had been on his way to the washroom when suddenly, from somewhere beyond the edges of the facility, he had heard the unmistakable low throaty vocalisations of a patrolling lion. He hurried back to our tent where we sat and listened to the noises make a slow round along the periphery of our camp ground. I wanted to head down to the waterhole for a quick look-around (there's a viewing area that's protected), but prudence in the form of my Dad intervened, and we decided to stay in the tent instead. (I'm not sure how much protection the tent fabric would provide against a marauding lion intent on a meal, but in any case we took some solace in it and went back to sleep. Anyway, I jest - Okaukeujo Camp is a perfectly safe place; the only thing you are in danger of is having your socks stolen by jackals at night. They have the most annoying tendency of only taking one side.) </div>
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The next morning, as we drove out of the camp grounds, a fellow safari-goer waved us over. <i>Lions</i>, he said, <i>five hundred metres ahead.</i> You can imagine we didn't waste any time in making our way there.</div>
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We found the pair, a male and female, without any difficulty. At first they kept their distance. One in front of the other, they weaved along the boundary between the plains and the thicket, occasionally disappearing behind dense patches of dry woodland, only to re-emerge silently seconds later. Slowly, leisurely, they got nearer and nearer to us. Through my camera's lens I could see their yellow eyes and the scars that formed dark shadows across the lion's face. (I gave myself a heart attack when the lions suddenly looked too closely for comfort - before remembering quite shamefully that I was observing them through my maxed-out zoom lens.) The pair ended up passing us less than three metres away, and when they did, they gave no sign that they even saw or cared that we were there, before stalking off into the endless horizons of Namibia.</div>
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There were also multiple encounters with cheetahs, including three adolescents hiding from the sun under a tree. Then, on the last day, we saw a leopard. We were already on our way out of the park when we stopped to take a last look at a pair of giraffes, partly because of a small group of impala that was obstructing the road ahead. No one paid them much heed in favour of the giraffes that were doing their usual comic impression of a lamppost. Then someone turned back to the impala and noticed that in the span of thirty seconds, a shadowy figure had appeared and was sitting behind the impala. The guide grabbed my binoculars urgently. <i>We go now, </i>he said, <i>there's a leopard hunting the impala.</i></div>
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We had barely made any ground when suddenly the impala broke into a run, dashing into the cover of the shrubs on the opposite side of the road. In a split second the leopard was up and running as well, merging into the dappled brush after its prey. Through the gaps in the foliage we made out the shadows darting by - first the frantic gait of the hunted, then the fluid movements of a larger silhouette. We don't know if he caught up, but what a high-energy end to our safari! And, funnily enough, we would never have seen the leopard if our tire hadn't blown again in the morning and delayed our departure. Talk about things coming a full circle - and maybe that's an apt metaphor to round up our first safari experience with. :)</div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-65783512606531707802016-08-05T22:59:00.002+08:002017-04-08T22:02:20.896+08:00Hanging Coffins of Sagada<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.com/2016/07/batad-rice-terraces.html">Banaue</a> to Sagada was a six hour drive - or at least it was supposed to be, if not for the clouds that had turned into fog, and then into an opaque rain that slashed across our windscreen. Our car slowed to ten kilometres an hour as we inched across the wet and winding mountain roads. For the driver, a young boy of twenty-one <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/05/cockfighting-sabong-in-philippines.html">born and bred</a> in Banaue, I'm sure this was a stressful journey - he was leaning so far forward that his forehead looked like it was pressed against the windscreen, and he wore a serious frown on his face.<br />
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The hours wore on, and the rain petered out, and when we did eventually turn into the village of Sagada dusk was already settling over the mountains. My mind was already on dinner - when suddenly, something amongst the faraway limestone cliffs caught my eye. Before I could get a proper look it slipped away behind a row of houses, and as much as I craned my neck it didn't quite come back into view again. But in that split second - that dark mess of shapes, weathered blocks with faint vestiges of colour, so oddly out of place against the grey rocks - I knew exactly what I had seen. It was the famous hanging coffins of Sagada.<br />
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Well, not actually <i>the</i> hanging coffins that have become synonymous with the name Sagada. Those were a short trek from downtown, and they looked a little fresher with their coats of paint and names still visible on the outside. These shadowy ones I'd seen in passing - I walked back the next day to take a photo (above) - looked like they'd been there for centuries. Even at this distance I could tell that the wood was darkened from years of exposure to the elements. Yet, in testament to such puzzling feats of engineering, they still clung stubbornly to the cliffs. I wondered aloud if any had ever tumbled down, and the guide laughed. <i>Oh yes, sometimes they do, and when there are floods sometimes the bones and coffins wash out of the caves as well.</i><br />
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See, Sagada is not just home to hanging coffins, but also burial caves. The region has a fascinating view of death, characterised by its seeming lack of aversion to it. In most parts of the world the sick and dying are hidden away, and even after someone passes we do our best to mask the pallor of death with make-up. Not so in Sagada, where the dead loom over the living. Trekking in the woods takes you past caves where coffins are stacked haphazardly and human remains lie exposed. Turn a corner and you might walk under a series of coffins pegged into the wall above. Another ten-minute hike away and you see a cliff face that looks exactly like the one the coffins are hanging on - except this one has rock-climbers on it, hooting in excitement. This is a village and a culture that has turned Man's ultimate fear into something completely pedestrian.</div>
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At least, that's how it used to be. There are only two men left, both very old, who still hold on to this tradition. The rest of the villagers call them <i>pagans</i>. The men are worried that they won't be sent off the way they'd prefer, the same way their ancestors have been buried for the past two thousand years, but there's nothing they can do about it. The villagers are all Christian and this tradition has become an alien practice to them. It's not hard to imagine why:</div>
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During the funeral ritual, the dead man is placed on a "death chair", his posture secured in place with lengths of rattan or rope. A handkerchief tied across his bottom jaw keeps it from going slack. The family keeps a pile of leaves smouldering behind his chair to mask the smell of decomposition, which gets increasingly stronger as the days go by. After a week or so, when all respects have been paid, the dead man is forced into a fetal position and wrapped in a blanket. He is then transported to the mountains, where the funeral party prepares the coffin and pegs it into the cliff. Finally, someone scales the cliff and presses him into a coffin far too small for an adult, necessitating the contortion of the body or breaking of bones in the process.</div>
