At home and abroad

Mad world

September 18, 2026jdewyze1 Comment

Steve and I wanted to go to Madagascar because it sounded extraordinary. It’s not merely one of the planet’s biggest islands but so different from the nearest continent (Africa) it almost qualifies for continental status of its own. I knew that many of the native forests had been cut down, but I half expected the remaining landscape to look like something drawn by Dr. Seuss. In this I was disappointed.

Everywhere we went I saw old friends — plants that thrive in San Diego County: eucalyptus and jacaranda and bougainvilleas and prickly pear cactus and other exotics imported to replace the natives that lived here once. What I should have been prepared for (but wasn’t) was sights like these:

Much of Madagascar’s population descends from people who made their way thousands of years ago from Borneo in Indonesia. They were rice-growing peoples who cut down the Malagasy forests and cleared the land to create floodable fields. Rice paddies today stud the urban canvas of the capital city.

Jigsawed terraces make parts of the countryside resemble Peru (except they cradle not potatoes but emerald rice shoots.)

Malagasies even grow rice in the arid southwest, though there they get only two harvests per year instead of three. All these paddies require irrigation systems so complex we couldn’t begin to comprehend how they worked.

The folks who tend them live mainly in the central highlands but could blend in on the streets of Jakarta. African (Bantu) features are found more frequently on Madagascar’s coasts. Remarkably, everyone speaks the same language (Malagasy), and it’s related most closely to the family of languages still spoken in Borneo.

The Malagasy people we interacted with most (our guides) were warm and thoughtful and seemed extremely intelligent. I kept thinking they’d be college professors, had they been born in America. They all still seemed to be reeling from the political coup that unfolded here 11 months ago. Frustrated by Antantanarivo’s chronic shortages of water and electricity, college students and other desperate residents took to the streets last October (2025) demanding change. The military finally joined their side and the president — a one-time DJ who’d been backed by the French to take power 16 years earlier — fled the country (having accrued a personal fortune reputed to be $200 million). No election has since been held. The colonel who’s in charge says one is being organized that will take place next year. Will life improve then? Our guides shrugged when we asked them. What can they do but hope?

Throughout our 12-day stay, Steve and I kept asking each other: were we having fun? Glad we came? Clearly the answer to the first was: not always. Madagascar’s road system is awful. Billionaires may be able to charter helicopters to fly them to the natural wonders, but everyone else has no choice but to endure hour upon hour of truly life-threatening passing and jouncing and crater-dodging. Here’s a glimpse. Multiply this video a thousand-fold to imagine how we spent a large chunk of our time.

Note that’s a highly flammable fuel truck we’re passing by inches.

And yet. What we encountered along the way made it seem worth it. In the Southwest we drove through a mining town where scrawny, leathery gun-toting Malagasies panned for sapphires in a setting as savage as any from America’s wild past.

In the dripping rainforests, we gaped not only at the lovable lemurs, but other fantastic creatures.

We had experiences I’ve never had anywhere else and will never forget. Let me wrap this up by describing just a few.

Our program called for a stop along the main highway south out of Tana at an aluminum-recycling operation. I was braced for a tourist trap where we’d be offered shiny silver trinkets. I wasn’t prepared for the hellish Dickensian tableau into which we walked.

There were trinkets on the table, recycled from the scrap aluminum…

We watched some guys create an aluminum cooking pot using sand molds.

I’ll never think of recycling in quite the same way.

The almost-finished product; the rough edges still needing to be smoothed. The guys told us they can make 25 of these per day.

Further south, we spent two nights just outside Isalo National Park, an area where Jurassic-era sandstone has eroded into canyons, gorges, and other natural sculptures interlaced with cascades, pools, and riverine forests.

We hiked for half a day with a marvelous Malagasy naturalist named Peter. He pointed out an anthill that locals had broken into to collect the inhabitants. Apparently they’re good for fattening up chickens.

The ant hill after being raided by villagers.

Peter said members of his tribe, known as the Bara, make a tea from these flowers and apply it to the heads of their newborns; it makes the baby’s fontanel close up faster.

Most fascinating to me was Peter’s explanation of the Bara people’s funeral practices. Like most Malagasy, the Bara believe life only really begins after death. Assuming your offspring treat you right, you become a revered ancestor who watches over your relatives, protecting or punishing the living. Even in Tana, treating the dead right means placing them in family tombs and celebrating their arrival there with elaborate parties.

In Bara country, this goes to extremes. First people let the the corpse of a loved one dry out for a couple of weeks in a nearby cave. They then prepare the skeleton by cutting it into pieces that can be packaged in a portable box. A funeral party hauls the box up steep bluffsides to a remote cave close to the sky, where family members never return to visit it. Then back at home, the family invites the entire extended community to a raucous celebration that lasts for days. The more zebu the family can butcher (to feed the partiers), the more the respect they pay to the deceased. (Zebu are the humped cattle emblematic of Madagascar.)

Peter wasn’t telling us about some arcane practice from the past. He said this happens every time one of his fellow villagers dies.

Peter also pointed out this bunch of zebu, being directed by local boys to stomp around on a rice paddy, breaking up the ground.

“Malagasy people are very superstitious,” said Andry, the guide assigned to show us around Tana for our last two days in the country. A native of Tana deeply knowledgeable about everything from endemic bird calls to ancient archeological findings, Andry walked us for hours around the middle and lower sections of the city. After lunch, we drove to the upper town where Madagascar’s kings and queens lived for centuries.

View from the middle city down to the lower town.

That’s the upper city in the distance, the longtime home of Malagasy kings and queens.

The wooden core of the palace built between 1839 and 1841 by the infamous Queen Ranavalona I burned to ashes about 30 years ago. I knew that interminable work had gone on to restore it, and I was thrilled to learn the restoration had finally finished. So we could go in.

Steve and Andry and I hired a Queen’s Palace guide to show us around, a young, very charming guy named Elias. When the palace burned down local people saved many of the contents; these are now displayed in the reconstruction. Elias led us around the exhibits, explaining them all. Then we walked onto the balcony where he gestured to the gate through which visitors gained access to the royal compound. The eagle on the top was a symbol of power. Next to it was a stone phallus that Elias pointed out was circumcised.

“In order to come through the gates, every man had to be circumcised. And do you know: they checked!” he exclaimed, cackling.

He elaborated. Circumcision was a big deal extending way back in Malagasy culture. Even today, circumcision is pretty much mandatory for every male born in the country. “If you’re not circumcised, you can never marry!” Elias said. “Other men will make fun of you.” You can’t be buried in the family tomb but will be condemned to wander forever as a ghost.

