The Venice of Botswana.

This is a horrible thing to admit, but I did zero research before taking this trip and could barely even name the countries I was visiting, let alone the specific sites. But the positive side of my unpreparedness is that I've been pleasantly surprised at every turn. And the Okavango Delta in Botswana was beyond anything I could have imagined.

The Delta is made up of hundreds of small islands surrounded by shallow, reedy water that attracts almost every form of wildlife in Africa. To really appreciate it, you have to spend some time away from any villages--preferably in complete isolation on a small island. Which is exactly what I did. To get there, I took a Mokoro--a canoe-type boat that is manned by a "poler" kind of like the gondoliers of Venice. Only instead of house-lined waterways, we were poled down canals carved through a sea of reeds. It's possibly one of the most relaxing and beautiful ways a person can spend an hour-and-a-half.

My poler was a man named Wiz, and during an afternoon of downtime, his nephew, Excuse, gave me a lesson on the intricacies of their profession. It ain't easy. Especially for a spaghetti-armed, spindle-legged stork such as myself. Though I didn't ever flip the boat, I think Excuse was a very happy man when his feet were once again planted on solid ground.

Our days on the island were filled with nature walks where I became an expert on the poo of just about every animal in Africa. It's actually surprisingly interesting stuff. We also took Mokoro rides to look for the hippos we could hear grunting outside our tents in the middle of the night.

But the best part of the trip was the polers, themselves. They were all really cool, and I spent a lot of time playing UNO (or "one card left") with them during the hottest hours of the day. At night around the campfire, they tried to teach us some of their traditional songs and dances, but when it came our turn to reciprocate, we were at a bit of a loss. What's a traditional American song other than the national anthem? The best we could come up with was Bye Bye Miss American Pie for the song and the Hokey Pokey for the dance. I was embarrassed on behalf of my entire country.

However, this just highlighted my ever increasing willingness to make an ass out of myself. Which, if I'm completely honest, I think is a good thing.

Guerrilla trekking.

Why do people write their names on bathroom stalls or carve their initials on trees? Because they want to leave something behind just to say they were there. That, for a moment in time, they existed in that specific place.

Enter the newly minted ShanAsh guerrilla marketing campaign. I had my friend make up these stickers (thanks Anna!) that we've been leaving in strategic places along our route to mark our journey. Look for them in a city near you.

Over, under, and on the Mighty Zambezi.

Victoria Falls, the Seventh Wonder of the Natural World, was created by the Zambezi River washing away soft rock along ancient fault lines. The current falls are not the original, but you can actually see the zig-zag pattern of the gorge--each turn marking the end points of a former site. They estimate that in another 10,000 years, there will be a new Victoria Falls as the Zambezi continues to cut its path.

But today, in their current position, they're one of the most powerful, overwhelming, and spectacular things I've ever seen. Photos don't do them justice--they're over a mile across from the Zambia to the Zimbabwe side, so it's virtually impossible to fully comprehend their size without physically exploring them for yourself. Video is no good either--you can't feel the mist that turns into rain the closer you get to the edge. Nor can you feel the fear they inspire. There's no going over Victoria Falls in a barrel. There's no going over at all and having any hope of surviving. But for all that, they're incredibly beautiful. It's hard to drag your eyes away. To me, it was like witnessing a gift from God.

OVER: And what better way to take in a celestial present than by viewing it from the heavens? Melissa and I took a helicopter ride above the Falls, which was an incredible experience. I've never been on a helicopter before, and was kind of struck by the contrast of man's ingenuity and the untameable forces of nature.

UNDER: After seeing the Zambezi from above, I decided I needed a more up-close and personal look in the form of whitewater rafting. It was a very different experience than the Nile in Uganda--rather than being huge and terrifying with long lulls in between, it was more nonstop action with the added danger of crocodiles (we saw them sunning on the rocks as we rafted by)and whirlpools at every turn. We only flipped once, which was more than enough to get a thorough taste of the Zambezi.

ON: Next up was a canoeing wine drift. Imagine gliding along perfectly still waters, the distant sound of drumbeats combining with the music of wildlife all around you, with a never-depleted glass of wine in your hand. At the risk of sounding like Katie Holmes, I'm going to describe it as magical--made even more so by the company of two of my best friends.

Now, imagine that serene setting shattered by the sudden appearance of a charging hippo. At any other time, it would be terrifying, but mostly drunk on wine, it was actually the perfect punctuation to one of my best evenings in Africa so far. Though I fill my days with things like helicopter rides, scuba diving, and whitewater rafting, the times I think I'll remember most are the ones that involve just sitting back and taking it all in.