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As I stood there looking up at the coffins, my guide gestured at my camera. <i>Do you want me to take photo of you? </i>he asked. <i>There, stand in front of the coffin.</i></div>
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<i>Ah, no,</i> I hastened.</div>
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He laughed. <i>Are you scared?</i></div>
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<i>No</i>, I said, shaking my head. <i>Are you? </i></div>
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He shrugged. <i>No. </i></div>
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<i>Would you do this?</i></div>
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<i>No,</i> he said again, picking his words carefully. <i>I don't believe in it. I will be buried in a cemetery at the church, not in the open. I don't know why people would want to do this. But,</i> he added as an afterthought, <i>it's a good thing for our village. It has given many families jobs and money. </i>He stood up.<i> Come, I will show you more.</i><br />
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It's an interesting contradiction that plagues Sagada, a village that's straddling the the boundary between two different philosophies. And as ancient tradition ebbs with the changing times, perhaps its last and most enduring legacy lies in its ability to continue providing for the generations to come.<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-45454056079600290522016-07-15T21:05:00.001+08:002017-04-08T22:02:44.960+08:00Batad Rice Terraces<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>"Planting rice is never fun</i></div>
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<i>Bent from morn till the set of sun</i></div>
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<i>Cannot stand and cannot sit</i></div>
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<i>Cannot rest for a little bit</i></div>
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When I told my friends I was going to the <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/search/label/Philippines">Philippines</a> to visit the Batad rice tuerraces, they laughed. "It's so you," they said. "We know you love rice, but isn't it overkill to fly somewhere just to look at it?"<br />
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"It's not that,"<i> </i>I hastened to explain - but I couldn't find the words to tell them what exactly it was about the rice fields that were drawing me to them.<br />
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I've always thought rice paddies were particularly enchanting. Definitely scenic, with its hues of green and gold, and under the right kind of conditions, maybe even mesmerizing. Surely there's no other way to explain why I would take a four-hour flight followed by a ten-hour bus ride just to see them with my own eyes. <i>Mesmerizing</i> - I guess that's the word I was looking for.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMpe3pZziLexaZtp06Xx3qY3SIlvmWksSB_qits76Wsdae3_kEZQ4YLqivOBq0F2UyJ6MpJTrBMuH0BXSgZDzuyxcSAGZfbkzUFqNmeBmXxu9axRsfpI0uHr3tYZGTb-n45aF/s1600/IMG_0803+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMpe3pZziLexaZtp06Xx3qY3SIlvmWksSB_qits76Wsdae3_kEZQ4YLqivOBq0F2UyJ6MpJTrBMuH0BXSgZDzuyxcSAGZfbkzUFqNmeBmXxu9axRsfpI0uHr3tYZGTb-n45aF/s640/IMG_0803+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>"Oh, come friends and let us homeward take our way</i></div>
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<i>Now we rest until the dawn is gray</i></div>
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<i>Sleep, welcome sleep, we need to keep us strong</i></div>
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<i>Morn brings another workday long</i></div>
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By the time I stumbled off the bus in <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/05/cockfighting-sabong-in-philippines.html">Banaue</a>, groggy and tense from the uncomfortable journey, it was dawn and fingers of sunlight had just broken through the morning fog. In the distance, beyond the edges of the town, blocks of emerald softened by this first blush of light stood half in the shadows of the surrounding mountains. It was far too early for the roads to be noisy - then again it didn't look like a town that could really bustle anyway - but I thought I could already see bent figures moving between the stalks of rice.<br />
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After a quick breakfast my guide and I started the drive out to Batad. The roads wound along the sides of mountains eroded by landslides, and more than once I caught myself purposely averting my gaze from the patches of bare earth and rubble, willing our trip safe and uneventful.<br />
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Eventually, the drive ended at a non-descript carpark flanked by stalls selling tribal dress. (Fun fact: the tribe that lives here used to be headhunters. In a nearby museum that displayed gruesome mementos of this lost era, including pot lids with handles made of human jawbones and photos of decapitated humans strung up like game, I eavesdropped on a guide as she relayed: "It was considered something to be proud of when a warrior won the head of a child. That's because he killed the offspring of his enemy - a much more poignant blow than killing the enemy himself.")<br />
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My guide beckoned me down a little muddy trail that cut through the woods. (It was election season so even here, in the most unexpected of places, the earnest faces of a dozen dog-eared candidates peered down at us.) This wooded stretch, perhaps four hundred metres in all, hides its secrets well. Here and there I caught brief glimpses of the famed rice fields, but for the most part the emerald rice terraces of Batad were tucked away in the midst of an unassuming mountain range - only as the mountains slid apart did they come into view, this undulating stairway to the heavens.<br />
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<i>"Oh, my back is like to break</i></div>
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<i>Oh, my bones with the damp still ache</i></div>
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<i>And my legs are numb and set</i></div>
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<i>For their long soaking on the wet.</i></div>
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Heaven in name, but oh, barely in spirit! Hiking up and down the rice terraces was an exhausting affair, and the narrow paths (which made balancing difficult) and high steps made short work of my legs. After the fourth hour my thighs were shamefully wobbly, and I gratefully seized the chance to sit and admire the scenery as often as I could. My guide later told me that we climbed the equivalent of the Empire State building three times over. To be sure, the mountain is not that high. But we spent an inordinate amount of time hiking from viewpoint to viewpoint, then detouring to a nearby waterfall before continuing our hike.<br />
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So were the leg cramps worth it? Heck yes. When the sunlight hit the rice paddies just right, the damp lushness shone with a vividness I had only dreamed of before. But more than that, it gave me a deep appreciation of the hard work that underlies each bowl of rice. They sure weren't kidding when they said rice-planting was backbreaking!</div>
