Facing the wild snowy yonder: A flatlander learns to ski November 16, 2009
Posted by Tracy in : Adventure, Utah , add a comment
(Photo courtesy of Solitude Ski Resort)
BIG COTTONWOOD CANYON, UTAH — Curled up in front of the fire, I look out to a line of snow-frosted pines. Twenty-three inches of snow fell last night, so the snow is still fluffy and soft.
Beyond the trees, I can see the tops of the mountains I will be ascending tomorrow. I’m trying not to think of all the things that can go wrong.
I’m fluctuating between “Really, it’s no big deal,” and “What in the world was I thinking?”
I could have just spent the day going from the spa to the hot tub to the fire to the restaurants — there are so many aprè s-ski options here at Solitude Mountain Resort.
But I discovered long ago that the enjoyment I derive from an experience is directly proportional to the level of effort I put into it. Add to that the adrenaline rush that comes from a touch of danger, and you have an irresistible combination.
Danger? On the bunny slopes?
OK, we’re talking about a person who falls out of the tree pose after 30 seconds in yoga class, who regularly bangs into furniture while walking in flat shoes on solid ground. We’re not talking about Kristi Yamaguchi here. We’re talking about me. So, yeah, I’ll be frank — I’m a little bit scared.
Regardless, at 9:15 a.m. I’ll be gearing up, meeting my teacher and heading off into the wild snowy unknown.
What in the world was I thinking?
Really, it’s no big deal.
If you missed the story in yesterday’s Houston Chronicle and San Antonio Express-News, here it is.
Journeys with a cause October 27, 2009
Posted by Tracy in : Adventure, Africa, Biking, Esperanza Project , 1 comment so far
Many of you know I am currently in the process of gearing up for a year-long journey with a mission: to raise the visibility of the unsung heroes of Latin America’s environmental movement. In the process I hope to build a well of creative ideas and inspiration through the new web portal I’m designing, a networking tool for the groups themselves and a sharp contradiction to the sense of hopelessness and cynicism about the future that has enveloped much of our population. I’m calling it The Esperanza Project, and I’ll be filling you in on the details in the weeks ahead.
Meanwhile, I’ll be taking the opportunity to highlight the journeys of other travelers whose journeys represent a larger purpose. Today I ran across the story of Tendai Sean Joe, a former street child from Zimbabwe who has become an advocate for disadvantaged children and youths. He has launched the Trail of Hope Foundation to provide a base for his advocacy work. Currently the group is raising money for a three-motorcycle trip through 16 countries to document the conditions of street children from Cape Town to Berlin.
Tendai Sean Joe
You can follow Tendai Sean Joe on his blog, on Facebook or on Twitter, and you can read his guest post in Deb Corbeil and Dave Bouskill’s excellent blog, Canada’s Adventure Couple, where I first learned about him. Deb and Dave (@theplanetd on Twitter) bring a great deal of insight to the subject, having biked from Cairo to Capetown to raise money for Plan Canada, another group that raises money for underprivileged children. Their blog also highlights journeys for a cause, and you can find a list of stories from their Giving Back, Travel the World and Make a Difference series at the end of Tendai Joe’s guest post.
Here’s one of many photos from Tendai Joe’s Facebook page, taken on a preliminary trip to one of the sites he will visit on his tour.
Amid sweat and tears, Esperanza is born October 14, 2009
Posted by Tracy in : Adventure, Esperanza Project, Indigenous culture, Latin America, Mexico, Nature tourism, Sustainability, ecotourism , 1 comment so far
Here in the darkness of the temezcal, sweat, steam and mud become one with the throbbing beat of Teresa’s drum. The heat bears down, melting away the boundaries between us. Rhythms from her Mayan heritage rise in the air with the incense-like scent of copal, her voice carrying us to a place beyond time. She asks me to translate, and her songs and prayers flow through me like water.
We fly like eagles, with wings of light/circumnavigating the universe… we are warriors of light.