Barfarama.

*This one's from the archives. I just forgot to post it earlier.

For those of you thinking of taking the ferry from Zanzibar to Dar es Salaam, be forewarned: business can get ugly. You know the scene in Stand By Me when Lardass drinks the castor oil at the pie eating contest, vomits, and sparks an all-out barfarama? That's what you can expect. And not just from the muzungu tourists. The lady sitting next to me snuck a sick bag under her burqa to be violently ill for two hours straight. There were kids laying in the aisles performing synchronized puking tricks. Young. Old. Black. White. Barf knows no boundaries. Except for me. I escaped relatively unscathed, the only assault being on my delicate nostrils.

Faaaaantastic...

My friend's Dad measures his success as a parent by the company his daughter keeps. He says friends are a reflection of self, and you can't have quality friends if you, yourself, are a bad person. This makes me feel that I must be doing something right in life because I always manage to be surrounded by the loveliest, kindest, most generous people. And this post is dedicated to one of my all-time favorites.

Today, after a month of African adventures, I had to say goodbye to Melissa. It seems like only yesterday that she arrived bearing tinctures, fiber bars, and the world's best sense of humor. She's been the person I've turned to, not only in Africa, but in everyday life over the past five years in San Francisco. She staved off my early loneliness in a new city. She encouraged me to go new places and try new things. And she's been an unfailingly supportive friend since day one, which is especially impressive considering that on day one, I was incredibly drunk and obnoxious on the SF Addy Awards party boat.

So, Melissa, thanks for a great five years across three continents. Have a safe journey home. And know that someone in Africa is missing you. I look forward to seeing you back in SF and again next year in New Zealand.

Parasite paranoia.

According to the Lonely Planet, 50% of people who go in Lake Malawi end up with a parasite that, after a two-month incubation period, attacks your genital region and causes you to pee blood. Knowing this, many in our group have been understandably paranoid. This is a story born of that paranoia.

A friend told me that when she was in the bathroom (squat toilet lit only by her head torch), she saw what looked like a tape worm emerging from her nether regions. A big freak-out ensued. However, gathering the courage born of necessity, she decided to take care of the situation and pull the sucker out. Gritting her teeth and calming her gag reflex, she grabbed on and gave it a yank...

...and her tampon fell out.

Just to clarify, this time it was NOT me. But hilarious just the same.

Why I Thought Peeing My Pants Was a Smart Idea by Ashley

Ever since I was a kid, I wake up in the middle of the night, every night to go to the bathroom. No matter how few liquids I imbibe during the day, I cannot avoid this.

When you are camping in the wiles of Africa, getting up to pee in the pitch dark is not only inconvenient, but terrifying. This lead me to seriously weigh the pros and cons of wetting my pants while in the Serengeti.

The campsite for the Serengeti is literally in the middle of the Serengeti amidst all the shit you see on National Geographic. There are animal tracks and droppings all around the perimeter of the camp, so you know they are not keeping a safe distance. In fact, we had heard that lions have invaded the camp on several occasions, causing everyone to flee to the safari vehicles for the night. Supposedly another camper was nearly trampled to death by an elephant while in their tent. As soon as I heard these stories upon arriving at the camp, my first thought was "This is going to create some real issues when I get up to pee tonight."

Without fail, around 2:00 a.m. I awoke with a bursting bladder. And my bladder does not negotiate.

All I could hear were the terrifying, ungodly howls of hyenas all around. If you've never heard a hyena howl, it sounds like a freakish animal/ghost/creature that wants to suck marrow out of your bones (that third part is pretty much what they do). I know, I know, they are scavengers and don't actually kill anything. I was finding logic difficult to cling to amidst their terrifying sounds.

Could I make it to the bathroom? It was 150 feet away. Even if I ran in the dark, there would be lots of time for a pack of hyenas to get at me. What's that? The howls are getting closer and growing in number? Dear God. Should I pee my pants? How would I wash my sleeping bag? How would I explain this to Shannon? Would the pee smell ever come out of the tent? Would the smell of my pee ATTRACT the hyenas even more?

It was a quandry.

In the end, I grabbed a tissue, hopped about 2 feet away from the tent and let loose. I hid the tissue under a rock and that's how I helped turn the Serengeti into the Serenghetto.

What motivates me?

Fear. More specifically, the fear of missing out. That's my number one motivator. That's the reason I've taken an indefinite leave of my former life (and, I've been told, my senses) to travel the world.

