Our fifth morning began early; we needed to make it to Kariba Ferry by 8:00am to board the ferry. We launched directly into the restaurant for a 6:00am breakfast and…waited. Fortunately the staff brought out our food in time, and we set off on the road just around 6:45. We sped along and followed the hotel staff’ directions and limited signage to make it to the ferry boarding point in time. We had booked passage on the ferry prior to arriving, so were nearly set, aside from boarding fees.
Jean and I took our passengers and over-night bags, and backed our cars onto the ferry.
Climbing up the stairs to the middle deck, we chose eight metal chaise lounge chairs in a row and set our baggage down. We stayed docked for another hour or so, waiting for the remaining cars to board, and one additional family to show. Our final car to board (the ferry is capable of holding up to 15, we had only a dozen) was a pair of Norwegian medical students who were serving in South Africa, driving an ancient Land Rover, constructed and patched with as many colors of paint and types of material as possible it seemed.
Once underway, we motored at around 10 knots, lazily cutting a north-east bearing along the length of the lake. We picked a table on the outer deck and sat underneath the sun shade. It was nice not having to drive to get to our destination, and for once Jean and I got to hang out during the day. The day wore on, and leagues of water passed beneath us.
We were served lunch, buffet style, with our fellow 30-40 passengers. It was tasty and filling, and we reveled in eating on the deck, the pleasant breeze and lack of mosquitos refreshing our spirits.
Around mid-afternoon, the captain brought the boat to a stop for a swim break! Yes, indeed, there are crocodiles in the lake, but the captain was betting (however erroneously) that there weren’t any here. Jean took a swim. I took photos.
By late afternoon, we came to a narrow point in the lake, and saw some game; hippos, eagles, kudu, elephants.
Pretty soon the sunlight began waning, and the staff cooked up dinner. We sat on the deck and enjoyed the view. Every few minutes the light changed and painted yet another beautiful impression of an African sunset.
Mom and Dad retired, Jean, Laura and I stayed up late into the evening, chatting on the deck.
The next morning we deboarded after a scrumptious breakfast and drove back to Harare. What an adventure!

We began day four in Hwange, not having been disturbed by any animals. The landscape had all but soaked up the rains from the storm, leaving the red soil as dry as when we arrived. Packed and ready, we exited Hwange and got back on the road, coming to the same Total gas station whose mechanics saved us just a couple days before. They were quite amused to see us.
Unfortunately they had no power, so couldn’t provide us fuel, and diverted us some 10km out of our way in order to get said fuel at a nearby town. Fortunately our errand was successful, and we resumed our drive.

We pushed on through to Masumu Lodge (meaning “spear”), whose large game-proof gates parted to give us entry. The grounds were pretty spectacular, and we drove up a cobbled drive to reception. Our little “lodges” even had adjoining doors, so that the girls in Laura’s cabin could easily find their way to ours in the dead of night if need be. Within a few minutes we’d spotted a resident chameleon and arranged for a lunch, as we preferred something more than granola bars.

We ate lunch at the restaurant, a building situated on a point on Lake Kariba, with more than 180° views high above the lake. The pool was not in service, but the vistas were amazing. The kids discovered a docile cat who arranged himself artfully on the couches and then finally the rocks outside.

After lunch, the kids jumped and played on the rocks outside our rooms, and we made ourselves comfortable on the balcony seating, chatting. Dinner later was a slow affair, and as there was no power, the local generator feebly fed power to the electric stoves to cook our food.

Afterwards, we retired to our lodges for another mosquito-filled night, and again fortunately we had netting to protect us. I looked forward to something larger than a twin again.

We began day three a bit bleary eyed from having been accosted by mosquitos all the previous night. There really is nothing like being inside a mosquito net while the mosquitos hover around, banging up against the net. Like being in a shark cage, but a bit less conscious.

We packed up and sped out of Jafuta and Vic Falls, intent on buying food in Hwange (Rhodies often pronounce this “Wanky”), and possibly refueling there. We arrived in Hwange town and promptly discovered that the local supermarkets weren’t open; “No ZESA!” which means no electricity (ZESA is the sole electric company for the country). No electric means no computer cash registers (“tills”) and no lights. Also no refrigeration. We waited around with the crowd of would-be shoppers for the doors to open for a while. The kids became restless. All we needed was some pasta at the very least, as our next destination had cooking facilities (the term is “self catering”).

Leaving Jean and the girls behind, Dad, Lucas and I drove a bit further, looking for another supermarket that was open. We found one, and got some basic supplies, though still no pasta or sausages. We returned, still the first supermarket had not opened. Word on the street was someone was trying to find a generator repairman, for indeed they had a generator. Again, Dad and Lucas, and now Laura, and I pushed off, driving further still, finding a supermarket with some bread. We planned on grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner. We swung back around to get Mom and Jean and the girls, and fuel. Whoops, still no power, the electric pumps cannot function. For a country with such power issues, it’s amazing businesses still rely on electricity so much.

Off we went, driving at 55, sometimes 60(impressive for the Maruti) MPH, along the expertly manicured highway, finally making our way into Hwange main camp.

