Alive. I am.

I haven't had a reason, or much of a reason to why I stopped writing these past couple months.  Among the contributing factors is a brain on tape delay, and more importantly, the noticeable degradation of my only working language, which I believe is suffering from pretty serious abuse.

When you teach English to English speaking students, you have the luxury of being verbose.  If they don't know the meaning of verbose, they can hit a dictionary.  I like being verbose, I like writing and talking in a flowery round about way.  I enjoy the way English works, how I can say the same thing twenty ways and probably still have options.  When you teach English as a second language, that option isn't there.  It is simple or nothing.  So my English isn't being used poorly, but rather simply, and in a world where your only working language isn't being properly bolstered and massaged, you tend to fall into some bad habits.

I'm in this weird catch-22 where the only place I can properly use the language at the level I wish is on this blog, and sadly never have the necessary motivation, inspiration or desire to write one.  My proficiency has been unexpectedly stunted.  Not irreversibly, but I have found that I need to try a lot harder.  Maybe I will just read more, and try to absorb better habits that way.

So, some updates:

Pat and Jenn's challenge:

Get a photo of you at a bar watching an nhl playoff game.

Here is a dated photo of the Kings playing the Coyotes in the Stanley Cup Finals.  This game was old even when it was being played.  I bet the Kings win the cup.

Rachel's challenge:

Swim in the pacific. 
     
I've swam in the Pacific before, but never on this side.  This was Utsumi beach, and it's about an hour from where I live by train.










Other updates:

I went to Iga Ueno, in Mie prefecture and learned that the Japanese Ninja of old had many ways to predict rain.  I reckon it rained a lot. 

I also went to Ise, which is also in Mie prefecture.  It is home to Ise shrine, the largest of all Shinto shrines in Japan.  Ise shrine is large, beautiful and very peaceful.  The trees I saw there were the largest I've seen in Japan.  It consists of an inner and outer shrine, this is a photo of the inner.

 

While in Mie, I also went to the coast and saw Meoto Iwa, the married rocks of Japan.  These rocks celebrate the union of marriage (between a man and woman specifically, I'm told), and apparently the rope weighs over a tonne and is changed many times every year.

                  

I also went to Nagoya city zoo.  I saw this bear, and I love him.  He's a Yezo bear, and they are found far to the north in Hokkaido.  Yezo is an old name for Hokkaido.  Also known as the black grizzly.

I got a love letter from a five year old.

My student Chika tried to spell donut:

I saw this monstrosity.

And, I learned to never quit.

Things are fine.  

Coming up is my summer vacation.  Starting on the 6th of August, and going for two weeks, I will not be required to put on nice pants, or a collared shirt and go to work.  For two weeks, I have absolute freedom of movement and thought.

My official plan as of right now is to disappear, and see where I end up.  This might mean a hiatus from the internet, aside from access on my phone for navigation.  That is a loose plan, and we'll see how that pans out.  I'll let you know how it goes.  Nagoya is absurdly hot and humid, and apparently runs a close second to the south island paradise of Okinawa in terms of top temperatures.  I reckon anywhere will be cooler.

Sorry for the delay.

Much love,

Sean 

Vending Machine Roulette: Match

Vending machines in Japan are unique from the rest of the world.  Not only are they everywhere, and I mean absolutely everywhere, they're ubiquity is only outstripped by their availability of selection.  I would be willing to wager that there are at least eight different companies with vending machines set up around Japan, and in every vending machine there is no less than ten different drinks.

If you can't find something you enjoy, then have some water.

With this in mind, I'd like to introduce a new feature to this blog of mine!  Everyone put your hands together for Vending Machine Roulette!  Please come with me on a journey for the ages, as I venture out on a magnificent quest to buy, try and review every single beverage available for purchase from Japanese vending machines.




Today's drink is something called Match.  Aside from sporting a fancy yellow colour, and taking up residence in a tiny little machine next to an off white liquid called 'Pro-Sweat', which may or may not be real sweat, bottles of Match come with a fun little pump up message:  Let's Vitamin!  Yes!  Let us Vitamin!

In the area of taste, it is on the borderline of too sweat and addicting.  Its flavour is that of liquified candy. If you took all the rockets you received as kid while trick or treating, probably not an inconsiderable amount, and blended them with syrup into a yellowy broth, you would create something with a taste very similar to match.

I've only found two vending machines holding the stuff, and they were located on a shady train platform and a dark alley, respectively.

Let us vitamin!


Ciao,

Sean

I Deserve This

When did it become unacceptable to brag about things?  I'm trying to remember the age when making an exposé of your life's few victories became tactless and shallow.

I'm as bad about it as the next, I admit it, and often shut down socially in the face of someone else's boasting.  I call them a braggart, and revel in their bad taste. Yet it seems that people are systematically shamed by society to be almost embarrassed of their accomplishments when it comes to receiving the praise of people outside their family.  To accept recognition with anything less than meekness, makes you self absorbed and overconfident.

I'm may only be saying this because I'm in Japan, where the standard comment from most parents is that their kids are 'not smart' regardless of the kid's actual mental acuity, but I won't pin it on Japan alone.

What I'm really trying to say is, I wonder what it's like to receive an award and say "I deserve this".  I don't think I've ever done it.

Japanese Train Conductors Have Really Nice Pocket Watches

Sometimes I wonder if operating a train feels like living a life of destiny and fate.

The track to your final destination stretches out in front of you eternally.  Often you make brief stops at somewhere interesting, and can look around, but soon find yourself moving off to somewhere else. Ultimately your every action is predictable and determined to the second by the soft clicks of that reliable pocket watch kept safely in your coat pocket.

