Marafa to Magarini with Hell's Kitchen in Between

Having a dedicated and trusted driver is an asset in Malindi. I’ve seen a number of posts recommending it, although of course (bila shaka) it costs. As we found out when we asked ours to take us to Marafa from the PolePole Beach resort. Famous for the nearby ‘depression’ (does that sound appealing?) also known as Hell’s Kitchen there is a stream of tuk-tuks and cars making their way out most evenings to catch the sunset over the vast and startling landscape that has become an enigmatic attraction there. We, however, were spending some nights in a local guest house before heading to the Magarini farm and school site. Our driver brought us right to the door, literally, collecting his payment that must have made up for the extra driving he’d had to do previously. It all works out eventually.
Watching our daily entry and exit  from the guest house in Marafa, a family of brightly dressed children called out ‘Ciao!’ to which we replied ‘Jambo’.  Which brought forth a chorus of Jambos and laughter almost every-time. All attempts to speak Swahili were greeted with smiles of appreciation and often a welcoming Karibu.
Stepping out into the ‘street’ and I use that term loosely, we took a short walk down the main drag checking out the possibilities in Marafa. From one end to the other it  takes all of 5 minutes. Another 5 minutes out of the village to the bar at Hell’s Kitchen, where in spite of the large lettering declaring Italian cuisine, there is, unfortunately, none available. In fact getting a meal in Marafa is a bit of challenge. Generously our hosts invited us for dinner where, surrounded by her flock of ducks, Jescar and her daughters pulled together many evening meals by the light of solar lamps and the rising moon. We had breakfast daily at the New Shalom cafe (not yet on TripAdvisor) and afternoon beers at a couple of  fairly anonymous establishments.
After breakfast we climbed onto  pikipiki/bodaboda/ motorcycles and out to Magarini Childrens Centre. As I’m rather large I had one to myself while Elke rode with Emmanuel. In the first days we set up the Safari tent and met the onsite staff. When our volunteer AJ was scheduled to arrive we took the minibus/daladala back to Malindi, and purchased supplies: mattresses, cookware, gas bottle and stove. AJ attempted to arrange sim card for his phone (bring an unlocked phone!). Transort arranged and we were delivered with all our purchases directly to the school and then on to to Marafa for the night.
Once the second tent was set up the following day we celebrated by stopping at Hell’s Kitchen and doing the tour through the quite impressive terrain. Winding down the trail into this ‘depression”  some local children were doing flips and acrobatic moves on the sandy floor. Superlatives don’t begin to describe the place. Erosion at it’s most colourful, not a place to be in a downpour though! Climbing around outcrops, standing in mini canyons and under overhangs and mushroom shaped hoodoos,  twisting back and forth takes about an hour. Then a climb up and out and along the rim where the more inaccessible portion (with occasional visits from troops of baboons) is visible. Pictures barely touch the majesty of it, but here are a few.

