Next steps

We arrived in Bangkok yesterday and have been enjoying "the wheelbarrows full of pad thai massage" until we head up north for a work-exchange towards the Burmese border at:
www.panyaproject.org

After what we know will be a fantastic New Years celebration with Tom and D in Chiang Mai, we will be volunteering with an incredible organization in Cambodia for 3 months called the International Development Enterprises:
www.ideorg.org

What to do when your campsite is being occupied by an XXL female lion

We are proud to present to you our guest star for this post - Mr. Karlis Vasarais. Karlis, Pauls, Eriks and I attended the infamous Latvian camp in Michigan, Garezers, together. Karlis was gracious enough to share with us, and now with you, a characteristically detailed email sent home to his family about our Serengeti adventure  - we gratefully plagiarize his work:

"we've arrived back in Masaka safe and sound after a long voyage to the Serengeti. i don't know where to start with our trip, but here it goes. we ended up leaving a day later so that Pauls could finish up some work. We left Kampala to Masaka Friday afternoon. It took us a bit longer than expected to pack up our stuff into the "Matatu"- our 20-30 year old asian modified safari vehicle. only pictures can explain the vehicle - with its top speed of 95km/h. On the way to Masaka we had an eventful drive. Our driver, George, is a well traveled and educated man. He lead several trips to Iraq for engineering projects from Uganda. He's also from the north - half his direct family was killed in the wars in the 80s. Early into our drive we were quickly stuck in traffic. About 20mins into the trip, some lady driving the car in front of us blinkered right, so we passed on the left. while she blinkered right, she proceeded to drive left, and met our front cow-bars (bars protecting the grill). Small accidents attract immediate spectators, mostly to the detriment of the party at fault. in more serious accidents, those at fault often suffer "mob justice", where the general public will beat the at-fault driver. particular, if the at-fault driver kills anyone, the at-fault driver will often also get killed. the mob quickly turned to our favour and was heckling the woman. after 10-15mins, things settled down and we headed out.
 
the next morning we headed to the border town of Matukula. what a process. First, the first gate has a guy standing at it who isn't a border guard. He's just a guy interested in who is going through the border and will provide services to help you get through the arduous process. He asked to see our passports, and Pauls said to refuse. Just a guy who was interested in talking with us and seeing passports. Once we got through the first, we get our exit stamps from Uganda. then George takes the car to get its export papers. then he takes it to get its import papers across in Tanzania. then we walk to the Tanzanian customs. They greet us in a very friendly manner and ask about our trip. eventually they get to processing the visas. Once George finally finishes up importing the car, and buying Tanzanian car insurance, we were off. About 45mins later, a rattle appeared in the truck. one of the two fan belts broke. We drove into the next town, Bukoba, and straight to the mechanics. Within minutes, we had 3-4 mechanics and another 5-10 spectators checking out our Matatu. Pauls and I went for a walk to find hot water so he could make coffee. We went into a hotel and asked for hot water. Because of language barriers, he didn't seem to understand. he consulted with the woman in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, then came back saying "no". we moved on. eventually we made it back to the station. the crowd was just as large. George had gone with a mechanic into town to the Indian guy who sells fan belts. in the mean time, Eriks pulled out his banjo and started playing. the locals poked fun and laughed - they'd never seen anyhthing like it. eventually George made it back, the car was fixed, and we were off. 
 
the roads were great, aside from way to many random gates in the road, speed bumps and rumble strips. The countryside was beautiful. We hugged the edge of Lake Victoria for much of the drive. The terrain was rocky and hilly. I find most amazing that for every 1 car we'd see travelling on the roads, we'd see at least 10x as many people walking or biking. Walking is the way of life here. Many many hours later we arrived in the city of Mwanza, the last city before the Serengeti. but to get into the city we had to take a ferry. The Mzungus (us) were harassed by a troup of 15 kids trying to sell us anything and everything. then when that failed, it was just straight begging. it was amusing, but kept us on edge for fear of theft. we had one young entrepreneur who offered us water. we said we'd prefer beers. he came back 10mins later with beers for us. good service!
 
We found decent accommodation for $5 each at a 4 star hotel and settled in. Many Indian businessmen were there with their 20 year old prostitute girlfriends. When eating, the power went out for 1mins before the generators kicked in. When the lights went back on there were many too many cockroaches on the ground. they scattered though once the lights went on and we continued to eat. 
 
early the next morning we set out for the Serengeti. We arrived at the park by 10am, registered and headed in. Within 10mins, we found a pair of lions sleeping at the side of the road. lions mate up to 100x per day during the season, so we decided to stick around to see if they would. time passed, and the beers got to our bladders. since the lions were asleep, we took the risk to step out of the car and relieve ourselves. my first serengeti experience involved me peeing 15ft from the lions in plain view of them. what a start!
 
we crossed the Serengeti to the Central point and basically saw everything in many many numbers except for more lions. we got to camp, unpacked and set up our tent. once completed, we headed out for a game drive. Again, far too many animals to count, given that it was the great migration. probably saw more than 30,000 zebras and wilderbeast in our first 10mins. lots of elephants, giraffes, hyenas, birds and impalas/antelopes etc.
 
after the game drive, we got back to the camp. now that it was dark, the camp took on a different perspective. there was nothing separating us from the wild. unpacking the car in the dark, I noticed some eyes staring at me about 30 feet away. we shined the light and it looked like a leopard. luckily it wasn't - it was a smaller cat, a "cerval cat". We headed to the kitchen, where all the local black guys were cooking for the guests. we were the only whites in the kitchen. they applauded us and were intrigued to see how we cooked. eventually the night settled down. as we went to bed around midnight, we could hear elephants about 100-200m away eating away at the trees. then, when all were asleep I woke up to a loud roar, distinctly that of a lion. my hear shot up to 200 beats a minute, and being the one closest to the end of the tent in the direction of the sound, I thought it was over for me. more roars ensued, and then the laughs of the hyenas. great. eventually I settled down and fell back asleep. we woke up several hours later. As soon as I got out of the tent, there stood a full sized giraffe 8 feet away eating some breakfast. he was towered over George's tent, preventing George from getting out. eventually the giraffe moved on and George was free. 
 
we headed out for many more game drives. many herds of elephants, zebras including both their young. the animals were within feet of our vehicles. in the great migration, we had a panoramic view of literally millions of animals. we drove into the migration and literally stopped the wilderbeast from running. they looked at us confused, and then started to run around both sides of the vehicles. after all that fun, we thought the evening was over. then pauls spotted a lion in full attack. she ran at the migration at full speed, then ducked into the grass right before it. crawling up, she eventually pounced on a zebra. the zebra managed to escape, but not until a lenghty pursuit. we also got to see many hippos, multiple leopards and a couple of crocs. lastly we saw phenomenal sunsets and several great thunderstorms.
 
on our last morning, I splurged and bought a hot air balloon ride for Pauls and I. we got into the air for sunrise. definitely the most peaceful way to travel. we ascended to 1000ft and would go as low at 4ft above ground. we clipped tree tops and got a great perspective. we could see the animal trails in the grasses. when we landed, we were served a champagne breakfast in the middle of the Serengeti. then they drove us to a large acatia tree under which they had set up a table for breakfast. delicious, and right in the middle of the Serengeti. we took full advantage of the unlimited champagne and the experience. in the mean time, Eriks and Linda toured from below, getting some amazing exposure to lions with their cubs, ostrich mating rituals and lions panting after finishing off a Zebra carcass.
 
when finished, we headed back to camp to pack up and move to a camp site close to the western edge of the park. since the migration was in the central, there was much less going on. when we arrived at our camp site, nobody was there to greet us, except that right at the camp site, sat a very large lioness. she wasn't interested in moving so we moved to a different site. the ranger eventually let us stay by the river in a hostel that wasn't in use. it was a concrete hut with outdoor cooking. it was also 25ft from the river, where a pack of 20-25 hippos were staying. they kept us on our feet all night with their laughs and splashes. luckily none of them exited the river via our campsite.
 
in the morning we headed out and started the long drive back. for some reason we were exceptionally popular with the police on the way home. since they don't have radar guns, they just decide to stop cars randomly. most would stop us just to chat with us, the Mzungus. One particular police officer went out of his way to welcome us to Tanzania and wanted to learn all our names and where we were from. pretty comical experience. another police officer wanted to know where George had put the fire extinguisher and the safety triangle (Which you lay on the road in case you break down). the equipment was packed deep in the truck. The police officer asked "what will you do when there is a fire?" we laughed and eventually moved on. another cop was chatting a bit too long and Pauls said in a smiling voice "will you be serving us dinner as well or can we leave now?" nothing happened, no tickets and we had fun. another humourous moment was when we were on the ferry on the way back. We were parked in the line of cars ready to go on the ferry. then a parking ticket women came over and ticketed all of us. apparently the ferry wait line is not for parking. Pauls told her she must hit the jackpot since cars line up here every hours 24 hours a day. she looked confused and gave us a 500 Tsh fine ($0.25). we happily paid."

Africa - Safari in Serengeti National Park

Pictures from our amazingly timed and executed, personal-hire, DIY, camping-with-nothing-between-you-and-the-lions-elephants-and-giraffes-but-the-wall-of-your-tent, safari. We welcome you to
join us in our voyage from Kampala, Uganda, around the western and southern edges of Lake Victoria into Tanzania. Final destination - the Serengeti National Park.
Then join us for our first few adventures in Masaka, Uganda - our home for almost a month.

Africa - Entebbe, Kampala, Jinja

Our first set of pictures from Africa! Join us for our first days in Uganda:

Tschüss, Deutschland! Selam, Türkiye!

We have finally ventured out from the familiar order of the EU to the unknown beyond, and all we had to do was step on the plane. Next stop, Istanbul. As soon as the cabin was set loose from its seatbelts, a throng of small bodies of chaos let loose a deafening rebellion, which was somehow allowed to continue unchallenged for the duration of the flight. It seems we along with every family from some small village in Turkey were equally excited by the low priced flight into Istanbul’s Sabiha Gokcen airport. Unfortunately, our last minute planning left us paying the difference + with a bogus exchange rate (when they say you can pay in Euros – do it) and an unnecessarily extravagant personal shuttle for the 40 kilometer (that’s why it’s so cheap) drive to our hostel in downtown Istanbul – lessons learned. Having landed in Asia, we crossed back into Europe on our way to Istanbul. As we crossed the bridge that separates these two continents, the sirens and lights of ambulances raced past us to aid in the rescue effort following the earthquakes that must have shaken the eastern border as our plane hit the runway. Our friendly driver took the opportunity to give us a few pointers (“never say it’s your first time in Istanbul”) and to show off the beautiful night views of some of the city’s most famous icons - the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, and the wall surrounding the city’s old quarter.

After a short, sleepless night we enjoyed a rooftop terrace breakfast with a view overlooking the Golden Horn. Bellies filled to the brim to take full advantage of the Turkish version of the continental breakfast, we headed to the hostel’s in-house travel agent to book a 9-hour bus ride to the Ecovillage we had arranged to volunteer for during our brief, 10-day stay in Turkey. This arrangement, also having happened at the last minute, left us swimming in a lot of unknowns – How would we find the farm from the bus terminal? Would the long ride be worth the trouble? How do you say “Can we stop, my bladder is about to explode” in Turkish? Hedging our bets, with a few of the more important local words and phone numbers scribbled in our journals, we began our marathon bus trip to Dedetepe Organic Farm in Küçükkuyu on the Aegean coast. During our journey, a super gregarious off-duty bus driver toured us through every feature and luxury of his bus, speaking to us as though we were only pretending not to speak any Turkish. Yet, somehow, true to form, Eriks was able to get the man’s entire life story – for instance, apparently he learned to drive at the age of 12 and his son is a recent divorcee. We arrived at the farm after dark to an empty farm, exhausted and confused. It was only an hour or so after our arrival that the farm’s inhabitants returned from a soccer game against a local team.

Over the next days, all our doubts were dispelled and our expectations surpassed. We received an effortlessly warm welcome by the many like-minded strangers working and volunteering at Dedetepe (Dede = grandfather, tepe = hill). The roughly 5 acre organic olive farm is owned by a ½ Turkish, ½ British couple and their two insanely energetic daughters. Working and volunteering with us were 1 Turk, 1 Palestinian, 3 Germans, a French couple (who rode their tandem bike all the way from France), 2 Americans and 1 Italian (who we refer to, lovingly, as the violent vegan). Fortunately, our short stay also allowed us to meet the local sustainable agriculture community that shares a network with Dedetepe, Bugday Association (Turkey’s version of WWOOF). It was strangely normal that this community, who graciously hosted all of the farm’s volunteers for a New Moon party, reminded us of some we know in Colorado. With this impressively international circle, we shared hopeful intentions, tea, and an inspiring movie (Fierce Light). All this left me with a strangely normal feeling – we must know these people from somewhere, sometime?

As a member of the Global Ecovillage Network, Dedetepe is powered by wind, solar and volunteers, who work a few hours a day in exchange for food and lodging. Check out our pictures of the farm to see for yourself the creativity of the setup and friendliness of the faces. During the warm months, the farm produces an array of its own garden goodies from grapes to beans, but the primary focus is always olives, olive oil and olive oil-based soap. Every Friday is market day, where a few of the volunteers venture off the farm to pick up all the necessary supplies for the week. The first few days after, the pantry is bursting at the seams with fresh veggies, cheese and bread. Chores are split up among all of the farm’s inhabitants and volunteers, with everyone rotating through the necessary basics of cooking in the vegetarian, often vegan (especially the farther from the last market day you get), communal kitchen and cleaning the shared adobe and tile hamaam (bath). Other projects are divvied up on the basis of need and interest. Basically, we were offered as many opportunities to get our hands dirty as we could handle. Eriks played handyman for the farms many basic structural projects: giving the welcome sign a solid foundation, managing the preparation for and assembly of a new storage tent, and creating a new shelving paradigm for the explosion of pots and pans in the kitchen (see pictures). My responsibilities included pruning the tangle of generations-old grapevines and preparing them for the winter (expanding on the skills gained during our guest appearance as grape pickers), watering the farms many young trees, and feeding and caring for the farms gaggle of adopted cats. My playing vet included me practicing my hand at giving one poor cat a shot everyday - though, it was always with the assistance of the Violent Vegan and another couple sets of hands.

Unless you were awake at the crack of dawn to hear the layers of call to prayer that sounded from all corners of the valley, an average day at Dedetepe started around 9 am (unless you were cooking) for a group breakfast. The morning menu often consisted of fresh pomegranates, bread with local honey or very local olive oil, homemade quince or fig jam, eggs from the farm’s chickens, and a couple of pots of hot tea, served in the classic Turkish double-decker kettles. If you were lucky, you might even be treated to a cup of Palestinian coffee a-la-Mohammad. Afterward, the farm’s inhabitants would spread to the corners of the property to feed and care for the various farm fauna (approximately 20+ cats, 6 dogs, 25 chickens, 2 rabbits, and 1 half-blind horse), water and manage the diverse farm flora (medicinal herbs, garden goodies, decorative trees & shrubs), repair and evolve the built environment (composting toilet, irrigation system, etc.). Around lunchtime, hungry hands would assemble to quicken the pace of production in the kitchen. Afterwards, the inhabitants would sometimes again part ways until dinner. Other times, group yoga sessions would be proposed for the top deck of the 3 story outdoor lounge or farm medicinal herb tours would by hosted by the farm’s owner. Then, yet again, another group of chef’s would converge to whip up chapattis, curries, soups, ratatouilles, dumplings, brick oven pizzas/cookies/breads, or just mash together leftovers from previous meals – sometimes giving the dish a new identity, other times old ingredients giving themselves away like a bad fake id. Much like anywhere we establish a home (no matter how temporary) our days seemed to revolve around eating food and bonding while preparing it. At Dedetepe, it felt like this is where most of the community magic happened. At night there were village weddings, new moon parties and fire circles to explore. By the time we had enjoyed a hot water/cold air shower and our heads hit the pillows – we were running on empty.

After bidding farewell to the Dedetepe time-warp microcosm, we took a night bus back to Istanbul to explore the city for a day before leaving for Africa (!). The bus arrived with our sore-eyed, zombie selves at 6 am to the bus terminal in Istanbul. From what we could gather through our desperate attempts to pantomime and interpretive dance our intention to get to the old town, the metro wouldn’t be available for another hour so we transferred to another bus that we were directed to. A few buses and a couple of hours (should have been 30 min) later, we finally found ourselves in the heart of the city, drunk on sleeplessness. We took refuge in our hip, edgy-yet-very welcoming hostel until after breakfast. During the course of the next 36 hours, we crisscrossed the city by foot, from the new town’s hidden (hard to find a 2nd time) handcrafted goods shops, to the old town’s kaleidoscope spice market, seemingly endless bazaar, captivating street art and overpopulated tourist attractions. Unfortunately, our brief visit did not allow us to follow the sea of tourists in line for the entrances through the gates of the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque or the Topkapi Palace. For our one night in Istanbul, we had the pleasure of the company of a lovely local tour guide, who escorted us from dinner at the inlet’s fish markets, to a hilltop hookah and tea with a view, to drinks in the hopping hip strip of bars, clubs and Turkish-style beer gardens.

Amazing how a mere 10 days in the historical crossroads between East and West absorbed us so completely. A country as intriguing and culturally rich deserves a one-way ticket and an open palate – I have no doubt that we will return someday. Tesekkür Ederim, Türkiye. Until next time.

Türkçe 101:
• Lütfen = Please
• Teşekkür Ederim = Thank you
• Merhaba/Selam = Hello

A pair of beautifully simple recipes learned while at Dedetepe:

Turkish Cola – energizing and refreshing, plus it doesn’t make your teeth feel like coral
• Molasses (we used grape)
• Lemongrass
• Lemon
• Dilute as necessary

Palestinian Coffee
• Ground Coffee
• Ground Cardamom
• Boil water and pack the coffee/cardamom mixture on top and let it steep for a few minutes
• Strain and enjoy

Turkiye! (we have even added captions finally)

Drinking wine is romantic. Making wine is tough.

Greetings from Masaka, Uganda! This will be our home for almost the next month as we live with our friends Paul and Sonya while volunteering with an agro-forestry NGO (www.sscportal.org) We arrived a couple of weeks ago in Uganda after a 10 day “layover” in Turkey. Whereas our rhythm in Germany – waking, lunch, and quitting time – was set by the rhythm of the bells, in Turkey the rhythm of our day on the olive farm was set by the call to prayer echoing high and long from the minarets of the many mosques in the vicinity of the town of Kucukkuyu (pronounced Koo-chyoo-koo-yoo with the emphasis on the 2nd and 4th syllable). In Uganda, we have no real rhythm yet as we had been living more of a sheltered, touristy lifestyle from within the Afripads compound in the grimy and crowded capital city of Kampala before heading out last week to whitewater raft the headwaters of the Nile and ultimately for an epic safari in Serengeti National Park in Tanzania.

Before we catch you up on the present, here is an excerpt that I wrote on my journal from a few weeks back while living on the French-German border at Weingut Becker:

The bells ring. The alarm clock goes off. The church bells ring again – at 7:15 with a slightly less driving rhythm than the 7…and then an even more intense ring again at 7:30…and yet again every 15 minutes.

Linda and I peel our aching bodies from bed and we venture out every day to pick grapes – again
We stop for breakfast at a small bakery 2 blocks from our pensione - again - just a mere 1.5 blocks from our employer, Weingut Becker. Café mit milch, Zwiebelkuchen, and Nussplunder (pastries) in hand we greet the Germans, “Morgen,” the French, “Bonjour.” Most of them smoke - assembled in groups by mother tongue - waiting to jointly board the dusty, beat-up red VW bus that will take us for another day in the vineyard. In the 4th week of the harvest the huddle of smokers has drawn tighter from the chill of the morning dew and the camaraderie knowing there are finally less than 4 varieties left to cut/hand-select spread out across 5 hectares (~10 acres).

After the few weeks we have been living in the town of Schweigen - a town where you either make wine or have come as a tourist to drink it - Linda and I have definitely settled into the rhythm of the everyday as part of the working class. If the expected rains hold off and the grapes are not diluted with water, the harvest should be done by week’s end. If not, we will have to wait for the grapes to dry and hope there is not too much spoilage in the vineyard – increasing our work as harvesters and the stress of the winemaker. While the rhythm has been a nice change from the openness/uncertainty of travel, we are excited to finish the stanza of the harvest so that we may spend a bit more time in the cellar now that we have experientially absorbed the way each of the unique grape varieties grow and flourish on the vine.

Working in the vineyard, we frantically try to keep pace with line of folks harvesting the “trauben” (grapes) with our “skere” (shears) we must “probiere” (taste) every so often to determine whether the quality and sweetness of the grapes passes muster to be thrown into each of our “eimer” (bucket) or simply cast to ground to provide nutrients for next year’s crops. Through mostly improvised sign language and 3-way translation attempts, we have also learned that a Chardonnay must not have any Botrytis mold so that it remains “trocken” (dry) and crisp, whereas the same mold can help add “zucker” (sugar) and improve the “aroma” (flavor) of a Riesling. The “spatburgunder” (pinot noir) must be harvested early with sugar added during maceration for the highest quality and complexity. No grapes should ever be harvested that have a greenish Penicillin mold or have become “esikis” (vinegar) on the vine from the larvae of insects. (Sidenote – we often hear the word “schneller” (faster) and never learned the word German word for slow down.)

