Cancun - Houston - LAX - Sydney (Day 26 - 23/1/14)

One of my only photos of Houston

It's morning, and the Duck remarks to me, "Enjoy this relaxing moment. It will be your last piece of calm today".

Cancun has become grey, cloudy, and quiet. All the kids and their cocktail-county parents have disappeared. Our checkout is smooth, pleasant, and without incident. The taxi driver jokes with us about Outback Steakhouse as he takes us to the airport. All the warning signs were there to be seen. Things were going too well, too smoothly. The Duck was right - our time in the airport would be a hairy mess.

Even on paper it looked stressful. Cancun to Houston, Houston to L.A., L.A. to Sydney. How was it all going to fit together? The travel agent had only given us 1 hr between arrival and departure in Houston... which was completely unreasonable in hindsight.

Tower at Cancun airport, complete with massive Corona advertisement

In Cancun airport we hit a snag straight away. The system doesn't like us; our names and information don't come up on their computers. First one, then two, then six check-in staff are scratching heads and talking in rapid Spanish. Our wait at the desk stretches out; it gets to 11 am, then 11:15 am, then 11:30 am. Our flight leaves at midday. I'm very conscious of the clock, as always, but increasingly more so as we begin to race it.

When something like this takes so long you begin to notice every little detail about the person serving you... the fact that their tie is patterned with the names of various international destinations, the blemishes on their skin, their name on the tag, the stoop of their shoulders. Our two main helpers are Rafael and Guadalupe, both anxiously doing their best, ears glued to the phone and nervously joking that we might have to stay another night in Cancun.

Eventually, Duck and I are shuffled along to another desk and told that this is a common problem with Australians checking out of Cancun. Their system isn't compatible with us. We'll have to wait for a later flight.

Duck is on the verge of exploding when suddenly, joyously, our passports are accepted and we're rushed along onto our plane.

But the next stop is worse.

Forrest Gump's actual suit?

As we're coming into America from another country, even if it's just to transfer to another airport, we're subjected to customs and all its post-9/11 hoo-ha. The lines are astronomical, hundreds and hundreds of people nose-to-back, the line snaking back and forth without end.

The clock ticks by. We have less than 20 minutes until boarding. I think of all the stops we must go through - border control, bag pick up, carry-on check, finding the right departure gate. And all the while as time slips away so quickly our line moves so very slowly.

Boarding time comes and goes. I start to feel very anxious. Duck suggests that I talk to someone after I time the person's border interview at the head of our line, then multiply that by the people between us and them, and conclude that we won't make it. The airport lady monitoring the queue is amazed when I tell her our flight has already started boarding.

"Oh, you need to go!"

Yes. Very much so.

Miraculously, she pushes us through to the head of the queue. I ignore the stares burning into my back from the hundreds of commuters, and I fume as inwardly as possible as the Duck's little bag is redflagged, checked, and re-checked again. From here we follow the signs, handover our declaration form, and make it to the security point to re-check-in.

But where are our main bags? We haven't passed a luggage terminal and we're told we won't. Duck asks a staff member nearby and they rush off to find them. Long story short, they reappear with the luggage and we're off running, running, running to the departure gate.

Two other Australians are running alongside us, themselves in a similar time-poor predicament. We reach the gate just behind them. Ten minutes to departure.

The guy on the desk looks mildly offended at our arrival. A French woman is already there, making demands of him as he tries to do something on his computer. He looks up and tells her, in a short manner, that she is no longer getting on the plane because of her behaviour.

The other Australian couple are waved through after a moment, the guy on the door confirming with a colleague that they'll be the last to go through.

Two seconds before us.

The last to go through.

Duck isn't having it. She interrupts, explains in a quavering voice that we have battled our way here, we ran, we had other staff help us to get to this point. Her foot is broken.

He looks at us briefly, sighs gruffly, and begrudgingly says that he'll see what he can do.