Tanzanian Exit

Once again we are on the move. An early rise and breakfast at our friend’s in Arusha  before loading up and heading off to catch a bus. At the main road, Old Moshi highway, the traffic is at a standstill so our driver pulls around and takes us on a dirt track between houses that snakes around, bumps us up and down, back and forth emerging onto another artery that brings us through a roundabout and to the bus. Elke had reserved the front seats in the bus so I climbed aboard and placed our backpacks on the seats.
People arrived in various conveyances, the ticket touts running alongside to sell them tickets, and grabbing their bags to be thrown or lifted, depending on the weight, onto the roofrack.
Once the luggage was up, tarped and tied down we said our goodbyes, not knowing if or when we will see these folks again. The challenge of living and working as a Mzungo in Tanzania has become difficult and when the rules change without notice, the official message seems to be
"not welcome".
On the road again, the landscape stark, dry and  dusty, the ever present herders watching as we pass by, Maasai in shukas and tire sandals carrying their long sticks, trudging single file along well worn tracks toward some destination in the distance. Every bridge over a dry riverbed, the earth eroded deeply showing the layers of deposit, back who knows how many years?
We drove west out of Arusha, then north and east with the sun directly in our faces, hot already at 9 am. The hills and Mt Meru to the  right clothed in green bush, no sign of any habitation, the herders preferring the open plains to the left, grey and brown interspersed with an occasional acacia.
Our driver seemed to know almost every second truck or matato, waving as they flashed their lights.
Occasional tiny settlements with the mandatory speed bumps, folks standing around; goats and cattle crossing and commerce of some description occurring.
In between the tree cover well off the road I could see bomas, the small round mud shelters of the Maasai with thatched roofs and adjacent corrals of sticks and thorn bush to secure the animals at night. Three zebra, a large curly horned antelope, various birds and a long tailed rodent racing across the road were the sum and total of my wildlife sightings.
At the Kenyan border we  lined up all our luggage outside the facility and they brought out a sniffer dog. Then Elke filled out a survey for the two governments and we were processed through. This time the wait was more reasonable although the Maasai women were even more persistent standing beside my window showing me every item and ignoring my insistence that I didn’t need or want what they offered. I remarked on one woman’s ear adornments, but they were not for sale.

Beachtime!

From Nairobi“Take the train” they said, it’s scenic, new and comfortable, along with sold out and unavailable as we soon determined. Including the scalpers at the tour companies. The next best choices were a long bus ride to Mombassa along a highway famous for it’s fatalities, then overnight in a hotel before another 6 hour bus north to Malindi or overnight for 9 hours (read 11 or 12) direct. After a few moments of thought we chose to fly.
2 years previous we had stayed in a lovely Italian owned ‘hotel. More like furnished apartments, it is close to the beach, a few nice restaurants and in case anyone’s interested, Vasco de Gama’s self erected monument. This time though, we  decided to treat ourselves to beach house resort style accommodation. A little ways south out of Malindi is Watamu beach; white sand, a reef offshore keeping the surf away from the beach and the (mostly) Italian tourists.
Our driver, prearranged to pick us up, assured us he knew exactly where we were going. Unfortunately he was mistaken, as the Pole Pole restaurant was not the Pole Pole Beach house. Pole pole means slowly, slowly and is also an expression of sympathy, singularly (pronounced poe lay). We were moving pole pole after leaving the tarmac, picking our way over coral outcrops and avoiding holes. Our eventual destination was apparently not well known.  After driving both ways twice, we arrived, in the dark, to a welcome reception. Dida the Ethiopian cook even provided us with a small bit of food and drink before we installed our bags in our room. Once that was accomplished, Ken from reception walked us through and around the building then down to the beach, past the pool, shared by the three other facilities on the property. Idyllic? Coral sand with crushed shells, an almost full moon, surf rolling in the distance, Swahili architecture, furniture and ambiance. Breakfast included. Paradise and posh for the same price as the hotel in Nairobi.
After  breakfast in the morning we walked the beach.  Flat whitish sand stretching almost to the reef with the low tide stretching to the horizon  left and right. The ocean a number of shades of blue and green with warm sun and a constant gentle (mostly) breeze off the water. Higher up in front of the resorts the seaweed being raked away from the tourist path gave me a chuckle, definitely a daily make work project.
Walking north we stopped at the great outcrops of ancient and dead coral sharp as razors with bits of the flotsam and jetsum hanging off the edges. Much of the plastic tidal deposits are also being raked away out of sight of the tourists.We sat quietly on the beach enjoying the temperature and the view...

