here's why | tofo, mozambique

I sent my brother a handwritten letter from Mozambique. He didn't find it in his mailbox. The envelope had no address, no writing, except "Chris" with a quick underline beneath the name. He got my letter one night at work, when a woman named Aly walked in. She walked right up to him - didn't need to ask for someone to point him out to her. Later, she'd tell me, I knew right away. You two look just alike. She smiled warmly, and said, Cyndi says hi from Mozambique. And he read my letter.

Aly says he welled up as he read it, and that once he finished his face broke into a giant grin and he hugged her like they were old friends. He sat her and the friend she'd come with at a table with no regard to the wait list. He was the general manager at a popular restaurant in Atlanta. Their tab was on him, for the price of learning how my letter found its way into his hands from Africa.

The first time I traveled alone was to Mozambique. I didn't intend to travel alone. My closest girlfriend in my study abroad program in South Africa and I planned the trip together. Two days before our flight would take off, she backed out. My friends balked. Assumed I wouldn't go. It's Africa. It's dangerous.

I went anyway. 

I booked a room at Fatima's, a hostel with branches in Maputo and Tofo, my next destination, with plenty of beer and staff to kept the party going. On the taxi ride to Fatima's, young kids, really young, 5-6-7 years old, beat on the windows.

I crouched down, embarrassed to be white, embarrassed to have the money to afford a taxi. Traffic was so slow the kids followed us. Some begged for money, and others offered to sell homemade goods. I chastised myself and sat up straight. I waved hello. Eventually, they waved back, their broken English, Hellos ringing in my ears for days.

I barely set my things down on my mosquito-netted bed before two backpackers - an Australian guy and a European man, invited me to dinner at a local bar. Don't get in cars with strangers. Africa is dangerous.

I went anyway.

I had pizza, at this raucous Maputo bar. I drank Savannah Dry, my favorite beer/cider in southern Africa. The three of us watched futbol, talked of our travel plans (wherever the road takes me was theirs, in summary), and of travels past. These guys had been everywhere. Two hours into the night, I asked when they'd first met and where. They looked at each other and me, Really? and laughed. They'd met right before they asked me if I wanted to join them for dinner. I told them this was my first time traveling alone.

You're never alone when you travel, they said.

The next morning, I boarded a van. I waited outside like a kid ready for the first day of school, my bags neatly packed, expecting a bus to arrive at the scheduled time. An hour later, the van showed up. A hubcap was missing, I had a chicken for a seat mate, and the smell of body odor threatened to make me ill. Locals jumped on and off the van at varying points with no seeming rhyme or reason. Half the time, the van was still moving.

I moved to the closest seat I could find to the front and stuck my head out a window.

You'll get used to it, a friendly voice said.

Aly worked for the CDC in Atlanta. She had gone to Emory. She spent an extensive amount of time in Africa as part of her job, usually in the DRC. After this last trip to the Congo, she planned to meet her English boyfriend in Tofo for a scuba diving vacation. Being from Atlanta, we jumped into familiar places and restaurants, how things have changed, and, of course, we talked of our travels. 

Mozambique is a poor country with rich natural resources. Ruled by the Portuguese from the 1500s until 1975, the country is still finding its own independent feet. Maputo is an average African city - busy, cramped and fairly developed while still growing. Inland, the country is agricultural, rural and beautiful. It's desolate. And it's very poor. As you move towards the coast on the Indian ocean, tourism plays an increasingly bigger role. The water is pristine, and the land is coveted.

I'm so glad I got to see Mozambique now, before tourism takes hold.

In Tofo, Aly and I met Tim, a fellow American. I don't remember our meeting, where it was exactly, or when it happened. But I do know that within a blink of an eye, or it seems, the three of us were inseparable. Tim was working in Swaziland in HIV-stricken communities. He wore his work in his eyes, and we talked endlessly about the need for sustainable development, pre-natal healthcare and the power of communicating through language barriers.

The nearest town to Tofu is Inhambane, about 30 minutes inland. The small town is mostly empty streets, quickly deserted once the work day ends. Crime is high and police officers are stationed on most corners, on streets and near banks. Inhambane houses the closest ATM. It held my debit card, and Tim and I frantically called over one of those officers, trying desperately to communicate the problem. The bank was closed, they said. But they could call someone.

Crime is high in Mozambique, and the intense presence of the police make it feel criminal to walk around, but the people are friendly. The officers are people, and they can be friendly, too.

I read for days in Tofo. I bought ankle bracelets from a local boy who called himself, "Johnny Cash." I sipped Savannah Dry with Aly and Tim. We ate the local food at the only restaurant anywhere around. We walked the beach every night at sunset. Tim and I went diving with whale sharks, and we both puked our whole insides up over the side of the small boat on our way out to sea. We took deep breaths and dove in the water, anyway, once we got to where we were tortuously going, and for the few minutes we could last in the rolling waves, felt great swimming alongside the biggest sea creatures I've ever seen.

