Travel Planning: What to Do | http://www.writingwithmymouthfull.com/

Day 1 in Dominica: Jungle Bay Spa and Resort

Jan 4, ’11 8:51 PM

It’s okay, Keith the driver said. The rain will stop after we pass the forest.

And it did.

One thing I learned during my stay in Dominica was that the weather was never what it seemed. I had a view of the Atlantic Ocean from my cottage and more than a few times I watched the rain approach like a marching band, only to abruptly stop as soon as the deluge started.

Keith met and picked me up from the tiny airport of Melville. I watched my backpack get transferred from our small plane to the conveyor belt next to boxes of clucking yellow chicks. There was a faint warm breeze and a super bright moon in the sky before the weather turned into rain as we drove along the rain forest. Past the greenery, it was again dry and I sat back to watch Keith negotiate Dominica’s unlit curvy roads.

After two Times magazines, an old Sunday paper, several CD compilations from my iPhone, an entire This American Life episode and a couple hours’ worth of uncomfortable naps on airport plastic chairs, I finally made it to Jungle Bay Resort and Spa in the tiny island of Dominica. What should have been a short trip from New York to the Caribbean added up to 20 hours of travel time after including waking up at an ungodly hour to get to Newark airport, waiting for five boring hours for my connecting flight in Saint Martin and driving another two hours to the cottages. I gave myself credit for packing yogurt and leftover roast pork tenderloin and Brussels sprouts from home because rum and fast food pizza from the SXM airport wouldn’t have sustained me.

When friends found out I was going away for my birthday and the holidays, they all thought I was going to the Dominican Republic. I had to correct them and tell them that Dominica, pronounced like the name Dominic plus the A, is between the islands of Guadeloupe and Martinique. Surprisingly, not a lot of people have heard of the country even though I ended up meeting and hanging out with all the guests from the New York area.

The dark roads reminded me of Tanzania where I saw people on the side of the road only when illuminated by our headlights. The driving reminded me of how Filipino drivers would halt to a stop when they see another car coming head-on; a honk of acknowledgement always occurred. Keith had shown me the restaurant menu as I drank my cold passionfruit welcome drink in the car. I ordered my first dinner ahead of time before the kitchen closed for the night. After two hours of driving, I was finally shown my cottage where I ate my first meal of callalloo soup, a watercress and cucumber salad and pan-seared tuna. I freshened up using the outdoor-style shower attached to my room and drifted off to sleep with the sound of the ocean crashing against Stony Beach right below me. Somewhere out there was a historic lunar eclipse, but alas, rain started pouring again as soon as I was comfortable enough on the king-sized bed covered by a mosquito net canopy.

My internal clock woke me up a few minutes ahead of the front desk’s wake-up call. I got ready for yoga and met Nancy in the open yoga room with five other early risers. Nancy was the one who made arrangements for my stay at Jungle Bay. She made me feel comfortable booking a solo trip via e-mail and assured me that I will have all the alone time I needed without being lonely. (She being from Switzerland who ended up staying to work at Jungle Bay.) I later learned that Dominica is one of the safest places in the Caribbean for female solo travelers.

Yoga, thankfully, was for beginners. It had been a while since I’ve done yoga so it was great not to be struggling; I suppose a few classes of Pilates at my gym have helped me too. After a quiet start to my morning, I climbed back 200 steps to my room, showered again and laced up my hiking boots. After a quick breakfast at the resort’s Pavillion Restaurant, I joined two other families and Sam Raphael, the owner, plus his two children, Ade and Jai–both New York based as well–on a hike through Perdu Temps with another staff member named Brother. (Occasionally, I asked him What’s up, bro? for fun.)

It was a beautiful day for a short hike. The trail retraces the steps of Dominica’s run-away slaves, through the forest and up the mountains to Pomme’s “paradise”. Pomme is a local guy who lives a couple of hours up the mountain and lives with his family off his surroundings. Everything they eat comes from the plants and the trees around the property. The water comes from a stream a few yards away. An outhouse is behind the trees, but all the waste goes back to the earth. If there’s such a thing as true organic living, Pomme is doing it.