However our reverie was soon interupted by a insistent stream of rasta boys hustling. These young men are fluent in Italian (English German and..?). The parade of bikini’s accompanied by these fellows is a sight to behold, often chaperoned by husbands, boyfriends and occasionally children. and we witnessed the un -endearing habit of these well meaning (I imagine)  foreign adults handing out sweets to the local children. Which explains the constant greeetings of "Caio' where ever we went. Our hotel security kept the rasta boys and children off the property, but they'd be hanging close by waiting for the next 'best friend" to provide a reason to guide someone into an opportunity to hand over cash. When informed we had none 'amna'  they generally left us alone.
 I  wanted to swim in the Indian ocean but the constant wind and timing of high tide full of seaweed encouraged me to use the pool, which was filled with salt water, so technically, I did swim in it…Then I lay in the sun and collected a very good sunburn. Who knew my overhanging belly would make stripes?  As we lay there Elke and I spoke about personal value, the old messages about what we deserve, what we allow, what brings up guilt. There is a big piece of entitlement and privilege or the lack of it enmeshed here. Equality, assumptions and access.
On our last night we ate an exquisite meal at a nearby hotel resort on their dining patio, outside but covered by the high thatch roof. Romance is how we make it.

Culture, Then and Now

I’m not a big fan of ‘tourist attractions’ but… We visit Boma’s of Kenya in Nairobi, a museum offering ‘traditional dance” performances, a restaurant and a number of recreated family clusters from many of the traditional tribal groups. Multiple wives need multiple residences, at least in this country. They also have multiple granaries and some have an inner wall to keep the livestock out of their bed. All made of mud with thatched roofs. The granaries were mostly very large baskets, some also plastered with mud and all belonging to the women.Visiting these little groupings was almost like a trip around the country, somewhere around 30 of them; although by the end there were not so much groupings as examples of slightly different construction.
Speedily walking past the inevitable venders we continued on into the main hall to watch the dancing. Many of the seats in the large circular auditorium were lined with school children in uniform. Rows of red, yellow, brown, green and blue with tourists in groups breaking up the random colour schemes. That was worth a picture and I spotted a few tourists filming the audience although I chose not to.
The dancing was fairly vigorous  and entertaining. I cannot speak to it’s authenticity although the costumes were well made and dancers enthusiastic. A couple of the males would pull individuals out of the stands (mostly female) to the immense appreciation of the rest of us and in some cases embarrassment of the ‘volunteers’. After a number of these performances we made our way off the site walking  towards a nearby shopping centre, passing by a group of baboons nonchalantly checking out the garbage bins around the perimeter.
Another entertaining environment! I hadn’t seen so many white people since Europe, once we got past the security check and into the mall. I scored big, finding a number of packages of my favourite chocolate… no longer available back home, I bought all  they had assuming it was the end of the stock. (Days later in another mall I saw more but I restrained myself).
We sat and had a hot drink  watching the parade of blondes and men in shorts, the occasional Africans with higher status and money hanging out with the colonials and tourists. Yes extremely judgemental but there we were and thats what I saw, or at least make up about what I saw. Your experience may be, no, will be different. It was quite pleasant, civil and enlightening and after looking through the arts and crafts market (where the vendors made complimentary comments about my Tanzanian shirt) we called ‘Little’ an Uber/taxi service and made our way through the traffic back to our friends’ residence for sundowners, conversation and dinner.

Back into Kenya

Arriving early afternoon in Nairobi on the bus from Arusha after dropping  a few folks at the airport, we trundled, dragged and pushed our luggage down the street past the taxi drivers and across to a slightly more upscale hotel. This one has a lift! The previous hotel, kiddy/kitty? corner  to this one had a spiral, tile covered staircase which was narrow and dizzy making.
Once settled, showered and refreshed we enjoyed a beer in the lounge below, then went walkabout looking for sustenance and found Bridges Organic Health Restaurant where we had a lovely meal. I’m a big fan of TripAdvisor where I left a review, along with numerous others on most of the eating establishments and hotels we’ve visited.
The street scene is alive with pedestrians, beggars and touts pushing safaris into the game parks and ‘wilderness’. They can be persistent, following us for blocks sure that eventually we’ll succumb to their amazing offer.  The beggars laying on the heavy eyes and stories of woe and misfortune seem to target anyone looking like tourist. I don’t feel good ignoring them, my best strategy is to carry no cash, telling them amna, I have none, although strictly speaking that is not true. I take my cues from the rest of the populace since they ignore them and walk on by.
I haven’t spent too many nights in posh places, especially in Africa and what’s been consistent has been the tiles in the hallways. Keys in the lock, doors opening and closing all echoing very well. Insulation is not big here if existing at all. It all boils down to interrupted sleep, apparently the trade off I’m making by staying in low budget accommodation. So it’s  a real pleasure to be invited to stay with a friend from a previous visit, off the main road, away from the bars and nightclubs in the city.
Instead we have a BBQ, catch up on all that has passed in the last few years, family and common friends, politics and the state of the world. And a relatively uninterrupted sleep inside the mosquito net.

