Buchu Bushcamp - South Africa - August 15, 2007

Danger- Wrong Side Driver

Rafe at the Whale Spotting Beach

Pink Knees for the Ladies

Pink Knees for the Ladies

Buchu Hobbit Hut Cottages-Stick and Fibre Construction

Interior of the Hobbit Cottage - Where's Frodo?

This is the second part of last years adventure tour of S. Africa. In the last episode I was cage diving with great white sharks (See Shark Bait - August 13th, 2007). Now for the real scary part - my first time driving on the left side of the highway.

AUGUST 14TH – Off to the Bush

At 9 AM the rental agent delivers our vehicle to the hotel. It’s a Toyota Corolla with automatic transmission! Rena, Rafe, Colleen and I are off to the bush. That is if I can quickly adapt to driving on the wrong side of the road.

I carefully edge into the left land and proceed straight ahead. The car performs erratically at first. Or perhaps it’s the driver. One left, another left, then a right. This is too easy! Oops – almost hit the curb. Gotta go easy on the right side hubcaps. Wrong way rotaries are especially hard to get used to. Luckily, South African drivers are among the most polite, helpful and tolerant in the world. I only heard a horn sound once in three days of driving and I think she was a tourist from New Jersey. When a South African driver sees you overtaking, he pulls off onto the shoulder to let you pass. Sweet!

As we drive East on the N2, Capetown gives way to suburbs and farms. We leave the highway at West Somerset and hug the coastal route past vistas of sheer cliffs and small fishing villages. Back on the N2 then off again at Caledon, we motor through fields of green wheat and yellow rape. Fruit trees are starting to bloom.

We make frequent stops for photos and to allow Colleen to talk to the animals. She speaks to sheep, cows and ostriches. Male ostriches are black and females are dull gray. The male’s kneecaps and calves are bright pink. Later we are told that this only happens during mating season.

Carrying on through Napier we reach Bredasdorp – site of the shipwreck museum and the world’s southernmost Marathon. We turn onto a dirt road and 40 km later we arrive at the DeHoop Nature Reserve ( pronounced do-wop with the accent on the wop). DeHoop is famous for flowers and whales. The Buchu Bushcamp is a bed-and-breakfast just before the Park entrance. We arrive at sunset.

AUGUST 15TH – BUCHU BUSHCAMP

Buchu is definitely a low crime area. There are only 7 guests at the B&B. The four of us, a British birdwatcher and a Spanish couple who took a wrong turn and wound up at the reserve by mistake. Lucky them! This is a wonderful find. It looks like the hobbit village in Lord of the Rings. Our cottage is one big room with a loft for Rafe. The roof is thatch and we sit on tree stumps outside to watch the sun go down.

We dine in the big house on ostrich steaks and butterfish fillets with a central fire-pit for warmth and lanterns for light. The only power after dark is just what’s stored in batteries from the solar panels. There is no moon tonight and the Milky Way is spectacular. In the Southern hemisphere, you look directly toward the galactic core. What a view.

We fall asleep to the sound of peepers- just like spring at home. Also to the sound of energetic young Spanish tourists mating in the nearby cottage. “Are his knees bright pink?” I wonder drowsily. “Will this mating season never end?”

In the morning, sunbeams and showers alternate. The bush here is called ‘fynbos’ which means ‘fine bush’. When the sun is out there are multitudes of brightly colored flowers as if the rainbows are painting the landscape. ‘Fine bush’ indeed!

Our guide for the day is Jonti, the wildlife manager for the reserve. The staff at Buchu packs us a picnic basket and we follow Jonti into the park. Jonti has a bad stutter but his eyes are keen enough. As we drive to the park he points out two bontebok antelope and many elands. There are rare Cape zebras in the park, but since it’s the mating season we don’t see them. “They like to m-m-m-mate in private,” says Jonti. I think to myself, “They must be the only ones!”

Inside the park, Jonti warns us to lock the car doors. “Crime,” we whisper knowingly. “Not crime,” says Jonti. “B-b-b-baboons. They know how to open car doors.”

We take a 5 km nature walk with Jonti who is happy to point out birds, flowers and even the various varieties of ‘scat’. Scat are animal poops – baboon, antelope, ostrich and even porcupine poops.

Back in the car, we meet up with the baboons. Despite their bad rep, these primates are on their best behavior. Mama baboons are nursing. The baby baboons are playing. Even Dad is peacefully picking his fleabites.

We drive to a parking lot and hike over the dunes to a small cottage on the beach where we open our picnic baskets and have lunch. From here you can see whales – lots of whales. They are female Southern Right Whales and their pups – the latter are about 20 feet long. The pups are playing – jumping straight up, waving their tales and flipping their flippers. Rena and I walk the beach but don’t find any shells. A brief shower drives us back to the car, laughing.

Later, Rafe takes over the bar at base-camp and makes caipirinha for the waitstaff. Caipirinha, a concoction of cane liquor, lemons, sugar and ice, is the national cocktail of Brazil. This we enjoy with babooti the national dish of South Africa (ground beef with spices). After dinner Rafe does magic tricks for the staff.