We were mostly protected from direct sunlight by a canopy of trees. We had to cross three streams and I had to take my boots off at one of them because the water went as high as my thighs. Rain is generous in these parts and so moss-covered rocks made downhill trekking very tricky. Brother stopped and picked fresh oranges and grapefruits from trees. He carved a cinnamon tree bark to show us where the spice comes from. He picked and gave me a fresh nutmeg. We saw a lot of dashin, plants that look like taro and one of the staples of the Dominican diet. Banana and mango trees were everywhere, as well as avocado and mangosteen. I was also surprised to see tall bamboo trees swaying with the wind as I’ve never seen them before anywhere else in Central America or the Caribbean. Whenever we walked an open valley, I would look up and see the green-covered mountains ahead of me. The lushness reminded me so much of Kauai in Hawaii, and at times, I thought of the movie Avatar.

Pomme’s wife and daughter cooked up mashed pumpkin and bake (like johnnycakes, but whole wheat) and they roasted breadnuts–nuts that look like smaller chestnuts–on an open fire. While the rest of our group joined Pomme on a short tour of his gardens, I walked down the stream with Ade to refill my water bottle with fresh spring water. Dominica is the thirtieth country I’ve visited in the last ten years and only in Patagonia was water so fresh that you could drink off the streams and rivers. I loved that I didn’t have to worry about running out of water during our hikes. This country is truly blessed by Mother Nature.

We were back at Jungle Bay a little before 3pm. I showered and changed for the night. This time, I knew well enough to pack what I needed for the rest of the night to avoid the walk back up to my room until I had to go to sleep. I sat by the pool where I ended up napping even with the youngest guests squealing in the water. All that sun did get to me somehow. When I woke up, I walked down to the ocean cabana to watch the water crash against the rocks. I only left when small palm fruits started to fall from the trees above my hammock because of the incoming strong wind.

It started to get dark at 6pm. I walked to the spa to claim my first massage of seven for the duration of my stay. The spa’s windows all opened up to the ocean so each treatment didn’t need background music. The warm breeze and the sound of the waves were enough to relax your entire body. The ladies who worked there are all properly trained. I noticed that every time they needed to add more massage oil to my body, one of their hands remained lightly on my back to let me know that they were still there. I haven’t received a proper massage since my Kilimanjaro hike six months ago, so I felt like Jell-O after the hour was over.

I managed to walk to the restaurant for dinner where I joined Sam’s family for dinner. I was famished and ate cod fritters, fish soup, and tuna–the restaurant only offered seafood and chicken in terms of meat and there were plenty of vegetarian options for the more healthier guests–plus freshly-made coconut and guava sorbets. (Believe it or not, I opted out of alcohol for the rest of the week until it was time to celebrate my birthday.) For the duration of my stay, Sam made me feel like I was part of his family: it was just expected that I sit with them to eat and stay after dinner to drink and talk. By the third day, it was standard for me to greet Joanne, the kitchen manager, with a hug and a squeeze. As the week progressed and new guests arrived, our table grew from four to six, and then to eight. By the time I had to fly back to New York City, all the tour guides and drivers had already given me hugs with the lifts.

What was this place where I was alone but not lonely? It was Dominica, and my vacation had just begun.

Comments (6)

Day 1 in Portugal: Overnight in Sintra: Casa Miradouro

Oct 19, ’10 10:00 PM

Good thing Daddy knows how to drive stick!, the Dr. beamed proudly as we took another sharp turn on Sintra’s curvy roads. It took us at least an hour to find Casa Miradouro from Lisbon. We drove through the narrow stone streets of Sintra with its numerous forts, monasteries and castles and we kept getting lost because of the tight turns we always had to take. We squeezed past tour buses as they were finishing up for the day, halted to quick stops to read the rua signs and re-oriented ourselves several times to find our room for the night.

The Dr. is not big on asking strangers for driving directions–no surprise, he is a guy after all–so I had to go to the tourist office alone to ask Onde Rua Sotto Mayor? The guy at the desk just assumed I spoke Portuguese and proceeded to tell me how to get to where we needed to be in his sh-sh-sh language. All I understood was the word for left, izquierda, because it was similar to Spanish so we went back on the road and turned left on the road across from the office. We will later learn that most of the locals choose to speak French rather than Spanish which is a curious thing to us because Spain is right next door. Almost everyone we met would switch to Parlez-vous FranÃ§ais? whenever we started talking to them in English or Spanish. Thankfully, the Dr.’s French lessons in high school paid off again. (The first was in Cuba, and then in Tunisia.)