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<i>"It is hard to be so poor</i></div>
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<i>And such sorrow and pain endure</i></div>
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<i>You must move your arms about</i></div>
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<i>Or you'll find you must go without"</i></div>
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- Philippine folk song</div>
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The Batad rice terraces were stunning in their own right - I spent over an hour at the top taking in the view - but there is another lesser known one that's just as beautiful. This one belongs to a village called Hiwang, and it's carved into a series of hillocks that stretch far into the distance. If you visit in the morning, as I did, the sight of the terraces cascading through the mist, and the sheer tranquility of its surroundings, will take your breath away - I wholeheartedly vouch for that.<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-35417289779742301332016-06-18T18:06:00.001+08:002017-04-08T22:03:15.451+08:00Skeleton Coast, Namibia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Namibia. Home to one of the world's least known genocides, a country bordered along the wild Atlantic ocean by an endless, inescapable swath of golden sand. Year by year this unrelenting desert pushes into the ocean, slowly staking its claim - the result is a series of shipwrecks stranded fifty metres inland, once, I imagine, bustling microcosms of activity, now skeletal and rotting away into the dust, one day to become indistinguishable from the sands that roil by and unfold into the horizon. These, together with the bleached, weathered bones of their human survivors, who had tried in vain to cross this most inhospitable barrier, gave rise to its present-day name: Skeleton Coast.</div>
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To be sure, the Namibia I see today - impeccably clean, full of continental cars on streets named after famous Dutch and German figures - came to be in part due to the Germans' presence. But cultivating a beautiful city is not the point of establishing a colony; there is inevitably something of greater mercenary interest to be exploited for the good of the empire. In this case, it was Germany's fatal attraction to its treasure trove of diamonds and slaves.</div>
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Unknown to the indigenous people who lived within the lush interior of Namibia, the land itself had been resisting the colonists for centuries. Since the 1400's, the Portuguese, British and Germans had tried in turn to enter via the Atlantic. But the thousand-mile long and hundred-mile wide Skeleton Coast proved to be impenetrable. The Nama and the Herero were insulated - for now.</div>
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Then, in 1883, a young German sailor landed on the shores of Angra Pequena. Angra Pequena was a small cove with just one permanent building, which belonged to an English trader who made his living selling oils he extracted from the livers of cat sharks. The cat shark was an animal profuse in the waters around Angra Pequena, particularly at a long narrow island just outside the bay. Fittingly, this was called Shark Island. It was later to become home to the world's first extermination-cum-concentration camp - and its fate, together with that of the thousands destined to die on its rocky shores, was sealed when the German sailor successfully struck a deal with a local chief for Angra Penquena and five miles of land surrounding it. The hoisting of the German flag over this desolate harbour, now renamed Lüderitz, represented Germany's first inroads to its African empire.</div>
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Over the next twenty years, four men from varying military backgrounds were dispatched to Namibia in succession to establish a German colony. The first of them was Heinrich Göring, whose last name must immediately be familiar to all of us today. We know it because it belonged to the President of the <i>Reichtag</i>, Hermann Göring, infamous for being the one who ordered the "Final Solution" against the Jews to be carried out in 1941. Heinrich Göring was his father. In retrospect, this was a dark foreshadow of what was to befall Namibia in later years.</div>
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1904 was a turning point in local history. General von Trotha arrived in Namibia, sent specially by the Kaiser back in Germany to quash a Nama and Herero revolt, which had arose due to anger and frustration accumulated from years of abuse. Von Trotha's response was swift and merciless. Not long after assuming power, he ordered an annihilation of the Nama and Herero, killing up to five thousand of them in direct battle and driving thousands more, including women, children and the elderly, into the desert. Scores of them succumbed to the desert heat, in some cases after resorting to drinking cows' blood as a last resort against thirst.</div>
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In the immediate aftermath of the battle, von Trotha issued a proclamation against the Herero. It stated that all Herero were to leave the land or face execution. This order, however, was rescinded because the German leaders back home saw the Herero as an economically viable source of labour, and at the end of 1904, a new order was given to herd the Herero into concentration camps. </div>
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At the same time, a new wave of academia was making its rounds in Germany. Called eugenics, it was centered on a set of practices and beliefs aimed at improving the genetic quality of the human race. Its biggest advocate was Eugen Fischer, and he propounded his theories by conducting medical experiments on the Herero prisoners in the concentration camps. His claims were later to form the cornerstone of Hitler's Aryan movement during World War II. </div>
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Today, flying over Skeleton Coast, it's not at all apparent the history these lands have seen. From this distance the undulating patterns look stoic - it's easy to lose yourself here in both time and space. I close my eyes for a second and imagine myself stepping foot ashore and facing these immortal sand dunes. What sheer desolation and desperation one must feel! </div>
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We pass over a collection of half-collapsed beams in the middle of nowhere, and the pilot dips his wings at them. <i>Diamond camps</i>, he yells over the roar of the propellers. Once upon a time, this desert held one of the largest surface deposits of diamonds; early German colonisers simply walked the plains and picked up diamonds glinting in the sun. Today these are long gone. Instead, it is the remains of the genocide victims that now lie interred at the outskirts of Swakopmund, a seaside resort town on Skeleton Coast. By some estimates a hundred thousand people were killed in those tumultuous years. Yet their stories are forgotten, their voices silenced and buried as if by the immense bleakness of this godforsaken desert. There are no memorials for the Nama and Herero (although there is one for the Germans in the capital city Windhoek), and even the locals side-step the issue almost apologetically. And as I cross Bismarck Strasse into Strand Strasse, I can't quite suppress the bubble of heaviness that wells up and out of me, floating down this little picture perfect street and into the sea fog that lingers at the edge of my periphery.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Source: The Kaiser's Holocaust: Germany's Forgotten Genocide</i></span></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-43784874614829696522016-05-15T17:51:00.001+08:002017-04-08T22:04:10.702+08:00Cockfighting (Sabong) in the Philippines<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In 2013 Jared visited <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2014/12/diaries-of-myanmar.html">Myanmar</a> with a Burmese ex-colleague from the sub-sea industry. With typical Burmese hospitality, the ex-colleague brought Jared to his village and showed him around, describing with deep-rooted pride his culture and daily life.</div>