It comforts me to think that the tracks have switches.

Sean

Shift.

I'm lying in my bed.  It is a rainy, spring night, fourteen stories above a highway of tracks.  Trains rumble by subtly.  The noise is soothing and rhythmic.  It is expected, and in that way comforting.  When a distractive noise becomes a constant, its absence is the bother.  The air is sweet and cool, with a hint of fragrance.  It smells like warm things to come, an Ocean not far, and that crisp odour of a rain not long past.  Wind blows through the partly opened window, the cross breeze created by the slightly ajar balcony door.  It is late, too late to hear the goings on of anyone's daily life.  Yet in that void creeps the night noises of a city in slumber.  The lone car drives quickly down an empty street, accelerating loudly.  A drunken couple talks nonsense, stumbling home to their empty, waiting beds.  And amidst it all, the ever constant, a train rumbles by softly.

Shift.

I am sitting in front of a large glass tank.  Inside the transparent walls, exists an artificial world made of real creatures.  They swim by methodically.  They swim by rhythmically.  They swim by with out a glance, or a thought, or a care.  A turtle makes a wide circle, it's path the span of the tank, not a inch of circumference wasted.  The fish are more erratic.  They swim faster, they change direction more often, they are less and less consistent in a way proportionate to their size.  The smallest abandoned the notion of a circle outright, and swarm in tight lines.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  A shark swims in a disjointed way.  Diagonally, slightly up with a list to the left.  The little fish don't like this.  Back and forth.  I picture the tank from above.  I am looking down on a city, everyone with a path.  Who makes the wide arcs of a turtle?  Which of you is the back and forth of the tiny frightened fish?   Who will claim the title of the listing shark?  They're not that much different then people.  Then I walk away, and realize that at least I can walk away.

Shift.

I am in a dimly lit bar, surrounded by smokey vapours and that comforting smell of old bottles.  My company is little, but diverse.  An androgynous, mouth breather straddles the bar cautiously.  Next to her sits a sack of a women idly pulling on a lit cigarette.  They are both playing audience to a thin, reedy, caricature of a bartender, who gives me the last dregs of the Kirin at a hit to his wallet.  The bar is small, and in that way lovely.  There are no surprises behind corners, and no corners to be surprised around.  It is a tiny bar on its surface, and deeper than most in other ways.  I sit in a thick leather chair and open my book.  I drink slowly.  I am the absence of urgency.  The bartender looks at me reluctantly, imploringly; an alien reading a book is bad for the night life.

Shift

I am in a train car, enveloped in the noise of a language unintelligible, or maybe misunderstood.  A man sleeps by my right shoulder restlessly.  I am poked and prodded by the jerking fits of an active napper.  Smoke and perfume is in the air, cigarettes and the mask of something sweeter; fake and manufactured.  It half works and creates something less than the sum of its parts, not as intoxicating to me as either scent alone.  I suck on an empty beer can and its empty insides gurgle sullenly.  The drink isn't a crutch or a release, but a luxury allowed in a country not my own.  I lose myself in the noise again.  I recognize the tones of normal conversation: anger, joy and urgency among them, yet the sounds hold no weight.  I touch lightly upon moments of understanding.  I catch words and phrases like I'm eavesdropping through a thin wall; the sound is muffled.  It slips away swiftly, my comprehension, and I am alone again in a sea of people.  Alone in the least lonely way possible.

Shift, I am in a classroom, I am in a busy train station, I am in a coffee shop draining the last of my drink.  Bottoms up.  The scenery flickers, and I am the static visitor to this world's many vistas.  The extreme constant.  The world is my moving picture show, and it comes to me.

I hope you liked that.  I kept everyone waiting long enough that I figured I should write something beyond the standard 'been here, seen that' regurgitation.  Good things come to those that wait.  In answer to your questions, yes these are all real scenarios that I have experienced in the past few weeks, and I just took the liberty of adding a little dash of artistic license.  I'm not even sure how you sit at a bar cautiously, but my word that lady was doing it.

I went to the aquarium last Friday, and it was an aquarium.  I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I don't think I've ever been to a real one before.  I really do like zoos and things of the like, but the general impression I got from Nagoya Aquarium was 'sad'.  I spent a lot of time sitting creepily in the back of dark rooms watching things swim in circles.  Sometimes I enjoy going places with others, but something about my rainy Friday solo trip to the aquarium was positively haunting.  I can be alone.

The bar is a tiny thing just minutes from my house.  It boasts a dense, smokey, atmosphere, and sports a crowd of people that often come off manic or manic depressive.  They never pursue conversation with me, and there are rarely more than two patrons at a time.  I like this.  It is obscurely located down a side street, and I find the little nook absolutely charming.  Quaintness, but not in a lame way.

Train rides are exactly as I described them, I just don't always have a beer.  The first paragraph is every night from my room since I started leaving my window open, give or take the rain.  I could always hear the trains, but they were a rattling, distant thunder before, instead of the distinct rolling melody I hear now.  I have also gained those other nuances of the night - the traffic, the inebriated, and I desperately wish for crickets.

I'm in the full swing of teaching time now.  There are children.  They hug me, and bother me and make me smile.  I like some of them more than most, and I like all of them more than I honestly expected.  They're children, and I can't get mad at them for being so.  I get more annoyed at adults who pay for conversation classes and then don't speak.