But my secondary motivators aren't quite so obvious. For instance:

Kilimanjaro: I read an interview with Bill Clinton. Climbing Kilimanjaro was an unchecked box on his bucket list. From that moment on, I was determined to one-up Slick Willy.

Victoria Falls: I'm obsessed with pith helmets and monocles, and I associate both with Victoria Falls.

The Serengeti: I read a science fiction short story in Jr. High (I think it was by Ray Bradbury) about these two children who transported their fighting parents into the Serengeti to be eaten by lions. This is a very loose plot summary because I have a terrible memory and Jr. High was a long time ago. However, I do remember that I was transfixed by the author's description of the Serengeti and the way the lions stalked the parents across the plains.

Scuba Diving: Harry Houdini. I don't know why.

Setting up the tent.

A: How about here?

S: Ok.

A: *%&^#!, there's ants everywhere!

S: @&%$*!

A: $%$#. @#$(.

S: @%$^$%$#. @##%%$!@. @#$$#%^%$%%#.

A: @#$^%###$%&^&**^%##%#$&^^$##$%.

S: Done. Beer?

A: #^%$, yeah.

Concerning Cheese on Toast.

Melissa's single-minded goal since arriving in Africa has been to hear live music, and last night she achieved it. Our friend, Vegemite, who we met walking along the beach at Lake Malawi, invited us to a jam session with Cheese on Toast, Samuel L. Jackson, and Chicken Pete. It kind of reminded me or Eeyore's Birthday in Austin in that is was basically a bunch of wanna-be rastas banging on bongos. I don't think any of them were particularly musically inclined.

At one point, Cheese on Toast decided he wanted to teach me to play. It was the kind of drum you sit on, so I was crouched over it while he showed me the rhythm. He kept putting his hands over mind to show me what I was doing wrong, like an awkward high school seduction scene. Which is was very close to being. Did I mention that Cheese on Toast was only 19?

And then it started.

"Shanno. Shanno. You have boyfriend?"

"No."

"I." He pointed to himself.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand," I lied.

"I boyfriend. I have a very good life. I have a lot to give. A lot. A LOT." He made a hand motion indication that "A LOT" was actually about ten inches. Was he talking about what I think he was talking about?

"Come with me out there." He pointed to the bushes.

Yes, he was talking about what I thought he was talking about.

I laughed, pretending to think he was just joking, and said no.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Just no," I replied. "It's not going to happen."

"Shanno. Shanno. Meet me at the gate after." Apparently, he thought that my reluctance to run off into the bushes with him was due more to my friends' presence than the fact that his was one of the most unappealing offers I had ever received.

"No."

"Why?"

Why? The reasons were endless. But there's really only one that a sane person needs to consider: the AIDS rate in Malawi tops 12 percent. The sad, sobering reality is that Cheese on Toast's life expectancy is about 42 years. Knowing this, I guess I can understand wanting to eek every ounce of pleasure out of your allotted time. It didn't, however, change the fact that I was never going to be the supplier of that pleasure.

"Sorry, Cheese, I think it's time for me to go."

He protested some more, but I was getting a little skeeved out. So I went home to my tent, content for the moment with the company of A.

And an entire colony of ants. TIA. This is Africa.

Random observation.

In Malawi, the toilet paper, if you're lucky enough to find any, is always pink.

The degree of my patriotism.

Unwilling to let the Fourth of July pass completely unnoticed, I decided to share the wonderful American tradition that is s'mores with my traveling companions, most of whom are Australian. Making the real deal is pretty much impossible in Africa, but the following is my close approximation:

Graham crackers: Biscuits (Americans, this means hard cookies) will do in a pinch, though plain is better than ginger, assuming a fatty (i.e., me) hasn't already eaten them.

Marshmallows: Your only option is a brand called Haribo. The bag comes with both regular white and pink strawberry. The pink ones are weird, and both colors get a hard, waxy shell on the outside when toasted (more on this later).

Chocolate: If you plan ahead, this is no problem. There's a lot of good Cadbury chocolate to be found in Africa. Just don't, for the love of Pete, make the mistake of buying the Turkish Delight flavor. You'll regret it and completely ruin your already mediocre s'more.

Problems you may encounter:
-Lack of substantial roasting sticks. Skinny twigs break and burn.
-Poor proportions. The smallness of the ginger biscuits can result in sticky hands or much, much worse.
-Unresponsive Australians. It's a s'more, dammit! You. Will. Love. It.