She calls on the ancients, and on the spirits of the elements and the four directions, asking for a blessing for each of us huddled together in the tiny dome. She teaches us the grito of the warrior, a shout from the depths of our souls that pulls us through round after round of nearly unbearable heat.
Offer your sweat to Mother God, Father God, she advises us. It will help you to endure the suffering.
The heat and the rhythm intensify, and the air is heavy with skin-searing steam. Her words are passing through me now in rhythmic gasps.
Just when we think we can bear no more, she brings out a waxy chunk of white copal and touches it to the red-hot rock in the center of the temezcal. Each of us takes it in turn and whispers the prayer closest to our hearts.
Bite of El Diente, and Tips for Climbers October 7, 2009
Posted by Tracy in : Adventure, Latin America, Mexico, Nature tourism, ecotourism , add a commentMost climbers tackle their art with a passion that could only be called contagious. I exposed myself to that particular virus this spring, carried by veteran rock climber/writer/attorney Jamie McNally, and I suppose that’s why, as I prepare for a week in Guadalajara, I’m packing my climbing gear.
One of the menu of outings offered by the Society of American Travel Writers in its pre-conference lineup was “Eco-Adventure in El Diente,” and with a name like that, how could I resist? Especially with the excellent training provided by Jamie, who nearly killed me in my first exposure to rock climbing this spring. It wasn’t until I went online today and googled it that I realized that where he failed in May, he may have succeeded in October.
El Diente (The Tooth) is about to bite me…
My account of my May adventure will appear in the Dallas Morning News this fall (posthumously, perhaps) so I asked Jamie to provide a few tips for beginners as I prepare to punish myself on the cliffs of El Diente. (El Diente pic compliments of Marc and Kristi, who climbed there a year ago and made it sound like a piece of cake in their excellent blog… Thanks, guys!)
OK, so after reading Marc and Kristi, and after going through Jamie’s tips (below, for the very brave), I’m feeling better about the climb. Honestly, it’s the mountain biking that I’m kind of freaked out about. I’ll keep you posted – if I’m not in traction.
Read on for Jamie’s excellent tips. And if the climbing bug bites you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
11 tips for a successful photo safari September 30, 2009
Posted by Tracy in : Adventure, Africa, ecotourism , add a comment
Giraffe, Crescent Island, Lake Naivasha, Kenya (Fred Tooley)
Good nature photography takes years of painstaking study and practice, first-rate equipment and a great deal of patience. But as Houston architect Fred Tooley discovered, spectacular shots are there for the taking on safari, and you don’t have to be a professional photographer to get them.
I asked him to share his top ten photo tips, and he was generous – he even gave us an extra. For a more extensive collection of his photos, and other Houston safari travelers, see African Adventures, and keep an eye out for their story in Buzz Magazines.
Ojito by starlight September 25, 2009
Posted by Tracy in : Adventure, New Mexico, ecotourism , add a comment
One of my very favorite partners in adventure is my sister Tami. Like me, she tends to live just a tiny bit on the edge of what other people see as possible. She wants to do it all, and so every day ends up being an adventure.
Like the night we tried to do too much, ran late and ended up wandering lost in the Ojito Wilderness by starlight.
Not to worry, she assured me. It doesn’t matter that we’ve lost the trail. We can just follow profile of that mesa. We’ll end up there eventually.
We were looking for the hoodoos, those peculiar rock formations that loom like giant goblins over the landscape. She had been hiking in to this spot once a month to study the night sky for her shamanic astrology practice, and this time she was including me. It was a magical place, sacred to the Zia Pueblo, and I was thrilled.
Nonetheless, the thrill was wearing off a bit as I, jetlagged and sleep deprived, stumbled against a cactus and grabbed for the duffel bag that kept sliding off my shoulder.
“Wait, there’s not supposed to be a dropoff here,” I heard in the distance.
Not reassuring.
Things worked out, as they always do with Tami. We didn’t find the hoodoos that night but we stumbled across something almost as nice, given the hour: a cleared-off campsite with a fire ring and a clear view of the horizon. We spread our tarp and our bags and laid back to wonder at the constellations.
Really, we had just been trying too hard, I thought to myself. It’s all right here.