We have a quiet night until Rafe discovers a bat in his bedroom. The sound of Portuguese cursing drifts faintly over the fynbos.

Daktari

Daktari at Home - September 2008

Big Jump for a Small Rider

Yum, Yum at the Beach Plum

Sawyer Island - So Near yet So Far

Pontoon Party on the Essex River

Sunset on the Essex Estuary

Last week’s blog featured the Outdoor Gravity Orb, which just happens to be located in my hometown of Amesbury. There are plenty of other local adventures to be had in this Northeast corner of Massachusetts So, in the interests of having fun while minimizing carbon footprints, here’s a selection of my recent local safaris. (Each selection has at least one highlighted link to click for more info.)

“Have a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” –Fred Rogers

Fidelity Jumper Classic -

“Hey Rena, wanna go watch horses jump over a fence?”
Rena glances up from the sun-chair where she is reading the Daily snews.
“Not really, why do you ask?”
Daktari knows a thing or two about persuasion

“It’s an international competition, it’s five miles away and it’s free,” I plead. “Plus there may be shopping.”

We drive about 15 minutes to the Silver Oaks Equestrian Center near Exeter. The horses and riders come from as far away as Puerto Rico, Europe and Brazil. They compete for a prize of $75,000 and they are wonderful to watch – for an hour or two. There was a bit of shopping, too. But only if you’re into bits, bridles and English leather.

Time to blow Dodge City.
We saddle-up the Suzuki and mosey down the road to our next stop.

“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.” – Dorothy Parker

North Hampton State Beach

This is a cute little pocket beach similar to the neighborhood beaches in Rio.
It’s just at the end of North Hampton on route 1A (right before Rye). Don’t blink as you approach this little gem. It’s only 2 acres with about 20 parking spots. You’ll miss it if you’re not careful. Parking tokens are available for $5 in the bathhouse and are good for 4 hours.

The sand is soft, the view is lovely but the waves today are treacherous. It’s high tide and they break right next to the shore. I hop in just once and find myself tumbled arse over teakettle. The butcher’s bill is only one elbow slightly abraded. Lesson learned!

We’re both feeling a bit peckish. It’s time for lunch. Directly across the road is the Beach Plum. It’s a classic little beach take-out with several picnic tables for seating. A lobster roll and root beer float with vanilla ice cream is worth the safari. The combo creates a gustatory time-warp direct to the 1950’s. Outstanding!

“A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.” -Lord Byron.

“ Yes, on the lobster salad, but I prefer women who drink root beer floats.” – Daktari

Hampton Beach Seafood Festival

We take our bikes off the rack on Rena’s car and pedal down route 1A to Hampton Beach (5 miles) to take in the Seafood Festival. It’s impossible to drive to Hampton Beach during Festival weekend. Plus parking is $25!

The Seafood Fest website says it’s rated by the IRA Motor Group as one of the “Top 100 Events in North America”.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I warn Rena as we pay our $5 to get in. “ If you see gangs of young men wearing cable knit sweaters with strong Irish accents let me know.”

“Right,” says my partner in crime. “I make it a rule not to mess with the IRA –even the pedestrian ones.”

The Seafood Fest is not in my top 100 events list, but there is music, the beach is open, and the lobster macaroni and cheese is to die for. I find a shell bracelet in the sand. Rena buys Sophie an outfit. That kid needs a bigger closet! We bike back, hop in our car and whisk home as the sun sets.

“He who enjoys doing and enjoys what he has done is happy.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Nelson Island and Sawyer’s Island
Another bright sunny Wednesday in North Essex County, Massachusetts. Our morning is spent at the Registry of Motor Vehicles in Haverhill getting new drivers’ licenses. What’s with these cameras at the registry anyway? The photos make us look ten years older. How depressing is that! We need outdoor recreation therapy.

Rena and I drive to a small parking lot in Rowley to take a hike to Sawyers Island in Great Marsh. The North Shore's Great Marsh is the largest continuous stretch of Salt Marsh in New England, extending from Cape Ann to New Hampshire. Its 25,000 acres of salt marsh grasslands, tidal creeks, and estuaries make up one of the richest habitats on earth. (A downloadable map of the Great Marsh is available on the Great Marsh website.)

The original colonial settlers hayed these acres and used the hay to raise beef cattle for the markets in Boston, Portsmouth and other nearby ports. Most of the ‘salt beef’ that fed the crews of whaling ships and trading clippers was itself fed on salt marsh hay from the Great Marsh.

For adventurers there’s lots to explore in this great tidal ecosystem. We walk along a nice road applying bug-spray liberally as we go. Even ‘Ultrathon’, a miracle spray for malaria that I use in Africa, barely dissuades the voracious killer mosquitoes in this swampy lowland.

Oh no! Our adventure ends abruptly about 500 feet from the island. The tide is in and the road is under about a foot of water. I suggest to Rena that we take off our shoes, roll up our pants and wade. No dice! There are some things a lady just won’t do. Subjecting a fine pedicure to swamp water in a salt marsh is one of them.