Back to Amarula

Impressions along the road and within...
Sunflowers among the cassava, sunflowers dried out brown, corn; dead standing, millet, sorghum. Baobabs worn and scarred. Bee hives, both modern and the traditional hollowed out logs hanging from the trees. Cattle and goats on the move, some friendly herders, soot blackened landscapes, scorched trees, deep sand in dry river beds, children waving, others; impassive. Gigantic boulders worn smooth clustered on hilltops, trees as far as the eye can see: acacia, miombo, baobab, other acacia, going brown and others blooming as the dry season  begins.
 Returning to a loved place has been enlightening. Overcoming or at least attempting to understand the cultural differences due to language and religion has stretched my comfort zone, tolerance and occasionally patience. Context as I experience it, in  layers of cognition and insight continue to teach me how little I know. And how educated, sophisticated, motivated and inspired by my consciousness and the myriad abundance I am. Juxtaposed to individuals, children and adults, who can spend the day managing a mixed flock of goats, sheep and cows wandering through a landscape with not much forage. They find what they can. My capacity to understand concepts, consequences and a sense of a bigger picture is limited by my exposure, use and access to information. How much of what I or anyone knows or can use is actually useful in any given circumstance, is dependant on situation, environment, ecosystem ….
Technology is seductive, I am so enrolled. I use a phone and camera to take pictures; a laptop to articulate my thoughts, a reading device to do research and entertain myself on long flights and the internet , when I can find it, to share this with you.
My ability to justify my actions in moral and ethical terms is so caught up in complication it goes way beyond complex. And I’ve maintained and believed I was living a simple life all these years.
Meanwhile, back to what’s actually happening here.  I am overlooking a vast plain to the east dotted with relatively short trees, again as far as the eye can see, eventually reaching the Indian Ocean. The two fellows employed by my host have recently returned burdened by loads of firewood ‘kuni’ they hacked out of, hopefully, dead trees, with a machete, out of earshot, down the slope towards the dry river. Wood being the primary source of fuel for cooking, we will be sauna-ing Finnish style again and then sitting (if the wind dies down enough) around a  campfire. Something I would imagine no one around here would consider a useful pastime unless dinner was being cooked.
The landscape here is so compelling, Walking through the surroundings brushing dry basil stalks, crackling leaves,  drinking in the vistas, the familiar and the novelty. The temperature is certainly amenable, although sitting in a moving car with the windows shut against the tsetse flies can sure build up a sweat. Thankfully they restrict their habitat to few places. I'm glad to be here, again.

Deep in the heart of Tanzania

Tsetse flies and rock art.  One morning we left Amarula camp  and headed south to Kondoa where we did a bit of shopping; ginger, bananas and some fabric… somehow I’m unable to resist, I did however limit my purchase to one. We sat in a small “tea shop” beneath the now leafless Baobab at the centre of town and Elke chatted with a fellow who turned out to be a teacher, hence his relatively passable English. The town has grown, prospered even, since or during the time the Chinese were here building the highways. When they left I’ve heard, they took most of the donkeys and dogs in the vicinity, After two years there are no shortage of loose dogs scrounging around  and I saw plenty of donkeys being herded by Maasai.
After Kondoa we headed west into the terrain of red dirt roads. Not far out of town we came across masses and I mean masses of plastic bags and bottles where it’s been dumped and is now being (you don’t want to hear this) burned. Thankfully we soon left that behind, passing through dry, farmland interspersed with majestic Baobabs.

