Among God's most stunning creatures

Kenya Safari – Aberdare
Day 8

Up early. Back to the Amboseli airstrip.

Air Kenya

The shock of fuel smell and noise in Nairobi was bracing. Three hours drive north through Kikuyu county – stunningly fertile and productive land. The Kikuyu has red volcanic soil, 50” of rainfall annually and green everywhere. It could be Georgia.

Soon a roadside rest for toilets and trade and more of that “collect-all-and-then-we-bargain” system of shopping. Kim collected $25 worth of carved and beaded trinkets. The opening offer was $21,000 KS ($300) She departed with a disappointed merchant chasing after begging for a counter offer.

Lunch at Aberdare Country Club.

Aberdare Country Club

Nine holes played with giraffe and warthog and an early 20th Century magnificent stone house built on top of a hill that command a view to the end the Kikuyu with the dry plain of the Samburu visible at the horizon.

Hazard not covered in the USPGA Rulebook

Then onto The Ark – a lodge built at a watering hole and salt lick in the rain forest of Aberdare. We go in and stay in. The Ark has glass observation decks on each of three stories and night long flood lights onto the watering hole that make for great observation. But you are on an observer here – that or prey. The hotel has a coded buzzer system. The buzzer sound in all public and private spaces of the hotel when animal appear at the watering hole.

Above the watering hole at night

24 hours per day the bell sounds; one for elephant, two for cape buffalo; three for leopard. One and two we sleep past, but we dream of three rings and the illusive leopard. It was only a dream.

This rainforest of Aberdare was the center of the Mau Mau uprising of 50 years ago – a savage event that freed Kenya from colonial domination and scarred all, on both sides, who were involved.

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Among God's most stunning creatures

Kenya Safari – Amboseli
Day 7

This morning we got to stalk with the cheetah. We were parked directly behind her, erect black ears framing an array of six Tommys 300-yards up-wind. The terrain sloped uphill perhaps as much as 10 feet over the distant with the Tommys at the top and just over the rise. Those in foreground we could see perfectly and of those in the back we could see body and head. The grass was sparse and mostly about a foot tall. Our job was to advance without being seen. That meant skulking forward a few paces only when all heads were down or turned away – a tedious process that consumed 15 minutes to gain 200 yards. And then the rush – surprisingly slow at first and gaining speed almost leisurely. But the timing of the start was perfect if the technique wasn’t. All heads were down and we’d covered 40 yards and were at full speed before the warning was given and the Tommys scattered.

She reached the top of the rise and disappeared over the other side so we didn’t witness the climax – or anticlimax as it turned out. Tommy got away and we’ve got to work on our “out of the blocks” technique.

We also witnessed a failed attempt at a juvenile wildebeest by two maturing but as yet prideless male lions. By the time we got to the two males a dozen pop-tops were ahead of us. The beasts padded along the side of the road and down the line of vans, and then cut through between two that had come in behind us. They were using the vehicles as cover for their hunt of the Gnu. But when they came clean of us and crossed the road there was no more cover for them and young “clown of the plains” came to realized he had been selected and dashed off toward the closest herd with our brace of boys in steady pursuit. After a couple of hundred yards the wildebeest stopped running, almost as though he’d forgotten what all the haste had been about in the first place. The lions picked up the pace, but before they could close the distance to initiate the deadly dash, the wildebeest came to his senses and rushed the rest of the way to the horns protective mass of the heard – all of whom immediately turned and lowered their heads to present a phalanx of horns to our advancing predators.

The cats stopped, stared, turned a few circles and lay down with a nonchalance that

Just resting

suggested their only purpose from the beginning was to nap in that spot. We drove by three hours later and they were still napping. The wildebeest herd was nowhere to be seen. The prairie was, however, dotted was bachelor wildebeest – each with territory staked out in fervent hope some female of the species would wander past – a very high risk reproductive strategy given the propensity of packs of predators to pounce. (Stupid Batchelor Wildebeest or just SBWs, as Aurora came to call them.) I suspect those SBWs closest to the snoozing cats were at least as attentive to the dread of extinction as the thrill of procreation. Then back to Ol Tukai for breakfast before out trip to the Masai Village.

Wilson was about 5’ 10” and 150 pounds. He was dressed in a red plad sarong that hung to mid calf and a blue toga. His hair was buzzed to about #1 on the electric razor. He had a walking stick, a gap where his two front bottom teeth had been, perfect English, black skin and a commanding presence. He was 30ish, educated in boarding school, the chief’s son and a junior elder in a Masai village of four families, 125 souls and 600 cows located at the edge of the Amboseli Park, nestled between Observation Hill and the beginning of the gentle volcanic slope the lifted continually to peak in Africa’s tallest feature. Mt. Kilimanjaro, shy as any tall mountain, never did reveal itself to us entirely.

Wilson strode toward our three parked pop-tops vivid against the grey dunn dirt outside the acacia thorn barrier that surrounded his village. Equally colorful warrior crowded at the gate waiting for Wilson’s signal. After his greeting, a brief cultural history of the Masai and description of what was planned for us, Wilson gave the awaited sign and the ceremony began. Single file, close spaced, and led by warriors, half the village came.

We are welcomed

They sang an acapel, a harmonious chant – primal and engaging in the extreme. Unlike Wilson the warriors wore their hair long, plated and colored with henna. They were unarmed except for walking sticks. Their dance was a series of hops which led them to form a line facing us at about 20’. Once there, individual warriors would display by stepping out of line and advancing toward us. The advance always culminated in the pogo like leap – straight up – we’re talking hang-time. I had to try and did.

Thank God for Advil

Thank God for Advil. In climax the entire group circled us, and when the chanting stopped Wilson did the most unexpected thing. He invited us all to squat and pray. “Were Christian and Catholic,” he announced. The prayer was responsive and our part was to regularly punctuate the invocation with “Nai” – Swahili for “Amen.”

Then through the acacia thorn fence and into the village. The gate was no more than an open space in to which additional branches were drawn in the evening.

The Front Gate

The fence was circular and described a space about 500’ in diameter. Just inside the fence, were about 40 identical huts which in turn described a circle with an interior diameter of maybe 450’. The interior space contained two corals – each identical to the exterior barrier in construction. The larger penned the 600 cows every evening – the small, the goats.

Wilson introduced Kim, Aurora and me to Peter who gave us a tour of his mother’s hut. Each hut was identical – a circular wall some 6’ tall and 20’ in diameter made of woven branches plastered with a mixture of cow dung and ashes.