Elias and Andry were both laughing, but it was clear this was serious stuff. They said even today boys undergo circumcision between the ages of 1 and 5, and each boy’s grandfather is required to swallow the foreskin — whole and wrapped in banana.

“Just think!” Elias exclaimed. “When we’re grandfathers we’ll have to do that.” Andry laughed again, but he nodded sheepishly. It was true.

We’re standing just outside the royal gate. The circumcised phallic symbol can be seen on top of the arch, directly over my head.

***

On the last day of our road trip, we worried about arriving at the Tuliar airport late and missing our flight back to Tana. So we left Isalo very early and wound up with a bit of extra time. Haja drove us to a garden close to the airport. We ate the box lunches we had brought with us, then Steve and I walked around the gardens with yet another local guide.

He explained that a Swiss amateur botanist had come to Madagascar decades ago, acquired a piece of land, and traveled all over collecting native plant species. He’d fenced the property, a degraded grassland, and started planting the natives.

Today more than 900 plant species, more than 90% of them indigenous to the region, are flourishing in the space. Wandering along the pathways, I realized with a jolt: THIS was the landscape I’d hoped to find, eerily alien.

So what if it was re-created by a crazy Swiss guy? He’d recognized some of what’s lovable about Madagascar and worked to keep it alive. Better to have gotten at least this glimpse rather than never have seen it at all.

This is the oldest native baobab tree in the garden. It’s about 150 years old. The ones in the photo at the beginning of these post (which we saw growing alongside the highway) are many hundreds of years older.

Lemur love

September 16, 2026jdewyze1 Comment

Lemurs aren’t the only thing that draws tourists to Madagascar. The abundant avian variety (including more than 100 species found nowhere else) attracts birders. French folks flock to the Gallic hotels and resorts, but at least according to our driver/guide, they aren’t interested in nature. They come to soak up the sun and recapture some of their past glory as colonial overlords. The magnet for the vast majority of other visitors is probably the lemurs, but that wasn’t the case for Steve and me.

I never disliked them, and I’m sure Steve didn’t either. Who could? I just never paid them much attention, even though I’ve seen at least a few in the San Diego Zoo. In the course of our 9-day road trip, however, two things happened: I saw way more lemurs than I expected. And I was smitten.

Before we got here, I wasn’t sure what we’d find. From the other side of the world, the plight of these guys — unique primates that evolved and live only in Madagascar — sounds dismal. Although the island once teemed with them, lemurs now rank as the planet’s most endangered mammals, with all but 3 or 4 of the more than 110 species threatened or in danger of extinction, many critically. Poachers hunt them (to eat or sell as pets), but the biggest threat is the massive amount of habitat they’ve lost as humans have replaced trees with rice fields or cut down old growth forests for the hardwood — or to make charcoal.

I think Malagasy travel outfitters all just assume tourists are desperate to see lemurs. Guides try very hard to deliver, and for us they succeeded splendidly. Here’s some of what they led us to in dripping rain forests and rocky, dramatic dryscapes.

Brown lemurs range fairly widely and their babies mature quickly.

They allowed us to get amazingly close, making it easy to take in their mash-up of parts: dog-like snouts narrowing down to end in wet noses on a body that looks and moves like a monkey’s.

This lady’s baby — can you spot it? — was so young it still clung to her belly, close to the milk supply.

Mouse lemurs — the world’s smallest primates — are nocturnal and solitary. We felt lucky when William got a shot of this one in the rain. (I flipped it. The subject was upside-down in the original image.)

Sifakas are known as “dancing lemurs” for their elegant sideways leaps.

After three to six months, lemur babies switch to riding on their moms’ backs, clinging like miniature jockeys.

We chatted with our guides as we tracked and observed all those animals, and on the endless drives from one stop to the next I often used my iPhone to ask AIs other lemurian questions. The result is that I now know quite a bit about lemurs. I find it riveting, but I won’t try to share most of it; I’m aware that not everyone has succumbed to lemur love. Two things dazzled me so thoroughly, however, I can’t restrain myself.

The Sex Lives of Ring-tailed Lemurs

First, in most lemur societies (unlike the vast majority of mammals), females run the show. Moreover, ring-tailed groups each have an alpha female. She and all her fellow lady lemurs only go into estrus and become receptive to mating for a 24- to 36-hour window that comes once a year — typically all within days of each other! Imagine what this does to the males.

But who could imagine what my AI pals described? The male ring-tails, flooded with testosterone, undergo an amazing transformation. The sweat glands on their chests and wrists stop emitting their normal bitter, leathery odor and begin pumping out a fruity, flowery perfume (“suggestive of ripe pears.”) The guys rub their gorgeous tales on their enticing scents and wave them around the females — “stink-flirting,” the scientists call this. The courtship can degenerate into vicious “stink-fighting battles,” the winners of which get selected by one or more lemur ladies.

We saw nothing of this, of course. It takes place in April. I’m almost tempted to come back then to try to see it. (At the very least, it is the first thing I will search for on Youtube when I get home.)

If the sex only happens once a year, the evidence of its result was everywhere.

This girl didn’t seem the least bit nervous I might move in and steal her delicious fig.

The Call of the Indri

Indris are the biggest of all lemurs, and they live only in the wild. Humans have tried to keep them in zoos, but the indris won’t have it. In captivity they just die. Critically endangered, the ones that survive in Madagascar inhabit the patches of rainforest down the escarpment several hours east of Antantanarivo.

On the second morning of our road trip, a wonderful guide named William who’s been studying the forests around Andasibe for 25 of his 50 years led Steve and me straight to an indri family breakfasting in the foliage overhead.

William leading us through the rain forest.

My first sight of one made me cry out in wonder. An indri looks “like a child in fluffy pyjamas,” in the words of John Gimlette, author of the one of the best travel books I’ve ever read (The Gardens of Mars: Madagascar, an Island Story, 2021). This largest lemur “never goes anywhere, never adapts, and never eats anything but leaves.”

William pointed out a baby, just weeks old, clinging to the back of its mom. We watched the family members leap amazing distances as they grazed. Then the unthinkable happened: they indris began emitting some of the loudest sounds I’ve heard from any living creature. Gimlette compares it to an air raid siren, but it reminded me of whale song, amplified and arboreal. They do it to mark their territory, the scientists say. It seems so foolhardy — how could you make it any easier for a hunter to find you? The indris don’t care. Their days may be numbered; their homeland shrinking. Every morning they sing their songs, spine-tingling, defiant. You must pay attention.

