I am back in Cape Town and this time, miraculously, my suitcase arrived on the same flight. The Ethiopian treasures are intact and Peter's specially requested Irish beer (bought in a dodgy London café) is chilling in the fridge.
This will be the last post for a while... that is, until the feet start itching again. Right now the only place I want to be is a hot bath and then bed.
Originally used by loggers in the late 1800s, the Capilano Suspension Bridge sways 70 metres above a river bed on Vancouver's North Shore.
The current bridge was built in 1956, in just 5 days. The guides assured us, however, that the massive concrete blocks anchoring each end of this 137m long contraption are still sturdy enough to hold an aircraft. With that nerve-calming information I happily ventured over the ravine. On the other side awaited a tree-tops adventure of suspended walkways between towering pine trees. Spectacular!
For more pictures, see the official website's photo gallery.
Glimpses of Squamish culture. On the left, red and black dominate native designs. On the right, a totem pole in Stanley Park commemorates the Raven Chief of Skedans.
Salmon iconography features prominently in this region: on roadside banners, restaurant menus, souvenirs, jewelry and particularly in native designs.
Below, a newly carved totem pole on the North Shore depicts leaping salmon. The fish are central to Squamish folk lore.
Read the legend of why the salmon came to the Squamish.
Vancouver's pavements are ordinary concrete. But, some creative soul decided to set them apart from every other city by stamping leafy patterns into the surface. Nice touch. And one that makes me smile every time I see maple leaves scattered around my feet.
Clockwise, from top left: here be sea planes; Gastown's steam operated clock; a painted bear project, similar to Cape Town's roving cow exhibit; Vancouver city
No luggage. Again. I'm starting to wonder if there's a deeper message I'm not picking up....
There's still snow on the mountains in Vancouver. We flew over Iceland and then north of Greenland to get here - nearly the furthest place I could be from home.
What do you prioritise if you only have one day of sightseeing in London? Everything! The only reason I'm fortunate enough to adopt this attitude is that I had a personal guide, he had a car, and I arrived so early in the morning that there was no traffic in town. We drove around for nearly three hours, passing all the major sights between Heathrow and Richmond Park.
Later, after a Starbucks run and pastries we hopped on a red double-decker to make the obligatory pilgrimage to Harrods. There I marveled at the price tags (beluga caviar at £3,000.00 a kilo anyone?) and broke the bank buying tea. To clear my head after such excess, we took a stroll along the embankment until Big Ben appeared through the trees. And then it was time to go again. Next stop, Vancouver. (But I've flagged the Michelangelo exhibit at the British Museum and a tour of the Tower for my return leg.)
I flew in from Ethiopia yesterday morning, camped out in the airport for 6 hours, boarded the flight to London and was just settling in when the pilot announced a technical fault. He had to pull off the runway to talk with the engineers. Half an hour later we returned to the boarding gate for inspection. It took an hour for them to figure out what the problem was and determine that it could be fixed. An hour after that they’d located the parts. Two hours, dinner and a movie later, they realised that the problem wasn’t going to be resolved within regulation working hours. So we were forced to return to the terminal, collect luggage and then wait for a shuttle to an airport hotel. At 2am I sunk into bed, disappointed that I wouldn’t be waking up in the UK and frustrated that I would have to wait until tonight for the next flight out of Joburg. It would have been better to go home and see my greatly missed husband briefly. But my tickets couldn’t be rerouted. Sigh. So here I am again at Johannesburg International, passport in hand, for round two. Hopefully my next blog entry will be from the land of red double-decker busses!
When we arrived at a packed tourist restaurant last night with no reservation, it seemed like we'd either have to sit at the bar or find another place for dinner. But such is the flexibility of Ethiopian dining (stools and woven tables can be gathered together informally in any available space) that our sizable group could be accommodated. It just so happened that the only open floor space was at the base of a stage... a stage on which, as we were soon to discover, a pageant of traditional singing and dancing would take place. And we had front row seats.
What a marvel! A small orchestra accompanied one spectacularly costumed singer after the next while the cast performed the indigenous dances of Abyssinia. Their repertoire ranged from graceful to frenetic, with much fancy foot work and rhythmic gyrations.
