I didn’t truly discover this until I walked into one of Seoul’s premier bakeries. Squeezed in between trays of flawless croissants and perfectly executed fruit tarts were stacks of hot dogs, or at least a near relative of my childhood favorite. These “dogs” however were spruced up, baked in flaky puff pastry and wrapped with crisp bacon. They were offered as a quick meal to the bustling lunch crowd, workers who popped in for a bag of treats to take back to the office.

Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog in Puff Pastry

I eyed them with suspicious before moving on to displays of glutinous rice cakes and red bean donuts. The pastry case, full of light chiffon and sponge cakes: green tea sweet potato and mocha tiramasu, quickly diverted my attention. The hot dog would have to wait.

Cakes at the Paris Baguette Cafe

I must admit, though, that afterwards I was fascinated by my discovery and when not visiting palaces and museums, I delved deeper into the Korean hot dog mystery. It seems they were introduced during the Korean War, when food was scarce and many people survived off US Army surpluses. The locals didn’t originally take to the famed processed meat, choosing at first to disguise its flavor in a stew called “Budae jjigae,” which literally translates to “base stew.”

Little by little, though, they grew fond of the hot dog, taking it to new heights with toppings and wrappers such as: mashed potatoes, french fries, seaweed, coleslaw, egg salad, and even slices of avocado with thousand island dressing. Even the Korean franchise of Pizza Hut weaves hot dogs into the outer crust of their pepperoni and cheese pies.

Assorted Hot Dog Display

Who would have thought?

Looking for a place to stay, I found a youth hostel with excellent reviews. I had thought my days of community sleeping were over, but the place sounded so appealing I made a quick decision—return to my roots and embrace sharing a bathroom with twelve strangers.

Entrance to Hongdae Guesthouse

Within minutes of my arrival to the Hongdae Guesthouse, I had a home and friends. In between visiting the royal palace and national museum, I spent hours talking to Mr. Kim, the hostel’s enthusiastic thirty-something manager. He had a plan—together we would build an empire of Mexican restaurants.

Palace Pagoda

The next day after a morning chat that lasted 3 hours, Kim insisted I check out our competition and gave me explicit instructions to Seoul’s most popular Mexican restaurant. I followed his clues with baited breath only to end up standing in front of Taco Bell. Yes, Kim was right, we would make a fortune.

Palace--Changing of the Guard

I spent my evenings in the cozy living room with Choi, the night manager, discussing our mutual love of travel. He worked at the hostel to learn about the world and saved his salary for journeys to unknown places, his family and friends chastising him for his vagabond ways. His last trip was to Canada, where he discovered that camping in non-designated areas could lead to arrest…and a free jailhouse meal. Learning the secret to hot morning coffee without ever lighting a match, Choi strategically planned where to pitch his tent every night.

Herbal Market--Seaweed Vendor

I ate an incredible meal of grilled pork (incorrectly translated to “small fried hog”) with a variety of condiments, many seasoned with kimchi: spinach with soy bean paste, radishes and boiled cabbage, bean sprouts with shredded carrots.

Small Fried Hog

I rode on the cleanest, most efficient subway I’d ever seen. It was a futuristic world of spotless bilingual trains and small subterranean cafés with piped-in Mozart and Illy coffee. Some stops even had sitting areas with park benches and potted plants.

Traditional Korean Kitchen

Who knew this world existed?

My stay in Korea was brief, but I will return. And when I do, I’ll look up Mr. Kim, for I plan to give Taco Bell some serious competition.

I have seen a few dogs and processed food to feed them, but the poor cat,
woman’s best friend, has been forgotten. The famed felines seem to be dearly
loved, but mainly in theory and on Hello Kitty paraphernalia.

Store after store understands what I’m searching for, that is after reenacting a
desperate cat trying to shovel food into its mouth. “Meow,” I cry in my best Petey
imitation. The clerk meows in return, then shrugs and nods her head, sorry to
disappoint me.

The game of charades seems entertaining to most, but futile for poor Petey,
who doesn’t approve of his creative dining options. He wants Friskies, preferably
beef or salmon, and he wants them now. While hot on their trail I see the sites of
Ulaan Baatar.

