Rwanda's Mountain Gorillas

Gorilla trekking. It's the sort of experience that animal lovers and wildlife photographers put on their lifetime bucketlists. During high season, the coveted 80 slots per day are booked months in advance. So it's a bit embarrassing to admit that I hadn't planned to see these massive primates firsthand. Or even worse, having done very little research on the country, I landed in Kigali thinking the "thing" to do was see the orangutans (for the record, Rwanda doesn't have any of those). I haven't even seen Gorillas in the Mist.

But I'm the spontaneous type. Between an abbreviated web search on Rwandan tourism and colleagues in the US spurring me on, I caved quickly and dropped the cash. Let me say, it's not cheap. However like any other safari experience, I have yet to meet a tourist or expat who will tell you it's not worth it. I am fortunate in that I'm here for work, so to pay to come back to do it would be a far larger bill (as you can see I'm still justifying the expense).

November is one of the two rainy seasons, so tourism is typically lower. Along with the ebola scare (which might I add is about as far from Rwanda as SF is from NYC), the tourism industry is hurting. For me, that meant booking one day in advance was not only possible, but quite smooth.

It was a spectacularly clear morning, and as each Rwandan I spoke to commented on what a beautiful day it was, it dawned on me just how lucky I had gotten. Arriving at the visitors' center, the guides split us up into groups of eight or less. My group would be trekking to the Amahoro troop, one of the larger families with 18 members including a few babies.

There are approximately 880 mountain gorillas left in the world today, making them a critically endangered species. All are located on volcanoes which straddle the borders of Rwanda, the DRC and Uganda. The DRC also has lowland gorillas, though for security reasons does not have active tourism. The gorillas of course can go across these borders. For example, seven years ago a troop from the DRC migrated to Rwanda and settled. Now the Rwanda Development Board monitors them. "They got new passports," our guide Fidel joked.

After a short orientation, Fidel (not named after Castro, he insisted) led us through the fields of potatoes and pyrethrum daisies, where Rwandan children jumped up and down, screaming "Hello! Hello! Hello!". Then began the real hiking, a vigorous, uphill trek I'd categorize as medium difficulty. We marched along a narrow path beneath the vines of the cloud forest, our boots clomping in the mud. After an hour, the terrain changed as we climbed higher into the bamboo forest. This was where we'd find the gorillas. A team of four trackers communicating with walkie-talkies led us further up, and our guide instructed us to keep our voices to a whisper. Finally we were told to drop our gear - to our right was a male teenager having a snack.

Bamboo munching

Amahoro means "peaceful" in Kinyarwanda, referring to the demeanor of the male leader, a silverback named Ubumwe. I haven't spent a lot of time hanging out with gorillas, but from what I saw I'd say that's an apt description. Following the teenager down the mountain a few meters, we watched in awe to be so close to this humanlike creature. But it was only just the beginning.

Gorilla on the right cleaning himself

Of the 18 gorillas in the troop, we spotted 10 or 11 of them. Snacking on bamboo and leaves, scratching their bellies, napping on a particularly comfortable bush. Fidel and the trackers made low grunting noises to keep the gorillas calm. This group was unusual in that there was more than one older male, though only the leader could mate with the females. As we sat watching the three older males, there was a rustling and out of the bushes just above our group came one of the older females with her 4-month-old baby on her back. She came down the mountainside directly towards me. Pausing to smack the leg of one of the trackers she recognized, she then passed less than a meter in front of me and settled herself a bit further down the mountain. To prevent transmission of human illnesses, visitors are supposed to keep a 7-meter distance from the gorillas. But obviously the gorillas don't know this, and you end up in closer proximity than you'd expect.

The lead male enjoying a nap in the sunshine

After an hour of photography, barely contained excitement and quiet observation, Fidel told us it was time to go. The gorillas must have sensed we would be leaving soon as well. Through a series of grunts, the leader communicated that it was time to move. As the troop began to migrate back up the mountain, the mother and her baby stopped directly in front of me - if I had reached out I could have touched her. Almost as though she was posing for the photos, she held her baby in front of her and look at us. After a minute, she cradled her baby onto her back and followed the troop uphill.

Posing calmly for the photo

Back up at the meeting spot, we found the gorillas circled around where our gear had been (the trackers and porters moved it just in time). Surveying their surroundings and again munching on some bamboo, we snapped photos of the 8 or 9 of them from a few meters away. Then they were off again, following the leader further into the forest. Meanwhile we turned around heading back down the mountain, grins plastered on our faces. All I can say is it was an incredible experience I'm not going to forget anytime soon. The pictures can never do it justice, but here are some more anyway.

Momma and baby

My closeup with a blurry gorilla in the background

Fidel, the guide

Beyond the mountains, Uganda to the east and the DRC to the west

When are you coming home?

The same 5 words being repeated over and over. My mother, my old roommates, my coworkers all want to know - when are you coming home? But "home" is pretty ambiguous these days. Siem Reap, Menlo Park, San Diego, Boston, Manila. That's the dilemma when you live in a new place every 6-12 months. You accrue friends and family all over the world. Not that I'm complaining. I love my hodgepodge of a support system, this patchwork quilt of nationalities and backgrounds that fill my life with vibrancy. Those at home think of me as their world traveller friend, while those who've met me abroad label me their the token American. Apparently wearing a Sox cap makes it pretty obvious.

The original plan was to visit in April before moving to London. Next it was 4^th of July before moving to Kurdistan. Then it was early August before moving to God knows where. Now I'm hoping to get back before Labor Day and my brother 30^th! The reason for the continuously postponed homecoming? Job hunting. Thanks to the WorldWide Web, it's just as easy for me to apply and interview for jobs abroad as it would be at home. And it's cheaper. And it allows me to fulfill a bit of that wanderlust before settling down in a new job. And when applying to international jobs, the more travel experience the better. See, it would really be a detriment to come back early… ;)

It's been a busy, yet relaxing month since I last wrote from Yangon Airport.  Flying into Bangkok, my travel buddy Chaz and I caught an overnight train and ferry to Koh Tao. We spent 4 days diving in the clear blue waters of southern Thailand. Reef dives, deep dives, even a World War II wreck dive. Nothing better than two early morning dives in warm water to make you ready to take on the day. And by that I mean sit by an infinity pool overlooking the ocean. But such a life can't go unpunished, and the day before we left my wallet was stolen. Ironically I had just written an article for GoOverseas on how to prevent and handle financial emergencies abroad, and I still managed to ignore several of my own tips. Oops…

But now I needed an address to send my debit card (for the record, Bank of America was pretty fantastic getting me my card ASAP) and it turned out my cousin Giri was spending a month at home in Bali. So I figured I'd head over to Indonesia to say hello. Less than 12 hours off the plane, Giri, myself, and his two friends, Matty and Tucker, were on a midnight ferry to Lombok.

Giri had wanted to hike Mt Kinabalu in Malaysia, but they were booked up. So the plan was to hike Mount Rinjani and then go in search of some gnarly waves between Lombok and the next island over, Sumbawa. Giri waved off the fact that I hadn't done physical activity in over a month and told me the hike was no a big deal. Boy was I in for a surprise. The first part of the hike through the grasslands was scenic and only on a moderate incline. We could see the top of the mountain and it honestly didn't look that far or that high.

As we continued up and up the trek, I knew I wasn't going to keep up with the pace these boys were setting. I let them run up the mountain while I stayed with our guide, Ridwan, and cursed Giri for talking me into this damn excursion. I reached base camp in about 7 hours and collapsed. After a dinner of hard-boiled eggs and avocados and a few hours restless sleep, I was back up at 2AM to summit what had become my nemesis. Trudging up the last section, I'm glad I could only see what my headlamp lit up. Because if I could have seen the top I would have stopped short. The last hour of climbing in gravel at a 60 degree angle, two steps forward one step back, were miserable but when Ridwan said 25 meters left I gave it that last push. Giri was waiting for me at the top, and together we shivered waiting for the sunrise to light up the mountain, crater lake and islands in the distant. I must have forgiven him up there in those moments for dragging me up 13,000 feet because a week later I was back at it with those 3, climbing up Mt Agung – the highest point in Bali – and nearly breaking my leg.

As miserable at the whole experience was, it was both physically and mentally a necessary challenge. One to prove to myself that it could be done, that I could push past what I had thought my limits were. One to inspire and to remind myself of what potential lies beneath the surface. At it's pretty cool to say I didn't do it just once, but twice. So it's no fluke!

We moved onto Sumbawa, noting primarily that the drivers in Lombok seemed intent on dying on the road. The guys found famous surf spots that were entirely deserted, the waves too high and too strong to even paddle out to. We found other spots, where clearly no one but surfers came to visit. After a few days of attempting to cook up some fish but there being none to buy apparently due to Ramadan, Giri having trouble understanding the locals and getting into a near knife fight with the hotel owner, we decided it was time to return to Bali. Our final morning we finally used the BBQ to roast up some cashews on the beach in southern Lombok having driven overnight from Sumbawa. 

Back at the mothership, I've spent the rest of my time split between beach clubs, hanging out by the pool at home and getting work done. And eating too much food. I'll be sticking around through the weekend and then moving onto Malaysia? Wherever it is, I promise I'll keep you posted when I make the journey back home...

