Christmas in Malta

One of the many reasons that Malta became a destination for us this winter is how they celebrate the holidays.  Many Christmas traditions in Malta happen outside the home.  Not only does everyone attend a Midnight Christmas Mass, but many then follow it up with an early breakfast at a local restaurant.  Christmas lunch is then also frequently enjoyed out.  We pass by many a restaurant full of tables reorganized to accommodate large families cheerfully clinking glasses.

Not to be outdone by the Maltese, after a Christmas Eve feast at our Xara Palace Hotel, we pop into three Masses on Christmas Eve, most of which are not in English so we soak up the atmosphere more than the sermons.  The last Mass we enter right at the end to admire another beautifully decorated church, and we time it just perfectly to be handed a honey ring (a traditional Maltese pastry).  A couple of the locals spot us and give us the thumbs up.

After Mass, we haven’t quite worked up another appetite, but it’s time for Early Christmas breakfast.  This is actually a thing in Malta.  We enjoy orange juice, tea, mulled wine, and a full buffet breakfast around 2am in the morning surrounded by families young and old.  And finally, because we’re still not fully stuffed, Christmas lunch the following day has a very similar appeal.  Lots of families feasting out!

Along with the specific Christmas Eve and Christmas Day traditions, Malta and Gozo are fully decorated for the occasion.  The streets are lit up, Christmas trees a plenty, and cribs with manger scenes.  On the nearby island of Gozo, we even swing through a real-life Bethlehem complete with animals, bakers, a well, boat rides, and a manger scene with a baby Jesus.  Malta knows how to do Christmas.

Mdina

After a 36-hour layover in Barcelona, during which we mainly try to fight our jetlag, our babymoon gets started in the walled city of Mdina, Malta.  Mdina is beyond medieval – in fact, it was Malta’s capital city back into Antiquity.  Starting with the Neolithic and Bronze Ages, then the Phoenicians as early as the 8th century BC, then eventually being home to the Romans, after which the Byzantine empire took a turn, and more recently (1500’s AD) the Order of Saint John. Finally, after having to put up with the French and the British some, Mdina and Malta are independent today. Everyone wanted a piece of Malta given its ideal position smack in the middle of the Mediterranean (just south of Sicily).  And as a result, Mdina, which sits high near the middle of Malta, saw many famous civilizations and empires come through.

We spend our first three nights on the island sleeping within the walls of this fortified city, with its population of about 300 (I’m not missing a “K” on that 300).  Once the tourists leave around 5pm, the city clears out and our small hotel, the Xara Palace, is the only hotel within its walls.  We wander the curved, quiet streets ducking into churches, cafes and medieval homes.  The quiet of the city is both magical and eerie. The only sound is that of the wind and the night time brings with it an incandescent glow. It feels like all roads lead back to St John’s Cathedral so we’re never too worried about getting lost and instead always try to go down the alley that we haven’t already seen. Mdina is clean, quiet, peaceful, and full of history.

Cycling the parkways

The Icefields Parkway, a.k.a. Highway 93, is heralded as a top drive of a lifetime.  National Geographic rates it as one of the top drives in the world.  

This road is well-traveled, especially when nearing a magnificent view point like Lake Louise or Moraine.  Getting to experience each lake late at night, then early in the morning, and getting to approach each vista by bicycle is now the only way we could ever imagine doing it.  All vistas require a climb, and biking that climb makes the view all the more beautiful.  We crest a hill, we pause, we photograph, we snack (a lot!), we hydrate, and we marvel.  The longest day we ride is 110 km, the shortest is 50 km, and the climbing never stops.

We bike from hotel to hotel, and the views from our rooms don’t disappoint either.

Canadian lakes

The lakes of the Canadian Rockies come in every shade from light teal to dark blue, they’re all mirrors to their surrounding mountain peaks, and they’re around every corner of the parkway.  The science of why these lakes do what they do doesn’t ruin any of the magic.  The glacier melt, which feeds the lakes, carries something called glacier silt or rock flour.  This sunlight-reflecting silt comes from the glacier grinding along the rock underneath.  And not only does this silt reflect the sun, it also stays suspended in the water giving the lakes that spectacular uniform, full look that reflects anything it can.  From Lake Moraine to Lake Louise to Bow Lake to so many others that we passed each day on our bicycles, the surprise of their color never gets old.   