Home sweet home

The entrance was narrow and low – ducking required – and was not a door so much as a corridor which extended only 3 or 4 feet along the hut wall and then turned back on itself to the actual entrance. (Amboseli means “Place of Dust” and dust devils are constant. The entrance protects the interior from the nuisance of the blowing dirt and debris.) The interior is low and dark – I could stand but just. The entrance extended past a storage area into the main room. It was lit only by periodic holes in the wall – each an uncovered circle of no more than about 4”. The roof was a solid mushroom cap constructed exactly as the walls and impenetrable not only to rain or dust but also light and air. At the center of the main room was a hearth made of three cinder-block size stones. Smoke drifted out the various small port hole windows but mostly filled the space. On each side of the main room was a bedroom – one for the kids and one for mom, dad too if this is the wife he was visiting on that particular evening. The kid’s bedroom was an alcove. Mom’s had a separate wall and threshold. The floor of the main room is cow dung and ash – same as the walls. Peter seated us and explained all I’ve just written. His voice came out of the dark and was soft, gentle, assured and warm. Peter was a warrior welcoming strangers into his care. He was in his late teens or early 20s, built much like Wilson but two inches taller. His features were thin and very attractive.

Peter lived in the warrior dormitory. He and his company split the night into shifts and patrolled the exterior perimeter. Peter had killed a lion with that spear of his – hit it between the shoulder and the collar bone. Penetrated the heart I suppose. Wilson has killed four.

One of the decision of which Wilson persuaded the elders was to cease roaming. Their village is two years old and they plan stay put. When the grass is chewed short the warriors will take the cows to new pasture but the village will remain. Stability is to facilitate education. They have built a one room school outside the perimeter. It’s wood over raised foundation with cross ventilated windows. They have obtained a school teacher and children from several villages attend. They displayed the building and the students to us. It was Sunday but the children (about 25) were there. They aged from about 3 to 10 or 11. They learn to read and write in English and Swahili, mathematics and science. Benches rise from front to back and a slate board covers half of one wall. Their instructor put them through their paces for us – alphabet in English and Swahili and a poem recited by three of his brightest young student – all girls.

After the recitation they introduced a traveling deacon – very tall, angular and severe – who prayed in Swahili or Masai. Wilson translated that Jesus was the Lord of all men, black and white and it was good we could be together. Beverly quietly teared up.

Wilson said “now is the time to make whatever donation to our school you would like.” I think we all pitched in.

I wonder at the dilemma of Wilson’s life. I suspect he, and the elders, know education will help the individuals but not the village. I asked Peter why he stayed. He said “ I like the Masai way of life.” I asked Wilson as well and he said he was needed. Not all, in fact I suspect most, will not make the same decision when the choice is theirs.

Then came the shopping. A market of two rows of ground stalls with a path between was set up outside the fence at the back side of the compound. Each shopper was assigned a warrior or junior elder. The items available were folk art animals and beaded jewelry. The vendors were the village women and were aggressive in hawking. Each shopper had an escort. Peter was mine. Our escorts encouraged us to collect all that interested us. Individual prices were not discussed. When all items were collected our escort took us outside of the area and the priced whole.

I selected a small wooden zebra mask and a little clay bowl decorated with a blue glaze. Peter used his talking stick to write the offered price on the ground in Shillings. The Masai were outrageous negotiators. Peter priced my two small items (worth perhaps $25) at 8,000 Kenyan Shillings – about $120. I gave up the bowl and his offer dropped to 4,000. I countered at 1,000. We ended up at 2,500 and I wasn’t particularly pleased.

Kim and Aurora both traded cheap but glitzy watches they’d bought for just this purpose, and which the Masai overvalued.

As we left Peter sought me out and directed me back to his sister’s ground stall. Once there he asked for my glasses and then selected a beaded “keeper” which he slipped onto the frame. It was green, red and black – same as the Kenyan flag. A gift. I’d been had and we both knew it. Peter was gracious and memorable in victory.

All total, between donation and purchases, the Fosters left about 13,000 Kenyan Shillings in the village – maybe $200. Could be the best $200 I ever spent.

On the afternoon game drive we had great adventures. Ben took us to Observation Hill for a walk up. On the way we drove by the marsh. The elephants were starting to come out. A mature bull was moving toward one of herds attracted by a female in heat. He was large and temperamental. He stood astride the road with pop-tops backed up on either side. After five minutes he turned and walked a few paces away, and the pop-top in front of us sped past. The bull immediately turned a 180, braced his feet and flared his ears. Ben studied the bull closely and he studied us, both singular of focus. I positioned myself next to Aurora so I could grab her if the pop-top got knocked over.

Ben made his decision and accelerated in front of the bull who trumpeted and took two steps toward us. Ben judged correctly. It was a feint not a charge. The bull did not pursue and we left a forming line of pop-tops to figure out how to play “Billy Goat Gruff” with three tons of ivory and hormones.

Observation Hill is visible from almost everywhere in Amboseli. Small, round shouldered and no more than 500’ high it nevertheless commanded the dry lake bottom that is Amboseli. Rangers use a small wooden tower at the top to watch for poachers and lesser violators.

In the food chain

There is a stone walkway leading up. Ben parked at the bottom and assured us it was safe. Nonetheless, I felt like we were entering the food-chain. Aurora ran ahead, out of sight up the winding path. I worried.

Pretty view. I insisted on Aurora staying between Kim and me on the way down. It made her sullen but me worry less. I was glad to regain the security of the pop-top and still don’t understand why Masai herdsmen, plainly visible form the top, have to protect themselves, their village, and their cattle from lions, but tourist on that stone walkway are safe.

Ben took us to a new place. There the brush grew up to 10’ high. Much less grazer friendly. Big cats have great cover here, and so they hunt here. Far more dangerous for the prey, but those SBWs still stake out territory (we actually saw two fighting over a piece

"SBWs" fighting

of this barren and dangerous ground with not a female insight.) Zebra and gazelle grazed as well, but not as numerous here and they appeared more alert and vigilant than in the low grass. But it was not them we sought. We hunted what hunted them – lions. And we found them. Lots of them.

We found a resting pride, and stopped. Eventually, they wound their way around us. We had seven cubs playing in the dirt behind the pop-top.

Very cute little killers

A female moved in front of us and wandered over beside a bush not 20’ to one side. She looked at grazing zebra 400 yards away. A second female lounged behind some foliage not six feet from the other side of the car. We had our fill of watching and photographing lions. What we didn’t have was electricity. Not enough to make the starter motor grind. Not even enough to make the solenoid click. We were dead – figuratively. But ones mind almost instantly proceeded to a more literal definition.

There was another Micato van parked not 50’ yards away. The odds of us walking to it were less then zero. Funny thoughts run through your head when you are perfectly safe but have lost mechanical advantage over predators. They look bigger, hungrier and better armed.

Ben got a pal to give us a push. I hope Micato replaces that alternator.

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I am not really a religious guy.  To be honest I am more fascinated by religion(s) and sincerely awed by the faith of others than I am personally committed to a particular creed.  That is not to say that I necessarily discount a higher power or spirit, but let’s just say that I am fine with the fact that I am always questioning and regularly conflicted. It is also important to note that being in nature has always tilted my spiritual needle.