Sick on the road

September 12, 2026jdewyze2 Comments

My usual reaction to getting sick on the road is, initially, denial. When I felt the subtle tightness in my upper chest more than two weeks ago, I dismissed it as irritation caused by the dust churned up on Uganda’s unpaved roads. My occasional coughs the next day had to be merely my body’s attempt to expel the residue, I told myself. But the coughs increased in frequency; Steve began coughing with me.

I switched to optimism. If this was a virus, surely it would be one of those quick-moving upper-respiratory squalls — here one day and gone the next! Our hacking intensified; worsened. Neither Steve nor I ever spiked a fever, and our throats and noses seemed fine. By the time we landed in Johannesburg, however, I was coughing so hard I could imagine cracking a rib. My torso ached from the unrelenting battering.

At the South African hotel, after getting our key-card and the password for wifi, I asked the desk clerk (between coughs) if she could recommend a nearby pharmacy. She advised that if we dropped our bags quickly in our rooms and dashed out the door, we could make it to a branch of Click’s just minutes away.

I’m telling you all this not because I think my minor medical issues are interesting. They’re not. But getting sick on the road does have one significant upside: the experience can give you insights into how folks handle such problems outside the US. At the Click’s, I was happy to find only two people in line before me at the pharmacy. In minutes I was standing before a young pharmacist who seemed both sympathetic and confident she could fix me up. She fetched a bottle of effervescent expectorant tablets (to break up the chest mucus) and a bottle of codeine-based cough syrup. The two of them cost just under $8.

After bagging up the drugs, the pharmacist locks them in something resembling a hamster cage. Then the customer takes the cage up to the cashier to pay.

I’ve long been a fan of codeine in cough syrup, though I rarely score any at home, now that a doctor’s visit and a prescription and probably pre-enrollment in Narcotics Anonymous is required. I also can dependably rely on the placebo effect. So by every right, I should have bounced back to robust health after I downed my teaspoon of Tussilinct Linctus cough syrup and got a halfway decent sleep that night.

Sadly, I still felt awful the next morning.

I even considered skipping our planned excursion to Johannesburg’s Apartheid Museum, the main item on my To Do list for this trip to the city. We went, but spent only about an hour. Had we felt better, we could easily have lingered for several.

The next day, the narrow-bodied Embraer jet that carried us from Joburg to Madagascar’s capital (Antantanarivo, aka Tana) enabled Steve and me to sit together without a third passenger squeezed in between us. This was good because by this point our coughs were so ear-shattering and frequent other passengers were eyeing us with concern, if not loathing. At times my bronchial passages seemed to be seizing up. This freaked me out: I was poised to head out into the Malagasy hinterland. Would some freak asthma attack finish me off there? I worried about this through Sunday night and when Steve awoke I broke the news: I thought we should try to see a doctor before hitting the road. He agreed.

An hour or two later, we met (for the first time) the man who would be our driver/guide for nine days on the road, an unflappable 45-year-old Tana native named Haja (pronounced “Hazza”). Haja has a charming French accent (French is ubiquitous here.) But his English comprehension was excellent. I felt bad disrupting our program for the day. Our schedule had called for us to drive east for about 5 hours to Andasibe, where we were supposed to hunt for lemurs in the chilly, dripping rainforest for several hours, then check into our hotel, then go on a “night walk.”

By my count, Haja took about 20 seconds to digest our near-non-stop barking fits. He shifted mental gears and said he’d check with his office to find the best clinic for us. He was back in short order, announcing that one near the center of Tana had said they could fit us in.

Battling morning rush hour traffic into the city center is probably the last thing Haja wanted to do, but he gave no hint he found it other than a splendid idea. Along the way, we encountered streets so constipated we didn’t move an inch for 15 minutes. But we finally arrived at the small private medical center and took seats in a clean but spartan waiting room.

I think we waited about 15 minutes before a very young man wearing a dark jacket over a white tunic and trousers came to lead us to a small private office. A name tag pinned to his chest proclaimed he was Dr. R. E. Randrianamana. He took a seat behind the only significant piece of furniture, an uncluttered desk, then handed me a slip of paper and asked me to fill in my name and date of birth. Using a combination of his limited English and my limited French, I explained our concerns.

He sprang to his feet, picked up a stethoscope and applied it to first my back and then Steve’s. Our lungs were fine, he declared, which I took to mean I didn’t have to worry through the coming night about asthma OR pneumonia.

Dr. R then started typing at a small monitor — prescriptions for both of us for a short course of antibiotics, fizzy zinc/vitamin C pills we could dissolve in water twice a day, pain pills (if we felt the need), Kooks brand expectorant syrup, and two kinds of antihistamines (one drowiness-inducing, one not). He pushed a button and a miniature printer rolled out an impressive list of our prescriptions, including the dosages. He posed for a picture with me, then bade us farewell.

We waited briefly then were told the fee for our medical consultations was 34,000 ariary per person, about $7.85. We couldn’t get the medicines from the health center but had to go to a nearby pharmacy, where the tab to fill everything amounted to $31.18. I calculated that getting checked by Dr. R and picking up the prescriptions took about two hours. We were barreling off to the rainforest well before noon.

Our haul from the pharmacie. It was a challenge to figure out what to take when.

I was impressed. Of course if I had a brain tumor or a stroke or mysterious fainting spells, my first choice would be to go to the UCSD Medical Center, where I’d be treated by some of the best specialists in the world (at staggering cost).But for a nasty cough, I think Dr. R gave us no less than I would have gotten from any American doctor I could have seen back home (for just pennies more than I pay for parking at UCSD.)

It’s now been four days since we left that clinic, and we’ve improved a lot. My bronchial spasms have vanished, and coughs are no longer interrupting our sleeping. We both are still emitting minor chest-clearing coughs every now and then, but I expect those will soon disappear. Then again, I tend to be optimistic about such things.

Good news and bad news in Uganda

September 7, 2026September 7, 2026jdewyze2 Comments

We’ve wrapped up our fifth trip to Uganda. What drew us back over and over was our work as liaisons between Women’s Empowerment (womenempowerment.org) in San Diego and the Nyaka organization, started 25 years ago by a Ugandan to help AIDS orphans and the grandmothers raising them. In the course of those visits, we’ve come to love the Pearl of Africa and its inhabitants. Once again, on this visit we learned a lot.