And then we're on. Seated next to a manic orthopedic surgeon who talks a streak with the Duck as we fly to L.A. and, then, home. What a trip.

I loved America and Mexico, but it was good to home and welcomed by this lovely sign.

Tuba City, Arizona, and Monument Valley, Utah (Day 6 - 3/1/14)

Monument Valley. Hi-ho silver!

Today we take a drive around the 'Grand Circle' - a large area across four American states that encompasses many natural attractions. The idea is to see Monument Valley and maybe something else, but the Duck's ambition ends up taking us on a 300-350 mile round trip. 

The first goal is to cross over into Utah and see Monument Valley. On the way out we pass through a lot of Navajo country and witness firsthand the impoverished conditions some of the people live in. Small hogans and caravan-sized boxes dot the cold, dry landscape in random places alongside the highway, many without water or electricity. 

The hogan, a hexagonal-shaped building, is the traditional style of home for the Navajo. There are two different kinds - one for men and one for women.

Floyd later explains to me that a great portion of Navajo land was 'frozen' by the government between 1969 and 2007, meaning that repairs and development were not allowed for a very long time. The U.S. Government in 1969 had decided to do this in the hope of forcing the Navajo and Hopi tribes to resolve their internal land disputes, but it didn't work out and a lot of Navajo families (and presumably Hopi ones too) have been suffering for a long time as a result. Compensation is currently being sought by the Tribal Council but the current government hasn't been very receptive to this idea.

Monument Valley is my favourite thing about the trip so far. Nothing prepares me for the sheer majesty of these huge red monoliths (called buttes - something I learned today). Looking down on the valley gives me the exact shot used in the Doctor Who episode The Impossible Astronaut and also transports me to a handful of westerns. I even stand in the footsteps of the great John Wayne; the Duke liked to observe the valley from this exact spot and filmed some of his most famous films amongst the god-hewn structures in this rusty red landscape.

Abandoned or closed Indian jewellery store outside Monument Valley.

Monument Valley - panorama shot.

We drive back into Arizona and the Duck decides to take me to a Navajo diner called the Blue Coffee Pot, a place she had been to with her Navajo chaperone two years earlier.

This time, though, it's just me and her - two very white Australians in an all-Navajo restaurant.

Stepping into the diner gets us more than a few stares from the Navajo staff and customers, and I have to admit that I did not feel very welcome. This could very well just be racial paranoia, but it gives me an unexpected insight into racially-based discomfort nonetheless. It's hardly comparable to the hardship experienced by minorities the world over, and we tough it out and enjoy our lunch the best we can, despite the staring.

Hungry Jacks in Navajo country, note the hogan in the foreground.

From here we drive into a national park to see the the National Navajo Monument - a series of trails that lead to lookouts overseeing a heavily forested canyon. The snow is thick and, this time, is soft enough for a snowball fight. Despite my pleas to the contrary, the Duck takes great delight in showering me in ice - the crisp snow sharply dusting my face and filling the pockets and collar of my hooded jumper.

The Navajo Monument - the ancient pueblo can be glimpsed at the base of the arch.

At the lookout we see down into the canyon where a huge natural alcove shelters a perfectly preserved Navajo pueblo - far bigger and less eroded than the Hopi ones we saw at Sedona. Such is the remarkable state of these ruins that I can almost see how they were in the 13th century - peopled and vibrant with life, a cliffside community in equilibrium with the American environment.

As the sun sets we race to Antelope Point, a strange red rock beach on the Colorado River. It's getting cold and dark by this point so there is no chance of a swim - though Duck picked up what she thought was a shell before I help her identify it as animal bones, prompting her to drop the dangling vertebrae in disgust.

After the day's 10 hours of travelling we meet May and Floyd back at the Cameron Trading Post (15 minutes past Tuba City) for the restaurant's famous Navajo Tacos. This is basically like a big soft taco, only with Navajo frybread used to wrap up the meat and salad. It's delicious but also extremely filling. We look around the Trading Post afterwards, and Floyd is surprised to discover that the store is selling a buckskin that he tanned himself (he recognises the secret trademarks he put into it).

