Les with Sambo in Phnom Penh

I have been fortunate enough to celebrate another year on this earth.  What I have found that thrills me in my middle years – among other things – is elephants.  I had not such familiariaty for the species until traveling in Cambodia, where I was coincidentally reading “Like Water for Elephants”.  That’s when I came across Sambo in a dawn run through the city.  There she was in all her glory, on her way to her morning bath.  Slowly pacing herself through the busy road by the river.  I couldn’t believe it – then couldn’t believe my luck to witness such an unusual (to me) sight. And such a magnificent, yet stoic creature, undertaking her morning rituals.  I was taken aback.

Later that night with local friends at dinner, I  recounted my story, only to have them say in unison, “that’s Sambo”.  After acquiring the necessary address on her – I went to visit her one morning where she resides in Phnom Penh.  I have no doubt she sensed my deep empathy and admiration for her species, for she batted her lengthy eyelashes in such a manner as my dog and faithful companion Elsa does – that of recognizing a kindred soul.  I have fantasies that I jump on her back and off we ride into the Cambodia countryside.  Just my beautiful elephant and me.

Shukuru

Fast forward to 2010 and I am the proud foster parent of now THREE elephants from the David Sheldrick Wildlife Foundation in Kenya- Shukuru, who is just a little thing of 1 years old and who was very nearly killed for bush meat because she got herself stuck in a hole, is now a little rockstar.  The manholes on the ageing Mzima-Mombasa pipeline have been responsible for orphaning many elephant orphans. They should not, of course, be open, but the steel covers are either stolen or cast aside so that tribesmen along the route can access the water for themselves and their cattle. They seldom bother to replace the cover, because anything that falls in brings a free bushmeat meal.  I get regular notes from her keepers, and she’s absolutely thriving. For her harrowing story, read here.

Sities

My second baby, Sities (pronounced Syteez), was only 7 weeks old when she was rescued last January.  She is suspected to be a poaching victim, although human/wildlife conflict cannot be ruled out since the Ranch where she was found has a lot of livestock and herdsmen. The Trust’s De-Snaring anti-poaching team has been sent to scour the area to confirm any evidence of possible poaching.

Sities, a beautiful female calf, responded well to the arrival of the Keepers who fed her a bottle of milk and rehydration water before loading her into their Pickup and driving her to the Voi Stockades. Once there she remained close to the Keepers following them around, until the Rescue Plane arrived from Nairobi to airlift her back to the Trust’s Nairobi Elephant Nursery.  She arrived in the Nursery on a very auspicious day – the day that CITES Cop 15 voted in favour of the elephants, prohibiting the requested sale of ivory stockpiles from both Tanzania and Zambia. In celebration of that event, the calf was named Sities, pronounced the same but spelt differently.

Our newest family member - Wasin

For my birthday this year, I have been given a new baby girl, now only a month old – named Wasin.  She was found in Samburu – a region in Kenya where we have traveled and feel a strong connection to.  Wasin was only a week old when she was rescued on the 17th October, 2010 from Namunyak Conservancy in Northern Kenya.  She was retrieved from a shallow well by Samburu elders of the area. The fate of the mother is not known for sure, but it is whispered that she could have been yet another victim of poaching in the area where Chinese Road Construction workers are operating, and apparently encouraging the poaching of elephants for ivory.

For those not familiar about the work the David Sheldrick Wildlife Foundation is doing – The David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust is a small, flexible charity, established in 1977 to honor the memory of famous Naturalist, David Leslie William Sheldrick MBE, the founder Warden of Tsavo East National Park in Kenya, where he served from its inception in 1948 until his transfer to Nairobi in 1976 to head the Planning Unit of the newly created Wildlife Conservation & Management Department. David died 6 months later but his legacy of excellence and the systems he installed for the management of Tsavo and wildlife generally in Kenya, particularly in the sphere of wildlife husbandry and ethics, lives on.

For my part, its all about elephants.  I hope to foster many more, and watch them grow and recover from their traumatic beginnings.  I plan to take Cooper to Kenya this summer to work with the David Sheldrick Trust, so that he can get a first-hand experience of these gorgeous creatures and the feeling of helping them with a new life.

I urge you to foster  an elephant for a holiday gift.  Or as a baby gift – I gave a precious little man who turned one another precious little creature who turned 1, as well – that was Sities.  I take a photo of the elephant and put it into a 4 x 6 fridge magnet, to which I add the name.  Honestly, these little guys have had their mom’s poached.  Have fallen down holes.  Are in bad shape.  They are so phenomenally beautiful.  Consider fostering one or two.  You will love it!