The fiery edges of the sky woke me before dawn and I grabbed my camera to capture it. We made our way to the hoodoos and caught them in the gold-red light of early morning.
Finally I turned my camera on the most beautiful sight of all: my sweet sister perched on the overlook, contemplating the wonder of it all.
A little tour of the magnificent Ojito Wilderness, just after the monsoon rains. Enjoy.
[slideshow id=3314649325775684489&w=426&h=320]
African adventures September 22, 2009
Posted by tracybarnett in : Adventure, Africa , add a commentThis week I am living vicariously through the adventures of three Houston couples who experienced three very different safari adventures. The article, which will appear in the November edition of The Buzz Magazines, will detail the highlights of each adventure and some tips for traveling to Africa.
Three of the travelers shared some spectacular photography, which I’ve put together in a slide show for you here. The first two photographers, Fred Tooley and Patti Allender, went on photo safaris in East Africa; the third, Suzanne Shelby, went on a big game hunt on the South African border with Botswana.
Sharon Tooley and Suzanne Shelby shared some tips, lessons learned from their travels, which I am including below; they’re an excellent resource for those who might be contemplating a trip to Africa. Meanwhile, sit back and enjoy the splendid photo tour that their labors yielded.
[slideshow id=3314649325775297488&w=426&h=320]
Hot springs hideaway August 19, 2009
Posted by Tracy in : Adventure, Utah, ecotourism , 1 comment so farKayaking the Great Salt Lake would have been adventure enough for some — particularly since our self-appointed wilderness guide had a bartending shift that began at 5 and ended at 10.
But Anne De Long is no ordinary wilderness guide. She’s also a tango dancer, along with the rest of my group, which means that life really begins long after the sun goes down. And so I found myself at 1 a.m., pack strapped to my back, hoofing an hour upwards into the Uinta National Forest in the wake of a troupe of tango dancers.
I am reluctant to reveal the whereabouts of these hot springs. Let me just say that they were well worth the climb. (OK, I’ll give just one hint: its name is Diamond Fork. But don’t ask me how to get there. I couldn’t tell you, anyway – I was asleep!) By the time I’d huffed and puffed my way up the last switchback, Anne had set the scene with candles all around the secluded pool and Suan had set the “table” – a rock in the center of the pool – with olives and brie and crostini and red wine.
When we were sated from food, wine and laughter — among the many talents that Anne totes around in that backpack of hers is the persona of a slightly bawdy showgirl — she led us to the foot of the waterfall where we plunged into its icy torrents and shattered the peaceful night with screams of delight.
We soaked our cares away till nearly dawn, when we crawled into our sleeping bags and slept like the dead until the hot rays of the sun popped over the canyon wall and crept into our bags. Imagine our surprise to find a troupe of blonde, uniformed cheerleaders making their way into our open-air boudoir.
All good things must come to an end, as they say. Sigh.
[slideshow id=3314649325771903947&w=426&h=320]
Kayaking the Great Salt Lake August 15, 2009
Posted by Tracy in : Adventure, Utah, ecotourism , 2commentsI’d never have believed you could pack so much life into two days. Salt Lake City and the surrounding countryside offer so much to the traveler, it really deserves a week or two. Possibly even a lifetime.
Nonetheless, two days were what we had, and our friends worked overtime to show us some of the highlights: Kayaking on the Great Salt Lake; a twilight concert downtown with the originator of reggae; a midnight hike up a mountain to an unforgettable night under the stars at Diamond Fork Hot Springs; a vegetarian buffet at a Taj Mahal-like Krishna temple in the sagebrush-covered valley and a drive through the verdant aspen forests of Sundance and the Alpine Loop.
First was the kayaking expedition. Anne De Long, our guide, warned us that the brine flies might be out in force, but we decided to chance it. We were so glad we did. The spectacular vistas, the salty air and the strange sensation of bobbing effortlessly above the briny depths made for an unforgettable experience.