TIM: This is Myanmar

You know those trips where everything seems to be going your way - the weather, the timing, your luck with transport. Well this is not one of those stories...

I write this from Yangon Airport, having just rushed here after an overnight bus ride only to be denied a ticket to Bangkok. 10 hours to wait til the next flight, which is about as good a time as any to document the details of the trip. So here it goes...

After months of talking about it, I finally had a chance to go see Burma and set aside a full 28 days to do it right. Everyone I've met who's been raves about how it's their favorite country in Southeast Asia. I knew it wouldn't be without its challenges though. And really, it started off quite well. Less than an hour after landing in Bangkok, I find myself a travel buddy (Chaz) who's looking to get his Burmese visa the next morning. We manage to get same-day visas (this has to mean good things, right?!) and head to Chiang Mai on the beautifully scenic overnight train - a must if you head up to Northern Thailand. After playing with tigers and elephants we head southwest to Mae Sot, as we had chosen to cross into Myanmar by land.

The initial crossing takes no more than an hour, with little to note other than Chaz nearly yaking after I talk him into trying some local chew. Whoops? We walk out of the immigration office giddy, excited for what was to come until we realize the truck we had taken to the border has disappeared, our packs along with it. Shit. We book it down the road, in my head thinking I've managed about 10 minutes in the country before disaster strikes. The only Westerns around, drivers and shop owners call out and grab at us to get our attention. One such guy yells to Chaz repeatedly until he catches his attention. It's one of the guys from the back of the truck with us! There he is, sitting with our bags next to him. Hallelujah!

Chan, as his name turns out to be, is the best thing to happen to us in Burma. After directing us to a place to rest, he seeks out transport. Since the road through the mountains is so narrow, the direction of traffic alternates daily. Luckily, it happens to be a westward day and Chan finds us a nice van with some monks going all the way to Yangon (rather than stopping midway for the night).

5 or so hours into the drive (after Chan nonchalantly mentioned to Chaz "Last month, bus went over cliff [here]. Twenty people died. Very sad."), there's a problem. It seems to be the transmission. We hang out with the monks for 3 hours, starting to get quite hungry, and finally it is fixed. We drive a few minutes but again pull over. The drive apologizes, saying the van won't make it but a bus will take us the rest of the way.

Moving our bags onto an old bus already full of passengers, we are stuck in the front seats with a full view of the terrifying road in front of us. I begin to ask Chaz if he can recall any times in his life where he genuinely thought he was going to die...he glares at me and I withdraw the question. Too apropos. The bus stops again, and we are all instructed to get onto a tuk tuk. Looking to Chan, he explains it's for "people weighing." Huh? Chaz says something sarcastic about this being an adventure and Chan responds with "This is Myanmar." Touché. It turns out they need to weigh the bus, a process which I'm pretty sure should include the entire weight, human cargo included. Anyway we're driven a few kilometers and wait for 20 minutes on the side of the very dark road for the bus to return. Not like the beginning of a horror movie or anything...Rule #1 in Burma: Always use the bathroom when you get a chance, so going on the side of the road will have to do. We repeat the weighing process at 10PM with a dinner break and again at 1AM. At some point our bus blows a tire and we transfer to another bus. After 20 hours of travel, we roll into Yangon Bus Station at 3:30AM to a mass of taxi drivers vying for our business. Thank God for Chan (again) who negotiates a fair price for the drive and off we zip into the darkness of the far too early morning. The first hotel wants $80/night and we can't check in until 6AM. Uhhh where are we again?! Finally finding a suitable spot for $35/night, we bid goodbye to Chan and try to catch some zzz's.

Tuesday we wander around the city, the highlight of which is Shwedagon Paya, though a rainstorm prevents us from going back to see it at night. Since we had disobeyed Rule #2 of Burma (always have snacks and water) on the drive from the border, we have only eaten rice for over 24 hours. Yangon's major selling point is that it has food Westerners with stomachs unaccustomed to street food can handle. Regardless, one day is enough for the capital, so Wednesday we book tickets for Bagan via Mandalay. Back at the hotel to pack, Chan appears again, wondering how our time in Burma had been thus far. He takes us around for a few hours, helping Chaz pick out a sweet longyi that all the men wear, and treating us to lunch.