Banff’s Bow Valley Parkway

Like a fairytale complete with tree-lined rolling hills and train whistles on the regular, the highway is our thoroughfare as we bike through Banff’s famous Bow Valley Parkway.  The snow-capped mountains surrounding us tower towards blue skies, and the color of the river running next to us is that same surreal teal that fills the lakes.  We own the uphills, we relish the downhills, there are no flats.  There’s no better way to explore the Canadian Rockies.

Mosi oa Tunya (a.k.a. Vic Falls)

Our honeymoon has been indescribably epic. It only stands to reason then, that we’d end our trip at one of the most epic waterfalls in the world: Victoria Falls. 

We see the falls from the Zimbabwe side, switching cars three times each way as we’re escorted over the border. We emerge soaking wet from the spray, laughing and amazed at the mini-rainforest that the constant fall of water has created. 

We say goodbye to the falls, happy to end our trip on such a high, only to learn that it was about to get even better. Our travel agent has booked us a surprise viewing of the falls… by helicopter! 

Our honeymoon was the trip of a lifetime and the coolest thing we’d ever done. We’re so grateful for this experience and cannot wait to return, hopefully next time with a family to share it with.

The birds and the bugs

When we tell our guide that there are almost no bugs in San Francisco he says, “Wow… What happened?” The people of Botswana and Zambia, we come to find, have a necessarily different relationship with bugs. When we arrive at the Island of Siankaba, we’re told there are very few bugs, but shine a light on anything that you’re eating at night, and you’ll surely find a few small friends that have taken a liking to the dish as well. (Best to not shine the light.) In the bush, we ate more bugs than we likely would in a year at home, but that’s the bush for you. Now we’re in a 5-star hotel in Zambia, close to Livingstone, so I’m more squeamish when I see two big bugs on our table the first night we arrive. We skip the cheese plate to rush back to our room – I’m anxious for the sanctuary of our tent.

The tent is a gorgeous room set high on stilts, making it feel like we’re staying in a treehouse. Each of the six rooms overlooks the Zambezi river, a quiet haven along the waterway that leads to Victoria Falls. The rooms are connected by raised walkways and bridges that swing as you walk, and as we’re on a literal island, a boat or mokoro must be taken to the mainland.

I’m skittish when we arrive back to our room that night, and we’re careful to close the door quickly to avoid more bugs inside. We turn on the light and I scream. “Really, hun?” But then he sees it too. There’s a bird in our room, flying fast and aimlessly. Andrew runs for help as I duck and cover in the bathroom, unfortunately open at the top to the main space. It had apparently escaped by the time the staff came to catch him, but still I was grateful for the mosquito net keeping me safe.

The next day I tell another guest about the bird. He’s from Zambia and his brother works at the hotel, so I assume he’ll find the story funny and not scary. “We had a bird in our room last night!” “Wow, a bird and a bat?!” “No, just a bird,” I say. “Oh, I heard you had a bat.” “A bat?” I look at Andrew. He’d struck a deal with the staff to not tell me it was bat migration season due to my newfound phobia.

Busted.

On our last night in this resort, there’s another. But this time I know what it is, this time it meets me in the bathroom and this time Andrew chases it out of the room himself. My husband has become quite a man of the bush.

Cats

There was a spotting last night of leopard tracks on the western bank of the Khwai river not far from where the hyena den sits.  Definitely wasn’t a lion.  Lions tracks are larger and almost always travel in groups – there was only tracks from one animal here.  Wasn’t a cheetah either.  They usually show off an indentation from their sharp claws.  Same goes for hyenas and wild dogs.  If there are no claw prints, wasn’t them.  Thus, our mission if we choose to accept it is to track down the leopard. (Note: the only thing we’ll be shooting are photographs.)

First thing, the tracks are now stale, but luckily there was a light rain over night wiping clean our etch-a-sketch of earth.  The temperature is still cool at 5:45am in the morning, and as we close in on the location of the tracks, we find fresh ones pointing due east in the direction of the rising sun.

We cut the engine and listen and wait and listen some more.  Birds are just waking up, the wind rustles through the leaves, the hippo laughs at a corny joke just beside the river.  Then we hear it, an alarm call.  Many of the birds sound an alarm upon spotting a predator, but one that we’ve become attuned to is that of the Starling.  We scan the branches looking for the culprit of the sound.  We find the bird and strain our eyes to see where it’s looking.