A Navajo taco. I didn't get a chance to take a picture of one because it was too delicious not to eat straight away. This pic is from eatingtheworld.wordpress.com

Later, when we get back to Tuba City, I speak to Floyd at great length about politics, mainly the differences between Australia's and America's political systems, and he fills me in on the ongoing political struggles of the Navajo nation, as well as the decreasing use of the Navajo language and customs among the younger generation. He also speaks about his experiences in the Tribal Council, including some explosive stories about the Indian Rights Movement, as well as a corruption scandal that saw the most influential members of the council imprisoned. At this point I am still only aware of Floyd's occupation as being something to do with politics, but as we ate back at the Cameron Trading Post the Duck and I noticed two young Navajo men who came over to Floyd to pay their respects to him. They call him 'sir' and seem a bit chuffed that he speaks back to them in such a friendly manner. It is at this point that I realised Floyd is kind of a big deal within his community.

Oh, and I almost forgot. Earlier today we drove on Floyd's Road. It's not called that, but it's a road that he fought very hard for - a replacement highway for a collapsed road that now diverts a lot of traffic through Navajo communities. He and May speak so fondly of it, so the Duck made sure that we drove along it on our travels today. We take roads for granted, but how often do you get to meet someone who was instrumental in the construction of one, and then get to drive along said road? Maybe I'm just a weirdo, but I get a big kick out of that.

The Duck in Monument Valley.

Buttes and snow

Navajo in ceremonial mask.

Sedona and Tuba City (Day 5 - 2/1/14)

Hopi petraglyphs at Sedona

Sedona is such an amazing-looking place that you can almost forget the heavy sheen of tourism that coats it like an obscene varnish. The rock formations that surround this desert holiday village look like the bizarre, misshapen surface of an alien planet in a 1950s pulp sci-fi film: all curvy red columns and blond overhangs. We take a tour in a pink jeep to see some Hopi pueblos (ruins from the 13th century). It's a bumpy ride that jolts my broken shoulder a bit but is still a whole lot of fun.

Sedona - town of the desert

Our guide is an amateur anthropologist and avid hiker who slowly reveals to us over the course of 3 hours the full gamut of his personality. He recommends a restaurant that serves elk and bison meat but then later tells us he is a vegan. He also disputes the naming conventions used by scientists when classifying Native American cultures, lectures us about the pointlessness of Western medicine, and tells us that he hasn't "travelled much" before listing several other countries that he's been to. We also learn that he is divorced, spent 4 years in the navy, and was born in Texas.

It's interesting how much of a person's life can be distilled into just 3 hours; the contradictions in a personality and the passions that form an identity. I couldn't even tell you this guy's name, but we got to know something about him, and about the Hopi ruins too - crumbling stone edifices built into the high shelters provided by the intimidating red rock formations.

This Hopi ruins are about 700-800 years old.

Duck and I have a late lunch at a high end 'cowboy' restaurant (yeah, the one the guide recommended to us) and we try bison and rattlesnake meat. The bison tastes just like beef, but the rattlesnake is really nice - a dry combination of fish and chicken. We also eat delicious fries made from prickly pear cactus.  

By late afternoon it's time for us to move on and head up to the Navajo Reservation to stay with the Duck's friend, May, a school teacher. Two years ago, the Duck did some volunteer work at a Navajo boarding school and made friends with this teacher. They've been in communication via email since then, like pen-pals, leading us to the main purpose of our visit to Arizona. The main township on the Reservation is called Tuba City (despite me asking the Duck over and over again - each time as if I hadn't asked before - I couldn't get an answer why the town was called this). Duck warns me not to mention eating rattlesnake as the Navajo regard all snakes as taboo.