Note to Daktari: next time check the tides before visiting the Marsh.

Essex River Cruise

We salve our disappointment with a cruise on the Essex River – traversing the Great Marsh by pontoon boat. Our friend Jan is celebrating her birthday and we’re taking the Sunset Cocktail Cruise. The price of admission is a donation to Partners for Development – a favorite charity of Jan’s. She hopes to raise enough to build a house for a family in Guatemala. Pictures of the family and a short talk by P.I.D. founder Gail and the house in Guatemala is well on its way.

The cruise is delightful – great views of the Great Marsh and the barrier island beaches (Crane’s Beach). The birthday cake is cut, the Champagne flows and the sun sets on the Essex River estuary. The absence of root beer floats goes un-remarked except by Lord Byron and Daktari. Who wouldn’t want to live in New England in September?

“Nothing written for pay is worth writing,” – Ezra Pound.

Until my next adventure-
Daktari

Go GO OGO- August 24, 2008

OGO on TRACK

INTO THE HOME STRETCH

INSIDE THE OVOCYTE

BUNGEE RAYS AND RAINBOWS

NO POINTS FOR THE DISMOUNT

A PERFECT TEN

GROWN-UPS ARE SO SILLY!!!

The physics of this latest adventure are straightforward. Imagine a transparent soft-plastic sphere. Inside the sphere place ten gallons of water and two or three thrill-seeking adventurers. Surround the inner sphere with a bigger transparent outer sphere. Now, suspend the inner sphere inside the outer with dozens of opposing bungee cords.

What do you have? It’s an OGO – acronym for Outdoor Gravity Orb.

Now take your OGO to a good size hill and roll it down an 800 foot track. This will generate about 20 OGO revolutions and a top speed of 28 miles per hour in about 41 seconds. The resultant sport is called ‘zorbing’ – very popular in New Zealand.

Want to get in on the action? Believe it or not, there are exactly three OGO’s ready to roll and waiting for you right here at the Amesbury Sports Park in my hometown. Check out the video at: http://www.amesburysportspark.net/

I check it out myself on Thursday and negotiate a special rate for an end-of-summer fundraising event. One day only, Sunday August 24th, $15 for summer tubing and an OGO ride for anyone who donates to my favorite charity -Amesbury for Africa.

Rena is definitely not up for this adventure. My description alone gives her the weebie-jeebies. So I give my young friend Kat a call:

“Hey Kat are you up for an adventure tomorrow.”
I go through the physics for her. I can imagine her eyes glazing over as she listens to the phone.

“To make a long story, short,” she summarizes, “you want me to get into a puddle of water, inside a giant sponge ball and roll down an 800 foot hill?”

“Well, sort of,” I respond. “But it’s for a good cause.”

“Count me in.” she says. “What’ll I wear?”

“A bikini would be nice,” I tease.

“In your dreams, cowboy.”

Next day, we’re at the top of hill. No going back now.
The attendant puts a hose into the inner OGO and starts running water.
“Is it cold water?” Kat asks.
“You betcha,” says our guide. “Take off your shoes and hop in.”

To my trained medical eye, the OGO looks like a giant human ovocyte.
The attendant directs me to dive headfirst through a narrow round tunnel connecting the inner and outer spheres (or is it connecting the cell membrane and the nucleus?) I feel like one of the human sperm paratroopers in the Woody Allen movie ‘Everything you ever wanted to know about sex (But were afraid to ask.)’

“Good thing nobody took a picture of that!” shouts Kat as she tumbles into the freezing cold water.

The gate at the top of the track flies open and the OGO starts to roll.
The screaming starts immediately.

As the OGO rolls forward gathering speed, Kat and I rotate up the back wall of the inner sphere until the wet surface slides us back to the bottom. Soon we’re sliding on our backs down a continuous curving sheet of water while this giant translucent sphere revolves faster and faster around us. As the OGO goes into overdrive, we are transported to the center of a scintillating prismatic spherical universe. Rainbows refract from the OGO’s glistening surface while the bungee cords become flashing radial arrows all pointed directly at us. It’s a wonderful behind-the-waterfall world. We’re still screaming when we hit the pillars of the air corral at the bottom of the run.

I feel like I’ve just been down a roller-coaster in a front-loading washing machine. The attendant unzips the entrance tunnel and slopes it toward the ground. I’m expelled from the OGO’s inner sanctum in breech position with a gush of watery fluid. My feet hit the ground first and then the butt. It’s a near-birth experience! All that’s lacking is to be hoisted up by both feet and smacked on my bum by a large invisible hand. A few minutes later, out squirts Kat for a perfect 10 on the dismount. We're both soaked through - like drowned rats.

The second run Kat goes down with her friend Donna. Originally, Donna was just along to provide moral support. Then she sees that every person coming out of the OGO ball, without exception, looks like she’s having the time of her life. So Donna decides what the heck, it’s only water – and jumps into the ball wearing her street clothes!