Before we all parted, I handed Aly a hand-written letter addressed to simply "Chris."

Your brother's restaurant is one of my favorites.

Tim is getting married. Aly and I had drinks in Atlanta a few years after we came back from Mozambique.

You're never alone when you travel.

Here's why you should visit Mozambique:

1. Burgeoning country - prices continue to rise by the year as tourism grows and industry spreads (and problems with inflation continue), but get there before resorts dot the pristine coastline 
2. Beaches
3. Scuba diving - It's cheaper to get certified here than many other countries. There's also incredible diving. (From hearsay & research - I don't dive.)
4. History - such a storied, complicated reign of Portuguese control has left the country in shambles, but the mixture of the Portuguese influence with native African roots, is fascinating - in architecture, culture, language and everything. 
5. TIA. This is Africa. It's complicated, and I have complicated feelings about this country. But this is Africa. And Africa asks you to grow and change and rid yourself of preconceived ideas. You'll be a better person and traveler for coming here.

here's why | rehoboth beach, delaware

I love the drive from D.C. out to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. It takes you through a panoply of settings - urban as you exit DC, suburban through the towns with Targets and shopping malls, scenic and awe-inspiring over the grand Chesapeake Bay, rural through cow pastures and farmhouses and property with acres that stretch endlessly, and finally, beach town.

Nine months ago, I'd never been there, though I'd heard plenty about the (in)famous summer parties at neighboring Dewey Beach. When Zander and I started dating, I knew his parents lived in Rehoboth because he often referenced summer fishing trips and weekend getaways (that I now know is a euphemism for "place to do my laundry"). In the last nine months, I've gone from a stranger to the area to familiar and comfortable with it to a Rehoboth enthusiast. 

A big reason why I love the drive out to Rehoboth is the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. The nearly 4.5 mile shore-to-shore behemoth is one of the longest of its kind in the world, shakes (like a salt shaker) when there's a modicum of wind, and generously offers up incredible views of the bay. Once, we spotted an un-submerged submarine. That has to be one of the coolest things I've ever seen, and it was a mere hour outside the District. We've crossed it on bright, sunshiny days, when the rain is coming down like pellets, when the wind has us gripping the steering wheel and door handles for dear life, and at sunset, my favorite.

Of course, the reason most people visit Rehoboth is for the beach. It's pretty gorgeous, right? This is Zan's dad, walking ahead of us Christmas Eve morning, the cold biting through our multiple layers. The dogs barely noticed it. Beach culture in Rehoboth is just like any other beach town - beer and laughter-filled during the summers and isolated in winter. Winter is my favorite. The mile long boardwalk (a great, easy, pretty run!) is empty, the ice cream and french fry stands boarded up, and the only other people you'll see are locals, who share a connected love of the forlorn boards and still amusement park rides. There's a certain, I don't know, je ne sais quoi, about a heavily touristed area that's silent, but for the rolling waves. It's beautiful.

Rehoboth has its secrets. Lordy, I love a place that holds its secrets close and tight. Most visitors eat pizza at Grotto's, when they should be having it served fresh and hot from Nicola. They shop at the Outlets on Route 1, when there are life-changing finds to be had at Hula Sue, boutique extraordinaire. The tourists grab a few groceries here and there where they find them, when a short jaunt takes you to Hickman's Meat Market, home to America's most incredible homemade chorizo, that I have to get every single visit. There's also "the farm," the best place for milk and honey and dairy galore, but I couldn't tell you where it is because it's off a side street I can never remember, and it's only open when it's open.

Beneath the sand-filled nooks and crannies exterior, Rehoboth is a foodie town, at its core. Take Shorebreak Lodge, a locals joint off the main strip, that serves some of the best wings I've ever had, has a killer wine list, and makes homemade edamame hummus that is to die for. Henlopen is one of Zan's parents' favorites for good reason. With a fresh oyster bar, and another incredible wine list, a bustling atmosphere and bartenders that remember your name from six months ago, it's the place to see and be seen. For low key nights that don't require much effort, I like Casa DiLeo, where the homemade tiramisu is the best thing on the menu.

Travel doesn't have to be costly or international. Travel can be at a new restaurant, a city you've never seen, the site of raindrops falling on a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, or a beach where the only prints in the sand are your own. Rehoboth is good travel. 

Here's why you should visit Rehoboth Beach, Delaware... 