Crossing a dry river bed on a bridge with schoolgirls playing some game we began to climb through Miombo bush, the leaves on many trees crisp and folded. Surprisingly (at least to me) there are numerous trees blooming at this time, beautiful purple blossoms, puffed out clusters of white and yellow on a type of Acacia along with some other shrubby looking tree coming out with tiny  red flowers that I took to be fuzzy caterpillars as we hurtled along. And we were because the Tsetse flies were doing the damnedest to get inside the vehicle. Many of them. Their bite is rather vicious, I felt one through my sock. They were maintaining speed with the vehicle, landing on the windows, the hood of the Landrover and searching out all the openings we hadn’t been able to plug with tape or cardboard. Once inside they buzzed around the driver especially but I had my share. The women in the back were swatting them as they landed on us, against the windows and whenever they landed.
Today we returned to the edge of their range and drove up through a burnt landscape, the trees scorched, the grass gone and soot and ashes among the fallen leaves swirling in little whirlwinds as we picked our way towards some grand looking rocky outcrops. Earlier we had collected a Ranger from the Game Reserve office to accompany us. He carried an automatic carbine rifle for our safety inside the Swagaswaga reserve.

 Eventually he directed us onto a side road then up the slope to where a few examples of Rock Art were visible on the massive boulders perched there.
 Red ochre paintings of humanistic figures stretching the imagination as to why and when.
 The local residents, Hyrax, apparently appreciate the spot as the ground was deeply littered with their ‘berries’. An occasional fly managed to make itself known  as we made our way back to the vehicle but they were hardly a concern, until we began driving. Did they think the vehicle was an elephant? Although we were in the game reserve all we saw were a number of exotic looking birds a family of baboons, a few monkeys, and one Hyrax up on a branch as we drove by underneath.

