Oh, the Places You'll Go and the Packing You'll Do

Today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting.

So...get on your way!” 

― Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You'll Go!

How simply inspirational. Although published well after my Dr. Seuss days, I adore all things Seuss. This book absolutely would have been one of my favorites as a child. 

What the great Theodor Seuss Geisel forgot to warn us about was packing. I hate packing. In a very Seuss-like fashion I've found myself on the floor, surrounded by things I long to take that simply will not fit in my bag. And I can hear him whisper:

Your passport, your toothbrush, your tennies, your hat. .  .

Make your life simple, you don't need more than that.

And maybe I don't. But I so do. I'm not that girl who can pack 16 pieces and magically create 40 outfits for any weather or occasion. I hate that bitch.  

In the past, I blamed my over-packing tendencies on prolonged visits or changing seasons. I did need sandals and boots and sweaters and tanks to get through six months in Tokyo. There was no way I would be able to buy clothes and shoes in Japan. At least not womens clothes and shoes.

But our last four trips have been short, sweet, and one climate. And I'm still somewhat perplexed on how to get everything I need for six weeks or less into one bag weighing less than 50 pounds.  

Excuse me. I misspoke. I meant to say everything I want.  

I do, however, know a few secrets.

• Dump vitamins/TUMS/other boxed OTC drugs into ziploc bags.  You'll be surprised the places you can cram them. In a shoe, for example.
• I own heavy belts. I hate wearing belts to the airport just to take them off. Although at least one of my buckles could be considered a weapon, I put my belts in my carry-on. Less weight and after security you can put it on. Or strangle someone.
• I always pack at least one pair of shoes I intend to leave behind. Frees up space for last minute purchases. Like the forty bracelets I just bought. 
• Try not to bring anything white. If you're like me, you can only wear it once before it needs a wash. I prefer to pack things the color of dirt.
• Keep ALL medications in your carry-on. Not only does it prevent them getting lost with your luggage, it's not good to expose medicines to huge temperature variations. Same with electronics and batteries.
• Layering several thin shirts can be as warm as one big, bulky thick sweater. And more versatile. And you can pick and choose which one is next to your skin. 
• When packing shoes, stuff them with socks or other items to help them retain their shape and conserve space.
• Find that elusive handbag that goes with everything, crosses over your body for security purposes and fits the essentials. This trip it was a turquoise Fossil crossbody. I love Fossil bags.
• Bring tampons.
• After finally settling on what you are taking, remove at least five pieces of clothing, 1 pair of shoes and the bulkiest item. Keep in mind, whatever you remove will be the ONE thing you wish you had.  
• Buy lighter, soft-sided, wheeled, duffel bag-like suitcases.  It's far easier to stuff them to capacity.

It takes me anywhere from 3 hours to 3 days to pack before a trip.  It's tedious and time consuming. FM watches with a combination of dismay, amazement, and mirth.

The good news is today I'm packing to go home. This usually takes about 20 minutes. 

After spending an hour contemplating which shoes are being left behind.

This post is dedicated to my dear friend Joycey Joyce Clark. As promised.  

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

I like easy. Always have. Twist off beer caps rank in my personal top ten of things invented in my lifetime. 

Travel, however, can be hard.  Hard on the body. Hard on the budget. Hard on your feet.  

But after thirteen years on the road, things have become so much easier.  It's difficult to imagine life out in the world in 2000. Skype? Didn't exist. Facebook? A thing of the future. Even MySpace was yet to be invented. We kept in contact the old-fashioned way;  expensive long distance phone calls, postcards and email. 

I remember paying for dial up internet connection by the minute in hotel rooms from Cairo to Korea, Amman to Bulgaria.  No (as in none) internet access in all of Burma. Internet cafes were new and exciting places to meet other travelers. WiFi was a year old in 2000, and not found in every public place and pub.  Nor did we have extremely portable and convenient devices to connect with.  I didn't even have a cell phone until 2004, let alone a smartphone to surf the web. 

Today, if I need a restaurant recommendation in some foreign place, all I need to do is go to TripAdvisor or Yelp. And probably googlemaps. If I get lost on the way? Check my GPS on my iTouch. 

Need to know what to expect when I arrive? I swear there's not a destination left unphotographed, blogged about, and possibly podcasted. Sometimes it feels the joy of discovery has vanished.

Was travel more fun then? Probably not. But it was more surprising. And possibly more interactive. I certainly had no idea what to expect from Chisnau, Moldova or Nouakchott, Mauritania. If there wasn't a Lonely Planet or Fodor's guide, it was up to me and FM to work it out. Today, a few clicks on the web will provides more in-depth knowledge than I actually care to know. And probably a contact or two from InterNations.org.

Even the thought that FM and I's life is unique has been squashed.  As a new Twitter account holder (@rickistout) I've connected with numerous people and couples living the ex-pat life in various countries and blogging about their trips, trials and tribulations.  Most of them doing a better job than I.  

Today, our lives on the road are infinitely easier. And all the picture gazing and blog reading will never substitute for the experience of actually being there yourself. It also doesn't prevent finding your own special experience, whether a great new restaurant, avant-garde boutique or the simple pleasure of talking to the locals and travelers you encounter.

As long as you remember to look up from your smartphone every once in a while.

Unrepentant Relaxation

The traditional alarm clock is not what wakes me from slumber here in Dakar.  Instead, it's the sound of trips of goats demanding their morning feed.  If this doesn't bring me to full alertness, the construction site across the "street" will come to life at 8 am to finish the job.  I do thank them for waiting until the reasonable hour of 8:30 to turn on the cement mixer. . . 

A herd of goats is called a trip.  Really.  I looked it up.

This has been in the works for over six months.  Nothing happens fast here. . . 

Breakfast is served individually and informally in the lounge.  Croissants, jam, homemade breads and yogurt, fruit and my OWN pot of coffee make for a pleasurable way to greet the day.  The relative coolness of the morning, vividness of blue sky, and friendly companionship of the fellow guests prolongs the interlude to mid morning.  

Restaurant Fatou.  Great place for an afternoon beverage or an evening meal.

I've been enjoying my time in Dakar.  Not as a tourist, as I've not done or seen one thing touristical.  Instead, it's been an excellent opportunity to just relax and enjoy my surroundings.  So often when we arrive into a new country, I wear myself ragged trying to discover restaurants, watering spots, and things to do and see.  

Here, the blue waters of the North Atlantic, the laid back way of life of the local Senegalese population, the fresh and abundant seafood, idyllic sunsets and cold Gazelle beers have successfully slowed me down to a crawl.  

Big ball of gas.  

I always feel like somebodies watching me. . . 

I like it.  If I don't do another thing while I'm here besides hit the beach or stroll through the souvenir shops at the point, I will leave with no regrets. 

I arrived in Dakar with no expectations.  No grand plan, no burning  desires to see anything in particular.  Mainly because I researched nothing before arrival.  A few locals have asked if I've been to town yet.  When I say no, they look alarmed.  But, when I ask them why I should go? They have no answer.  I've been to big, dusty African cities before.  Besides the occasional interesting photo opportunity or old mosque, they typically consist of bad roads, hectic traffic, swarms of people, livestock, and concrete block buildings.  In horrific heat.  And dust.  

This trip?  I prefer the pampered setting of our gorgeous hotel, low traffic, calling birds and constant crash of the surf to be my companions.

Evil Eye?  Voodoo magic?  Who knows.

Well, plus the goats and construction. Something needs to get me out of bed.

Miss Frugality

As anybody who knows me will tell you, I'm a frugal girl.  There are days I'm downright cheap. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my little luxuries, but I refuse to pay retail if I can get away with less.

But, it you're like me and tend to head toward store brands or cheaper alternatives, learn from my mistakes.  When you leave the familiarity of the States (and English labels), there are certain things it just doesn't pay to scrimp on.

• Toilet Paper. Just go with whatever is most expensive. Seriously. Man up and spend the long dollar. Even then, don't expect Charmin. Seems the US does TP better than most.
• Juice. It's hard to read labels in foreign languages, but look for something refrigerated, expensive, with 100% somewhere on the package. Otherwise you'll be stuck with Orange (or Apple or Grape) drink or something so saturated with sugar it would be better served as syrup.  Or jam.
• Fruits and Vegetables. Prepackaged food can be so deceiving.  So many times I've brought home a tray of veggies only to find the bottom half all moldy or bruised. Spend the money and the time to pick out your own fruit/vegetables. Worth that special trip out of your way to the "good" market.
• Beer. Because life's too short to drink bad beer.  Ditto for wine.  Unless you are in Argentina where you can get an excellent bottle of Malbec for $5.
• Ice Cream and/or chocolate. See above. Nothing worse than a big bowl of ice milk.
• Garbage bags.  Having an accident while taking the garbage out to the dumpster can be extremely messy. And embarrassing.
• Cereal. Look for Post or Kelloggs or another brand you are familiar with. Stay away from Nestle Fitness (unless it's the Yogurt one), as it tastes like sticks and dirt. With milk on top.
• Toothpaste. Many foreign toothpastes have foreign ingredients like formaldehyde, not necessarily what I want to be putting in my mouth. I've probably put worse things in my mouth, but that's another blog post.
• Coffee. Because nothing says bad day like a rotten cup of Joe first thing in the morning.

Otherwise, save away!  As my mother used to say (no she didn't), "canned beans is canned beans". If you're in a place with canned beans.  And you have a can opener.  But that's another story.

Sole Support

When we left home two weeks ago, I donned my trusty Puma slip-ons (they're soooo street) for the 23 hours of travel between the great Midwest and Dakar, Senegal.  I have walked hundreds of miles (literally!) in these shoes with no ill effects, so I felt comfortable I would survive the trip with my feet unscathed.

Unfortunately, I did not and developed a huge blister on my right heel.  My first purchase in Dakar was bandaids and anti-bacterial cream.  Because I'm certain there is some bacteria around here. Possibly even bacteria I've never been exposed to, although that would be a rare bacteria.  

It healed, but there was a bit of gimping, whining and complaining going on.  But, being the tough cookie I am, I overcame.  

During our palatial stay at the Dead Club Med, I was traipsing around the grounds, stepped on something sharp and punctured the bottom of my right foot.  After performing DIY surgery, I thought I had retracted all things foreign, but two days later this injury reared it's ugly head again and it was back to the pharmacy for rubbing alcohol and a razor blade for surgery aux duex. It's still a little sore, but I'll live.  I hope.

Sunday, I pulled on my reliable Footjoy golf shoes for our round of golf.  Again, shoes that have seen thousands of holes of golf and never felt the need to bite back.  Within the first three holes I had a bona-fide blister of mammoth proportions.  On my LEFT heel.

I'm such a delicate little flower.

Yesterday, FM and I went to the beach for a little R&R.  I played and splashed in the surf, and of course acquired sand in every crevice.  After we returned home and were beautifying ourselves for our nightly meal I noticed my newest blister looked. . . well. . . green!

Upon further investigation I found the blister sac (?for lack of a better explanation?) must have had a small hole in it, which then filled with sand.  Not being in the mood for another round of surgery last night, I left it till this morning.  

Traveling with a man who goes to work everyday doesn't give me many people to share such things with, so you, oh great and powerful internet, get to see this!

It's now been flushed with alcohol, rubbed with anti-bacterial cream and covered with bandaids.  My attentions can now be returned to avoiding malaria and severe sunburns.

But if you see someone gimping around Almadies, it's probably me.

This post was in no way sponsored by Puma or Footjoy, much to their great relief.

Tourist or Traveler? Who Cares.

I've been known to read a travel blog or two in my life.  Recently, I tripped over an online debate about classifying yourself as a tourist or a traveler. 

Admittedly, I prefer the word traveler, but I am a tourist by definition.  It's not always so much about the sights and meals as it is about the people and the experience.  But sometimes, it IS about the sights, whether you're at the Great Wall of China or the Grand Canyon.  You need to see it if you happen to be in the neighborhood.  

Call yourself a tourist or a traveler, it really doesn't matter much.  There are as many different types of travelers as people.  Some refuse to leave their comfort zones while others embrace the less traveled path.  Others eat and drink their way through a new country while some stick only to the known (globalization makes this entirely too possible and reminds me of the Bubba Gump's in Depensar, Bali and the Applebee's on the Nile in Cairo - ugh).  

Still others research every option and meal for the perfect itinerary while some prefer to fly by the seat of their pants. Some people walk, some ride. Some want the beach, others prefer the mountains.  Some want to chill, others want to see everything possible.  Some are in search of inexpensive options while others enjoy posh hotels and trendy restaurants.  Some leave home for a month with a backpack and others need an entire bag just for shoes.

Because FM and I rarely get to choose our destinations, and our travel usually extends beyond the normal time allotted to just one city, we tend to be a mishmash of many different travel personalities, without even addressing our personal differences.  And, after thirteen years on the road even those preferences have changed, progressed, digressed and mutated into a convoluted crush of different methods.

Point being, there is no right or wrong way to travel, or any special classification that makes you any less of a visitor or more of an expert.  The important thing is to actually leave home once in a while and experience something new, whether it's the next county, city, country or continent.  

Because in the end we're all just visiting.

Fore! the Love of the Game

Fortunately for us, golf in the US and especially were we live, has become quite an affordable endeavor over the last 20 years.  For the most part, it is no longer viewed as a rich man's sport. Which is good, as FM is not a rich man.

But out in the world?  Golf is still an elite pastime. And we've had the opportunity to play some great courses in some "striking" locations,  including Madiera Island, directly below the pyramids in Cairo, just outside of Phnom Penh, Bandar Seri Begawan in Dry Brunei, Rangoon, the Dominican Republic and on the Sinai Peninsula. FM can add Saudi Arabia and Morocco.  

The one (and probably only) thing all these courses have in common is they are expensive. And by American standards?  Not so nice. Forget the lush fairways and meticulously trimmed greens you envision and instead picture low scrub and sand with some patches of actual grass thrown in for effect.  

Regardless, we like to play and can usually justify scraping together the cost of admission once or twice a trip, when possible.  

Today we paid $157 US for the two of us to walk 18 holes in Dakar.  This included two bags of incredibly mismatched clubs, two caddies, and ten experienced golf balls.  We set off at the reasonable hour of 10:30 and proceeded out on our Senegalese golfing adventure.  It's really a 9 hole course you play twice, so do plan to experience a little deja vu on the back.

And, although my tried and true golf shoes of 2 years gave me my first blister, I had no longer irons than a 6 in my bag, my left hand became so swollen and sore I could no longer properly grip a club by hole 16 and I lost 6 of our 10 golf balls in various hazards, it was honestly worth every dime.  

But, don't take that as a recommendation.  FM and I might just be sick in the head.  Or maybe it was FM's chip in from the green side bunker on 18.

Dead Club Med

Did you ever wonder what happens to a luxury hotel after fifty years?  Yesterday, FM and I had the opportunity to experience just that.  In the late 60's, Club Med (remember Club Med??) opened what had to be one of the most exotic and foreign destinations.  Per the locals, this peninsula we're living on consisted of nothing but brush and the Club Med.  With the airport only about 10 minutes away, I'm sure guests were flown in, hustled into first class transportation, and driven to this spot of paradise on the most western point of Africa.

Club Med gave up on the property about seven years ago.  Much foreign interest pulled out of the area about the same time, and many hotels were sold to local investors.  Currently, it appears some French company in conjunction with a Senegalese business are trying to revamp this huge complex into a combination hotel/apartment/condo type property.  

They have a long way to go and their work cut out for them.  

Long story short, we accidentally checked out of our hotel a day early and ended up homeless for about fifteen minutes.  FM's local contact scrambled to find us a place to stay for the night, and against her better judgement put us up at what is now the Hotel Almadies.  Unlike say, the Raffles Hotel in Phnom Penh, she is not a well aged grand dame.  She shows everyone of her fifty years.  In fact, I'd bet some of the furnishings are original.  

But the land it sits upon?  Is unarguably the most breathtaking of the peninsula.

Southern side of the peninsula

Looking across the bay back toward town

Which way should we go?  Marker for the most Western Point in Africa

Cross currents slamming together.  Sunken boat and lighthouse in the far distance

BEACH!  Only beach on the peninsula

Looks good from a distance

Breathtakingly beautiful.  Those chairs?  Backbreakingly unsittable.

But damn

It's my kind of setting, and five degrees cooler

To the north is a bunch of restaurants we frequent and some dudes getting ready to fish

Another fisherman

Not sure what these guys are, but they make noises like monkeys

Not sure where they were headed, but a parade of gals went by  late in the day

Sunset at the end of the world.

I spent the day walking the beach and enjoying the pool.  I could close my eyes and pretend I was somewhere other than Dakar.  I was a princess of Marrakech or a colonial African settler of days past.  

In truth, I was a person who got an ice cold shower at 430 pm, swatted mosquitoes the entire time we were anywhere but on the beach, slept on a mattress that was probably older than me in a room smaller than some walk-in closets with an air conditioner unit that kept the room either hot or deep-freeze (I slept with three blankets on!) with NO WI-FI (the HORROR!) and an odor somewhere between kerosene and paint stripper.  

But it sure was purdy.  Really purdy.

No Man Is an Island

Just outside our fancy (HA) three star hotel is a sandy cut through leading to the beach road.  For the last week, this man has been camped out on this log.  I'm assuming he's been there a lot longer than a week.  

Day or night he is there, no protection from the elements outside of the multiple layers of clothing and his gnarly hair and beard.  No shoes, not even flip flops.  No visible signs of sustenance (although obviously a lot of empty bottles???).  He's always seated.  Always facing away from the road and water.  Usually he has nothing in his hands and is still.

A curious mind and a lot of down time have allowed for much surmising about his circumstances.   First, I assumed he was a homeless man (which he clearly is, to some extent).  However, he does not beg and I haven't seen any other similar characters around the peninsula.  He does smell horrendously and mutters to himself quite a bit, lending to the hypothesis he is likely mentally ill.  

But despite his situation, he appears to be in some form of decent health.  He must be consuming water to a life sustaining degree and he does not appear to be starving, or even hungry.  The other night he was smoking.  

So my empathy has waned.  Now I'm imagining he's someone on the peninsula's husband/grandfather/uncle who has been shunned from the family household for some salacious reason.  I'm uncertain lucid conversation is possible with him, but an interpreter would be interesting. Although I bet most the neighborhood knows his story.  I need to find more English speaking peeps, as my French is nonexistent, Merci.

Regardless of how he got there or why this log is now his home, it's interesting he's allowed to stay there and that all his basic needs are being met.  

He's also a great marker for our turn to the hotel, as there are no street signs or lights out there!