I am content.  I am busy, but I am not wishing to be elsewhere.  I'm not rushed to live my life.  Sometimes the easiest way to adapt to a new situation is to be completely absolute of self.  Then after a little ado, the situation finds itself forced to bend around you.  Knowing who you are in every possibility is the ultimate flexibility.

However, being who you are in every possibility is the ultimate challenge.

Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean
      

It's a Post!

As I come to the end of one of the busier weeks in my life, I finally find myself with enough time to sit down and write.  With tomorrow being my last day of training, and today my only day off after six consecutive days of kids teaching demos, my time over the past week has been filled with prep work and actual work.  I always have good intentions of writing more, but it is interesting to note that you can move to the other side of the world only to find out you're the same person everywhere.

Training was split into two parts, good choice and KEW, with good choice being the adult teaching methods portion and KEW standing for Kid's English World.  Good choice was a rather laid back experience, and involved lots of time spent sitting at a table and reading from a manual.  In stark contrast, KEW training has been a high power, non-stop, energy draining thrill ride.  Starting on the second day, I've done demos after demos of different levels and ages, until you're singing the songs and chanting the vocabulary in your sleep.  I've learned that smiling is important and that it is frickin' hard to sing and dance at the same time for a half hour.  Yet, as exhausting as it is to live through, I can already see the value from the training starting to show.

All of the initial stress of having to be loud and smiley infront of other people, singing songs acapella and playing games with adults pretending to be children was pretty quick to evaporate after my second or third showing.   The doubt I had in my abilities to think on my feet during a lesson is also starting to fade, as I've learned that any game that makes the learning fun is effective, and anything that involves throwing a ball into a basket from across the room is an instant success, even among pretend children.  The manuals for the lessons do a great job of telling you what needs to be included, and for the sake of the condensed thirty minute demos, as often as not it is harder to not go over time than anything.

In my free time, instead of writing, I've been taking to the streets through either elaborate, meandering walks or brisk, directionless runs.  If you look at my last post, there is a picture there of the hotel that shoots up from the top of the Nagoya train station.  Along with three other buildings next to it, that block happens to be the tallest section of buildings around for many kilometers.  Fortuitously, this provides me with somewhat of a built in compass.  With a beacon in the sky, that can be seen from a fair distance, I am able to set off in any way and always circle back to the center of my new world with ease.

My ability to navigate has also been further improved by my recent acquisition of an iphone, my first ever smart phone.  I realize I'm a little late to the party, but I've just never had a necessity for them over the past few years.  Yet, as it turns out they are basically the cheapest available phone in Japan, with an Android alternative running you about an extra 2,000 yen a month, and a simple flip phone parallel in price.  I've already used it to chat up girls at a bar and find my way back home today after I wandered outside the range of my landmark based navigation system.  I guess it is paying for itself.

Walking is swell and all, but I think with my first pay cheque, the purchase of a shiny new (or used) bicycle will be in order.  Every morning when I wake up and the sky is clear, I can see mountains in the distance.  I'm also acutely aware that there is an ocean a mere 5 kilometers from the floor I am currently lying on.  Although I think the sea is easily within my capabilities, the mountain quest would be a pretty lofty adventure without a wheeled steed.

The bicycles of choice here may not be what you think.  If all the rage for bikes in North America is trail riders and sleek road racers, then Japan's mainstream double rimmed weapon of choice is something more reminiscent to what you might have seen in the 1950's.  You're picturing the curvy, swooping, old fashioned bikes and you're absolutely one hundred percent spot on.  Except they all have baskets, every single one.  I'm not sure why this has become the trend for the Nagoya bike scene, but I find them all rather charming.  I've been scoping out places that sell bikes, and there is a shop a couple blocks off that  has a lonely looking green bike that gives off that abandoned vibe.  It's also cheap and has a sweet basket, and I'm freaking tired of walking with my groceries.

Last Sunday was 3/11, and the one year anniversary of the Tsunami and Fukushima meltdown.  I had to go to Sakae that day to get my phone, so I guess I wasn't very surprised to seem people marching along the streets in what I thought was a memorial ceremony.  However, I was quite shocked to instead see many of them holding anti-nuclear signs, and to learn that the whole thing was just as much in protest as remembrance.  From what I've heard, the wound is still fresh, and it is hard to find a single person in Japan who doesn't know someone effected by the tragedy.

Look at the bikes in this video... I was not kidding.

Other than everything else I just told you, there is little to report.  Two more demos tomorrow and then a day off before signing a contract Wednesday.  I walked briefly by Nagoya castle today and snapped a quick photo, but I plan on going back Tuesday and visiting it proper.  We also recently got a rice cooker and I am the master of chop sticks!

Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean
              

Why Are My Children Tiny?

The title of this is post makes sense to me and maybe one other person. It is the result of late evening, summer musings on a cramped balcony; the warm night accented by the harsh smoke of bad cigars and that eerie, haunting, flickering light that only a candle flame, distressed by the wind, can create.

The talks were of life, where we were and where we might end up.  In the thick of it, I was told that there would be no surprise to see me living in the suburbs, with the condo, a wife and some 'tiny children'. The accuracy of this prediction aside, I couldn't help but ask: why are my children tiny? In a wine induced fit of laughter, I then set out to find why I had been blessed with a bunch of abnormally small children, and if there was any specific factor influencing my Thumbelina-esque offspring.

Now, joking aside, I suppose that it is a pretty standard expectation for a lot of people to hit the 'burbs when they get to the 20 somethings; add the spouse and the two and a half kids, call it a life. To be perfectly honest, that is where I always kind of saw myself going. Of course not recently, and yet, not really too long ago either.

I was never a driven kid, and I will say sadly that I never had high expectations for myself. There are people that manage to muddle their way through life; that was me. Do everything adequately, do what you need to do to survive, but never really self-improve outside of the set boundaries. Having a family with children is an accomplishment. That ability to procreate and provide is in every way an impressive feat, the ultimate commitment and sacrifice of self to create and raise new life. As a result, it is in many ways very commendable to make it to the point where marriage and kids are your sphere of reality. Yet, I think that the reason it was always one of those inevitable results to me growing up was that due to the unmotivated way in which I lived, it would probably have been the best I could have done. The absolute maximum of my potential, the top expectations of what I could picture myself accomplishing was the very baseline of normal society.

It is funny to reflect on your life and remember how much time you wasted worrying about really silly things. I can clearly remember that as I met new women, right up to the end of University, there was always this nagging voice in my head asking if she was the one. There was this really sad, omnipresent feel that if I didn't meet 'her' in school, I would be alone forever. How pathetic is that? What a really stupid way to live your life. School provided this really structured way in which to learn new things and create opportunities and of course meet women, that it felt like without that stable safety net to lean on and push off from, graduation spelt the end of excitement, and the beginning of the long haul to retirement.

However, this is a happy story. Due to a few factors, including my own, self-proclaimed intellectual renaissance that can be followed throughout this blog and an absolutely comical lack of an ability to have or maintain any sort of relationship, I find myself with the opportunity to push myself beyond the minimum, and do something that I think I wouldn't even dreamed of doing five years ago. My thirteen-year-old self's prophetic vision of me in the suburbs has been indefinitely delayed, as in the near future I am moving to:

More specifically, to the city of:

Where I will live a block from the largest non-airport transit hub in the country, the Nagoya Train Station, in a tiny apartment that looks like this:

and get to sleep on one of these...

(Woo?)


The apartment was finalized last Thursday, and with its confirmation, I ran out of preparations. I can honestly say that I really haven't spent even a fraction of the time worrying for this trip, compared to when I left for Africa. Yet, the preparations for this trip were far more in-depth, and as I jumped through the hoops, I was able to kind of keep the realization of moving half a world away at arm's length.

So with the end of prep comes the start of the waiting; and waiting for the unknown can be positively correlated with my ability to be nervous, over think, and second guess. There is no regret, and admittedly the nervousness is in truth a nervous excitement. It took me several years, a lot of patience and a good amount of money to get to where I am now, and I think I can truly say I'm ready to go. However, it does not mean that I won't continue to get hit with profound moments of realization while driving, the ones that cause me to shout "I'm moving to fucking Japan!" really loudly, and then sort of laugh hysterically for awhile until I calm down and resume singing alone to the radio. I guess this is happening.

 Thanks for reading,

 Much Love,

Sean


Quickly, I would like to add my thanks to all those who have read my blogs to this point, as I recently reached 10,000 hits. I do take this with a grain of salt, as many of them were probably me swinging through. Moreover, thanks to the stats tracker on blogger, I am aware that a big amount of the traffic I get are people using google image search to look for Haida tattoos, and you will notice that 'Ink'd' leads the list of the popular posts on the bar to the right.

That aside, the feedback for this blog has been inspiringly positive, and I would like to thank everyone that has lent me a kind word after reading a post.   I have never needed to be very creative to write most of my posts, but it has required this ability to remove my filter and attempt to be truly honest. It is that filter that stops most people from saying what they really feel.


Not so coincidently, I wrote this whole post while listening to the album 'The Suburbs' by the Arcade Fire.


 

Filler

I try not to get scared.

The question is whether that is really possible. Or is the real question what is there to be afraid of? I'm afraid of the dark, and not in the 'oh the lights are off' sort of way. I'm afraid of that slow count down towards the solstice, the inevitable march towards the early evening.

If you take it at face value it bothers me. I don't like short days. Yet, in a world where people put meaning where it isn't or shouldn't be, it denotes the tick tock towards the unknown. I'm a bit of a nihilist, but I recognize the need for some self imposed meaning in one's life to enable a semblance of progression, even if not on the grander scale. Find reason to exist in the now.

What I'm trying to say is that I get broody in the fall. Funky, but not dancing. In a funk. The evenings are long and I stew through them. I'm counting down to a placement that has been my focus for almost two years. Next year I should be in Japan working, for upwards of a year no less. This is exhilarating, the best news I've had in a long time. So why is it terrifying?

The opportunity is amazing, and beyond a shadow of a doubt I'm taking it. Yet people tether. Even when I don't mean to, or try not to, I root. Avoid all the intimacy and commitment you can and you'll still find yourself apprehensive to pick up and part. You'll miss the family, the familiarity and the feeling of a place at a time. I've learned in the past couple years that when you live in a world that can be dark and scary like ours, find what makes you happy and keep it close. Friends and relationships may often be fads and fleeting, but they are crucial for getting through the now. Much like the darkness, impenetrable by sight, there is always a fear of what is hiding in the future.

There is a quote by T. Harv Eker that reads:

"Nobody ever died of discomfort, yet living in the name of comfort has killed more ideas, more opportunities, more actions, and more growth than everything else combined. Comfort Kills."

In the words of me, the irony is that the biggest hindrance to you living your life is life itself. I'm not really afraid of the dark, or of the fall, or of being out of Canada. I'm afraid of living my life.

... but I try not to get scared.

Live through this and I won't look back.



A song on my mind:

The Mysterious Disappearing Hostel

The remainder of our time in Nairobi was rather anticlimactic and dull. As the reputation of Nairobi told us *beware! danger!* much time was spent waiting inside a walled hostel compound for Brandon to arrive. Therefore, shortly after his landing in Kenya, Jess and I were eager to depart East towards the coast. Coinciding with our growing impatience, I had befriended two lovely German ladies (sisters, Lena and Judie) at the Nairobi hostel that were also headed in the same direction, and they provided added incentive to get a move on.

The night we grabbed the bus to Mombasa was cold and dreary. I'm generally opposed to night buses, especially after I got my fill of them in South America and double especially since the pace for this trip is fairly relaxed, and I'm not always saving my daylight for seeing things. Unfortunately for us, the cheapest tickets to Mombasa came with a night bus that left at 9 pm sharp (Ha! As if.) from the city center. Solemnly we rolled out of the city lights into the lightning splashed twilight of the rainy Kenyan countryside.

Now for most, I assume, night buses are probably a winning venture. Assuming you can sleep on a bus, you can get a night's rest, save a night's rent while traveling all at the same time. For me, however, I only manage to reap the last two of the benefits. Night buses bring me no sleep; time spent thinking instead, is how I fill the hours. Something about the pitch of a completely barren Kenyan wilderness can provoke deep thought in a person; compounded easily by a dreamlike waking state that results from the sleepless early morning hours.

Sitting there, watching dark shapes roll by the windows, wondering if it was a bush or elephant, I was lost in my head. Between futile attempts to sleep, I caught myself wondering on the purpose of travel. The back of a guide book I read in a hostel said: "We search, therefore we travel", but I'm left questioning the accuracy. What do travelers search for? It certainly can't be the short useless encounters with other travelers, or for photos of random landmarks, which are fleeting and meaningless - merely bragging rights against those left at home. Even worse, do we search for the longer friendships that travel can bring, which in the grand scheme hurt that much worse but last little longer? One theory is that we travel to see the difference. Traveling allows appreciation and understanding. One doesn't know what they have until they explore the alternatives. I'm still not sure, I'll keep looking into this one.

The bus arrived to Mombasa early the following morning. In total, I managed roughly thirty minutes of sleep during the whole ten hour ride, and even that near the end of the trip. In complete frustration I finally decided to lay myself down on the floor of the bus, which actually sort of worked, until shortly after the bus stopped to pick up a bunch of people looking to get a lift into the city. There went my extra seat and clean air. They were a particularly smelly group of individuals.

Once in Mombasa we immediately got hounded by a bunch of taxi drivers; after a little half-hearted and half-asleep haggling we agreed to pay way too much to be taken to a hostel called Mombasa backpackers. This place wasn't in the guide books, and we only knew of it because of the German girls we met were already there. The reason, we found out, was apparently because they had just switched to a location. Yet, this place didn't look or feel like a backpackers. The taxi after several minutes rolled out of town proper and out into the land of giant mansions with large fenced-in compounds.

At the gate, a masaii warrior in traditional garb let us in and we rolled up to the least hostel like hostel ever imagined. It honestly look like a million dollar mansion somewhere in the Hollywood hills. Also out of place were the proprietors of the place, a pair of (I think) gay lovers, one Peruvian and the other South African, who were nonchalantly smoking weed as we walked into reception (the living room?). For all intents and purposes it looked like two guys waited until the family of this house had left and then jumped the walls and started a hostel. Yet, rent was fair, the beds clean and the grounds had a pool - so we stayed.

Mombasa as a city is in my opinion, nothing special. We walked around the market district and found it to be much the same as all Africa - people will try and be your friend for your money. Along the coast, however, Mombasa is a pretty city. We walked by the old colonial fort (very expensive to enter) and through the old stone buildings of the coast. At one spot by the shoreline there was a rather picturesque scene of middle-eastern decent children jumping from a ten foot rock ledge into turquoise waters, while nearby the older men spent a lazy Sunday fishing the coast with a piece of line tied to their fingers. The breeze blew strong and fragrant off the Indian Ocean there, and for a long time I was content to just sit and exist.



From Mombasa, the five of us, as we had met with Judie and Lena, caught an early morning bus north along the coast to the island of Lamu. The bus ride was another seven hours, and the ferry out to the island thirty minutes on top of that - but the trip was definitely worth it. I'm not sure how widely known Lamu is outside of Kenya, but the word on the streets is that it is like Zanzibar, yet better as it doesn't get the traffic. I'm not sure how true this is, as there was a lot of tourists and have never been to Zanzibar (yet), but I deeply enjoyed my time there.



First of all, I'll start explaining Lamu by saying it is an island where many things are the same. Every man is the captain of a dhow boat, and for a 'fair' price, willing to take you snorkeling or diving or dolphin watching, or simply run you over to the next beach - it's the least they could do. Furthermore, everyone has a sister that does amazing works with henna tattoos, or a wife, but we were fairly certain that everyone's wife is another man's sister. Lastly, every man that doesn't own a dhow boat (which is very few), is instead a struggling artist that just wants to get by. They will have a backpack of their work on them and explain how they toil endlessly in their small houses to make their art, and again for a 'fair' price, are more than willing to offer me their services in creativity and shirt design.

In a less cynical tone, Lamu is indeed breathtaking. The old Islamic settlement hugs the coast closely, and features tall stone buildings and narrow street corridors. Indeed, the streets are so narrow that no motorized vehicles are allowed on the island (not exactly true) and instead the brunt of all transportation and labour falls to donkeys. In fact there are over four thousand of the beasts on the island, and one can hardly turn a corner without seeing two or three of them just standing and being.



The joke of Lamu is that you come for a day and stay for a month. Like most travelers, we laughed this off, and then fell right into the trap. I honestly think that part of the reason is that it is a pain in the ass to get there, and no one wants to hurry back to the dusty bus ride south. Moreover though, I think it is really just the intoxicating feeling of waking every morning with a view of the coast, and the taste of the salty air on your tongue. It truly is a beautiful island, and the real beauty in it is that it is small enough to be known to the hawkers after a short period - and they will leave you alone almost completely in a few days time.

We were obliged to do some of the touristy stuff, and over the week we were there we went on a dhow trip, snorkeled among the corals of the Indian Ocean, ate fresh fish on a boat near a long sandy beach and even ventured to hop on a donkey and go for a ride. I will say this in parting, the Ocean to some holds a magic of the soul, but almost subconsciously I always find myself wishing for freshwater when I swim in one.

~~~Interlude~~~

Sorry for the length of this blog, I am almost done. Let us finish:

After a drawn out and heartfelt goodbye, we finally summoned the courage and strength of will to leave Lamu. If you look at my last blog, you can take that as an indication of how little time I was really willing to waste while on that beautiful chunk of rock. From Lamu we set out to Malindi and there caught a matatu thirty minutes further south to Watamu, and ran into something we never expected: Italians.



It feels weird even to write this, but that specific section of the Kenyan coast exists in the orange hue of bronzer that exudes from the skin of Italians. Excessive hand gesturing and copious man thongs were indeed included. It was mind boggling to say the least. Little African children used to yell hello at me, and now enthusiastically sang Ciao in chorus. Stop it! Indeed, the presence of the Italians didn't just make the Muzungus annoying, but in turn the locals as well. As it was explained to me, Italians expect a a little banter, and as a result the salesmen got that much more aggressive and annoying. No dhows in Watamu, instead everyone has a glass bottom boat.

One neat thing we did do in Watamu was visit the turtle watch. The turtle watch is an organization that rescues injured turtles from the coast of Kenya and rehabilitates them back to health. On top of that, they monitor the local beaches for nesting sites and deter tourist vandalism as well as relocate nests that are in prone positions. By some stroke of fate and Brandon's mumbling of "we want to do things...", we ended up being put to work; cleaning the turtle tanks and doing a beach survey. We did however get to see two of the sick turtles, a green sea turtle and a hawksbill, which were both amazing. It is funny to say that the beach survey involved transects and other fun scientific methods, such that it felt like in a day in Watamu, I did more actual science than months in Uganda.



As we said goodbye to Watamu we also had to say goodbye to our German co-travelers, who by this point had been with us almost two weeks. This was a really hard parting, as I had spent a lot of time with them and became pretty close. Much like when Chris and Richard left us, we had to part with good friends unknowing of when we'd see them next. Bye Judie and Lena, I hope to see you soon.

From Watamu we went back to Mombasa, and immediately booked tickets south to Dar Es Salaam and Tanzania. From the bus station we hopped into a tuk tuk and headed back to Mombasa backpackers, which had proved a worthy enough hostel the time before. The tuk tuk brought us back to the gate of the compound and we paid him and sent him along before pushing open the heavy gate.

Immediately we noticed that the ever present door guard in masaii dress was missing from the little hut next to the gate - along with his craft table. Odd. As we moved further in we noticed more absences - such as furniture. Where was the patio furniture, the outside bar fridge and bar stools? Lastly, where were the people? The ever presents: the owners and the slow to leave travelers? Then the people came, out walked a Kenyan family: husband, wife and baby, and proceeded to stare at us with surprise and disdain. Who were these three uncouth travelers with large backpacks and the nerve to simply walk into their gated haven.

Where the hell did the hostel go? We sat outside the gate for the next thirty minutes trying to decide whether we had dreamed the whole place up in the first place. Then we started going over every fishy thing that had ever occurred there, like how when I asked if they were going to build a sign for their hostel, the owners immediate response was "probably not". Were they even real?

After much running around we finally managed to get rooms at dive called the Tana guest house. Although the staff was a little strange and the digs a bit shabby, when I woke up at 6am I could see my bus parked across the street, and that is pretty awesome.

I now write to you from Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania, and I don't know how to feel about it. Kampala was ugly, but endearing thanks to its energy and people. Nairobi was ominous and threatening, yet beautiful and metropolitan. Dar seems to have neither of these, it lacks the hustle and bustle to compete with Kampala, and is void of the pretty green space that begrudgingly made me kind of like Nairobi. I will remain for the time being, undecided.

Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean

Mountains on the Horizon

The majority of our Saturday morning was spent in Kisoro - finally succumbing to the full extent of our jet lag, Jess and I found ourselves passed out well into the afternoon. Breakfast was had shortly after our eyes cleared and was a simple meal of a fried egg and toast. Interestingly enough, bread in Uganda is sweet, and made with sugar instead of salt. You may not think this would be weird, but it can really throw you off when you're not expecting it. Although personally I don't find it that bad, a few of the other tourists at the hostel were quick to point it out as the worst thing of note; recommending a local bakery that makes specialty salt bread.

Post breakfast activities were primarily confined to getting ready for our stay up in the national park. Since the park has no running water, we had to send someone to pick us up two boxes of water bottles. Twelve, 1.5 L bottles of water in a box for 3000 Ugandan shillings. For those who don't know the conversion, it is about a dollar-fifty. As we were practically heading out the door we ran into our research cohort, a Slovenian named Darja (Dar-ee-ah), who was just heading the other way into town. She warned us that it would be cold and that we'd have a lot of time to ourselves - she was right on both accounts. She promised us that she would be up Monday afternoon and no showed. I saw her a few hours ago at the hostel though - unfortunately she has come down with something and looked to be in rough shape.

The ride up to the park featured a cramming of us into the front of a beaten up pickup truck while it carefully traversed the wrongly accused 'road' up to the park. The road itself is uneven and worn, with huge patches of dirt eroded due to flooding in the wet seasons. The true miracle of the day was that the truck didn't disintegrate before we reached the top. The park and its buildings are very closely linked with the surrounding community, and as a result the trip brought us through the centers of a handful of local villages. Many of the locals are sustenance farmers. As a result it is sometimes funny, and maybe a little mean, to take the time to observe the local apparel - which seems to feature what ever they can get their hands on. Kids in suits, men in sweet 80's styles windbreakers and I even stumbled across someone selling an L.A. Kings backpack in the marketplace - I kid you not.

We reached the place after a forty minute drive (for 14 km!), just as the sun was starting to set. As a result, the unpacking in our powerless banda was done in the company of candle light. The bandas are concrete huts and as a result tend to trap in the cold air - much to our displeasure. You see, since Uganda is just north of the Equator, it happens to be winter right now (Darja wouldn't lie to us). This means that at an elevation of over 2000 m things get a little cold. We were just starting to feel this as the sun was going down. To be positive though, the air in the grounds smells like sweet flowers always, and the many birds begin chirping happily at first light. It gets dark at night though, pitch black. The mountains seem to attract an entourage of fairly constant clouds to the area, such that with the moon and stars covered there is absolutely no light.

Sunday was spent exploring and getting a feel for the area. We had lunch with the local rangers for the Uganda Wildlife Authority (a weird affair consisting of odd corn bread, potatoes, beans and something they affectionately referred to as 'paste') who were all very friendly, and took the time to explain the names of the mountains. As you may have guess, the Virunga Volcano national parks of Rwanda, Congo and Uganda actually contain volcanoes. Three in fact, that loom ever omnipresent over the back drop of the for lying forest. Mt. Muhabura, an oft mist covered monolith, is the biggest and translates locally as 'the guide'. This volcano stands as a beacon in the sky, allowing its use as a compass for many miles. The second tallest, Mt. Sabyinyo is named accurately for its shape. This multi peaked mountain literally means 'old mans teeth' as it has three jutting peaks, and several deep gorges. Wedged between the two, is the comparatively smaller Mt. Gahinga. Gahinga is a word used to describe the piles of volcanic stones that are created when the local farmers take them out of their fields.

Monday was the first chance that we had to enter the forest to view the monkeys, and they nor the forest disappointed. There are two zones to the forest, the first being the woods proper, and the other being an outlying area of scrub brush that is recovering farmland - as the community was evicted from the park back in 91. I can say that it was a truly unique experience that not ten minutes into the outlying zone we came across the foot prints of elephants, gigantic in size, that were only from the night before. Also evident was the many prints and droppings of the water buffalo - the presence to which the armed guard in our entourage would attest. Truly walking in the foot steps of giants.

The forest itself is stunning, one of the great African jungles. The jungle is a mix of traditional tree cover, but also includes sections of very dense bamboo where quarters are tight and imposing. When we first entered the bamboo a mist was creeping its way silently across the upper canopy to create that truly time lost feel. The monkeys themselves were quick to arrive on the scene and we spent hours on Monday morning watching them. Our target group is composed of about sixty members, featuring a dominant male, a few subordinate males and the rest females and juveniles. The animals are beautiful, and were fun to watch.

The extent of the research unfortunately is rather basic. Although I realize that part of the aim is to just habituate the monkeys, the best I can describe what we are doing is research by consensus. We spend hours watching the animals and then have a meeting back at camp to consolidate the day after. However, there is very little novelty and ingenuity - we're not testing hypothesis, merely writing behavior on a sheet day after day over the same time period. The general hope right now is that perhaps when the head research gets back in the next week and a bit we will have a little more freedom. The expeditions are led by a local field guide who although knowledgeable about this forest, seems timid and unwilling to waver from the guidelines that were undoubtedly set for him. I had the chance to talk to him and I found out he is a local man who went to school for arts in Kisoro, and I assume very happy to have such a position - and I don't want to jeopardize that.

I had been having trouble sleeping up until last night. Perhaps, considering I still woke up at 5:30 local time this morning, I'm not out of the woods yet. It has been a collaboration of a bunch of factors, the primary one being that it can be hard to go to bed at nine knowing that it is really only one in the afternoon at home. More so though, I think I have just been having problems shutting my brain off when it comes time for bed. I'm not sure how to feel, as much to my surprise I have found myself quite homesick over these past few days - or possibly sick for anywhere but here.

This is truly the strangest place/thing I've ever done. If the volunteering doesn't change it is possible that we might get our fill after 2 months and spend March a little more mobile - South Africa?

We'll talk. I'm getting kicked out of this internet cafe as it is closing!

Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean

Bon Voyage

This past week has managed to sneak past me rather silently. Like the many grains of sand in an hour glass, each remaining moment before my departue has slipped away quietly and without emphasis.

That is, until now. Now, as I sit her in the early morning hours of Wednesday, each passing minute of the clock seems to echo and reverberate my welling emotions in a cacophonous way. Having just completed packing, the preperations final, and my exit fast approaching - all my thoughts can now finally and fully turn to the full scope of my trip at hand.

Packing is such a weird process. Every piece of clothing in your closet becomes your favourite and every doodad in that junk drawer essential - such that you can hardly imagine spending even a day without them, let alone months at a time. As a consequence you usually end up with a pile of desired carriables that dwarfs your bag in magnitude.

To clearly illustrate this, about six days ago I was looking at the daunting task of making all of this fit into that backpack:

I was trying very hard to sift that pile out - but it is funny how sentimental you can get with a t-shirt or any other piece of clothing. "Oh T-shirt! I bought you a month ago, and you mean nothing really to me, but I would die without you!"

So, sarcasm aside, I have managed to finish packing. The answer was to be really honest with myself. I took a lot of the articles and said to myself "could I live without this", and the answer was overwhelmingly yes for all borderline items. Thus, the final result is this:

Now this is still a fair amount of stuff, but I managed to leave my bag with some room to spare. If all holds true and I ditch some things, and pick up others along the way, I think I have struck the correct balance with this pack to get me through Africa. The way I look at it, I had a larger pack for South America and packed it to the brim - and that was only for a month trek. Pats on the back for everyone! Good work, Me.

Fourteen hours to flight, and I think it is time for sleep. I am full of lots of emotions, including aprehension, nervousness and even a little fear - but above all else there is an excitement that overwhelms everything.

Wish me luck, Africa here I come.

Lots of love,

Sean

A Date With Africa

I've never really cared for this month. November is one of those inbetweener months where nothing really happens, much like May (or February before family day rolled in). However, what May has going for it, that November can never boast, is a warming of the air and gradually increasing sunlight. In contrast, November assaults me with a chill and a thin layer of frost on my windshield come sun up. There are no holidays in it, and the only real event is day lights savings time. I'll never appreciate any mechanism that shortens my exposure to the sun.

That said, I'm in a pretty positive mood these days. The past couple weeks have gone by without any real definitive moment - but contained a lightness of mind that I havn't experienced in a while. I guess the main reason is that shortly before Halloween I gave my notice of leave. At that exact moment the job no longer became who I was, but instead a transition step towards who I am becoming. I am still going about my job with a smile until the end of the year, but no longer is it my future as well as my present.

Furthermore, I've just started waking in the morning with the apprehension that comes when something big is looming on the horizon. I said this once in a previous post, but I find the fear of the unknown exhilerating. I literally just got off the phone with my sister, and it seems that we finally have agreed on a route. With our tickets likely being booked within the next day or so, I'll share our planned iternerary with you now.

During the first week of January we will be departing from Toronto towards Kigali, Rwanda. Since we're cheap, and will sacrafice our comfort to save a dime, our flight over contains a couple of stops: Chicago and Brussells. Unfortunately it sounds like out time in Belgium will be limited, which really is a shame.

Once in Kigali we will be picked up and be taken to our campsite in the Mgahinga National Park of Uganda; Visas will be grabbed at the border as we pass through. Mgahinga will be where we spend the majority of our time in Africa.


Youtube Video of Mgahinga National Park
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F7ivtRSKmjU&feature=player_embedded

While there, our main objective will be to observe and record data pretaining to the Golden Monkey populations there. The Golden Monkeys are an old world monkey that are endemic to this part of Africa. If you google image search them you will most likely come up with pictures of furry blue-faced beasts, that are native of Asia. The ones we are working with are actually Guenons, a type of primate, which have forward facing eyes and opposable thumbs.



The Monkeys have an untapped tourist potential, and require further human habituation to make them more attractice to visitors. With tourism will come government protection of its assets, and then maybe this endagered species will stand a better chance going forward.


On top of that, some time will be spent in the schools of the local community, working with the children and teaching the importance of conservation. Extra days of the week can be used at my discretion, and I am sincerely hoping that I can garner some experience working with the field vetrinarians.

Furthermore, from the sounds of it, our permanent residence while working there will be in the same area that all the tourists use as they come. This means that on a daily basis I will be able to intercept, meet, and talk new people. Meeting new people on any given day can be kind of a mediocre experience, but something about new people while traveling is more addictive than heroin. Sweet!

Three months after arriving in Uganda we will take our leave of the jungle and head north to the capital of Uganda: Kampala, situated on the north-west end of Lake Victoria. If Jessica hasn't lied to me, then from here we'll be able to do some tours of the Nile River via kick ass white water rafting.

Kampala Tourist Website
http://www.backpackers.co.ug/rafting.html


From Kampala, we plan to work our way down the east coast of Victoria into northern Tanzania, which boasts such sights as the Serengeti national park, ngorongoro crater, and my prized jewel: Mount Kilimanjaro. We are climbing that bastard. Any mountain that boasts the transition of 7 different ecosystems as you climb sounds amazing. Not to mention that after doing the Inca Trail, few things can make you feel as mentally and physically accomplished as a mountain climb. I destroyed the Inca trail, this is next.

Another borrowed youtube video:


After that we're heading to the coast, and the Indian Ocean. I've had the pleasure of putting my foot in the Atlantic and Pacific, but I won't miss the chance to cross a third from the list. From the coast we will fly out of Tanzania and into the last country on our trip: Egypt. Our plans for Egypt arn't in any way finite, but it sounds like visas are obtainable upon landing, and we'll have a good week or two to kill once there. Recent communications with friends have led me to believe that it is awesome.

And, that is it. Pretty awful, right? I am so excited!

Once again I've written too much, and as a result I will end here. I would rather bring you a lot of good thoughts, instead of little bits of tripe daily - so I will use that as an excuse for my infrequency.

Thanks for reading, much love,

Sean