1. crossing the Chesapeake Bay
2. fresh seafood, local markets, oenophile's dream
3. the beach, of course 
4. shopping (outlets + local boutiques)
5. you might just run into me some time! say hi ;)

here's why | blyde river canyon, south africa

There are places I've traveled that I wish I could do over. Have a do-over. Can't we all be granted a few of those? Mostly, that's everywhere and everything I've seen, with few exceptions - like the time everything I had was stolen in Ko Phi Phi or when I threw up for two straight hours on a small fishing boat headed to snorkel with whale sharks in Mozambique (both are wildly embarrassing. Moving on...). But there are some places that with age, developed interests and whatnot, I desperately wish I could transport myself back in an instant and experience it through my eyes now, as the person I am now.



(What am I blathering about? Does anyone ever know?)

Anyway. Today, at least, the blabbering is about the Blyde River Canyon in South Africa. It's one of those places that I'd use one of my three genie in a bottle wishes to get a do-over. It's pretty special.



Blyde River is one of the largest canyons in the world. As I remember my history lesson when I visited back in the ancient year of 2008, it's smaller only than the Grand Canyon here in the US of A and the Fish River Canyon in Namibia. It's vibrant - green with lush growth and made of red sandstone. The river runs through the cracks and crevices, spiraling around towering boulders, and the cliff edges jut out precariously - natural benches on which to take it all in. I mean, no amount of photoshopping could enhance this place or beautify it. It's naturally awe-inspiring, breathtaking and spectacular.





Blyde sits along the so-named Panorama Route, a stretch of land in the southeastern part of the country - near to the city of  Durban and Kruger National Park, dotted with natural landmarks. I made my way to Blyde on an overlanding trip the semester I studied abroad in South Africa. We hit the road running in Cape Town and criss-crossed the country - through Swaziland, down along the coast of KwaZulu-Natal, up through Kruger National Park and back through the Panorama Route. While we pitched tents every night in the abundant campgrounds that dot the countryside, there are hostels, inns and hotels in all of the towns and major cities. To access the destinations along the Route, you need to rent a car or join an organized overlanding tour.



The Canyon and other destinations along the Panorama Route are certainly set up for tourists. They're well-maintained and marked. So few people go, though. You have to want to go there, plan that to be a destination. It has to be purposeful, and not many people make Blyde a purposeful visit. In my humble, modest opinion, that's a HUGE mistake. But, I mean, less crowds and more beauty for us, right?



In the past few years, I've settled into myself, into my hobbies and passions and found this endless, abounding love and deep appreciation for being in and exploring nature. If I could go back to Blyde, I'd spend the most time there I possibly could. Maybe I'd never come back! I'd hike, camp and devour it whole.

This final picture is courtesy of GraniteNet. The other images are my own.

Here's why you should visit Blyde River Canyon:

1. Natural playground (hiker's daydream)


2. On of the three largest canyons in the world


3. Proximity to Kruger National Park, Durban and the rest of the Panorama Route


4. Off the beaten path


5. Spectacular views (photographer's daydream)

If a genie granted you three travel wishes, what would they be?

here's why | kudaka island, okinawa

Everyone’s favorite travel phrase is “off the beaten path.” It seems everyone wants to get there, wherever that elusive place is. I’m here to help you find it! I’m starting a new series on why you should visit lesser known and talked about destinations. Check back every Tuesday for “Travel Tuesday.”





Like most beautiful things in life, a woman created the Island of the Gods.

Kudaka Island, known in Ryukyan folklore as the “Birthplace of the Gods,” or the “Island of the Gods,” is a sacred island temple in modern-day Okinawa. Not everyone is invited to pray here, though: Kudaka is the sacred temple grounds of Okinawa’s Holy Women.

Amamikiyo, goddess of the Ryukyus – or modern-day Okinawa – descended from the heavens with the divine purpose of founding heaven on earth. For her first creation, she dreamed an island replete with the riches of nature and the delicacies of majesty. Through the essence of her being, Kudaka was born.



Long after Amamikiyo placed her finishing touches and before her islands became the Japanese territory of Okinawa, Kudaka and the others stood as independent, autonomous lands. These lands unified under a Ryukyu King in 1429 and thrived as the Ryukyan Kingdom until 1829.

Among the most sacred of Ryukyan religious customs is the “Noro,” or high priestesses. Begun by the King’s sisters, this tradition celebrates the intellect, power and divinity of women. Noro counseled Kings during times of war and peace, acted as government liaisons and reined supreme over religious matters. Today, they oversee religious ceremonies and act as counselors on community matters.

Because of its divine creation by a “Noro” of another time, Kudaka became the royal, sacred pilgrimage of Ryukyan Kings and high priestesses. Still today, only the highest of trained holy women are allowed to enter certain areas of the island.



I would like to say that I arrived on Kudaka aware of its historical importance. In reality, I found myself on Kudaka by accident, or karmic insistence. After four days of hiking the hills and diving the depths of Okinawa, my friend Callie and I were ready to experience Okinawa’s famed tropical paradises.