This time, along with the liaison work, we included two days of pure tourism. I got the best news of the trip on the first of those two days. On the morning of Friday, August 28, we crawled through Kampala traffic (among the worst in the world) and drove north. A few hours later, we pulled into the Ziwa Rhino Sanctuary and were assigned an exuberant guide named Simon. He recounted the amazing comeback story of Uganda’s rhinos.

Once, rhinos roamed the Ugandan bush. But during the bloody turmoil that unfolded in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s, poachers exterminated them. With the dawn of the 21st Century, as peace returned, Uganda could boast that its national parks contained four of the Big Five (lions, elephants, leopards, and Cape buffalo). To see a rhino, however, you had to safari in one of the neighboring countries.

Eventually some dedicated rhino lovers resolved to change that. They found a splendid property, and the Brit who owned it agreed to sell the 70,000 cattle he’d been running on the land, fence the perimeter, and make the place a rhino haven. In 2004, two males and two females from Kenya moved in, and the folks at a Disney property in Florida soon contributed a third pair.

Rhinos don’t reproduce fast. They have only one baby at a time; females give birth only every two to three years. So I was astounded to hear that just 22 years later, Ziwa now counts 53 rhino inhabitants, with all but the original 6 born in the park. The breeding has been so successful the park has sent 8 rhinos to other Uganda preserves.

We bushwhacked our way through tall brush and soon found this mama rhino, resting in the heat of the day under a tree. Sadly, I couldn’t get a good shot of her two-month-old baby, conked out next to her.

At our approach, this young male sprang to his feet. Simon said he was trying to show how tough he was.

A little further down the trail, we all but stumbled on Taleo, the father of the baby. He was one of the original six and he’s still the alpha male in this area. We got within 30 feet of him and had to edge away when he stood up and starting making his way toward us. (Photo by José Nuncio.)

The return of Uganda’s rhino was inspiring news to me. We heard more the next morning in Murchison Falls National Park, Uganda’s largest and most-visited nature preserve. The southernmost contributory to the Nile River cuts through the middle of it, at one point squeezing through a 23-foot-wide gorge before plunging more than 140 feet downward. The immense hydraulic force generated by the passage has inspired Ugandans to boast that Murchison Falls is the most powerful waterfall on earth.

Pathways at the top of the falls offered drenching, thundering views.

The next day, we took a boat ride on the Nile to a point near the bottom, another splendid viewpoint.

In the course of our ride on The African Queen, we passed so many hippos and crocodiles I lost count. On our game drive, too, we had wonderful luck seeing elephants, giraffes, warthogs, and a variety of monkeys and antelope. We struck out with lions, but I got closer than I ever have been to a leopard (notoriously elusive.)

Seeing all those animals was delightful, but better still was hearing from our guides that poaching in and around the park has all but disappeared, partly as the Uganda Wildlife Association has persuaded former poachers to switch sides — paying them more to protect the animals than they’d earn from killing them. Surrounding communities have also learned that conserving wildlife can enrich the humans living near them.

The continuing growth of the grandmother groups was not news to us. When Steve and I first learned about it 13 years, the Nyaka AIDS Orphans Foundation had organized about 7000 women over the age of 50 into 124 groups. Every time we’ve visited, those numbers have increased. Today more than 24,000 grandmothers belong to 273 groups.

What blew us away, however, was seeing the new model for further expansion Nyaka has begun implementing. Instead of setting up and administrating new groups by itself, the organization has begun partnering with grandmother-support groups started by other entities. Nyaka is teaching them how to add a microfinance component — giving the women a way to borrow small amounts of money to start projects that will generate more family income. We visited two of the new groups and came away thinking this model has real potential to spread throughout the country. If it does, it will improve a multitude of lives.

The very best thing about all our time in Uganda over the years has been the chance to meet ladies like this. With her loan, this grandmother was able to build up a tailoring business. Though the amounts of loan money are small, the impact can be profound.

As for the bad new, it wasn’t terrible. We were reminded that Yoweri Museveni, the heavy-handed autocrat who’s been in power forever, is now almost 82 and growing more and more feeble. His son seems poised to seize power when the old man shuffles off. And the son is unlikely to be any Nelson Mandela.

Neither the son nor his father dreamed up the Trade Order that Ugandans learned about this past February It’s been very bad news for a staggering number of folks. That order abruptly banned street vendors and hawkers from selling their wares along sidewalks, streets, and other public thoroughfares. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard this. The vendors who line Ugandan’s byways are as much an emblem of the country as huge banana-bunches strapped to the backs of boys peddling down the roads. Selling produce or used clothes or other small goods has long been one of the lowest rungs on the ladder of economic opportunity here. Yet police and other government officials across the country have been smashing the little stands and confiscating the goods. They’re telling people they must reconstitute them in tidier spaces approved by the government.

We’ll see how well that works out. Or maybe Steve and I won’t. We’re not sure we’ll ever get back. We still have a long list of places we haven’t yet gotten to. Madagascar was one of them, but Sunday that changed. For the next 11 days, we’ll be bouncing over the roads of the land of the lemurs.

This may look like sunset, but it’s actually sunrise over Murchison Falls National Park.

Al Ula

September 2, 2026jdewyze2 Comments

Abu-Faisal was supposed to give us a full-day tour of Al Ula for $400. I wasn’t sure how he defined “full day.” I imagined Steve and I probably would spend most of Saturday (Aug 22) being driven around the highlights of the ancient Arabian crossroads. That would be it.

Didn’t turn out that way. Here I should probably confess how little I knew about what we were getting ourselves into. Planning our Saudi stay, I’d read that less than 500 miles north of Jeddah, you could visit a site where people more than 2000 years ago had carved magnificent tombs into the tawny sandstone cliffs. The people were the Nabateans, who created the world-renowned complex at Petra in Jordan. That had dazzled Steve and me when we visited it in 2008. The chance to see another Nabatean marvel was all it took to inspire me to build Al Ula into our itinerary.

A bit of online research indicated we could get there by taking a train to Medina and then a bus to Al Ula. When I researched accommodations, I was taken aback by what it cost to stay at the opulent desert resorts — hundreds of dollars per night for a room in low season. (In the high season you pay $1000 or more at Our Habitas or the Banyan Tree or The Chedi.) Then I read about a B&B (without the breakfast) called the Friday Suites. Located in town, it had glowing reviews and cost $90 a night. The reviewers on booking.com seemed particularly besotted by the proprietor, Abu-Faisel.

I made a reservation and asked if we could hire Abu-Faisel to show us around. He said we could. He wrote that it was just a short walk from the Northwest Bus station to his place.