Getting lost was worth it when we finally found Casa Miradouro because it was a haven from the bustle of the town center. Charlotte, the proprietress of Casa Miradouro welcomed us to her home as it started to rain. It had been cloudy when we touched down Lisbon with some sunshine peaking through the clouds and I was a bit chilly from my lack of sleep on the plane and felt a cold coming in, but suddenly felt relaxed as soon as we entered the house. The first floor had several salons for entertaining, each one set up with a different style of furniture. Design books were on the modern coffee tables. Cathedral ceilings with ornate details and ceiling to floor curtains gave the rooms an airy feel.

In our room, double doors opened towards the garden with a Juliet balcony that overlooked the town. Our queen-sized bed was covered in plain white sheets and two separate twin down comforters. (How come I never thought of that? No more blanket-stealing during cold nights in bed!) Blue and white tiles in the style of azulejos, an ubiquitous Portuguese touch, lined the bathroom walls. Hot water was aplenty!

After cleaning up, we felt settled enough to take an afternoon walk in the town and check out our surroundings. We walked up and down small hills, through narrow alleys and past bakeries and souvenir shops. We stopped by Lojo do Vinho for a couple of glasses of wine before we walked to the unfortunately named GSpot for dinner. Charlotte had recommended two different types of restaurants and we opted for the more experimental one since we knew we would have the rest of the week to eat local fare.

After a bottle of wine, foie gras, clams with squid-inked orzo and a mediocre sirloin steak, we set out into the drizzly night and walked back to Casa Miradouro. It felt like we had Sintra to ourselves; this fantasy land of castles looming above us. I could only think of Prague where I felt the same way at night but this was less gritty and more peaceful.

Charlotte was up; we assumed she was waiting for us to get in because she turned off all the hallway lights as soon as we bid her good night. We had a nightcap of Port at the bar in one of the rooms and talked for a bit before heading to our bedroom. A few hours later, I woke up with a crushing headache. Sintra’s lights from our balcony made me pause in the dark when I got up to go to the bathroom. Headache be damned, I was falling in love with Sintra’s nighttime lights and couldn’t wait for the next morning when we would begin to see the rest of the country.

The next morning, we enjoyed a very civilized breakfast in the basement. The Dr. and I have never been the best bed and breakfast guests because we’ve never really had good free breakfasts wherever we’ve stayed. The coffee is always weak, the bread cold and the butter like they serve it on airplanes. To our surprise, Charlotte prepared a spread of salmon, prosciutto, salami and ham with an assortment of pastries and fresh fruits. French-pressed coffee and freshly-squeezed orange juice completed our morning. We checked out, reloaded our stuff in the hatchback and drove to São Pedro to visit the Sunday flea market before we started our long drive up north.

There was an assortment of colors at the Feira Grande de São Pedro. A cart selling only leitao, roasted pig, was in the middle of the square amidst a barrage of clothing, housewares, fig and olive plants, live finchess and other types of food. I watched a group of older ladies pull a tray of freshly-baked bread from a stone oven and bought two pieces only to discover sausage slices stuffed inside. We just ate, but happily ate again. Besides, lunch was still two hours away.

Comments (0)

Foraging with Wildman Steve

Sep 28, ’10 12:57 PM

After reading about Bon Appétit, a sustainable-minded food catering company based in–of course–California, and its efforts to get even more local by switching the roles of some of their managers and chefs to “foragers”, I immediately thought, Well, they should call Wildman Steve.

I don’t remember how I first heard about Wildman Steve, but I’ve since kept him in the back of my head for when my schedule allowed me to join one of his foraging tours in Central Park. One super humid summer day, me and about fifteen others met in the upper west side of the park to forage for berries and cherries, epazotes and sasafras, and probably the last garlic bulb of spring and the first burdock of fall. The bonus was learning how to spot poison ivy; how amazing it was to see so many all over the park where clueless pedestrians and their pets run around!