That’s the kind of enthusiasm that a ride in the OGO generates! Until my next blog, be sure and have a ball. An OGO ball, of course.
And may all your adventures be fun ones.

DAKTARI

Old Cape Cod - September 7-8, 2007

B & B with private Porch




Breakfast is served!.................................................The Murphy Bed



Desperado from Colorado

(Although I wrote this one year ago, Cape Cod is still the same and so aren't we. Daktari)

Cape Cod is beautiful this time of year. Rena and I are heading for a romantic getaway to a bed and breakfast in Wellfleet. It’s bright and sunny in the late afternoon and the dashboard thermometer reads 93 degrees F. Time to head for the beach!

We stop at a nice restaurant outside Plymouth to have a pizza and a salad in a small café while the Friday evening traffic clears. The waitress is incredibly perky and the Red Sox are winning. So far so good! I tell Rena how thankful I am for this opportunity to be alone for a weekend. “We’re always doing something but never by ourselves. It’ll be like old times.”
“What do you mean we’re never alone!” protests my wife of 36 years.
“When was the last time we did something just the two of us,” I counter.
She thinks for a minute then cracks a wide smile. “Hey, we just spent 38 hours alone together flying from Cape Town to Boston.” We both break out laughing. That trip was not exactly quality time – 4 flights, three stops, endless lines, bad food and expensive airport coffee. Like steerage on the Mayflower – to use a phrase from Cape Cod’s pilgrim past.

We pull into our bed and breakfast about 10 PM. It looks beautiful – a small Victorian house right in the main part of the village. There’s a Koi pond in front filled with fat orange fish coruscating beneath underwater lights. There’s a private entrance to our room which is spacious and has a fireplace. The bed is a Murphy bed – one that folds down from the wall – What fun! We have our own porch so we slip a note under our hosts’ door to serve breakfast outside at 9 AM. And so to sleep – perchance to dream.

Sleep must have been dreamless. I don’t remember anything. The next thing I do remember is scrabbling noises coming from the bathroom along with muttered curses. “Whazzup in there?” I inquire. “I left my deodorant at home,” wails Rena. “Use mine,” I suggest. “But then I’ll smell like a guy,” she complains. “Consider the alternative,” I admonish.

It’s 9 AM and we are sitting on our porch, both smelling vaguely like guys – ahh togetherness and sharing – isn’t that what this weekend is all about? Our porch overlooks the front yard of the Flying Fish Café where the locals are reading their papers and sipping their first java of the day. Our hosts, Dan and Brad, bring the breakfast. They are a very nice couple. (and they smell like guys too!) After introductions, breakfast is served.

Breakfast is fresh coffee, granola, fruit and a basket of muffins – yum! We ask Brad and Dan a little about Wellfleet and try to remember the last time we stayed here. I think it was at least 30 years ago. “I remember our favorite restaurant, Aesop’s Tables and the seafood crepes with a white grape garnish,” I say. Dan and Brad exchange looks. “ Then I think one of us must have served dinner to you guys,” says Dan. “We were the waiters at Aesop’s Tables for years and years.”

Dan gives us some tips on places to eat and then suggests we head to Great Island on the Bay side of the Cape. It’s a nature reserve where footpaths lead to several isolated sandy beaches. Isolated beaches sound good to Rena. In addition to forgetting to bring deodorant she has neglected to bring the bottom of her bathing suit. “I can’t help you there,” I say. So she decides to make do with her bathing suit top and a pair of yellow and pink underpants. She tries on her ensemble and we both laugh. “Hey, this is the Lower Cape. It’s not the first time that folks wearing men’s deodorant take off for the beach in underpants and a bra,” I exclaim. We are laughing again.

The sky is azure and it’s mid-80 degrees. Perfect! Rena’s little orange car with the pink-and-purple mermaid on the driver-side door takes us along the bay to the reserve’s parking lot. Making sure the coast is clear, we hike off along a piney forest path toward Great Island. We remember characters we met on our old days on the Cape: Mary who used to swim down from the nude beach in Truro, heaving her 250+ pounds out of the ocean covered with goose bumps to trudge happily back the way she came. Michael with his boundless enthusiasm. And beautiful busty Rhonda with the seagull feathers in her hair.

We find a beach where there are no other people and arrange our little enclave – folding chairs, newspapers, towel, plastic bag of peaches. The sun is warm but a sea breeze keeps us from feeling it. We both get a little burnt! I go for a swim but can’t entice Rena to join me – underpants at the beach is one thing but wet underpants is definitely over the line.

A woman and her two boys – one aged about 8 and the other about 4 – approach along the waters’ edge. The little one goes on strike just before they reach our spot. He sits down in the sand and won’t go further. Mom and older brother continue on. For some reason this little tableau strikes me. It’s a contest of wills. Will the angry little boy get his way? Will Mom and big brother come back for him? Will he give up and run to join them as they get farther and farther away? Finally Mom gets too far ahead for her own comfort. She turns and heads back, picks up her younger son and the three recede the way they came. It’s mostly wordless – no pleading, cajoling, or angry words. A decision is made without thought. This family could be gazelles on the savannah or ancestral anthropoids traversing the great lake-bed at Olduvai. In the dazzle of the shore, they stand out so clearly illuminated. Parenting seems an ageless dance, complicated but familiar – coming together and then going apart and coming together again. Sometimes I think that beyond words lies a whole “nother world”– like ours but more authentic. The world of dancing birds.