Heading to Tuba City we find ourselves driving at an increased elevation. It kind of sneaks up on us as it doesn't involve any more clifftop driving. The plateau in the north of Arizona is 12 000 feet above sea level, something we notice immediately in the sharp decrease in temperature and the hard deposit of snow that law heaped upon the landscape like Magic Ice topping.

We stop at a gas station and run at the snow, both kicking at it in excitement, hoping for it to powder the air like a fluffy white explosion of frost. The flannel-jacketed guy in the pick-up truck parked next to us looks at us like we're the biggest morons in the world as our feet connect with solid rock-hard ice. OW! There's no powdery softness like on TV - it's pure frozen, dirty, rainwater ice. 

After the the sun begins to set the plateau around us is thrown into a beautiful half-light, huge golden shadows falls over the pine-dotted, snow-capped mountains on either side. Duck begins to worry about driving on the Reservation at night, something that she had been warned against as there can be drunk drivers and such, plus we are a very small white minority in a community that harbours a justified resent towards white folk. It's okay though, a sighting of a Navajo police car helps assuage her anxiety.

 

Tuba City Trading Post, 145 years old and still trading.

We meet May at the Hogan Restaurant, a Navajo venue that serves local dishes as well as American and Mexican food, and named after the traditional hexagon-shaped hogans that some Navajos still live in. I order the most Navajo dish I can find: roast beef on fry bread with chilli and beans. May asks me what other foods we have been trying.

What do you think comes out of my big fat stupid mouth?

"Rattlesnake".

The Duck jabs me hard in the side and glares at me, and I suddenly realise my faux pas. I could have crawled right back into myself like a snail into its shell.

May doesn't seem outwardly offended but I quickly move on and talk about something else, sensing a certain iciness in my mistake. I am so embarrassed. 

After dinner we go to May's house and we meet her husband, Floyd, who is an active member of the Navajo community in a political capacity. Much later I find out that he is actually the President of his Chapter, but he is far too humble and polite to tell us this outright. We chat for a bit and he tells me about tanning, which he does whenever he gets the time - mainly turning deer into buckskins, a skill that has been passed down to him through his family. We are warned to lock our car due to hooligans who walk the streets looking for opportunities, but aside from that all is well. The house is very nice - a homely mix of Navajo artefacts, home-made skins, and cosy furnishings.

Oh, and theirs' is the first normal toilet I've seen since coming to America.

The Seal of the Navajo Nation

This is my only photo of Camp Verde (I think). The huge cut-out of the figure playing a flute is Kokopelli, a trickster god of the Hopi, Navajo, Zuni and other Southwestern peoples.

Blythe to Arizona (Day 4 - 1/1/14)

Today is the day of the great open road. We decide to travel only some of the way again, mainly so we could see some more of America in all its dirt-yard, mesquite tree, flag-waving glory. Within the hour we cross over into Arizona from California, and the real proper desert is immediately all around us. I'm talking low, rocky mountains. Huge Bugs Bunny cacti (the sort that wear red neckerchiefs and cowboy hats). Flat-roofed houses surrounded by rusty Americana car shells, pock-marked tin letterboxes, and metre-high wire fences. It was like being inside the television set of my childhood.

Wickenberg mural.

Wickenberg statue.

Our first stop is Wickenberg, reputed to be a historical hotspot but in reality a whole lot of boring. To be fair, it's New Year's Day, so we're lucky to even find anything open. The town is tidy and empty, decorated with weird painted statues and plaques that note the area's history. We pop into a local grocery store to use the toilet and pick up some supplies for the road. The Duck pulls me aside in one of the aisles, laughing, "I can't believe we're overseas and you've taken me into a supermarket". 