Here’s a little preview:
[slideshow id=3314649325771556405&w=426&h=320]
Nighttime in Bukoba May 30, 2009
Posted by Tracy in : Adventure, Africa , add a commentThe night outside my window is alive with sounds: crickets, night birds, a television from someone’s room, laughter from somewhere down below, and just now, a somnolent call to prayer. But underlying all of that, booming, throbbing from every direction, comes the sound of drums. Big, deep bass drums and a smaller backbeat, accompanied by big voices, harmonizing, and laughter, and the occasional joyful ululating cry of a woman, a virtual soundtrack from a Hollywood production of Africa.
It’s been like this every night since I arrived, my mind filled with warnings from well-meaning friends of the dangers of the African darkness. My first night here, I lay in my bed, my mind filled with images of what must be out there: I imaged some sort of primal ritual involving bare-chested, sweaty people beating giant tom-toms around fires. I sensed that something very tribal was going on, and that I needed to be a part of it.
I was torn. As a journalist, I know very well that the best stories lay on the other side of my fears. On the other hand, I had been warned that it wasn’t safe for a woman to be outside at night. I wasn’t quite sure what it was I was supposed to be afraid of: man-sized mosquitoes waiting to inject me with malaria serum or serial killers hanging out behind trees waiting to grab unsuspecting mzungus (the Swahili word for white people, of which there are very few in these parts).
I had hurried back to the hotel after the Internet café closed at dusk, trying to beat the clouds of mosquitoes that supposedly came out after dark here. As I stepped out onto the street, I noticed people everywhere – men, women, old people, children – probably heading quickly to the safety of their homes, I imagined. But they were not hurrying. It was quite dark when I arrived, and the mosquitoes never materialized.
Later, as I lay huddled in my bed under my mosquito net, listening to the commotion all around us, I ridiculed myself. I realized that probably the only people in town who were locked inside were Paula and me. I longed to go out and follow those drumbeats, to see where they led. But I didn’t yet know more than a handful of words in Swahili – enough to say “how are you,” “very well,” and “thank you,” but not enough to say “get away from me.”
Besides, Paula had offered to take me to a Catholic sunrise service, and she would be knocking at 6 a.m. So prudence being the better part of valor, as they say, I slept fitfully until just before dawn, when the drumbeat died away. My second night I worked until midnight writing stories from the previous two days. I didn’t imagine that, it being Sunday, a similar commotion would arise.
I was wrong. I felt the inexorable force of curiosity pull me out of my bedroom and I found myself asking Judith and Mulungi, the girls in the reception, about the noise.
“It is the night clubs,” Judith said, apologetically. “It is bothering you?”
“Actually,” I said, “I was thinking I’d like to go. What do you think? Is it safe?”
“You want to go?” The girls examined me incredulously, and then burst into peals of laughter.
“You want to go dancing?”
A rapid-fire exchange in Swahili between the two ensued. The next thing I knew, Judith was leading me by the hand into Lundi’s Night Club. Past a lineup of police on motorcycles, apparently keeping the peace. Through a cluster of men, a few of whom eyed me curiously but said nothing.
The place was packed. A Tanzanian blend between hip-hop and reggae, with some modern African beat mixed in, pounded the air from giant speakers; light flashed from slowly rotating disco balls, flickering on the faces of the dancers. The entire nightclub, it seemed, was a pulsating dance floor.
Judith held tight to my hand and steadily wove her way through the crowd to the back, where the wall was lined with sofas and a friend greeted her. Nelson was his name, and he flashed a brilliant smile, shook my hand warmly and invited us to sit. He was a short young man, but what he lacked in stature he more than made up for in style. He was oddly but carefully dressed, in a collared button-down shirt trimmed in brown fake fur, a Rolex-style watch over one long sleeve and a brown knit cap on his head. I invited the two of them to a “Kili” (slang for Kilimanjaro, the popular Tanzanian beer) and they happily accepted. At 1,500 shillings a bottle, it wasn’t something they indulged in very often, I could tell.
As I looked around the dance floor, I noticed several people had brought in their own drinks – boxes of mango juice from the nearby duka (convenience shop) seemed to be the most common. Smoking was not allowed, so the air was clear.