Rena and I hike back the way we came. After changing into tourist outfits back at the B & B, we walk into town and explore. The Wellfleet General store combines food, books and bumper stickers with multi-colored kites and assorted tapes and glues. I buy a bumper sticker which has 01-20-2009 at the top and the caption says “Bush’s Last Day”. I plan to send it to my Mom. Rena spots a poster for a coffeehouse in Eastham. “Tonight 8 PM – Paul Rishell and Annie Raines - Blues Concert”. Sounds good to us.

We set out to find dinner and the coffee house. I give Rena a couple of gifts to mark our little adventure. A CD of tunes that I’ve compiled from the internet and a black and white photo, enlarged to 5 x 7 and framed. It’s me at age 21 when I was working as a hail-chaser in New Raymer, Colorado. I’m in jeans and a work-shirt with binoculars slung over one shoulder and a large sombrero. All of us hail-chasers were wearing sombreros that summer in imitation of the bad guys in the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns. I’m sporting a scruffy beard. My first facial hair - I remember I was quite proud of it at the time. In the background is a washing machine piled high with the detritus of my bachelor prairie existence. It’s 1969, the same year that Rena and I met.

We drive off listening to the new CD and searching for food. Just before passing out from starvation I find a bar and grille in Falmouth where we score a table for two by the window. We share a great lobster salad followed by lobster alfredo. The Red Sox are still winning!

The coffee house is hard to find but we make it just before all the seats are sold out. Great blues - only my damn shoulder has been starting to ache and by intermission it is killing me. It’s been three weeks since I wrenched it while cage diving for great white sharks and it still hurts at the end of the day. We skip the second set and return to our nest to curl up with a DVD. After Rena falls asleep, I turn off the TV.

As I watch her sleeping, I’m thinking of the backyard wedding that we passed earlier on our stroll through Wellfleet. Will the young groom be staring at his spouse’s back in 36 years and fondly remembering the old days? I hope so. Silently in the middle of the night, I wish the two of them the best of luck and many happy years together. Us too.

Daktari

Peeing in the Public Baths - Budapest, Hungary August 25, 2001

Szechenyi Baths Outdoors.......................................................................................Indoors

Vajdahunyard Castle

TECHNOMUSIK RULES (NOT)

THE DANUBE BY NIGHT

PEEING IN THE PUBLIC BATHS
The next day Bernadette, Rena and I take the subway to the Szechenyi Baths. We’re not feeling particularly grimy but everyone says the public baths in Budapest are not to be missed. They are fed by some of the hottest springs in Europe.

At the subway station, Rena notices that nobody pays the fare except us. “Buying a subway ticket must be a tourist thing.” she observes. We stop paying for public transportation after that. When in Budapest do as the Budites and the Pestians. Incidentally, the fare is not the only thing that is free on the Budapest subway. Free entertainment is provided by handsome young Hungarian couples who kiss and nuzzle constantly while riding to and fro.

The Szechenyi baths are a combination of indoor and outdoor pools. The warm pools are relaxing and refreshing on a summer’s day. They are also an acknowledged source of merriment for the locals. Watching tourists from all over the world struggle with the etiquette of bathing in public is a popular spectator sport.

The two ladies and I pay our entrance fee in one line and then move to a second line – this being the one to enter the changing area. After a few minutes, I tumble to the fact that I am the only guy in a long line of women, who are all looking at me and whispering. This happens to be a recurring theme in certain dreams of mine. Quickly, I check my fly to make sure it’s zipped. Whew – all OK there! I smile and say my only Hungarian word (kozonom or thank-you) as I stumble forward to find the men’s line. Guess what? There is no men’s line. Curiouser and curiouser.

Next thing I know, my elbow is seized by a short male bath attendant who is holding back an entire file of whispering women with his other hand. Talking slowly and loudly in Hungarian, he guides me through the turnstile and into the baths. I try to relax – it’s no use. On the far side of the turnstile the whispers are becoming more animated.

Now I’m in big trouble. I’m on one side of the floor-to-ceiling turnstile and Rena is on the other side. She’s way in the back of the women’s line. And she has my swimsuit in her bag! Yikes! I try going back through the gate but the turnstile doesn’t budge. It’s one-way only!

By this time, my cool has deserted me entirely. I’m reduced to calling “YooHOO!” through the slots in the turnstile to try to get Rena’s attention. This must be a very funny word in Hungarian. The whole line of heavy East European women stop whispering and begin to titter and giggle. Meanwhile the male attendant is getting more alarmed. He has probably received training at bath attendant school on how to spot Western perverts. Now he’s becoming suspicious that he has a live one. Calling “YooHOO” in a pseudo-falsetto at a large group of women could be the final event before full frontal exposure. The attendant’s hand grabs for my elbow again.