There's live music, modern art and oodles of atmosphere to be found down the side streets of Addis. And raw meat too, if you're game. I was tempted, briefly, but joined my companions in opting for the less daring alternative. We were seated in a dimly lit nook around a low table, with our beers occupying small triangular side tables of their own. A few meters away a succession of crooners covered the local hits, and traditionally dressed waitresses bustled up and down with silver pitchers for hand washing. Our food - a tasty assortment of meaty sauces and spicy dips - arrived on a huge brass platter. Tucked around the edges and fanned out beneath the feast were rolls of injera, a sourdough pancake which is used for scooping up stews. We dipped and mopped and smacked our lips for the better part of an hour while families around us jiggled their babies to the music and danced with their shoulders.
Today, I am told, is St Stephens day. This information was provided by a broad-smiling Addis native who followed us to the steps of a large church. Since early morning sounds of singing and amplified sermonising had carried to our hotel, and it took no more than a short walk along the main road to locate the source. 
As loud halers broadcast the service within, a collection of Addis Ababa's needy squatted outside on every available stair. Grubby children, covered outcasts, diseased beggars, impoverished family units. The scene would have been unfathomably grim if it were not for the profusion of umbrellas that surrounded them. 'What's so remarkable and uplifting about a few brollies?' you may ask. But never have I seen the humble umbrella dressed up with such extravagance. Brightly patterned fabrics, brocades and velvet ribbons festooned every one, each arc clashing wonderfully with its neighbour. This is the stuff of parades, I thought. Unfortunately mass was still underway and I had to get to my meeting. But as I sit in a subtly toned conference centre, I wonder if I'm missing a wild procession of colour in honour of St Stephen.
The Merketo sector of the city heaves with activity. Cutting their way through the throngs of women draped in white Doko cotton are men carrying enormous woven baskets on their heads (often brimming with bananas) and boys ferrying fresh produce. Donkeys and goats abound, as do beggers who line the side streets displaying their swollen limbs and amputations.
How does a girl feel better when there's no hot water for a shower, breakfast is iffy and she's wearing yesterday's socks? She trips off to the local market and spends lots of dollars on intricately hand-woven textiles.
Two hours to get across town, track down a coptic cross, negotiate the price of fabric and get back to the conference venue wasn't much. The aesthetic in me confesses that it wasn't a bad start (the green and gold chevron cloth is destined for home-decor glory), but the practical traveler wants to take another sortie into the gritty streets to pick out prezzies and take pictures.
Just 20 minutes ago I was smugly declaring that I've never had luggage problems. Alas, this is no longer true. My bag, just one ordinary bag containing nothing but clothes, a wire ostrich for a family friend, and my bag of toiletries has been kept in Johannesburg for security reasons. Well, that's what the slip that the officials are waving about says. The same is true for all the Capetonians who checked their baggage straight through. We must be very high risk passengers.
The airport has given us some local currency to cover incidental costs, but at this time of night we're unlikely to start hunting about the city for toothpaste and clean undies. All we've been able to find at the airport, in a shop bulging with plastic flowers, are some traditional shirts. I'm sure they are twice the street price, but right now the prospect of something fresh to wear in the morning is all that matters.
All the major roads in Addis are lit by orange street lights and the secondary ones are barely visible from the air. The effect is quite beautiful - like a glowing spiderweb with a million tiny dew drops twinkling in the morning sun.
Tonight I watched the clouds light up in the west, until all that was left was a strip of neon red. Since then, there have only been three or four coloured beacons and one small cluster of lights below us. Fifteen pinpricks at most. We must have passed Mount Kilimanjaro by now and should be skirting Nairobi within the next half hour. Earlier we traveled along a vast body of water, but there's been no flight data since we took off so I don't know whether the silvery surface was a river or a lake.
The plane is loaded with conference delegates and conversations over seat backs are animated. A colleague of ours from Durban is (still) entertaining the WebCT man with his deliciously controversial take on e-learning. Occasionally, the frustrated two-year old one row back lets out a piercing skwalk, and the cabin crew have just whisked up and down the aisles for the third time offering coffee top ups. I declined, but my neighbour says the brew didn't live up to Ethiopian standards.
I'm not sure I've ever tasted any coffee from this part of the world, so I can't cast my vote yet. I have no doubt, however, that there will be plenty of opportunity to sample the local java over the next few days. Our trip coordinator will make sure of that. Not that he ever touches coffee – there's enough natural energy in him to make caffeine a dangerous additive – but his impressive networking skills have already secured us a friendly host for dinner in Addis Ababa one evening.
A dislike for writing group emails (and I've written plenty) prompted me to start this travel-related blog. I prefer the flexibility of posting quick updates to scribing a long account of where I've been and what I've been up to. I hope you agree!