Sukhbaatar Square

The town is a child of the communist era, a Soviet satellite that has seen better
times, or maybe not. Crumbling sidewalks and dreary concrete buildings, with
a pastel-painted theater thrown in for good measure, landscape downtown.
However, “progress” has begun. Tall cranes stand on the horizon ready to build
skyscrapers and a new democracy rich with gold, copper and uranium. Will this new-found mineral wealth benefit the country or destroy its pristine land the roaming horses and two-humped camels? The battle is just beginning.

The modern world is also encroaching with sleek coffeehouses and fancy restaurants, hidden inside unassuming structures, offering top-notch cappuccino and pasta, as well as Korean barbeque and locally brewed German-
style beer.

Genghis Khan

Bronzed statues of powerful Mongol warriors dot the Parliament building on
Sukhbaatar Square, paying homage to a culture that once was the most powerful
on the planet. Old men walk around in their winter dell, a wool-lined coat of bright silk, and embroidered felt boots, cozy fur hats covering their heads.

Traditional winter wear

While Petey sheds a few pounds, refusing boiled chicken and fresh liver, I go to museums and cashmere stores, tempted by buttery soft sweaters and warm scarves. Camel hair, angora and top-notch cashmere are some of Mongolia’s gifts to the world, not to mention the creation of felt, the first fabric, still used for housing and clothes.

My nanny job ends when I leave the country without a carrying case and furry
bundle meowing at my feet. Petey is Mongolian now and will have to survive in a
new world with an exotic diet of homemade dinners, nothing packaged, nothing
canned. He will soon be a convert to fresh food; I will be looking for another cat
to traipse around the world with.

Kris in Mongolia in borrowed fur hat.

Petey hails from the Balkans, an Albanian charmer, who loves to snuggle in front of a fire, or so I’ve been told. Licking yogurt from my fingers and sniffing chicken on my breath make him purr in delight.

When Petey’s mother, Jennifer, asked me to accompany him to their new home in Mongolia, I jumped at the opportunity, honored to be called his cat nanny, if only for a week.

Petey (on the right) with his sister, Jasmine

The trip was long and arduous: Mexico-San Francisco-Seoul, three countries and currencies before we reached our destination: a frigid land sandwiched between Russia and China still in the midst of winter, even though they referred to it as spring.

I knew I was in trouble when the preliminary weather reports boasted lows of –17 and –14. When the thermometer failed to move above zero, I placed an online order for boots, gloves and earmuffs.

Petey only had his fur and a sturdy carrying case, a small bag of treats and limited patience. He didn’t enjoy his trip over, but neither did I. Disembarking with no sleep, a blast of cold air awoke me and I pulled Petey close, a kitty coat was not among our possessions.

We drove into the capital of Ulaan Baatar at midnight along a frost-covered road with views of snow-capped mountains. Looking at the barren land with distant smoke stacks I was suddenly alert and curious. What would this land be like??

….to be continued

I know this sounds intriguing, even magical, however we were not alone. The camera was rolling and recording our every move. Illusions of intimacy were further diminished by the four identically dressed couples weaving between us as Leonard Cohen sang, “Take this Waltz”. We moved with care, surrounded by cactus of every size and shape, as well as open, unmarked mine shafts, which plummeted 200 feet into a dark abyss of icy water.

Francisco Towers at Santa Brigita

Mineral de Pozos, a working town of 70,000 during the 19th century, was a picturesque ghost town known for hiking, exploring and the occasional tidy disposal of dead bodies by the time we arrived to film a music video. The flooded shafts and lack of witnesses earned Pozos its reputation for discreet body tossing. I knew of at least one person who has taken advantage of the facilities, however his conscience got the best of him and he soon confessed to the authorities.

Pozos Family

The ruins of Pozos are still standing, just as they were when I waltzed on its graveled ground. The howling wind and sweeping mountain views haven’t changed. Squatters, though, have devoured some of the crumbling stone houses, creating privacy by hanging sheets over the doors and windows. They use the large prickly pear cactus that dot the landscape to dry their clothes and the fallen mesquite trees for cooking.

Among this deserted landscape I found Don Raymundo, the town’s last living miner. He is now custodian of Santa Brigita, the area’s original mine, founded by the Franciscans in the late 16th century. He has worked on the property his entire life, starting at the age of 15, when he went down into the deep shafts to carry out 50 kilo bags of rock that were later sorted into piles of potential silver, gold and mercury.