When our bus pulled into the station a little after 1 that Friday afternoon, we stepped down into pizza-oven heat. Taking a taxi or Uber wasn’t an option; none operate in Al Ula’s off-season. Before we could hoist our backpacks and set off, my watch buzzed with a Whatsapp from Abu-Faisel. To save us from trudging under the merciless sun, he would come get us, he declared.

Five minutes later, he was loading us into his GMC Yukon Denali. As short as the ride was, it gave us time to start learning his story. He’s 63, a native of Al Ula, and has lived in the village all his life except for when he was studying pharmacology in Riyadh. He returned home to work as a pharmacist and later as a hospital administrator. He retired from all that five years ago and started the tourist business, having decided he would rather be outdoors, enjoying the natural beauty and dishing up a heaping dose of Arab hospitality to visitors from around the world.

A short, vigorous fellow, Abu-Faisel dresses in the traditional long white thobe and white headscarf crowned with a circle of rope. In short order, we also learned how strong his opinions were about what we ought to do, and when, and how. Many of his suggestions took into account factors about which we had no clue, e.g. which businesses were closed during this hottest time of the year, when the locals ate, what were the best spots for him to drop us off and pick us up, and so on.

We balked at a few things, but almost always he actually did know best. We learned to submit as we spent long hours of not one but three days seeing the area’s highlights under his direction. These included:

— Elephant Rock at sunset Friday night

Al Ula is filled with striking rock formations. This is one of the most iconic.

The authorities have filled the Elephant Rock site with circular sunken sitting spaces, delightful spots for taking in the sunset.

— Saturday morning we joined a ranger-led tour of the most spectacular Nabatean tombs (at Hegra).

Some of the Nabatean tombs are modest and housed many bodies.

Grandest of all, this tomb ironically wasn’t finished in time for the man who commissioned it to use it as his final resting place.

— After Hegra, Abu-Faisel drove us to a hike through a slot canyon that opened up to a pleasant outdoor cafe.

— We grabbed lunch, enjoyed a brief nap back at the Friday Suites, then took another ranger-led tour of Dadan.

Contemporaries of the ancient Greeks and Romans, the Dadanites also created tombs in the walls of the cliffs.

Their nearby site of Jabal Ikmah is called The Library because of the hundreds of inscriptions carved into the rock here.

You might overlook them or dismiss them as modern graffiti.

But they preserve an important record of several ancient languages.

— Shortly before sunset Saturday night, Abu-Faisel drove us up to a viewpoint overlooking the whole valley. We sipped Arab coffee and munched on green dates.

The green dates taste quite different from the dried ones we see in the US. Some 3 million date trees grow in Al Ula.

— Early Sunday morning we drove to the stunning glass-clad Maraya Auditorium, then walked around its exterior.

It’s said to be covered with more glass panels than any other building on earth. The beautiful surrounding landscape thus becomes all the ornamentation needed on the building’s simple form.

For lack of time, we didn’t take the tour of the interior. It would have been awesome to see a performance, but they don’t happen in the low season.

We enjoyed all these activities, but the one that impressed me most was walking through the residential section of Al Ula’s Old Town. Abu Faisel tacked this on Sunday morning — after our visit to Maraya and before he took us to lunch and then drove us to the airport. Built in the 12th Century, the warren of mud-brick dwellings was Abu-Faisel’s home for his first 11 years. Then in the early 1980s, the community got tired of living without electricity and plumbing and abandoned the quarter. Abu-Faisel’s family moved to the nearby 500-tree date farm owned by his father.

Abu Faisel showed us the building where he was born and the well from which he and his brothers fetched the family’s water.

He could explain every mystifying detail, like these marks on the wall. This is where folks sharpened their kitchen knives, he told us..

Since UNESCO (in 2008) declared Hegra to be a World Heritage Site (Saudi Arabia’s first), Al Ula’s Old Town has come within the sights of the crown prince and his planners. Today many of the structures have been renovated. Some are filled with interesting educational displays. More reconstruction and ornamentation is planned.

Amazing wooden lights hang from some corridors.

Metal pans and beautiful baskets adorn the ceilings of other passages.

As this has happened, the Saudi government has condemned and demolished big chunks of the adjoining parts of the central city. Five years ago, they took Abu-Faisel’s family farm through eminent domain. Before this whole process started, Al Ula had 85,000 residents. Now the number is around 50,000, and the Powers That Be plan to continue making longtime residents move out of town until the population is down to about 25,000. Abu-Faisel couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) say why, but Steve and I noted that as the number of tourists expands, this plan will limit the number of Saudis exposed to corrupting foreign influences. (All those bikini-clad women lounging around the fancy resort pools! Alcohol! We heard a rumor it was already available at one of the resorts — the only source in the whole kingdom, except for certain secret sources in Riyadh. But how can more bars not be on the horizon?)

Abu Faisel never ranted or expressed anger about any of this. For the most part he sounded philosophical. Saudi citizens aren’t allowed to protest.

As for us, we were grateful for the insight into how things worked. The crazy heat was a small price to pay for having one attraction after another almost to ourselves. In the winter, all the parking lots are full, Abu-Faisel says. Food stands have long lines; at some restaurants you need a reservation.

Being in Al Ula at this time of year, at this stage in its development felt like being in Sedona or Petra before anyone ever heard of them. The changes already taking place only deepened my sense of enchantment.

By the way, Abu-Faisel wouldn’t tell us how much we owed him for all the extra hours — the extra days! — of guide service until it was time to head to the airport. Then he stuck with his initial $400 price. He said if we didn’t feel we had gotten good value, we didn’t even have to pay that. I laughed.

Me and my abaya — an Arabian diary

August 29, 2026jdewyze2 Comments

Tuesday, August 18

Lots of women in Paris wear abayas. Not me. I board our flight from Charles De Gaulle to Jeddah on Tuesday, August 18, wearing the green pantsuit in which I crossed the Atlantic the day before. All the advice to female visitors says the key to proper Saudi Arabian attire is dressing modestly. Cover your arms and torso and everything from mid-shin up, and you’re good. Although almost all of our fellow passengers, male and female, are be-robed, I don’t feel like anyone is staring at me either on the plane or once we land in the airport.

I don my abaya only after we’ve checked into our hotel room, a Holiday Inn on Jeddah’s waterfront. Although I’d worn it in San Diego several times over the years, here its thin synthetic fabric and loose fit startle me. With only a bra and underpants beneath it, I feel like I’m in a flimsy nightgown. Uneasy, I stand in front of our window overlooking the Red Sea and order Steve to check its transparency. He insists he can’t see anything beyond the black, so we sally forth.