Unfortunately, the rest of the summer didn’t allow for much cooking in the kitchen so I wasn’t able to use the produce I took home except for the berries that went into a pint of homemade ice cream, but I did gnaw on all of the stuff the Wildman showed us along the way. I completely trusted that he knew what he was doing and picking. I’m glad to report that there were no weird stomach pains after.

Here’s a list of plants we came across in and around 103rd Street and Central Park West:

1. European Cut-leaf Blackberries – I was so surprised to see a fruit tree in the park! Now that I know where they are, I’ll just pick these in season.

2. Native Black Cherries – I took home a lot of these using the plastic take-out containers we were advised to bring. A subtle ice cream was made at home afterward.

3. Epazote – You can dry and save these for use in a Mexican dish

4. Lamb’s Quarters – You can use them in quiche or cook them like you would spinach

5. Poor Man’s Pepper – They tasted like mustard seeds and Wildman said they would be great in miso soup

6. Wood Sorrel – You’ve seen these growing like weeds and you thought that you could find a four-leaf clover among them. You won’t.

7. Mayapple – Wildman crossed a fence and picked these small plums that taste like passionfruits

8. Common Plantain – These are also everywhere in the park. I’ve always thought they were just some kind of weed, but you can mash the leaves and rub them all over yourself to keep the mosquitoes off. The small seeds had a hint of peanut taste.

9. Garlic Mustard – The plant that keeps on giving: you can use the leaves for a garlic pesto, the buds and the sprouts like chives, the roots like horseradish, the seeds like mustard seeds!

10. Jetberries – I see these all the time, too, and now I know that if a berry bush has some sharp and ragged-edged leaves, they are poisonous!

11. Asiatic Dayflower – They look like tiny string beans

12. Field Garlic – I was very happy to see garlic even though we only found one whole bulb because it’s way past spring. They’re definitely stronger than your grocery store garlic bulbs.

13. Poison Ivy – We spotted a few plants around the park which took me by surprise because dog owners may be walking their pets along the paths not knowing they’re sniffing them! Now I know how to tell them apart: they have three leaves per stalk, but the smaller two connect directly to the twig.

14. Sasafras – Commonly known as the plant that makes root beer, Wildman Steve showed us the leaves in three different shapes.

15. Fawn Mushroom – Fortunately, we found one mushroom by some tree. Unfortunately, a squirrel got to it before we did. Fawn mushrooms grow on wood, have blush-pink gills and have a space in between their gills and stem. If you want to see more mushrooms, sign up for the tour after a whole lot of rain.

16. Jewelweed – Wildman Steve sprinkled some water onto their leaves and the droplets repelled and looked like jewels, hence the name. They are known to help your poison ivy rash, so grab some of these after you step on the ivy plants during the tour.

17. Sweet Pepper Bush – You can rub and juice the hell out of them to make your own soap

18. Lemon Verbana relative – We couldn’t identify the plant that grew along the running water near the Lasker Pool. It had a somewhat citrus smell, but it wasn’t mint because it wasn’t minty enough, nor was it lemon verbana because it didn’t have pointy leaves. Can you help?

19. Burdock – I first had burdock at The Tasting Room. I miss that place. They were cooking farm-to-table style years before every blogger started using that term.

Although you won’t be on your hands or knees during the foraging trip, I highly recommend bringing a knife. I have a sample of the Ikon Folding Gentleman’s knife from the generous people at Wüsthof and I love it. It’s small enough to pack, yet very hefty and reliable when you’re cutting and slicing tougher items like burdock. Folding it back in takes a little getting used to–something my gentleman had to teach me to avoid accidentally cutting myself–but as soon as I got the hang of it, it was easy to reveal the 5-inch knife and fold back into the smooth Blackwood ebony handle.

Comments (1)

Hiking Kilimanjaro Day 5: Barafu Hut to Uhuru Peak to Mweka Camp

Aug 24, ’10 12:32 AM

I just summitted Kilimanjaro. I just summitted Kilimanjaro. I just summitted Kilimanjaro.

I still can’t believe we did it! After five days of hiking from camp to camp we finally made it to Uhuru Peak, the top of Kibo and the highest point in all of Africa at 19,340 feet.