Don Raymundo

Don Raymundo still possesses a shape mind and agile body, even though he has no idea how old he is. “Maybe 80,” he says when I pry into his personal life. In another sentence he claims to be 65, but that would conflict with his childhood memories of the Cristero War between Church and State in the 1920s.

House at Santa Brigita

“I was paid a peso a day,” the elderly man tells me. “It was just enough to buy corn.” The corn was then milled into masa and rolled into tortillas, which was everyone’s staple diet, along with nopal cactus and beans. Don Raymundo informed me that most miners didn’t have money for more than one set of clothes, so they crawled into the mountains naked, even in the freezing cold. Like most men of his generation, he married young, at 16, and soon had a large family to support. He claims to be one of the lucky ones though—he survived the mines and had enough to eat. Many were not so fortunate.

Ruins at Santa Brigita

When I asked Don Raymundo if he has any fond memories of the old days, he looked at me with surprise and disbelief. Obviously, their depth of despair had not completely sunken in to my modern, comfortable mind. “It was a hard, grueling life. Every day we struggled just to stay alive,” he emphasized with a serious demeanor.

Waltzing among history so many years ago, I never realized the misery of the land and was glad I had a warm, cozy bed and full stomach in 2010.

Chicken a la Veracruzana

From Los Famosos de Pozos Restaurant & Savoring San Miguel Cookbook

The cuisine coming from the state of Veracruz on the Gulf Coast has a predominantly Spanish influence. When the conquistadores landed on the shores of Mexico 500 years ago, they brought olive oil, capers, and green olives. These ingredients, along with ripe, red tomatoes, which are native to the Americas, form an important part of the Veracruz kitchen. This dish substitutes chicken for the originally red snapper.

6 servings

6 boneless, skinless chicken breasts

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 white onion, sliced
4 Roma tomatoes, chopped
1 cup whole green olives
1/4 cup capers
4 whole Guero chiles
3+1 tablespoons chopped parsley
Salt and black pepper to taste

1. Place the olive oil in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. When hot, add the chicken breasts and brown on both sides. Remove.

2. Add the onion and cook until tender, about 5-8 minutes. (Add more olive oil if necessary.)

3. Add all the other ingredients along with 1 cup of water (or chicken stock). Season with salt and pepper. Cook for a few minutes. Return the chicken to the pan. Lower to medium heat, cover and cook until chicken is done, about 8-10 minutes.

4. Place cooked chicken on a platter and cover with the sauce. Garnish with the extra tablespoon of parsley.

In addition to traditional festivities, Mexico unveiled la “Ruta 2010”, which is a series of routes that commemorates various historic movements and encourages people to drive, or bus, through Mexican history. San Miguel is part of the Freedom Route that tracks the footsteps of Miguel Hidalgo from Guanajuato to Chichuahua. The Democracy and Zapatista routes cover other areas of the country, where a series of museum and cultural exhibitions strive to educate people on the sacrifices made in the name of freedom.

Neighbor getting ready for parade

Thousands of onlookers viewed our local parade last Thursday, full of men and women on horseback, some dressed in 19^th century period costumes, others in the rags of revolutionaries. As every year, General Allende led the troops as the crowds cheered him on. The nights were filled with endless fireworks and hordes of people circulating in the jardin, wearing the Mexican flag in many forms–skirts, scarves and bandanas were among the most popular.

Radio interviews featuring the country’s centenarians filled the airwaves during the entire week. Hundreds of people told their stories, recreating a vivid history for listeners and personal accounts of family hardship during the revolution.

Chile en Nogada

Chiles en Nogada (Chiles in a Walnut Sauce)

Considered the national dish of Mexico for its colors—green, red and white (like the country’s flag), this interesting dish is normally served on Mexico’s Independence Day. It was originally created in the eighteen century to showcase the fall fruit harvest when apples, pears and peaches were added to the recipe. Feel free to do the same.

8 servings

8 roasted and cleaned poblano chiles

1 tablespoon oil

1 small white onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, chopped

2 pounds ground beef

1 cup tomato puree

1 cup chopped almonds

1 cup chopped pecans

1 cup raisins

1/2 cup chopped biznaga (candied cactus) or citron

2 sticks cinnamon

1 teaspoon thyme

1/2 teaspoon ground gloves

1/2 teaspoon allspice

2 bay leaves

salt and pepper to taste

Sauce:

2 cups Mexican cream

1 cup chopped walnuts (or pecans)

1 tablespoon Worchester sauce

pomegranate seeds to garnish

1.    Place the oil in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. When hot, add the onion and garlic. Cook for about 5-8 minutes. Add the beef and continue cooking until browned.

2.    Add the remaining ingredients and simmer over low heat for 20-30 minutes. Remove the cinnamon sticks and bay leaves.

3.    Fill the roasted poblano chiles with the beef mixture.

4.    For the sauce, place all the ingredients into a blender and puree. Spoon over chiles.

5.    Garnish with pomegranate seeds. Serve at room temperature.

Betty still loves Bananas

On the long flight home I asked myself some hard questions. Was our time together more about me than her? What would happen if the awaiting baboon family didn’t accept her? Would I want to know the truth, or prefer to envision the fantasy world I had created, where her days would be spent in the sun surrounded by attentive admirers fighting over grooming privileges. In another scenario I would return to Malawi where she would run into my arms, squeaking in delight, her claws carefully tucked in and her powerful jaw only used for kisses.

Blond Betty with Surrogate Mother Ida

I couldn’t bring Betty back to Mexico, even though she would love spending her days in the restaurant’s garden, swinging from the avocado tree to the fruit-laden guava branches before jumping onto the banana palms. Where, holding on to its sturdy trunk, she would reach for the familiar yellow fruit. El Buen Cafe’s patio wouldn’t be such a bad place for an orphaned baboon, but Betty needed to be with her own kind and in her own country.

When I got news from the Wildlife Center a few days ago that Betty had finally left the security of her cage and was now successfully living with the troop, I was overjoyed. She passed her socialization test and was now the most popular baboon in the bush. I was prouder than any mother could be, knowing Betty made the tricky transition and now had an extended family to play with, but more importantly to protect her.

Betty with her Admirers

Remke, the Dutch woman who took over Betty’s care when I left, explained that our little girl was in demand, all the young baboons wanted to be her friend. The females acknowledged the newcomer, scooping Betty up in their arms when necessary. The biggest challenge, though, was Cornelius, the alpha male, who was separated from the troop for a few days until everyone met and welcomed Betty. He would make or break the deal, endangering her short life, if he didn’t like her. However, my charming girl won him over as well. Did my motherly coos confirming that she was the most beautiful baboon baby in the world help build her confidence?

When a customer at the cafe recently saw a picture of Betty on my computer, she gasped, “What is that creature? It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.” I wanted to hurl the woman out of the building, preferably from the third floor, but lucky for her the house has only one story. I do admit Betty’s ears are a little large, but she will grow into them; the pink bottom will darken, but it’s there to stay. She’s almost doubled in size at six months, as well as become a stunning blond almost overnight.

Some of you are probably thinking–enough about baboons already! So, now that Betty is safe and has a family of her own we can focus on food again and leave Africa behind, at least until my next primate parenting adventure.

“Luckily, the last time I saw a black mamba on the road,” Peter, the thin, bald African man on my left chimed in, “I was able to shout for the passengers to roll up their windows just before it stood up.”

Giraffes & Zebras

I was getting jittery with all the animal stories, but it had been my idea after all, so I had to stay and listen to tales that would become animated nightmares as soon as I went to sleep. I was on safari again, this time in Zambia, at Luangwe National Park, one of the most spectacular in Africa.

When I went to sign up for the trip, after hearing repeatedly that it was something I couldn’t miss, I was told that there was no more space. But, if I would agree to alternate accommodations, they could squeeze me into their jeep for the 7-hour ride. Without asking for specifics, I agreed to the special situation and went home to pack my bag.

Betty-size Baboon in the Bush

Zambia’s countryside was not much different than Malawi’s, except the children wore school uniforms. They shared their neighbor’s architecture and deep, rich red soil, as well as the AIDS epidemic and average life span of 38 years.

African Eagle--natural bird of Zambia

The hot, bumpy ride to Luangwe was tiresome and difficult, but I enjoyed the company of my fellow travelers: a young Danish couple, a mother and daughter from Australia and an Indian family, who lived in Blantyre, Malawi’s largest city. When they checked into their serene, rustic lodge and agreed to meet under the thatched hut for drinks, I was a little sad to be going to “alternate accommodations”, whatever that meant.