The sun is minutes from setting and there’s a nice breeze off the water, and it’s still close to 100 degrees. But dressed this way feels almost like wearing nothing. Steve and I stroll along the corniche, taking in the sight of families picnicking near the water. We catch an Uber to a good seafood restaurant adjoining the municipal aquarium, and I’m comfortable throughout the meal. I decide wearing an abaya is fine with me.

Wednesday, August 19

Getting out of bed, it hits me: I don’t have to give any thought to what to wear. Score another point for abaya-wear!

We’ve allotted this full day to exploring Jeddah. We start by Ubering to Al Tayibat City Museum for International Civilization, a private institution we’d read about. Built by a local businessman who spent almost 50 years collecting tens of thousands of rare cultural and historic artifacts, it opened in 1999. Steve and I walk inside and are stunned by the richness of its collections. Hundreds of rooms on multiple levels fill at least a dozen buildings, many built in the exquisite traditional style.

We seem to be the only visitors, and it turns out the massive complex will close at 1 pm, giving us only about two hours to explore it. A charming Egyptian ex-pat archeologist emerges to show us around. He’s amazingly knowledgable and teaches us a lot before we have to go.

He demonstrated how to put on the male pilgrim’s traditional outfit.

He explained some of the many fantastic dioramas.

After leaving the museum, Steve and I eat a quick sandwich near our hotel, take a nap, and devise a plan for the rest of the day. To my dismay, I’ve realized that I’ve lost the pretty black head scarf I packed for this trip; probably dropped it in the Paris airport, where it was too hot for a scarf. Not having any scarf is a problem. The one place all women must cover their hair is in mosques, and Steve and I want to visit a one nearby, the Al Rahmah Mosque, famous for being built so that at high tide it appears to be floating on the water. Fortunately, it’s close to one of the best shopping malls in Jeddah.

Malls are also a big attraction in this city, where the heat shuts down almost everything else for half of every day. They’re social centers where people can shop and graze and mingle in air-conditioned comfort. Steve and I resolve to find me a replacement scarf at the Red Sea Mall.

It’s three stories of apparently endless commercial possibilities, gleaming and seductive.

Perhaps because of its enormity, we struggle to find a place that sells scarves, but we finally make our way to the right level and section. The ladies in one shop pluck out a simple black one and in seconds whip it into a tidy containment apparatus for my (admittedly minimal) hair. I remove it, pay the 25-riyal price (about $6.65). Then Steve and I get a cup of coffee nearby and watch the shoppers stream by.

We note that Saudi girls dress just like they do in the US.

The guidebooks say women in Jeddah don’t have to cover their hair, but we see almost none who are bare-headed (as I am). The vast majority also are wearing athletic shoes. It makes me resolve to start using my single pair of trainers instead of the sandals I have been wearing. Maybe I’ll fit in better. I’ve begun to feel self-conscious about the mousiness of my abaya. The gowns of the women in the mall and on Jeddah’s streets are pleated or tailored or inset with panels of embroidered black fabric or adorned with other subtle refinements. I’ve also begun to wonder what’s under their robes. I’m starting to suspect it’s not almost nothing, like I’m wearing. I stew over this.

When we leave the mall, I avoid direct sunlight and keep my legs closer together as I walk. At the mosque, I fail to cover my hair with anywhere near the efficiency of the shop ladies.

That’s the so-called Floating Mosque. (But it wasn’t high tide so it didn’t look like it was floating.)

As it turns out, the mosque is closed. So is the nearby Jeddah Yacht Club, which looks to us like it may still be under construction. We get luckier on the restaurant front and eat good seafood for a second night.

Thursday, August 20

Because we are not Muslims, Steve and I cannot visit the city of Mecca, the holiest city in Islam. Until 2021 we also would have been prohibited from entering large parts of the second-holiest city, Medina. Then as part of Saudi Arabia’s modernization, the rules changed. In Medina, non-Muslims still may not enter the inner hallways of the Prophet Muhammed’s Mosque (the first he ever established), nor may they visit his grave. But now they can get pretty close to both, and we want to do that.

We have seats on a 1:30 pm high-speed train that will take us from Jeddah to Medina. That gives me time in the morning to ask Gemini: is it okay to wear only underwear under my abaya? The AI bot’s answer shakes me. It advises me to consider my abaya as “an outerwear layer” only, rather than my “primary garment.” Accidental exposure of my unclothed person in public could “result in fines, detention, or significant distress.”

This doesn’t quite make sense. My abaya has no snaps or bottoms. It can’t accidentally open, and it’s too narrow to get blown up by some unexpected breeze. Still, I once again badger Steve to scrutinize its transparency. He sticks to his insistence no one can see through it.

Gemini also alerts me that even though Saudi law says women don’t have to cover their hair, Medina is such a conservative and religious city, hiding one’s hair is highly recommended for all women. I’ve come up with a new plan for using my scarf to do that.

I don’t implement it until after we pull into the station (after a fast and comfortable ride).

In one of the train station’s women’s washrooms, I put the scarf over my head, then over that secure the gray headband I got in the two-headband pack I bought at my CVS back in La Jolla. (I’ve somehow already lost the black one I used in the photo above.) The result makes me feel like I should be be starring in some Christmas pageant, but at least it’s secure and reasonably comfortable.

Here I am, checking in to our hotel in Medina.

Our room overlooks the enormous plaza in front of the Prophet’s Mosque. If I had better focused this photo out the window, you would also be able to see the green dome under which the founder of Islam is buried.

Visitors can enter this plaza (but can’t go into the inner complex.)

Even from the outside, the sunset call to prayers is mesmerizing.

We watch the huge crowd of men beginning their devotions. (Female worshipers are somewhere else.)

Friday, August 21

Today we’re heading north to the archeological and geological wonderland that is Al Ula. Our experience there deserves its own post; I’ll try to write that next. Here I’ll just say I’m still wearing both my abaya and my improvised head covering when I get on our 8 am bus from Medina.

Almost all the other ladies waiting for the bus are heavily veiled.

Steve has read that Al Ula is one of the most permissive places in the kingdom. So when we arrive, I ask our innkeeper-cum-tour guide Abu Faisal if it’s okay for me to switch to Western garb. He is effusive in his assurance that lady visitors can wear almost anything here. Shortly before sunset, when he takes us to the town’s most famous formation, Elephant Rock, there’s instant confirmation of the sartorial laxity.

See the Chinese lady tourist dressed in the skimpy evening gown being photographed by her male companion.

Over the next two days, I switch to drab safari pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and my visor. I’m more constricted than I would be in my abaya, but I never once worry about getting fined or embarrassed by what might show as I’m scrambling over the rocks.

Sunday, August 23

Flying back to Jeddah from Al Ula, I wear my Western clothes on the plane, then switch back into the abaya when Steve and I head out for dinner. At first the familiar black robe feels like a welcome reprieve from the constrictions of my pants and long-sleeve shirt. But over the course of the next two days, our last ones in the kingdom, I finally hit the limits of the August heat and my offbeat costume.

We’re staying in the oldest part of the city, Al Balad. At the core of the Old Town are narrow twisting lanes dating back to the Middle Ages. Many are in ruins.

Others that have been renovated and look magnificent.

Some appear to be new but dressed up with the traditional wooden balconies.

After dark, the market streets fill with shoppers and pulse with commerce and convivial interactions. If the quarter were all fixed up, I think it could be enchanting, a vision apparently held by the crown prince (MBS). In recent years, the urban authorities have gobbled up large blocks of the properties inside and adjoining the old city, forcing longtime residents to move. Within the heart of the Old Town, the Ministry of Culture has blocked off so many of the passages it’s hard to get around.

Deterred by all the construction roadblocks on Sunday night, Steve and I walk Monday morning to a museum that sounds like it should be fascinating. (The restored home of a wealthy merchant, it reportedly includes a ramp that enabled his camels to have access to the rooftop.) One site has told us it will be open until noon; another says 11. So we arrive around 10, but it’s closed up with no signs hinting it will ever be open. We look for a couple of other restored mansions, but can’t find any.

During our week in Saudi Arabia, we don’t see a single dog. But the streets are full of skinny cats and kittens.

We finally give up and spend the rest of Monday relaxing in our air-conditioned hotel room. On our final morning in the kingdom, we try sightseeing one more time, setting out a bit before 7 am. We hope it will be easier to meander before the sun gets too high.

Wrong again. We last only 45 minutes before dragging back to the hotel. So much sweat is pouring from me, it makes my abaya stick to my arms, turning it skin-tight. Back in our room I strip it off and hope it will dry out before we have to pack and leave for our flight to Africa.

You may be wondering what shape it was in after the week of almost-constant service. Before we left San Diego I had hand-washed it and noted with delight that it dried in just a few hours. I had planned to wash it every night I wore it in Saudi Arabia. To my amazement, however, it never seemed to need laundering. It still looked impeccable just before I packed it back into my suitcase — spotless and unwrinkled. I detected just a hint of my Dove Advanced Care Deodorant.

So I guess that’s another point in favorite of my abaya. I’d wear it again any Halloween.

Jeannette of Arabia

August 27, 2026jdewyzeLeave a comment

For most of my life, I assumed I would never get to Saudi Arabia. I’m not Muslim, nor have I ever worked in the oil industry. I am an avid traveler, but the Saudi government never permitted any tourism. Things changed with the rise to power of Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman (aka MBS).

It’s MBS who has pushed the kingdom’s recent liberalization, allowing Saudi women at last to drive (as of 2018). It’s he who envisions Saudi Arabia developing into a major tourist magnet, generating revenues that could supplement the oil revenue when that resource inevitably dwindles.

The government began granting the first tourist visas in 2019, but the overture didn’t make me rush online to book my Air Saudia tickets. For one thing, Covid was about to shut everything down. Other destinations in the Middle East also seemed more interesting. In the years that Steve and I have worked as volunteer liaisons between Women’s Empowerment International in San Diego and the Nyaka organization in Uganda, we’ve made several trips to visit our Ugandan partners. To break up the long journey to central Africa, we’ve stopped and spent some days in Dubai and Abu Dhabi, Oman and Qatar. Now, before we head south to embark on our Madagascar adventure, we’ll be visiting Uganda once again. This time a stopover in Saudi Arabia finally beckoned.

And why not spend at least one week of our lives with one of the three biggest dogs in the region? Steve and I have already traveled in Israel. Sadly, we missed the chance to visit Iran during that brief window a few years ago when it was safe and practical for Americans to go there. That leaves Saudi Arabia, a wellspring for so many creations — astronomical, mathematical, architectural, literary, religious — that have shaped modern human civilization.

I did think of a few arguments against going. For one thing, the relentless August heat, around 100 degrees for most of every day, might be overwhelming.

In that oven, I also would be wearing strange garb. I wouldn’t be expected to cover my face. Saudi law no longer forces women to do that anywhere in the kingdom. But informed sources advise that wearing an abaya (the long Saudi woman’s robe) is considered a sign of respect. Nowadays, abayas don’t even have to be black; ladies can venture out in public in other colors.

I just happened, however, to have a simple black abaya that I picked up in Oman in 2017. For this trip, I resolved, my abaya would rise above its status as a mere costume. I would see if I could wear it exclusively every day for a week. In my next post, I’ll report on how my abaya and I fared.

The strangest plane ride of my life

August 25, 2026jdewyze1 Comment

To start this trip, we flew Delta from San Diego to Salt Lake City, changed planes and continued on to Paris, then slept in a hotel at Charles De Gaulle airport. The next morning Air Saudia transported us to Jeddah.

In many ways, the Arabian flight felt very normal, actually better than normal. Our Economy seats in Row 55 of the Boeing 787 gave us a surprising amount of leg room, and no one showed up to fill the middle seat between Steve and me. We pushed back on time, and the crew seemed to include more than twice the number of attendants we’d had on our Delta rides, so we got served quickly. The breakfast was fresher and tastier than Delta’s.

The exotic bits began as we were taxiing to the runway. The safety instructions, played on our seatback screens first in Arabic then in English, were the usual spiel about life vests and oxygen masks and smoking prohibitions. Then just before we started our roll, a voice announced the favorite prayer of the Prophet Muhammed whenever he was starting a journey. As a deep bass speaker intoned them, the words in Arabic and English rolled down our screens — nothing that any Lutheran minister might not say. I assume a ton of people silently voice a prayer right before takeoff, but this was the first time an airline provided one for me over the loudspeaker.

Our screens had an Entertainment option, but if you wanted to watch a mainstream movie, the only choices were The Devil Wears Prada 2, Lee Cronin’s The Mummy, Lurker, or The Super Mario Galaxy Movie. On the other hand, you could view many short instructional Islamic videos explaining aspects of the Hajj and Umrah.