Around 11pm, I heard Peter M call my name right outside my tent. It wasn’t hard to wake up because I spent a sleepless and an uncomfortable night. Barafu was our highest and coldest camp yet. I met Scott and Christopher in the mess tent where we had our usual first meal of hot tea and coffee–it was both too late and too early to be eating porridge. After the porters handed us our water supply for the eight-hour summit, we suited up and started our walk out of Barafu Hut and into pure darkness.

I don’t think I realized at the time what eight hours of hiking in the dark could and would feel like. I felt that I was just along for the ride. After only four hours of sleep, I felt groggy as soon as I started to hear the crunch of gravel under my boots. Unable to see anything except what was being illuminated in front of us by our head lamps, there was nothing to keep us entertained; nothing to keep our minds off the robotic process of climbing Kibo in the middle of the night.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

It was cold but I don’t remember freezing. I had thick snowboard gloves on over my usual winter gloves. I had a borrowed ski jacket (I stupidly forgot to pack mine!) on top of five layers of winter garb; four layers of pants helped my knees from feeling cold and two pairs of socks supported my feet without being too uncomfortable.

I don’t remember freezing maybe because I was literally sleepwalking the rest of the way. Godibless led the line and he kept turning around to give me a slight push on my shoulder to wake me up. Cia, no sleeping. Cia,don’t sleep. I asked if we could stop and rest several times so I may nod off, but Godibless stopped granting my request after the second one. I turned around a few times too to see if Samuel and the boys were still behind me. I barely heard a peep from them and I began to wonder if I was the only one having difficulty staying awake.

I also don’t remember feeling any pain because of the high altitude. I was just numb. As we gained a total of 4,140 feet, I started hallucinating. In my field of vision, I would see a pair of walking poles leaning against the boulders we were skirting around. I expected to see another group resting in front of us whenever I would look up from the poles, but no one was ever there. This happened twice until I finally realized that there was never anything in front of me except rocks. I started to talk to myself to stay awake and aware of my real surroundings. The funny thing is that I knew enough not to say anything to Samuel or Godibless lest they send me back down because I was going crazy.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The sun started to rise on our way to Stella Point which was named after the wife of Kingsley Latham, the South African king, who could only make it this far of the hike in 1925. All of a sudden, everything around us was orange and violet and everything in me was awaken. To my dismay, we still had at least 45 minutes until the summit. I felt like I just couldn’t walk anymore. I needed to lie down, rest and sleep.

We started to see the glaciers people have been talking about all these years. Samuel confirmed that they have indeed receded from his ten-year experience hiking Kibo. Everything was so white that it hurt our eyes to look directly towards them as the morning sun illuminated the sky. The snow towards Uhuru Peak look like merangue puffs because of the wind. A single trail of dirt that cut through the ice led us to the finish line.

I was unable to speak when I finally got close to the infamous wooden sign of Uhuru Peak. (And not just because my face was wrapped in a ski cap and a scarf.) We stood close by waiting for our turn to take photos. The dots of light ahead of us when we were hiking belonged to these early risers–those were not part of my hallucination! We all made it this far and this high up and everyone congratulated each other for surviving; everyone was patient and waited for their turn in the spotlight.

When it was finally our turn to take photos, we posed, jumped, smiled, laughed and celebrated our accomplishment. Hugs and shaking of hands were exchanged and thank yous to Samuel and Godibless were delivered for helping us get up there. (The rest of the porters stayed in camp because they do not have the proper licenses to summit.)

What killed me was that we had to hike back down to Barafu Hut for the next four hours. You’d think that walking down a “short-cut” would be easier, but the trail was made up of ground rocks that felt like rough sand. All I kept thinking was, I’ve done what I wanted to do, now get me out of here. I couldn’t believe that I still had to keep working even after accomplishing that feat. Without enough sleep, I was extra crabby and whiny. Every other hiker slid down past me, seemingly enjoying their fast descent, but my left knee was acting up and I just couldn’t get the momentum to slide and go down all the way back to Barafu Hut.