Babying Elephants Awakening from Nap

Our tour guide, Ben, who resembled a middle-aged (black) Gandhi in appearance and demeanor told me, after the others had left, that we were going to a special place, a much better place. “Really,” I answered, “better than this?”  “Oh yes, you will see,” Ben assured me. “It’s the lodge where all the guides stay, right on the river with the best food in the park.”

Water Buffulo

Ben was true to his word; Crocodile Valley was luxurious, in the most natural habitat possible. The guides slept in their own tents, but I was treated to a chalet, built like a tree house with simple wooden walls and a floor made from hand-woven reeds. When not driving around the park looking for animals (6-10am and 6-10pm) the guides and I ate, drank and whiled away our lazy afternoons together.

Chalet Crocodile Valley

I was the token white woman in a group of fascinating men, experts on nature and wildlife. Passing the time, I begged for more stories. I would say the name of an animal—elephant, and they would compete to see who had the most exciting tale. It was my own, personal “Animal Planet”, live and on location.

Hippo munching on Grass

Hippo—George won by recounting the time he saw a crocodile charge a baby hippo on the river’s shore, thinking it was alone. The croc’s mouth opened wide, ready to snatch the creature when its mother, who had been underwater, reared her head and opened her immense, powerful jaw, biting the reptile in half. The crocodile’s mouth was still open and within an inch of grabbing her baby, before it had any idea what had happened.

Leopard at Night

I learned how to track lions and elephants, and look for leopards at night—follow the baboon calls. When Peter told me that baboons were the smartest animals in the bush, I confided in him that I was a baboon mother and that my baby was brilliant, so it came as no surprise.

Male Bushbacks ready to Fight

“Madam, I made a cake for you,” the lodge’s cook told me one afternoon. As a very appreciative boarder, I showered him with daily compliments. Saying, honestly, he made the best food I had eaten in Africa. I was rewarded with even more food, special desserts and loin-size portions. The guides marveled at my appetite, saying they had never seen a woman eat so much. I replied that safaris made me hungry.

Lion Yawning

When I reunited with my group for our return journey to Malawi, they said they had seen me in the park, driving around with my men, looking like a white African Queen. I had to agree; I had felt like a Queen, or at least a princess, showered with attention and knowledge, not to mention fabulous banquets and incredible insight. My alternate accommodations had provided me with an unforgettable experience and what I hope will be lasting friendships.

Luangwe at Sunset

Thatched-roof village

Even though the scenery was fascinating and new to my sight and senses, I focused instead on storefront signage as we drove through various villages. The first tiny, urban space we passed was home to the “I Like Beer” bar, standing next to the “Beautiful Head” beauty salon, which happened to be across from the town’s coffin store. Another 20 minutes down the road was a line of buildings featuring “Uncle Joe’s Investments” and “You like my Price” grocery (most likely owned by Uncle Joe), located next to another coffin maker, his crew busy assembling a set of simple, brown wooden boxes for display.

Malawian storefronts

Arriving to Senga Bay, the area’s main town–15 kilometers from the water, we got a flat tire. Many people stopped to ask if we needed help, but my friend Joseph, who ran the wildfire center’s campsite, and his friend, Elias, managed to fix the problem within minutes. While standing on the side of the road I noticed a dilapidated building in front of me. It was the “Only God knows” tearoom, sitting beside a billboard promoting a liquid soap appropriately named “Dirt is not Good”. I decided I liked the straightforward marketing approach of Malawians and should rethink my own restaurant name. Maybe something like “I Believe in Gluttony” or “Good Food at Low Prices” café might bring in more customers.

Woman sifting corn

Pulling back onto the road we passed another coffin store where a group of men were carrying away a newly polished, handcrafted, rectangular box. I quickly buckled my seat belt and prayed that I wouldn’t be supporting their business any time soon. Instead, I would help the local economy by purchasing arts and crafts, as well as eating my share of the lake’s famous Chambo fish.

Village corn silo

With shorelines in Malawi, Tanzania and Mozambique, the lake’s long, narrow body of water encompasses over 11,000 sq. miles and is home to the world’s largest variety of fresh water fish. Fishing villages surround the lake, providing employment the country cannot otherwise afford, even though its resources are stretched too thin by overpopulation—Malawi being the most populous (by square meter) country in Africa.