From here the Duck decides to drive to Prescott, another town she's read about. It seems like a good idea at first but our flat desert drive comes to an end when we arrived smack bang up against a mountain range. The car begins to climb drastically upwards, my stomach plummeting like a magnet repelled, and the narrow winding road weaves up into the sky higher and impossibly higher. I'm so freaking scared, and it doesn't feel like it's ever going to end. The view is probably spectacular but I wouldn't know because I'm too busy shrinking into my seat. Duck yells at me for not taking some photos but I can't really hear her because I'm gripping the door frame with whitened knuckles and yelling back at her to slow down to the speed limit so we can keep as distant from the cliff edge as possible. Each bendy turn prompts a premonition of the car slipping over the edge and rotating through the air to a violent, fatal end. 

Yarnell: the town at the top of the mountain.

When we break out at the top it's 5000 feet above sea level. We pull over at a bric-a-brac shop-slash-museum in the mountaintop town of Yarnell, and I calm down enough to talk to the shop owner for a bit. She's very curious and concerned about the bushfires we get in Australia, and asks me what causes them. She looks like a bit of a hippy, so I half-jokingly tell her, "Climate change", only to immediately find out that this is something she does not enjoy hearing. After her initial annoyance drifts back off her face she proceeds to tell me, at great length, that the fires are due to solar flares caused by the sun rotating. Cool story, bro.

The temperature so far has been around 20 degrees Celsius on average - not too cold, and hot enough in the sun to only require a T-shirt. After Yarnell, however, it suddenly gets very cold. So cold in fact that snow can be seen in great big clumps carpeting the pine forest around us! It's beautiful.

Prescott is beautiful too; a rather large but secluded town decked out in a huge amount of Christmas lighting. I don't have much else to say about it, except that the town hall reminds me of the clock tower in Back to the Future. It's also named after William H. Prescott, the preeminent 19th century American historian.

Save the clock tower!

Three bars side by side in Prescott.

By the time we move on again it's night. We begin winding our way up the mountainside again, now ever scarier in the pitch black of deepest evening. It doesn't help that we lose an hour crossing over into Arizona, and that once again I'm near-paralysed by my fear of heights. I fear for Mexico if such journeys are to be taken by bus. At the end of this mountain trek we creep into the small but densely-arranged town of Jerome, perhaps my favourite American place so far. 

Jerome. Let me try to describe it, although I doubt I can do it justice.

Imagine a 19th century American version of Victorian London, perched amongst the dry, frozen mountaintops of Arizona, the tall and ornate buildings clustering together like huddling giants squeezed into paved crevices, sparkling with multi-coloured faerie lights, and inviting us into their warm, fire-lit interiors with the promise of whisky, burritos and papercrafts. Later, we find out that this town is reputed to be one of the most haunted places in America, and (even spookier) that Tool singer Maynard James Keenan lives there.

The haunted 'Spirit Room' in Jerome. They had a nice fire going in here.

Rad artwork in Vaqueros Grill, Jerome.

The waitress had these cool tattoos of Van Gogh and Dali.

After this we finally get to our destination for the day, Camp Verde, a small and uneventful suburb on the flat (wonderfully flat!) ground.

Oh so flat.

American Food

In general, food is cheaper in America than in Australia, and comes in much bigger servings. Every time we order a Coke it comes out in a huge gallon-sized cup and tastes very syrupy. In Australia we have about 5-10 fast food chains to choose from. In America there must be at least 30 or 40.

The Duck spends a lot of time talking up the south-western breakfast food item that Americans call a 'biscuit' (not to be confused with our biscuits). It typically comes with a vomity-looking grey sauce called 'sausage gravy', which she loves. I'm not impressed when I try these biscuits, and I would liken them to a hard, stale version of a scone. The Duck is inexplicably embarrassed when I try to spruce mine up with jam.

San Diego to Blythe (Day 3 - 31/12/13)

San Diego Old Town.

It's the day for shipping out, and our goal is to get to Northern Arizona for the next stage of our journey. We decided to only do half of this drive and stop at the California-Arizona border so that life isn't too stressful, something that turned out to be a beautiful and wise decision.

The first half of the day we spend at Old Town, the original historic part of San Diego that has morphed into a ye olde touriste trappe. I like the museum-y historical parts of it and the Mexican food, whilst the Duck enjoys the capitalist tourist-trapping parts. We find one of those Zoltar machines where a robot gypsy in a glass case reads your fortune (think the Tom Hanks classic Big), and Little Duck gets ridiculously excited when it tells her she will make friends with someone of red hair. It's very cute and kitschy.

Ye Olde Soft Drinks

A model of the original San Diego settlement.

Eventually, by about 4:30 pm, we get on the road and are heading out of the San Diego city limits. Night falls very suddenly, like a thick blanket over our heads, obscuring the landscape and bringing the long road ahead into sharp relief. For someone used to Western Sydney's slow, gradual boiling of the day away into a 9 pm darkness it's quite a shock. A shooting star cascades across the sky but this is by no means the most memorable part of our drive. 

Jalapeno white chocolate. Delicious.

We pull into an Indian reservation to get what the Americans like to call 'gas' and are bemused to find that the Indian Casino and gas station are one and the same. From the outside the gas station looks like a normal service stop, but on the inside one of the walls is missing and the bright junk food-heavy interior gives way to a darkened hall of poker machines. It's a very strange sight. 

From here we strike out east along the Mexican border. Duck is convinced that every desert bush and roadside stop harbours illegal immigrants crawling their way into the country. I laugh cynically at her imagination but she has the last laugh when a scared Mexican family dashes out onto the road with that hyperventillating caught-in-the-headlights look.

Okay, that didn't really happen.

What does happen is a very eerie and quiet New Year's Eve drive through a darkened desert landscape. Our fear is ignited by the site of floodlight-decorated trikes burning dust alongside us amongst the rocks, like a scene out of Mad Max 2 (the best Mad Max film). Being New Year's Eve, these trikes foreshadow a remote and surreal truck stop filled with drunken partygoers spilling out into the desert, and two flashing police cars chasing vehicles down into the dust alongside a train line. And the Duck's excitement about border breakouts? Even I have to admit that this was somewhat justified when we find ourselves being waved into a pop-up car inspection by Border Patrol. 

The officer asks us both several questions while the Duck rummages through the car boot for our passports. Our Australian accents transform this Border Patrolman into our best friend, although good tidings and pleased demeanour unfortunately do not extend to the use of his toilet (much to our combined disappointment... 'our' being the Duck and myself, not myself and the Border Patrolman).

Aside from this interruption, our night time drive through inner California is fairly silent and devoid of human settlement. We get a pretty good startle from the sight of a donkey running only a metre alongside our car, and my bladder experiences the greatest relief of its maudlin life at a quiet gas stop (every owl hoot and bar chirp makes me very paranoid that an angry local will come screaming out of the night to blow me into kingdom-come with an antiquated shotgun).

Navigating Blythe

After this we reach our destination: the quiet town of Blythe. It's a fairly large town but by no means a city; very spread-out and flat. I'm not all that surprised that it seems fairly deserted as it's smack-bang in the middle of nowhere. 

They have this thing on American roads where intersections have solid white lines across each side like an indication to stop. There are no stop signs but we slow down every time we see one anyway just to be cautious. A car starts hovering behind us so we decide to pull over and let them pass. Said car follows us to the side of the road and flashes their lights, promptly giving birth to the town sheriff!

"I thought you might be either drunk or lost", explains the sheriff.

"We don't know what those whites lines are for", admits the Duck bashfully.

"Oh", he is taken aback, "They're pedestrian crossings. Just drive through them!"

Just drive through them. Sheriff's orders. Watch out pedestrians!

We have a good laugh and move on. Our night finishes with the hotel clerk almost destroying my credit card in her click-clack machine. The VISA card becomes resolutely jammed and will not be removed. The clerk keeps trying to yank it out and signs of stress start to show on the card (and on my face) as it starts to look like it will bend or snap apart.