We test the boundaries of the vehicle hoping not to get stuck and drive around looking in branches and under trees for the amazingly camouflaged feline.  Although the truck sounds like thunder, we keep our voices to a whisper.  Our heartbeats are louder than our words as we scan.  We circle the patch of bushes once, twice, three times, and cut the engine again to listen.  The alarm is gone and so is our leopard.

The magic of safari and the adrenaline that follows is that it’s not a zoo.  There are no guarantees what we’ll see, when we’ll see, how we’ll see.  The only certainty of the day is its uncertainty.  And so we continue, and as we go, we rest to enjoy the hippos, impala, giraffes, zebras and elephants. And every so often, we hear what might be an alarm call, stop the car, listen, hunt, and repeat.  And every time we do, I’ve got my camera locked and loaded waiting for the perfect moment.

After feeling so close for most of the morning, we finally catch our break.  The alarming Starling looks deep into the brush, and we try to see what it’s seeing.  I’d love to take credit, but our guide eyes a spotted tail.  We drive around to see if we can get a better look, and eventually we do!  There’s a blue-eyed leopard carefully watching us through the cloak of leaves all around.

And then, when we’re already satisfied, the leopard starts to move.  It has spotted a baby impala not too far.  It’s steps are so slow, so methodical, so quiet.  We wait and don’t even whisper to each other not wanting to disrupt the moment.  After much maneuvering by both parties, the impala comes within striking distance of the leopard.  The leopard, also being too young, misses its opportunity, wagging its tail in disappointment.  But what a moment.  We’d have loved to see more action, but the suspense and beauty of the slow motion chase is still a thrill.

Whenever Lindsey or I sneeze, we’d also hint that our cat allergies were giving us another clue, but that one was much less reliable than the tracks and the birds.  But whenever a real clue would show itself, we’d become detectives and enjoy every moment of the hunt.  Each exotic find equally exciting.  We got to see lions and cubs up close, we came across several leopards, and were even lucky to stumble upon the elusive serval cat.

Christmas in the bush

Botswana is a primarily Catholic country, so Christmas is just as important to the staff as it is the guests. The meals are made for celebration and eaten at a special table that accommodates both camps. We’re treated to a wonderful performance of song and dance by the giddy staff, a mashup of styles between the tribes. It’s our guide’s birthday, so we spend the afternoon crafting makeshift wrapping paper for a gift we bought from the gift shop. (Temple tipped us off on a hat he’d had his eyes on. It was so fun seeing him open it.) Our night game drive reveals few animals, but an incredible lightning storm filling the sky from all sides in an open plain: Christmas fireworks.

The herds of Linyanti

Linyanti is as different to Khwai as Khwai is to the Kalahari. We arrive by plane, but instead of our typical 10-minute drive to camp, we drive an hour deep into the bush. There are only two camps here, each with six tents, and the nearest village is over 2-hours away. We’re on the edge of the Botswana border; You can see Namibia in the distance. The land is a mix of deep brush and wetlands, and subsequently the first place where we encounter real bugs.

This place makes Moremi feel like a zoo. Here, the animals act as they would in nature, scurrying away as soon they’re seen. The hippos had a field day when we set up for our sun downers outside their water hole, snorting at us, showing us their teeth, yelling to say that we best be advised not to come any closer. Joe, our guide in this last safari camp, assures Andrew that they’re territorial only about the water, so brings Andrew around for a better view of sunset. Hippos are the second most dangerous animal in Africa, behind malaria spreading mosquitos, and they continue to show us why as their eyes follow, mouths open, giant bodies emerging.

The elephants here appear not in groups of three, but groups of thirty. When it’s dry, they walk past the truck in droves, slowly marching their way to the marshland. The baboons travel in groups even larger, and hysterically think that if they can’t see you, you can’t see them. They’ll run away from the truck by hiding behind a tree, body in plain sight, slowly peeking glances back at you. Giraffes are surprisingly difficult to spot, considering their size, but when you do they look straight at you, a contrast to the baboons.

We are in the middle of nowhere, no wifi, eaten by bugs and surrounded by wild animals, and yet we’ve never felt safer. The bush, we decide, is our paradise – a feeling as much as a place.