We made a short stop at the Painted Dog Sanctuary.

We just made the 2pm cut-off for entry (after 2pm, one doesn’t stand much of a chance to make it to a camp before dark, which could be bad with lions). After paying our entry fees we drove another 120 kilometers through the park, endeavouring to do a game drive. It was quite uneventful, unfortunately, the most exciting thing we saw were some bubbles and perhaps the snout of a hippo, and a few elephants. We also saw some emaciated carcasses of dead elephants, which we heard are typically ones that have starved. Unfortunately, the practice had been to artificially create or maintain water holes in order to attract the elephants and increase tourist traffic, though that contributed to a rise in population. Ultimately the government stopped providing money for out of season watering, and in the height of dry season, one can see many dead or dying elephants in the park.

We made our way up a ridge to Sinamatella Camp, and checked into two aging, quaint lodges. Fortunately the ZESA was with us, enabling me to dish up some grilled cheese sandwiches (we’d brought cheese in the cooler, some ham too). We feasted on box wine and grilled cheese, overlooking wandering herds of elephants far below, the sun painting a collage of pastels as a backdrop. The wind kicked up and signaled a storm coming in, and we took the opportunity to bathe the children. Our ceiling fans blew away any mosquitos that may have assailed our nets that evening. A thunderstorm ripped its way across the low veld, but only woke us occasionally.

The second morning we woke early, Jean getting up early enough to capture sunrise. We packed and went on a small guided nature walk before breakfast. Sam, our guide, showed us archeological evidence of both the early native bushmen, and immigrating Bantu tribes; clay dishes and pots, iron ore, cave paintings. We scrambled up solid granite and down sandy paths in the brush, and saw Darcies, and birds.

After a delicious breakfast of toast and honey, eggs, sausages, bacon and drinks, we shoved off for a second day of driving. We made good time, though leaving late meant we stopped for a quick sandwich of cold cuts and cheese, which we’d brought from home, on the side of the road. We were keeping an eye out for the Painted Dog Conservancy, though not spotting it, we continued on. Stopping for fuel at a Total station when Jean was on fumes, Jean mentioned her steering had been squirrely for last hour or more, and at last had made a horrible noise as she pulled in. We checked it out and Jean discovered that the left tie rod had come loose, a cotter pin shearing off and allowing the securing nut to unscrew and pop off. We passed a few tense minutes while the gas station attendant looked for a nut. Fortunately he quickly found one and reassembled the steering system! We even bought a spare nut and paid the mechanic and attendants for their heroism.

We continued on to Jafuta Lodge, some 10km outside of Victoria Falls, did a quick check-in, and hopped in the cars again to get a late afternoon viewing of the falls.

After parking and waving off the touts, we quickly paid our entry fee and entered the park, the late afternoon sun winking at us through the lush foliage lining the slick sidewalk. We made our way to the various lookout points, walking a couple kilometers altogether. The falls, though not at their highest volume, it being the beginning of rainy season, were spectacular. We took photos, videos, spotted a rainbow, and got misted on a lot. It was marvelous.

We left, passed up on the “sunset prices” the vendors offered in the parking lot, and made our way back to Jafuta Lodge. Braving the mosquitos, we dined outdoors. The food, while not a five star restaurant, was adequate and filling. Butternut squash seems to be a specialty in this country, perhaps because it grows so well here. Retiring to our lodges, we bedded down, the girls sharing a cabin with Laura and Lucas with us. My parents, much to their delight I’m sure, were on their own. Jean and I shared a twin bed, quite a feat when you consider there was also a mosquito net. The animals at the watering hole made no noises that kept us up…

On 14 December, Jean and the kids and I, accompanied by my parents and my sister, Laura, departed Harare for our great Zimbabwe vacation. We would drive a clockwise tour around Zimbabwe, beginning in Harare, getting to Big Cave Lodge in Matopos, shooting up to Victoria Falls, then coming back down a bit to Hwange National Forest, then over to Lake Kariba where we’d stay a night before taking Kariba Ferry the length of the lake and then deboarding for a short drive to Chinhoyi Caves and finishing in Harare again, six days later.

The Maruti, made new with fresh suspsension upgrades, a new water pump, timing belt, new head lamps and other miscellaneous improvements, held half our crew, while our CRV held the other. We had basic provisions and a few jerry cans of fuel to hold us if we ran across a dry spell.

The first morning we made good time from Harare, though about an hour out, Merrill decided to empty her breakfast onto herself and the floor, lending a characteristic smell that would last the entire journey. We made Kwe Kwe before lunch and refitted and watered, then made Gweru by lunch where we stopped for fuel and lunch at a Chicken Inn (South African version of KFC).

By late afternoon we arrived at Big Cave Camp, parking our vehicles in the scrubby shaded brush at the bottom of a kopje (KOHPYEE or KOHPEE), a rocky outcropping on top of which was the series of buildings at make up the camp. The hotel staff drove down a safari-converted pickup truck (benches and awning in the bed) drove down and picked us and our luggage up, crawling up the steeply canted sheer rock face to the reception and dining area.

We split up among a few stone cabins, Jean and the kids and I ending up in “Ingwe,” or “leopard.” After exploring the rocks for a few minutes, observing many different types of lizards running about, we retired to the pool and enjoyed the late afternoon sun while the kids splashed around.

Dinner was a pleasant affair in the main dining room, though instead of lingering to chat, we excused ourselves just after dessert to view the stars, quite plentiful since we were well removed from civilization. I snapped off a few 30 second exposures on my tripod. Star trails will have to wait until I get a remote for the camera. We slept well, protected by our mosquito nets, though there were none to speak of in this season or elevation.

Seven weeks in the ‘States isn’t nearly enough time to get all we wanted done, but it was certainly enough time to visit with a bunch of family and friends, be a substantial part of American consumerism, and figure out just why our country is such a pleasure to call home.

The days leading up to our departure were hectic to be sure, filled with last minute errands, quality time with family and friends, and pet shipping SNAFUs. We longingly looked forward to the serenity a new post and house of our own would bring, still it was with some regret that we hugged our final good-byes and jetted out of Dulles International on the morning of the 26th. Jhili Mili took an alternate routing (thanks for dropping her off, Kathy!) on Ethiopian Airlines through Addis to Harare, to avoid South Africa’s ridiculous transit process and fees. United Airlines, as helpful as ever, offered to charge not only for the excess weight, but also for our second bag per person, something AFSA has long contended foreign service people shouldn’t have to pay for, and United representatives have also agreed upon…until actually declaring the opposite to hapless travelers.

A short hop to JFK, and then we were off to Jo’burg on a 15 hour flight in which we and the children took in multiple movies, slept, ate way to much, and generally lived it up. Near to 8:00 in the morning, the hazy skies gave way to a scrubby dusty landscape below, with patches of verdant green around waterways….AFRICA!
Another short while in the airport and we boarded our final flight to Harare, Zimbabwe, just another hour and a half. Our plane descended into Harare, the sparse landscape dotted by all manner of trees; short and scrubby, tall and leafy, brushy conifers.
Our immigration line, as slow as molasses, finally stamped our entries, and we picked up our luggage, all ten pieces of it, including my bike, and met our pickup, a very helpful AID employee.
The airport was even more deserted than Kathmandu’s, and the roads were nearly empty as we traversed them to the cargo terminal to pick up Jhili.
The checkout process took forever as each employee involved pulled out seldom-used stamps or learned new tribal knowledge from other employees who had performed this mysterious pet import process. Finally, a forklift driver brought over Jhili’s crate and deposited her at our feet. A more bedraggled cat we had not seen! Her water and food were empty, some food having been mushed into the bottom of the crate. Her food dish had broken from the door grate and the duct tape with which I’d secured it to said grate had attached itself rather securely to her hind quarters, effectively making her drag her food bowl around. At least she was still alive and kicking!
Family, Luggage and cat secured, our caravan zoomed through the roads of Harare, the purple Jacaranda trees shedding blossoms and shading our way. The red soil of the landscape provided for the sometimes brushy, sometimes lush plants that partially hid Zebras just off the roadside.
In stark contrast to the over-populated roadsides of Kathmandu, the shoulders here played host to just a few scores of people on our ride. Some corners were dotted by beautiful stone Shona sculptures.
We entered more shaded roads in upscale neighborhoods and passed large compounds with well-maintained frontage high walls. We finally came to our own compound. The electric gate slid open to reveal an enormous compound of a few acres. The bricked entry drive wound around behind the mansion revealing a large garage, entry way, and massive pitch. The staff quarters was nestled behind a hedge. Further around the house, back around to the front, an outdoor entertaining area with indoor room, and bathroom, built-in charcoal grill with adjustable grate, swimming pool.
The house is insanely over the top for us, we clearly will not have a place like this ever again in our lives. Everything is enormous and well-made.

We’ve now been here just over two days, and have been welcomed into the community with open arms. Our graceful colleagues have taken us shopping, shown us around and gone out of their way to make us feel at home. We’ve reconnected with old friends and are generally amazed at the modern marvel of Harare. Even with politics as they are, infrastructure seems to function relatively well. There are modern shopping centers with stores that have western-grade goods and functionality.

Last night we enjoyed a “braai” (South African term for BBQ) of boerewos sausage and fresh chicken and salad, outside on the veranda.

The kids start school Monday.

We are going to love these next two years…

An azimuth check, as Jean has just reminded me, is a bearing point, a time when an outdoorsman pulls out his compass and chooses a point on the horizon as a waypoint. We ask certain questions at this check: Where are we? Where are we going? Where have we been? Is our course good or do we need to change it? I think our home leave is just such a check, a good place and time to take a breather and assess the situation.

Where are we? There are a couple ways we can answer that one…Home leave in the USA!
Where are we going? Zimbabwe for two years, Jean serving as a political officer. Embarking on a lifelong journey of adventure. To Hell and back. We’ve swapped our roles as breadwinner and childcare provider, providing at least me with a modicum of satisfaction.
Where have we been? Nepal, having completed our first (hardship) tour in the Foreign Service as a family, Jean serving as a consular officer. Before Nepal, raising kiddos and toiling in the rat race of Northern VA’s grind. Built a house from scratch.
Is our course good or do we need to change it? We both agree that this is an AWESOME lifestyle and well worth the tradeoffs. We think that our kids are getting a lifetime of unique experiences, not to mention our own, and a worldwide perspective.
Azimuth check done, let’s go!

So we’ve been back in the US for about 5 weeks, just 2 to go. And getting back here has been awesome don’t get me wrong. But the reverse culture shock has made me awestruck in more ways than one.
To give this list some context, I’ll summarize what Nepal has been like for us in a few sentences. Nepal only opened its borders in 1951. Prior to that, it has had no colonization, only influences from India and China. Hence, everything still operates in a 14th-century village mentality. All modern conveniences are an unexpected novelty, and are quite often unreliable and shoddy. Most things are not imported (kitchen drawer hardware, furniture, etc), but are rather made, either from memory, or an idea of what a westerner might think is useful. Since the Maoist insurgency in 2006, when many villagers immigrated to Kathmandu from their villages for safety, the population of the city has exploded from under one million to over four million people. The government, in a standstill since the constitution has been undergoing (supposedly) reform since 2010, is not prepared to deal with the traffic, the trash, the infrastructure needs (electricity, water, etc) that so many people generate. Hence, power is available most of the time in the rainy season (it is primarily hydroelectric), but one can go nearly 24 hours without power in the dry season, EVERY DAY. The Hindu and Buddhist attitudes have given rise to a saying, “Ke garne” (KAY GARNAY), or “what can you do?” which is a fatalist way of not getting too worked over what is just outside their front step. Indeed the concept of “frontage” for one’s property is uknown. The economy operates nearly 100% on cash. Labor and local goods cost nearly nothing. Food quality is always suspect, so one sticks to places of repute. Plastic wrappers and waste litter the streets. The climate is harsh on roads, and repair methods are ancient. The sandy soil of the valley is easily swept away by the monsoon rains, so sinkholes often cause large portions of roads to collapse. The air, being trapped in the valley, becomes quite polluted in the dry winter season. The risk of a catastrophic earthquake is paramount in our minds, the last one being in 1934, and the country quite overdue for one. Grocery stores have decent food on occasion, if you see an imported good you buy a three month supply at the very least, as next week no one in town will have it. Fast food is nonexistent, for better or worse. Still, one can live anywhere for two years…

The list:

1. Gas station pumps have tv screens. Because advertisers need a go at me in the five minutes it takes to pump gas. And there’s no mute button!
2. Gas station credit card swipes require a zip code. Where do I live again?
3. There is NO TRASH anywhere. At ALL. Seriously.
4. The roads are AWESOME, as in nearly no potholes. And I can drive over 35MPH. OMG.
5. WEGMAN’S, the best grocery store on earth
6. Museums are clean and well laid out. And they’re free (Smithsonian).
7. McCafe. Not that I’m a McD’s fan, but where is Ronald? Where are the arches? Where are the plastic red, yellow, nay even beige furniture? WHAT? It’s all different from what I remember
8. Craft beer is now in cans. OMG, Consumables for next post just got AWESOME.
9. The. Internet….Bracingly. Fast. Netflix works! (not that my kids are particularly surprised, it’s just something else to take for granted)
10. Arlington is full of beautiful people shopping in jogging outfits. I can’t stop staring. It’s been a while since I saw this.
11. The power has not gone out once. No kidding! (ok, there was that storm just recently)
12. There are as many hybrid vehicles here as there are Suzuki Maruti 800 cabs in Kathmandu. It’s a thing of beauty.
13. Bike trails are marked with blazes. And sometimes signs. And sometimes small PSA’s(public service announcements). In some cases, hazards (trees, rocks) are constructed on some trails on purpose and are marked with tiny orange flags. This was quite confusing at first. Some group of people thought about public safety, eventually decided on a method of execution, and made this happen. Probably in less than a year. Marvelous.

These points above and more acquaint me to the phrase of “reverse culture shock” where-in I find some things aren’t quite where or how I left them, and with other things I simply perceive them differently now that I’ve been living in another culture for a couple years. The kids loved coming back, though it’s more for visiting with their family and friends than the creature comforts we enjoy as adults. With the advent of the internet, and therefore our American culture being more pervasive than ever, the need to come back to the states isn’t as much as it used to be I think, but it’s still a good reminder to us why we think the U.S. of A as the best country on earth.

Anyway, in about two weeks (of BLISS AND GLORY, THANK YOU AMERICA*), we’re departing for Zimbabwe, where we’ll spend our second tour for a couple years. Thanks to the good graces of our collective parenting meerkat clan, we’ll have packed out our consumables (my next blog post) and our UAB (air freight) by a couple weeks from now, and will be well on our way to Zim life.

Speaking of life in Mugabe-land, we’ll be looking forward to getting settled in and saying hello to our friends from Nepal and Vietnam.

*Odd point here. In the eastern hemisphere, the USA is called “America,” contributing to collective educators’ chagrin when the youth of our great country repeats this in self-reference, and adults using the term with “America! expletive-yeah!” When one gets a taxi to the embassy in Kathmandu, for instance, you say:

American Embassy jaane!