Arusha and then south

Back with friends at their property staying in their guest house, well off the road. It will be a pleasant place to rest, write and visit among the trees in the heat of the afternoons. After unloading all the luggage that evening we walk out to a local bar for  beers and chipsi mayai (French fried potatoes in an omelette) , a common meal around here.
The pikipiki(motorcycle) drivers open up as they race up and down the road making for difficult conversation. The daladala’s (minibus) choked with passengers returning from town, dropping one or two in front of us, all turning to stare at the sight of wazungu’s (white people) in the neighbourhood. And a constant stream of people walking both ways either side of the road.
Morning comes with the call to prayer and cocks crowing, a bucket ‘shower’ wash-up and discussion of what the day might bring. As it turns out, a lot of bureaucratic negotiations and waiting. Over the next few days things do get sorted out, we visit a few restaurants, buy some supplies  from an amazing store downtown Arusha - Gohils  and separate our luggage for the trip to SwagaSwaga.
Looming above us to the north Mt Meru influences the weather dramatically. Each morning the sky overcast and cool, by noon warming up enough to remove our shukas or sweaters and venture out to explore the neighbourhood.
The main roads are paved but in between there are dirt tracks winding their way through the neighbourhoods. Rutted and narrow they are “shortcuts” and have tiny businesses selling notions, fruit and what the locals might need instead of making their way out to a main road. Our host takes us on a bumpy tour of them in his attempts to avoid the chaos on the paved roads. The daladalas backed up, dropping off and picking up along the roads with pikipikis racing both ways on both sides of the road and in between. Along with taxis, safari vehicles, big beer trucks and delivery trucks.
Most things sorted we head out early one morning to Amarula Camp in Kondoa district. There is now a bypass road avoiding the crazy traffic downtown Arusha which takes us south and west through new development expanding the city. To my right  I spot a hill  with half it’s side being excavated. I imagine in a few months it will cease to exist. Below it there are caves being formed by the removal of soil. And below that large chunks of what appears to be the surface above having fallen once undermined. Not exactly the safest work environment.
These new roads make the journey smooth, we are waved through all but one police check and even that one takes only moments. Along the road, Maasai boys stand at attention as their herds wait to cross to water, women washing clothes, colourfully draped on the surrounding bushes, palm frond rug weavings hung from trees to attract buyers and miles and miles of open plain dotted with acacia. Corn and cassava, sunflowers and pigeon pea beside the shambas and bomas, cement constructions in the towns and metal roofs glinting in the distance.
We stop in Babati for lunch and then  drive up into the hills. The swathe taken away on either side of the road makes for better views as we proceed, black rubber all over the road from tires skidding on descent with warnings of the steep slope and tight corners. I miss the old red road although not the bumping and swerving. Some settlements have not changed much, others have grown although it's hard to say. At one point we leave all the settlements behind and are in a wild forest, densely packed trees climbing up the hillsides on both side of the road. Later we pass women sitting beside their clay pots for sale and frequently bicycles with water jugs slung across both sides.
Coming out of the mountains we have a great view of the valley and then the plains beyond the hills. The descent is steep, lined with candelabra cactus, some in bloom their tips yellow like they’ve been lit up, the road black with skid marks and signs indicating runaway lanes.
At Kolo we turn left onto the red clay road, dusty, familiar. I’m anticipating our destination. To the right  through the trees below the mountain, the river bed, dry of course and we descend  through a switchback that allows a view of the camp still green after the rainy season.
It’s anti-climatic. So familiar, but changed over the last couple of years, the Terminalia trees losing leaves, their seeds a bright red, the acacia dropping green bits in a circle around itself. The cottage comfortable in it’s familiarity but damaged by the weather.

Elke makes us dinner, we sit by a fire and later when our hosts return from visiting in the village I  sauna Finnish style, then sit out under the stars.

Crossings

The trains and track infrastructure in Germany make it possible to travel across the country with ease. Almost every small city connects with the rest of the country, the track itself designed for high speed with cement ties; a few wooden ones in the more obscure and less populated communities.
The countryside slips by  fast at 221 kmh from the flat landscape south of Berlin through long tunnels emerging into rolling terrain; farms and forests, villages and always near the cities, klein gardens beside the tracks,
Efficient, timely and orderly we reach our destinations and make our connections with time in between to find the correct platform, then haul our unwieldy baggage aboard, stowing it occasionally in the aisles when the train has no accommodation; regional trains ferrying commuters, the trains filling at one stop then emptying two stops later.
Sometimes there is old rolling stock sitting idle in the yards of stations, inspiring thoughts of restaurants, mini villages and other possibilities for the utilization of these long narrow well roofed ‘structures’. Shipping them negates any advantage…
Done with the train we take a taxi; up, around and over  Stuttgart to a hotel near the airport. In the morning we are ferried to the plane after being corralled with our fellow fliers, then on to Zurich where the observation deck provided  a brief respite from the ferrying and corralling.
On the plane most of folks sleep in between meals on the flight to Nairobi. The monitor on the bulkhead shows our progress in a revolving sequence including elevation, speed and times. Out the window we follow the coast of Greece then over the Mediterranean making landsight over Libya with  Tunisia way off to the right, a line of sand along the coast stretching back to mountains in the deep distance.
Cloud cover soon takes over and Elke spots a ginormous thunderhead building.  We’re at 33,000 feet or meters (hardly matters this high). This is the beginning of the dry season and those clouds are likely sucking moisture, not dropping it. Turbulence soon appears.
Stamped passports, luggage collected. Our driver holds up a sign with Elke Cole and away we go along with a couple of women who are staying out in Karen at a backpackers. They appreciate our assistance in getting there.
Downtown Nairobi, breakfast and wander through the market, a smoothie in a high end coffee bar, more exploring .
Luggage up on the roof of the bus, waiting, and then into the traffic. At one point I spot old (in this case) decrepit looking passenger railcars lined up waiting for trains that will likely never come. The Chinese have taken charge and built new lines and brought in their own rolling stock, making obsolete the existing infrastructure which looks unmaintained. We cross various lines  on our way out of Nairobi, the ties obscured with accumulations of debris growing all manner of weeds, the rusty rails all that’s visible except where the constant traffic shines them up.
 Arriving at the border a fellow on the bus, the only other mzungu skips the leaving Kenya line and goes directly to Enter Tanzania. We follow the pattern standing with the rest of the passengers wanting to get this over with and on to Arusha and beyond. He ends up being the least of our time restraints as the bus that arrived behind us, loads and leaves.The sun setting across the horizon red in the dust. Maasai ladies attempting to interest anyone in their wares, elaborate beaded jewelrysome of which is elaborate and beautiful. Darkness falls and our driver enters the vehicle with much body language and guns the bus down the hill not waiting for the guards at the gate to open it fully, giv’ener through goats and folks lining the road to make up for the lost time… Or maybe the traffic laws are different in Tanzania?