I try to de-escalate the situation by pantomiming pulling on my speedo - afterwards holding my hands palm up, shrugging and shaking my head. The Magyar ladies are roaring out loud now. Scattered applause is about to break out when the crowd hands Rena to the front of the line.

“You’ve got my suit,” I yell desperately. “Your what?” Rena inquires. “My swimsuit. Give me my swimming suit!”

Rena gives a big “Ohhhh” and collapses on the floor, laughing so hard she wets herself. This brings the house down. Hungarian women are guffawing with tears in their eyes and slapping each other on the back.

Finally my wife stops convulsing long enough to extract my horrid black and green jams from her backpack and shove them through the hole in the turnstile. I grab the suit, shuck the amazed bath attendant, and flee to the men’s room. For the rest of my time in the baths, I wear sunglasses, hoping that no one will recognize me. Wearing sunglasses in an indoor bathhouse does attract a few searching looks from the uniformed pervert patrol but I am able to maintain a modicum of anonymity.

HOUSE OF SEVEN BRIDES
From the baths we sidle over to the Vajdahunyard Castle. This is on an island in City Park. We walk through a “Disney-like” archway into a small courtyard, which is jam-packed with brides. The castle apparently is where every Hungarian Princess comes to marry her Prince Charming. It’s astonishing - at least 7 brides in white and scads of bridesmaids, groomsmen, photographers, antique limos, etc.

“Is that thunder?” asks Bernadette, paranoid about another summer downpour. “No, “ I answer confidently, “It’s just the yard where they turn the trains around.”

We are both wrong. It’s Budapest’s annual ear-shattering techo-musik Love Parade. Flatbed trucks with major amplifiers drive through the streets while hordes of Magyar teenagers climb aboard dancing to the loudest thumping and screeching you have ever heard. Extremely high-energy but the voltage is too much for us. Back to our hotel for aspirins and a cold glass of wine followed by a tour of the opera.

THE HUNGARIAN STATE OPERA
The Opera House is hot, smells of varnish, and is not air-conditioned. But it is free of techno-musik, and the guide explains the lives and loves of the last of the Austro-Hungarian emperors with enthusiasm. While Rena rests her bare back against marble pillars to cool off, our girl guide tells us about Franz Joseph, who disliked Hungarians and hated the opera. So, naturally, he built his Hungarian subjects an opera house - probably as a form of revenge. The Empress, Elisabeth, nicknamed Sisi, spoke Hungarian, loved Hungarians, loved opera and even had an affair with the Prime Minister of Hungary. Hungarians loved her too and built a very nice bridge over the Danube called the Sisi Bridge, so that she could keep assignations with the P.M.

After the opera tour, we learn two more Hungarian words = Karolyi Turos. This is Hungarian for jello and whipped cream mixed together and served on stale piecrust. Don’t get it!

KLEZMER’S GREATEST HIT
We have our showers and naps and then go out for the evening. It’s Saturday night and a crowd is assembling in front of a Jewish community center next to our hotel. We go inside and pay a small fee to see local young people play Klezmer music. They are great! All the old Yiddish and Hebrew favorites. We clap along and keep them playing for over an hour.

The music gives us our second wind and we walk to the waterfront to take a boat ride on the Danube. All the sights are alight and there’s a small fireworks show off the starboard bow. We glide by palace after parliament after church after bridge while drinking free champagne and taking lots of photos. The commentary on the headphones is in Arabic but so what. It’s actually relatively understandable compared to Hungarian!

Midnight finds the three musketeers noshing on blintzes with sour cherries in almond sauce in the public square, while an old man blows up balloons and sends them flying through the moonlit sky. Bye, bye Budapest! We love you!

Daktari

Eurasian Aliens Invade Lake Gardner - July 26, 2008

...................


...Research team Assembles........................................Kat's Weed Gear

KAT WATCHING CAT DO YOGA

Lake Gardner Reflections

.

.............White Water Lily..........................................Eurasian Milfoil

It’s six o’clock AM on Saturday and quiet as a mouse. I brew a pot of tea while I watch the sun pull clear of Powow Hill on the eastern horizon. I’m up early to advance the cause of environmental science. Science is my favorite subject, so why not? But I’m a little worried that today’s expedition won’t get off the ground. Gabriel, my 16-year-old science helper, had a fight with his Mom last night and is grounded. Bummer!

I immediately offered Rena the chance to go muck around the lake at the crack of dawn. That didn’t fly. Rena is definitely not a morning person. Finally, in desperation I called Kat. I know she’s not a morning person either, but I think I talked her into it. Still I’m not sure if she’s actually going to show or not. How many amazing scientific discoveries have been lost due to failure to show up? Woody Allen says 95% of life is showing up and I tend to agree.