The rest of the group made it down in three hours. Samuel stayed with me and my whimpering for an extra hour until I was able to drag myself from the bottom of Kibo, down some more sharp rocks and back to my tent at the edge of Barafu. It was noon and the sun was out in full force. All I wanted was to take my clothes off and sleep in my tent but then I heard Samuel say, Take an hour nap and then we go. It was a shock to me that even after eleven hours of hiking with only four hours of sleep the night before, we were still expected to hike another four down to our final camp. It made sense that we had to come back down on altitude and also go to a camp with a reliable water source, but not only was I not physically ready to keep on hiking, I was also not emotionally prepared to psyche myself up to continue to the real finish line.

I slept like a log for that hour until Peter M woke me up again to eat lunch. I never felt so beaten. We haven’t washed our hands and faces for a full day and my contacts were so dried up after wearing them continuously during and after summit. Scott and Christopher showed such strong resolve that I knew I just had to shut up and do what we came to do. So more crunch, crunch, crunch until we made it past Millennium Camp and then to our base for the night, Mweka, where we bought the entire group cold bottles of Kilimanjaro beers to celebrate our week together.

Comments (0)

Hiking Kilimanjaro Day 4: Barranco Camp to Barafu Hut

Aug 16, ’10 12:57 AM

We scaled Barranco Wall using mostly our hands to hoist ourselves up. It reminded me of my days bouldering in the city gym on 59th Street: hands getting rough and calloused just to get to the top only to come back down again, all without chalk, harness or someone belaying below. The path was sometimes narrow and dangerous; one misstep would make rocks crumble beneath our feet and remind us how high we’ve gone up in only two hours. But the hike was more challenging than it was difficult and I didn’t feel any more of the tingling sensation in my fingers and toes. I felt like I’ve acclimatized with the high altitude.

At the top of Barranco Wall, we were above the clouds. It was exhilarating to get to the top, not realizing the “top” we were aiming for was still another day away. Unfortunately, we couldn’t stay too long to enjoy the view–Karanga Valley was waiting. For the next three hours, we were on a one-lane trek to our lunch point. Everything ahead of us was flat and desolate. There weren’t any more of the giant trees, only paper-thin everlasting flowers and plants that smelled like thyme. It was very hot and very dry. I could feel the sun beating down on my shoulders and scoring a mark under my tank top. My pants and boots were covered in desert dust even before lunch time.

At Karanga Camp and 12,893 feet later, we took a break and ate watermelon and fries. The sun was even more intense up there where we all laid out our top-layer shirts on rocks to dry them off. Named after the Swahili word for “peanut”, Karanga is also the last water point before the summit. It is so named because the water from the melting glacier atop Kibo runs through the valley and provides for the peanut plantation down below. We saw several porters collect water from the river, hike past us and return to get some more. From this day on, we must conserve water until the next camp. Tonight, there will be no washing of face, hands and feet and we must sleep with the whole day caked on us.

The volcanic gravel turned into shards of sharp rock on the way up to Barafu Hut. There were huge boulder formations where hikers ahead of us stacked up small pieces of rock for good luck. We did our part and hoped for the best. The weather change dramatically, too. It got colder as we moved higher up and an ominous bank of dark clouds covered what we were about to scale and what we left behind.

A total of eight long hours of walking later, we reached 15,200 feet at Barafu Hut where we witnessed a small group of hikers and porters surround a guy who had an oxygen mask on. Though it made me feel secure that someone actually had an oxygen tank this high up in Kilimanjaro, I realized that we could be in the same position by tomorrow morning.

I was anxious during dinner and was even more nervous the rest of the night. I wore everything I packed to bed because it was so cold. In three hours, we will wake up in the middle of the night to start climbing the summit with little time to get ready for what would be the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do in my life: hike in the dark for another eight hours to finally catch a most breathtaking sunrise on top of Africa’s highest peak.

Comments (0)

‹ Older posts

› Newer posts

http://www.writingwithmymouthfull.com/

Category Travel Planning: What to Do

Day 1 in Dominica: Jungle Bay Spa and Resort

Day 1 in Portugal: Overnight in Sintra: Casa Miradouro

Foraging with Wildman Steve

Hiking Kilimanjaro Day 5: Barafu Hut to Uhuru Peak to Mweka Camp

Hiking Kilimanjaro Day 4: Barranco Camp to Barafu Hut

Search for posts

Categories

Pages

MORE INFO

Sponsored Link: