Our hotel in Ottawa was in the hi-tech district. Evil sounding companies like tech-expert-super-tronics and such dominated the landscape on the left hand side of the road while unimaginative rows of identical houses in complexes such as wild river estates, presided over the right. It was kinda freaky and earily quiet on a Saturday night. It seemed unlikely that Bert and I would find anything to do.

Until we saw the elk. Head held high, a frozen prance captured on the end of a six foot pole the sign was clear - ‘Elk, 3km’. Hmm, elk huh, well who doesn’t like elk they’re like giant deer and the only thing better than a big version of something is the minature version. And I don’t think there’s any such thing as a miniature deer.

Forgoing a lazy adventure floating down the concrete ensconsed ‘wild river’ and not quite ready to take on the laser guided sling shots guarding the secret vaults of tech-expert-super-tronics we were left with the elk.

3 km we drove on.

2 km through the high tech housing complex and then the third on a tiny road. Glass and asphalt compounds were quickly replaced with dirt and trees.

‘Elk,” another sign read, ‘100m’.

We eased up the gravelled driveway and came to a stop in front of a big white house. As far as the eye could see 15 foot fences streched across the field. A sign on the door instructed us to ring for the elk, so we did.

After a couple of minutes a middle-aged lady came to the door. Bert and I glanced quickly at each other, we had thought that elk-raising had to be the product of some male cockamaney plan. We didn’t expect Mrs. Houswife sporting a happy mothers day pin and all.

“Ah,” she said, “do you want to see the elk?”

“Yes please.” Bert answered, he is a very polite gentleman afterall.

“Follow me” the intrepid housewife answered leading us into the garage. We marched across the concrete floor towards the french doors on the other side of the room. Just before we got to the french doors our housewife stopped. She quickly reached over and flipped up the cover of a large white freezer.

“We have four kinds of sausage.” She explained, “elk burgers and ground elk meat.” Stepping over to a second freezer she executed the same flip of the wrist to reveal another stash of shrink-wrapped meat. “Elk steaks.” she explained.

So Bert and I saw our elk. And hey, we bought some too. We stopped off at a grocery store (see previous post on description of breakfast) and Bert convinced the vegetable guy to give us some free ice to pack our elk in. It tasted good, I mean really good. I want to go back again and see those glorious elk in their big white freezers…is that wrong?

As for the lame mall - well I decided that it is so lame that it doesn’t afford any further mention. Let’s just say that a mall that takes up three entire blocks should have more than two dozen discount leather, dusty imports, and outdated calendar shops.

Bert and I went to Ottawa on Saturday to watch the hockey game. We stayed overnight…here are a few of the highlights.

1. We arrive at the hotel and Bert locks the keys in the car. Our car has those idiot proof keys - the ones where you actually have to press the button on the key when you are outside the car with all of the doors closed in order for the doors to lock. We were both standing outside the car. The doors and windows were all closed. The lock button was pressed…inside the car. Basically the keys got stuck in the car door and, when the door closed, the pressure from the closing door pressed the lock button. The roadside assistance guy swears he’s never seen anything like it.

2. Ottawa lost the hockey game. They lost during the first overtime much to the dismay of the entire crowd including the two very drunk frat boys sitting in front of us. Actaully we had standing seats (ie. no seats) and by the start of the third period one of the frat boys decided he was going to stand with us so he could make friends with Bert. Bert suffered through the whole having to talk to strangers thing quite well…I was ignored.

3. We ate grocery store muffins and yogurt for breakfast. We were going to go to a sit down breakfast place but the lines were way too long with all the people and their Mom’s. Even the line-up for the Tim Hortons drive-thru extended out of the parking lot so we ended up in some random, under-construction grocery store full of old men trudging up and down the aisles with empty carts.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you about the elk and the lamest mall ever.

Where: Kenya (again - sorry for the lack of originality)

Who and When: same as with the Bedford

What: After weeks of traveling by truck it was time to head to the coast where a month of camping on the shores of the Indian Ocean awaited us all. Tumbling excitedly aboard we divided into different sleeping cabins, by now groups had formed and there was no longer the awkward necessity of, ‘is this seat taken’. Seeing us that night you would never guess that we were coming off two months of relative freedom, that night we were all thrown back to grade school days at camp. Running up and down the cars, popping are heads into each cabin just to say hello to people we’d been living with for months as if we were long lost buddies. There were cabins where people were playing cards, rotating from one game to the next; there were cabins where people sat intensely embroiled in political and moral debates; there were cabins where people lounged in silent contemplation of music; and cabins where casual conversations and the sharing of food and drink welcomed all…and then we stopped.

Yep, morning greeted us at a standstill, the train sitting in the middle of empty savannah. There was nothing to see outside the window but an endless expanse of tall yellow grass; and the sun. Slowly we tired of the unchanging view, slowly the sun rose higher and higher, slowly the heat built inside the tin can which was, temporarily, our motionless home. Without the breeze we had when we were chugging along, the chatter and camaraderie was replaced by sighs and complaints. Doors which were propped wide open the night before were closed as people stripped down as much as decency allowed.

It was gross, our bodies developed sheens of sweat which attracted the dust blowing in through the open windows, we were too hot to sleep, too hot to move, and there was no end in sight. Food began to run low, the trip was not supposed to last this long. Up and down the train nobody knew when we’d get started again, after a few hours I was too hot to care.

I can’t tell you how long we were stuck out in the open like that for, all I can remember is that joyous moment when, with a bump and a shudder we began to move again and the wind slowly picked up, wafting through the open windows bringing relief. To this day I maintain that I was neither grumpy nor winy on that train but some of you out there know the truth…it was just so hot!

Ok I’m jumping to automobiles but I’ll come back to trains tomorrow…I promise.

Where: Kenya

When: Spring 1998 (I think)

Who: A gaggle of Canadian University students traveling around Kenya, studying as we went but learning so much more than our course work (and grades) would imply.

What: We were camping out in different locations throughout Kenya and, in order to get from place to place we would pile into the back of a big open truck (the kind you see transporting soldiers in World War II movies). There was very little in the way of shock absorbers and even less in the way of cushioned seats and air conditioning…we called it “The Bedford” (it was, in fact a Bedford brand truck but for us it was the one and only Bedford).

We would start the journey sitting along the two sides, facing each other rolling the canvas up when it got too hot, and rushing to lash it back down when it got too dusty. By the end of the trip we had found more comfortable positions, laying on the floor, sitting back to back watching the scenery go by, whatever took our fancy.

I remember one trip, lying down looking out the back of the truck at the sky above the Great Rift Valley. Night had fallen at some point along our painfully slow ascent to the top of the valley (and past the Equator…seven times). With amazement and wonder I looked up and saw the Southern Cross for the first time in my life. I had never seen it displayed on tv, or sketched in a book but that night there was no doubt in my mind what I was looking at.

It’s a strange experience, looking up at a sky you don’t recognize, and seeing something that you shouldn’t know all the while understanding it so clearly. It seemed almost as if I was reaching through all the learned experiences cluttering my mind to find some primordial shred of instinctive knowledge, some hint that shouted, ‘this is important, see this’.

Welcome to the first posting in a trilogy dedicated to some movie that I’ve never seen (Planes, trains and automobiles). In this trilogy I will be exposing the most memorable trips I have taken on each of these three modes of transport. Now sit back, buckle up, and enjoy Episode 1: Planes

Where: Quito, Ecuador to some tiny little village with four houses a one room school house and a dirt landing strip

When: Summer 2000 (I think)

Who: My then 11 year-old brother and I

What: The original plans for our trip into the rainforest involved a river boat…but it sank (which we learned after gently pushing to find out what kind of ‘renovations’ could be so urgent so as to cancel a planned trip). So we headed off, instead to a lodge in the middle of the rainforest accessible by foot (if you want to hike for ten days or so) or by plane. Since the former isn’t actually an option they offer to tourists (worried about us wandering off and being eaten by parrots I guess), we went with the latter.

Our plane was scheduled to take off mid-morning and check in was at a little building off to the side of the main terminal in Quito. Daniel and I were amongst the last in our group of 15 to check in but, it turns out we had plenty of time. The flight was delayed four times because of high winds (something I thought only effected kites and hot air balloons) when finally we were given the go-ahead to go out to the planes. Marching gaily across the tarmac Daniel and I were called aside to fly with the luggage and supplies (an honor saved for the two lightest people in the group).

Our plane had three seats. I mean it once had more but all but three had been pulled out to make room for cargo; and the third seat actually seemed like a bit of an afterthought, I’m not convinced that they hadn’t tied it in ten minutes before we got there. Anyway, clambering over boxes of food and bottles of orange crush we prepared for take off. There was none of the usual safety briefing, no oxygen masks to drop down, no overhead compartment in which to stow our carry on luggage, nope in case of crash landing we had nothing to go on but crossed fingers and, if we survived, enough provisions to last us a few months at least; and that’s without even dipping into the personal stashes I’m sure everyone else had in their luggage.

Now the problem with waiting for a break in high winds in order to get into a tiny plane laden with supplies is that eventually, the break is over. Alas this occurred after we were more than half way through our flight so we forged on. The little plane was gently buffeted back and forth like a seagull gently bobbing on ocean waves, except that the seagull was actually an over laden hunk of metal and the waves were actually towering and very hard looking trees looming less than 50ft below.

Eventually the pilot told us we were about to land…but where? Like a frightened groundhog I looked frantically for a hole, any sort of break in the canopy which might imply safety. Left, right and center there was nothing but green trees…we were getting closer and closer to the treetops. Oh god, I thought, our pilot is obviously color blind and so has mistaken the green foliage for grey asphalt (asphalt…yeah right). Just when I was convinced that Daniel and I would soon be staring in a Discovery Channel Program (Miracles of Survival: the luggage episode) a tiny strip of brown opened up beneath us. With the belly of the plane practically scrapping the tops of the trees we dropped onto the tiny runway and bumped and banged to a stop. When we finally got out, the pilot indicated questioningly towards the orange crush, offering us a bottle in some obvious test of our mettle (or hilariously planned joke)…no thanks sir, I’ll pass on that one