Not only are we learning the subtleties of how the flavors from fresh grapes magically metamorphose into the finished wines, we are learning the subtleties of the distinct languages and cultures in a region with a history as tangled as a grape vine. Half of the vineyards we harvest are in France and half are in Germany. To make matters more complex, the German region of the Pfalz has a distinct language, “Pfalzisch” that is almost unintelligible for even another German from Berlin, who speaks “Hoch Deutsch” (High German) let alone for a couple of Latvian-Americans who listened to a few “How to Speak German” audio-lessons. To make matters even more complex, on the French side of the border the same is lost in translation between a Frenchwoman who would try to speak “Alsacish” with a Frenchman from Paris. These agricultural regions may be neighbors but are deeply proud of their entrenched cultural differences. This might be a result of the fact that the Pfalz in western Germany as well as the bordering Alsace in eastern France have been the frontline between empires for much of written history. The area we worked every day is a beautiful landscape that still is massively scared with dismantled gun turrets, graves, and trenches from the World Wars.

We are impacted on a day to day basis not only in learning different perspectives about the contentious history from the toughened or even slightly battle-jaded residents, but also because the 20+ harvesters each day were comprised of a smattering of cultures and languages that more often than not don’t speak a common tongue even though they all live within a stone’s throw of the Rhine river. Every day feels kind of like the punch line of joke that starts out with, “What do you get when 2 Latvian-Americans go out to harvest grapes with 5 Germans, 4 Pfalzisch, 6 Alsacish, 3 French, 2 Poles, 2 Finns, and a Romanian?” The easiest answer is a lot of confusion, mildly awkward giggling, and of course…very good wine.

The wines are served liberally and religiously at the daily group “midtagessen” (lunch) with the 35+ employees of the vineyard. The menu always starts with hot soup (usually creamy and even served on hot days) – followed by some type of meat, cheese, starch, and generally just a trace of a vegetable for color. The scene seems reminiscent of the traditions in a king’s court from 500 or more years ago. The winemaking family and their loyal hunting dogs assume their positions at the head of the table and everyone else takes their unassigned yet clearly designated hierarchical spot at the 4 long tables aligned end-to-end in the cobblestone courtyard dappled in shade by the fat leafed trees that grow within.

We sample sparingly while others add glugs to their soup from the 8-10 varied wine bottles that are put out every day at lunch. We are starting to make connections to the taste-potential we sense in the grape varieties that we may have harvested just that very morning. Each variety as well as each character in the court is finally starting to reveal its tastes - their charm as well as their complexity. Linda and I usually sit somewhere in the middle of the table hierarchy and most often converse the interns who are required to do a practicum at a winery as a part of their university studies. The interns speak the best English of our colleagues and have very interesting stories to tell. One 14th generation winemaker-to-be who told us that before he chose to study viticulture that his parents sat him down and offered to sell the vineyard if he did not want to continue the tradition. His unforced choice goes without saying.

In the evenings, after returning from the slightly lubricated afternoon of working in the vineyard (generally, either wet or sunburned), some days we go work our second shift in the cellar to help press that day’s grapes. As we seem to be straddling the role of migrant workers and distinguished guests, we do have the choice of the second shift. The other interns that work side by side with us in the vineyards all day and are required to help out in the cellar until the work is done at 9, 10, 11, or even 12PM – the grapes must be pressed as soon as they have been harvested, regardless of the hour, six days per week. While the winemaker is making complex decisions, the outcomes of which will not be known until the wine ages for at least another year and a half, most of our work generally entails squeegeeing the floors, monitoring pumps, and hanging around until an extra hand is we required.

Sometimes the 31 year old, burly winemaker, Fritz gives us a taste of the hard work that abounds. This includes spending 2 hours at night doing punchdowns – a process of standing on top of the open, oak fermenter that bubbles like a swamp with CO2 and the acidity of the grapes. Then using what is essentially a slippery, 6 foot long whisk, one must stir and punch-down all of the grape-skins that have floated to the top. The key to success is using all the strength that can be mustered without slipping and falling into dangerously acidic, gurgling brew. Other work involves climbing into the reeking 7000 liter oak fermenters to shovel out the grape skins after maceration is complete or getting into the massive stainless steel wine press to clean it for the next variety, which could be multiple times per day. Otherwise, if the work is light in the cellar any particular evening, we can most always go to sample the many excellent wines with Fritz’s welcoming sister, Helena who is in charge of the tasting room and much of the behind the scenes. She generously has a pitcher at the ready of the young wine, maybe only a few days old as well as vintages from years past. We are beginning to finally understand what the “wine snobs” mean when they say that 2008 was a good year.

We retire to our pensione each night stinky, sticky, sunburned and saturated.