About five minutes pass in this fashion, and the situation becomes more tense. This card is a lifeline, and if I lose it then it will mean a whole world of trouble. Eventually the Duck shows up after dropping the bags off at the room and I bite my tongue to prevent a major Hulk-out while she helps the clerk unscrew and take the manual credit card press apart in order to free my card without damaging it. 

The poor clerk is so relieved that she upgrades our room.

This acting duo performed an abridged and energetic version of A Christmas Carol.

The Duck and Old Town clerk.

The Mighty Zoltar.

San Diego (Day 2 - 30/12/13)

(In late 2013-early 2014, my wife and I travelled to America and Mexico. It was a very memorable and educational trip that will always hold a special place in our hearts. I kept a journal at the time so I thought I would finally share our travels. Many of the photographs below were taken my wife, herein referred to as Duck) 

The Great American Hotel Room - complete with a Gideon's.

It probably says a lot about me that, while travelling, the main thing I write about is food. It must be an extension of my innate desire that I am moderately obsessed with trying new foods... that the more exotic a food is, or the more regional and endemic its origin, the more I will be excited about experiencing it. It isn't good enough for me to see another culture, I want to taste it as well. This is my apology for the all the food descriptions and photographs that you are about to endure in this blog over the next couple of weeks. 

Today starts with breakfast at the hotel, something that contrasts with a typical Australian breakfast quite acutely. It's all waffles, no fruit, no bacon, and lots of little sausages. Hardly exotic, I know, but this is the lip of the rabbit hole - one that will lead me to eating insects and worms. In San Diego, things are predominantly quite straight-forward. The lunch that comes late in the day at the zoo is significantly more filling than breakfast; a carne asada burrito with guacamole and fresh salsa (basically just a beef burrito). San Diego is California's southernmost major coastal city, so the Mexican influence is everywhere.

Anyways, the zoo. San Diego Zoo is one of the ten biggest and most well-known zoos in the world, with about 700 different species on display. It's the main reason we came to San Diego, because I love zoos.

At the zoo you can get an 'authentic' Aboriginal lute.

And 'authentic' Aboriginal maracas.

We spend 10 hours at the zoo and it still isn't enough time to see everything. If you ever come to San Diego and want to see every animal in the zoo, I would recommend setting aside two whole days. They have a huge range of species and are responsible for many breeding programs that have helped with the conservation of several vulnerable species (one of which is the extremely rare and recently discovered Mang Mountain Pit Viper, a gorgeous green-and-black bejeweled snake).

Overall, I really enjoy the zoo - the enclosures are quite naturalistic and the animals seem well looked-after. My only regret is not being able to see everything, but I have serious doubts that anyone could see everything properly in just one day. Highlights include: the Giant Pandas, a hive of Naked Mole Rats, the Fossa (Madagascar's apex predator - a huge, dog-sized mongoose), capybaras, a sloth, the Polar Region (a high altitude part of the zoo that includes Polar Bears and Reindeer) and a pair of Babirussa (giant Indonesian pig-like animals with four tusks each). In short; a bunch of obscure mammals that I never thought I would get to see in the flesh. 

Our mascot for the day, Ron the Sloth.

Whilst at the zoo we also spoke to a bunch of random strangers, proving once again that Americans are amongst the most friendly and openly chatty people in the world.

The line-up outside the zoo was looooooong.

A sketch artist in the zoo did this. She also drew a picture of the Duck.

She did this too. Pretty rad, huh?

 

We met a lady while watching the flamingos. She told us she had a yearly pass and that she came to the zoo so often that she would just pick one animal and watch that animal for the whole day. This day she was just watching the flamingos.

We watched this Orang-utan fishing for ants with a piece of reed. A lady next to us loudly proclaimed to anyone who would listen, "I can't be sure but... I think... it's an Orang-utan". There was a sign that said as much.

Sleeping polar bear. Nawwwww!

A badass eagle and me.

   

The Panda Bears are so popular that you have to line-up for an hour to see them. Once you get into the exhibit you get moved along pretty quickly too.

'The Boys'.