End results:
-2nd degree burns. Because the shitty ginger biscuits were so tiny, I ended up getting molten marshmallow on my index finger. That's six blisters and a whole lotta gross. I spent the next two days with a piece of aloe plant taped to my hand as a ghetto herbal remedy.
-Second rate s'mores.
-Disappointing Fourth of July.

That's how I roll.

If a scientist were to map my DNA, she'd find that my double helix is inexplicably missing the planning strand. Even when I do plan something, it rarely comes to fruition. This often ends in me spending a lot of time by myself.

Take Zanzibar for instance. I had planned on spending my first full day at the beach with A and Melissa, lounging and just taking it all in. After breakfast, we set off for a walk. I literally only made it about 20 feet before I was sidetracked by a tout wanting to take me snorkeling around a private island.

Leaving when?

Now.

Ok. Bye guys. See you when I get back. Whenever that may be.

Never mind that I was completely unprepared. No sunscreen. No hat. No towel. No problem.

And how did it turn out? Splendidly, of course. That's the thing about not planning. Things usually just work themselves out in the end. And if they don't, I almost always get a good story out of it. Or, in this case, about a million sea lice bites.

Zanzibar is wunderbar.

Stonestown. Tightly packed, dilapidated buildings line crooked alleyways in sad, yet beautiful grandeur. Though peeling and falling apart, they still hold the remnants of their former glory--especially in the woodwork around the windows and the exquisitely carved doors.

Our first day there, Melissa and I shopped in the morning, then met up with the rest of the group for cocktails at The Africa House--a former gentleman's club from the British colonial days. As I watched the sunset over the water and sipped my passion fruit margarita, I silently went over all of the things to be thankful for. The list was long. And chances are if you're reading this, you're on it.

For dinner we walked to the night market, where I floated from stall to stall on cloud nine. I watched "my friend" (in Zanzibar, everyone is your friend) make me a special Zanzibar pizza on his outdoor, coal burning stove. It was delish. Then I stopped by a sugar cane stand where another friend squeezed the cane through a massive juicer, added some lemon, and poured it into a real glass. Also delish. And finally, I had another pizza, this time with chocolate and bananas, covered in syrup. This was beyond delish. Oh yeah, and then I ate a brownie. Did I mention I was on my way north to the beach? Probably not a good meal to eat before squeezing myself into a bathing suit.

But I'm on holiday, so I can do whatever I want. Just one more thing to be thankful for.

The current state of my body.

While in Zanzibar, I've

been bitten by:
mosquitoes
flies
water lice

been stung by:
a jellyfish

stepped on:
a sea urchin

been burned by:
the sun
coffee

I'm a hideous, sweaty mess on the outside and a zen master on the inside.

Sign of the day.

YOUR WELCOM
AS MUCH AS YOU CAN

(Photo to come should I ever find better internet.)

Welcome to the fold.

I'm skipping about two weeks worth of safaris that I'll have to update you on at a later date. I'm in Zanzibar right now and had big plans to catch up on all my blog posts. However, the power goes out sporadically and for hours on end, so my grand plan will just have to wait. Indefinitely.

But first, my intro to the northern beaches of Zanzibar:

I was lounging in the sand, taking in a beautiful sunset over pristine waters when a woman came up to me and asked me if I wanted a massage. How much? 15,000 shillings for a half and hour. 25,000 for an hour. (Approximately $16.) I say, "Maybe later."

Later.

"Are you ready yet? You said later. It is later."

Me, "Can I finish my beer first?"

Lady, "Ok."

Later again.

"Your beer is finish. You said you get a massage when your beer is finish. Now?"

"Ok. Now."

She took me to a tiny little shop with a table covered in a sheet just back from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Take off your clothe."

I took off my shirt and bra.

"Take off your pants."

I took off my pants, all the while hoping that none of the herds of people walking by have bothered to look in the windows, and climbed onto the table.

The lady started massaging my back when another, very large black woman walked in--and when I say large, I mean hugely obese. She also stripped down to her bra and underwear, commenting on how hot it was. She wrapped up in a sarong, and then just sat quietly in the corner. About 20 minutes into my massage, my lady said, "All done," and large lady took over.

Ok. Tag team massage.

Large lady did a good job, but every time she positioned herself by my head and leaned over to massage my shoulders, my face was smothered by her large stomach and breasts. I had a few moments of panic, thinking that I was going to die--not from being mauled by a lion or drowning while rafting--but instead suffocated within the folds of a gigantic African woman.

But it would have been the world's most relaxing way to go.