And if that doesn’t do it for you, click here to see the most amazing baby elephant rescue.

Usage:

Some movie I saw years ago, the name of which escapes me (no shock there), mentioned the importance of having a theme song.  That everyone needs a theme song to get them through the day.  I wish I could remember what movie it was, but nevermind, the idea resonated with me.

Lately I have been thinking about journeys I want to take, and trying to work them around a theme..song.  There’s something about the idea of a trip to India covering all the basic “must see” elements that leaves me flatter than Naan.  Don’t get me wrong, I know it would be a mind bending and utterly fabulous adventure, but these days, I’m wanting that theme song – a link that brings a story alive, a splash of history, a greater emotional connection to my travel choices. India seen through the eyes of Rudyard Kipling would be something altogether different.  It conjures up images of Riki Tiki Tavi.  Of louvered doors and overgrown gardens with pebble paths and, mongooese (mongeese?) and of course, ssssssssnakes.

A journey I took to Scotland nearly 17 years ago was based on a theme.   Why Scotland?  Great country.  Lovely people.  Verdant landscape, but ohmygod cold.  Cold, cold horrifyingly cold.  But the real reason we were there – in the Highlands outside of Inverness to be exact, was Diana Gabaldon’s “Outlander” series of novels, which I loved and which inspired my fascination (obsession) with all things Scot, particularly with the Jacobites, Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Battle of Culloden of 1746 – the battle which ultimately did away with the clans.  No kidding, I must have spent 8 hours combing the stark (and soo cold) moor which was the Culloden battlefield, trying to imagine what it must have been like as the Jacobites were completely outflanked, and willing each of my senses to be as present as they could, to grab every sensoral cue to bring me closer to this tragic period.  Consequently for me, Scotland isn’t about Nessie, St. Andrews or even haggis.  Its about the Highlands and the clans.

Another journey had me and my husband Stuart, and son Coop, in East Africa.  My take was slightly different than the set itinerary. You see, East Africa, to me, is all about the early 1900s, when colonialism was establishing a strong toe-hold, when the idea of a posting in Kenya was like being sent to the last frontier – where the air was hot, yet soft and scented with frangipani and the roar of a lion in the middle of the night is as commonplace as a car alarm in a big city.  Where women were strong and could handle a shotgun with agility and singular focus.  I would have given anything to have lived during the time of “Out of Africa”, with Karen von Blixen and Berkelely Cole and Lord Delamere (and possibly John Barry’s music as my theme score).  Of Beryl Markham and of course, Denys Finch-Hatten.  I would happily go back to Africa to recreate some of the times, visit her farm in Karen, outside of Nairobi, “at the base of the Ngong hills”, camps, buildings (Like Lake Elementaita, where Berkeley Cole called home for quite awhile), right across a lake of pink flamingos from Lord Delamere’s enormous estate, which is still there.  If someone said let’s go to Kenya, stay at the Norfolk in Nairobi, visit Karen and take a safari on horseback or foot, in the classic manner, with the white canvas tents and period music, I WOULD BE THERE TOMORROW.

What are some other destinations that lend themselves to themes beyond what is expected?  Because those are the kinds of journeys that I’m interested in.  I invite your thoughts and ideas.

British Vogue gets it right every time.  The June 2011 issue, with its fashion stories cataloged by destination (or lifestyle), appeals to every aspect of my ramshackle chic sensibility – great, effortless style with just the slightest undercurrent of boho artistry (with the budget of landed gentry).

The collections – from California surfer girl to die-hard Africa enthusiast, are so well thought out, the photography so fabulous – the aspirational destinations and lifestyles so ripe,  I defy even the most jaded fashionista (or denimista, as I am) not to weep openly in deep, soulful appreciation.

I feel compelled to feature my favorites over the next couple of days – beginning with British Vogue’s take on traveling in South Africa.  Note the familiar and ohhhh so fabulous  – Globe Trotter luggage again – workmanship and style to make you moan with desire (refer to my earlier aticle “Hello Lover – Its all about the Suitcase.” and, oh yeah, my own battered orange suitcase.  I am an unabashed fan.).

Sublime. Seriously. Sublime.

Must Have List

Globe-Trotter Luggage

Office Sandals

Daks Silk Shirt

Mother of Pearl Swimsuit

Holland & Holland Straw Hat

Because, frankly, this picture scared the beejeezus out of me.  Great little piece from the Sydney Morning Herald blog.  The rest of them are not even a consideration.  Except for #3, which isn’t so much of a problem for me.  Tho’ Stuart would disagree.

8 Truly Frightening Experiences.

Posted by Ben Groundwater

“If you really wanted to scare the hell out of yourself, there are certain experiences around the world that are guaranteed to do the job.

Here are just a few of them …

1.  Swimming in Devil’s Pool, Zambia
This small rockpool just above the thundering rage that is Victoria Falls ticks all the “stupidly scary experience” boxes. Fairly pointless? Check. You could go swimming anywhere. Complete lack of safety precautions? Check. One large swell of water would sweep you over the edge to your watery, ugly death. Considered a badge of honour among travellers? Check. Nutters.

2.  Climbing Mount Kinabalu’s via ferrata, Malaysia
There are several safe ways to get up a mountain. I wouldn’t have thought bolting a few planks of wood and some rusty iron railings to a cliff face would be one of those. Still, if your heart really desires, you can climb the world’s highest via ferrata on Mount Kinabalu – spine-tingling views included.

3.  Passing through US Immigration, USA
You’re not a criminal; you know you’re not a criminal. Sure, you once slagged off George Dubya at a dinner party, but it’s not like your shoes are filled with explosives. So why are you standing there, sweating like Alfie Langer at an RBT? Why? Because US immigration officials are the scariest in the business. One mistake and it’s going to be a very bad day for you.

4.  Driving between Chittagong and Dhaka, Bangladesh
I’ve written about this one before, but really, I can’t do a list of scary experiences and not include it. Because it is without doubt The. Most. Frightening. Journey. In the world. Buses careen towards each other at top speed, ignoring the lack of overtaking lanes, pedestrians sprint across the pot-holed bitumen, trucks play chicken with each other while rickshaws veer onto the dirt verges … it’s incredible, and petrifying.

5.  Bungee jumping from Macau Tower, Macau
Bungee jumping’s pretty scary anywhere, but there’s something about being 223 metres in the air, on a tower that sways in the wind (scary enough in itself), and then plucking up the courage to throw yourself off it with only an elastic band wrapped around your ankles that sets this one above the rest. I admit: I bottled it.

6.  Riding Death Road, Bolivia (Battered Orange Suitcase Winner)
This’d be one of those things that’d be scary even if, like bungee jumping or sky-diving, it was actually quite safe. But, it’s not. It’s just a muddy, narrow road clinging to the Andean mountainside – no railings, no safety nets, just a straight drop into a gaping abyss. People die on this road, regularly. And tourists pay money to ride mountain bikes down it. Go figure.

7.  Bush camping in the Serengeti
It’s only when you notice the cooks that you realise how much trouble you’re in. You’re sleeping in a tent. Fair enough. So why have the cooks locked themselves into the mesh-lined food cages? Because there are lions out there. They’ll probably be prowling through the camp in the middle of the night. Don’t worry, they tell you. Just don’t leave any food in your tent. Not including you, of course.

8.  Taking a motorbike taxi, Vietnam
The constant cries are too much to ignore. “Moto? Mister! Moto?” Fine, you think, I’ll take a motorbike taxi. It’s cheap, and I only need to go a few blocks. What you hadn’t reckoned on was the helmet-free dash through a mind-boggling amount of traffic, your driver paying no heed to things like road rules or natural physics. Even worse: it’s kinda fun.”

To see the entire posting, click here.

The David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust is a remarkable organization that rescues orphan elephants and rhinos in Kenya.  The work they are doing is heart wrenching, and the faces of these creatures will totally compel you to assist in their care.  Many of the elephants have been harmed or orphaned by poachers, and are very nearly dead when they arrive.  You can select which elephant or rhino you would like to foster, and read their “Orphan Profile”, which will quite possibly break your heart.

For a minimum donation of $50, you can foster an elephant and know you are aiding in its recovery.  Fosterparents receive monthly updates on the progress of their orphan elephant along with monthly watercolour paintings of the orphans, all via email. The idea is that these can be printed off and a journal be kept of progress of your elephant and its reintegration back into the wild.  That is what is truly unique about the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust project, each of these orphans will eventually lead wild lives again.  Through fostering, we can be part of that rewarding process.

We have just fostered Shukuru – which in Swahili means “I am grateful”.  I hope to meet her one day.

Shukuru getting her bottle

Our baby Shukuru - 3 days old and very sick

Shukuru playing with friends

Don’t Do What I Did!  Another Oops! Travel Moment.

Anyone who has been to Kenya is familiar with the Carnivore restaurant in Nairobi. Known as “Africa’s Greatest Eating Experience” it is an institution for locals and tourists alike – a must visit. For my husband, son and myself, it was a novelty and a convenient stop for Sunday brunch prior to grabbing a domestic flight from Nairobi to the Mara. What we didn’t count on was the Dawa, the Carnivore’s own special brew – a liquid of such immense pleasure and lethal toxicity, it can make even the most organized of travelers lose all credibility in a matter of  hours. And that’s just what happened to me.

The Carnivore is famous for meat of the all-you-can-eat variety. Here, the fun is in trying the game meats, which include zebra (not striped, as my astonished son remarked), giraffe, impala, wildebeest and alligator (chewy, but good). For our PETA friends, the game meats come from eco-friendly game ranches, which support local conservation efforts. The atmosphere is open and warm, with tables inside or on verandas, overlooking lush gardens or the famous fire-pit, where the meats cook on skewers over an open flame. The skewers are passed around table to table by waiters, who expertly slice off a portion of the steaming meat onto your plate, and point to the enormous Lazy Susan on your table, gesturing which sauce or condiment goes with which flesh delicacy.

And because this is a family place, if you follow the path beyond the garden, you will come to a large bamboo gate that when opened, reveals a child’s version of Nirvana – the most fantastic play yard ever imagined, where a bed of wood chips provides the necessary soft foundation to a truly remarkable assortment of kiddie amusements – from tire swings dangling from an authentic jungle tree house to a carnival stage set up and ready for acting. The Carnivore, it must be said, is a restaurant focused on a seriously long customer experience – where the grown ups tuck into pounds of flesh while the little darlings are encouraged to play for hours only a few short, overfull hobbles away. I knew immediately this was our sort of place.

A lesser-known feature of this famous restaurant is their signature drink, called the Dawa, which in Swahili, means medicine. First warning. It is a concoction of sugar, honey, lime and something akin to jet fuel, all of which is ceremoniously hand-blended at your table and garnished with a short straw.  It is the mission of these devil waiters to troll from table to table in search of unsuspecting tourists, with all the necessary ingredients to make your life enjoyable for at least an afternoon, until the medicine wears off, and you are left wondering if anyone got the description of the rhinoceros that ran over your head. Needless to say, they found a very willing victim in me.

After two of these liquid ruffees, I was buzzing, giggling uncontrollably and chatting to everyone and everything. This continued on the short flight to the Mara until just after we checked into our lodge. I remember specifically because that’s when we realized I had left the video camera on the plane. Which wouldn’t have been that big of an issue – except for the fact that the plane didn’t come back until the next afternoon, which made it extremely unfortunate that on the morning game drive of that same day, we experienced the ultimate, elusive African safari experience – the kill.

We were lucky enough to have caught the entire sequence of events, from beginning to end, at a distance of maybe four feet away. It was an awesome thing to experience – to watch a lioness take down a wildebeest is horrifying and majestic all at once. But as furiously as I snapped both still cameras, there was no means of capturing the motion and sound of the kill. No way of recording the satisfied, guttural purring of the victorious lionesses, as they prepared the breakfast for their hungry, playful cubs. No way to capture the slow loping gait of the lion, who showed up to take his share only after all the work had been done by the women. No way to capture the sound of the bone breaking when the lion ripped at a leg or the gurgling sound when an eyeball was removed. And worst of all, no way to capture the hyena which, coming home from a night of hunting, stumbled upon the incident, and began frantically running in circles, peeing – as much from fear as from the excitement of realizing he was on clean up crew.

In my defense, as the designated family photographer and videographer, I take my job very seriously. I’m the one out in the bush with a spider web of cameras slung across my chest and torso. There’s the video camera for action; the old-fashioned Nikon loaded with black & white film for mood and landscapes and the Olympus digital for everything else. I look like a pack mule half the time, and frankly, the sound of my voice played back during the video re-hashes, with its grating, supercilious non-stop narrative and embarrassing attempts at humor is enough to make me watch with the sound completely off. This is the first and only time I have ever been deficient in my camera duties – before and since. Admittedly, it was not great timing, as my husband, who had been to Africa seven times prior and never seen a kill, takes great pleasure in reminding me. Of course, I blame it on the Dawas.