We set out indiscriminately for one of the famed Kerama islands, but our dreams were dashed as we heard, “Sold out” at every ferry counter line. Fortunately, a fellow backpacker turned comrade left us instructions before she left to a “Plan B” island in case this happened.

A haggled taxi fare and 50 minutes later, we stood at Azama Port, a pier on the edge of the Chinen Peninsula. It’s located at the southernmost part of Okinawa, the principal island of the Ryukyus. Kudaka lies 5 kilometers away, a dot on the horizon.



After a 30-minute ferry ride, we arrived on the island expecting to see travel brochures personified. Instead, everything looked a little… gray, and the overcast day was only partially to blame. We followed the rest of the excited tourists on the ferry, leading us to a bicycle rental shop. The bikes were all rented.

We meandered down a small side street – half-dirt, half-paved, lined with quaint, and often dilapidated, houses. There were overflowing trashcans and laundry on lines. Wherever we were, we weren’t traveling down the well-beaten tourist path. The road dead-ended. Puzzled, we headed back to our starting point, again.

This time, we regrouped changed our perspective: we’d find the adventure in this place and let go of our dreams of a perfect beach day. We walked to our left, down a well-worn but unmarked trail through a sun-speckled forest, our path a mixture of sand and dirt. After a short, 10 minute walk we came out into sunshine, sand, salt-water breezes and… a large breaker. The beach could be pretty, but the breaker cuts through the middle, leaving it small and unsightly.

A few sunbathers gave us directions to the best beach on the island; “Walk straight down that path over there.” Without wondering why they weren’t on this better beach, we set down ‘that path.’

We walked… and walked… and walked more. The paved road turns into a dirt trail that cuts straight through the center of the island. After passing the primary residential area, located on the western tip and housing the island’s mere 500 residents – the island turns from old, weary and worn into seemingly untouched land. We walked through silence. It’s not the kind of uncomfortable silence that makes you run towards civilization, scared, but the kind into which you want to walk. It’s completely filled by the island air – a sweet mix of sea breezes and green growth. It’s a silence you don’t know you crave until you’re in it.

I felt increasingly more alive and alert as we walked through the rich nature surrounding us. Something more then the hope of beautiful beaches compelled us forward now.



We walked through areas of forest, into vegetable fields and straight out to open-air, grassy plains. In one of these open areas, out of nowhere, we heard a faint “moo.”. We turned to our left and looked straight into the eyes of the inhabitants of a small cattle ranch.

Our laughter ricocheted off their moos. There was something very special about this scene. Set off from the trail by 300 meters, the few cattle housed here seem not only healthy and happy but also wholly untouched by technology. Stringed ornaments of some sort hung above them.

After our trip, I researched what we’d seen. In Rykuyan religion, it’s believed that hanging Akufugeshi, religious ornaments made from conch shells, above cattle wards away evil influences and epidemics. The cattle on Kudaka aren’t only economical, they’re part of the cultural and religious heritage.

We continued until we came to a fork in the road. We chose right and came to another fork. Right again. 20 feet later, I spotted a narrow, shallow trail. We heard waves crashing. We stepped gingerly, crunching sticks and ducking under tree branches that snagged our bags and clothes.

We came out of the trees into our paradise.

It wasn’t white-sand and sun-drenched; it was a rare, dry, dead coral beach. We stood speechless, mouths agape, unbelieving. Waves crash onto boulders on one end of the beach; the rest is lined with coral. We were the only ones there.



The coral stretches 50 feet into the ocean, until it appears to drop off to deeper seabed. I stood as lightly on the sand as possible, tiptoeing to the nearest boulder. I climbed it, and right as I leaned my head back, fixing my gaze on the ever-darkening skies, rain began to fall.

It’s not often on a vacation that you hope for dark skies and rain, but when you are standing on a secluded, coral-lined beach on top of a boulder on a sacred island, rain takes the holy and makes it majestic.

I closed my eyes, my arms outstretched as wide as they could go. The rain fell and the skies thundered. I swear I was lost in Wuthering Heights, waiting on rocky shores for Heathcliff to gallantly take me in his arms. Or something.



We spent the remainder of the day meandering trails that offer stunning views and down paths lined with vegetation. We climbed down a makeshift rope ladder between massive boulders and sprinted our way into crashing waves. We took pictures on the highest points, watched fisherman cast their rods below us and were awed by islands dotting the sea in front of us.



This small island has a modest, humble exterior, but as you step foot onto its rocky shores and traverse its forest-lined interior, you'll spot remnants of an ancient kingdom's history and a present-day peoples' incorporation of it. It'll stay with you. It did me.

Here’s why you should visit Kudaka Island:

1. A naturalist’s paradise


2. Off the beaten path


3. History & religious folklore


4. Coral beaches


5. Photographer’s playground