If you say something about the U.S. Embassy, you may very well end up at the Russian Embassy, or perhaps just Thamel, the tourist district, the cabby assuming you are just a drunk trekker.

We’ve had an amazing time here in Nepal these past two years!

Good-bye, Nepal. Good-bye political strife and bandhs. Good-bye crazy pot-holes and roads. Good-bye Kathmandu traffic. Good-bye friends we’ve come to know, see you again the next time we meet. Good-bye Dal Bhat. Good-bye Momos. Good-bye cheap eats with so many restaurants I can’t even blog about all of them. Good-bye Didi’s and Dai’s. Good-bye load-shedding. Good-bye Monsoons. Good-bye pollution. Good-bye Himalayas. Good-bye to the best mountain biking. Good-bye Suzuki Maruti Gypsy. Good-bye stray dogs of all shapes and sizes, pigeon toed and mangy. Good-bye trekking. Good-bye dudh chia. Good-bye tasty nuts. Good-bye Gurkha Ball. Good-bye hand-painted license plates. Good-bye open sewers. Good-bye Nina & Hager. Good-bye 1905 Farmer’s Market. Good-bye Phora Durbar. Good-bye tangles of wires on poles falling down. Good-bye tuk-tuks. Good-bye sparkle vests. Good-bye rhinos, tigers, snow leopards, sloth bears, peacocks, mongooses. Good-bye leeches. Good-bye head wobble. Good-bye motorcycle madness. Good-bye tripped out trekker hippies. Good-bye Patan. Good-bye vomit-streaked buses and loogie-hocking locals. Good-bye massive generators. Good-bye ganesh stickers on motorcycles. Good-bye Nepali Tourism year 2011. Good-bye Lazimpat construction/destruction. Good-bye “mutton”(goat). Good-bye Manakamana Cable Car and goat sacrifices. Good-bye vegetarian tea and kidney tea. Good-bye singing bowls. Good-bye knock-off trekking gear. Good-bye excellent paper products. Good-bye crazy Kathmandu parties. Good-bye police breaking up those parties. Good-bye facemask wearing populace. Good-bye bike ride tea stops. Good-bye frozen meats flown in from other countries. Good-bye land-locked Nepal. Good-bye to small aircraft accidents. Good-bye yaks. Good-bye monkeys. Good-bye micro chipmunk-like squirrels.

The air is amazingly crisp this morning. I’m on the front porch. A Buddha Air flight has just crossed over our house, headed for Bharatphur (Chitwan) or Pokhara. Load shedding is down to just four hours a day or so (unofficially; the schedule still has it at 12+) so there are no generator noises, just yapping dogs and screeching crows, the low din of traffic from Ring Road, some 1 km south. The sun is cresting, obscured by a partly cloudy sky, over the neighbor’s house, just hitting my solar panels. Time to swap from city power to the panels to power the network equipment.

Time to start the final countdown.

In two days, a shipping agent will come by our house and assess our household effects (HHE) for their weight. We have an allotted amount we can ship. These things will be separated into Unaccompanied Air Baggage (UAB) of a smaller amount and the main HHE shipment, the former will follow us to the ‘States for the majority of our stay, while we convalesce on home leave and while Jean is in training. Just seven weeks that. The latter will get packed up into well-packed cardboard boxes, which then in turn get packed into large wooden crates, which are packed off to the airport to be flown to Belgium, a major shipping hub, to sit until sometime after we arrive in Zimbabwe, after which they too will be sent to Africa.

Next week I’ll show our maid the house where she’ll be working next. We’ve found her a job with an incoming family. I’ll take Jhili-Mili, our Nepali grey tabby, to the vet for a health certificate.

In just over a week, we’ll ship our micro-safari vehicle, our Maruti Gypsy, to Zimbabwe. Zim doesn’t have any import restrictions at present, save that the vehicle is Right-Hand Drive, which it is. It will get loaded into a sea container, get shipped on the mind-bendingly dangerous road, the H04, west out of town and cross into India, where in Calcutta the crate will get loaded on a ship and sail for South Africa, where it will then get shipped up to Harare.

In 10 days we’ll get our “welcome kit” for departure; the two large trunks that have enough cooking and eating implements to manage in the kitchen, some linens for beds, etc. We’ll have our final going away party (one can’t do these things in one fell swoop can one now?).

All the food in the freezer is accounted for and I’ve planned meals (which will inevitably get shiffted around by social dinners) for the next 2 1/2 weeks.

In 11 days, we’ll pack our suitcases. Anything we don’t want accidentally finding its way into our major shipment, anything we’ll need for the next two and a half months really, will get packed into our bags and stowed in our bedroom. That includes shower curtains too!

In 13 days we’ll “pack out.” A shipping company will dispatch trucks and men to begin, like leaf-cutter ants, disassembling our household goods and packing them in boxes. Two days after that, our house will be bare save the welcome kit contents and our luggage, and the Embassy-issued furniture.

In 15 days Jean will have her last day at work. My mother will celebrate a birthday.