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On one of the days, Jared said, they sat at a hut built for the purpose of communal interactions, where they drank fermented palm juice and snacked on a fried tidbit that someone passed around. Later on, more people began streaming in, some carrying home-bred roosters that they would pit in methodised fights against each other.</div>
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The roosters were carried in pairs into a roughly drawn circle in the middle of the group. There was a cryptic way of keeping score, and after a certain amount of time, the fight would be broken apart and the roosters brought to opposing sides of the ring. </div>
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<i>You know those boxing matches on television?</i> Jared laughed, mimicking the actions. <i>It was exactly like that! Someone would give the rooster a little massage, feed it some water, and wet its head with a tiny towel. They let it take a break before starting the next round. It was a really interesting way of passing time in the village.</i></div>
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This was the context that formed my expectation as I stepped into a cockfighting pit in Banaue, <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/search/label/Philippines">Philippines</a>.</div>
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The cockfighting pit was on a little rise behind a car mechanic workship. A nondescript trail led up to it, opening into a four-sided arena fenced with wooden bars and Plexiglass. Wooden stands with seats three tiers high flanked two adjacent sides; at one of the remaining sides, a long bench ran the length of the arena, where six men sat cradling their roosters, chatting in Tagalog. A laminated license with a photo ID was threaded on a string that bisected the arena, and as it swung back and forth in the wind, I noticed its owner striding around and barking out instructions authoritatively. He spotted me too - the only female and non-local there - and made his way over. </div>
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<i>Where are you from? </i>he asked, glancing at my camera. There was no hint of suspicion or distaste in his voice - this was a licensed sport, after all.</div>
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<i>Singapore</i>, I said, and he echoed, <i>Singapore! Come!</i></div>
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Within seconds, he had ordered a few unlucky spectators away from the wooden barricade, clearing a comfortable space for me to watch the fight. <i>Enjoy,</i> he said, smiling.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2YRAAcxGz1xquPDb_wcl6DxGbuvVmzslzuvDCqxXKr0IJmCkCrEXzHM92CrzdiQYO5Aq2Re6SRm21R3tRdbXriGm-qv4yjLBwuh6Q-RczcOkntQMxLSTY-AEDgWdf9_6g74k/s1600/IMG_0989.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2YRAAcxGz1xquPDb_wcl6DxGbuvVmzslzuvDCqxXKr0IJmCkCrEXzHM92CrzdiQYO5Aq2Re6SRm21R3tRdbXriGm-qv4yjLBwuh6Q-RczcOkntQMxLSTY-AEDgWdf9_6g74k/s640/IMG_0989.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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A serious discussion was taking place on my right. The man next to me explained that the roosters were being matched up according to size and strength. Soon, the group fell silent and two men stepped forward into the ring. The excitement in the spectator stand was palpable, but the two men were calm and business-like as they went through their well-rehearsed actions.</div>
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First, they approached each other, gripping the roosters tightly. Then they pushed the roosters forward, forcing one to attack as the other was restrained - or, if it didn't attack, physically striking one rooster with the other. The men even plucked out feathers from the roosters' backs to further provoke them. Finally, they stepped back and carefully unsheathed the long, curved blade that was tied firmly to the roosters' spurs.</div>
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Then, it was time to fight.</div>
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The roosters were released as the owner of the arena yelled for bets. People around me raised their arms and shouted out numbers as he jotted down notes on a yellow lined writing pad. In the ring, the roosters were now approaching each other, hackles puffed, clearly aggravated and raring to strike.</div>
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What happened next took on an almost dream-like quality, feeling all at once immeasurably long in my alarm, and infinitesimally short in the flagrancy of a life snuffed out for sport. In a mere ten seconds, a victor was crowned; its defeated opponent limp and bloodied on the ground. A deafening cheer went up in the crowd.</div>
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Later on, I saw the dead rooster lying atop a row of cages where other live roosters were kept, awaiting their turn in the arena. I stepped closer for a look - some of the gashes were laid open to the bone. At its side sat a toolbox that looked almost surgical in its range of razor blades.</div>
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A man nearby saw me inspecting the dead rooster. He shrugged and smiled. <i>We eat it later, </i>he said. <i>Nothing wasted. Just like buying a chicken in the market, isn't it?</i></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-22468279364015766332016-03-09T22:38:00.003+08:002017-04-08T22:04:33.891+08:00Twin Lagoon, Coron<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhRu786at9oG84QYn4UG3Lx8KlktIQctoNOC61UHx1tMs0591MRgCBosWRnusX1YbkelJV1kpi_esdvzsyC3A5NVyoSH_URGq7BVWsHBFXzbuKeDQJXKx7mTeONIqFpyq9cH8/s1600/IMG_9984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhRu786at9oG84QYn4UG3Lx8KlktIQctoNOC61UHx1tMs0591MRgCBosWRnusX1YbkelJV1kpi_esdvzsyC3A5NVyoSH_URGq7BVWsHBFXzbuKeDQJXKx7mTeONIqFpyq9cH8/s640/IMG_9984.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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We started off our <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/02/wreck-diving-in-coron.html">wreck-diving trip</a> with a tour that was ironically everything a wreck dive is not: bright, blazing hot, and above all luminously clear.</div>
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There is however one thing that the two have in common. Both are tantalising secrets that Coron guards fiercely - one under metres upon metres of gray impassable water, and the other ensconced behind jagged limestone cliffs.</div>
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Straight from the airport, we headed down to the public market in search of an outrigger captain who could take us around the islands for the day. With no lack of options we were on our way in less than five minutes.</div>
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<i>Is it far? </i>I asked the boatman, a young boy of twenty-one with a smile missing a few teeth.</div>
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He shrugged and pointed vaguely in the direction of an island opposite us. <i>There. </i></div>