Lakeside clothes washing

Senga Bay is home to a few tourist lodges, scattered among the mud huts and fishing boats. Even though rooms and restaurants are very simple, they contrast greatly to the poverty beyond their walls. Most visitors spend their time in the waves and snorkeling. I, however, opted not to press my luck with bilharzias (a fresh water parasitic disease) and instead walked awkwardly through the nearby village, making friends with a group of girls who offered to show me around. They told me my sweat-drenched, old clothes, stained from working with Betty (toilet training a baboon was not one of my responsibilities) were beautiful, the prettiest they had ever seen. I thought of ripping them off my back and leaving them behind, but nudity wasn’t allowed on the beach.

Village girls

We spent the afternoon together, learning about each other, before I headed back to what now was incredible luxury: a bed, a table, a chair, a mosquito net and running water. I wanted to visit the “God only Knows” tearoom and find out why I had such good fortune and my new friends did not. I settled for a beach chair and evening sunset instead, contemplating my social responsibility to the world. What is my part in all of this? How am I meant to make a difference? Discovering the answer will take longer than a day, or a weekend at the lake.

Cool Runnings Lodge

I came to a crossroad this past weekend when asked if I wanted an ensuite bathroom at the Mvuu Lodge campsite in Liwonde National Park–Malawi’s largest and most important, renowned for its large herds of wild elephants. I debated for a long time, not wanting to spend the money, but I was tempted by the thought of my own private bathroom after weeks of sharing with an entire family. Even though I knew it was a self-centered, needless luxury I decided to splurge on my weekend safari.

It was a decision I would not regret. A decision which proved I had learned at least a few lessons in life.

Entrance to Mvuu Logde

I didn’t need to wait years, or even weeks, to see the wisdom of my choice. After settling in at the lodge, I spent ample time admiring the stone and ocher-colored bathroom, with its natural wooden fixtures and cool concrete floor. I reveled in the unique craftsmanship, taking pictures to show friends. Little did I know then that I’d spend my entire trip in this majestic setting.

Within hours of eating dinner in the lodge’s attractive, yet dimly lit thatched hut, I got deathly ill. It was the kind of food poisoning that leaves you unable to move, to even lift your head or open your eyes. Having spent half my life in third world countries the sensation was familiar, the self- diagnoses immediate.

Perfectly camouflaged monitor lizard

The park’s animals took note of my confinement and eagerly agreed to provide me with an ensuite safari. By the light of the moon a giant hippo walked up from the nearby river, searching for his dinner within my view. He was followed by a group of warthogs, with intimidating tusks, who seemed content to mow the law with their exceptionally sharp teeth, snorting and munching for hours.

Crocodile awaiting his next meal

Loud thumps on the rooftop, in chorus with rattling branches of nearby trees, awoke me the next morning. A troop of small Vervet monkeys had come to play. Running, jumping and flying from limb to limb, they provided endless entertainment through the screened walls, which served as windows, while I was still tucked away in bed.

Visiting Vervet Monkey

Two days later I emerged from my cool, comforting surroundings for the morning boat safari. Impalas grazed on the shore, then gracefully flitted away, light on their feet. Crocodiles sat motionless, jaws wide open, waiting for unsuspecting prey. Hippos filled the river’s shallow edges, cooling their bodies up to their eyes and ears.

Hippos cooling off in the water

The sound of rushing water, crashing into an unseen barrier, distracted me from the vivid, yet perfectly camouflaged colors of a monitor lizard. “They are coming,” our guide, George, said with a big smile. We waited, the sound getting louder, the waves stronger, but we could not figure out who or what was coming.

The nearby shore was fringed with tall, green, reed-like grass. Soon, standing white egrets came into focus, traveling without a flap of their wings. “Here come the hitchhikers,” George said. Within seconds a herd of elephants came into view, the egrets carried on their backs. They came right up to the shore, grabbing large chunks of grass with their trunks, before washing it carefully in water and shoving it into their mouths. The vibrating waves stopped when their footsteps were silenced.

Elephants grazing by river

Not far away another herd of elephants came to the shore for breakfast, merging into a large family to cross the river. George said it was a lucky day since he saw the elephants cross only once a year. They walked in an organized single file, strategically placing the babies between the adults, nudging them across with their trunks.

The following day I returned to the wildlife center to hear they found a giant cobra next to the enclosure where I work (if you call hanging out with a baby baboon work) and I suddenly realized that my ensuite safari was well worth the hardship, and the cost.