In 16 days we’ll sleep our last night at our house.

In 17 days an Embassy Motor Pool vehicle will leave the Embassy or come from it’s previous task, the driver will note his destination, will be cut off by motorcycles honking their horns, will bounce up our monsoon torn road, and arrive at our house. The driver will exit the vehicle and ring the bell. We’ll be waiting with our luggage. Our maid will have helped us strip the beds and launder the linens and will have washed her last set of breakfast dishes for us. She will be crying and Jean will hold it in. Jhili-Mili will be in her crate, with water and food enough for the two-day journey, though she won’t eat half of it.
We’ll lock the house for the last time. We’ll hand the house keys to the driver, and head to the airport. We’ll head in with our incredible load of luggage, check in (see you in Seoul, Jhili!), fill out our departure paperwork, and head through the diplomat line. The kids will fidget and jockey for position and will be full of questions. Merrill will need to pee just as we’re needed for processing. We’ll proceed through security and will get felt up and patted down. A few times.
We’ll wait an interminably long time in the lounge, waiting for our aircraft to arrive. The kids will be all nerves and vacillating between elation and confusion. So will I.

In 17 days and five hours, we’ll board our flight to the United States of America (with an overnight in Incheon/Seoul) and will leave Nepal.

Time for the next big adventure! Zimbabwe!

Curious auto rickshaw passenger with awesome mustache

At the Maryland Renaissance Faire, there is a performer by the name of Johnny Fox. He is a sword swallower by trade and always pours water in a circle surround him, from a small brass carafe, “Sacred water from India,” he says, which he uses for protection. The joke is that he always dumps out all the water, and it “magically” refills itself. We love watching him when we’re state-side, and we often wondered if or when we’d see India. We have now checked off that box and here is what happened…

T-minus two weeks, we figured out we could order train tickets for the journey to Agra (Taj Mahal) from Delhi. Should take about 30 minutes, says the website. We were in Bali, so I put it off until we returned. We also had to use our passports to get our visas, so we couldn’t do that until we returned to KTM either.

We got our Indian visas ok. I attempted to purchase train tickets, but was stymied by the fact that the railway website wanted me to have an India mobile number to confirm my registration. Jean’s colleagues in Delhi referred me to a very helpful travel agency from whom I sought assistance. They also pointed me to a hotel with “US Gov’t discount rates.” I let them know our situation: three adults (our friend, Krissy accompanying us) and three children, and their ages. And please to have an airport pickup.

T-minus three days, and the hotel couldn’t give me a straight answer as to whether the rates (which kept going up as less expensive rooms disappeared) were per room, per night, or a combined cost. I basically threw my credit card at them.

T-minus one day. The travel agency informed me that all trains were booked and we’d have to take a car. This changed our journey from two hours each way (we were going to make a day trip of it) to five hours each way in a cramped car. The hotel let me know that I’d be paying about $160/night/room. I hoped the gov’t discount off that rate would be good.

Day of travel! I asked to have Merrill and Lucas dropped at the Embassy, and Jean took an hour off of work, working through lunch to keep her schedule. Eleanor and I showed up at the embassy to collect our family. Jean came out on time, and the bus showed up with Merrill and…no Lucas. Where was my kid? The driver didn’t know. This was critical; we were leaving in just under three hours and had to make it on time! I drove home, zipping through the back streets of neighborhoods to avoid traffic and Jean parlayed with the school on the phone. We discovered that Lucas had magically become enrolled in after school activities that day, (which the school insisted was always the case, despite the Google Doc they published saying otherwise) meaning he was JUST NOW leaving school. In traffic. My blood pressure shot up and I began doing the math on leaving times.

T-minus 90 minutes. We zoomed home, crammed some early dinner in, and zoomed back down to the bus stop to wait for Lucas. The bus pulled up across the road some minutes later and Jean and Lucas navigated traffic, Lucas in tears from the misunderstanding, and we made for the airport. Traffic was crazy.

T-minus 70 minutes. We found a parking spot. Jean talked her way past the guards in the airport, despite their insistence that the airline was no longer checking people in! The airline checked us in and told us they didn’t have time or staff to check bags anymore. I had helpfully packed Jean’s pocket knife with cork screw…oh sh*(!

T-minus 40 minutes. The guards catch the pocket knife. Jean uses her Jedi powers to have one of the main inspectors hold the knife personally and gets his cell number. She’s such a nice person, people generally just are pleased to help.

We board the aircraft. The seats coddle my gangly legs like a well fitting iPad case. We taxi down the runway and lurch into the air, the kids raising their arms and squealing during take-off, a practice I condone in order to make fellow passengers appreciate how quiet they are the rest of the time. The pilot manages to hit every thermal on the way to Delhi, making me reconsider this flight more than once. We order drinks and get “sizzling jalapeño” chips with them. The attendant forgets Krissy’s drink and we have to ask for it. And the change. Twice. I fill out our collective customs paperwork and try to make my whisky last the whole process. We bounce down onto the runway in Delhi, and I wonder just how it looks from the outside and how often they have to change the tires on the aircraft.