The Hajj is the big multi-day pilgrimage during a certain period that changes every year. It draws millions of Muslim devotees from all over the world. Umrah, I learned, is Hajj Lite — a shorter, cheaper, less arduous visit to the holy land that pilgrims can make year-round. It was obvious our flight was filled with Umrah pilgrims. Many ladies wore little purple capes emblazoned with the name of their Umrah travel agency. The men’s intentions only became obvious after we’d crossed the miqat line.

What’s miqat? I certainly wondered when I noticed that word on my screen. It began appearing periodically, interspersed with more mundane information about our altitude, time to destination, and so forth.

On the left were the prayer times for the day, with the one coming up next highlighted. And on the right, the mysterious “Time to Miqat”.

As soon as I got access to the internet, I learned that miqat is a geographic boundary surrounding the Hajj and Umrah pilgrimage zone, including not just Mecca but also Jeddah and Medina. Muslim pilgrims aren’t supposed to cross that border without first entering a sacred spiritual state known as ihram. Basically, they have to shift into high purification gear — saying certain prayers and declarations; abstaining from swearing, arguing, hunting, sex, cutting their nails or hair; and so on. After our plane had crossed the line, many of our fellow male passengers were wearing white towels secured to their bodies with simple tucks and rolls; no buttons or zippers or other modern contrivances such as safety pins are allowed. I’m not sure whether the guys effected this costume change by slipping off their outer robes in their seats or changing in the lavatories.

When I headed for one of those, I was startled by another first: a small open area adjoining the bathrooms that was lined with prayer mats.

I briefly glimpsed one man on a mat, forehead to the ground, but I didn’t lurk to find out what happened at the actual mid-day worship hour.

By then I was immersed in my own little ihram — preparing mentally for more extraordinary sights in this kingdom that until so recently was forbidden to infidels like me.

To the antipode — and beyond!

August 15, 2026jdewyze1 Comment

If I could drill down from my house in San Diego through the center of the earth, penetrating to the other side of the planet, the drill bit would emerge in water — specifically, the Southern Indian Ocean. That point, my home’s antipode (to use the geographer’s term for the diametrically opposite point of any place on the globe), is closest to the tiny islands of Reunion and Mauritius. I will almost certainly never venture to either of them. But in just a few weeks, Steve and I should land in Antantanarivo, the capital of Madagascar, whose eastern coastline lies less than 500 miles from Reunion.

Madagascar is considered to be part of Africa. But some say it should rank as the Earth’s 8th continent. It split off from the African mainland about 160 million years ago. Since then its geological development has been distinctive, and most of the plant and animal life that has evolved doesn’t exist anywhere else.

Lemurs are the superstars. More than 100 different species live on the island, almost all of them threatened with extinction.

I’m sure we’ll see lots of lemurs, but they’re not the only thing drawing us to our antipode. The island’s other flora and fauna will be fascinating. The human history is relatively brief but often wildly exotic and exorbitantly bloody. And I have to admit: we’ve come to appreciate various ends of the earth. What will the vibe be like in this one?

We’ll be taking a long, winding road to Madagascar, leaving Sunday morning and journeying through Paris, Saudi Arabia, Ethiopia, Uganda, Rwanda, and Johannesburg. I’ll report on the details, as I can, along the way.

We won’t cover the whole island. It’s way too big, the fourth biggest in the world (three times the size of Great Britain.) But we’ll be driven through a big swathe of it (very roughly along that red line.)

Farewell to the high seas

March 27, 2026jdewyze1 Comment

We tied up at the dock in Ushuaia around 7:00 Wednesday morning (3/25). Snowflakes swirled against a black sky. When the world began to lighten a half hour later, I was startled to see many of the mountains encircling the city covered in white. In the three weeks we’d been gone, we’d passed the vernal equinox on the calendar, but it felt a lot more like winter had arrived back in port.

After we sailed away from our final Falkland Island, two and a half days passed, at least a day more than our original itinerary had allotted. But Gaby had warned that the high winds and large swells would slow us; indeed she’d worried it might take even longer to plow through what turned out to be the worst sea conditions of our trip.

Here’s a glimpse of what it looked like in the wrap-around lounge on the 8th deck.

If I had panned the whole room, you would have seen that Steve and I were the only occupants. The motion was worst up there, but I was happy to discover it didn’t bother me (or Steve), even though neither of us was wearing patches or taking any anti-nausea medication. (A number of other folks were suffering down in their cabins.)

Here’s another view from closer to the water. (Ignore the background commentary, a presentation about photography.)

Another thing I learned during the trip was that high seas and fierce wind in the Southern Ocean usually aren’t accompanied by stormy skies. It did grow dark, briefly, on our passage between Antarctica and South Georgia, and a lightning bolt turned the world white. This astounded the crew, we learned later that day. Not one person on the expedition team had ever seen lightning in these waters before.

A third thing I learned was how mild the Southern Ocean was for us, compared to what it can be. Before the trip I’d read descriptions of its monstrous incarnations, but what made that real was the movie the crew screened on the night before we got to Ushuaia. Filmed in 1929 by a crazy American adventurer serving on the largest sailing ship in the world at that time (the Peking), it included footage of the wild tempest that battered the four-masted bark as it rounded Cape Horn: enormous waves that swept across the decks, insane winds. With today’s meteorological tools, captains can see such conditions building, and cruise ships do their best to avoid them.

When we finally arrived back in port, Gaby outlined the plan for the two extra days before the passengers were supposed to disembark: a bus trip to the local national park on Wednesday afternoon and a full-day excursion into the Patagonian countryside for Thursday. But Steve and I had already done the former, and we were fretting that if the storms moved into the city, flights in the coming days might get all screwed up. (You hear lots of stories to that effect in Ushuaia.)

We didn’t want to risk missing our plane home on Saturday. We’d bought changeable tickets from and to BA, so I got on the phone and managed to change our Friday afternoon flight to Wednesday at 2:45 pm, and to add two nights to our hotel in Buenos Aires. Amazingly, we got packed and checked out, the plane pushed away from the gate right on time, and we arrived at the city airport 10 minutes early.

We’ve been delighted to be in the capital again. We’re sorry we didn’t get to see the South Sandwich Islands; sorry our time in Antarctica was cut short (by one day) and the days in South Georgia reduced (by two).

On the other hand, we wound up with more time on the various islands in the Falklands. And I had ten full days at sea, on the wildest stretch of water of them all, where among other things, you learn to keep your balance when the floor under your feet shifts unexpectedly.