Last week, Sue and I had a quick get away to Sedona, AZ.  For those of you who have been fortunate enough to visit the vortices and red rock formations of this quaint (though in parts, very touristy) village about 120 miles due north of the Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport (or about 30 miles south of Flagstaff), you too may have crossed the threhhold of the narthex into the wonder of this expansive red rock church.

We flew down Sunday morning after a very busy couple of weeks of work, family and other commitments.  We grabbed our car from the very modern, though very remote, rental complex and headed north toward Flagstaff.  Once you get away from the Phoenix metro area, the drive quickly becomes very rural, very stark, and very beautiful in a southwestern sort of way.  About 45 minutes into the drive, you find yourself gaining elevation, scaling a few passes and then dipping back into a few valleys and surrounded by cactus forests.  There is really not a whole lot to see or do on the way up to Sedona, but the 90 minute drive does have a calming effect on the sole.  When you make the left turn off of HWY 17 and start heading up State Route 179, you realize that you are in the presence of something much bigger than you.  The red rock formations that volcanoes, magma, water and time have carved over literally billions of years come into view and immediately envelop you.

About 3:30pm we arrived at the Sedona Views B&B, perched on a quiet bluff at the southern mouth of the Oak Creek Canyon scenic drive.  We were greeted warmly by Irith who showed us around the grounds and finally to our very secluded room off the main house, aptly named Sedona Serenade.  The room was more than ample with a king bed, large bathroom, private deck (which included a hot tub and hummingbird feeder) and unobstructed view of Cathedral Rock in the distance.  For those who have yet to visit Sedona, the locals, the

National and State Park Services and, I am sure, the local Tourist Board feel compelled to name all of the geological formations.  For the most part, they have done a pretty good job as you really can easily see the “Coffeepot,” the “Bell,” and the “Thumb” (though Sue was convinced that the latter, which we could see through the leaded glass window of our commode room, should have been named “Mitten” rock since the housing for the other four fingers is clearly present!).

Sue "extending" herself!

If you have read any of my previous posts, you know Sue and I do not sit well.  After about only eight minutes of enjoying the view from our deck and likely spurred on by the insatiable energy of swarming hummingbirds, we hopped back in the car and drove a few miles up highway 89A, across the very cool and very hisoric Midgley Bridge to the Huckaby trailhead.  As the late afternoon closed in on us, we explored the first mile or so of the trail, far enough away from the small crowd who had assembled just off the parking area to take the mandatory photo of family members in front of the canyon and the bridge.  It is funny how you often do not have to travel far to escape the madding crowds to find refuge, your own natural cloister…

We enjoyed a fabulous light dinner in the bar at Picazzo’s, a local favorite for organic pizzas, pasta and salads…and some pretty good wines by the glass as well!

Breakfast is not served at Sedona Views until 8:30am and that is far too long for Sue to stay in bed, even on vacation.  So at 6:30am, off we went across the parking lot in search of the somewhat hidden, old Indian Trail trailhead that Irith had told us about the night before.  The trail was straight uphill for about a half mile until it collided with the well marked and well maintained Jim Thompson trail. We decided to head off to our right and after about a half hour, we were standing at the base of a 200 red rock wall, high above the Huckaby trail we had hiked the evening before.  The view was expansive with the now teeny Midgley Bridge in the distance.  We scrambled back to the shower and the breakfast table to share the first of three glorious breakfasts with our new friends from East Texas, Bo and Linda. I love it when B&Bs “force” you into “random” acquaintances …the world is filled with gracious and interesting people. We just have to remember to meet them!

After breakfast, Irith’s husband (and chef supreme) Sam discussed some options for the day.  He redirected a couple of the hikes we had planned and made some more great epicurial recommendations.  Sam and Irith were wonderful hosts with a wealth of information about the area.  They have lived and travelled throughout the world, landing in Sedona about ten years ago.  They opened Sedona Views as a sister to their first venture, Boots and Saddle B&B, and continue to operate both…they are nuts!  With day packs full of provisions we had procured the night before, we set off for the Fay Canyon trailhead.  The main trail was only a little more a mile long (one-way) and relatively flat, but the views up both sides of the canyon walls were transcendent.  We do not sit well and we do not stop that well either, so at the end of the groomed path we scrambled straight up a deer trail to a perch about 300 feet off of the canyon floor. I sat for a few minutes contemplating everything and nothing.  The wind whispered to me and brought me peace…

We wandered back a little further along a dicey ledge before deciding to turn back since we had pre-paid our accomodations and determined it would be a ridiculous waste to die so soon into our trip.    On our way back to the trailhead, we veered off onto a side trail crudely marked by the word “arch” and and arrow etched by hand on a rock.  The was clearly not a trail maintained by the Forest Service. We were rewarded at the top of a very steep incline with a free-standing red-rock bridge (or arch) about 30 ft above us.  Seek and ye shall find…

About a half mile down the road was the Dow Mesa trailhead.  Again, it was a short hike for us (about 600 ft up in .7 miles), but at the top we were blessed with a flat southwestern moonscape to roam in solitary wonder.  We spent about an hour circumnavigating the perimeter of this table, stopping again for a few moments in a now stiff afternoon wind to hear the unspoken words of the world around us.

After a brief stop to check out some Navaho jewelry at a small, but very good shop, it was back to welcoming smiles of Sam and Irith, the fenzy of our hummingbirds and some hot showers before enjoying another great meal at Dan’s Bistro.

The next morning after breakfast, we were off to the West Fork of Oak Creek.  This hike meandered along and through (thirteen balance-testing rock crossings!) for about 3.5 miles until reaching a veritable impass.  The only way to navigate the next 2.5 miles back to a dirt trail is by wading, apparently chest high at some points, through the creek.  I opted to remove my boots and only explore a couple hundred yards up the icy creek to an incredible overhang carved by the raging waters of the annual spring melts and flash floods.  The canyons in the West Fork were even higher and tighter than those at Fay Canyon, leaving you in reverent awe of the almightiness of water and time.

"So we go where exactly?

In the mid-afternoon it was off to Cathedral Rock for our final service of the day.  Until Sam mentioned it, I honestly did not know that you could hike up into a saddle in the middle of this perhaps most famous of the Sedona formations. Its image has been captured in just about every photo montage of Sedona and it is rated as the #1 place to visit in Sedona by TripAdvisor reviewers for many years running).  We typically avoid the #1 places to visit when we travel, but Sam had told us this one was a must. The hike is short,

Natural dome near the top

but very tricky in a few spots, especially coming down.  Many parishioners likely turn back at a very steep and tight crevice, but we only had one pre-paid breakfast to go, so it was worth the risk at this point!  There were only four others at the top enjoying the panoramic views and warmth of the fading sun.  Quite frankly there is not a lot of “top” and what there is involves significant drop-offs.  It is plenty safe, but certainly not a place to play pin the tail on the donkey.  The wind was absolutely howling and as I rested on a flat rock in the nave of this amazing red cathedral I listened intently to its blustery sermon.  I love the wind and its ceaseless messages. It is both power and glory and pushes other worldliness through me.  I am very much at peace in this place of worship and could stay for quite some time, but it is late afternoon and it was time to descend.