We cruise through customs, and the large stautary hands with hindu symbology protruding from the wall above us threaten to squash or flick, making me feel like a tourist mosquito. We scan the hand-written and printed welcome signs being held by men in turbans, cell phones jammed up inside them in a hands-free fashion. There is no hotel pickup. We take a taxi.

Hotel Diplomat welcomes us, and I immediately plea for less expensive rooms, and the tall mustached manager lets me know we have already received a 7,000 INR discount (about $140) off each room (meaning they are something like $300/night!). I relent. I ask if we missed the airport pickup and they let me know I never asked for one. (You are wrong sir, I care nothing of customer service) I remind them about the email. They impolitely let me know I never mentioned flight details; I acknowledge that and remind them that those in the customer service business should be asking questions more than pointing out flaws in their patrons. This is going very well.
We get checked in and go up to our room. The stark black and white interior is met by an unfinished concrete wall, and the entire thing is lit extremely well with massive CF bulbs hidden in the ceiling. It’s sort of a 2001 meets Jeff Bridges’ house in the grid (Tron Legacy). There is ONE King bed in our room. I ask them where the beds are for the children. They say I never asked for extra beds. I again reference the email. They underline the part where I mention our children and their ages, and ask me where I asked for extra beds. I do a mental summersault and Jean begins to get less diplomatic. We decide to leave and find accommodation elsewhere and they politely let us know they will be charging a one-night (that’s $320 total, folks) cancellation fee. Jean pulls out the angry mom voice and Krissy retreats as far as she can from the lobby without actually stepping outside. The children are manic. We have words and the hotel concedes to let us have additional children’s beds “for free,” and we decide to stay, simply cancelling the second night. We go back up to the rooms and I book another hotel online for the following evening. Emotionally and physically exhausted, we sleep.

Saturday morning arrives and a decent night’s sleep clears our minds. We can say goodbye to this place and we’ll be at the Taj in no time! Jean wants a shower. No hot water. A bus boy advises Jean to keep the handle to the left for hot water and she thanks the condescending person for his advice and lets him know she knows how to operate a shower. He says to let the water run for 5-10 minutes(In this luxury hotel!) Jean skips the shower. We ask the mustached manager about this; he also advises Jean to divert the handle to the left. I’m very glad her pocket knife is in Kathmandu at this point, but wonder if her fingernails are capable of disembowelment. He asks if I work at the Embassy in Nepal and I let him know that, no, my wife does. That’s the end of that conversation. We check out; a luxury tax (what luxury?) brings our bill close to $400. Breakfast is complimentary, but doesn’t start until we have to leave. Stomachs grumbling, we depart in the car we’ve ordered, and detour to the new hotel to drop our luggage. We drive to a shady part of town, and we’re pleasantly surprised to find a well appointed hotel with friendly staff and two King size beds in each room. Done and done! For a third the cost.

We’re off to Agra! The air-conditioned SUV cruises through traffic and we struggle to exit the city. Much like Nepal, the outer city landscape is dotted with shops, and busses with wind-spattered vomit move people around. Wild pigs, goats, water buffalos and cows forage for sustenance. Vendors sell sliced cucumbers and fruits, or juiced versions of all, to passengers. Our driver assures us breakfast is near.

A couple hours later we’re finally on the open road and manage to stop for a brunch of sorts at the Maharaja Hotel and Restaurant. A lipstick smeared monkey in a dress jumps up and down at the end of his (her?) tether in the hot sun, his master lounging in the shade. Sword-bearing turbanned men open our doors and we enter the restaurant. The gift shop, and indoor version of a market, is between us and food, and we navigate the gauntlet of dusty trinkets to the tables. An eclectic mix of Indian and expat tourists shares our company. We order various indian dishes and I make my brunch complete with both a coffee and a beer. The waiter struggles with Krissy’s dairy-free requirements, insisting she have at least some cream on the side. She finally ends up with a batter-free fried chicken of sorts, the waiter making a violent chopping/ripping motion to show how the dairy was ripped, unwillingly perhaps, from the recipe. The beer tastes, what I can best describe as “India.” A unique combination of sulfury, less than fully carbonated, sweet grass-like beer. I share with Krissy and we finish it. The kids are great, and we take it all in.
A couple trinkets richer, we leave the restaurant and set forth again. The four lane highway stretches straight before us and the dusty, thirsty, brush-speckled landscape whizzes by. Jean’s iPhone adds flavor to our ride. Our friendly driver points out various palaces, temples, oil refineries, etc.