I settled in to take in the crowd; in most ways, it could have been a subdued and less racy version of a U.S. nightclub. The dancers were all conservatively and respectably dressed, and the dance moves were graceful and in some cases joyful, but much less suggestive than what I’d witnessed earlier this year in a Padre Island nightclub.
It was, to be frank, a little disappointing. I had hoped to find a live band, African drummers, some authentic remnant of the traditional culture. Instead, I found an all-black version of American Bandstand.
No matter. I determined to settle in and observe the crowd. As with birdwatching, one must be patient in the observation of nightlife, and one’s patience is often rewarded.
Judith invited me to dance, and I agreed. I was the only white person in the club, perhaps in the history of the club, but nobody stared. I was within inches of other dancers, but nobody touched. One young man caught my eye and invited me to dance, and I looked the other way; my refusal was accepted with good grace, and he moved on.
What a contrast to my experiences in nightclubs in Latin America, where a blonde woman without a male companion is guaranteed an occasionally overwhelming stream of piropos – catcalls, compliments and persistent pleading invitations. Here I sensed the palpable protection of respect.
We made our way back to our spot on the sofa, where Nelson invited me to dance. I looked at Judith and she urged me on with a smile. I insisted that she join us. Soon Nelson was showing off his fanciest moves. It didn’t take long to observe that Nelson had his own style – more Diana Ross than John Travolta, and it dawned on me that we were in very safe hands with Nelson.
I began matching his twirls and flourishes and felt an exuberant laugh bubbling up from deep inside. I was in the middle of nowhere, Africa, dancing with my hotel’s receptionist and a gay man, and we were all having the time of our lives.
Suddenly, a serious-looking man came up to Judith and pulled her aside. She’d been trying to reach a friend on her cell phone since we were back at the hotel; it seems this was him.
She came back and continued dancing, though less animated than before. Finally she tapped my shoulder. “Tracy, let’s go,” she said, grabbing my hand rather abruptly.
“OK,” I said, waving a quick goodbye to Nelson, and we were working our way back through the pulsating crowd. “What’s wrong? Is there a problem?” I asked, fearing that I’d been oblivious to some sort of menace, or had somehow overstepped my bounds. Was my dress too revealing? My dance too free?
“No, no problem.”
“Is your boyfriend upset?”
We were out in the parking lot now, and the boyfriend was waiting, unsmiling, at the edge.
“He’s my husband, actually … but it’s ok.”
I was shocked – she didn’t look old enough to have a husband. But then, I had to remind myself, this was Africa.
“Please tell him it was my fault, Judith. I don’t want him to be angry with you because of me. Tell him I needed your help, that I am doing research for a newspaper article…” It sounded lame, even to me. He launched into her with a barrage of Swahili. She tried to defend herself – I heard the words “gazeti” (newspaper) and “ingereza” (English).
“Tell him I am so grateful to you,” I said. “Tell him that I said you behaved as a perfect princess.”
She tried to suppress a smile and she translated, but he didn’t budge.
I intervened with every apologetic word or phrase I knew: “pole pole, (sorry sorry)” “pole sana (very sorry),” and “samahani (pardon me),” which usually produced a smile – but he wouldn’t even look at me. It was clear that nothing would assuage him. Finally Judith shook her head and grabbed my hand.
“Let’s go,” she said, and we headed back to the hotel. “Tanzanian men,” she muttered on our way back. “You see what we have to live with? They don’t understand that you can just go to a nightclub and have fun with your friends. He thinks it’s something bad.”
Back at the hotel, I apologized profusely. Judith shook her head.
“He is fine,” she said. “I’m glad I went. Everything will be ok, don’t worry.”
The next morning at the reception, Judith was her usual reserved, professional self. Nobody asked me about the nightclub. It was as if it had never happed.
But that night, when the drums began, I smiled. I now knew what was behind the sounds, and I wasn’t afraid. For the first time since I’d arrived, I slept like a baby. And for the rest of my time in Bukoba, day or night, I came and went as I pleased.