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We cast a doubtful look at each other. The sea around us was a nondescript shade of gray-blue, and even though I had spied glimpses of turquoise from the plane window just an hour ago, there was no sign of it anywhere near us.</div>
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<i>Mahingtay,</i> the boy said, laughing, reading my mind. <i>Wait.</i></div>
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We sped noisily on through the water.</div>
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All of a sudden the outrigger veered left through an inlet, and as the limestone cliffs slid away on both sides the captain cut the switch, and the water abruptly and almost magically became crystal clear. We drifted into the lagoon soundlessly.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmRmd06XQKohXZPyf_TLszlRLvozJ2DpSO-NwuPtu_oBc9QBNFpRgdr-YDYLSlxesl1oTRcPSAS9SkglVqDC4NisOiiRmj7j9XKMwMn-ACOPMnwRQGG-kHu0wnvPojgwbZxcN/s1600/IMG_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmRmd06XQKohXZPyf_TLszlRLvozJ2DpSO-NwuPtu_oBc9QBNFpRgdr-YDYLSlxesl1oTRcPSAS9SkglVqDC4NisOiiRmj7j9XKMwMn-ACOPMnwRQGG-kHu0wnvPojgwbZxcN/s640/IMG_0006.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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All in all, we spent a delightful hour in the lagoon before reluctantly leaving for the next site. Jared went for a swim and reported back that there wasn't much to see underwater - the water is so clear because the seabed made up of just white sand - but then, with a view like this topside, we didn't spend much time looking down. :)</div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-29837268333315490702016-02-22T22:50:00.000+08:002017-04-08T22:05:18.637+08:00Wreck Diving in Coron<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmO-fBC_vUDlUBDLnh0zekbjbYiTGLcKB6DXYos0XkR00Do3k4tVCI8q8kA83BhyphenhyphenJOpeiKV84uRmzR3xqRS29ECqTaBZ_1Rtc6_Pzm1PpmW-wRiQnFOrWNfb-SQX80OoHemxFh/s1600/P2060096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmO-fBC_vUDlUBDLnh0zekbjbYiTGLcKB6DXYos0XkR00Do3k4tVCI8q8kA83BhyphenhyphenJOpeiKV84uRmzR3xqRS29ECqTaBZ_1Rtc6_Pzm1PpmW-wRiQnFOrWNfb-SQX80OoHemxFh/s640/P2060096.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Honestly, it was a little scary.</div>
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It wasn't so much that there were human remains, or tattered mementos belonging to soldiers long gone. The sea tends to take all that with neither care nor discretion. But it was all too easy to imagine the last dreadful scenes of a dying ship and its crew play out as I finned my way through its abandoned corridors. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFt6lEYQv-QjChwPMPVPIAIjX2BLEFxDlbFSkwq0vCop6xyBXzXCoa2W6NaZZSHtH2nhdaP3MS0SsM8Wl0F9tC8tpoeYgGIkQeHkWSpC0FhsB5bsTjIq46zXnLPLPEg7tt3N-h/s1600/P2080241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFt6lEYQv-QjChwPMPVPIAIjX2BLEFxDlbFSkwq0vCop6xyBXzXCoa2W6NaZZSHtH2nhdaP3MS0SsM8Wl0F9tC8tpoeYgGIkQeHkWSpC0FhsB5bsTjIq46zXnLPLPEg7tt3N-h/s640/P2080241.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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We are in Coron, the Philippines, where seven decades ago the Americans struck the Japanese Imperial Navy with a sustained air attack, sinking a fleet of ships that included warships, provision ships, and auxilliary supply ships. Today they all sit between ten to forty metres underwater. The region is known for its clear <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/03/twin-lagoon-coron.html">emerald lagoons</a>, but while we were there the dive sites were inexplicably gloomy, and I couldn't suppress the little bubble of apprehension that welled up in me.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwAHVt8QydRbrLcmN9xe5BRBMO1qMVRTXkyUQfB-yd9FYTD_lYD9GWtOweFcyCXxldf6CptlS0RgY8Id7rZllC_zrN12qla2MdVNdR38O0HKtZDbRPeE-mi5nnRjS4ElSmcrm/s1600/P2080310.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwAHVt8QydRbrLcmN9xe5BRBMO1qMVRTXkyUQfB-yd9FYTD_lYD9GWtOweFcyCXxldf6CptlS0RgY8Id7rZllC_zrN12qla2MdVNdR38O0HKtZDbRPeE-mi5nnRjS4ElSmcrm/s640/P2080310.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<i>Alongside the vertical side shell of a ship</i></div>
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<i>Live (?) anti-aircraft rounds</i></div>
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Because the ships are so large, some over a hundred and sixty metres in length, it is impossible to see the entire ship at any one time. Section by coral-encrusted section it comes into view - first a discernible porthole, then the bridge, then a gun platform with rounds still scattered nearby - and finally an eerily dark chasm, the scar of a fatal torpedo attack, that beckons you deep into the bowels of the doomed ship.</div>
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We drop into the gash one by one.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPgjyFgrV8OkdPzz8jKNp_0QFgW4JjzOHVUl4PUwvAmdLGs0XhLcEaQ9dctkriSEDhtp3MpDx2_AKTFLGExLRshGz5m9RsBWF3H4AOmqyphn-VdhTOOZsGdd4df4cAWfOfuUm/s1600/P2070121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPgjyFgrV8OkdPzz8jKNp_0QFgW4JjzOHVUl4PUwvAmdLGs0XhLcEaQ9dctkriSEDhtp3MpDx2_AKTFLGExLRshGz5m9RsBWF3H4AOmqyphn-VdhTOOZsGdd4df4cAWfOfuUm/s640/P2070121.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Exiting the doorway of a large boiler room</i></div>
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It takes a while for our eyes to adjust to the darkness. We have our torches with us, of course, but this room is so large that the light doesn't quite reach the other end. <i>It's a boiler room,</i> the guide tells us later. Jagged holes in the disintegrating hull of the ship lets some light in, and as otherworldly as the green cast is, we're thankful for this small bit of comfort from the world above. We sink deeper, deeper.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-KvhQO2UKZHpgMr4b9zFTCWl0wl46U3hKNmUx46jxMVXCQlBDKuPNuqOogXZQAN1yU7ZqwymyQ57X2JnZlSCwwtNYhV1ABvx0X0wnfMVPCCr14wd7ynIBsF_MmYCJ1reSHd1/s1600/P2060120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-KvhQO2UKZHpgMr4b9zFTCWl0wl46U3hKNmUx46jxMVXCQlBDKuPNuqOogXZQAN1yU7ZqwymyQ57X2JnZlSCwwtNYhV1ABvx0X0wnfMVPCCr14wd7ynIBsF_MmYCJ1reSHd1/s640/P2060120.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Diving in darkness inside the wreck</i></div>
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Here, nearer to the seabed, everything is coated with a thick layer of silt. It's so fine that an accidental brush sends swirling clouds of particles up, an opaque wall of mayhem that takes forty-five minutes to settle back down. When it engulfs you it's hard to see anything, though if you squint you might just make out some shapes - but what of? We are very, very careful not to touch anything. At this depth and in an overhead environment, we really don't want to make any mistakes.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoPwM29PhxMBP63p1PDou71t2peoqt7adQxZ9rf8ZjPvtYKTux2kjbUVp1hfKlSfo2aqNizDPdpp6YAYw8i5MwQ-C9Er7gjbzG4RLqFN6L9W5c4JPo9Goso32gPhnwwMO5MeI/s1600/P2060054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoPwM29PhxMBP63p1PDou71t2peoqt7adQxZ9rf8ZjPvtYKTux2kjbUVp1hfKlSfo2aqNizDPdpp6YAYw8i5MwQ-C9Er7gjbzG4RLqFN6L9W5c4JPo9Goso32gPhnwwMO5MeI/s640/P2060054.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Penetrating the wreck in a single file, by the light of our torches</i></div>
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And then, too, you have to deal with the narcosis. As the nitrogen floods your body, your mind dulls and slows down. Sometimes, people say, you get euphoric. Your vision might start to swim and you might get lightheaded. All in all it's an uncanny feeling knowing that we are toeing the line between two realms: past and present; dead and living.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNrIetjGgkNl-mKAK6pVHxI8JaOBuHFpU8T1D0BqKZ9zmWcQyer2o78lqK5vN6rc2ynPvJnL1GWYySaOjiYYFxAyHhzKoXeATvnBhu7t1u2uYPwuqohxiLTUgFOwAaLJAoNvw/s1600/P2060060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNrIetjGgkNl-mKAK6pVHxI8JaOBuHFpU8T1D0BqKZ9zmWcQyer2o78lqK5vN6rc2ynPvJnL1GWYySaOjiYYFxAyHhzKoXeATvnBhu7t1u2uYPwuqohxiLTUgFOwAaLJAoNvw/s640/P2060060.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>WWII Japanese gas mask left on a ledge covered with silt</i></div>