Workshopping

Back to a semblance of normal. A couple of good nights sleep and I’m waking at the usual 5 am, creeping out of bed and upstairs to boil ginger and write my morning reflections on the night’s journeys and the previous day’s events. Not exactly profound but occasionally useful. The dreams are possibly insightful, a rehash of the highlights from my unconscious perspective. Juxtaposing numerous events or enigmatic input in some conceivably metaphoric  result to entertain my brain and cause me to consider if or what has any significance.
Mostly I consider it filed away once written out and get on with morning meditation and preparing something for breakfast.
Our hostess has assembled a varied crew of workers both young and mature, and it’s been entertaining. Yesterday a long ditch dug to lay in an electric cable was  disrupting passage somewhat, piles of the sandy earth showing the layers of history. By mid morning a machine arrived to fill it back in after the electricians, who showed up much earlier, have done their job.
 Halfway through the machine operator makes a miscalculation and it falls over sideways smashing one of the glass doors. He jumps out safely but now we have a major problem. They spend the rest of the day employing the cobbing plaster crew propping it up with posts and firewood, levering it up in increments until finally it falls back upright.
During all this the sounds of an alpenhorn drift across the lake below, apparently the locals enjoy a good concert whilst rafting about. The applause is enthusiastic.
Earlier the crew had been chewing away at the excess cob on the walls and filling in holes preparing for the actual start of this workshop. Arriving a couple days early is good for smoothing the rough edges and getting grounded. The opportunity for swimming in the lake also looms temptingly now that most of the clouds (and cooler temperatures) have evaporated with the sun. Muddy cobbers will be availing themselves of the newly refurbished dock by days end and possibly entertaining the small flock of ducks who appeared  stridently paddling our way last evening.  They hung about paddling back and forth within arms reach to our amusement, then suddenly with no warning burst out of the water back across the lake.

Rural and urban reflections

Cock a doodle doo! or uuur, uuur, uuur, depending on translation. I crawl out to do my morning writing into a rainy grey day and a typical German breakfast. Boiled egg, rolls, lotsa jam and cheese.
Walking to the bus the sidewalk and road are hosting a migration of tiny frogs…unseen by the large tractor and cars whizzing past.
We board the ‘Bürger Bus’ driven by volunteers, it takes a very roundabout route through the hamlets and minuscule farming communities that dot the landscape here. The massive brick barns  roofed in thatch or occasionally tiles, the houses to match; steeply roofed, all brick, some more elaborate than others but all maintaining the same profile.Again a train, a smooth ride full of holiday goers, commuters and shoppers some from as far away as  Cuxhaven on the coast.
I continue to be impressed by the old brick buildings; (missing my camera! relying on a less than photographic memory for details)  many have the original date of completion, 1339 and quite a few from  the 1650’s, funky and all dressed standing side by side, hair salons and high end clothing stores, restored or needing attention. In the bank a gigantic, bright red stylized pig.
This town Stade has a variety of architectural styles, mostly old to ancient with a number of moderns  intruding. And bakeries. Most corners have one, an advantage or asset of pedestrian focused urban environments. Paved with brick and cobble, slick with rain and peopled with locals and tourists in spite of the weather. The sun does come out, smiling faces, old men sitting out front of the  numerous bakery/cafes smoking and watching the parade of mothers and children, shoppers and a continuous but intermittent stream of males entering what turns out to be a mosque.
Returning I doze lightly on the bus and then pass out for 20 back at the house, the clouds allow the sun through and I manage to get online, although the immediate is more compelling than whatever turns up on Facebook.