Reaching Agra around 2, we get tickets for the Taj Mahal and our driver gives us helpful tourist advice. I get his number and put it in my phone, we agree to meet around 3:30. We get complimentary water and an electric tram ride to the gate. We walk through the hot sun to get checked in, and smear ourselves with sun block. It is VERY hot. The outer compound is immense and we follow the crowds to the gateway, through which we can see the Taj. It’s beautiful and immense. And still pretty far away!
Emerging onto the steps that descend to a level viewing ground, we stop to take photos and can’t help but notice a group of four girls in their mid twenties going ALL OUT with the sexy clothes and looks in various photographs. All the way there. This had to have taken some planning. I wondered aloud what other monuments they’d conquered. Jean and Krissy hammed it up a bit.
We walked up to the Taj, taking various photographs along the way and following the “foreign tourist” signs, eventually donning little dryer-sheet like booties to keep our feet from touching the ground. A lot of Indians simply went barefoot. I suspect the pretties did as well, because those booties just wouldn’t work. They last we saw of them was a few of them holding up a flowy scarf in the wind and having more pictures taken. We entered the mausoleum and Eleanor mounted my shoulders so as not to get squashed in the human morass inside. A single CF bulb shed dim light on everyone and we filed through. We made it in and out in under five minutes. And in that five minutes, someone pocketed my phone.
We tried searching for it using “Find my iPhone” and tried calling it to hear for the tones of Star Wars main title theme. Nothing. This is craptastic. An Indian family comes over to have their photos taken with the token caucasians. I berate myself with my stupidity. Krissy has a great photo of me sullenly holding up Jean’s phone, scanning the network for my phone, while everyone else poses with the Indian family. Deep breaths and a keen sense of perspective help me to overcome my loss and we do the next logical thing, find the tourist police (Insanely helpful people, really) who drive us to the station (instead of seeing Agra Fort) where I explain I’ve been pick-pocketed for my mobile.

This is probably the most interesting thing they’ve had all day; it is late and the shade has not quite gotten cooler than the sun, and their sleepy demeanors are piqued. Chattering amongst themselves, eventually the commissioner himself comes over. “How can you be sure you were pick pocketed?” he asks, “Perhaps you left it in the hotel?” I’m unprepared for this rebuttal, and am confused. Some more prodding. I ask why they are afraid to have a theft reported. Back-peddaling. Jean, familiar with police in Nepal, strikes on an idea. “If you report a theft, do you have to do an investigation?” she asks. They collectively breath a sigh of relief, as she touches on this, and they suggest I report it as missing. We all agree this is for the best, and the commissioner takes me into his office to write a letter, carefully spelling out each word and applying it in ink to the double paper, between which is sandwiched a carbon copy paper. The ceiling fan energetically washes cool air down over us and his ergonomic ikea-like desk. Satisfied with the resulting script, I sign it and we take it to another office for a stamp of approval. A policeman brings in an apprehended suspect and strikes him to the ground with a blow to the head. I clench my jaw as the man cries in pain and the official stamping my paper doesn’t notice. Another guard goes over to the suspect and whacks him on the head, more cries. The commissioner says something to the stamper and they both wave off further beatings, and I get the idea that this is being postponed until the tourist (me) leaves the room. We thank the police for their time and they repeat over and over again that this is fine and we are happy, in a subtle commanding way. They drive us back to our car. It is late and we need to leave town, another five hour drive ahead of us. We’re on the road by 4:30 or so. We’ve not had a lunch.

We drive and drive. The sun sets and the parched landscape is washed in darkness, slaking its thirst by swallowing up field workers, buildings and livestock. Lights wink on. We push on, hoping to make it back to Delhi for a late dinner. Closer to Delhi, the traffic builds up and our driver, weary from the day’s drive, begins to get closer and closer to vehicles and people, bicycles and livestock. He flicks his brights (“Use Dipper at Night” is painted on most trucks) and leans on the horn, even when no movement is possible. I’m in the passenger seat and am entering early phases of shock, or perhaps just sheer mental exhaustion. I split my one bite-sized clif bar into three pieces for the children. We make it to our hotel near 10 o’clock. The children have all fallen asleep and we wake them for dinner. Our inner-city hotel (Hotel Krishna) has a rooftop restaurant, and we pull a couple tables together and order copious amounts of food. They don’t have wine, so I journey out for some accompanying drinks, they point the way. My heart beating faster than normal, I walk the backstreets of Delhi to the liquor store. It’s as if Thamel was painted over New York City. Street lights illuminate the uneven streets spattered with various fluids and trash. I cross a highway split with a median, the dust kicked up by traffic lit with autorickshaw lights. The liquor shop is as busy as a bookee office. Small in stature, Indians wave cash and shout their orders at the workers behind the high bar-like barriers. I sidle up and put my arms on top of the carpeted surface, immediately gaining the attention of one of the sellers. My order placed, it arrives and the seller exuberantly offers to box it up. He is very entertained. I exit the shop with my parcel and Yeti-like, a large slightly less hairy albino one, make my way back to the hotel, my large strides overtaking even the most enthusiastic walker.
Jean and Eleanor are absent from the table, and Krissy (and the kids) explain that Eleanor puked. Indeed! There it is on the floor! A short while later they return, and our food arrives. Staff cleans up the watery bile. We tuck in to our dishes, my Chicken Tikka Masala never tasting so good. The girls decide their various dishes are too spicy and settle on white rice. We devour everything. We order the kids ice cream for being so spectacular. Eleanor pukes hers up. We discreetly exit the restaurant after alerting the staff and tabbing our bill to our room.
The kids abed, we stay up late and talk and relive our misadventures of the day.

Jean and Krissy, booties and all

On a side note, we didn’t see any sword swallowers. Maybe the sacred water is to protect him from India. Just maybe