Our flight to Bagan is pleasant enough, meeting a few friendly Americans in the process. This time we are prepared, following not only Rules 1 and 2 but also 3 (always have a bottle of alcohol) and 4 (always have an extra bottle of alcohol). Once situated at a hotel in New Bagan, Chaz and I sit down for dinner, deciding to take a walk after we eat. By the end of the meal though, he's feeling a bit off so we return to our room. And so begins near death by food poisoning. The poor guy becomes violently ill, in part more than likely to a severe adverse reaction to the Cipro he takes to help alleviate the issue. Anyone who knows me knows I am terrified of throwing up. I blame it on not having puked since I was 8! I can't manage to stay in the room longer than to poke me head in every hour to ensure he's still alive. At one point, he tells me he thinks he'll need an IV before the night is through. Great - it's 2AM in this tiny town in Myanmar, and his health travel insurance doesn't kick in for another 3 days. As I attempt to not freak out, he comes out of the bathroom asking I'm alright. I feel like an asshole but all I can do is bring him a bucket, sit outside and google health facilities in a 100km radius. At 5AM, he wanders off to go find more beverages and 10 minutes later I go in searching for him in a mild panic, afraid he's collapsed on the street. Thankfully a shop girl had a few Sprites to sell him. By the next morning, it's clear he's not going to die but he'll need a day to recovery and to make relentless fun of me for my mild freakout.

On Friday we head out early, renting e-bikes to explore the temples of Bagan. The landscape reminds me of the American Southwest with dry, flat plains (and bearing down sun!). Though here there are 2,200 surviving temples of varying sizes from the 9th to 13th centuries. They are more impressive from afar and we especially enjoyed taking in the view from the tower (despite the FOUR DOLLAR Sprite Chaz desperately needed). We ride our bikes among the temples - a bizarre experience - seeing few tourists and thankfully few vendors. However apparently the e-bikes aren't quite as reliable as hoped, as 3 of the 4 we ride had problems, such that Chaz has to walk/awkwardly ride one back over an hour whilst still recovering from his death day.

After a day of temples, it's time to move on. A 35-minute flight to Heho and we're suddenly surrounded by green vegetation, cool breeze and even cooler climate. Our time at Inle Lake is by far the highlight of Burma. Taking a day-long boat trip around the lake, we stop by a local traveling market, see how just about everything is made (jewelry, silk & lotus weaving, knives, boats, cigars), visit the massive floating gardens and peak into a pagoda. We had heard about a monastery where between copying scriptures, they teach cats to jump through hoops. Inquiring about said monastery, we are informed that the newer generation of cats is very lazy. Thus Jumping Cat Monastery has cats, but they no longer jump. Oh Burma...

We spend one final day by the pool, deciding if we want to spend another few days in the country or just cut our losses. We had wanted to head to either the ruins of Mrauk U or the incredible beaches of Ngapali but because overland travel is severely restricted for foreigners (and the roads are pretty terrible in monsoon season), we would need to fly to both locations, despite being a stone's throw from the Mrauk U when in Bagan. Apparently the far southern beaches are more or less untouched but basically impossible to go to at the moment. The downside to traveling in a country that is only recent open to Westerners and still has some massive issues to sort out (that I won't begin to go into here). So instead we plan our escape to Bangkok. Hopping onto a night bus to Yangon, we start an 11-hour ride to the mellifluous sound of a gentleman puking in front of us. Though running into a few friends who had taken a separate bus to Yangon, we should count ourselves lucky as their passage through the mountains caused a chain of vomitters. Getting in around 6AM, we hurry to the airport to try to catch a flight to Bangkok leaving at 8:30AM. The booking agent is selling the ticket for $60 more than we'd seen on their site, so we try to book online but can't and 5 minutes later she deems it too late to buy.

Thus we are spending 10 hours in the airport with our Chilean friends, eating pastries and trying to hash out our feelings about the past 9 days in this country. There was comedy to be sure, like watching the women working the hotels insist upon carrying Chaz's 25 kilo bag for him. And there were some incredible temples both in Yangon and Bagan. There were gorgeous scenic drives and the people were all open and friendly with a great sense of humor. I was surprised by how modern Yangon was and seemingly well to do. Surprised by how many people spoke some English and by how developed tourism was given the country's only been open to Westerners for less than 3 years. But I guess I expected to love it like I loved Cambodia when I first visited. I don't. Not in the way I thought I would after all I'd heard. For the first 4-5 days I kept giving it the benefit of the doubt. I told myself "It'll turn around and surprise you by being awesome!". But after 7 days, I started wondering why I was sticking up for this country (to Chaz mainly). I wanted to love it and was disappointed I didn't. I don't mind challenges while traveling so long as they're balanced out with some pretty awesome experiences. At the end of the day, all you can do is laugh and say "TIM" - this is Myanmar.

Now it's a plane to Bangkok, a train and ferry to Koh Tao for a few days of diving and then meeting up with my cousin Giri to climb Mt. Kinabalu in Malaysia. That is once I finally get out of this goddamn airport...