At 6:32 AM Kat’s Jetta pulls into the driveway. Amazing – she’s early!! I hand her a mug of my special Kenya tea – a mix of super-strong Kericho Black cut with Borden’s sweetened condensed milk and flavored with a special spice blended by Rasik Sangrajka’s wife and sent to me from Kisumu on Lake Victoria. It’s heaven in the morning and packs quite a caffeine jolt!

The tea combined with perfect butterfly weather (no wind, warm sun and blue skies) dispels any lingering cobwebs. We sit on the deck sipping tea and rubbing the sleep from our eyes as we gaze at the perfect mirror surface of Lake Gardner.

“What exactly are we doing again?” asks Kat.
“Saving the planet from invading aliens,” I respond.
“No way!” exclaims Kat, She throws me a skeptical squint through a cloud of chai vapors
“You’re right, “ I admit, “but pretty close. Bruce thinks that Lake Gardner is besieged by exotic alien plant species which have invaded our backyard ecosystem and are strangling the waterway. Today we’re mounting an expedition to find out.” (My neighbor Bruce is a member of the town Lakes and Waterways Commission.)
“Wow,” says Kat. “Why so early in the morning?”
“Tradition,” I explain. “Vampires and alien invaders are best tackled by teams of scientists and always at the crack of dawn.”
“Vampires?” Kat expostulates. “Who said anything about vampires?”
“Don’t worry, I’m packing garlic just in case.”

I load up Kat with a ton of scientific gear – weed rake, life jacket, paddle, fresh croissants, zip lock baggies, yellow plastic rope, hot-pink measuring tape and a clove or two of garlic – and we head down to the dock. We dump the water out of the old Alligash canoe and clamber aboard. Kat is an experienced kayaker so we have no trouble paddling a mile or so to the Amesbury town beach. We are the first team there. Bruce’s wife Bernadette has baked a fresh blueberry coffee cake to nourish the troops.

At 7:20 we have eight teams of two, each with a canoe. Bruce hands out the maps. Kat and I have sector 1 and sector 2. We re-embark in the canoe and backtrack another 1 ½ miles to the opposite end of the lake. The warmth of the sun on our backs and the calm reflection of the dark green forest ahead, mirrored on the still surface of the water, is delightful. Dragonflies are everywhere and the white water lilies are in bloom. My favorites.

When we reach the first sector line we set up gondola-style, facing each other. I get the boat in position and measure the depth to the bottom. Then Kat dredges the bottom with the weed rake. The resultant smelly collection of bottom weeds is decanted into a ziplock bag. Then I re-position the boat 10 feet further out on the sector line and we repeat the process. When the water is about 8 feet deep, the amount of sunlight reaching the bottom is too little to sustain plant growth. We tie our specimen zip-locs in a trash bag and paddle off to sector 2. What a team!

At sector 2, Kat receives morning greetings from a black cat doing the ‘downward facing dog’ pose on an upturned rowboat. It is a beautiful shot and I snap a pic with the digital before we set to work sampling the bottom feeders at our new locale.

Kat and I are feeling it in the biceps, as we paddle to Bruce’s backyard to examine our finds. All the other teams join in and we discover that only one species is truly threatening our beautiful Lake. It’s the Eurasian milfoil, Myriophyllum matogrosense, and it’s ubiquitous to a depth of about 6 feet. The milfoil is a popular home aquarium plant which has escaped into the wild and now threatens lakes in every state except Wyoming and Montana. Now we know what we’re up against! Bruce says milfoil is a pain to control. One idea is to lower the level of the lake in the winter, exposing the milfoil, so it will freeze to death!

Kat spies a piece of goo sticking to the underside of a lily pad. Oh-mi-god! It’s a Plasmodial slime mold. I get so excited over this little critter. A Plasmodial slime mold involves numerous amoeba-like cells attached to each other. There are no divisions between the amoeboid cells. Instead, a common cell membrane encompasses the whole colony. This "supercell" is essentially a single bag of cytoplasm containing thousands of individual nuclei. Most slime molds are smaller than a few centimeters, but the very largest reach areas of up to thirty square meters, making them the largest single cell organisms on the planet! Our little guy is only about a square centimeter in size, but even so, it’s a rare treat to see a one-cell organism with the naked eye.

By 10 AM the party’s over and we paddle back to my backyard, where Rena is sipping coffee and reading a book on the back deck. “You missed a good one,” I enthuse to Rena. Rena casts a glance at our slimy and smelly exteriors and shakes her head.
“Too early and too dirty, if you ask me!” she says.

Still, Kat and I feel satisfied with our morning’s accomplishments. Kat has a two-year-old’s birthday party at noon, so I wave goodby as she puts the top down on the Jetta and speeds away.

“Vampires, slime molds, crack of dawn, ubiquitous Eurasian invaders – all in a day’s work for Daktari,” I muse as I head for the showers.
“De gustibus non disputandum.”