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Though the furnishings have long since rotted away, we still pass by a few recognisable artifacts. In one room a gas mask lays on its side in the silt. In another, rows and rows of refrigeration pipes run in odd, broken angles against the wall. There is also a bicycle and a sewing machine - it looks like one I saw in my grandmother's house growing up.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_qbAfCI1_aKgP3N6Ew1AslsYxOqdMigNBwJ4rOHlSw_TIgl4jmLPYKUwKPbnUolED2DxRBuRnGjrDg1q1TPG76AsNjEpDbLHinAIdcx91oTjPiePXUJ_1eArIlDkk8nIYa2A/s1600/P2060064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_qbAfCI1_aKgP3N6Ew1AslsYxOqdMigNBwJ4rOHlSw_TIgl4jmLPYKUwKPbnUolED2DxRBuRnGjrDg1q1TPG76AsNjEpDbLHinAIdcx91oTjPiePXUJ_1eArIlDkk8nIYa2A/s640/P2060064.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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We dived eight different ship wrecks over three days in Coron. It took me a while to conquer my nervousness over being enclosed in an overhead environment (<a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.com/2015/04/ice-diving-in-siberia.html">ice diving</a> felt a lot safer because I was clipped onto a rope that was attached at the other end to a very burly Russian man at the surface), but once I did, I could fully appreciate the magnitude of seeing and actually being inside a part of history. The gloom didn't seem so threatening any more - although it did remain haunting. And fittingly enough, our last dive was at a wreck so shallow and bright and teeming with renewed life that I thought to myself as I turned back for one last look, <i>there's hope.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCp4Reao7H5J7VpYkgmfGJa8hCGiZdn2fczl4Gaj0oH6uaU06RILKu3-QF2qMKO_f5iYzFftSo474BFpl6Wk2KPZe0dTJFr7-INGy5RRKToO1zHvu1WI17SyqamJx4KX80YiVL/s1600/P2070084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCp4Reao7H5J7VpYkgmfGJa8hCGiZdn2fczl4Gaj0oH6uaU06RILKu3-QF2qMKO_f5iYzFftSo474BFpl6Wk2KPZe0dTJFr7-INGy5RRKToO1zHvu1WI17SyqamJx4KX80YiVL/s640/P2070084.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Cuttlefish</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPufFxoFNUoGGcG-yV00prIejSbYUJif_t8C7I7LdhgBa4CEHbX9xVKE1pMq9jkofGUr1XYsnU26TfouzeT5AkqRxL8S4tfOlSjZbR1FI8Uzt2xGCF7DUafX2a6E_oUe-9k6C/s1600/IMG_0270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPufFxoFNUoGGcG-yV00prIejSbYUJif_t8C7I7LdhgBa4CEHbX9xVKE1pMq9jkofGUr1XYsnU26TfouzeT5AkqRxL8S4tfOlSjZbR1FI8Uzt2xGCF7DUafX2a6E_oUe-9k6C/s640/IMG_0270.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Stonefish</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ZkSF8FkYn9mDnzsG4I5fPiUcXEc61EBFELROQ6gqcuN7GTO0m73R0nuWtpUgIJ0X2Xs11SfcnoHoNNZVCQGxlxhmIqR5JlNWy3wq43qAqg2foQeA_sW5ocIhyphenhyphencM5b5SdDagV/s1600/P2060189-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ZkSF8FkYn9mDnzsG4I5fPiUcXEc61EBFELROQ6gqcuN7GTO0m73R0nuWtpUgIJ0X2Xs11SfcnoHoNNZVCQGxlxhmIqR5JlNWy3wq43qAqg2foQeA_sW5ocIhyphenhyphencM5b5SdDagV/s640/P2060189-2.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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<i>Nudibranch (sea slug)</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic2DeDHaNQBHWG5LNmOQT5tgbytNHgbG5TwMxxkPFE6IVpA60HL3SSLe0Qz0h0lpS5rR4WJ3tuFRb55PANQ_mUR_GRaOl3Odw7ZNcmDWLmAg-sTQPX5G_97PAW-WRs-OeqfoB_/s1600/IMG_0527-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic2DeDHaNQBHWG5LNmOQT5tgbytNHgbG5TwMxxkPFE6IVpA60HL3SSLe0Qz0h0lpS5rR4WJ3tuFRb55PANQ_mUR_GRaOl3Odw7ZNcmDWLmAg-sTQPX5G_97PAW-WRs-OeqfoB_/s640/IMG_0527-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Electric clam</i></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-83134496748144137752016-02-13T18:27:00.000+08:002017-04-08T22:06:00.172+08:004 Things We Learnt About Timelapse Photography<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In December, we headed down to Indonesia to catch M<a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.com/2015/12/fiery-bromo.html">t Bromo in the midst of an eruption</a>. This was the first eruption in about three years, and although it hadn't started spewing lava yet, the plume of volcanic ash was already 1.5km high. Driving into Cemoro Lawang - the nearest village to Bromo - the weather afforded us a few minutes' glimpse of the smoke column before the evening descended into equal parts fog and darkness.</div>
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We had come with the knowledge that there wasn't much we could do in the area, based on a national park advisory. An area radiating three kilometres from Bromo was completely out of bounds. So before the trip, we decided we would spend our time camped on a nearby mountain, and make it our mission to take a timelapse video capturing both the sunrise and the eruption.</div>
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Here's four things we learnt about producing a timelapse video:</div>
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<b>1. You need an intervalometer</b></div>
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Contrary to what its name may suggest, a timelapse video is not shot as a film; instead, it's made of individual frames taken at specified intervals, then compiled into a video. As an example: imagine you choose to take your frames each a minute apart, over a 24-minute period. You now have 24 <i>minutes</i> worth of frames that can be compressed into a single second of video time, thus achieving the sped-up effect. The intervalometer is the magic tool that allows you to program all these so that your camera can fire off shots automatically at the frequency you tell it to. The interval is of course up to your choosing, and is dependent on your subject matter. You can probably get away with one frame per hour if you are trying to capture a growing plant, for instance, but as we wanted to shoot the relatively fast-moving volcanic plume we decided to go with one frame every ten seconds.</div>
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<b>2. Preparation is everything</b></div>
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Scouting for a location beforehand is extremely important, particularly if you expect to capture the transition from night to day. We hiked up the mountain at 2am in near complete darkness (no moon or starlight because the smoke had blotted it all out) and had a tough time deciding on a vantage point. Eventually we decided to take a gamble on the summit, figuring the higher we were the better, but as morning dawned we found our frame was partially obscured by a grove of trees that had been just beyond the reach of our torches. We ended up abandoning the attempt, and spent the morning scouting for a better photo spot for our attempt the next day. This time, we even went to the extent of marking out with stones where our tripod legs should stand.</div>
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<b>3. Working in the dark</b></div>
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Framing our shot in the dark proved to be a challenge. There were no consistent points of reference we could use as Bromo was too far away for our torches to illuminate, and so we had to make educated guesses at our photo composition. We did this by taking long exposure shots of the mountainsides around us, then comparing the frames to photos taken in the day, which enabled us to make adjustments to our focal length and position. </div>
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What was also tough was focusing the shot when there were no visible stars or light references. We took dozens of test shots but couldn't really gauge the clarity because of the low light conditions... on hindsight, we should have spent some more time finetuning our settings - you don't want to shoot for hours then realise your photos are blurry.</div>
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<b>4. Familiarity with your camera settings</b></div>
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Timelapse photography is done using the manual mode on your camera, so you have greater control over the exposure no matter what the weather condition. We found this particularly tricky since we had to react fast to the changing light as the sun rose - we had to toggle between the shutter speed and ISO almost every other shot once the first rays of pink blazed into the sky.</div>
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OK, enough said - check out our videos below (watch in high quality)! :) Drop us tips in the comment box if you have any!</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/6Grs1OUib4E/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6Grs1OUib4E?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-18276999375841755912016-01-20T18:00:00.000+08:002017-04-08T22:07:00.899+08:00A day in Alotau, Papua New Guinea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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After a week of diving at Milne Bay, I decided to head into the jungle and the islands of the Solomon Sea. This involved first travelling almost two hours from the dive resort back to Alotau, the provincial capital, then crossing the straits into the nearest village.<br />
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The person who was supposed to help me with this was a girl named Rita, the receptionist at a local inn. We had corresponded via email up to a month before the trip and she knew exactly what I wanted to do and see on my trip.<br />
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But there was a rude surprise waiting for me when I turned up at the inn. None of the staff seemed to be aware that I had a room reservation, much less an entire trip booked through them. It was only after a great deal of exasperating conversation that I found out Rita had abruptly quit and taken all the paperwork with her. This obviously threw a huge spanner into the works, because I now had to try and source for all the connections by myself - and I had exactly zero clue where to start.<br />
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The proprietress of the inn, a European woman with a commanding size and voice to match, turned out to be of vital help. Her neighbour's housekeeper came from <a href="http://smallgirlbigtravels.blogspot.sg/2016/01/boi-boi-waga.html">one of the islands in the Solomon Sea</a> and she knew the the region well. I decided to hire her as my guide for the next three days.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BqumYJWWObT5myNMYUXqUV2TAY0woiIcG0WIGrp87o1FwIJ0lroXwutTK1o6vw4lOqJWquA1UkwXrVXJSH-43BULo4cU2RgPnmcDT99hxGvugKRg9UU-BJ8xxKGzN-Tdb_26/s1600/20130823_162124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BqumYJWWObT5myNMYUXqUV2TAY0woiIcG0WIGrp87o1FwIJ0lroXwutTK1o6vw4lOqJWquA1UkwXrVXJSH-43BULo4cU2RgPnmcDT99hxGvugKRg9UU-BJ8xxKGzN-Tdb_26/s640/20130823_162124.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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All that remained then was to walk to the market place and look for a boatman who could take me to the faraway islands. (Boats in Alotau can be found in two places - one being the industrial shipyard, and the other the long jetty at the local market. Since the settlements are so dispersed along Milne Bay's coastline and islands, and roads not often in good shape, the locals typically travel here by boat to trade or buy goods.) This was easy enough - there were no other travellers around, and more boats than local supply necessitated. To secure the deal I simply had to leave him fifty litres of gasoline and a promise I would be back the next day.<br />
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There weren't many sunlight hours left to the day after that was done. Travellers are told to return to their lodgings before 6pm, because the violence that Port Moresby is famous for is increasingly spilling over into Milne Bay. "<i>It's a pity</i>," a local English teacher who stopped me on the roadside for a chat said, shaking his head. "<i>Milne Bay was always peaceful. We are the safest province in the entire country. But these days even that is not enough. People carry guns on the streets. You can get robbed if you stay out late."</i><br />
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Still, while the sun was in the sky, you couldn't really tell it was dangerous. The market was bustling with people as whole families went about their shopping. Dirt-streaked lorries and cars lay parked in a bare patch of sand ringed by kiosks selling everything from snacks to toys, the likes of which you don't see in Singapore this generation, and there was a festive mood in the air as a soccer game played out in a pitch nearby.<br />
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All around villagers peddled their wares, the simplest and most common of which were long beans. Contrary to intuition this isn't because the long bean is something that features strongly in their national cuisine. Instead, it's dipped into a fine powder of crushed coral and limestone and eaten as a snack. It's carcinogenic, but deeply entrenched in their ways. Almost everyone you meet will have a bottle of this squirrelled somewhere on his person. Because of this and the no less unhealthy habit of smoking and chewing betel nuts, most of the locals develop mouth and gum diseases, including cancer. As a side effect the taste buds are also dulled, which leads to the tendency to over season their food with salt and sugar, resulting in a whole host of other health problems. Another person I met, this time an expatriate who founded the biggest supermarket in Milne Bay, recounted a story that illustrated just how extreme the situation can get.<br />
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"<i>There was a sugar shortage a few years ago</i>," he said, "<i>and there was no sugar at all in this town for about a month. People were getting desperate. Finally, we managed to get some shipped in - but only one truckload of it. Somehow word got out and when the sugar was being transported from the shipyard to the supermarket - and I live on the hill overlooking the main road so I could see all this - people started running after the truck. By the time it reached the supermarket, there were about fifty people running behind it! We sold out within a day</i>."<br />
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It didn't take too long to explore the town - there was a total of two supermarkets, one bank branch, a school (where I was invited to speak to the students), and a bunch of family-owned shops. I ended sneaking into the back of the crowd and watching the soccer game together with the other Alotians as the sun set into the sea.<br />
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417358.post-85259783344443500712016-01-12T22:58:00.002+08:002017-04-08T22:07:35.898+08:00Boi Boi Waga<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Boi Boi Waga will always hold a special place in my heart - partly because of how difficult it was to get there, but mostly because of the resident family.</div>
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They were an old couple, perhaps bordering 60. It was hard to tell as it usually is with people who have spent their entire lives by the sea. Their complexions were weathered and their hair bleached a light copper; and I didn't have the eye nor the forwardness to discern if it was because of age or the harsh salt air.</div>
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As the boat pulled up on the shore, my guide - their daughter - stepped out slowly. She wasn't young herself, and it showed in her movements. But there was palpable excitement in the air and a clear sense of purpose as she led the way towards a half-stone-half-wooden hut at the end of the beach. </div>
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<i>I have not seen them in a year</i>, she had said to me as our boat bounced over the swells two hours earlier. <i>Thank you for this chance to go home</i>. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgieLrlz_BzwEGjUHCBXUFU6dM2oZzXGd9UtAja4s3wfm-quY4xRdDtyRze80BOMwPpEp1sytxvRl3h56yM1vgjBwBGzKDtc35YskhCgZ4HL4TdDuP8lI8TjSC44qpvpcALkM_q/s1600/20130825_093127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgieLrlz_BzwEGjUHCBXUFU6dM2oZzXGd9UtAja4s3wfm-quY4xRdDtyRze80BOMwPpEp1sytxvRl3h56yM1vgjBwBGzKDtc35YskhCgZ4HL4TdDuP8lI8TjSC44qpvpcALkM_q/s640/20130825_093127.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The journey here had been tiring at best. At first the boatman had tried to hug the coastline, where there was some reprieve from the two metre tall waves. Miles after miles of lush primeval forest and sheer cliffs had sped by and kept us company for the first hour. Occasionally we would see a hut or a boat pulled up amongst the trees, but they were so few and far between that it had been hard to imagine anyone living there at all. </div>
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Then our boat had rounded the cape and we lost the shelter of the coast. For a while we battled the open sea as I clung on to the hull of the dinghy, desperately trying to steady myself on my makeshift wooden seat. (The dinghy is the main mode of transport for the locals traveling between their villages and the market - and as such, because the aim is to accommodate goods like entire livestock, there aren't any seats. Everyone sits on the bottom of the boat amongst their produce. My boatman, upon seeing that I was a traveller, had picked up a nearby plank and wedged it across the two sides of the boat as a makeshift bench. As you'd expect it hadn't been very effective, and more than once I found it bouncing along with me when we bashed through a wave.)</div>
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And now, we were finally on her home island, where her parents still lived with a motley gang of dogs, cats and chickens.</div>
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The tour of the island didn't take very long. There was an outhouse, a well, their sleeping quarters, and an outdoor cooking area, all built on the sand. The perimeter of each block was lined with an assortment of seashells, some larger than my face, and some like nothing I'd ever seen before. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0crXnU3oTvV38YrAJjweBj29cBBPTs25KCsTfQHNMrOm3arVn1APPu16nE9IO7k0ZO6qQQUr0m5877HgEzmHxreqRZkZm6q1tyhn8HUgnMhTu1A5DkQwYewvnvPgNjxd7mahI/s1600/20130825_101624.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0crXnU3oTvV38YrAJjweBj29cBBPTs25KCsTfQHNMrOm3arVn1APPu16nE9IO7k0ZO6qQQUr0m5877HgEzmHxreqRZkZm6q1tyhn8HUgnMhTu1A5DkQwYewvnvPgNjxd7mahI/s640/20130825_101624.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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As I stood on the beach inspecting the shells, she came up beside me. <i>They're here</i>, she said, nodding at the sea.</div>
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"Who?"</div>
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"<i>The manta rays</i>," she replied. "<i>I see them</i>."</div>
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I immediately hopped up and ran over to the boatman, who by some form of telepathy had read my mind and was already revving the engine. With my mask and snorkel in hand we headed out in the direction of the shadows she had seen.</div>
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The first manta ray came into view less than fifteen metres from shore. In the time it took me to strip to my swimwear and put on my mask, it swooped by and vanished into the depths. I bit back my disappointment as I scanned the waters, not quite daring to hope I'd see it again - but all of a sudden there it was again, and another, and another! They circled the area over and over, and just floating off the side of the boat I came face-to-face with a manta ray for the first time in my life. </div>
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Back on shore after an exhilarating half an hour, my hosts led me to their cooking area, where they had arranged a plate of baked potatoes and a grilled fish. Mum set to work on the fish, swiftly de-boning it and insisting I ate my fill, while they stoutly refused to eat until I was done.</div>
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I wound up feeling so bad for sharing whatever little food they had that after the meal, I offered to pay for my portion. They declined, of course. It's curious how the most generous people are often the ones who aren't the richest - but then, wealth shouldn't always be measured in material terms. </div>
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Determined to repay their generosity in some way, I struck a bargain with my guide. Let me pick some seashells as souvenirs, I suggested, and I'll pay your parents $10 for each one. She agreed.</div>
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I picked three - which by the way I still have on my bedside table now, bar one that got confiscated at the airport for being so big that it was essentially a weapon - and handed over $30. Pleased with myself for what I thought was an ingenious idea, I waved at them energetically as we bade them goodbye - only to see them press the money back into their daughter's hands.</div>
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As we pushed off and left them waving on the shore, she turned to me and explained simply, "<i>They want me to donate it all to the church.</i>"</div>
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And that's the thing, isn't it? It doesn't even matter that I don't subscribe to their religion. But I can appreciate the spirit of the gesture and the mindset that underlies it. We are often so singlemindedly caught up in material pursuits that we forget how to be happy and contented. And truly, there are so many blessings we should be grateful for - health, time, the company of those who are dear to us, and the privilege to see the beauty all around us, if only we know where to look. In a way, I'm glad I'm writing this at the turn of the year. I've never been a proponent of new year resolutions so I won't go down that track, but what I've come to realise is that I'm thankful, hugely thankful, for everything that has placed me where I am today. </div>
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Happy new year everyone! xx</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUWQUkpOG0XYNNSMh6Sac-bJMMgK3x_1Ydj1yMNbr61DIJj8vO9sORgyBn5Dc9wkrFqtnZzu0TL13sZllKL4qx13a4k76uQSyNcqzkaKDZWBv8ruTQRuV2XRbxRHIltzntzvsD/s1600/20130825_100248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUWQUkpOG0XYNNSMh6Sac-bJMMgK3x_1Ydj1yMNbr61DIJj8vO9sORgyBn5Dc9wkrFqtnZzu0TL13sZllKL4qx13a4k76uQSyNcqzkaKDZWBv8ruTQRuV2XRbxRHIltzntzvsD/s640/20130825_100248.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>(No awesome photos as I didn't have a proper camera during this trip!)</i></div>
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Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039440382954996704noreply@blogger.com0