A few days later we're in Ahrensberg.  So many naps. I catch myself nodding off as the conversations (in Deutsch) go on and on, me understanding the occasional word or phrase… especially the ones with English expressions…

Assuming the heatwave would last we brought mostly summer clothes, now I’m wearing 3 layers.
In this more urban environment, the houses here are like museums and art galleries, Massive structures in brick with large windows, grand entrances and large trees among the landscaped surroundings. Germans drive fast, luckily the sound of the tires on the cobblestones alerts us when crossing the street.
My ability to express meaningfully is greatly diminished today. It is so tempting to nap, Elke’s shoulder/headache still bothering her, she is currently lying on the floor with her feet up and deeply asleep.
Yesterday a  drive through apple orchards, cherries and pears, along a very winding road diked against the flooding river Elbe. Not at the moment. The previous month dropped  water levels across the continent, although the heavy rainfall the day before caused flooding locally here outside Hamburg. Catching up on our correspondence, sleep and revisiting German cuisine. I may have to buy more, larger waisted pants. Or fast more frequently.

Our Next Excellent Adventure...

Starts with choosing to take the Malahat after much last minute cleaning, garbage in the bin and waaay too early for the Mill Bay Brentwood ferry… meant to be a relaxed exit. Instead I get a speeding ticket. He gives me a break, I don’t do this frequently.
I’m unsurprised but disappointed with my anxiety, I hate to be late, 2 hours early at YYJ is the result. Relatively mellow  now that we’ve checked our bags finished my yogurt and visited the toilet.
15 minutes in the air through the clouds, nothing to see, I was doing my morning meditation when we ‘touched’ down jerking me right out of it.
Walking with my sticks from one end of the terminal to the other, then a bus ride out to the plane  standing alone, a temporary metal and covered  three level ramp to board. The terminal expansion in full swing adjacent.

Back in the air the turbulence gave me pause, then I settled into  my book and Elke began  a series of movies. I watched other peoples’ movies; 5 different screens visible. We had champagne!
 a meal , an extremely frozen ice cream bar in the dark and a continental style breakfast once we were close to arriving.
Then a long hike, lineups and waiting in a generic airport atmosphere, in spite of the welcoming signs to Paris, I experience little of its ’charm’. Elke has a 15 minute massage then falls asleep. We board another plane and land smoothly in Hamburg.
Where we wait an interminably long time for our luggage, Elke chases after someone taking a similar bag, but ours arrives. With nothing to declare we exit to where sister Sabine is waiting. She leads us to the train.
At Hamburg Bahnhof the train security arrives with us on the platform; must be a shift change. Six of them, looking somewhat menacing and official.  A school group parades by greeting them with friendly comments disarming their gruff demeanour. We take the regional train and Elke falls asleep again so I chat with Sabine as we roll through ripe fields of barley, oats and wheat, woodlots, allotment gardens, (schreber gartens) and small towns where all the houses are steeply roofed in tiles.
That evening we have dinner out to celebrate at a converted, renovated windmill restaurant, after I manage a 45 min nap. Not bad considering I hadn’t slept for 26 hours.