Daktari

The Miracle of St. Gellert - Budapest August 24, 2001

Dohany Synagogue
St. Gellert with an admiring pupil

Elisabeth ('Sisi') Bridge links Buda to Pest

We are staying at the K + K Opera Hotel right next to the Budapest Opera House. Breakfast is a meal so substantial that we don’t eat again until 10 PM. We exit the K + K and walk a few blocks to the old Jewish quarter. Security is tight for the Wallenberg Memorial and the Dohany Synagogue. The Dohany is the largest synagogue in Europe and second largest in the world. In the synagogue is a traveling exhibit of Chagall paintings. It’s too nice a day; it costs extra; we don’t go.
Instead, we stroll to the Danube waterfront to buy tickets for a Sunday cruise on the river. Sorry - sold out! I step into an antique shop where a small ivory netsuke is calling my name. Only $250!!
We decide to hike to the hilly Buda side of the city - across the “Sisi” bridge, up the Gellert Hill to the Citadel and then down the back of the hill to the Taban or hot-springs district. Here the ancient Celtic inhabitants would sit in the hot water snacking on wild grapes and mastodon jerky while waiting for spring. Much later, Scandinavian diplomats would build embassies and art-deco hotels with saunas and swimming pools heated from the very same springs.
HUNGARIAN- ONE EASY LESSON
Language is a big problem in Budapest. Hardly anyone speaks English. The Hungarian language was brought to Hungary by mistake when Attila, the original Hun, made a wrong turn in 896 CE. He was looking to sack Rome, that being the Holy Grail of Hundom, but stopped in Budapest for a hot bath and voila - a whole country speaking Hungarian.
Incidentally this was also where we got the famous quote, “I think you’re making a wrong turn, Hun.” Spoken by Mrs. Attila of course but in Hungarian, so no one in Europe understood a word. Mrs. Hun had her heart set on spending the winter in Italy with the Pope but, true to his macho origins, Mr. Attila ignored her totally. No one else in the horde much cared one way or another. If grapes and hot baths were good enough for the Celts, they were good enough for barbarians too.
Which brings us to the one word of Hungarian that we manage to learn. It means “Thank You” (we hope). The first time we hear it, we think it’s pronounced “Goosin ‘em”. It’s very hard to express our thanks without breaking up. Especially after we forget the last part and can only remember the “goosin” part. Imagine the consternation of the polite Hungarian waiter who brings an extra plate to the table only to have a group of seemingly sedate American customers yell out “goosa -me” and fall off their chairs laughing. “Goosa -you” is also hilarious.
Bye and bye we find out that the actual expression of Hungarian gratitude is spelled Koszonom and is pronounced “cursin em”. This is a major improvement over our previous efforts. We’ve been cursin’ em in Hungarian ever since.
THE MIRACLE OF ST. GELLERT
At the Citadel, Rena and I try on some surplus Russian military headgear while Bernie manages to lose her guidebook in the ladies toilette. The three of us ponder the fate of St. Gellert, patron saint of Hungarian primary school teachers. Gellert led a saintly life and taught the children of the Hun invaders how to read and write Latin. Some years later, a group of his former pupils recognized their saintly, white-haired teacher. They promptly lassoed him, dragged him behind their horses, stoned him and lanced him through the heart. (Latin, apparently, was not their favorite subject.) Death by former students qualified him for martyrdom – (as if teaching a classroom full of obstreperous Huns was not punishment enough). Beatification followed martyrdom sometime in the 11th century.

While we are looking at St. Gellert’s femur and other bits of bone, Rena goes to the same toilette as Bernie and donates her sweater. An hour later Bernie and Rena realize they are missing one sweater and a guidebook. They go back to the toilette and retrieve their goods from the efficient Magyar toilette attendant. It’s another miracle for the blessed St. G! Is there a patron saint of things left in public toilets? I nominate Gellert.
THE ETERNAL SEARCH FOR FOOD
Hiking down from the Citadel, our stomachs begin to growl. It is quite hot and we are thirsty. We skip the Semmelweis Medical Museum and cross over the “Sisi” bridge into Pest. After Rena buys two embroidered table cloths, we cash some dollars at the local beauty parlor and, flush with forints, saunter into the Central Cafe for a light snack - coffee laced with vanilla ice cream and accompanied by Dobos torte - seven layers of butter creme separated by thin slices of chocolate cake. Topped with caramel! Yum.
This pretty much settles our appetites. Back to the K+K for naps and showers. At night, our maniacal cabbie, Karolyi, takes us to the Hungarian State Folklore Orchestra. The orchestra plays beautifully and the dancers are enthusiastic, but I get distracted by the cello player on the end who is a dead-ringer for Gene Wilder. I kept expecting him to fall off his chair or shoot his bow out into the audience.
After the concert we stop at an outdoor cafe to eat. After two hours with nothing served but a salad and a bowl of goulash, we plunk down some forints and leave. Now we know why Hungarian girls are so thin!
Our stroll home is very pleasant with no tropical downpours. The lighted chain bridge and parliament buildings and the bulk of St. Stephen’s Cathedral guide us back to the opera house and home. Five squares of Toblerone and another hit of Ambien and it’s lights out.

DAKTARI