For the love of my life!

The next morning, as a surprise gift to Sue, my cell phone alarm went off at 5:03am (the time she gets up every day to go work out at the YMCA back home).  I told her to get dressed and that I had one more place to take her before our final breakfast was served.  We drove about ten miles and then turned on to a forest service road.  After about a quarter mile, we were welcomed by a dirt road, an ominous sign that said four-wheel drive vehicles were advised and a very significant mound of rocks in the middle of the narrow passage.  Well, I had a vehicle and it had four wheels and I was driving it, so off I went,

much to the chagrin of my now ashen-faced wife.  We cleared that initial mound for the most part and I swerved, climbed, scraped and bumped my way about ¾ of a mile before declaring defeat and pulling off the “road” to park (I guess you could call it parking…).  What the heck, we were here to hike, so a little added trail time couldn’t hurt anything!

Sue at peace on Devil's Bridge

We set off down the road with Sue thanking her lord and savior and me wondering how embarrassing it would be if I had to call the rental agency to come get me because I was teetering on a pile of rocks.  In about a mile, we came to the trailhead of the Devil’s Bridge.  It was yet another steep, short ascent to the longest and, I believe, the highest natural bridge (arch) formation in Arizona.  It was still a little chilly as we started up, with the sun just starting to peak its way out over the canyon

Together

walls.  By the time we reached the Bridge, climbed atop it and nestled into our separate stone pews, we were engulfed in the full glory that nature has to offer; a crystal clear morning sky; the sun beginning to warm the small beads of sweat on our faces, the sanctified red rock formations as far as we could see; our aloneness and togetherness; our peace…

… and of course the gentle, devine wind beckoning me to my next pilgrimage.

Peace!

Wonder!

Hope!

Beauty!

Glory!

AMEN!

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6:00 am wake up and turbo prop from an airport that made me expect to see Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart walk in the door. 35 minutes to an air strip at which we flew-over elephant and zebra on the downward leg of our landing pattern. The into a pop-top van with the three of us and Beverly, Tony and a driver named Ben for our first game drive – elephant, wildebeests, zebra, hyena, warthog, cheetah, impala, Thompson and Grant’s gazelles, baboons and birds – eagles, vultures, geese, ducks, cranes, plovers, pelican, egret and heron. That’s just the stuff we saw. Lord only knows what we missed.

But the count isn’t the point. There were great herds of these things and they were ordinarily proceeding through life. A juvenile male elephant decided to stand down the lorry “just to show off.” The wildebeests were in rut and one poor bull did nothing but race from one side of his territory to the other chasing off young challengers. As soon as he’d drive one off he’d race back to the center. Before he’d even get there he’s see the next challenger and gallop off to remove him. Don Quixote lives but has been recast as “the clown of the plains.”

A three year old elephant calf with foot long tusks got an annoyed bellow from mom because he jabbed her while trying to nurse. He’ll soon be weaned. The cheetah sauntered and rested and feigned indifference while trying to cover the 1,000 yards between herself and a lone buck impala, and all the time in his open view. The grass was short and concealment rare. A failed rush would cost her much energy expenditure and require a 45 minute rest, and 900 yards to cover before she could even try.

Finally to Ol Tukai Lodge. It’s a sort of Ahwanahee of the Amboseli – beautiful central lodge of single story wood pole construction, a great pastry chef a thousand miles from nowhere, and 80 cabins surrounded by an electric fence that is alleged to keep the elephants and buffalo out and inhabited by far more baboons and monkeys than people.

The p.m. drive as highlighted by a cheetah kill. We arrived just after Tommy became a Tommy burger. The cheetah was very attentive to the surrounding area. Ben, our driver and font of knowledge on all things Amboseli, said the cheetah, or at least her kill, now became bait for the big scavengers – hyenas and lions. The cheetah reduced the odds of being chased off by reducing the smell. That is she neatly carved off the back legs and hips before she opened the body cavity. We watched for about 20 minutes until her belly was noticeably distended and her muzzle vivid red. For the last 10 minutes Aurora and I constantly scanned the downwind terrain for hyenas. The hoped for drama never occurred. When we left we had to weave through 18 other pop-top vans littering the road.

The post Kenya Safari – Amboseli – Day 6 appeared first on OnSITE Travel Blog.

Among God's most stunning creatures

Kenya Safari – Day 5

After breakfast we met out safari companions.  Beverly, is a black woman from Detroit. She’s fat, middle-aged, traveling alone and almost immediately told us she was a spiritual soul. She works as a machinist for an axel company, is friendly with an easy smile and regularly goes off alone to a patio or other outdoor area to smoke.

John and Holly are from Boca Raton, FL and are here to celebrate their 10th anniversary and his 40th birthday, alone – that is without their six and eight year old sons. Holly has that pinched look of pretty women who are professionals, wives, mothers and we’re once beautiful. My guess is she’s an attorney. John is very fit and assured and a hunter. He and 3 pals had a 58,000 kill bird hunt in Argentina. That’s a 5 day total – mostly doves.

Matt and Bonnie are from Kansas City. He trades red wheat on the KC Futures Exchange “mostly for my own account.” They have two kids – Ben, age 11, and Paulena, age 14. All are well groomed and outfitted, look you in the eye and shake hands firmly.

The other six are one multigenerational family.  Glen is a podiatrist from Westchester County, NY. Linda, his wife walks stooped shouldered, she is generally unquaffed and grinds him periodically even on the first day. Jennifer – their daughter – is going to be a senior in high school. She has her mom’s red hair, her dad’s height, is pretty, generally quiet but quick to smile and has the hips of a woman who will be pear shaped by 40.

Glen’s sister, Jamis, is very tall, attractive, well-coiffed woman who lives in the east bay in San Francisco. She sells holistic-health products. The mother of Glen and Jamis is Anita. She’s retired to Florida and married Virgil. Virgil is in mid-eighties, handsome, thin-haired with a well trimmed silver beard. He is intelligent and acerbic in the extreme. His wife tries to ignore. The family rolls their eyes and says, “That’s Virgil,” two or three times a day. My guess is he’s a retired academic.

We started the day with a tour to the Giraffe House. Someone has devoted the last 25 years to saving the, approaching extension, Rothschild’s giraffe.

Aurora handfeeds one of 400 Rothschild's giraffes in the world

When they started there were 172 and now over 400. The Giraffe House is a breeding farm. Breed stock and young are tamed to hand feed. That can be done at eye height in a two story gazebo or at grade across a low stone wall. Attendants pass out feeding pellets by the handful and doe eyed giraffes with prehensile lips, long-black-pointed tongues and eating-induced saliva production take them from the hand. Single pellets are taken with a sloppy kissing gesture or hands full are licked from the palm. Either or both an experience that evokes giggles in adults as well as the droves of uniformed school children who frequent the place.

