Djibouti Call - Good bits Part II

Much as caveats are rather annoying, I must caveat the following photos by saying that the pamphlet for Lac Assal describes it as the saltiest lake in the world (if it HAD a brochure - the PR department is a bit, well, nonexistent), and it will be very obvious that this is not a place destined to draw the Robin Leach crowd.

Intro caveats aside, the lake itself is quite the sight. But before the lake, the trip to get there is in a category all its own. Some of the roadside views are quite lovely.

Of course, the locals park and peddle wares for silly visitors who chance to goggle at the picturesque vista.

With directions that include "turn right at the big white archway in the middle of nowhere" and "turn left at the first junction you see after all the goat-filled trees" it takes dedication (and a better than average suspension system) to locate this gem.

So in order to get from this...

Aaaaaalllll the way down to this...

And finally to this...

Requires nerves and skills (and shock absorbers) of steel. This is the nice bit of road.

If only we'd had access to a vehicle in one piece. One that did not threaten to leave us stranded in the Djiboutian wilderness where our salt encrusted bones would be found weeks later...

Sadly, this would have to do. (It required jump leads to start, and the fan belt made noises I've only heard from a percussion section, oh and the shocks were such rubbish I got an unscheduled spinal realignment from driving).

Ah well. It was a good run, eh? Death by Djibouti would look fun on a tombstone.

To the good bit. Really. It was good. Hot? Of course. Humid? Have you MET the equator? But fascinating after all.

 Don't be fooled. That is not sand. Not dirt. Not even gravel. No, Djibouti has to line its lakes with razor sharp crystallised salt. Not for the faint of foot, this.

But certainly for those lacking pool floaty chairs (God bless the French).

Sinking is overrated. Though I would not recommend full facial submersion; or entry with any skin wound.  Really, entry as a whole should be avoided if you have sense (or aren't French, which I suppose is the same thing). Getting evaporated salt lake out of shoes, hair, skin, etc requires a hose (which they do not supply in Nowheresville Hazeland).

Oh, by the by, there aren't any fun little tide pool animals in these puddles. Magma hot water and razor sharp salt rocks, though, which are fun, too.

Know what else is fun? Khat-fuelled locals peddling salt crusted things (that you can find just by walking round the lake) and geodes (a bit harder to find).

Ahhhh... a sense of relief that even the third world is not immune to the phenomenon of the grockle shop.

 See? Lots of salty.

 Even  the rubbish takes on a sophisticated crystallyness

Hmmmm... yup. Lots of salt.

Despite everything, it has its charms. Neat views, salt in your bits and bobs, overpriced rocks, and a uniqueness that is unmistakable.

Certainly not like anyplace else, no?

The goats seem to like the area (they greeted us on the way out, too)

Why not?

Djibouti Call - One of the Good Bits

When one thinks of the tiny African country of Djibouti, what comes to mind in general - if not "whose booty?" - is hardly paradise. When one has to live there for an extended period of time, however, it is rather necessary to find the bright spots. The literal sense is easy - it is about 11 degrees north of the equator and not terribly green (shades of brown, really), so the whole place is pretty blinding. What I'd not have imagined is that the first place I got to swim with dolphins was in this tiny pacman-shaped place (and I lived in Hawaii for two years).

Gahhahaha! I'm nine again! They are dolphins! DOLPHINS! Magical, marvelous, mystical, DOLPHINS!

This was the sight off Moucha Island, a wee strip of coral island about ten miles out of pacman's mouth (in the Gulf of Tadjoura, if you're big on details). Just a swift splash of ocean away from being underwater, it is a sort of gem in a place decidedly lacking in same.

Really. Look at that water. If there only were more trees, this could be the West Indies (can we still call them that?).

Wikipedia's entry re: this place is described as a stub; rather appropriate, as the island itself is stubby. And looks a bit like southern Idaho (but the sandy stuff is just big hunks of broken shells).

Lots of fauna call this stubby bit of coral home. Some are people (who don't really stick around all the time). Some are birds (who obviously can bugger off back to real land anytime).

Some are tiny wee hermit crabs.

Little guy can move.

In a heat-stroke-induced near-death delirium, I collapsed after enjoying an unhealthy dose of searing and dehydration.

But it really was rather pretty...

Tahoe in my Dreams

Big, grandiose views. Gorgeous panoramic vistas. No one will argue that Lake Tahoe is rather pretty; especially in the winter and spring. All that deep clean snow, and the springtime melty bits, make the place seem at once untouched and idyllic, and peacefully inhabited.

From my point of view, much like the devil, the beauty is in the details. Along any road, trail, or footpath, there are millions of small, seemingly insignificant background elements that are on their own far more brilliant than their credit would indicate. These elements do not seek the spotlight the way the postcard inspirational wall hanging scenic views do; they are happy to sneak past the sight of the gluttons for scenery, and observe from the sidelines. But they are so important for sake of the whole picture. Apologies in advance for the cliche, but no one really wants to ignore the trees to enjoy the forest. Without the trees, a forest is nothing but greeney browney lines, hardly the stuff of awe. Even the rather tiny and a bit out of place have a certain something:

Besides, it was not their decision to get plonked down six feet from the water. They don't even realise (or perhaps they do) that once the runoff hits the lake, they will find themselves becoming aquatic evergreens. A bit sad, really, if I'm being perfectly honest.

Birds have a slightly unfair advantage. They are as a rule naturally rather pretty and are quite good at perching in very photogenic manners.

All well and good, that, but I am more interested in their other, more stroppy side.

On a psychologically predictable level, I find it highly poetic that even something with plumage glinting in the dawn light can turn its backside on what it deems unimportant (i.e. me with my camera and lack of feathers and wings).

Continuing with observations that reveal more about me than they do the subject of the observing, the broken, disused, and general rubbish of the world strikes a chord.

Whatever the cause of the destruction or disuse, the fact that some poor object cannot do the job it was created so to do is sad. Not cry into my beer sad, but rather wish better for an inanimate object sad. Unlike people (or so we like to think), a boat is made with a singular function or purpose in mind: to float, and theoretically to carry cargo of some variety. Excepting for self destructive tendencies, boats want to be able to do their job; dirty great holes caused by outside forces make that impossible, and without additional ourside intervention to repair said holes, this spells certain abandonment to the elements or outright death.

Some disuse is not nearly so sad. At the moment of idleness, one may wax distraught, but there sometimes is a sort of end in sight.

Barrring disturbances to underground pipes, a rusted, calcified water faucet will see use again once the temperatures rise and jolly boat-goers have need of a place to attach a hose. The very lack of snow on the surounding ground is a bit of an optimistic sight; spring is trying to sprung.

Some of the devilish details have less to say beyond a somewhat self-effacing, "Hullo, there. Do you think I'm pretty? I bet in a certain light, I might be picturesque, too..."

Or perhaps a more contented, "Not much to see here, but the day is lovely and the sun is warm. How are you?"

In the immortal words of Satchmo..."Wooooah. What a wonderful world!"