Then off the Karen Blixen’s Museum. She’s the “Out of Africa” author – think Meryl Streep. She farmed 600 acres of coffee and failed, but wrote a pretty good book. The entire neighborhood is now called “Karen.” The house is a 2 bedroom cottage with detached kitchen (a fire prevention measure we’re told) and very nice grounds. Until the Streep/Redford movie the place was an office for a local school. Just good marketing.

Fiona and Marcus Mitchell are tea farmers. Fiona’s grandfather came out from Surrey in 1902 to make his fortune and 1910 bought 350 acres from the Crown for what amounts to about $20.00. He bought some tea seed from India, cleared all the trees and his descendents continue to run the place. Fiona is stately and grey. Marcus is beautiful and reticent in the extreme – he has a hard time looking at you when he speaks. Their home was built in the 30s. They have 3 or 4 aging Jack Russell Terriers, a couple of hounds, a barnyard cat or two, a tree full of black and white Colombus monkeys, and bushes full of chameleon. Fiona spent thirty minutes explaining both the history of her family and the tea business in Kenya while the sixteen of us sat before a fire at her hearth. Then lunch in the adjacent dining room.

With such the British cornered the world's tea market

All very proper and quite delightful.

The National Museum is a reflection of a rich cultural and anthropologic history and the realty of the economic choices a third world county makes – very rich, very sad. And all done in 40 minutes.

Then the Pinto’s for dinner. Jane hosted; no Felix. Jane is Anna aged 30 years, a gracious, if overwhelming hostess. In a house full of African treasures – including some such as polished and mounted elephant tusks which require license just to possess – the most impressive is a commemoration of the Pinto’s 50th wedding anniversary from John Paul II. “Very good catholic family.” The world, and this tour, are full of surprises.

A late (2:30 am on the 25th) note. Fell asleep hard by 8:30pm. Now awake in a pitch dark room. Bedding is different here. Its bottom sheet, top sheet, blanket and top-top sheet – and the whole pulled tight together almost like a duvet. If I rapidly pull the top-top away from the blanket below sparks fly off like a microscopic meteor shower. At first I thought it was static electricity, but now I wonder if its not phosphates in the detergent. What delights Africa holds – fairy dust included.

The post Kenya Safari – Day 5 appeared first on OnSITE Travel Blog.

Among God's most stunning creaturees

Nairobi
Day 3

British Air was uneventful to Nairobi. Kim giggled much of the way at “Hitch” and “Meet the Fokers.” I don’t know what Aurora did. I got into Robert Ruark’s “Something of Value.” I haven’t re-read it in 40 years, and it’s long out of print. But thanks to a renewed interest in Kenya and Abebooks.com I’ll have a second go at it.

The Pinto’s must be well connected as Salma and her Micato Tours sign met us inside of customs and escorted us through. Handoff was then to Tony and Kip who put us in a van with welded iron reinforcements around the interior. Kip in an aging runner who competed of the national team when, “there was no money in it. We ran for national honor.”

They took us to the Norfolk Hotel. Yes that Norfolk Hotel. Now if I can just find “The Long Bar” and order a Pimms Cup life will be complete.

Nairobi
Day 4

Today was a bit overwhelming. We met Jane Pinto this morning and she sent us off with Tony, from last night, and a man named Benedict. Tony is a Kikuyu, but prefers to call himself “a cocktail.” Benedict is a Lao – a tribe of fisherman from Lake Victoria. He is of average or less height with very refined features – high cheekbones, sharp nose – and very black. He is thin in the extreme – almost elfin, and his left leg is deformed. The mass of thigh appears no more than 4” in diameter when the wind blows across his pants. His toe is permanently on point. In fact, it appears his Achilles tendon is frozen short. He has no muscle to power the knee and pushes down on it with his left hand at each step. The driver was David. He was silent all day until after Tony departed. Then he gave a 15 minute insightful and sophisticated analysis of the public littering habits of Kenyans.

This was our crew. First they drove us to the Nairobi National Park and specifically to a place called the David Sheldrich Wildlife Center. It saves orphaned elephants, raises them to 2 to 2 ½ and returns them to the wild. They had eight between 8 1/2 and 23 months. We watched for 30 or 45 minutes as a 20 something Brit and six or eight African handlers fed and played with them – the orphans kicked (and “trunked”) a soccer ball around and generally frolicked for us. We stood along the edge of a 2 or 3 acre meadow with a ¼’ strand of hemp rope dividing us from them. Them being, in addition to the eight elephants, the half dozen handlers, a rescued rhino and an assortment of warthogs who seemed to like hanging around.

Then it changed. Tony took us to Nyumbani – a home for human orphans – HIV positive human orphans. A Jesuit priest and physician named Fr. Angelo D’Agostino founded this place. They have about 100 children from 2 to 23. They accept newborns but currently have none. (A wooden cemetery cross inscribed “10-26-99 / 01-05-00” an emotional statement that such are welcome here.)

Cemetary of AIDS Babies

Children, according to our host, frequently turn HIV negative around two if they have not been breast-fed by the birthmother. When that happens they are placed for adoption if no blood relative can be found. Adoption is very difficult in Kenya. In this nation of over 30 million souls, there were 40 such last year. The children at Nymbani live in family units of about 18 with a housemother. The preschoolers, two household of which we met, are educated on site. The others are bussed to local schools where they are grudgingly accepted and only because the good Father made a federal case of it – literally. After 18, if schooling is complete, the orphans are moved out into the world – college, work or acceptance of a tribal plot when linage can be proved.

Jesuit Orphange for AIDS babies

The wall of one building is decorated with tiles memorializing significant sponsors. “Mrs. Jane Pinto” is one.

Off to see Benedict’s work. He is employed by America Share, an educational foundation whose primary driver appears to be the Pintos. Benedict selects students from attendees at schools in a slum called Mukuru. The buildings in Mukuru are all put together by squatters as the government considers the land unstable and not buildable. To call them non-conforming is to apply the language of modern infrastructure to Paleolithic urbanity. Streets are merely land not covered by structure. Sidewalks and curbs are things which have only relationship to streets and therefore not to Mukurv. Storm drains and sewers are a function of waters propensity to seek its own level rather than any design of man.

Shopping in Mukuru

Commerce is a tin roof over 2×4 bracing with plywood, sheet metal or drywall wind breaks and merchandise tacked to the other side or signage inviting passers-by into the shaded interior space. Clothes, furniture, meat, produce, fruit and pornographic videos compete for Kenya Shillings, sold at 75/$1.00 USD and earned at about the same rate per day. Only water appears to be hawked and that by route vendors with plastic jugs. Ours was one of a handful or cars we saw during our two hour visit to Mukuru. I remember one two wheeled push-cart and no bicycles. All, including the water vendors, travel “Route 11” – the local name for two legs moving.

Street life in Mukuru

Surprisingly, the place teems with life. Apparently, there is not enough work to keep men off the street and living quarters are too tight to stay under roof (indoors is not a proper term to describe space without them.) Our hosts told us crime was low, but I wonder if the three Fosters could have walked out. I know disease would kill us all within days if we tried to stay.

What Benedict selects students from Mukuru for is the opportunity to get out. “Out” being to a boarding school. Once “out” their obligation is to learn. Most, according to Benedict, do so happily. Those who do not? It is Benedict’s job to find out why and insure correction. As he says, once they are in boarding school, “if there’s a problem it’s not the environment.”

Mukuru School

Benedict took us to two schools. Both were fenced and gated. Once inside the world changed. The schools were rude cinder clock-buildings on raised foundations with tile roofs, cross ventilation and 50-120 students per classroom with two or three students per desk. All in uniform – blue sweater oven gingham patterned shirt or skirt – polite and eager. Welcoming smiles that were well trained but cheerful and frequently curious eyes that gleamed good will. It is almost more than a loving heart can stand. They are doomed. Doomed. Doomed. Doomed.

What future?

A few, how very few, will be saved by Benedict or luck. Saved to get out to boarding school to learn. Learn and then come back? Back to a cold bed, mud streets, water that will kill them or make their thighs wither until only their arms can make the knee work and no job.

After 14 years of public health campaign the percentage of the population estimated as HIV positive is reportedly down from 13% to 7%. Aurora was almost smothered with good-will from pre-teen boys and girls in ragged blue sweaters who just wanted to touch her hair.
“Alla Akbar!”

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The Four Amigos

A couple of weeks ago, I was in Charleston, SC for the Industrial Asset Management Council (IAMC) spring Forum.  Five Hundred plus industrial real estate professionals gathered to network and share best practices.  I arrived a couple days early to coordinate the volunteer service projects (see my previous post entitle, “The Kite”) and attend the board meeting.

Super Dave with a picture perfect swing.

Because the four days of the conference are always jam packed with speakers, panel discussions and dinners, I often stay an extra night so that I can enjoy some downtime on a local golf course and a quiet dinner with a colleague and close friend Dave.  But this post conference would be a little different.  Dave and I decided that it was time to knock off one of our bucket list items and play the famed Kiawah Island Ocean Course.  By adding two more days of golf and a once in a lifetime fashion experience (more on this in my next blog posting!), we even convinced our buddies, Earl and Scott to fly out from my home state of Washington to join in the experience!

 

I never said it was easy!

Dave and I met up with Earl and Scott on Wednesday evening in the lobby of our hotel after enjoying an afternoon of golf at the beautifully manicured Daniel Island Country Club.  Daniel Island is one of those courses where the residences lining the fairways appear to be just a bit smaller than a Hampton Inn.  Luckily, they are sufficiently removed from the course so that there were no insurance claims filed for broken windows.  We had played Daniel Island seven years before and thoroughly enjoyed our second battle with the challenging layout, but it was the Ocean Course that was on our minds for most of the day.

 

After a drink in the relatively lack-luster bar at the Doubletree, the four amigos hit the mean streets of Charleston in search of sustenance.  The four block-long covered market was still abuzz with vendors hawking everything from tee shirts and cheap plastic trinkets to the renowned low country grass baskets and well executed original paintings.  This market had inauspicious origins however, as it served for a couple of centuries as one of the south’s largest slave markets.  Walking through the historic brick buildings, it is hard not to be transported back in time, thinking about the horrible inhumane acts that had occurred on this very ground.  It is probably fitting that Fort Sumter, which took the opening barrage of cannon fire that started the civil war, floats just about a mile offshore from the market.

 

 

 

And Scott said, "Now where did that go, Steve?"

After a filling dinner at Pearlz Oyster Bar on East Bay Street, we went out looking for a little music and a nightcap before bed.  We landed in the upstairs lounge of Henry’s House, a local watering hole since the 1930’s where an accomplished country singer was belting out cover tunes and a few of his own originals to a crowd of three, one being his girl friend.  He was good enough to add the four of us to his audience…or perhaps it was his promise of rocking all girl bluegrass trio that was going to follow him that kept us around.  He kept to his word and after about another half hour, he yielded to the ladies.  The place filled up quickly as they were as good  or better than advertised.  I was on the wagon for the week, so made my way to bed after the first set, leaving the now three amigos to close the place down.

 

 

 

The "sitting room" at The Sanctuary

About 9:00am the next morning, we headed for the coast, to the famed resort town of Kiawah Island and the legendary Ocean Course.  Once on the island, we stopped for a quick tour of the amazing Sanctuary resort hotel to see how the 1% lives.  We contemplated staying for lunch, but we could not wait to see the course and really wanted to experience a meal in the Ryder Cup bar.  We arrived at the Ocean Course to the outstretched arms ofcaddies ready to attend to

 

WELCOME!!!!

our every needevery need, except how to hit little round balls through the 20-30 mile an hour winds toward little greenlanding areas.  They said it was part of the experience!  Once in the pro shop, we quickly paid the ungodly green fees (we didn’t want to think about it too long or we might have changed our minds!!!) and then it was off to the octagonal Ryder Cup bar overlooking the 18^th green for a quick meal before hitting the practice range.  At about 1pm, our forecaddie, Steve (you are required to have one and yes, you are suppose to tip), guided us to the first tee where the starter gave us some last minute instructions.

 

 

And Earl said, "Piece of cake!!!"

We all hit pretty solid tee shots and were all generally in the middle of the fairway.  Not a bad way to start.  We were sure that the starter and the forecaddie were impressed. The starter’s ominous parting words were something like, “No matter what happens, enjoy the day” …hmmm.  I was about 150 yards from the 1st hole as I drew back my 8 iron and unceremoniously bladed the shot past the hole, through the green and into an area that appeared to be marked

And Rick said, I think I will take an unplayable!!"

with red stakes…that means I screwed up the shot royally and was likely in the creek behind the green.  The three amigos did not fare much better, with no one landing their second shots on the extremely fast, undulating green.  When I when to retrieve my ball and take my penalty stroke, it was being stalwartly guarded by a momma alligator and her brood of 8-10 teeny baby gators.  To be honest, I do not know how many babies there were, because I had no interest in sticking around to find out!  “…no matter what happens, enjoy the day.”

The sun was out for most of the day, but it was quite chilly and the winds kept howling.  We were no match for the shots over marshes, sand dunes, creeks and waste areas and the speed of the greens added to our “misery.”  But this is hallowed ground and we took the pain in stride.  We thoroughly enjoyed playing the short par 4 third hole, now called the

Another "interesting" shot for Rick! I got a little wet, but almost landed it on the green 150 yards away!!!

McIlroy hole, because in the PGA Championship last year, Rory McIlroy’s tee shot stuck about 12 feet up in the nearly dead tree that protects the green.  Luckily (or sadly), none of us could even hope to hit it that far.  When it was all said and done, we were spent.  The sun, the ocean winds and the challenge of Ocean Course itself had us nearly to our knees.   We are all decent golfers, but on this day the course won in a total rout.  None of even broke a score of 100, which for you non-golfers is pretty poor golf, especially since we are used to playing our rounds in the 80’s.

 

 

                

What a day!!!!

But to a man, we would do the whole thing again in a heartbeat, even if we knew the outcome before that first tee shot.  There are just things in life that you want to do regardless of the outcome.  We were all just fortunate to have crossed this one off the list.  As we sat in the Ryder Cup bar watching other hackers struggle to finish their rounds, we laughed and joked about the day.  We relived the wind and the tortuous greens and some of our worst shots.  We also celebrated some of the good ones that keep us coming back to this cruel game.  While I would have loved to shoot 83, the score was not what I would have remembered anyway.  The memory will always be a great day with great friends on the coast of South Carolina…as it should be.

 

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Among God's most stunning creatures

Day 1 & 2
London

The Thistle at Heathrow had been an excellent idea to break up the 19 hours of flying between Los Angeles and Nairobi. Get off at Heathrow, take the Hoppa shuttle to the Thistle, drop the carry-ons (big bags checked through), take the tube into London for a bite of dinner, then back for a few hours sleep before taking on the final 8 hours and two times zones of flying.

The first step worked just fine – Hoppa to Thistle. The Thistle is a collection of 2 story 1970’s construction buildings arranged around a central parking court. Typical of other Thistles I’ve stayed in it was small, modest and inexpensive. During check-in Kim and I giggled at the lack of efficiency in the British systems – much personnel (many talking with each other rather than patrons) and paperwork, very little of moving the process rapidly. Turns out the Thistles computers are linked to one master server rather than web enabled. Overloaded apparently and very slow.

They put us in 805 – a perfectly pleasant room with a window fan blowing because the air conditioner wouldn’t. We requested and received a room change. The a/c in 803 appeared not working there either, but a call to the desk assured us it just took a bit to get going. “Give it 30 minutes to cool.”

We turned it to “max”, hopped the Hoppa back to Heathrow and the tube to South Kensington. Nice walk to Hyde Park and then dinner at the Hoop and Toy (fish & chips for Kim, bangers and mash for Sam and pasta “solemento” for Aurora), a local pub. The barmaid was a high school math teacher who agreed nothing Aurora would learn her last week in school could be as valuable as this. Then more walking around Kensington and tube back by 11:15 p.m.

In something very familiar on the way to something very foreign

As we stood before 803 at the Thistle Kim crossed her fingers and said, “Hope for cold.” We got still unmoving heat.

Another call to the desk got us a uniformed attendant who whirled all the dials and announced it didn’t work. He’d get back. Half an hour later he had not and a call to the desk revealed: 1) the heat had overwhelmed the old roof mounted package unit that provided a/c, 2) no room with functioning a/c was available 3) they’d send a portable.

Ten minutes later the same uniformed attendant reappeared pushing a portable “swamp-cooler.” He plugged it in assuring “this thing really works” and after he asked if he could offer any further service, was tasked with a 5:30 a.m. wake-up.

He was wrong about the “swamp cooler” and we’re still waiting for the wake-up.

“Row Britannia!”

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The Folly Beach Pier

A few weeks ago, the nation’s premier industrial real estate association, IAMC, was in Charleston, SC for its 2013 spring Forum.  I came in a little early to join a couple dozen dedicated association members who share my sincere belief that it is important to leave the communities we visit in better shape through planned service projects.  The goal of our Volunteer Service Project team is to spend a few hours each Saturday and Sunday morning of the spring and fall conferences getting dirty doing something that is unique to the region.  The reality is that we get so much more out of these projects than we give.   Our Charleston experience was no exception.

That is a lot of oyster shells!

Saturday morning we gathered in the lobby of the Charleston Place Hotel at 8am to share a few “it’s been a while” hugs, grab our tee shirts, and hop on the bus for the thirty minute ride out to Fort Johnson.  There is no actual fort there, but some amazing history that I will share in a bit.  Upon arrival, we were greeted by a Department of Natural Resources scientist by the name of Steve Czwartacki.  Steve provided us with a brief primer on the mating habits of the oyster and why reef restoration was so important to them and too the shore.  So there are indeed male and female oysters, but they do not need a room for the night to reproduce.  Each spring, when the water heats up to about seventy degrees, both sexes release their respective love-making goo (eggs and sperm) into the open water.  After boy meets girl, a little pre-oyster is born and immediately starts looking for a reef on which to spend its very mundane existence.

Steve went on to explain that the oysters serve as a filter to clean contaminants from the water (1-2 gallons per oyster per hour) and leave sediment on the land side of the reef which allows eroded marshland to reform, first the mud (pluff)  and then the grasses.  So right before you slurp down that next Blue Point or Hamma Hamma, make sure to thank that oyster for being a critical component of the tidal ecosystem.  Steve loves his job and he definitely loves to educate his volunteers on all things oyster!

Prepping those bags.

He took us down a path through some dense brush to a clearing under the canopy of a Live Oak grove.  If you are not familiar with the species, Live Oaks are the perfect trees to surround a haunted house.  They are massive, with huge gnarled limbs twisting like dislocated arms and are often covered with Spanish moss which gives that an even more sinister appearance.  Steve explained that we would be putting recycled oyster shells into biodegradable plastic mesh bags, about 30-40 pounds into each bag.  There were four to five foot high walls of already filled bags surrounding us and a gi-normous pile of shells smack dab in the middle.  The concept was to shovel the shells into buckets and then pour the bucks into a wide PVC tube that had been fitted on one end with one of the mesh bags.  Once the tube was full, the tube was pulled out from the bag and the bag was then tied and tossed onto the wall…a simple, but very efficient system!!!

Working on that pile!!!

Well, once we started, we never stopped.  Shovels were flying, buckets were pouring and bags were being carried off to the walls.  Shells and shell dust were everywhere; sweat was dripping; each volunteer finding a significant chore to perform with no direction or pre-meeting to see who would do what.  The work system was

tweaked and improved on the fly as people found slightly better ways to improve upon what they were doing and others emulated.  It is always amazing to me to see what a

A job well done!

team can accomplish when they want to rather than when they are told to, especially a team of Type A’s!  Steve figured on the project taking at least two hours.  We knocked it out in just over an hour and headed to the water jugs with big ole smiles on our faces.  Yup, even the service projects are a competition to us.  Four hundred twenty-five bags later, mission accomplished.  When placed in the water in a few weeks, each bag will house approximately 150 oysters.  Those 63,750 oysters will filter nearly 159,375 gallons of water per hour!!!

Since were done early, a few folks went back to the hotel for a much needed shower.  The rest of us went on a tour of the grounds with Steve.  He was as passionate about the grounds and the history of Fort Johnson as he was about those oysters.  James Island was first settled by rich farmers who developed rice plantations worked by slaves who became part of the Gullah population.  Fort Johnson was constructed b the British in 1704 to protect Charles Town Harbor from the Spanish.  At 4:30 a.m. on April 12, 1861, Lt. Henry S.

Farley, acting upon the command of Capt. George S. James, fired a single 10-inch mortar round from Fort Johnson, the very spot we were standing on, toward Fort

Fort Sumter from the our work area

Sumter.  The blast served as the signal for the other forts and boats to commence firing and the Civil War began.  The only period structures that remain on the property are an 18^th century brick armory and two cisterns made of pluff mud and shells.  I stopped for a moment to contemplate that George Washington had actually visited this Fort and probably had entered that very armory.  It was a gorgeous spot with sweeping views of Charleston and Fort Sumter across the water.  After lunch and some self exploration, we headed back to Charleston Place.

Part of the team getting ready to "hunt."

The next morning, we were back on the bus by 8:30am heading toward Folly Beach.  Folly has been delighting beach goers since the mid-1600s!!!  Our mission today was to clean whatever trash we could from the beach and grassy dunes.  Armed with our large garbage sacks, we each went our own way for two hours in search of cigarette butts, bottles, cans and whatever other items of interest we could find.  Before releasing the troops, I offered a bottle of wine to the person who found the most interesting piece of trash…come on, we are Type A’s, there has to be a competition!

I strolled the dunes for an hour or so, finding mostly plastic and butts.  Just as I was about to turn around and head back, I spied a piece of string.  Knowing that string can easily entangle birds I began to pull on it and ball it up.  When it became stuck on something, I gave it a few hard tugs.  It was not budging; I walked in the direction of the snag and gave it one whopping yank.  To my utter amazement and tremendous satisfaction, a four foot long turtle kite emerged from the grasses…tail and all!!!  Quite

My new friends!

pleased with my astonishing discovery, I headed out to the beach with the kite trailing overhead behind me.  I walked only a few hundred yards before coming upon a young family wading in the chilly water.  The dad protectively watched this soiled middle-aged man with a full garbage bag, flying a turtle kite as I approached.  I greeted them and asked if they would like a new “pet” and the youngest girl’s eyes gave me the unspoken answer I expected.  The sunshine on my back felt just a little warmer as I slowly waded through the water back to our meeting place.  I did not win the competition, a really cute green furry monkey did, but I was blessed with an amusing story and the smile of a young girl holding her new turtle kite.

Do what you can, when you can to make the world a better place.  A volunteer project does not need to be monumental to make a difference.  Filling a few oyster bags or picking up trash on a beach may not solve world peace or our federal deficit, but it does make a difference and you will always get more out of the effort that you put in.

The post THE KITE appeared first on OnSITE Travel Blog.

Your blog poster en route to the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Fear typically triggers a fight or flight response in people, and I’m no exception. Touching down in Sydney one Wednesday morning last month made the decision more urgent: I was scheduled to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge that very afternoon. This was the first stop on a two-week trip that later brought me to Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok. My colleague Adam Jones-Kelley pretty much insisted I do the BridgeClimb (see his blog on his climb with Soo here http://www.sitenet.com/travelblog/?p=7505), and since we coordinated this trip through Sydney rather than directly to Malaysia – my primary destination for this trip – I couldn’t let him down.

Problem was, the media climb I had arranged was only available on the day I arrived in Australia, not on the weekend, when I had a bit more free time. Second problem was I had meetings arranged the same morning I arrived in Sydney, leaving me with just enough time to get to the hotel, shave and look presentable enough to represent Site Selection despite the very recent 16-hour flight from Los Angeles. Arrive Down Under, two meetings, then the three-hour BridgeClimb (www.bridgeclimb.com). Long day.

A sign inside the bridge pylon on the way to the rooftop lookout – not part of the BridgeClimb itself, but well worth the time for taking your own photos of Sydney Harbour.

Third problem is I don’t handle heights well, so despite its reputation as a landmark Sydney tourist attraction, I was frankly open to excuses to beg off. Rain would have worked, but it was sunny and warm – perfect bridge climbing weather. Cost would maybe have worked, but the excellent staff at the BridgeClimb (more on that in a minute) had arranged for a media comp climb! Running out of excuses, I thought maybe I could plead extreme travel fatigue…but I’d now been through two meetings and had my second wind, so … fight it would be.

By late afternoon, when I made it to the BridgeClimb, fatigue was setting in. But that was a good thing. In fact, I encouraged it, with mental memos to myself along the lines of…”Enjoy the views – you can sleep when this is over.” “Work for your rest, Mark, work for it!” “You can’t sleep until you get past this part of the climb that is extremely scary, because there’s nothing between this ladder and eight lanes of traffic 50 feet below.” Things like that.

Climbers descending the opposite side of the bridge from which they began the climb. That might be Hannah, my guide, pointing out Sydney sites to her charges.

Prior to being on the actual bridge, as I and the 12 other bridge climbers in my group were prepped – suited up by staff and taught the safety features of the gear we were given – I realized how cool this operation is. They have it down to a science. And they know how to put new climbers at ease. On the long ramp to the bridge itself, I realized there was no turning back. But adrenaline had set in, mixing with the anxiety already in my veins, producing the fuel needed to push forward and to enjoy every minute I would be outside my comfort zone.

And I did.

The views of the Sydney Opera House, the South Pacific Ocean in the distance, Old Sydney just below the southern side of the bridge and of course Sydney Harbour, one of the most beautiful harbours in the world, were spectacular. Personal cameras were not permitted on the bridge (our guide took the photo of me here), but a follow-up visit to the Pylon Lookout a couple of days later afforded me the opportunity to take my own photos, including those of the packs of bridge climbers shown here.

Old Sydney (foreground) and the city’s central business district. Sydney displayed its Chamber of Commerce weather for cruise ship passengers and other visitors during my time in this beautiful city.

Our guide was Hannah, who found her calling, at least at this time in her life. Providence put me in her group, perhaps, or maybe all the other climb guides are just as good (I bet they are). But kudos to her for making the experience so comfortable and enjoyable.

I did have height issues at times, but the majority of the experience was just exhilarating. The tough parts became practice sessions at not letting fear make me lose sight of the bigger picture. And it was hard not to appreciate the bigger picture – literally, and figuratively. I may not make it back here, I knew, so enjoying every second became the game plan early on.

I slept well that night.

Sydney – and Australia – is now on my “been there” list, but it’s also on a more important list: not a list of places you check off, but of places you experience. The hospitality, professionalism, camaraderie and warmth of the BridgeClimb staff, from start to finish will give you an experience of Sydney unlike any other.

Sydney Opera House from the top of the Pylon Lookout on Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Put the Sydney Harbour BridgeClimb on your bucket list – today.

Thank you, Charlotte Barry, PR executive at the BridgeClimb, and Hannah and her colleagues, for making this amazing experience possible while I was in Sydney.
I can’t wait to come back.

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